A fairly reliable car. You might describe it as "pedestrian."
Friday, December 31, 2004
1965 Rambler
The year was 1967. It was time to settledown. I got married to Brokerbelle. As in the case of many young marrieds money was scarce. Further Brokerbelle had a car payment, and I did not. So I sold my beautiful Triumph Spitfire and assumed the payments on the Rambler.
But wait! That is not hardly fair. You see I was not working. Not much anyway. I was bound for graduate school and the heady income of a college professor. More about that in a future blog. So I did not assume any payments really. Brokerbelle had a job and she kept working.
Meanwhile I was at the top of my class with majors in Greek and History and a minor in religion. You can imagine how attractive I was to employers. "Let's see you can read ancient Greek, no ancient Greek around here."
For the next two years this Greek major went to graduate school where he got another useless degree-a masters in Medieval History and a minor in Latin. Wow! I bet my job prospects would improve now.
Brokerbelle was a highly skilled secretary (a timed typing test of 110 words per minute and short hand over 100 words per minute). She was so good that one time at the University of Texas a professor stated that he did not believe anyone was that good and demanded to see the tests.) She was good at her job. Really good. I went to school and supplemented our modest income by making filings with the State of Louisiana, working in service stations, and inspecting fire hydrants for the local water company (which by the way was a pretty good job).
So suffice it to say, I assumed no payments, Brokerbelle made the payments and put food on the table and I supplemented as best I could-which upon reflection was none too good.
I had become a victim of reality. I was now a married man and living upon my wife's modest resources .
So Rambler it was, and a brown rambler at that. The Rambler was a good car and provided the transportation we needed. It was not a "car from hell"--but plain, serviceable and it got us places.
Now, I could fall in love with Brokerbelle; however I was never able to fall in love with Ramblers.
Since that time I find that some people do love Ramblers and that there are even webpages devoted to them.
Well we are all different, but a webpage for Ramblers is one of the mysteries of life.
The automotive road ahead was not to be a pleasant one. Ahead of me would be another Rambler and the car from Hell, the accursed Maverick. So I was to enter an Automotive Purgatorio where by my muse, Henry Ford, would lead me a spiralling descent into automotive nightmares reminiscent of the paintings of Heironimus Bosch. Through this upcoming period I would be a college professor for two years (the AAUP liberal gowns did not fit HarleyDad very well) and then the law school experience, flavored with tons of poverty and accompanied by the Maverick (the car from hell) which I wore like the albatross worn by the Ancient Mariner.
HarleyDad and Brokerbelle would eventually be saved from this automotive Purgatorio by the humble Corolla.
HarleyDad (showing a sudden attack of erudition, which hopefully will quickly pass.)
But wait! That is not hardly fair. You see I was not working. Not much anyway. I was bound for graduate school and the heady income of a college professor. More about that in a future blog. So I did not assume any payments really. Brokerbelle had a job and she kept working.
Meanwhile I was at the top of my class with majors in Greek and History and a minor in religion. You can imagine how attractive I was to employers. "Let's see you can read ancient Greek, no ancient Greek around here."
For the next two years this Greek major went to graduate school where he got another useless degree-a masters in Medieval History and a minor in Latin. Wow! I bet my job prospects would improve now.
Brokerbelle was a highly skilled secretary (a timed typing test of 110 words per minute and short hand over 100 words per minute). She was so good that one time at the University of Texas a professor stated that he did not believe anyone was that good and demanded to see the tests.) She was good at her job. Really good. I went to school and supplemented our modest income by making filings with the State of Louisiana, working in service stations, and inspecting fire hydrants for the local water company (which by the way was a pretty good job).
So suffice it to say, I assumed no payments, Brokerbelle made the payments and put food on the table and I supplemented as best I could-which upon reflection was none too good.
I had become a victim of reality. I was now a married man and living upon my wife's modest resources .
So Rambler it was, and a brown rambler at that. The Rambler was a good car and provided the transportation we needed. It was not a "car from hell"--but plain, serviceable and it got us places.
Now, I could fall in love with Brokerbelle; however I was never able to fall in love with Ramblers.
