Mark-isms

OK, so I want to try to wake this thing up one more time. So, I think it would be fun for us to come up with our favorite lines, one-liners, jokes, and the like from each of us. Of course, we can contribute our own favorites. Each of us will get our turn. Let's start with Mark. We'll finish with me (so you'll have to wait a few posts for "slave of the world").

Here's a couple of Mark-isms to start:
1. Fuick (take the I out, and you have one for all six of us!!)
2. Milk-milk-milk-milk
3. "That and 35 cents will get you a cup of coffee at the student union." This one was said to members of the Lawrence University women's basketball team after they called Mark out on a questioning a call during a Beloit-Lawrence men's basketball game. The women informed Mark they were in first place. The quote above was his response.

Dad's last big joke

The plane shown here is a Cessna 172. A few short weeks before Dad died, he took Marge and me to the EAA Convention in Oshkosh. I thought of this when I was thinking of some good Ed-isms. But, after thinking about this story, I decided to post it. Anyway, at the convention there was a drawing to win a Cessna 172, so Dad entered his name into the drawing. After leaving, we stopped at a Hardee's in Oshkosh before heading back home. It was during this meal when Dad launched what I think was his last big joke. He got Marge and I to play along and tell Dar that we won the plane! We actually convinced Dar and Carol that it happened. We even discussed the possibility of buying out Brown's land to build an airstrip. Marge may have to fill some gaps, but we had them going for a good couple of hours.

Our father the prankster...gee, where do we get it from?

The way we were (Darboy edition)

No one's posted here lately, so here's a link to an aerial photo of Railroad/Creekview including our old house (from 1992, so we still lived there). Hey Pat, is it still on the market?

The photo was taken on 5/6/1992. For fun, let's speculate on what may have been happening at the house when that photo was taken.

You can take the Butcher out of the country...

But you can't take the Butcher away from the goofballs he left behind!

We couldn't have the annual Pat-Dan-Beccah-Marge birthday party without Butcher. So we decided to bring a few versions of him along.

We had a heck of a lot of fun with it... as you can see!

We miss you Babu! Come home safely, and soon!

Twinkle Twinkle Patrick Star

42 is what you are. Congratulations on reaching the age that is synonymous with the answer to life, the universe and everything.

Maria would be happy to sing "Twinkle Twinkle Patrick Star" to you; well, at least the parts that she remembers. Here it is:

Twinkle twinkle Patrick Star

I made myself a sandwich

It tastes like beans and bacon

My mother makes it fresh

I have a head, it ends in a point

Pointy pointy pointy pointy pointy

P.U.! What's that horrible smell?

That's all she can remember. Hope that your birthday is memorable, too!

Seven is enough! Let Dick Van Patten have eight.

I want to share with you this photo of the latest, albeit temporary, member of the Eugene St. gaggle. We are providing foster care for Jake and his stay will likely be brief. Ain't that a great mug?

Jake is waiting for his "forever home" to find him. He's come to us via Saving Paws Animal Rescue. In the meantime we'll let him stay at our house and give Rudy LOTS of exercise.

Happy Birthday, Marge!

34 and looking good. I'll try to call you tonight!

No further comment necessary

Is this a blog or an oil painting?

You guys still interested in having this blog? We need your wit and wisdom!

Who said what?

"Outside of a dog a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read."

"She came here with stars in her eyes and she left with a bullet in her chest."

"Hey Carol, I know you've got shank sauce."

Family Jukebox

Happy New Year, siblings! And to help us bring in the New Year, let's give it up for Adrian Zmed! And remember what Shat (a/k/a T.J. Hooker) said, upon finding a murdered starlet:

She came here with stars in her eyes, and left with a bullet in her chest.

Mike and I are sitting here on his 32nd birthday (my goodness, if he's that old, how old are the rest of us coots?) and we were thinking we need to goose the conversation on this moribund blog. And we don't mean anything related to those frightening Goslings. Pat is still recovering from the headslap he received at Summerfest from the Ganss back in the late 80s. You usually have to go to someplace like Afghanistan to receive comparable post-traumatic stress syndrome, or whatever it's called.

So Mike and I put our tiny little brains together, and we decided we want to talk about music. But this time, we want your recommendations on GOOD SONGS. We don't expect Carol to nominate Talking Heads '77, no matter its merits, but that's okay. Here's the challenge, homeboys and homegirls: we want to set up the family jukebox, or iPod, or whatever other compendium you might choose, of Heuring family tunes. Mike and I are taking the liberty of suggesting a few to get the ball rolling. And we're actually being serious. I know, that hardly seems likely, but hear us out.

So, let's turn it over to Mr. Mike, who throws out the opening pitches.

Mike suggests something by U2. Okay. He starts out with "Pride (In the Name of Love)." A fine selection that I can get behind. Given what today is, I'll follow up with "New Year's Day."

Mike wonders if we all like Prince. Well, we do, so here comes Mike with his suggestion: "When Doves Cry." An excellent choice.

I'll go a totally different direction and suggest "Moondance," by Van Morrison.

Okay, that's a very small start. Let's hear it, troops. What song is it you want to hear? No, we're not trolling for "Freebird" with that question, (or shilling for "Freedom Rock"), although if you want to suggest that, that's fine, too.

The floor is open for nominations.

Merry Christmas, for schizzle

What could be more traditional?

