Category Archives: Humor

Stifle!

Biblical Truth, Humor, Inspiration, Small Town America, True Stories, , ,

Has anyone noticed that the funniest things in the world seem to happen in places where a spontaneous, hearty laugh is just not tolerated? For instance, why do the most hilarious situations happen in church of all places, where total reverence is required? It’s just not fair to be forced to stifle a legitimate side-splitter! It must be part of Adam’s punishment for messing things up in the Eden.

To be honest I now belong to a church that is not known for its quietness and solitude.  We Pentecostals cheer the Pastor on while he delivers a sermon, and agree in prayer—literally out-loud—during corporate prayer times.  In fact, we get totally  awestruck by those rare and unusual outbreaks of silence that occur from time to time in our services.  We talk about them for weeks.  “Remember that time that a holy hush came over the congregation? Wow.”

But growing up I attended a wonderful church that was by-in-large the opposite in matters of volume. “Stifle” was the word between 11am and noon on Sunday. My mother expected “holy hush” in church to be the norm, especially for me. I can hear her now, 

            “Mark, remember what the Bible says, ‘Be still and know that I am God.’” 

Talking in church, whispering with my friends, accidentally dropping a coin on the hardwood floor, or making ANY kind of unusual noise in church normally resulted in serious disciplinary action in the Sims household. But even with the threat of bodily harm looming over me, funny still happened in church! We just had to learn to “stifle.”

As a nine and ten year old boy, I often sat in church with my Grandmother Nichols. I told my Mom it was because Grandma was a widow and needed my company.  My Grandmother usually sat on the second row from the front, on the far left side of the sanctuary—adjacent-to the piano.  But Mom and Dad sat on the third row from the BACK, on the RIGHT side.  So naturally I chose to sit with Grandma Nichols—as far away as I could get from Mom’s painful pinch and “don’t-you-dare” eye.

Just in front of Grandmother, on the very front row, sat the two church pianists—Sadie Thompson and Lucille Blackstock.  Lucille Blackstock was a sixth-grade teacher at the local school, and had been so since around the year the Titanic went down.  A tall, scowl-faced disciplinarian, Mrs. Blackstock was truly a good teacher. She was aware that kids called her “Ole Lady Blackstock,” but she wasn’t bothered by it. She had a duty to do and did it dutifully.

Playing the church piano for the congregation was Mrs. Blackstock’s other duty. Sadie was a much better piano player, but Lucille had seniority—lots of it—and that mattered in our church. Lucille played for the congregational singing, and Sadie for the choir. Mrs. Blackstock was the embodiment of the word “proper.”  She did everything according to the book.  And just thinking of the word, book and Mrs. Blackstock at the same time brings a smile to my face and a memory that won’t fade away. Here’s what happened:

One memorable Sunday morning I took my seat next to Grandma Nichols on the second row from the front. After the last congregational hymn had been sung Lucille vacated her place at the the piano so that Sadie could accompany the choir. In deafening silence Lucille gathered her sheet music and Baptist hymnal from the music rest and took her seat on the front row. She settled herself perfectly on the front pew, sitting up straight with both feet resting properly on the floor. Even as the choir began singing the anthem of the day, Lucille dutifully opened her Baptist hymnal to the exact page that she would need at the end of the service and left it opened-up in her lap.

The choir sang beautifully and ended on a high note, leaving the listeners inspired and suspended in thick silence as the pastor glided quietly to the pulpit to begin his sermon. As usual, Grandma pulled a pencil from her purse and handed me a church bulletin so I could quietly color in the o’s and doodle during the message. Of necessity I looked back to make sure I was out of my Mom’s line of sight.  Indeed, all was well. 

By the time the pastor emphasized his second sermon point a nervous housefly began buzzing around us– lighting on the pew, the cushion, and then on Grandma’s Bible positioned between us. When I tried to swat it, Grandma grabbed my hand and held it without ever taking her eyes off of the preacher. Then the fly began to dance around Sadie and Lucille in front of us. Sadie was briefly entertained by it, but Lucille was not aware of the fly’s presence—until it landed in the center of the hymnal open in her lap—on hymn number 363—“I Surrender All.”

As soon as Lucille caught sight of the insect she began following it with her eyes as it lit and scampered across the page—from top to bottom; left to right and back; from verse to chorus; and then to the edge of the page. Memorized, Mrs. Blackstock studied the fly without moving a muscle, her lower jaw slowly sinking downward, leaving her mouth wide-open like patient slipping into a coma. Then without any warning, just as the pastor moved from a dramatic pause to his final point Lucille jerked the hymnal up to eye level and slammed it shut with all her might, “SLAM.”  The sound echoed in the holy sanctuary like a gunshot. Lucille pancaked that poor fly, startling herself, the fly, and everyone else in the First Baptist Church.

