I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I am simply fed up with the community in general.  With all the crooked politicians in the world, it is no wonder that kids are killing kids and drugs are running rampant through the streets.  The way some parents teach their kids, it is also no wonder that America is losing faith in the sugar-hoarding delinquents who litter our neighborhoods with vulgarity and roller boarding.  I have to admit that I am losing faith in the future of this country, especially when this so-called future hides themselves behind long hair and apathy.

My husband Paul doesn’t agree with me though.  He always says, “Diane, if you don’t give kids a chance, then their fear of the elderly will only continue to grow stronger.”  There was a time when Paul would only talk about the new kids out of college and how smarter they are now then they were back in his day; and also how they should all be getting closer to inventing a Watchie Talkie.  A Watchie Talkie™ is a TV small enough to fit on your watch and is used to communicate with other Walkie Talkie owners at certain distances.  I don’t quite understand the obsession, but I know that the day he gets his Watchie Talkie is the day he will finally be happy.

Every time I ask where this TV watch idea came from, he always tells me to ask Kevin Stooler.  Kevin Stooler was Paul’s childhood idol.  He and his wife lived a few blocks down the street from Paul.  I have never met the man, but Paul swears that he could do the most amazing things.  For instance, Paul said that he was the creative mind behind some of the ideas for a few of the James Bond movie gadgets; he accidentally invented muffins; he had a prosthetic thumb that could be detached from his hand by simply pulling on it; he became a millionaire after he invented the oval toilet seat with the convenience gap in the front; and finally (and I don’t know if I believe this one) Paul swears up and down that on several occasions, he saw Mr. Stooler spread his arms and fly off of his bedroom window. 

Paul idolized Mr. Stooler all through Junior High and High School, until one day the local police came and arrested him for stealing the neighbor’s mail.  Paul said that when the authorities entered the Stooler home, they found a suitcase labeled “2015 Currency” full of approximately half a million black jelly beans as well as numerous toxic liquids simmering in Bunsen burners. 

Paul claimed that Mr. Stooler was the most fun adult he knew and that he didn’t understand why he needed to be taken away.  He repeatedly told his parents that Mr. Stooler was a generally happy person and he saw nothing wrong with his way of doing things.  However, during Mr. Stooler’s trial, Paul admitted to the judge that Mr. Stooler would make Paul talk into his watch whenever he spoke to him.  He also admitted that Mr. Stooler would take him to eat at Godfather’s Pizza and continually pressure him to try and eat his own weight in pizza.  Apparently back in those days, this behavior was enough to get a man 3 years in the county jail.  After the trial was over, the bailiff took Mr. Stooler back to his cell and that was the last time Paul ever saw him.

Sometimes when Paul talks about that great day when Watchie Talkies exit beta testing and become available to the public, I get caught in the futuristic fantasy of it all.  I once told Paul it would be great to get two of them so that I could talk to him whenever I wanted to.  He then became frustrated, almost to the point of yelling, and gave me a big lecture on how money doesn’t grow on trees and how I need to start paying better attention to the money I am wasting with my nonsensical purchases.  When I asked for an example of these ludicrous purchases I had been making, he promptly went to the cupboard and pulled out four Cream of Chicken soup cans and began telling me how four was way too much chicken cream and how three would have been just fine.  Rather than continue the argument, I decided to change the subject to what he wanted for dinner and we moved on.

I can’t wait for that day when this watch TV phone actually is available to purchase.  That would be some Father’s Day morning watching him come down the stairs in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes and smiling at the sight of his gifts under the Father’s Day lilac bush.  That will be a day of endless satisfaction, where the decades-long quest for a Watchie Talkie will end in complete success and all will be right with the world.

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I can’t believe that we are already talking about electing another president.  It seems like the last time I was thinking about who to vote for, Nixon was still in diapers. 

My husband Paul likes to make a big deal about whom we choose to elect into office.  I always tell him that there are more important things to worry about, like:  why nobody refills the ice trays, why Angela Lansbury doesn’t seem to age, why there is no “I” in team (when the German word is spelled with one), and why Utah Lake continues to smell horrible and look polluted when Geneva is long gone.  He still says that one day the people in Utah will forget about the Heber Creeper incident and elect him governor.

The Heber Creeper incident was an unfortunate event that affected our family for years.  It is one of many experiences that I would like erased from my memory (if my husband ever perfects his current “memory erasing device,” which after 17 years is still in beta testing).

It was a chilly day for late October and yet our family decided to take a nice train ride on the Heber Creeper.  The kids were excited because they had never been on a train before and because Paul told them that if they were lucky, and if they wished hard enough, the train would actually fly.  I was a little perturbed after Paul outright lied to them, but eventually after much explaining, I was sort of able to convince myself that I saw where he was going with this.  I tried to figure out why Paul would come up with something so far fetched and the only thing I could think of was his watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang numerous times with the kids.

On the way up the canyon, the kids were excitedly telling each other where they wanted to fly.  I was beginning to get a little worried that the whole day might turn out to be a disappointment for us all.  Our oldest repeatedly told us that he was going to ask the engineer to fly us to the moon.  He then began asking Paul if he thought that the Heber Creeper could compete speed-wise with Neil Armstrong’s moon pod.  I chuckled a bit at the question, that is until Paul responded by saying that yes the Heber Creeper could in fact compete with the moon pod.  When I questioned his response, Paul said, “Diane, you’d be surprised at how fast our man-made locomotives can go.  Never underestimate the power of steam Diane…Never!”  The second time he said “Never,” he had one finger pointed towards my face and stared at me sternly in the eyes.  Just then, a raccoon darted out in front of us and Paul could do nothing to prevent hitting it with the car.  The younger kids were devastated and I felt sick to my stomach as I watched Paul use a screwdriver and an old flashlight from the trunk to clear most of it off of the road.

After the initial cleanup and the small prayer we said for the raccoon’s family, we finally made it to the train station.  Paul instantly began looking for the engineer while I took the kids to the bathroom.  When I came out, Paul was there laughing hysterically because he had found out that the engineer’s name was Casey Jenkins.  I didn’t understand why that was so funny, and Paul became a little irate over having to explain it.  He said, “Don’t you get it Diane?...Casey Junior, Casey Jenkins?...Don’t you see the irony?...C’mon Diane, you have about as much sense of humor as a screen door on a train!”  He then chuckled to himself and said, “Am I right Casey?”  But Casey had already boarded the train for pre-journey checks and we both stood there in the awkward silence our family has become so accustomed to.

When it was finally time to board the train, the kids were so excited they could hardly stand it.  Paul made sure that we all got a seat near the front of the train so that we could be the first ones to see our destination.  It was what he did next that absolutely ruined our outing (as well as all those on the train).  A few miles down the track as one of the Creeper employees was welcoming us, Paul stood up, pointed towards the back of the train and screamed, “THERE RIDES JESSE JAMES!!!…WE’RE GONNA BE ROBBED!!!”  A few of the older people seemed very worried, but the younger-looking passengers only struggled to see what Paul was pointing at.  I, of course, was embarrassed beyond belief and tried to decide if the track-rash from jumping from the train would be worse than awaiting the horror that surely lay ahead.

Just when I thought it couldn’t of gotten any worse, Paul blurted out, “Hold on kids!  We’re takin this train TO THE MOON!!!”  The kids were all smiles as was Paul as we gingerly glided along the tracks.  The all to familiar silence and stares began to burn holes in my ears and the back of my head.  Eventually. the only sounds heard were the steel wheels clicking rhythmically against the tracks.

Just then, something happened that never has happened in all my years of embarrassing outbursts and unexplainable behavior.  My silent prayer was answered.  A large water buffalo slowly made it’s way onto the tracks ahead of us and the engineer was forced to slam on the breaks.  The train squealed so loudly that I actually thought we were in danger of jumping the tracks.  Then, without warning, the train jumped off of the tracks and we all were violently flung forward.  When the train came to a stop in the dirt, Paul and I noticed that there were pieces of water buffalo all over the side of the first few cars.  When the kids asked what all the red chunks were, Paul trying to be gentle with his response told them that it was pieces of Jesse James and his horse “Tonto.”  He continued telling them that it was odd that Jesse would try and rob the train by running straight for it instead of attacking the train from the rear like he usually did.  Paul was then able to turn the horrible experience into a lesson about the consequences of stealing and playing near train tracks.  The kids were surprisingly happy that they were able to be there the day that Jesse James finally got his.

It took us an hour of walking along the tracks to get back to the parking lot.  While we were walking, Paul quietly told me that he was glad that we weren’t told to clean up the water buffalo carcass, because although he had his old flashlight with him, he had left the screwdriver in the car. 

Even though some of the passengers placed blame on Paul’s distracting outburst, the National Train Organization (NTO) blamed the accident solely on the animal.  However, some of the passengers were interviewed for the Tribune and most of them referenced Paul as the cause of the accident.  The Tribune wasn’t so much interested in the Heber Creeper accident as they were in the water buffalo sighting (as far as I understand, the only one discovered in North America to date).

Once we returned home, I asked Paul very sternly why he had caused such commotion on the train.  My anger decreased as he explained himself.  He said, “Diane, I was backed into a corner…after telling the kids that the train could fly, the only way I could think of to distract them from expecting this was to create a diversion.”  It was true, I hadn’t even thought about the train flying since he yelled that nonsense about Jesse James.  I realized then and there that although Paul sometimes seems out of control and irrational, his thoughts really are methodical and practically efficient…and that is why I love him.

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I can’t believe that we are still arguing about whether the earth is getting warmer or whether it is getting colder.  I am a firm believer that the earth’s warmer cycle comes around every century because I remember my mother always saying how hot it was back in ought five and how the water from the well had a sort of buttery taste to it. 