Since that time I find that some people do love Ramblers and that there are even webpages devoted to them.
Well we are all different, but a webpage for Ramblers is one of the mysteries of life.
The automotive road ahead was not to be a pleasant one. Ahead of me would be another Rambler and the car from Hell, the accursed Maverick. So I was to enter an Automotive Purgatorio where by my muse, Henry Ford, would lead me a spiralling descent into automotive nightmares reminiscent of the paintings of Heironimus Bosch. Through this upcoming period I would be a college professor for two years (the AAUP liberal gowns did not fit HarleyDad very well) and then the law school experience, flavored with tons of poverty and accompanied by the Maverick (the car from hell) which I wore like the albatross worn by the Ancient Mariner.
HarleyDad and Brokerbelle would eventually be saved from this automotive Purgatorio by the humble Corolla.
HarleyDad (showing a sudden attack of erudition, which hopefully will quickly pass.)
Thursday, December 30, 2004
"S" stands for Studebaker
I dream of my early youth. Does the "S" stand for Superman the hero of all young boys back in the post WW II days. The heroes of the comic book world back in those days were three guys and one gal. They were Superman, Batman, and Aquaman (these all sprang from the old "Captain Marvel" comic books). For the girls, there was "Wonder Woman." That was before all the new Superheroes like Plastic Man.
But the "S" in my dreams does not stand for Superman but for Studebaker, the superhero of Automobiles.
Some of my first memories are of the Studebaker. Now my parents for many years have claimed that I have had gasoline cholic. See my blog on December 24 entitled "A Blog that Only a Mother Can Love" where my father makes reference to this phenomenon. In short, I cried each night and would not go to sleep until I had a ride in a vehicle. (Today, I find that I can sleep on trains, plains and automobiles. But I can also sleep anywhere else.) The truth of the matter is that I fell in love with my folks' Studebaker when I was very young and would not go to sleep without a ride in it. Therefore just taking me for a ride today will not cure my sleep problems-unless it is a ride in a Studebaker.
There are various Studebakers in my memory including a 1949 Studebaker, a 1950 Sudebaker, a 1952 Studebaker and a 1953 or 1954 Studebaker. They are like counting sheep, they parade through my dreams. One is maroon, one is green, one is gray and maroon. Most have the wonderful Studebaker nose. They are wonders of auto engineering, advanced in design and harbingers of a wonderful automobile future. They are simple and unairconditioned. You ride with the windows down on hot days and with the windows up in cool days. They have heaters. The backseat is flat, it is a bench back seat. They are cool. And that wonderful nose. No wonder the 1950 was known as "The Rocket."
Some Studebaker links are:
The Studebaker Museum
The Sudebaker Drivers Club
The Antique Studebaker Club
The Home of the Studebaker Clubs
Studebakers were the cars of my dreams when I was a young child. They are also the cars of my dreams now. The Studebaker was an honest car. It was not for the rich. It was priced for the ordinary man. But it was an automobile of hope. One that looked forward to a new and modern world. The Allied Victory in the Second World War had saved much of civilization from tyranny. There was a new positive feeling in the United States and a promise of a better and more prosperous time. The Sudebaker looked forward and seized this hope. It was the car for tomorrow.
But the "S" in my dreams does not stand for Superman but for Studebaker, the superhero of Automobiles.
Some of my first memories are of the Studebaker. Now my parents for many years have claimed that I have had gasoline cholic. See my blog on December 24 entitled "A Blog that Only a Mother Can Love" where my father makes reference to this phenomenon. In short, I cried each night and would not go to sleep until I had a ride in a vehicle. (Today, I find that I can sleep on trains, plains and automobiles. But I can also sleep anywhere else.) The truth of the matter is that I fell in love with my folks' Studebaker when I was very young and would not go to sleep without a ride in it. Therefore just taking me for a ride today will not cure my sleep problems-unless it is a ride in a Studebaker.
