I wrote once about our 1966 convertible bus, which we owned for 20 years. My brother sent me a picture of it recently and I thought I’d share it. I don't know all of the people in the picture- some are siblings and my mom, who loves her some Lime Jell-O, is the babe leaning near the back of the bus. I’m the dashing young lad in the front passenger seat with a head as big as all outdoors.

I reread the post and it made me miss that bus all over again. I think my brother Sean dropped the engine and put it in the lawnmower or something sketchy like that.

Remember, there is still time to Ask a French Woman. You have until Monday to ask a real live French person any question you want- she has promised not to ignore, mock or pssssst! you. Ask your questions in the comment section or email me at mgmullaney@mac.com. We will run the questions and answers next wednesday.

It seemed that everyday my 5 siblings and I had to bring something home from school for my parents to sign. Usually they were questions regarding a church service or a field trip. Before my first communion there was a suddenly flurry of questions being sent by the nun that taught me. “When is the best time for the service? Should the boys wear dark trousers? Will the girls wear veils?” Since there were six kids my mom didn’t have time for this foolishness but answered all the questions until I brought the last request?

“The teacher wants to know what you favorite recipe is?” I said, a mouth full of day-old strawberry Zinger.

In my innocents I wasn’t aware of the maelstrom that would follow. It must have been the straw that broke the camel's back because my mom was putting her foot down. She would not answer. The battle lines were drawn- my mother against a Catholic nun- it would be a battle royale. The nun, having taken a vow to give up most everything, was not about to cede her last pleasure, which was total control. Each day she would demand the recipe and each night my mother would say no. It was a battle of wills and I, the humble messenger- an innocent amongst Carcassonian treachery, would bounce back and forth like a ping-pong ball with the serve of “Recipe tomorrow!” and a return volley of “Not a chance!”

Finally, the nun, in a breach of game etiquette made a proclamation. “Young Misplaced will not be allowed back in school until he brings your favorite recipe forthwith.” My mother weighed the options – Concede the battle or allow her 5th child, who had incredible hair, even then, to live in the darkness of ignorance for the rest of his life. She apparently was still weighing these options the next morning, as she had not given me a recipe*. As my mom filled 6 brown paper bags with lunches, I repeated the terms of surrender to her. It was quiet- the last apple fell much too hard on the sandwich in the bag- I made a mental note to not take that particular lunch. My mother, in a rare display of melt down, stormed into the pantry, pulled down a packet of Lime Jell-O, ripped the back off and said in a dark, ominous voice, “Give this to the Nun”. The incident was eventually forgotten and my little brother got the dented sandwich. My world was once again golden


First communion arrived, as it always does, near Mother’s Day. In appreciation for raising us Catholic and not some heathen, bastard offshoot of Christianity, we gave our mothers cookbooks that had been illustrated by us. These handmade books contained the favorite recipes, with detailed instructions, of all the mothers. Included were such gems as, Mrs. Gunderson’s favorite Lamp-of-God chops, Mrs. O’Connor’s heavenly homemade Irish Soda Bread, Mrs. Bedelias’ Favorite Lemon Merigue Pie.

And under the M’s could be found

Mrs. Misplaced’s Favorite Lime Jell-O
Bring 2 cups of water to a boil
Stir in content of Lime Jell-O Packet
Allow to cool.

It was some time before the prank phone calls stopped. The story would find it’s way back into our lives. A letter from Father Cunningham saying how much they enjoyed this Jell-O treat; the Lime Jell-O box ornament that would mysteriously appear on our Christmas tree each year; the 25th grade school re-union, where a copy of the recipe was next to the first communion photo. As I consider this now it is very obvious that I have deliberately moved to a country that does not sell Jell-O, I just want to get on with my life.

*Had she known I would be educated and unemployed in Paris she might have chosen differently- hindsight is always 20/20.