Even if it is getting warmer and the future is looking dimmer, we should never let that change our way of life now; that would be very counter productive.  After all, I think that we can all use the advice penned by that lovable Michael Bolton song that states:  “We can build this thing together, standing strong forever, nothing’s gonna stop us now!”

On particularly hot days, my father always used to say, “If the sun gets any closer, we’re going to have to write a letter to the Governor.”  My father was a World War I veteran who had been through a lot and eventually became confused about what was real and what were strange scenarios he had made up in his mind.  Consequently, he began telling all of us kids that a small Japanese man living in the basement of the Governor’s mansion controlled the weather.  He continued to tell us that this man lived off of biscuits and Cheetos and whenever he ran out of sustenance, he would cause lightning and acid rain.  It wasn’t until my oldest brother took a Geology class during his first year of college that we found out about the atmosphere and clouds and such and stopped writing letters to Mr. Sakamoto.

My husband Paul is a lot like my father used to be, except for the fact that Paul has never been in a war and yet still truly believes some of the things that he makes up.  It got so bad one year that Paul actually began telling the kids that Hansel and Gretel lived in the field behind our house and if they didn’t get their homework done before dinner, they would come in during the night, steal their toys and cut off all of their hair while they slept.  Paul told the kids that story every night for over a year and eventually, as ludicrous as it sounds, he started to believe it was true.  What really caused Paul to start believing was when, during a friendly conversation, one of our neighbors told us that he had found bread crumbs while riding his horse Buttercup out in the field.

It got so bad that there were nights Paul slept with a baseball bat under both of our pillows.  Occasionally he would even wake up in the middle of the night claiming that he heard the pitter patter of little feet coming up the stairs.  It was usually our dog Mixie and luckily she only found herself on the receiving end of a few of Paul’s frightened blows.  He, thankfully, never did hurt any of the kids.

After a while, his sleepless nights began catching up with him.  He developed circles under his eyes and even began hallucinating both at work and home.  One night, while our family was watching the Partridge Family, Paul burst out screaming for no apparent reason.  The kids and I were frightened to death and had no idea what was wrong until Paul pointed towards the TV set and said, “That’s him…THAT’S HANSEL!”  When I turned to look at the TV, all I saw was Danny Bonaduce playing the bass and just assumed that he was hallucinating again.  What happened next is something that neither Paul, the kids nor I have ever talked about since.  Paul stood up, grabbed the broom and ran outside the front door.  He then proceeded to destroy ever lawn gnome, pink flamingo and yard decoration throughout the whole block.

After a few hours, one of the neighbors called and told me that they had found Paul asleep in their yard without a shirt on and gripping a stick sharpened at the end.  I was both embarrassed and relieved to find out that he was okay and that he hadn’t hurt himself or any children while he had been gone.

It took almost two whole days for him to be fully conscious again.  The doctor told me that Paul was lucky he didn’t do anymore damage to his body than he already had.  I stayed by his side the whole time he was unconscious and ran my fingers through his hair thinking about all the reasons that I loved him.  While he was asleep, he still seemed angry and restless and began mumbling things about pushing people in ovens; using candy canes to gouge out little eyes; learning to speak German; knitting scarves for John Wayne and other actors; and using chop sticks for crutches.

All in all, I think that our family learned a lot about taking care of ourselves through the Hansel and Gretel trial.  In fact, with all of the horrible and strange things that our family has already experienced, I would say that we should be some of the smartest people on the planet.  Paul never did stop telling “story problems” as he calls them.  In fact, just last week he told me that Liberace came back to life because he wanted to raid my closet.  Where does he come up with this stuff?!?

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I think that parent's mistakes are rather funny in a way.  Parents are human and no matter how prepared and loving a parent you might be, mistakes can happen to anyone.

Speaking of mistakes reminds me of the time Paul (my husband) took our youngest son to the video store to rent some movies.  I told Paul to get some cartoons for the kids and to pick up a made-for-TV movie called, “The Boy in the Plastic Bubble,” starring John Travolta and Glynnis O’Connor for us to watch.  I repeated the name of the movie to him a couple of times because Paul forgets these things very easily.  I asked him if he was sure he would remember and he said, "Diane, I'm an engineer...we invented memories...in fact, I could even tell you how to spell the movie in binary!"  So off they went to pick up our movies.

When they arrived, our son went straight to the cartoon section while Paul searched for the aforementioned movie I had requested.  When he didn’t find it, he went to the counter and asked the boy working there if they had a movie called, "The Plastic Man in Bubbles."  The boy checked but could find no movie of that name listed in their directory.  Paul told them that they had to have it because it was new and the "grease lightning guy" was in it.  When the boy asked if he meant "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble," Paul started to get a little impatient and told him that he never forgets names of people or movies.  The boy then asked what it was about and who was in it.  Paul had never seen the movie, but didn't want to admit that at this point for some reason, so he said, "Well, besides Mr. Grease Lightning, it has Burt Reynolds and Loni Anderson, and it’s about a man that builds plastic bridges…and realizes that the whole earth is really a bubble…so he has to escape before it pops…and that’s when he builds a plastic escape pod thingy…and then he lives on the moon.”  The boy had no idea what movie that was and apologized for not being able to help.  Paul then said, rather loudly,  “that’s okay, we’ll just have to go see if the other video store has it,” hoping that that would spark feelings of embarrassment and humiliation in the hearts of the employees.

When Paul and my son arrived home later that night, I asked if he had found it okay.  He then proceeded to tell me what had happened.  I chuckled a little at the story, but then asked what he had rented.  He reached into the video store bag and pulled out a collection of Smurf cartoons, and a How-to video on building model bridges.  He said that it was the closest thing that they had to what he had asked for.  The ironic thing about this whole story is that there was a mix-up at the video store and inside the Smurf video case was a documentary about the Iwo Jima invasion.  We had sent the kids downstairs to watch their video while we watched ours and had no idea, until our youngest came up from downstairs and told us that his sister had thrown up on the couch.  When I went down to clean it up, I found that the documentary was on, my daughter was crying, and the two oldest were playing “guns” with two broken broom handles.

Paul spent the rest of the night explaining death and war to our children.  It was a long lecture that included some things that I thought were a little over their heads (i.e. complex combat maneuvers, artillery rounds, right and left flanks, menopause, ghosts, and Winston Churchill).  It was a lecture and memory that will stay with me forever I am sure.  Paul did apologize eventually for forgetting the name of the movie.  His intentions are always excellent, but…well, you know, I guess that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I think that this announcement is stupendous!  Whenever I am out and about running errands, I always find myself wishing there was a strip mall closer to Alpine.  My mother always used to say, “Where there’s a Mall, there’s a way…to get the latest fashions.”  She was always good at turning cliché’s and popular sayings into something creative of her own.  She even tried to copyright the phrases, “Everyone needs a shoulder to spy on…that’s why we all love to gossip” and “All’s well that bends well…so stretch before early morning exercise.”

Before he retired, my husband Paul worked as a structural engineer and has plenty of experience with commercial development.  He even had a small part in designing Thanksgiving Point.  He says that putting the Thanksgiving Point sign on the water tower was solely his idea.  He always tells people, “They wanted to put real water in that thing, but I told them that it would never work because in the case of a natural disaster there would be hoards of people swarming around Lehi for a chance to get a free drink.” 

Ever since our kids took us to see that “War of the Worlds” movie, Paul has been saying that we need to build a bunker in the backyard just in case anything terrible were to happen.  He even bought a new shovel and started digging a couple of weeks ago, but soon became tired of digging and decided instead that we would bury a time capsule.  I was excited about that idea until he told me that he wanted to dig it back up in one month.  He was adamant about it and so I put a tablecloth and an old Better Homes and Gardens magazine in it while Paul contributed a spare house key, a picture of himself, and his old 2002 Winter Olympics T-shirt.  He even wanted to put the shovel in it too, but I then asked him what we would use to dig it up and he was silent and then started laughing hysterically and pointing at me, going on about how I was so gullible and that he should just bury me in the time capsule.  As soon as he said that he stopped laughing, had a serious look on his face, and said, “Wait a minute…if we had a tube for air and enough food and water….”  He then started thinking out loud and talking to himself like he was being interviewed or something, saying, “…the first woman to ever be in a time capsule…that’s right folks… step right up…it was my idea…”  and then he started making noises and saying some other weird stuff like, “Grape nuts?  No I shouldn’t…I’ve got a time capsule to look after…you want to be in the time capsule?...only 5 bucks.” 

The day that we were to open the time capsule, Paul was as excited as a child on Christmas.  He called the kids to see if they wanted to come over and help dig it up, but they all had plans already.  So I spent the afternoon hauling earth in a wheelbarrow while Paul kept joyfully digging.  The longer he dug, the more excited he became which in turn made him dig faster.  While he was digging he said, “Diane, we’re almost there…it won’t be too much longer now.”  Finally he hit the wooden box with the tip of his shovel and started screaming, “We found it!  We found it!!!”  He made so much racket that two of our neighbors came over to see if we were okay.  When I told them what we were doing, they opted to stay and witness the historic event.  When Paul hoisted the wooden box out of the hole, one of our neighbors grabbed his crowbar and they both cracked it open.  We all gazed at the box and the items that Paul began pulling out of it.  The Better Homes and Gardens magazine was the first to come out followed by the rest of the items.  The neighbors soon lost interest and went home, but Paul and I stayed and gazed at the phenomenal condition everything was in.

Paul decided that we needed to make some sort of Rudding time capsule tradition, so we decided to bury a new one on the first of every month.  So we are looking forward to next Wednesday (February 1^st) when we bury our next one.  Paul even has an old pair of pants and a few other items picked out.  The day we dug up our first time capsule, Paul said, “Diane, it’s funny how the world doesn’t realize that going without things for a while can really give you a new way to look at things as well as a new perspective on looking at things…not to mention the wonderful world that lurks beneath the earth’s crusty soil.”  When he says things like that, I’m not sure there is a deeper thinker than my Paul.

