A moment of silence, if you will, for Great-Grandma’s 7 iron, which outlived her for a decade, but succumbed tonight during a vigorous round of clodhopper apple golf. Our loss was tempered by the delighted laughter of an 8-year-old member of the matrilineal line, who just loves it when we play this game with a purpose, delivering airborne applesauce to the chickens from about 30 yards out.
NOTE: Logging is deadly dangerous and has even taken a life in our extended family. The note below is intended to have fun at the expense of one specific writer, not make light of real danger.
When writers pretend to be loggers… Saw it coming, stood there anyway. My one good decision? Safety glasses. Got off light, nothing my daughter’s makeup can’t fix. At least when my brother–a real logger–gets hurt on the job, he has the decency to wind up in intensive care (twice). It’s called professionalism.
The first factual “oops!” (that I’m aware of) in the fictional Jesus Cow: an attentive Catholic reader points out that on p. 40 I refer to the Twelve Stations of the Cross, when in fact there are Fourteen. No idea how I muffed that one (might I have overlooked a pink Post-It appended by my dear devout neighbor Ginny?). I’d like to blame it on bad math, but in fact I think I just brain-cramped. A special thanks to the reader, who submitted the correction in good humor and kind tones. Blessed are the gentle.
As is the policy here at Sneezing Cow, when I mess up I tag the post “oops!” so my stumbles and fumbles are available to the public in chronological order of their discovery.
I owe a BIG apology to Joe Keough and his radio crew, I worked right through a scheduled interview this morning. If they’ll still have me we’ll reschedule and I’ll let you all know so you can listen in. Dang it. I’ve got the prickly guilt sweats here.
I have achieved the decor known as Midwestern bachelor eclectic, which is to say the large finless bass my great-grandfather caught hangs just below the picture of Johnny Cash, which is nicely accented by the vintage International pickup postcard. Whenever I am asked why I keep the bass, I point to the brass plate screwed to the wooden plaque, clearly stating that Frank J. Smetlak was a scientific taxidermist.
Received an email out of the blue from the granddaughter of Frank J. Smatlak, who tells me Frank was from Haugen, Wisconsin, but also spent time in Wisconsin Dells, Rice Lake, and Eau Claire before dying in 1964–the year I was born. She also kindly points out that in Truck his surname was misspelled with an “e,” so as is standard Sneezing Cow policy, we now add this to the “Oops!” file.