I was tagged by Aralena (highly recommended reading) to write about my favorite subject, which is, of course, me. The topic is 10 Things About Me. Since I just did one of those last May I thought I would steal her idea and use childhood memories. So the following is a list of ten things (in no particular order) involving candy, toys and muggings from my childhood in the Midwest.

1. SSP’s were racecars. I loved them. They had a plastic ripcord shaped like a T with ratchets in it. Slide the ripcord in the gears by the wheel; pull with all your might and the center wheel spun madly with a great ZZZZZZ sound. Someone told me that a case of SSP’s had fallen off a train that ran through our neighborhood. I was unable to run to the tracks to pillage- my mind simply melted with the possibilities of owning a case of SSP’s, the thought of the collective ZZZZZZZ sound and my central nervous system shut down. I stood there, helpless and drooling.

2. Vanilla French Chew candies were my favorite. The white powder would cover my face after I ate a French Chew. I looked like Al Pacino in Scarface after he plants his face in the mountain of cocaine. Vanilla French Chews are better than cocaine.

3. I tripped caring two bottles of Mountain Dew and I got glass in my hand. My Aunt told me she would give me a quarter if I could get the glass out. The glass was removed in short order because a quarter was the cost of a French Chew (see #2 and the effects of cocaine). As I walked (probably skipping with excitement) two toughs mugged me and they stole my quarter.

4. The “toughs” were two 12-year-old girls; I generally leave that part of the story out.

5. I was mugged again by a guy who become a big NBA star- he bought Doritos with the dollar he stole from me. Stealing money for Doritos is just plain wrong.

6. I would spend hours playing with plastic toy soldiers; I would rip the grass out of our backyard to make the scenes more realistic. By the time I was through our backyard resembled a mangy dog.

7. I had a puppet that at one point had been a tap dancer- but his strings became tangled and I lost his coat and his tap shoes so I made a super hero out of him. He is the first gay super hero. I, for some reason, named him Sid. “Sid The Gay Superhero”. (Photo to come)

8. Hippity Hop: Ok, it wasn’t a great toy, and I’m not certain I really liked it but when Connie Castleberry hopped and then popped my hippidy hop it became my most prized possession. I was done wrong by the purposeful vandalism of my bouncy toy. She had accidentally hopped on a piece of glass but I didn’t mention that to anyone- let them think her weight was a factor.

9. Mud ball fights: The idea of this now is insane but we would make mud balls and throw them at each other. It hurt like hell to get hit, but that’s the nature of the beast. They weren’t soft, sloppy mud balls but hard, balled up with a rock or two placed in the center for added ‘shock’ value.

10. There was a ravine behind our houses, which was a great place to get away from parents and run amok. My childhood was spent in this wooded hollow making clubhouses reading playboys and learning to smoke- you know all the things kids like to do. I found out as an adult that the ravine was actually an open sewer stream. That might explain a few of the nervous ticks.

I'd be curious to hear what Simon Chase has to say on this topic. Simon consider yourself tagged.

We had a little gathering for K’s birthday this weekend- along with showing the house it was a busy time but very pleasurable. I bought balloons for both occasions and a little helium tank. What a joy balloons are! I think they, like flowers in vases, should be scattered around the house for splashes of color.

One of my helium balloons got away from me a floated up to the sky- where it is now I have no idea. The adult in me knows that it has deflated and has landed softly, a few blocks away, but the child in me is certain it is still flying; floating at its own pace toward some foreign land.

When I was a child, while on vacation with my family at the Gulf of Mexico, I put a note with my name and address in a bottle and threw it in the gulf. I was filled with excitement at the possibilities of the bottles journey. Perhaps I would receive a letter 50 years later from someone in China who had just retrieved my aged note. I imagined it bumping against a pirate ship- floating, unconcerned, along side a whale. The possibilities were endless.

An hour later I saw some lady walking down the street with my bottle and the note still jammed in it- she couldn’t get it out. That is the problem with endless possibilities the end result might be rather dull.