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I can’t believe what uproar someone’s actions two hundred years ago are causing.  Shouldn’t we be trying to use our efforts towards that which applies to this day and age, namely: How to maintain peace throughout the globe; how to stop our kids and grandkids from becoming morbidly obese; how to control the pet population; how to prevent the spread of infectious germs; how to prevent unbecoming deformities brought on by osteoarthritis; and how to invent a safer, longer-lasting jet pack?

My mother was an enthusiastic supporter of anyone trying to create a better world for mankind.  She always used to say, “Diane, if everyone was willing to lend a helping hand, there would be a lot of one-handed jugglers in this world,” which was a lighthearted quip that I took to mean, if we would all help each other, then our lives would seem more manageable. 

For some reason, she would always recite this phrase at the dinner table, which drove my husband Paul absolutely bonkers.  He would always respond with, “Hey Meredith (which was my mother’s name), if everyone gave a helping hand, then we’d have to use our feet to clap at the symphony and at other such performances; which means that we’d all have to be barefoot, and I can guarantee you that no one on earth wants to see those two muddy, crackly, warted-up flaps you use as feet!”  This comment was always followed by my mother trying not to cry and me desperately trying to steer the conversation in any other direction.

Paul never was one to go out of his way to help strangers.  He always said that he would be a hypocrite if we continued to tell our children not to talk to strangers and then turned right around and started a conversation with a new neighbor.

One of our longtime neighbors did finally figure out how to get Paul to help in the community.  He discovered that instead of asking Paul to help a new neighbor move in, he would tell Paul that there was a friendly strength competition starting up down at the house with the moving truck in front of it.  Paul would always jump at the chance to be involved in any competition (or to gamble), so I was glad when this particular neighbor got him to help.  I would chuckle to myself whenever I watched Paul from the window trying to carry a whole bedroom set by himself. 

I have never seen anyone sweatier than when Paul came home from helping our new neighbors move in that day.  He was covered in dirt and had small cuts and bruises on his arms and hands, but also with one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen on anyone.  He then said, “Diane, I won the strength competition and the bet, so now you and I are going out for cheeseburgers and milkshakes tonight!” 

I was happy that Paul had made new friends and had helped so willingly.  However, not long after that night, another family moved in down the street and once Paul saw the moving truck he took off running in its direction.  On the way, he hollered at the other neighbors to come out because, as he put it, it was “double or nothing and ‘Captain Ryder’ (which is what he called himself) is hungry for a queen-sized win!”

I thought it was nice that the other neighbors played along, but I was astonished to find out that they were just as competitive as Paul was.  The even made moving games out of existing kid games, such as:  “Marco Polo Shirts,” “The Hammer and Tool Set Throw,” “Kick the Cannondale,” “Murder in the Move” (which apparently was a little like the board game Clue); “Find 26” (which was a simple game crowning the first person to find 26 cents in the furniture); and “Steal the Chips” (which made one family get so upset that they decided to move everything else themselves and sent everyone home early; I still think that their house smells like salt and vinegar).   

I am glad that Paul is so competitive, although at times it can sure be a nuisance.  Paul is a lot older now, and not a lot of people in our neighborhood know us very well.  Every once in a while I still catch him chasing moving trucks down the neighborhood and hollering at the neighbors.  This usually just causes the dogs to bark louder and the smaller children to run inside their houses.     

It has been years since he and I sat down and played a board game together.  I wouldn’t mind playing games again, but Paul has refused ever since the unfortunate “B & O Railroad” incident.  However, that is a whole other story, and I hardly have the time to get into that now.

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I, like my mother before me, am a dietaholic.  Being thin is almost like the medal you get to show people how hard of a worker you are.  My husband Paul has a room full of medals and football trophies and I always tell him that my trophy room is inside a button-down shirt and some polyester slacks. HA!

My mother was a very thin woman who loved to talk about the importance of exercise to anyone she met.  She would always tell us kids to run to and from school, because walking wouldn’t burn as much fat.  She wouldn’t even let us back in the house unless she could see perspiration glistening on our foreheads. 

My mother was also a mean woman for the majority of her life, but she was a thin mean woman and she said that that was all that mattered in the long run.  I remember her saying to me, “Diane, you should always make it a goal to be thin and beautiful because that is how you want to be remembered.  You don’t want your fellow students looking at their yearbooks fifty years from now and remembering you as the girl whose butt looked like two oxen walking side by side…do you?”  Of course I didn’t and have been exercising regularly ever since.

My husband Paul, however, does not view health and exercise the same way my mother did.  Whenever I suggest that we exercise together, he always says, “If God intended for man to exercise, he wouldn’t have created things like Hot Dog on a Stick, King Sized Candy Bars and As the World Turns!”  Paul at one time was a big fan of soap operas because he was certain that at some point one of them would show what a baby from an incestuous relationship looked like.

Paul’s hatred for exercising almost completely went away after an unfortunate incident with a nail gun and a deer that had somehow gotten into our backyard.  Needless to say, we had to visit the emergency room where it was determined that Paul was in need of Tetanus and Rabies shots.  I first realized something was really wrong when on the way to the hospital, Paul began screaming at me to go faster because it was supposed to be a full moon that night and he didn’t know how long he had until he would change into a metal animal. 

The trauma of the incident, coupled with the wounds Paul had received, became too much for him and he began hyperventilating and foaming at the nose.  His panicking eventually progressed until he ended up fighting the nurses and doctors because he thought they were going to try and put him down.  The only way I could think of to calm him down was to run my fingers through his hair and rub his ears.  However, this caused him to have a twitch in his leg and he ended up breaking an incubator, which took us years to pay off.  Once Paul came home and got some much needed rest, he was back to his normal self.

A few days later, however, we noticed that he was getting some sort of an allergic reaction to the shots he was given.  The doctors ran some tests and drew some blood and told us that it wouldn’t take long and would most likely need some antibiotics to clear up the infection.  It took almost five hours until they finally came back with puzzled looks on their faces.  Paul and I instantly became worried that there might be something seriously wrong with Paul’s health.  One doctor began asking Paul strange questions like: Where were you born?; Have you ever been to Tanzania?; Have you ever worked near strong chemicals?; Were you ever tortured by the Chinese government?; Do you consume large amounts of Doritos chips? (I think they asked that because he did kind of smell like Doritos that night); Have you ever met Charlie Sheen?; and have you ever dated anyone from Peru? 

We were both confused as to why so many questions and it wasn’t long before we demanded answers.  Our doctor looked at the other doctors as if to get approval to tell us what was wrong.  He then turned back towards us and said, “It appears Mr. Rudding that your blood type is not A+ as your records would suggest.  The tests we ran conclude that your blood type, classified as “Type F” blood, has only been found twice before.  The only other humans that have ever had this blood type were a fourteen year old boy that was raised by wolves in Africa and a man working as a Machu Picchu tour guide.”

The doctors explained that they would like Paul to allow them to run more tests.  Instead of being discouraged, Paul was ecstatic and loved the idea of telling people about his uniqueness.  He even changed his vanity plates from “A+” to simply “F.”  That only lasted for a few weeks after Paul endured a lot of razzing at work about how his plates now looked like his grades did in High School.  Paul was so upset at his fellow employees that he went back to the DMV and tried to change the plates to read, “A+ ALL THROUGH SCHOOL AND I CAN PROVE IT!”  Of course the lady at the DMV told Paul that there simply wasn’t enough room on the plate and that he was restricted to eight characters only.  Paul then demanded that the DMV use a smaller font and when Paul became loud and unruly, he was finally kicked out.  A few weeks later we received the new plate in the mail, which read, “A+ ALL T.”

I am so glad Paul is unique.  If he weren’t, then I wouldn’t know how to entertain myself sometimes.  I guess I would have to start watching soap operas again.

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I too am tired of this battle between legal and illegal immigrants.  The last time I checked, the word “illegal” was synonymous with the word “wrong.”  However, I would not call myself an educated woman and therefore am not qualified to tell our government what to do.

My husband Paul IS an educated man and often does tell our government officials how they should do their jobs, which has gotten him in many an argument and almost a night in jail once.  These close calls have only encouraged him to work harder at getting his voice heard.  Just the other day he said to me, “Diane, if the government chickens would stop searching for the best seeds and cheeses, they would see that the farmer has already spread the delicious chicken seed on the ground for them.”  Paul always likes to use metaphors when he is trying to get his point across.  He says that it paints a picture more colorful than a straightforward black and white finger painting would.

Paul has never been one to complain about immigration, whether it be legal or not.  He absolutely loves the foreigners that he encounters, and aside from a teenager named Chester from Papua New Guinea, he has enjoyed speaking to everyone he has met.  The incident with this Chester fellow was an unfortunate occurrence that took place while Paul was working one summer for Hot Dog on a Stick.  He and Chester worked almost everyday together and at first it seemed like they would get along fine.

The problem started when Chester began telling Paul about his home country.  He spent most of the afternoons telling Paul how beautiful it was there; how there wasn’t any income tax; how the people loved to water-ski; how dolphins would often become beached on the sandy shores; how Farrah Fawcett was from there (which we still think to this day is a lie); how the hot dogs there tasted so much better than American hot dogs; and how cranberries were invented there.

Even though Chester was a little annoying and talked way too much about his homeland, Paul was able to suppress his anger enough to fulfill his duties at work in a timely manner.  It wasn’t until a few months later that Paul realized that he genuinely disliked Chester and somehow needed to find a way to make enough money to send he and his family back to their home. 