There are various Studebakers in my memory including a 1949 Studebaker, a 1950 Sudebaker, a 1952 Studebaker and a 1953 or 1954 Studebaker. They are like counting sheep, they parade through my dreams. One is maroon, one is green, one is gray and maroon. Most have the wonderful Studebaker nose. They are wonders of auto engineering, advanced in design and harbingers of a wonderful automobile future. They are simple and unairconditioned. You ride with the windows down on hot days and with the windows up in cool days. They have heaters. The backseat is flat, it is a bench back seat. They are cool. And that wonderful nose. No wonder the 1950 was known as "The Rocket."
Some Studebaker links are:
The Studebaker Museum
The Sudebaker Drivers Club
The Antique Studebaker Club
The Home of the Studebaker Clubs
Studebakers were the cars of my dreams when I was a young child. They are also the cars of my dreams now. The Studebaker was an honest car. It was not for the rich. It was priced for the ordinary man. But it was an automobile of hope. One that looked forward to a new and modern world. The Allied Victory in the Second World War had saved much of civilization from tyranny. There was a new positive feeling in the United States and a promise of a better and more prosperous time. The Sudebaker looked forward and seized this hope. It was the car for tomorrow.
The Swede
It was the summer after my first year of College. I was working out in the Gulf of Mexico as an Ordinary Seaman in order to help fund modestly my college expenses. I worked on an LST that in essence was a drilling tender. The old LST would dock up to a oil rig. On the boat was an assortment of characters including roustabouts, roughnecks, seamen and one green college student. The LST was like a small village with one purpose-to serve the drilling rig.
HarleyDad was fairly cocky. He thought he was pretty smart. He had graduated from an elite High School of high I.Q. students and was in the honors program of a reputable Texas college. He had completed one year of German, one year of Greek (which he had determined would be his major) and had about five years of latin under his belt. He was a fair chess player and that particular summer was reading Russian literature: Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Pushkin and the like.
Yes, HarleyDad thought he was pretty smart. At least he did until he met the Swede.
Now the Swede did not have any formal education. The Swede was an Able Body seaman and a master electrician. The Swede, who not surprisingly came from Sweden, had run away and had become a seaman when he was a teenager. Over the coming months I got to know Swede better.
The Swede had been all over the world. I had only travelled domestically. Instead of the three or four languages that I knew, the Swede was fluent in eight or nine languages. The Swede and I would play chess from time to time, with him often beating me.
We would discuss theology. Interestingly enough the Swede, also kept up a running correspondence on theology (and chess games) with several of the professors at New Orleans Baptist Seminary in New Orleans.
One day the discussion between Swede and I turned to a book by Fyodor Dostoevsky called The Brothers Karamazov. As fate would have it, the Swede and I were both reading this book at the same time. There was one difference however, I was reading it in English and he was reading it in Russian.
I learned a lot of things working offshore that summer; however one of the most valuable things that I learned was that you do not have to have a formal education in order to be well educated. The Swede was one of the smartest and best educated people I ever met. He had a love of learning far exceeding what I experienced from my college professors. There are some pretty smart people who do not have the "educational credentials." Likewise that are some well degreed people that are not that smart.
You take people as you find them. Don't be too impressed with their credentials. As I would go on in life, I would find many people who had the credentials but were not nearly as smart as some "average people." At the same time, I found a number of people in Academia, and in the religious profession that had "Paper Doctorates" from high sounding educational institutions that did not require any real work. Some of these people love to be called "Doctor" and are esteemed "leaders" in their communities. Matthew 23:8,9 says regarding the Pharisees they loved "respectful greetings in the market places, and being called Rabbi by men and the places of honor at banquets and the chief seats in the synagogues." The Chinese call these people "paper tigers."
It is hard to imagine Jesus as being addressed as Doctor Jesus. Now what seminary did you come from Jesus? Or Dr. John the Baptist. His seminary was the wilderness. Jesus was like Swede. He did not have the title, only the knowledge. Jesus amazed the scribes and teachers when he went to Jerusalem at 12 for his Bar Mitzvah and discussed the Scriptures with them and they were amazed. He read the Scriptures publicly in the Synagogues on the Sabbath. He wrote in the sand. He asked his followers on numerous occasions "Haven't you read in the Scriptures...." or "Don't you know what the Scriptures say. Jesus knew the written word of God. He was skilled in the Law and the Prophets. He had the substance-not the degree.