Man...what a day so far. My tire blew out on the highway so I changed the tire in the rain while trucks screamed by me splashing me with nasty highway water. I need to work on my speed in tire changing, but I've only had ot change 3 tires before. I was pissed at myself becasue I got a little panicky while changing it- but afterwards I thought that being panicky while changing a tire on the highway in the rain is probably pretty normal- (I'm always on the look out for the panick attacks which have left me).

I went to get a hamburger for lunch and the waitress accidently dropped a fry in my coke. "Ooops" she said and reached into my drink pulled the fry out and said , "There ya go" And left without replacing the drink. Again I feel blessed to have witnessed it and I have been smiling the rest of the day. Somedays all it takes it one little serendipitous moment to make everything ok.- the coke tasted that much better.

When I was a boy my dad and I went camping in Indiana- I ordered pancakes at a greasy diner (that's how my family camps) I asked for some butter and she returned carrying the unwrapped butter in her hands- no plate, no nothing- just her bare hands wrapped around a stick of butter. Can life get any better than that???? No..the answer is no.

A woman from Argentina, Arboleda posted a comment on my blog a few posts back. she only has one post up so far but I think its going to be an interesting blog if she keeps with it. Isn't it great to peek into peoples lives from a distance. Especially when the distance is so far.

Have I mentioned that I always suspected that I have a learning disability? If I was in high school today I’m certain that I would diagnosed with some form of learning disability and be given some drug that would make me ‘get it’. I wonder if my life would be different. I have grown past the ‘less than feelings’ that can be associated with not doing well in school. But, as a kid, its easy to define yourself by those short comings. I always feel bad for fat kids because its hard enough without having ot put up with that crap. Whenever I see a fat parent buying their fat kids a hot dog and a 20 ounce big Gulp from the 7-11 I want to shake the parent and say "This is child abuse!" but I'm afraid the fat parent and her fat kid would beat me up and where would my self-esteem be then?

When I was young, I must not have picked up reading quickly. In fact it must have been so painfully slow that my parents sent me to a private tutor at Mount Saint Joseph College. It was a nun who taught me and I just barely remember the lessons at all. I do remember that the nun was very kind and patient. It’s in vogue to trash the men and women of the cloth in the Catholic religion, and while I’m no longer a religious person I will say they, for the most part, treated me well- except Sister Joseph Ellen who sucker punched me as I came out of the bathroom, but she still makes me laugh with her antics so I can’t be too resentful toward her.

Anyway- As I have mentioned before there were 6 kids in my family. We were by no means poor but I’m sure there wasn’t extra money lieing around to pay for private reading lessons. Every Saturday my mom would drive to the College but before we got there we would stop at a donut shop where I could get any pastry I wanted. This was a big deal, in my family as we weren’t permitted sweets like this. My mom and I would sit on the lawn and eat our breakfast snack and talk- with all those kids my parents were pretty good about spending individual time with each of us. I only remember one conversation we had. I asked my mom if she would vote for Richard Nixon if she were his mother- she said no.

One day after many months of tutoring, the nun told me that there was no reason for me to come back- I was a fine reader she told my mother. She must have been right because I became a reading fool spending great amounts of time in the library. A bagful of library books felt like Christmas to me. I wish I could remember the nun that taught me to read, but I think, more importantly, the time I spent with my mom taught me to enjoy the experience of reading.

I came from what some might consider a large family... but in my Irish Catholic world, having 6 kids was pretty average. Everything had to be larger in a big family, meals were an assembly line. Only a VW bus would do, and school lunches lined the table like paper bag soldiers. The bill for groceries must have been outrageous. There has to be more of everything when a family is large.

As a child, I watched as my father and older brothers wrestled with our new kitchen table. They had bought it in an auction- a large, wood, second-hand library table. Dad brought it home strapped dangerously to the top of the family VW. Somehow they managed to get this oversized table into the kitchen, but once in they were unable to turn and position the table where my mother wanted- it was simple too large. In exasperation, my father fired up the circular saw and cut 4 feet off one side. “This side will be the one against the wall,” my father proclaimed.