One day during his lunch break, while Paul was eating his hot dog on a stick, Chester came in and noticed that Paul had bitten into the stick holding the hot dog.  He told Paul to be careful because it looked like he had bitten off a piece of the stick.  Paul told him that he didn’t mind and that he usually ate the stick because it tasted like a wooden tree and that he likes the taste of wood and trees.  This started an argument between the two about trees and wood and what was edible and what wasn’t.  Paul claimed it was the same as eating the cone after the ice cream was gone, but Chester wouldn’t have it.  The argument went on for quite awhile and ended with Chester calling Paul “tree eater” in New Guinese and Paul threatening to eat all the wood from Chester’s house.

The following weeks were mildly unpleasant, as Paul and Chester refused to talk to each other.  It was evident that their anger was festering inside, because the customers began complaining to their manager about the downgrade in service and cornmeal consistency.

A few weeks later, Paul had what he calls the most disgustingly wonderful idea he had ever had at that point in his idea career.  The day he received his next paycheck, he went straight to the pet store and bought as many guinea pigs as his check would buy (which was 21).  That night before Chester closed up the store, Paul placed all 21 guinea pigs inside his car and left a note on the window that said, “I thought that these would make you feel more at home.”

Paul was pleased with himself and began thinking that his little prank had ended their conflicts.  That is, until the next morning when he showed up for work and saw how Chester had retaliated.  He put up a new sign that read, “Try Our New Special…the 2x4 deluxe!” and under the sign was a picture of Paul eating a few hot dog sticks with mustard on them.  Paul was obviously unaware that the picture was ever taken and immediately ripped it down.

It didn’t take long for both Paul and Chester to get fired from their jobs.  In fact, Paul never saw Chester again until one day they ran into each other at Chevron in Santa Monica.  Paul said he wasn’t going to say anything until he heard Chester ask the clerk if they were all out of “tree snacks.”  Paul was beginning to panic because he couldn’t think of any way to get him back.  He knew he had to act fast because Chester was going to pay for his gas and leave, so he did the only thing that he could think of at that exact moment.  He walked over to the front counter where Chester was standing, put his arms straight up in the air, and yelled, “DON’T SHOOT...HE’S GOT A GUN!”  Everyone in the Chevron instantly put their hands up as well.  Paul then slowly backed his way to the door, turned around, got in his car and went home.

The next day there was a little blurb about the incident in the police blotter, but nothing major happened.  The article categorized it as a slight misunderstanding and Chester was let go.

Whenever there is talk of foreigners or illegal immigrants on the news now, Paul retells his story about how he now tolerates “foreign Americans.”  Just the other day he said, “Diane, America is really our precious treasure…and we are the ones in charge of finding a chest, making sure the treasure sparkles and burying it when needed.”  I thought that it was a beautiful metaphor, which detailed our situation today perfectly.  That is why Paul is on the phone right now trying to get through to the Governor.

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and this Val Sharpton character doesn’t seem to understand that the world is trying to recover from the ailing wounds that racism caused to our country.  Now, I am an elderly woman and have seen the effects of racism and egoism in families and in the community.  What we need is to teach the young children that racism is wrong and hopefully if enough parents grab a hold of this way of thinking, it will become extinct entirely.

My husband Paul has met a number of local and national celebrities simply because he is always having his “nifty epiphanies” (as he calls them) and says that the world deserves to be privy to his brain.  For the most part, the celebrities have been nice.  However, there were occasions when some celebrities didn’t appreciate Paul’s ideas, and that was when I knew it was time to take the kids to my sisters for the weekend. 

The police even came to our house once after Paul somehow got a hold of Marie Osmond’s telephone number and called her repeatedly to tell her how he thought her songs would be more effective in a different key and accompanied by a tenor flute.  The police were nice about the whole thing and Marie said she wouldn’t press charges if Paul stopped phoning. 

The best experience we ever had with a celebrity occurred when our youngest son came down with a head cold and missed two days of school.  I wasn’t too worried about the cold, but somehow Paul found a way to blame it on the school cafeteria food and our son’s teachers incessant need to always have spelling tests.  Paul said, “Diane, this constant spelling mixed with the “trough slop” (as he called it) that they feed the kids…I’m surprised all our kids aren’t vomiting letters!”

It took me a while to calm Paul down enough so that he began thinking rationally.  A few minutes later, however, he came to me and said, “Somebody has to do something about this…I’m not going to watch my children die of malnutrition and over-spellinization.”  I told him that I didn’t think that “spellinization” was a word, but he told me that it was and to prove it, he was willing to call Webster, his real parents, and the people that played his parents on TV and ask them.  I didn’t feel like arguing anymore and didn’t want the police at our house again, so I decided to concede.

That night at the dinner table, Paul announced that he had been in his thinking shed all afternoon and had come up with an idea to get the word out to teachers and students that the school system needed to be changed.  He said that he had taken it upon himself to inform everyone and that he decided to ask for the assistance of whom he said was one of the greatest word-users of all time…Dick Norse. 

Dick Norse, at the time, was a fairly new anchorman for channel five and Paul liked watching him because he said he liked getting his news from someone who looked like they could play nose guard for the Redskins.  I asked Paul how he planned on getting Dick Norse to help him and Paul just smiled an evil-looking smile, rubbed his hands together, and stared at the wall.

To make a long story a little longer, Paul wrote Dick Norse a letter explaining our son’s sickness and how it would mean a lot to him if his favorite anchorman could come and visit him while he lay void of energy in his bed.  It took a few weeks, but Dick Norse’s secretary did call us and ask if our son was still sick and if we would still like Mr. Norse to visit. 

The night that he was scheduled to arrive, Paul explained that we were all to be on our best behavior and that all bathrooms were to be cleaned thoroughly.  Even though our son had since recovered from his illness, Paul instructed him to stay in bed so that Dick Norse would see how badly we were all affected by the school food and the spelling tests. 

When he finally arrived, Paul opened the door and nervously said, “Welcome Mr. Dick Norse to our home.”  Mr. Norse smiled and said, “Please, call me Richard…I hear you have a sick son?”  Paul invited him in and asked if he would like any baklava.  Richard declined, which was good because I knew we didn’t have, nor have I ever known how to make baklava.  When Paul gets nervous, he tends to talk a lot and this night was no different.  Paul went on and on about the size of his head after birth, how he always gets lost in the mall, how he hates Wednesdays because they always seem the longest, how he stopped being a Barbara Streisand fan because she always insisted on changing her hairdo, how it was strange that the Americans always hate the Nation of Greece during the Summer Olympics, how he once ate a whole bag of Doritos in one sitting, and he ended on how fun bathrooms can be to clean if we just make it into a game.

Richard seemed a little confused and uncomfortable and so I decided that it was time for him to meet our son.  When we all entered the room, our son became very excited because he thought that Richard was Mickey Rooney.  Richard was even more confused, but Paul explained that his sickness made him a little delirious.  After chatting with our son for a few minutes, Richard told us that he better return home to his wife or she’ll be thinking that he has a girlfriend.  We thanked him for coming by and he handed our son a signed picture of himself.  That picture was framed and still hangs in our house to this day.

With all the excitement that went along with playing host to a celebrity, Paul forgot to even mention the school cafeteria food and the spelling tests.  When I mentioned his forgetfulness, he just sighed and said, “Diane, we’re finally climbing up the social ladder…and no amount of trough slop or spellinization can stop us!”  I guess that’s what I love about Paul…he always is looking at the bigger picture…and in this case, the biggest picture was a signed headshot of Richard Norse.

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I am glad that young men these days are looking towards God to guide their difficult paths.  As we all know, the world just continues to get exceedingly more grim and evil.  My husband always says, “If I had the whole world in my hand…then, I’d have to wash my hand.”  I think that is something we all would agree with.

My husband Paul has always been a “prayerful” man who loves to talk about things that most likely no one but God would know (i.e. Why the sky is blue, why we have to pay taxes, how Angela Lansbury doesn’t seem to age, how people with no arms can drive using only their feet, what the deal is with midgets and how they came about, why Canada doesn’t just give up and become part of the USA, why Pringles come in a canister and not in a bag like all the other chips, why no one has invented the flying car yet, and why the Chinese talk louder and faster than everyone else.

Paul continually surprises me with his ideas on how he thinks that he can score more bricks for his “cloud mansion” as he calls it.  In fact, one year I remember him waking up saying that he had had a dream that could change our lives for the better.  He said that in his dream he had met a man named “Centauri” and that this man knew the secret recipe for a potion that would make one invisible.  Paul said, “I know it sounds preposterous, but thinking about it now, I think that there is a chance it could work.”  I told him that he sounded like he was going crazy, but he just looked at me with a weird smirk on his face and said, “That’s exactly what Centauri told me you’d say.” 

After Paul explained the recipe to me in great detail, I decided that it wouldn’t hurt anything for Paul to try it out in his spare time.  After all, he did minor in Chemistry in college and has had dreams with people telling him to do things before.

The next day Paul went to the hardware store and bought a brand new wheelbarrow and some tools to mix everything with.  The next step was to acquire all the ingredients for the potion.  Most of the ingredients were simple cleaning products mixed with steak sauces and melted grape jolly ranchers.  Paul wouldn’t tell me what the most important secret ingredient was, but I did find out later that Paul had acquired it by trading some spare pinball machine parts to a couple of Libyans.

Finally the day came when Paul announced to the family that he had successfully completed the potion and that it was ready to be tested.  The kids were ecstatic and began fighting for the chance to be the first to try it out.  Paul explained to them that he would be the first to try it out and that if they didn’t stop fighting, he would pour some of the potion on all of their toys.

We all marched out into the backyard to watch Paul become invisible.  He told me to have the phone ready to call 911 if the potion somehow changed him into an animal instead of make him disappear.  The kids all gathered around the wheelbarrow and watched as Paul slowly placed his hand inside the potion.  As I got closer to the wheelbarrow full of potion, I noticed that it had a dark grayish color and smelled like a cross between pancakes and kitty litter. 