It is not what you have that makes you a man or a woman. It is not your degrees. It is what you are that counts. Do you have a heart that seeks to know. To know knowledge, to know wisdom, to know truth and to know God. Or do you just have degrees, money or position in the community.
The Swede had a more profound influence on me and my education than any professor I would encounter in undergraduate school, graduate school, or law school. You see, I have the degrees, but have learned that I am not so smart after all.
HarleyDad was fairly cocky. He thought he was pretty smart. He had graduated from an elite High School of high I.Q. students and was in the honors program of a reputable Texas college. He had completed one year of German, one year of Greek (which he had determined would be his major) and had about five years of latin under his belt. He was a fair chess player and that particular summer was reading Russian literature: Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Pushkin and the like.
Yes, HarleyDad thought he was pretty smart. At least he did until he met the Swede.
Now the Swede did not have any formal education. The Swede was an Able Body seaman and a master electrician. The Swede, who not surprisingly came from Sweden, had run away and had become a seaman when he was a teenager. Over the coming months I got to know Swede better.
The Swede had been all over the world. I had only travelled domestically. Instead of the three or four languages that I knew, the Swede was fluent in eight or nine languages. The Swede and I would play chess from time to time, with him often beating me.
We would discuss theology. Interestingly enough the Swede, also kept up a running correspondence on theology (and chess games) with several of the professors at New Orleans Baptist Seminary in New Orleans.
One day the discussion between Swede and I turned to a book by Fyodor Dostoevsky called The Brothers Karamazov. As fate would have it, the Swede and I were both reading this book at the same time. There was one difference however, I was reading it in English and he was reading it in Russian.
I learned a lot of things working offshore that summer; however one of the most valuable things that I learned was that you do not have to have a formal education in order to be well educated. The Swede was one of the smartest and best educated people I ever met. He had a love of learning far exceeding what I experienced from my college professors. There are some pretty smart people who do not have the "educational credentials." Likewise that are some well degreed people that are not that smart.
You take people as you find them. Don't be too impressed with their credentials. As I would go on in life, I would find many people who had the credentials but were not nearly as smart as some "average people." At the same time, I found a number of people in Academia, and in the religious profession that had "Paper Doctorates" from high sounding educational institutions that did not require any real work. Some of these people love to be called "Doctor" and are esteemed "leaders" in their communities. Matthew 23:8,9 says regarding the Pharisees they loved "respectful greetings in the market places, and being called Rabbi by men and the places of honor at banquets and the chief seats in the synagogues." The Chinese call these people "paper tigers."
It is hard to imagine Jesus as being addressed as Doctor Jesus. Now what seminary did you come from Jesus? Or Dr. John the Baptist. His seminary was the wilderness. Jesus was like Swede. He did not have the title, only the knowledge. Jesus amazed the scribes and teachers when he went to Jerusalem at 12 for his Bar Mitzvah and discussed the Scriptures with them and they were amazed. He read the Scriptures publicly in the Synagogues on the Sabbath. He wrote in the sand. He asked his followers on numerous occasions "Haven't you read in the Scriptures...." or "Don't you know what the Scriptures say. Jesus knew the written word of God. He was skilled in the Law and the Prophets. He had the substance-not the degree.
It is not what you have that makes you a man or a woman. It is not your degrees. It is what you are that counts. Do you have a heart that seeks to know. To know knowledge, to know wisdom, to know truth and to know God. Or do you just have degrees, money or position in the community.
The Swede had a more profound influence on me and my education than any professor I would encounter in undergraduate school, graduate school, or law school. You see, I have the degrees, but have learned that I am not so smart after all.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Dutch
It was sometime before I entered First Grade that I was befriended by Dutch. Dutch was an old man working as a church janitor in a small East Texas town. My folks were faithful members at their Baptist church and spent a fair amount of time there. Dutch would let me follow him around and "help" out as only a pre-schooler can. Dutch at one time had been a sailor, and how a sailor from Holland ever ended up in East Texas I will never know.
My family figured I was probably spending too much time with Dutch as I begin to speak with a Netherlands accent. Dutch was a kind man and very tolerant of a young boy who wanted to get into everything and had a million questions.