In total disbelief she sat straight up in her seat and tightly pursed her lips. Abruptly stopping in mid-sentence, the preacher glared in her direction unsure of what had just transpired. Poor Lucille’s embarrassed eyes began darting all around at the shocked faces of her fellow parishoners—but NO ONE COULD LAUGH OUT LOUD.  It was the best First Baptist faux pas in a decade, and no one could delight in it publically! It was expressely forbidden to do so in the unwritten code of proper church etiquette. STIFLE IT !

I was dumbfounded. I looked at Grandmother and then at Sadie. They both covered wide grins and began to shake. Sadie looked as if she might wet herself. I quickly looked back toward where Mom and Dad were sitting, noticing that everyone in the church was looking in my direction! 

“Oh no,” I thought. “I didn’t even do it and I’ll get the blame!” 

Then I saw grins and heard people clearing their throats and fake coughing to disguise a chuckle or a snort . And a lot of folks sitting nearby me were staring at their laps and shaking ever so slightly, just like Sadie and Grandmother were doing. But NO ONE DARED TO LAUGH OUT LOUD. Stifle it for sure, but what a waste of a perfect moment!

Grandmother Nichols ate lunch at our house that day, and we relived the episode at least a dozen times. I can imagine other Baptist families enjoyed lunchtime conversation about it too. But I doubt Mrs. Blackstock ever mentioned it to anyone. Not even once. Still, I am amazed at how clearly I remember that Sunday morning.

The very next year, I was one of Lucille Blackstock’s sixth grade students. She proved to be an excellent teacher, and I learned a lot from her. But every time I saw her sitting quietly at her desk with her jaw sinking downward, I thought of that poor housefly pressed perfectly inside of an unmarked Baptist hymnal. But I never brought it up. Oh no, I stifled it!

“He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouts of joy.” Job 8:21

Freshman Fail

Humor, Inspiration, Small Town America, True Stories, ,

Moving away from home and into a dorm on a college campus was life altering. I imagined that it would be easy, but it wasn’t.

Samford University

Sadly, I spent my entire senior year of high school, a year I could have enjoyed immensely, carping about having to wait until May to wave good-bye and move on with my life. I couldn’t wait to finally escape from my one-horse, Mayberry-ish hometown and move to Birmingham– and Samford University– the Harvard of the South. Destiny awaited me and I was ready to take it by storm. Alas, reality hit me right between the eyes before my first week of college classes were done.

As an incoming freshman, I had to learn my way around campus. I had some hometown friends already at Samford, but they lived in different dorms with different classes at different times. So, I  trailed the crowd and hoped I could find my way around. For better or for worse, Samford requires its students to attend convocation (chapel) services roughly once per-week. Dutifully  I made my way into the chapel without getting lost and took my seat between two total strangers– not fellow freshmen, but pre-law students.

As my luck would have it, the week’s excitement and stress had resulted in a canker sore eruption in the back of my mouth. So while the student choir was filing into the choir loft, I took time to dab some “Orajel” on my painful canker sore for relief. In a hurry to apply the medicine, I stuck my gel-tipped index finger all the way to the back of my mouth, causing my gag reflex to suddenly respond with a nasty “Uggghhhctt.”

“What was that loud noise? Was it me???  Did I do that? Oh, dear! What must everyone think?” The dumbfounded law student on my left stared at me for at least five seconds, but I refused to look back at him. I was too busy wiping away the string of drool that had inadvertently dripped from my mouth onto my light blue shirt– one that left an odd, conspicuous wet spot on my chest!      Freshman fail #1.

Thirty-minutes after convo ended I found myself in the cafeteria looking for any of my hometown friends for stability. Fortunately, Steve and Jeff were there and they welcomed me to their table. In their company I was no longer a freshman, but a friend, so I relaxed. As we finished, Jeff saw some of his friends at a nearby table and took me to meet them. He made a quick introduction and I greeted them gladly as we took a seat at their table with them. Then the blonde girl sitting next to me, a member of the student choir, remarked, “Oh, yes I think I saw you in the audience this morning in convo. To be honest, I thought there was something wrong with you. Were you choking or something?” I could have died. As I was trying desperately to explain myself, my overly-excited hand accidentally toppled a glass of sweet tea right into her lap!      Freshman fail #2.