Paul’s face was beaming with excitement.  The kids were hanging on Paul’s every move.  Finally, it was time to take his hand out and show his invisibilities.  Paul counted down from three, yanked his hand out of the potion and held it up to the sky.  We all were a little confused when we all were still able to see Paul’s hand.  However, no one looked as confused and disappointed as Paul did.  He began making excuses about how he didn’t let the grape jolly ranchers melt all the way, and how he might have put too much “A1” in it.  His confusion quickly became anger and we all watched as he loudly and repeatedly cursed the Libyans, Centauri, the new wheelbarrow, Canada, his hand, Navajos, the Disney channel and the potion.  Paul’s cursing eventually brought the youngest kids to tears and I decided to take them back inside and try to calm and distract them.

The rest of the month was hard on our family.  Paul spent the next few weeknights in his shed trying to calculate what went wrong.  There was no consoling him; he just continued calling himself a failure and a good-for-nothing. 

Just when I thought the family couldn’t be more unhappy, the most amazing thing happened.  Paul went out to the shed one morning to find a pair of gloves and he noticed that the wheelbarrow was gone.  He was so excited that he ran inside and screamed, “It works and I’m a GENIOUS!”  Paul insisted that the potion inside the wheelbarrow had caused it to disappear.  I was astounded, as was the whole family, and Paul immediately began calling government officials, the Ed Sullivan show, Geneva Steel and all of his ex girlfriends from High School.

A few days later, our neighbor came by and dropped off the wheelbarrow that Paul said he could borrow two weeks prior.  Paul was crushed and so embarrassed that he took the wheelbarrow out back by the woodpile and beat it with a rake until both the rake and wheelbarrow were destroyed.  To make matters worse, a few weeks later Paul’s hand began to ache and the skin began to crack and bleed.  The doctor said, “It’s a good thing you came in today because had this gone untreated much longer, we would have had to amputate it.”  That is when Paul came up with the following saying, which he has quoted for the last 25 years:  “If I could make irony disappear, then THAT would be ironic!”

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I am saddened by this news.  Just when I thought that we were finally winning the war on drugs, I find out that prescription drugs are being abused as well.  Whatever happened to the days where people would deal with pain by simply screaming or biting down on a piece of wood?  Nancy Reagan is probably turning in her grave at the thought of more and more people deciding to just say, “Yes.”

All of that being said, the Rudding family has also experienced the trials and horrors of drug abuse.  My husband Paul’s uncle bought some “anti-aging” pills from a traveling salesman one summer, which later we found out were women’s hormonal supplements.  Tragically, when he found out what the pills really were, he was too addicted to give them up.  He became more and more recluse, only leaving his house at night to hang around dirty bars and dark alleys.  He grew his hair out long and began wearing strange-looking clothing.  Things changed for him one day when he met the love of his life and decided to change his ways and clean himself up.  Last we heard he became a model for Sears, Roebuck and Company and never had any children.  We were able to see a few of his pictures and Paul said he looked like Diane Keaton with a five ‘o clock shadow.

I wish that Paul’s uncle were the only person in the Rudding family who had issues with drugs.  Sadly, our oldest son also was unable to eliminate drugs from his adolescence.  I started noticing a difference in his attitude and energy level right off the bat, but I quickly dismissed it as being his incessant need to consume large amounts of Hostess products for breakfast. 

The day I realized that our son had a problem is one of the happiest and saddest days I’ve ever had as a mother.  Apparently, on the way home from school one day our son witnessed a dog get hit and pinned under the wheel of a car.  Our oldest son has always been particularly sensitive when it comes to the well being of animals and watching this dog get struck by a car really cut into the core of his soul.  Once the driver screeched to a halt, our son noticed the dog’s leg pinned under the wheel.  Without a thought to his or anyone else’s safety, he ran out into the street and grabbed the undercarriage on the passenger side of the car.  With all of his might, he slowly lifted one side of the car off of the ground.  Our son later told me that as he was lifting, he looked into the dog’s eyes and saw the pain and fear and could feel himself getting stronger.   Somehow, he was able to lift the car up onto its side.  The driver was a fairly obese lady, so the force of her own body against the door consequently broke her arm in two places.  Some bystanders called the police and they eventually arrived to assist the woman and to fill out an accident report. 

After the policeman escorted my son home and explained what happened, I couldn’t believe that a ten-year-old boy could be strong enough to lift a car.  The story eventually got to the newspapers and we had reporters at our door for almost a week straight!  The front page headline read, “SUPERBOY SAVES DOG, HURTS WOMAN IN PROCESS.”  We were so proud of our son, and Paul even said that we could make a lot of money if we could somehow get our son to perform in some sort of a strength show.

One of the reporters suggested we take our son to a doctor that specializes in human abnormalities, just in case they could find out what it was that enabled him to have this type of strength.  Paul thought that it was a good idea, because he said that if it was his blood, then we could sell it to the Red Cross for a “boat-load of cash.” 

However, it was in the doctor’s office that our son confessed to spending his allowance on the “Flintstones Vitamins for Kids” and that he had been taking up to five or six a day for the past six months.  He also said that he only really liked the purple ones and that he would sell the rest of the other colors to the kids at school.  Scientists later determined that it was a combination of the purple Flintstones vitamins and Hostess products that produced our son’s super human strength. 

Needless to say, we weaned our son off of the vitamins and Hostess cakes and he now lives a very normal and clean life in Memphis Tennessee.  He does say that every once in a while he has a craving for the vitamins and cakes, but always says that that sort of strength should be left for super heroes.  

Ironically, the dog that was hit by the car was a stray and managed to follow our son and the policeman to our house.  Our son named him “Fred,” but Paul and I would only allow him to keep it if he promised to get clean.  A few weeks later, as Paul was getting a midnight snack, he accidentally stepped on Fred’s injured leg and Fred bit Paul in the ankle.  The next day Paul claimed that he might have rabies because he felt like he was going to foam at the mouth and so I took him to the doctor. 

Paul demanded that the doctor take a sample of what Paul claimed was his foam so that the scientists could analyze it.  Paul did receive rabies shots just as a precaution, but the truth came out once the results came back from the lab.  The doctor told me that Paul’s foam was merely a combination of Sprite and Tums and that it appeared that Paul could be addicted.  Paul denied having a dependency on Tums and I believed him…until I got home and checked in the medicine cabinet where I found three opened bottles of Tums…each bottle without ANY red ones!

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I can’t believe that they are thinking of changing the name of our dear Utah Valley State College!  If the school will change to a University, then why not just add “University” to the end of it?  I think that UVSCU has a nice ring to it and would look so nice on a sweatshirt.

My husband Paul has always taken offense when he comes across names that he deems idiotic or unflattering.  Sometimes he will even go into stores and try to convince the managers and owners that if they change the name of their store, people will give in to their own curiosity and come take a better look at what they offer.  In fact, we were kicked out of the old KMART in American Fork because the manager didn’t want to hear any more of Paul’s ideas.

Paul doesn’t only get aggravated by the names of stores and businesses; he also gets upset whenever we meet people with ordinary names that don’t attract attention.  When the Brady’s down the street were pregnant, Paul was continually warned not to suggest anymore baby names.  It even got so bad that one night he had to be escorted out of their yard.  While being escorted, he still continued screaming a barrage of what I thought were alien-sounding names.

When I found out that I was pregnant with our fourth (and last) child, I instantly began worrying about the horrific names that Paul would want to give the baby.  I had always wanted to name one of our kids after my grandparents, and so I planned on “Boris” (if it was a boy) and “Esmeralda” (if it was a girl).  However, Paul said that those names sounded like we lived in New York City and were friends with Al Capone.  I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I figured that he wouldn’t like my suggestions anyway.

When I told Paul that I was pregnant, his face lit up like a bright light and he began telling me that he had already thought of the perfect name for it.  I didn’t want to argue with him on that particular night and so I told him not to tell me what it was until I was in labor.

Paul promised that he wouldn’t mention the name he had picked out.  It surprised me how genuinely happy he was about adding to our family and becoming a father of four.  He would always tell the neighbors, “This one will be in some Hall of Fame for sure!”  He even began building a crib in his little shed out in the backyard.  The crib, however, needed to be dismantled because the kids kept ripping their clothes on the nails as they walked by.

Paul kept his promise and the day I went into labor, he was happier than a drunk that found a nickel!  I expected him to just shout out the name as soon as my contractions started, but the excitement distracted him.  I was both ecstatic and nervous when the doctor said that it was a boy and gently handed the baby to Paul.  I anxiously awaited Paul’s announcement, but he just stared into the baby’s eyes and smiled.  Then…Paul softly said, “Welcome to the world…Foghorn Leghorn Rudding.”  I was outraged and vehemently demanded that he change the name to something more conventional, but Paul became upset and we had a small argument there in front of the doctor and nurses.  Paul continued to try and console me by saying that Foghorn Leghorn would only be his legal name and that he was planning on calling him “Foggy legs” for short.  Everything that Paul said just made me more upset until finally I couldn’t take it anymore and told the doctor to remove him from my room. 

I decided then and there that this was a fight I wasn’t going to lose, and I knew what to do when I really wanted my way…I told my father.  Paul liked my father, but was also intimidated and a little scared of him.  Once my father had a talk with Paul, everything was better.  We compromised and decided to name our son “Rascal Brian Rudding.”  Throughout Rascal’s life I would occasionally catch Paul calling him “Foggy” when he thought I wasn’t around.

I was so happy that my father was there to help me in my time of need.  He always knew what to do when Paul was in one of his moods.  I’m glad he lived long enough to get to know the grandson that he saved from a lifetime of embarrassment. 

Diane Rudding©

P.S.  I dedicate this entry to my father, the honorable Dr. Barracuda Cunningham

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I think that costumes add to the aesthetic beauty of a child’s innocence.  I cannot imagine why a school would ban costumes, especially on a day such as the blessed day of the dead.

