Splendor in the rain

The one and only, the Mothership 😘

Happy birthday to the woman who read Stephen King while she was pregnant with me (as opposed to listening to classical music) 😘, who taught me to be tough, compassionate, caring, to love God, and whose signature I mastered in the ‘90s, when skipping school was easy!

Some of you may know my mom suffers from uncontrollable laughter in “don’t laugh” situations. Recently, I was talking to my siblings about how it just happened to me a month ago when Mom and I were shopping at Kohl’s. I can’t go into details, but let me assure you, I couldn’t make eye contact with her and had to get her out of the store fast. In relaying the details to my siblings, my brother brought up “the 80s incident” AKA the church Christmas play.

In honor of the Mothership’s birthday, I thought I’d share the details as remembered from my childhood memories …

It’s the eighties…I’ll never forget the scene… Mom, one of the children’s Sunday school teachers, has been tasked with narrating the Christmas play, in real time, from a rocking chair in the middle of the stage. Children kneel around her as she reads the story that half of the kids are acting out. There are angels, shepherds, wisemen, Mary, and Joseph…

We’ve made it quite far, but…the wisemen keep entering the scene too early and saying their lines at the wrong time. Over and over. The Mothership repeatedly tries to bring them back around- by whispering to them and continuing with the story, but these guys are re-writing the nativity play.

The Mothership keeps the play moving, despite the obstacles. The ‘lil wisemen do it again, sending their cast mates into confusion… Baby Jesus looks on while the Mothership earnestly attempts to help the lost children of the church finish the play according to Scripture, but then it happens…

A little boy kneeling in front of Mom has the sweetest look on his face, as he hangs on every word of the story, the wisemen enter again…and say their lines…at the wrong time. Everyone is staring at the narrator, their Sunday school teacher, Mrs. S., my mom, who is perched in her rocking chair, beginning to look a little frazzled.

She takes a deep breath. I notice a slow curve begin on the right side of her mouth. Panic shoots through me. I’ve seen this before. I send up a silent, desperate prayer. Please, God, not now.

But sometimes prayers aren’t answered the way we want them to be.

She takes another breath, looking down. To any onlooker it may appear as if all is well, but the slightest twitch of her mouth, coupled with the slow but steadily growing shake of her torso tells me we are in trouble. My siblings and I have seen this before, but never in front of such a large group of people. I wait for it, knowing it’s coming, wishing it weren’t so…

The silence is broken. Her uncontrollable laughter makes its appearance smack dab in the middle of the play. The laughter erupts, louder and louder- like lava flowing from a volcano. Tears begin pouring down the Mothership’s face as the laughter echoes across the awkwardly silent church.

Children, clothed in robes and head scarves, bearing gifts for Baby Jesus look on in silent wonder, jaws dropping in awe at the hysterically laughing narrator, the anchor of the play, who has totally lost it.

I look on in despair at the wisemen. There’s no recovering from this. I’m imagining the humiliation being so bad that my family is going to have to switch churches…I start looking for the nearest exit. But then…a new sound…

I spot the pastor…he’s shaking—not crying though-he’s laughing.

Hysteria spreads.

The pastor’s uncontrollable laughter is joined by the congregation.

They all lose it.

Grandparents, parents, young people, old people- even the teenagers…and finally, the little children of the play start laughing. I’m pretty sure I’m the last to join in because of sheer nerves.

The laughter continues for a good ten minutes. Yeah, you heard that right. For ten minutes, in the middle of the Christmas play about the birth of Jesus, the narrator, the cast, the pastor, the entire church congregation is laughing uncontrollably.

Stories and rumors circulate for years… maybe it was only five minutes, maybe it was ten. Maybe the congregation lost it for a good fifteen minutes. What we do know is that the narrator finally pulled herself together and led the little wisemen and the rest of the children to victory, completing what would be known as the most interesting and hilarious Christmas play in our church’s history. I’ll never forget the exchange between the pastor and my mom afterwards, the smile on his face, the genuine appreciation and joy as he told her it was a Christmas play he’d “never forget”.