A family needs a big kitchen table to conduct its business. Meals are only one of the tables duties. Report cards were scrutinized here, molten candy was poured on slabs of marble and cut on this table, dough was kneaded here. I hurt my shoulder as I walked by the corner of the table when I was a boy, and I hurt my hip on the same corner as an adult. We toasted the life of my grand mother here. I overheard my parents discussing my runaway brother at this table. The kitchen may be the heart of a house, but the kitchen table is the soul.

We grew older and each of us moved into our own homes with our own kitchen tables. My parents no longer needed the large table and gave it to a workman. As much as they would have liked to have kept the table it was time for it to go to another family.

I've never been a fan of jewelry for men. For me there is a vanity that is associated with this that I've never wanted to project, much like the wearing of cologne.

But when I was younger I had an obsession for puzzle rings. I don't know if they even still make these. It was a gold ring made up of 5 or 6 thin bands which were braided together. These could be unbraided but you had to know how to put it back together- which would explain the 'puzzle' aspect of the ring. I never could put them back together but was fortunate to have a hippy chick who lived down the street which would reassemble it for me. She tried to teach me, but to know avail. Of course, why learn if a pretty hippy chick will do it for you.

There was only one place I knew to get them and that was the Cupboard, which was a headshop one neighborhood over for us. It seems to me that I spent a fair amount of time at the Cupboard in my younger years. Wippets were legal then (at least I think they were) and that was a good place to get them. I doubt that my parents were aware of the places we spent our days. We left the house in the morning, came in for a peanut and jelly sandwich for lunch and returned for dinner, there was not a lot of unnecessary supervision. This taught us independence, leadership, how to smoke cigarettes at an early age,and where in the woods one could usually find an old Playboy Magazine.

It's fun to think back on the days when my life was no more confusing than how to reassemble a puzzle ring and help came in the form of a pretty hippy girl.

I put a new dress on this post for Sunday Scribbles


Updates: A few comments have arisen regarding what a wippet is. In retrospect I probably could have done without including it in the post. A wippet is a small canister of nitrous oxide. You would fill a balloon with the nitrous oxide (using a wippet dispenser) and inhale. The late 70's were little silly.

In 1966 my dad bought a Volkswagon bus. My mom was surprised when he drove it home- she didn't really care what kind of car he bought but she knew she'd have trouble getting into the bus wearing a skirt. It was a convertible, not one of those small sun roofs, it was a full fledged, canvas, push it all the way back, convertible roof. It made sense for them to buy this, they had six small children and…well, it was a convertible 1966 bus- I’m not sure how many more reasons you need.

I remember as a child growing tall enough to stand on the back of the middle seat and being able to peer over the edge of the roof as we drove. No more than my eyes, the top of my head and two tiny hands were visible, I was a living, mobile “Kilroy Was Here”. My oldest brother would hold my youngest brother as we drove so he could see. I don’t recall there being many safety rules for the kids in the bus. We weren’t allowed to throw stuff out of the roof but other than that it was pretty much anarchy. The unwritten rule was that if you could jump up to the edge of the roof and hang there by your armpits with your legs dangling, you were allowed to ride like this.

People would always smile and wave at us as we drove by. It must have been an odd sight to see 6 children’s head peering out of the top of the roof as it drove down the street. We would wave back and smile. Every trip to the grocery store or to go swimming was a parade.

Continued February 15, 2007
We drove this car 2 days to Harwich Port in Cape Cod. It seems insane now but my parent, their 6 kids, my Aunt and her 4 kids piled into the VW bus and drove for two days to the small beach house we rented. I can’t imaging driving that far with 14 children under the age of 10 in one car. The middle bench seat was removed so that all the kids could find a little piece of floor to sit on. Armed with only an AM radio station and our best singing voices we set out to travel the eastern half of the U.S.. My dad was adament about us going to the beach, years later he explained that the first time he had seen the ocean was when we was in the army, he wasn’t going to let that happen to his kids. We made this trip for 3 or 4 years. I wrote about having a family re-union this summer at Harwich Port- we all flew, I don't recall the flight.