My husband Paul loves Halloween and let’s everyone know, usually around the fourth of July, that he has an amazing idea for a costume.  Last year Paul went as Little Red Riding Hood’s father, but no one knew who he was supposed to be.  I kept telling him that everyone would assume he was a Mountain Man or a lumberjack but he insisted that everyone would know exactly who he was and would claim his costume the best one in the county.  Needless to say, after the Halloween party was over we didn’t speak much to each other. 

Ten years ago last June, Paul came home from work more excited than I had ever seen him.  He grabbed me by the hand and led me into our walk-in closet and whispered that he had come up with an idea for his Halloween costume.  He took me into the closet to tell me because he was still afraid that the Japanese mafia had wiretapped our phones and placed cameras inside the house.  It all started a few months before when Paul answered the phone and claimed he heard Asian Military code words.  It turns out that it was just a telemarketer trying to sell Ginsu knives.

Inside that closet, Paul told me that his wonderful idea for a costume would bring us closer as a couple and would also let our neighbors know that we accept them as “different” and have absolutely no problems with the way they run their lives.  By this time I was anxious to hear exactly what the costume was that would “give peace a chance” and “heal the world” and “make people go tell it on the mountain” and all the other spectacular things Paul said it would do.  He then leaned in closer and whispered in my ear, “I’m going to be…Friendship.”  I was visibly perplexed and Paul continued about what people would think when they saw it and how it would really get the community to come together and how it could possibly make us a barrel-load of money.

I didn’t know exactly what to say, but I tried to be as supportive as I could.  I told him that it was a great idea and that he sure had some imagination, but I was worried that no one would understand who he was supposed to be.  I then asked, “What is the costume going to look like?”  His face brightened up a bit and he said, “that’s where you come in.”  He then went on and on about how I needed to get my sewing machine out because there would be a large amount of fabric involved and how there had to be some sort of a “holding hands” theme with bright colors and maybe fangs that squirted blood.  I didn’t understand the fangs part, but I could see that Paul was seeing it so clearly in his head and I didn’t want to interrupt his vivid imagination. 

He insisted that we spend as much time as we could on planning and making his costume.  We had a few months until October, but Paul said that if we don’t get a head start now, all the neighbors (especially our Japanese neighbors down the street) would try to copy our ideas and maybe sell them to the costume stores.

It took a week before Paul became too busy with work and other hobbies to attend our costume planning meetings and I was left to my own devices, which isn’t good especially when I am doing something for Paul.  I finally got annoyed at Paul’s lack of interest in his own costume that I decided to make the costume the easiest and quickest way I could.  I finally just decided to make a giant hand that he could wear.  His arms would go through the pinky finger and thumb and his head would stick out at the tip of the middle finger.  Connected to the fingers was a big banner that read, “FRIENDSHIP STARTS HERE” in big bold letters.  There were also a few little accessories connected, namely a few birds, clouds, and a large rainbow with a pot of gold at the end.

I showed Paul the finished product the night before Halloween and to my surprise he said it was satisfactory.  The only complaint he had was that the birds looked ridiculously fake, but other than that it was fine. 

Paul was ecstatic as we drove to the Halloween party the next night.  He said that he could really see things changing for us because of this costume…at least…that’s what it sounded like he said because his head went inside the finger whenever he sat down while wearing his costume. 

The party turned out to be a disaster, because much like Red Riding Hood’s father, no one knew who he was supposed to be.  A few of the guys slapped him in his chest and said, “give me five,” but the worst of all was when someone came up to him and said, “Hey everybody, Paul’s a HANDyman!”  Everyone began laughing and shouting things like, “great costume Paul” and “that’s a great idea.”

Paul became more and more annoyed as the night went on but it wasn’t until someone complained that one of the birds from his costume fell into the punchbowl that I knew it was time to leave.  On the way out I held Paul’s pinky and told him that he was my best friend as well as the best looking handyman I had ever seen.  He smiled and softly said, “It’s a good thing I wasn’t ‘Destruction’ for Halloween…or those guys in that party would all be toast!”  We both laughed and laughed as we drove home.    

Diane Rudding©

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I can’t believe that so many people are falling into the smelly pits of ghastly behavior!  There should be a law that states that people must only sue when absolutely necessary to continue living comfortably.

My mother always used to say, “If everyone had the same morals and ethics as dear President Lincoln, this world would be full of good honest men with well-groomed facial hair.”  She was always trying to persuade my father and us kids into joining her political party.  Our father raised us as strict democrats until my mother became friends with another lady who was a member of IJUP.   The International Justice Party, or “IJUP,” was a small party that was started in the early 1870’s by three men who felt that they had been let down by their country after one of them was left crippled following a neighborhood three-legged race. 

I am glad that my mother decided to pursue other ideas and ideologies.  My husband Paul is a lot like my mother used to be.  He is always doing the opposite of what society deems as “normal.”  It’s his ideas that demonstrate the profoundness of his thoughts. Even though sometimes those ideas cause trouble and heartache, I am forever grateful that he is constantly trying to better our situation.

Back in the late 1980’s, Paul decided that he wanted to put in a sprinkling system in both the front and backyards by himself.  When I expressed concern about his knowledge of installing sprinkling systems, he said, “Diane, all you have to do is dig up the yard, string together some hoses, and put the dirt and sod back in the hole.”  After Paul explained how easy it would be, I lost the uneasiness I had first felt.  It seemed like Paul knew what he was doing and after all, he was an engineer and engineers work a lot with pipes and ground.

So that weekend, Paul drove to the hardware store early one morning and returned with what seemed like a mountain of tools and supplies.  He returned a little perturbed and said that he had gotten into an argument with one of their employees over the difference between Sangria and Mauve.  I told him not to worry and that if he needed me to go to the hardware store for him, I would, but then he just started to make jokes about how I wouldn’t know an Allen wrench from a Hex Key wrench and so I let it go.

Paul went straight out to the front yard and started digging his holes.  It was particularly hot that day and I could tell right off the bat that this project would take longer than one day, like Paul had claimed it would.  Paul wasn’t out there a half an hour before he came inside drenched with sweat and saying that he needed a drink or he was going to collapse.  I went out to look at how much of the yard he had dug up and was surprised to see the yard was still intact and the shovel was lying in the shade of our peach tree along with some candy bar wrappers and an old TV guide.

Not long after Paul resumed his digging, I saw out the window that the kids were walking home from school.  I watched Paul turn around to look at them and noticed that he was trying to come up with a good idea quickly because he began punching himself in the side of the head with one fist while yelling, “COME ON” “COME ON” over and over again.  He then ran over to the garden hose and turned it on full blast.  Then he began twirling it in the air, spraying water all over the house and out into the street.  When this didn’t get the kids’ attention, he then put his thumb over the opening of the hose (causing the water to spray faster and farther) and sprayed it into the air yelling, “IT’S A RAIN MACHINE” and “THIS IS FUN!” 

I decided to go outside to ask Paul what he was doing, but the yelling had finally attracted the kid’s attention and they walked over to ask Paul what he was doing.  Paul told them that he was putting in a sprinkling system and that it was the most fun he’d had since he worked on Sesame Street.  The kids wanted to know more about Sesame Street, but Paul quickly changed the subject back to the sprinkling system.  He then asked if one of the kids wanted a turn with the hose, and they all raised their hands.  He then said, “that’s okay, one of you can have a turn on the shovel while you wait for your turn on the hose.”  Paul then ran and grabbed three more shovels out of the garage and told the kids that in order to have a turn with the hose they needed to first have a turn with the shovel.  Soon, the four kids with shovels and two others with a hoe and rake had dug up half of the yard.  Paul just sat there on the porch directing them as if they were a choir and he their director.  I was a little nervous that Paul was working them too hard, but Paul said, “Diane, that’s exactly what kids these days need is hard work and a nice green lawn to play on.”  I decided that he was right and simply observed the project from then on.

Two of the kids began complaining that they were hot, so Paul lightly sprayed them with the hose to cool them off.  They almost finished digging up the whole yard when two of their parents came over to tell them that dinner was ready and it was time to come inside.  To show them how grateful Paul and I were for their hard work, Paul gave them each an old TV Guide and some raisin boxes for the road.

I am so thankful to have had such nice neighbors to allow their kids to help us that day.  Even though a few were mad at us for their school clothes being wet and dirty and for their blisters and sunburns, I think they all learned a lesson about how much helping someone can really make you stronger and feel good about yourself.  Our sprinkling system works perfectly to this day and I believe that it is because of all the hard work the children did.  I think that Whitney Houston said it best when she sang, “I believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them dig the way.”  I just wish that Paul could get the neighborhood kids to come and build me a singing voice…I would love to sing like Whitney. Ha!

Diane Rudding©

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I believe that joking around is okay for the President to do occasionally.  This fight against terrorism has to be so serious all the time and he, along with all of us, deserves some time to just relax and crack a few jokes. 

My husband Paul isn’t the best at cracking jokes.  His jokes usually involve either someone going into a bar or someone going up to the pearly white gates.  However, he is good at trying new things and letting his emotions get the best of him.  The majority of the time, Paul’s emotions are what cause so much trouble for our family. 

It was the beginning of third grade when Paul noticed that he had feelings for a particular human of the opposite gender.  There was a girl in his class that he says was “prettier than Cybill Shepherd on the first season of Moonlighting” and his ultimate goal was to make her marry him. 

After careful thought and planning, Paul decided that he was simply going to approach her and introduce himself.  This would have gone smoothly except for the fact that because Paul was so in love with her, he had also developed an intense fear of her (or of how her rejection would make him feel).  He then began to strategically plan ways he could get her to approach him.  He started by making small steps, like talking more to her best friends, going through her backpack when she wasn’t looking, following her home from school and hiding in the rose bushes to watch her play, pretending to forget to wear a shirt to school, and eating some of her sack lunches.