The very next day at 8 a.m. I found myself in my freshman English Composition class with notebook and pen in hand. The professor, Mrs. Brown, asked for a show of hands of who in the class was familiar with how to write a two-page theme paper. I was among the lucky few who raised a hand. Mrs. Mackey had prepared me well in high school, so this should be a breeze. Mrs. Brown asked the class for possible topics. A tall, bushy-haired guy in on the back row suggested, “Euthanasia.” Mrs. Brown concurred and the writing began. I went straight to work– title, introduction, thesis statement, three paragraph main body, and conclusion. I was actually the first to finish. For me it was a piece of cake.

When time was up, Mrs. Brown began the process of walking us through the correct way to do the assignment. First she wrote the theme subject on the board: “Euthanasia = mercy killing.” It all seemed strange to me. I had never seen that word before. I looked down at my paper which read, “Youth In Asia.” Panic! My entire thematic essay was on the plight of young Americans fighting in Vietnam! Quietly and slowly I wadded-up the two pages of my brilliant anti-war essay into a tight ball and stuffed it in my pocket. I would take a zero before I would allow Mrs. Brown to see my stupidity.      Freshman fail #3.

Later that same week, I ran out of clean underwear and socks. Now I had NEVER had to wash my own clothes when I lived in my one-horse town, and my lovely mother never trained me to do my own laundry. (She probably hoped it would entice me to visit home more often.) So, I put my big boy pants on and made my way to the dorm laundry room on the first floor to do what had to be done. With quarters in my pocket and a plastic basket in my arms I strolled into the vast room filled with washers and dryers. Fortunately, there was only one person in the room at the time. I recognized him as an important upperclassman that I had seen on stage in convo. He was seated in a plastic chair with a book in his lap, obviously uninterested in my arrival on the scene. Hopefully he wouldn’t recognize me as the campus drooler.

I glanced around and figured out where I needed to go with my basket and loaded the nearest machine with my stinky clothes. I quickly threw a cup of Tide in with my clothes and inserted two quarters into the proper slots. The coins dropped and, presto– I had successfully conquered new territory. No sooner had I sat down in the chair and opened my biology textbook that I began smelling something– something burning. What was that  terrible smell?  Then I heard the guy in the chair across the room ask,

“Hey man,  do you always dry your clothes before you wash them?”

Freshman fail #4

Yes, I removed my clothes from the dryer, and tried unsuccessfully to clean the soap powder out of the drum. I finally had to start the whole process over with a different machine. The soap powder had already slipped through the holes in the  and made its way to the heating element. Later in the evening the janitor placed an “out of order” sign on the dryer and taped it shut. It was all a humiliating experience.

The next weekend I humbly visited my magnificent little hometown– the sweetest place on Earth.

“Pride lands you flat on your face; humility prepares you for honors.”                                   Proverbs 29:23   The Message Bible

MARIE

History, Humor, Small Town America, , ,

Little children imagined that she was a gypsy. Marie’s dark eyes, thick accent, and earrings dangling from earlobes stretched downward by the weight of the ornaments bolstered that impression to children and adults alike.  She preferred wearing a floral scarf tied tightly under her chin, to sporting any sort of fashionable hat.  And the abundance of rings worn on at least five of her ten fingers were a curiosity that could not go unnoticed.  I was one of those kids who believed the gypsy rumor, and stayed as far away from her as I could.

 Marie was married to a local merchant who owned a simple mom and pop grocery store in our tiny rural Alabama town.  John T. Green had married Marie and brought her home to Ashland in 1919 when he returned from service in World War 1.  Stories abounded about Marie’s arrival in town as a newlywed who knew very little English.  And the scant amount of English she had learned in the old country sounded nothing like the Alabama English she heard in her new home nestled in the southern Appalachians. 

According to local storytellers, Marie’s introduction to society in Ashland got off to a rough start. For her first few weeks, she stayed inside their little house while her husband worked. When she did venture out, it was only while tightly glued to John T’s arm.  Her husband was protective of Marie and not inclined to explain anything about his new wife to anyone in town.  And no one in town had the gall to ask.  There were plenty of whispers, but not much information.

Eventually Marie determined to risk a shopping excursion without her husband as an escort.  So while John T was minding the grocery, Marie strolled around the town square with a shopping basket on her arm, and finally into C. M. Pruet’s dry goods store. Pruet’s Department Store was a busy place in the small town. For almost an hour, Marie sauntered around the store totally amazed at the sheer abundance of goods that were offered.  It was nothing like the scarcity she was accustomed to in war torn Europe, and the tremendous variety of items was mind-blowing to the young bride.

