Tag: humor

The Icy Basement Stairs

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Our farmhouse had a basement, but the only access was from the outside. The steps were concrete, but the basement itself had a dirt floor. 

One winter, the basement stairs were coated in a thick sheet of ice, too thick to be walked on. In my child’s mind, it looked like the perfect opportunity to slide down the stairs on my backside. 

So, I did. 

Once I got down there, it occurred to me that I couldn’t get back up.

The stairs were right next to the back door. I yelled for Mom. 

She couldn’t come down after me or she might have gotten hurt. So she looked around for a solution. Finding none, she stepped into the enclosed porch and brought a broom back with her. 

She extended it down to me, told me to hold on tight, and pulled me up the basement stairs. 

Being pulled up the stairs was almost as much fun as sliding down them in the first place. Having learned absolutely nothing from the first adventure, I did it again after she went inside. 

Of course, I still had no idea how to get out but, since it worked the first time, I called Mom. As before, she extended the broom to me, and hauled me back upstairs again. 

This time, rescue came with a stern look — the Mom look — and she told me not to do it again. 

I didn’t. I wasn’t about to risk getting the Mom look again. 

The Penny Jar

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One summer, a teenage cousin came to stay with us for a short time to help Dad at haying time and earn a little money in the process. Let’s call him Jack. 

Since our family was using all of the bedrooms on the ground floor, Mom gave Jack one of the rooms upstairs to use while he was with us. 

Monty and I usually didn’t go upstairs, but we must have followed Mom up there when she made the bed and tidied up. That’s when we discovered the penny jar on his dresser. 

It was my brother who began teasing him that we were going to take the pennies in his penny jar when he was out helping Dad — and of course I chimed in. 

Jack didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor when it came to his money, which made it all the more tempting to tease him. 

So, Jack told Mom that we said we were going to take his precious pennies. We weren’t of course, and Mom told him so. 

I don’t think he took much comfort in that, though. He didn’t stay very long. 

Jack is still alive, though I haven’t seen him in more than fifty years.

I sometimes wonder if he’s still guarding a penny jar somewhere — and if he’s still mad at two farm kids who never actually took a single penny.

Bloomers

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Dad used to buy livestock feed in colorful linen bags, which he saved and brought home to Mom. She loved to sew, and she turned them into pretty and useful things for us and for the house.

I remember once she made some bloomers for me. That’s what she called them, but they didn’t look like the old-fashioned type that girls and women wore under dresses in earlier eras. I would compare them to the little matching panties that are sold with toddler dresses today.

They were pretty and ruffly, and I loved them. I was pretty proud of them.

One morning, I followed my brother to the bus because I wanted to show the kids my pretty new bloomers. I think that was all I was wearing.

I don’t remember ever walking to the bus with him after that.

I suspect I embarrassed him and he asked Mom to keep me in the house.

Big brothers have their limits.

The Bunny’s Tail Fell Off!

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Although Mom grew up in a rural area, she had never lived on a farm before marrying Dad.

Mom was determined to be a good farm wife. She worked hard, kept us fed and clothed, kept the house clean, nurtured us in every way a mother should, and occasionally helped out on the farm.

Sometimes, especially when Dad was haying, she drove the tractor so a hired hand could help Dad on the ground with the square bales.

One day, she was out by the rabbit pens. I’m not sure what she was doing, but I suspect she was feeding them. Much to her horror, Dad’s prize buck made an escape.

She lunged for him, catching hold just as he started to disappear under the barn — by the tail. She held on tight and tried to pull him back out.

To her horror, the rabbit continued forward and vanished beneath the barn.

That left her standing there — with his tail in her hand and no bunny attached to it.

Later, when quietly explaining to my father what had happened to his rabbit, she said,“I didn’t know their tails would come off.”

“Their tails are delicate, and they will come off if you pull on them,” Dad told her.

I wasn’t privy to that conversation, but it’s not hard to imagine Dad’s laughter when he heard the story.