Happy birthday to the woman who makes us smile and laugh…even when we don’t want to. We LOVE YOU, Jacquelyn! 🥳😘🥰

Wrote this for my daughters

The leaves

My late Grandpa Lloyd’s Veteran’s Day & Memorial Day words…

Some of you may recall this blog was named in honor and as a tribute to my late Grandpa Lloyd Landon Jones, who was a fellow writer and enjoyed capturing photos and sharing ideas and stories- from politics to poetry on his old school “blog” Lloyd’s View from the bottom. His publication was mailed out and emailed once a week for years after his retirement.

This Veteran’s Day, I am sharing two accounts, written by him. Grandpa was a WWII veteran. His unit was in the 417th Regiment of the 76th Infantry Division, Patton’s 3rd Army…

Grandpa Lloyd is standing on the far right of this photograph.

Post One:

Lloyd’s View from the bottom
May 26, 2003


I am writing this issue of “Lloyd’s View from the bottom” on Memorial Day. This is a day that always depresses me for it has, at least in my view, lost all connection with its’ original meaning: When I was a youngster, most of this small towns’ residents marched, behind a band, to the local graveyard. Taps were played and an honor guard fired a three-volley salute. The idea was to honor those who had given the last full measure of devotion in order that the rest of us could be free. I cannot find much honor in the present celebration of the day.

I was not a very good soldier. I did not want to die or to be injured. My memories of combat are mostly of the terrible terror one felt. My unit, the 417th Regiment of the 76th Infantry Division, suffered eighty percent casualties while penetrating the Siegfried line at Echternach, Luxembourg, during a five-day period. A regiment consisted of about five thousand men. The Sauer River separated Luxembourg from Germany. The river was at flood stage. The first attack was at night. One, literally, could not see one’s hand in front of his face. We held on to the man in front of us and, when the incoming shells blew a section of the line away, we would feel our way forward until we found another man standing.

We crossed the river in small plywood boats, which were paddled. We had no training in this type of craft and many turned over or were hit by mortar fire. Some genius put all the battalions’ doctors in one boat and it took a direct hit. From that point on, we had nothing but the equivalent of first aid men to treat the vast number of injuries. When men fell into the river, they drowned. I am still haunted by the memories of standing in pitch darkness and hearing men scream, and then gurgle, as they drowned in the river.

The Germans could literally drop a mortar shell into any chimney in the town of Echternach. They had been there for many years. The German side of the river had been mined over and over until the Germans themselves had lost track of the mine fields. Many of our casualties were caused by mines. The engineers clear a narrow path through the mines after we had gained a foothold on the German side of the river. Our dead were strung out on both sides of the path since one could not leave the narrow, cleared area to remove them. I particularly remember the Company Commander of “E” Company. The side of his head had been blown away and he looked like something out of my old Biology text.

At one point I was instructed to take part of my squad to carry fuel to one of the aid stations. A young boy, with a large hole in his lower back was dragging himself from one wounded soldier to another. He looked up at me and said, “Tell my mother that I died well.” I am crying as I write this. I have never been able to tell this story without tears in my eyes. These are the people that we should be honoring on this, and every, Memorial Day.

Grandpa Lloyd

Post two:

Lloyd’s View from the bottom
November 16, 2006 (Veteran’s Day)


I have stood on a riverbank, in total darkness, and listened to soldiers drowning in the flooded stream. Eight hundred of the dead were later recovered from an eddy downstream. I have watched a young first aid man drag his paralyzed legs from one wounded solider to the next and then die. His last words were, “Tell my mother that I died well.” I have held a buddy out of the line of fire while he hemorrhaged his life blood over me. I have watched the commanding officer of a combat engineering unit stand with tears streaming down his face as he slipped on cobblestones slick with the blood of his command. I spent a long night on a stretcher, twenty-four inches from an Italian who had been horribly burned by the Germans. He screamed, all night, for God to let him die and finally was released from his torment at dawn. I could go on.

This is what some of us had to experience in order that the present occupants of this country could enjoy their freedom. Personally, I never wanted anything in return for my service. I could have had a pension, for injuries sustained, but turned it down. I spent years in rather severe pain from a ruptured lumbar disc and still have a trick ankle. I probably suffered from post-traumatic stress, but they hadn’t invented that yet. My experiences did have a bad effect upon my disposition, and I was a failure as a husband and father. I believe, however, that I felt that having been privileged to help save the world was adequate compensation.