Dutch had a hobby. It was building model ships. He also built ships in a bottle.
Some of my earliest memories were of wonderful model ships and ships in a bottle built by the "Old Salt" from the Netherlands.
As I grew older, I had a curiousity and taste for things international. I became interested in languages, worked with international students when I taught, worked on an international law journal, and later worked and travelled all over the world.
I suspect that some of my interest in things international was sparked by a kind and patient church janitor who worked on model ships in a bottle.
In the movie Citizen Kane, a very rich man thought of his early sled named Rosebud as he lay dying. I think that if I had a "Rosebud" it might just be a ship in a bottle.
My family figured I was probably spending too much time with Dutch as I begin to speak with a Netherlands accent. Dutch was a kind man and very tolerant of a young boy who wanted to get into everything and had a million questions.
Dutch had a hobby. It was building model ships. He also built ships in a bottle.
Some of my earliest memories were of wonderful model ships and ships in a bottle built by the "Old Salt" from the Netherlands.
As I grew older, I had a curiousity and taste for things international. I became interested in languages, worked with international students when I taught, worked on an international law journal, and later worked and travelled all over the world.
I suspect that some of my interest in things international was sparked by a kind and patient church janitor who worked on model ships in a bottle.
In the movie Citizen Kane, a very rich man thought of his early sled named Rosebud as he lay dying. I think that if I had a "Rosebud" it might just be a ship in a bottle.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Toyota Corolla -The Energizer Bunny
It was time to buy another car. HarleyDad had been offered his first job after law school. He had been through 3 years of Ford Maverick hell.
Sometimes good things come in non-assuming packages. HarleyDad, a sadder but wiser car owner, decides to investigate reliability rather than auto "sizzle." So off to the Toyota dealer we go and find a Toyota we can afford. As a test from On High, it is in a "brown" color-perhaps my all time hated colors for cars.
So HarleyDad, who was born for sportscars and Harleys, has a non-descript small Toyota. Don't disparage small things. If my Maverick was a car from hell, then the Toyota was a car from heaven. The Toyota ran on one quarter of the Maverick's gas. It was small and you could park it anywhere. And it never broke. It must have thought it was the "Energizer bunny." It ran and ran and ran. I believe I kept this car for five years and the only time I ever replaced anything, it was the waterpump which went out on the fourth or fifth year I had it. Tires and batteries were cheap.
I had seen the light. Like many of my countrymen, I had experienced the quality revolution that Japan was forcing on the U.S. by making cars that actually worked and did not have to be repaired at the drop of a hat.
All the metric tools I purchased to work on this car (I had become my own mechanic thanks to the Maverick) just lay in the garage. (By the way, work in a garage is a wonderful think; I had tried it outside in freezing weather while in law school, and it was not a pretty experience.)
After Brokerbelle and our two children were through with the Corolla, we gave it to Brokerbelle's mother who also used it for a number of years without problems. She only had one problem with the car-she hated the color and she painted it red. Finally Brokerbelle's mother and I agreed on somethings so the Corolla even brought unity into the family.
The 1973 Corolla was an unassuming, even an humble automobile, but it had the Christian virtures of being faithful and perseverent. It was much more about being good than looking good.
When I look back and contrast the Corolla with my Maverick, there are many lessons to be learned. The Corolla taught me to love a car that did what it was supposed to do and did it well--it ran, kept on running and did it economically and faithfully. Here's to the 1973 Toyota.
HarleyDad
Sometimes good things come in non-assuming packages. HarleyDad, a sadder but wiser car owner, decides to investigate reliability rather than auto "sizzle." So off to the Toyota dealer we go and find a Toyota we can afford. As a test from On High, it is in a "brown" color-perhaps my all time hated colors for cars.
So HarleyDad, who was born for sportscars and Harleys, has a non-descript small Toyota. Don't disparage small things. If my Maverick was a car from hell, then the Toyota was a car from heaven. The Toyota ran on one quarter of the Maverick's gas. It was small and you could park it anywhere. And it never broke. It must have thought it was the "Energizer bunny." It ran and ran and ran. I believe I kept this car for five years and the only time I ever replaced anything, it was the waterpump which went out on the fourth or fifth year I had it. Tires and batteries were cheap.