Ducks

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My Father’s Story

I loved listening to my father tell stories, especially if they were funny. He’d laugh so hard while he was telling them that it took him much longer to tell than it would have otherwise. His laughter was contagious, and we always ended up laughing with him before we heard all of the story. A fair part of the humor in his stories was in watching the way he told them. This was one of those stories. 


One day, two men stopped by my grandfather’s farm, asking for permission to go duck hunting on his property. 

My grandfather, a salty Midwestern farmer with an enormous sense of humor who had lived long enough to see many strange sights in his life, sized them up.

It was obvious to him by the way they looked that they were city slickers — new hunting clothes, guns that didn’t look like they had ever been fired, and boots without a speck of dust on them. They went on to tell him they were in the area from Chicago for duck hunting season. Yep, city slickers, all right.

Tongue in cheek, Grandpa gave them permission, but asked them to stop by and see him before they left so he could see how many they bagged. They were off, and Grandpa could hear occasional gunshots over the course of the day. 

Late that afternoon, they were back. Each held a burlap bag partially filled with their quarry. Grandpa inspected both bags, and handed them back to the city slickers. 

“That’s a really nice bunch of ducks you’ve got there,” he told them. 

They thanked him again for allowing them to hunt on his property.

“You’re welcome. Come back any time,” he told them as they waved goodbye. 

He sure was glad to get rid of those crows. 

Dad passed away almost 35 years ago, and the last time I heard him tell that story, he was sitting at my kitchen table, laughing so hard it’s a miracle he didn’t fall off his chair. 

I can still hear the laughter, and see his face and him doubled over with it. That is how I will always remember him. 

Tongue on the Pump Handle

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Never Ever

January 18, 2026

“Whatever you do, never ever stick your tongue on a pump handle,” cautioned our hired hand.

It just so happened we had a pump handle between the house and the barn. 

Old hand water pump in winter snow

It was winter.

Ever curious, I thought about it. The next time I went outside, I walked over to the pump. At that tender age, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. So I tested it out. 

And stuck fast.

It instantly became clear why I should never ever stick my tongue on a pump handle. It was so cold, it felt like my tongue was burning. I was outside alone, so there was no one to help me. Wanting to get away from it, I jerked my head back—and took a layer of skin off my tongue. 

That hurt almost as bad as it did while my tongue was still stuck on the pump handle, and it continued to hurt for several days afterward. 

Mom had words for the hired hand.

The Patched Dishcloth

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December 20, 2025

One day, long after I was married and had children of my own, I was at Mom’s house, cooking and doing dishes as we prepared for a family dinner. I reached into the drawer where she kept her dishcloths and towels. A scrap of multicolored terrycloth with white stitching caught my eye, and I reached in to pull it out of the drawer. 

I immediately started laughing. Turning without comment, I held it up in front of her. She recognized why I was laughing, then she began to laugh along with me.

What I held in my hands was a patched dishcloth. It was a solid piece of fabric, clearly made from two different cloths — one pink, one lavender — stitched together with white thread to form something new. It represented her life in so many ways — and how she cared for her family.

Both of my parents’ lives were shaped by the Great Depression and the years of World War II where they learned the value of taking care of what they owned and mending what was broken. In this case, a torn dishcloth, insignificant by itself, was made into something useful once again. 

I thought of the other things she mended without ceremony. Socks turned inside out and mended as she watched television with the family, hems let down or taken up as we grew, small tears stitched before they became big ones. She crocheted doilies to decorate our home, kept the house tidy, and somehow made ordinary days feel cared for. None of it was showy. It was simply how she cared for us. 

Everything that she did in life was to see that we were warm and fed and had everything that we needed and almost everything that we wanted. As a child, I may not have appreciated that fully. As an adult and the mother of four, I understood precisely where her heart was and what it takes to make a home.

After Mom passed away, I took that patched dishcloth and put it away as a cherished memento — not just of her life, but of the quiet, ordinary care she gave us every day.