My parents bought a new car for the family in the mid 70's, a green station wagon. The bus became the "kid’s car", which, of course, is the kiss of death for any car. Everyone learned to drive a stick on that car(except me and my little brother) and it passed from 16 year old to 16 year old. The interior showed signs of wear, burns from careless cigarettes and new found teenage freedom. Whenever you made a sharp left turn the passenger door would fly open. It must have seemed odd to any newcomer in the car. It wasn’t even mentioned, the door would fly open at 50 miles an hour, reach out and pull it shut, no need to comment on it. We had to give it a little push to get the running start. It finally died in the early 80’s and was sold, unceremoniously to a man whose name I don’t even know.

We had a family reunion in Cape Cod last August. We used to go there when we were kids. One year, for some reason, my little brother, my cousin and I were not allowed to go. The reason given was that we were too young. It's unclear why it's possible to be too young to go on vacation but old enough to stay home with a teenage babysitter while your parents and siblings were having fun in the sun.

It is my mom's fear that one of her 6 childen will write a "Mommy Dearest" type book which would essentially blame her for all of our personal failures. Who would do that, you ask? Why, I would -because that's how I roll. Anyway this is a letter I sent to my parents and my siblings before our reunion last year.

Hi Everyone,

Kathleen (sister) called to ask if I remembered what year everyone had gone to Cape Cod, while Kitty, Brendan, and I stayed home. I vaguely remember because Cindy had kittens while you all were gone. I went through my old journals and found a few notes on that time. It was the summer of 1967; Kitty and I were both 3 and Brendan was 1 year old. I was quite the little record keeper of note- my model airplane glue-sniffing phase would enter several years later allowing the other children to catch up with me intellectually.

June 2 1967

I can’t believe it. They actually left -everyone. Kitty, Brendan and I stood staring at the closed front door…silence. There were quick instructions and something about 10 days worth of peanut butter sandwiches in the freezer. If Kitty stands on my shoulders, holding Brendan up, we could reach the freezer- wobbling like a Russian acrobatic trio- performing as though our lives depended upon it, which of course it did. There was a halfhearted assurance that the electric bill had been paid. A few crumpled dollars lay on the table by the door for emergencies.

June 3, 1967

We’ve hired Brendan out as a bottle washer, his nimble little fingers are able to clean inside the bottleneck. He has a lovely little box that he stands on to reach the faucet. There has been some idle chatter that the factory might go down to a 12-hour day. We can only pray. He has become a sullen, stoic child- of course he’s only one.

June 4, 1967

I’m afraid that I’ve picked up a few bad habits hanging out in the street. I spend a lot of time leaning against the wall of Carl’s Deli, smoking cigarettes yelling out,

“So’s yer old man!!”

at anyone that passes. You’d think a 3 year old might have trouble getting smokes, but Carl is pretty cool.

June 5, 1967

Brendan has not been sharing his earnings and has taken up with some ne’er-do-well bottle washers. They refer to themselves as’ the dirty diaper brigade’. It is a tough, little group of monkeys with tiny fists of fury. I mostly try to stay clear of him; he has a temper, especially when he’s on the sugar.

I had to bail Kitty out of jail again… this is getting ridiculous. Our little Fantine (after the haircut) is quite the entrepreneur.

Received a postcard from the Cape.

Beautiful weather, we are tan and happy

Love, Your Parents

It was a lovely card, although my shaking hands made it hard to read. It is June but I’m cold…oh, so cold.

There was more but I’m just going to curl up in a little ball and stay quiet for a while. Looking forward to the reunion, thanks for including me.

mmmmm.....Wacko-Wax

We've all had some time to think about it. What's the verdict? Were wax lips really that good of an idea?