I had seen the light. Like many of my countrymen, I had experienced the quality revolution that Japan was forcing on the U.S. by making cars that actually worked and did not have to be repaired at the drop of a hat.
All the metric tools I purchased to work on this car (I had become my own mechanic thanks to the Maverick) just lay in the garage. (By the way, work in a garage is a wonderful think; I had tried it outside in freezing weather while in law school, and it was not a pretty experience.)
After Brokerbelle and our two children were through with the Corolla, we gave it to Brokerbelle's mother who also used it for a number of years without problems. She only had one problem with the car-she hated the color and she painted it red. Finally Brokerbelle's mother and I agreed on somethings so the Corolla even brought unity into the family.
The 1973 Corolla was an unassuming, even an humble automobile, but it had the Christian virtures of being faithful and perseverent. It was much more about being good than looking good.
When I look back and contrast the Corolla with my Maverick, there are many lessons to be learned. The Corolla taught me to love a car that did what it was supposed to do and did it well--it ran, kept on running and did it economically and faithfully. Here's to the 1973 Toyota.
HarleyDad
Monday, December 27, 2004
Quarters and Lighters in Outer Ozarklandia
In a prior blog, I discussed how quarters were permitted in the Emerald Palace. So we always proceed into the Emerald Palace with quarters.
Above is a picture of a stack of quarters. However, these quarters would never be permitted to be taken into the Emerald Palace. The reason is that the roll of quarters is really a lighter in disquise. Try that, and you too could be a guest of the Emerald Palace.
A lighter such as this could be used to bring in contraband. That brings me to the story of how a lighter was used one time by the Frog Prince before he became the Emerald Prince.
The Frog Prince had a problem with drugs. In an effort to make sure he remained off drugs (Can you believe that we would not take his word for it !), we had the Frog Prince tested bi-weekly by a firm that took a sample of his urine.
They checked his pockets and made sure that the urine is warm. We get the report back. It seems that when we get the report back there are no drugs in Froggy's system. However, there is something strange in the report, it seems that his urine has something in it like traces of lighter fluid.
But his pockets were checked, he brought nothing in and the urine was warm. Now as Paul Harvey said: "Here is the rest of the story" as told to us by the Emerald Prince. (Confession is good for the soul.) It seems that the Frog Prince had gotten clean urine from a friend and placed it in a long lighter and then stored the lighter in the side of the shoe. That kept the urine nice and toasty warm.
In the privacy of the restroom he dumped the lighter filled with urine into the test jar, and that is how the urine came to have traces of lighter fluid in it.
There is only one question left. How did the Frog Prince ever find a friend that had drug-free, clean urine.
And that is the story of the Urine with Lighter Fluid in it.
Another Strange but true tale from
HarleyDad
Above is a picture of a stack of quarters. However, these quarters would never be permitted to be taken into the Emerald Palace. The reason is that the roll of quarters is really a lighter in disquise. Try that, and you too could be a guest of the Emerald Palace.
A lighter such as this could be used to bring in contraband. That brings me to the story of how a lighter was used one time by the Frog Prince before he became the Emerald Prince.
The Frog Prince had a problem with drugs. In an effort to make sure he remained off drugs (Can you believe that we would not take his word for it !), we had the Frog Prince tested bi-weekly by a firm that took a sample of his urine.
They checked his pockets and made sure that the urine is warm. We get the report back. It seems that when we get the report back there are no drugs in Froggy's system. However, there is something strange in the report, it seems that his urine has something in it like traces of lighter fluid.
But his pockets were checked, he brought nothing in and the urine was warm. Now as Paul Harvey said: "Here is the rest of the story" as told to us by the Emerald Prince. (Confession is good for the soul.) It seems that the Frog Prince had gotten clean urine from a friend and placed it in a long lighter and then stored the lighter in the side of the shoe. That kept the urine nice and toasty warm.
