KindergARTen

My big sister has always been an excellent artist and now teaches art. She’s immensely talented.  I was two years behind her in school. Each year the teacher eagerly awaited my arrival, anticipating another fine young artist. But it was not to be. I was bad. Really bad. Kindergarten was awful on art day.  Once, our teacher really yelled at me for doing poorly at the easel. There I was – all alone at the easel and she was letting me have it. In Kindergarten! My work was indeed poor, but she assumed I was doing it intentionally or something.  I considered quitting school. Thank goodness we only had half-day kindergarten back then. Throughout elementary school and Jr. High my artwork never made it to the main hallway with the rest of the kids’. Mine was always around the corner near the janitor’s closet. My pottery was always the one that cracked in the kiln. 

My artwork today consists mainly of carving the annual pumpkin. I pretty much stick to the triangle eyes, triangle nose, crooked mouth and a few teeth. I use my memory of that kindergarten teacher as a model.

Maybe A Little Too Much Fun?

We have a newly restored bridge across the river near our downtown area. It’s a tall, steep bridge – tall enough for freighters to go under it. I saw two policemen on bicycles crossing the bridge today. It was a nice fall day – a nice day for a bike ride, and they appeared to be enjoying themselves. The bridge is nearly a mile long. There are no cops on bike patrol in the neighborhood on the other side of the bridge, so this was strictly a ride over the bridge and a ride back.  While I admire the fact that the police are in good enough shape to pedal up the steep incline (that’s gotta be fun coming down!), I’m not sure what they were doing up there. Nobody gets robbed on the bridge. There’s no drug deals there (there are cracks but no crack), nobody walks the bridge.  I suppose it could have been worse. They could have been riding no hands on the way down the hill or performing some other type of tricks on the bikes.  Regardless, they were having way too much fun. 

As a citizen, here’s where I draw the line: If those cops start putting baseball cards in their spokes with clothespins to make that motor sound, I’m gonna mention something to the sheriff Friday at Rotary.

Foster Child

While Uncle Tommy takes some much deserved time off, we here at Uncle Tommy thought it would be fun to share a Best of Uncle Tommy column in honor of the World Series bound New York Mets.

Down in Florida during spring training in ’84 I went out for a jog from my friend’s house. To my surprise the New York Mets were practicing nearby in a public park. They shared a stadium with the Cardinals and this must not have been their day to get the stadium. One of their popular players at the time was outfielder George Foster who was winding down his career after a nice stretch with the Reds. I stopped my jog and stood outside the outfield fence watching Foster shag some flies. Surprisingly, it was just me and this little kid watching.  After a few easy catches a ball flew over George’s head and rolled all the way out to the chain link fence.  As George ran toward us to get the ball, the kid went crazy, yelling “Throw me the ball George! Throw me the ball!” George picked up the ball, looked at the kid and said “Can’t do it, son. Club policy. Gotta throw it in.” But as he pretended to throw it back to the infield, he turned and threw the kid a little pop up over the fence. The kid (and I) were thrilled.  The kid yelled “You’re worth a million dollars a year George! You’re worth a million dollars!” As he ran back to his position, George looked back at us, held up two fingers and said, smiling, “Two Million!”

I wrestled the ball away from the kid, and..., JUST KIDDING!! He kept it. I didn’t get a ball that day but I sure got a good story.

The Tubes

At our local zoo (see “Ballad of $13” May 24) we used to have to walk through this cool though somewhat smelly tunnel under a highway to get from the parking lot to the zoo. If you had a child in a stroller you had to carry the child and the stroller down a few steps to get to the tunnel. It was a rite of parenthood. I never minded it. Another rite of parenthood was to take your kids to a McDonald’s Playland. Too often the kids would crawl into those tubes and disappear. And too many times we parents would have to crawl into the tubes to find the child, like some modern day Dr. Stanley pursuing some modern day Dr. Livingstone. Of course Dr. Stanley had not just eaten 4 or 5 Big Macs when he went after Livingstone. The saving factor here, and I’m pretty sure this was by design, was the fact that the grease from the fries made the tube easier to slide through. 

I don’t have the numbers on this, but I’m pretty sure that’s why they don’t serve french fries in prison. I’ll ask the sheriff this week at Rotary.  

La Vieille Chaise (The Old Chair)

I helped a friend set up some folding chairs the other day at a local festival. These chairs were so old that the instructions under the seat of the chairs were only in one language - English. That, my friend, is old. I know you’re asking, why does Uncle Tommy need to look at instructions just to set up folding chairs. OK, OK. I’m not real handy, I admit. But I didn’t NEED the instructions – I just happened to notice them. And they were only in English. Nowadays all assembly instructions are printed in multiple languages. That creates educational opportunities, something I typically keep an eye out for. For instance, it’s possible to learn at least part of a foreign language while assembling something. A helpful exercise I’ve learned is to assemble the unit in English, take it apart, and then, attempt to reassemble it using another language.

I don’t want to brag, but I’ve learned a bit of French from these assembly instructions over the years. I’ve tried to use French occasionally when ordering at fancy restaurants. It’s a beautiful language. And ordering in French can make a good impression to business associates, friends, spouses, or especially dates.  Usually you’re safe because the waiter does not know French so you just laugh and then reorder in English. There will, however, be the rare occasion when the waiter does speak French and might possibly deliver some shelves or maybe a birdhouse to your table.   

St. Louis Golden Arch

It would be awesome to own a McDonald’s franchise in St. Louis. When I approach the city from the east, crossing the Mississippi, and I see that giant arch, I always have to stop a couple times for Big Macs. There must not be many thin people in St Louis. I suppose maybe you get used to it over time… 

Like many families, our family toured the St. Louis arch when our kids were young. We went there with my in-laws. When you get there, the attendants put you in these tight little roller coaster-like cars inside the structure and take you up to the top of the arch on a rail. It’s a fun ride. Kind of like going into a coal mine except you’re going up. If you haven’t been there, I’ve got news for you. It’s a great view at the top, but there’s no McDonald’s up there. Perhaps I was presumptuous to assume it was a McDonald’s Playland attraction, but it was a major letdown for me when we got up there. No McDonald’s.  

I’ve been doing some research and apparently there’s no connection between the arch and McDonald’s. I really don’t get it. Who in their right mind would build an arch that big and not have it be a McDonald’s?