It was marketed as a gum. Looking back on it now it wasn't gum, it was wax with red food coloring in it. We chewed on wax and liked it! Is it any wonder that Generation X and Y will never respect us?

Ideas are good, aren't they?

As I thought about this topic I hear myself saying "I have an idea..." and trying to remember what has followed. Its odd that, generally, what follows has not been a good idea. It's similar to saying, "Hey y'all watch this" after drinking too much whiskey. What follows will never be good.

As kids we made little parachutes for our hamsters, Sonny and Cher, and threw them out the 3rd floor window. the beat may go on but, alas, Sonny and Cher did not. That was a bad idea- but we honestly thought it would work and that the hamsters would love it. So maybe the idea was good but the execution was flawed. Deep down inside I still suspect that all hamsters would love to parachute or hang glide given the opportunity. Around the same decade I drank vanilla extract because it smelt yummy. That was also a bad idea but if something smells that good it should taste as good.

When I was in college (good idea) I did a Pete Townsend jump under a door-frame (bad idea). I met Pete Townsend in the south of France and spoke with him (good idea) and I told him about the shaved head and stitches that resulted from copying him (bad idea) He moved away slowly and didn't make eye contact (probably a good idea).

I'm thinking about selling everything, quitting my job and moving to Paris to write for a year (good idea). I'm thinking about selling everything, quitting my job and moving to Paris to write for a year (bad idea).

There aren't good ideas or bad ideas, there are only ideas- the things that come about from mental masturbation*. Whether we chose to act upon these ideas is where the good or bad will enter.

*...and yes using the term 'mental masturbation' was a bad idea but naming our hamsters Sonny and Cher was a worse idea

The proof was in the logo. they've changed it since then, but back in the day it showed a hillbilly running to an outhouse while another one, for some reason, shot at him. Urine and gunplay, a srange combination to sell your product.

My sister and I were trudging up the street to our house one very hot day in August in the 70's. I would imagine that we were bored out of our minds as we sometimes were toward the end of summer. Stevie was sitting on a stoop to the street, sipping a cold Mountain Dew. We were those abused kids you knew who were never allowed sugary snacks , fast food or sodas. My sister and I stared lustfully at the sweating bottle of green goodness.

"You know how they make Mountain Dew Stevie?" asked my sister.

Stevie didn't like how this was sounding one bit and shook his head.

"Hillbillies pee in a bottle," she explained.

"No way," said Stevie, shaking her off as he took another swig of hillbilly piss but with less enthusiasm.

"It's true," she continued. "You never see us drinking it do you? Shoot if it was just normal soda we'd be drinking it all day long, we got money."

Actually we didn't but that was beside the point.

"Man, that's not right" Stevie's denial started out strong but by 'not' it softened and at 'right' the word lilted up with just a hint of doubt.

"Why do you think they have a picture of that hillbilly on the bottle running to the bathroom?" she continued.

Boom. You couldn't argue with that fact. Stevie had viwed the scene on the bottle a thousand times but he never thought about it. Why would there would be a picture of one Hillbilly shooting at another Hillbilly as he ran to an outhouse? Under the drawing were the words

"special blend of mountain waters
and flavored in the traditional hillbilly style"

"What do you think 'flavored in the traditional hillbilly style means'?" She looked at him with pity, like he was the sorriest kid on the block.

For Stevie it all began to click, Mountain... Dew.... He'd never heard of piss being called dew, but it sounded on awful lot like pees brown brother, poo.

"Man, you guys suck"

He set the bottle down with disgust, not because he had been drinking a bottle of Hillbilly piss but because he now knew it was Hillbilly piss. Stevie went home to ask his mom about it.

My sister swooped up the bottle and took a long swig.

"Sucker" she said.

She handed the bottle to me and I took a little taste. She had made a pretty good argument for it being pee and it no longer had the allure it once did. There was, after all, a picture of a hillbilly running to an outhouse on the bottle.