In the privacy of the restroom he dumped the lighter filled with urine into the test jar, and that is how the urine came to have traces of lighter fluid in it.
There is only one question left. How did the Frog Prince ever find a friend that had drug-free, clean urine.
And that is the story of the Urine with Lighter Fluid in it.
Another Strange but true tale from
HarleyDad
Saturday, December 25, 2004
A Christmas Story in Nolandia
After all the food we need to exorcise.
Christmas eve began quietly enough. HarleyDad and his family decided the spend it in Nolandia. All were in good spirits. HarleyDad, Brokerbelle, PrincessBelle her Royal Highness the ImpQueen, Mr. Monarch and their brood—the Beautiful Harbow and the Young Prince.
The first sign of trouble was when the gifts were opened. ImpQueen got red shoes. Now we know she is not Dorothy-so that only leaves one choice. Yes, you got it! The ImpQueen began to transform into the Evil Witch of the East. She kept mumbling about her “pretties” and how the rest of us would soon feel sorry. Also the ImpQueen’s head would turn round and round every time she got excited which was every few minutes.
Then the conversation turned to exorcism as Brokerbelle and the ImpQueen began to discuss meeting with other women at a place called “Curves.” “Yes”, ImpQueen said, “ as soon as the holidays are over I am going to Curves to exorcise.”
Buddha the Pug and Ming the one- eyed then entered the room beginning to dance around with devilish glee. For years, HarleyDad has known that these two animals were familiars and they began to dance around on their hind legs and to make strange chortling noises. These obviously are earlier children of the ImpQueen who did not behave and she changed them into animals-much like Circe did during the time of Odysseus.
More dire omens began to occur. The Young Prince goes to his stocking and pulls out demonic cards with strange hellish creatures on them and yells out O Great these are powerful Yugioh Cards are something like that. The cards are very powerful with ugly creatures on them and horrible things happen to boys and girls who do not have these type of cards to protect themselves. The Young Prince keeps announcing that now he is powerful and invincible. HarleyDad is now convinced that these are some type of double evil tarot cards and that ImpQueen has totally corrupted her children instead of taking them to Sunday School, like she should.
Next, the evil magic goes to work on Princessbelle who gets some type of evil torture machine used to inflict pain on yourself through stretching. Ouch!!!!!!!! Ouch!!!!! She threatens to use the device on HarleyDad and proclaims it as her favorite gift. And oh, the pain feels so good.
The beautiful Harbow receives a gift. The shirt says “Wicked.” HarleyDad is now fairly certain that things are out of control. Shortly after that Harbow’s feet begin to grow and she threatens to step on ImpQueen if Harbow does not get her way.
Then it is out to eat. But things still are occuring out of time and space. First there is the strange discussion regarding head phones and what you can do with them. We are all terribly embarrassed , especially Harbow.
Thankfully, we quickly come to the restaurant. The restaurant is known as “Valentine’s”—but it is Christmas, not Valentines. HarleyDad keeps having visions of The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. The food is excellent. HarleyDad began to think that all was going well. Then a message suddenly appears in one of the dessert plates. We watch as initials form on the plate-HRHI. It is clear that it stands for Her Royal Highness-ImpQueen. HarleyDad quickly pays the bill and the family flees from the restaurant.
We return to the palace of the ImpQueen. As we get to the door-all hell breaks loose (or is it lose-better ask the Grand Patriarch who now gives spelling lessons for a small fee.)
Frosty the Fiend begins to move and make deep growling noises. It dances about in fiendish glee. HarleyDad calls on Brokerbelle to cast out these evil, non-Christmas spirits. It is a real fight. ImpQueen keeps getting cast off the porch and then flees to the inner part of the house-being an Imp herself and is somehow implicated in this terrible idol sitting on her doorstep. Wicked Harbow will have nothing to do with the process. HarleyDad is scared out of his mind.
Frosty the Fiend then possesses Mr. Monarch who grows another head. Meanwhile the Fiend itself transforms into the headless horseman or perhaps it is “Nearly Headless Nick” of Harry Potter fame. Brokerbelle, who never looses her head, casts the fiendish head out and mounts it as a hood ornament of her GMC envoy.