Paul’s deep admiration and love soon became unbearable and he decided something had to be done to extinguish the love fire that he had been stoking for the past six months.  He stewed and thought for days and never could come up with a plan that he felt comfortable enough to carry out. 

It was one day in class that it became too much to bear and he decided to just let his emotions take over.  He decided that whatever came to his mind he would do, no matter the consequences.  So as the teacher was in the middle of lecturing about the importance of satirical representation in modern societal situations, Paul stood up and yelled, “YOU’RE MY BUTTERFLY!”  The teacher stopped and the whole class turned to look at Paul.  Paul eventually sat down and the teacher continued lecturing.  As soon as Paul’s butterfly turned her head back toward the teacher, the love pains became excruciating and Paul simply lost control.  He then bent down, untied his shoe, and threw it at her just so she would look at him again.  Paul’s aim has never been great and consequently the shoe bounced off her desk and hit another much larger girl square in the nose.  The school nurse had to come and check out the injury and Paul was almost suspended from school.  After both the Principal and teacher heard Paul’s reasoning behind the assault, they demonstrated empathetic compassion and let him stay in class.

Paul never did date his butterfly, nor did they ever become friends.  He still blames the incident on the way that she did her hair and how she walked and talked.  Paul’s butterfly ironically founded Women Against Domestic Violence (WADV) and to this day Paul thinks that she is searching for him and somehow will find him and try to convince a judge that he hasn’t changed his ways.  I’m not afraid...because in the 50+ years that we have been married, he has only hit me twice:  the first time was a thump on the knee that I admit I deserved, and the second time he hit me with the dog after he threw it because he was so upset about the Puppy Chow logo being changed (that was an accident though…he said he was aiming for the door).        

I’m just glad that Paul has been able to learn things from experiencing such strong emotions.  It has been good for him and I believe that he is a stronger man because of all the inner trials he has overcome.  I’m also glad that I don’t have to watch for flying shoes coming towards my face…anymore.

Diane Rudding©

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I am getting so tired of hearing people bad-mouth the President and his administration.  I think that evil speaking of one’s own country should have been carved into the Ten Amendment stones Charleton Heston brought down from the mountain.  That way everyone would know that God is mad at those who don’t work together as a team.

My husband Paul hates when he is kept out of the loop on anything.  Just the other day I went to the grocery store and bought some radishes and when I returned, Paul wanted to know why I hadn’t told him I was going to buy radishes.  Paul doesn’t like radishes and I needed them for this Radish and Lemon-Cashew salad I wanted to try, so I figured it wasn’t a big deal.  Paul just likes to know what my plans are so that he can prepare for the future. 

Paul’s incessant paranoia can be a little irritating at times.  The worst it ever got was back in the 70’s when life was full of color and roller skates.  I mentioned several times to Paul that I wanted to get my hair cut and styled, but he would only say that the “Farrah Fawcett Swoop Style” is what he liked and that he saw no need for me to change it.  I, on the other hand, thought that the style was somewhat eccentric and at the time I was trying hard not to conform to the ideals that the media had invented. 

Every time I suggested my hair being cut, Paul would either never listen, or would simply say “no” and then go back to watching football or whatever he was doing at the time.  For some reason, I had grown a backbone in those few months of pleading and one day, I decided to just go get my hair cut and not tell him. 

That Saturday morning, I told Paul I was going to a seminar entitled “The Benefits of Sending Thank You Cards and Flowers” and left for the salon.  While driving, I began feeling a little remorseful for lying to Paul, but those feelings quickly went away after I arrived at the salon and saw the pictures of the beautiful haircuts hanging on the wall.  The stylist asked me how I wanted my hair cut and I told her I didn’t care as long as it was short.  I began getting nervous as the long clumps of hair landed on my shoulders and eventually the floor.  However, when I was done I thought my hair looked amazing with its brilliant bounce and clarity.

The drive home was terrifying because I had no idea how Paul was going to react to such a big change.  I remained optimistic and thought of all the things I could tell him that would help calm his nerves. 

When I arrived home, it took me a few minutes to summon the strength and courage to open the front door and walk in.  After what seemed like an eternity, I opened the front door and just stood there waiting for his reaction.  Paul was sitting at the table working on a new model crane and apparently didn’t hear me come in.  I then decided to say “Hi” and he looked up and said “Hi” back.  Then for the first and only time in my life, I saw someone do an “Octuple-take” (double-take times four).  On the eighth look, he stood up quickly, which sent his chair flying behind him, and just stared.  Finally he screamed, “I don’t think so!”, walked over to me, took me by the hand, and led me out to the car.  He opened my door for me and I got in.  He didn’t say a word to me as he maniacally started driving toward town. 

I had no idea where we were going until he pulled into the salon parking lot.  He got out, grabbed me by the hand, and dragged me into the salon.  Once we were inside, he said loudly, “Alright, who is responsible for this Q-tip hair cut?”  The place was silent and I looked over at the stylist who had cut my hair and she had a confused look on her face.  After a few seconds, she raised her hand and Paul then dragged me over to her and said, “Fix it!”  By this time, the stylist could see that Paul wasn’t joking and she simply asked, “How?”  Paul answered her by saying, “I don’t care if you have to call Charlie to get Farrah in here to help you; I just want my wife back…and I can tell you right now, this push-broom of a hair cut is NOT my wife!”  Paul then announced that he would be back in an hour to pick me up.

After he left, the ladies in the store thought that I would need some consoling after a husband did that to his wife, but I had already been married long enough to mostly expect scenes of this nature.  One of the stylists had a friend that worked in a wig store nearby and so she went and found one that was actually pretty close to my natural color and thickness.  When Paul returned he couldn’t believe the miraculous job that the stylists had done.  He even apologized for his demeaning and hostile words and actions.

I thought that Paul would still complain about the wig every now and then, but it wasn’t until a few days later that I found out that he had thought it was my real hair.  He said that he thought it was some sort of new tool the salon had used to reattach my hair and that’s why he had apologized and was so amazed at their work.  He did get mad again, but he got over it and finally allowed me to stop wearing the wig about a month later. 

I understand now that Paul is deathly afraid of change.  He doesn’t know exactly how to react when big changes occur in our lives.  In fact, when the last of the kids moved out, he slept in the car with our dog Mixie because he said that the house was too big and he still needed someone to yell at.  I’m glad that he does adjust eventually.  I couldn’t imagine living with someone who refused to adjust to changes; it would literally be a nightmare!

Diane Rudding©

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I am so surprised at the kind of people we are allowing to teach our kids about being a good person and not breaking the law.  However, I am in favor of giving out second chances, and in some cases, as many chances as it takes to create a better society for us all.

My husband Paul has had numerous chances in his lifetime and I would say that he is a better man for it.  He wasn’t always the eccentric, outgoing man that he is today.  Believe it or not, he was a fairly shy and reserved person when we were first married and it wasn’t until our kids entered High School that he started opening up and making enemies.

Paul’s shyness wasn’t always prominently obvious to me or the kids when they were little.  At home, he was always loud and somewhat obnoxious with his Rip Taylor impressions and retelling of horribly inappropriate jokes.  In fact, I can remember the day that I first realized how scared Paul really was of awkward social situations.

One of the neighbors told Paul about how he had taken his family miniature golfing and how one of his sons had handily defeated him.  Paul at first thought it was a joke, but our neighbor confirmed that his son is a gifted golfer and really did beat him and Paul began laughing hysterically.  The neighbor soon became weary of Paul’s maniacal laugh and promptly turned around and went inside his house.  Paul continued to laugh out loud for a few more minutes before coming inside the house and announcing that the Rudding family would be going miniature golfing.

Paul, I, and our two young boys hopped in the car and we all drove down to Chuck’s Golf-O-Rama for what I thought would be a nice family outing.  However, it was immediately apparent that Paul was only concerned about brushing up on his miniature golf skills and beating everyone in the family.

Once we arrived at the tenth hole, I made some comment about how pretty the hole was because of the large windmill with the door opening and closing and the miniature model of a small Dutch village.  But, I made the mistake of commenting at the exact time that Paul was putting and his ball ended up hitting the windmill door while it was closing.  Paul was furious with me, but didn’t yell and scream because there were so many other families out golfing on the course with us and he didn’t want to cause a scene.  He simply looked me straight in the eyes, his face as red as a bloody fire hydrant, and whispered, “Never again.”

Paul was upset about his ball not making it inside the windmill for a hole-in-one, but he was absolutely livid when our six-year-old son timed his ball perfectly with the opening and closing windmill door for a bull’s-eye hole-in-one.  Paul could barely contain himself and I hadn’t seen him like that since the day he accidentally put shaving cream on his banana split and then shaved with whipped cream.  After our son finished jumping up and down and cheering, Paul said to him, “You know son, inside that windmill live about 35 little elves…and they bake elf cookies all day long…and it’s the only thing that makes them happy…so I hope you didn’t break their oven with your golf ball.”  I was a little annoyed with Paul but didn’t say anything seeing as how I was already in hot water. 

Our son was terrified and brokenhearted at the thought of breaking the oven and perhaps injuring one of the elves.  His curiosity got the better of him and he ran up to the windmill and stuck his head in the little door to find out if the elves were hurt.  The door then began closing, trapping his head inside the windmill.  This all happened while our backs were turned and we realized something was wrong when we heard him begin screaming.  The horrible part about it was that the windmill was hollow in the middle creating an echo that was so loud, it sounded like it could reach the edges of the county.

Paul was obviously embarrassed, because the loud “six-year-old screams” coming from inside the windmill sounded more like “sixty-year-old man with kidney stones” screams.  A small crowd was gathering around the windmill as Paul tried to hastily remove our son’s head from the door mechanism.  The crowd became larger and larger as the screams became louder and louder and Paul was obviously annoyed and uncomfortable.  Finally, Paul was able to free our son’s head and the crowd began cheering and clapping.  Our son was still traumatized and it took awhile for me to calm him down.