All eyes were on Marie as she shopped, finally placing several items into her basket.  She had chosen a small tin of sewing needles, several spools of thread, two lead pencils, a large box of matches, and a lovely embroidered scarf.  Cradled firmly in her left arm she held a set of three glass mixing bowls as she made her way up the aisle and toward the cash register.  Several people strained to watch Marie’s interaction with the cashier. How would she communicate? Did she have any understanding of American currency? Would she be able to complete the transaction? As it happened, those questions were of no consequence at all. Customers and store clerks alike were dumbfounded when Marie ambled gracefully past the cash register and exited the store without paying!  

Astonished at her audacity, C. M. Pruet moved quickly from his perch in the back of the store toward the front, while two of his lady store clerks dutifully hurried outside to confront Marie. Curious customers hurried to catch a glimpse of the challenge sure to ensue, chattering all the while about whether or not the thieving gypsy would be arrested and thrown in jail.  Meanwhile, the sensible Mr. Pruet sent a stock boy running to fetch John T. Green from his grocery store. Customers heard the store owner dispatch the boy with, “tell him to hurry.”

Marie felt a gentle tug on her shoulder and was surprised as she looked back. She saw fear in eyes of the two lady clerks who were standing there.  Marie abruptly turned to them, face to face with mouth wide open, stuttering as her mind raced, unsure of what English word should be used. One of the ladies glanced backward toward Mr. Pruet who was fast approaching the trio of ladies.

“Hallow,” Marie voiced slowly with a trembling smile, searching for discernment in the eyes of the two ladies who stared her down.  C.M. Pruet arrived at the scene, holding up a dollar bill between his left thumb and finger. Then pointing at her basket of goods he implored,

 “Mrs. Green, did you forget to pay?”  For a brief second there was icy silence on the busy Ashland street corner. Then, thinking the kind store proprietor was offering to give her cash as a gift, Marie waved him off and said, “No, no, no.”  Embarrassed, she aimed to simply turn and continue down the sidewalk when a third store clerk blocked her way.  Boxed in on all sides, her bottom lip began to tremble as she at last sensed that something was wrong.  Fortunately she heard someone mention her husband’s name, which she hoped was good news. A growing curious crowd began to gather around the commotion, but sensing her fear Mr. Pruet tried his best to wave them away.  He knew John T would show up anytime.  Still, it didn’t stop tears from welling-up in Marie’s confused eyes.

Finally, John T. Green reached the southeast corner of the town square where the dustup was happening just as Marie whispered a desperate hail Mary prayer in French.  With a well-worn French/English dictionary in hand, John T began to unravel the confusion.  It seems that Marie had a huge misconception of how things are in America.  In her native Antwerp, Belgium, young Marie had been encouraged by her family to marry the American doughboy who had declared his love for her and move with him back to America—the land where EVERYTHING IS FREE.

 Marie Green never regretted moving to the land of the free and the home of the brave, and eventually learned a useful amount of English.  She became an American citizen and attended the local Methodist Church, although she always called herself a Catholic. There was just no Catholic Church in Ashland at the time.  She and John T remained married and devoted to one another for many years, but she was never able to have children.  She had been abused and injured by enemy soldiers during the Great War.  John T had been kind to her and became the brave American prince who rescued her.

As a gangly teen some fifty years later I regularly delivered medicine to Marie Green from my father’s pharmacy.  Every visit I made, she would invite me in and show me some amazing thing in her house from the old country, and tell me stories of the war, and of what atrocities she and her family had experienced.  Her accent remained strong, and she chuckled about how children have always thought she was a gypsy—with her deep wrinkles, gravelly voice, and loads of jewelry.  Still, Marie was a cheerful soul and had many friends in town, living all alone in the years after her husband’s death. With all her heart Marie loved America, the land of the free, and loved her hero, John T. Green.

THE DAY PRINCE DIED

Christian Discipleship, Humor, Small Town America, ,

When I was ten years old I got a puppy from the Gaither family that I named Prince. He was mostly Collie, but not a pure breed.  Prince possessed all the good shepherding qualities and good looks of a Collie, and all the hero qualities of a loyal mutt.  He was hands down the world’s best dog.  Ten-year-old boys need a dog to grow up with and for me, Prince was sent from God.   Continue reading THE DAY PRINCE DIED →

TUMP

Biblical Truth, Christian Discipleship, Humor, Spiritual Growth, Wisdom, ,

“Tump” is not a real word.  We say it all the time, but it isn’t legitimate.  If you look it up in the regular dictionary, it won’t be there.  Old dictionaries may have it, but they define it as a “little hill.”  That’s not the “tump” I’m referring to.  I’m speaking about when you “tump” something over; a wheelbarrow can tump over; a garbage pail can tump over; and even a car can tump over.

Continue reading TUMP →