So that is why when other cars are driving around with wreaths on their hoods, HarleyDad and Brokerbelle drive around with the head of Frosty the Fiend on theirs.
It was just another great Christmas in Nolandia.
Christmas eve began quietly enough. HarleyDad and his family decided the spend it in Nolandia. All were in good spirits. HarleyDad, Brokerbelle, PrincessBelle her Royal Highness the ImpQueen, Mr. Monarch and their brood—the Beautiful Harbow and the Young Prince.
The first sign of trouble was when the gifts were opened. ImpQueen got red shoes. Now we know she is not Dorothy-so that only leaves one choice. Yes, you got it! The ImpQueen began to transform into the Evil Witch of the East. She kept mumbling about her “pretties” and how the rest of us would soon feel sorry. Also the ImpQueen’s head would turn round and round every time she got excited which was every few minutes.
Then the conversation turned to exorcism as Brokerbelle and the ImpQueen began to discuss meeting with other women at a place called “Curves.” “Yes”, ImpQueen said, “ as soon as the holidays are over I am going to Curves to exorcise.”
Buddha the Pug and Ming the one- eyed then entered the room beginning to dance around with devilish glee. For years, HarleyDad has known that these two animals were familiars and they began to dance around on their hind legs and to make strange chortling noises. These obviously are earlier children of the ImpQueen who did not behave and she changed them into animals-much like Circe did during the time of Odysseus.
More dire omens began to occur. The Young Prince goes to his stocking and pulls out demonic cards with strange hellish creatures on them and yells out O Great these are powerful Yugioh Cards are something like that. The cards are very powerful with ugly creatures on them and horrible things happen to boys and girls who do not have these type of cards to protect themselves. The Young Prince keeps announcing that now he is powerful and invincible. HarleyDad is now convinced that these are some type of double evil tarot cards and that ImpQueen has totally corrupted her children instead of taking them to Sunday School, like she should.
Next, the evil magic goes to work on Princessbelle who gets some type of evil torture machine used to inflict pain on yourself through stretching. Ouch!!!!!!!! Ouch!!!!! She threatens to use the device on HarleyDad and proclaims it as her favorite gift. And oh, the pain feels so good.
The beautiful Harbow receives a gift. The shirt says “Wicked.” HarleyDad is now fairly certain that things are out of control. Shortly after that Harbow’s feet begin to grow and she threatens to step on ImpQueen if Harbow does not get her way.
Then it is out to eat. But things still are occuring out of time and space. First there is the strange discussion regarding head phones and what you can do with them. We are all terribly embarrassed , especially Harbow.
Thankfully, we quickly come to the restaurant. The restaurant is known as “Valentine’s”—but it is Christmas, not Valentines. HarleyDad keeps having visions of The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. The food is excellent. HarleyDad began to think that all was going well. Then a message suddenly appears in one of the dessert plates. We watch as initials form on the plate-HRHI. It is clear that it stands for Her Royal Highness-ImpQueen. HarleyDad quickly pays the bill and the family flees from the restaurant.
We return to the palace of the ImpQueen. As we get to the door-all hell breaks loose (or is it lose-better ask the Grand Patriarch who now gives spelling lessons for a small fee.)
Frosty the Fiend begins to move and make deep growling noises. It dances about in fiendish glee. HarleyDad calls on Brokerbelle to cast out these evil, non-Christmas spirits. It is a real fight. ImpQueen keeps getting cast off the porch and then flees to the inner part of the house-being an Imp herself and is somehow implicated in this terrible idol sitting on her doorstep. Wicked Harbow will have nothing to do with the process. HarleyDad is scared out of his mind.
Frosty the Fiend then possesses Mr. Monarch who grows another head. Meanwhile the Fiend itself transforms into the headless horseman or perhaps it is “Nearly Headless Nick” of Harry Potter fame. Brokerbelle, who never looses her head, casts the fiendish head out and mounts it as a hood ornament of her GMC envoy.
So that is why when other cars are driving around with wreaths on their hoods, HarleyDad and Brokerbelle drive around with the head of Frosty the Fiend on theirs.
It was just another great Christmas in Nolandia.
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