Now, however, as I near the end of life, I think that those who have enjoyed the world that we left them owe, those of us who fought for this country, an unpaid debt. All those now living in this land should do their best to ensure that this nation survives and that our efforts should not have been in vain. I hear people say that they do not like to worry about such things as terrorist attacks, since it interferes with their joy of life. I read that many do not vote because it takes too much time. I live in a prosperous county in which only forty percent of the registered voters bothered to vote in the recent election. What kind of people are these?

I do not like these people. I will not live to see the terrible price that their inaction will exact but I am leaving children, grandchildren and great grandchildren who will. I have done all that I could to prevent the coming disaster. This gives me no solace since I have obviously failed.

Grandpa Lloyd with his grandson, my cousin Craig, who served in Afghanistan.

Me, Grandpa Lloyd, & my brother Sam, 1998

Dogs Against Three Dog Homes

At their meeting of Dogs Against Three Dog Homes, Shorty and Mocha decided to lay aside their differences and form an alliance. This would include sharing dog beds, and even the occasional nap together.

When asked about the change of heart for her previous rival, Shorty informed reporters, “It’s true that the tiny dog got on my nerves when she first joined my household. I admit I was jealous at first because she wanted all of Sarah’s attention. But we quickly concluded that Sarah has two hands and agreed we could sit on either side of Sarah while she pets us. But then the latest shelter refugee arrived, and Sarah doesn’t have three hands. Still, it’s more than that. Mocha and I can simply not tolerate the blatant disrespect of personal space from the third dog, how she constantly tries to hog all the attention from Sarah, and her ridiculous amount of energy. We older dogs don’t have time for that nonsense.”

Mocha nodded in agreement and added, “And look, if I get stepped on one more time by that gargantuan brute that calls herself a dog, I’m gonna snap. I figure allying with Shorty gives us a fighting chance of taking the beast down. And believe me…we’re taking her down.”

When asked about their plans for taking the beast down, the dog duo waved reporters off with a front paw, simply stating in a weary, but unified voice, “No further comments.”

Dog duo napping

Sharing a bed

The third dog AKA the gargantuan brute 😘

The three hounds 😊

From the rescue dog files

My rescue dog trio (Shorty, Harley, & Mocha) inspired me to write their Wanted posters recently. Hope you enjoy! 😉

WANTED Poster…

The Sharlocha Gang (Sh for Shorty, Har for Harley, Locha for Mocha, Sh+Har +Locha= Sharlocha)

Left to right (pictured below):

Harley the Notorious Critter Chaser. Wanted for the attempted jumping of backyard fences while in the aimless pursuit of all animals, including squirrels, rabbits, and birds. Known to barrel headfirst into fences and doors while attempting to catch insects. Don’t be fooled by her sweet demeanor. This gazelle can run and will lead you on a wild squirrel chase through the neighborhood, should she evade you.

Loca Mocha Madness, AKA, Mocha the Destroyer, AKA 18 Pounds of Death. Wanted for the repeated offense of digging holes…Holes created by herself, and holes created by moles. Known to collaborate with Harley the Notorious in the pursuit of flying insects, though not known for running headfirst into fences like her counterpart. Also wanted for attempting to bring dead rodents and other trophy kills inside the house. Not to be underestimated for her size or pretty smile. This petite beast is a master of cunning and treachery.

Shorty the Short Old Lady. Wanted for the attempted destruction of the mail man, the UPS man, and the FedEx man. Known for absolutely losing it upon the arrival of any type of mail or package, at which point she corrals the entire Sharlocha Gang to bark hysterically through the living room window at any and all personnel attempting to deliver mail. All couch pillows are knocked over in this endeavor, and total household chaos ensues. Also known for sighing loudly throughout the day in seeming annoyance of the behaviors of Harley the Notorious and Mocha the Destroyer. Can be spotted seeking the peaceful refuge of the back bedroom, away from her felon counterparts.

The Sharlocha Gang is known to travel as a trio and have been spotted patrolling yards together. If seen, approach with caution as these beasts are considered cute but dangerous, especially the 18-pounder.

My rescue dog gang 😉

Sunrises

Lost and found

Overnight