As Paul immediately began softly scolding him, one of the worst things that could have ever happened at that moment in time occurred before the eyes of about fifty golfers and all twelve of Chuck’s Golf-O-Rama employees.  Paul backed up and one of the rotating arms on the windmill caught the back of his shirt carrying him high into the air for one complete rotation.  Paul screamed like a six-year-old throughout the rotation and the crowd was obviously concerned as well.  Once Paul’s feet hit the ground, the windmill arm became detached from his shirt and Paul said, “OK, let’s go.”

On the way home Paul began cursing the manufacturer’s of the windmill, the crowd, Chuck’s Golf-O-Rama employees, Chuck himself, his Polo shirt, golfing, elves, cookies, our neighbor, Carol Channing, and Dutch people.  It was the most upset and furious I had ever seen Paul…until a few months later when he thought he found a remnant of a UFO in the backyard and it ended up only being a slightly melted red Lego. 

I am satisfied that Paul has learned how to be more patient and affectionate with our kids and grandkids.  Paul never talked about the windmill incident ever again.  In fact, I think he might have sworn me to secrecy about it.  Oh well, I’m too old to remember stuff like that anyway.

Diane Rudding©

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and I am utterly surprised at quarrelling religions.  When I was young, parents spent time with their kids and didn't have to worry about who's religion was beating up who's and whatnot.  It's up to us as parents to watch our kids and teach them tolerance and understanding.

My husband Paul makes it a priority to watch everything that the kids do.  When the kids were little they used to climb over the fence in the back yard to play with the neighbor boys.  It took a few broken fence slats for Paul and I to notice this, but when we did, we quickly told them that this was unacceptable and wouldn't be tolerated.  Of course the kids complained about how long it took to walk around to the front yard and then next door, but we held our ground. 

That is, until a few months later when Paul decided he could no longer take the incessant moaning about how tired their legs were from walking farther than they needed to.  One night at about 2 am, I woke up to Paul yelling, "LUCY...I SAID CHICKEN NOODLE!!"  It about scared me three quarters to death and I quickly asked him who Lucy was.  Paul explained that he had had a dream that he was Ricky and that Lucy was driving him insane because she wouldn't do anything he said...and then Ethel came over and tried to shoot him with poisonous blow darts.  To this day he still says that the "Lucille Ball soup nightmare" is the worst one he's ever had.

The next morning Paul came down to breakfast and instantly began complaining about the kids and how their grumbling and whining had become too much for him.  He said, "Diane, I can pretty much overcome anything...but, when something starts interrupting my sleep, that's when I go into attack mode and then there's no telling what I may do!"  I asked what he was planning to do about their whining and he walked over to the window overlooking the backyard and said that he would be in his thinking shed for the rest of the day.  Paul's "thinking shed" was a small shed we had used to store things he had collected that he was embarrassed to have anyone else know about (i.e. Beanie Babies, Snorkels, the cardboard ends of the duct tape rolls, plastic tiaras, dryer lint, mannequin parts, and little plastic containers he liked to cough into as a kid hoping that when he opened them years later, the cough sound would still be trapped in there).  The thinking shed is also a place that Paul goes whenever he has something troubling him or when he is really full after eating.

Paul spent a good part of the afternoon in the thinking shed and swore he wouldn’t come out until he figured out how to stop the kids from complaining so much.  Right before dinner, Paul came back inside the house and with eyes wide open exclaimed that he had had an epiphany and needed to go to the lumberyard.  Before I could even ask any more about it, Paul was already out the door and backing out of the driveway.  I was nervous about Paul's idea because the last time he had a big idea I ended up doing what I thought was a Shoshone rain dance at halftime of a High School football game.

A few hours later, Paul returned with bundles of long wooden posts and tools.  The kids wanted to help, but Paul insisted that we all stay inside.  I asked Paul what he was up to and he simply said that he needed his space and asked if I would not bug him for a couple of days.  He spent every spare minute he had out there hammering and sawing.

Finally, two days later, Paul came inside and announced to the family that he had fixed the fence problem.  I expected to go into the yard and see a beautiful new gate for the children to use while playing.  However, I instantly became confused when I opened the door and saw what looked like a wooden cannon in the middle of the yard.  The kids and I patiently waited for Paul to explain to us what it was.  After we all had a chance to peruse the new invention, Paul made a drum roll sound with his tongue and then said, "Introducing the new Rudding family Slingshot!"  I was confused, as were the kids, but Paul was obviously very proud of what he had built.

He then began to explain how it was supposed to work.  Paul said, "Whenever the kids want to go play in the neighbors yard, we simply place them in this perfectly safe rubber harness, pull them back, and let go."  I was speechless as he tested it with a large rock, and then horrified when the large rock hit the top of the fence and broke the tops of two more slats.  The kids, of course, were eager to try it out and Paul was just as eager to shoot them over the fence.  I, however, didn't think it was such a good idea and insisted that Paul put a mattress or something on the other side so that their fall would be broken by something soft.  He went into the garage and brought back a rake, hopped the fence, and began raking the neighbors leaves into a big pile.  Both kids flew over the fence without any major complications.  Our younger son did start to cry after he landed, but that was because he missed the pile of leaves and landed on his shoulder; Paul says he was always too sensitive anyway.

The Rudding family slingshot was a hit with the kids, although Paul did get sick of the kids asking him to shoot them over the fence all the time.  He was the only one who could do it because I wasn’t strong enough and the boy we pay to mow our lawn couldn't pull them back far enough either.  Sadly, our neighbors stopped socializing with Paul and I and demanded that the kids stay out of their yard because of a misunderstanding over a comment Paul made about the enormity of one of their ceiling fans.

That slingshot still sits in the corner of our backyard today.  Occasionally the grandkids will ask me about it and I tell them that it was one of grandpa's inventions.  Once they hear that Paul invented it, they usually don't ask about it anymore and stay far away from it.  I am so glad that Paul is so industrial and inventive.  It sure does make for some exciting times around here.

Diane Rudding©

I am the mother of four and grandmother of six and it seems like what people are missing in this world is love.  If we have love for the people that we are serving, then we wouldn't feel the need to swindle them and steal from them.

My father always used to say, "If you don't learn to love yourself, then you will never learn to love the beautiful pastures and farmland of the world."  My father was a farmer and would always talk about farming whenever he had the chance.  In fact, I remember coming downstairs on Christmas morning and looking around for a doll or toys, but the only things we ever got from Santa Claus were tools under the tree and seeds in our stockings.  Although one year I did get a Scythe that was custom made and sized just for me.  It only took a week though before one of the cows had a major gaping flesh wound and it was taken away.

My father was a smart man who knew how to take care of his family.  Growing up, I always admired his work ethic and the way he would constantly sweat, but never smell bad.  Now that I think about it, my husband Paul has a lot of the same characteristics.  He too sweats a lot, works hard, and gives terrible Christmas presents.  One thing that my husband does that my father never did is play jokes and kid around. 

Paul is a master at joke telling as well as playing severely intense practical jokes on people.  When Paul was in High School, he had a group of friends that would always threaten to end their friendships with him unless he promised to tone down his pranks and jokes.  One of his friends even threatened to go to the principal if he ever pulled another prank on him again.  So, Paul did what he always does in situations like those...he did it anyway.

One night he drove down to one of his friend's houses and kidnapped their dog.  In his ransom note, Paul wrote, "If you ever want to see your dog again, I suggest that you start laughing at your friend's pranks...and also leave ten dollars in locker 74C every day."  Paul's friend knew that 74C was Paul's locker and so the next day he confronted him.

Paul is good at many things, but I would say the two things he could be the best in the world at are getting mad and lying.  So when his friend confronted him about taking his dog and the demand for ten dollars a day, Paul became irate and demanded to know why he insisted on trying to ruin his reputation.  A loud argument ensued and it wasn't long before they both were sitting in the principal's office. 

The principal asked Paul why he and his friend were fighting and Paul came up with this elaborate story about how his friends had been making fun of him lately because they found out that his father was the one that started the United Negro College Fund.  Apparently his friends thought that it was funny for some reason and began calling him names like, "Scholarship" and "Sidney Poitier" and "Camel Face" (because Paul's face does somewhat resemble a camel when he has been out in the sun for a prolonged amount of time). 

NOTE:  Even though this occurred back during the days of the Civil Rights Movement, Paul's friends were in no way racist.

Paul's friend was quickly reprimanded for behavior unbecoming of a Thomas Jefferson High School student while Paul was sent home with a warning.  Paul's friend had a hard time forgiving him for the lies he told in the principal's office that day.  However, it became a little easier when, to everyone's surprise, Paul brought a guest speaker to their next school assembly:  His father, Frederick R. Rudding, founder of the United Negro College Fund.  At least that is what everyone thought.  Later it was discovered that Paul's guest speaker's real name was Fred Knotts, the owner of the local Pawnshop.  Mr. Knotts gave a wonderful speech on "how diversity affects the economic turmoil caused by inflation" and brought a number of "like-new" items for the school to look at.

Paul eventually made new friends and wasn't all that upset about the way his jokes were taken.  He also returned his friend's dog and apologized to the family...then he stole their mailbox on the way back to his car because he said it would be funny to see their faces when they realize that their mail is all over the ground (because the mailman just threw it there).  He eventually apologized for that as well.

I'm glad that Paul is a light-hearted man and likes to have fun.  It sure has made life interesting and scary...and embarrassing...but, mostly interesting.  I find myself thinking about those days when we were kids and things were so much easier.  I guess it's true when they say, "Youth is found in every answer to Adult problems."

Diane Rudding©