A ghost of Christmas Past

And here is why I was really on shaky ground making fun of Mike's getup. This is Christmas 1981, back at Dad and Dar's John Street crib. Nice hairstyle, eh?

Hope everyone is having a great Christmas and staying out of the snow!

The Prom King

There's Dad, placing the crown on former KHS legend Birdie Kneepkins, or however the hell you spell that. It's 1952 and I have no idea who the other clown in the Sydney Greenstreet outfit is. It might actually be a department store mannequin, although it sure looks like he's checking Birdie out and wondering if he can get some of that. Since it was 1952, we can safely assume the answer was no. And even if the answer were yes, the dude would have needed a machete to hack through all that taffeta.

Dad was a pretty dashing figure, though, wasn't he? The wagon wheel in the background is a nice touch, too - almost looks like some sort of hillbilly halo for the lovely Miss Birdie.

Dad's been gone for a long time and the other principals in this photo, assuming they are still alive, are now both likely spending most of their time pursuing early bird specials instead of young love. And if their grandchildren are attending proms, the boys might be having trouble keeping their pants from falling down off their butts, if what I'm seeing these days is any indication.

What a nice looking family

Ain't we cute? Had this taken for the church directory back in August. Thought you might like it. We'll return to our regular cheap-shotting programming shortly.

Man, you're such a sellout

So I was just talking to Marge on the phone about Christmas stuff, and since she got my name, we were talking about what I might like for Christmas. I mentioned the possibility of some clothes I can wear to work and out in society. After I said that, I mentioned to Marge that if the six-year old version of me was to hear that, he would flip his lid. So, here is how I think a conversation with my six-year old self about Christmas would go:

6-year old Mike: What do you want for Christmas? I want toys!!!
31-year old Mike: Actually, I think some clothes for work would be decent.
6-year old Mike: WHAT?!!! CLOTHES?!!! Why would you want clothes for Christmas? Next you're gonna tell me you don't like the Cowboys anymore.
31-year old Mike: Well, I am a Packer fan.
6-year old Mike: GRRRR!!!! You don't want toys, you don't like the Cowboys?!!! What's next? You like girls now too? It's bad enough you like Margaret now!
31-year old Mike: Well, when you grow up, you actually start liking your brothers and sisters. And, boys usually start liking girls.
6-year old Mike: GRRRRR (that would probably be how I would express anger, considering this was just after I was told I couldn't swear until I was 12)!!! At least you still hate all veggies, right?
31-year old Mike: Actually, I sometimes eat the occasional veggie. But not onions....
6-year old Mike: You've changed....but onions are yucky! At least you still like cereal, right?
31-year old Mike: Oh yeah...but I have bad news for you, kid...they don't sell Halfsies anymore.
6-year old Mike: Grrrr.....

Well, the six-year old version of me wasn't that articulate. Hell, the 31-year old version of me isn't that articulate. But, that would probably be the jist of it.

So, my question to the group is this: What would the 6-year old version of you think of the adult version of you?

The double-digit rule

It's been over seven years now, and I sure miss it.

Usually around 9:30 or so, the phone would ring. I would answer the phone and the conversation would go something like this:

"Hello?"

"Might Mr. Mark Edward Heuring be available?"

"Hi, Mom. How are you this morning?"

From there, you never quite knew where the conversation would go. But it would happen, pretty much like clockwork. I would usually get the first call because others were enforcing the double-digit rule; that is, no phone calls before 10 a.m. This was a wise rule of course. For more than a few siblings I know, brains and bodies needed recovery time from the previous night's festivities. It was always difficult to talk to Mom if you were hung over. I remember trying more than a few times and the results were often bordering on the surreal. The only wakeup calls that were less welcome where when the woodpile beckoned on Railroad Street and Dad would go all Doctor Zhivago on us.

Funny thing is, I'd love to take a call from Mom. And I'd even be willing to face the woodpile again. I bet we all would.

So what's more embarrassing than wearing black knee socks in 1968?

Perhaps wearing a hoodie that's apparently made out of a tablecloth for your senior picture.

You were/are/might still be one sexy mofo, youngblood.

Rock on with your bad self.

Why I love my new scanner

Because it allows me the ability to post stuff like this.

We were really well dressed dudes back in 1968. Dig the short pants and the black knee socks on the brothers, and the Beatles-style Edwardian suit that I'm sportin'. And I'd be willing to wager we were all wearing Buster Brown shoes from Gloudeman's Department Store.

The only problem is we probably ended up with a mouth full of lake flies after this picture was taken.

Happy Birthday, Coco!

It's Carol's turn to have a birthday today! Hope that you have a great one and that you have a chance to enjoy yourself a little bit today. Perhaps you might be able to get a bite to eat later on this evening. If you get the chance, Pat and Butcher have a recommendation for you.

Getting Down to Business

So I figure someone other than Mark should post something on here. All joking aside, I think there are a couple of serious topics that should be discussed amongst Heuring Nation (as my buddy Jason calls us).

1. American journalism - Many people believe that the quality of journalism in this country has gone downhill significantly in the past few years. My question is this: Is it bad enough where perhaps a former neighbor of ours would qualify as a journalist by interviewing Appleton-area ants?

2. The decline of industry - Since it was alluded to in the comments of the first post, I need to ask: Why has the home delivery of orange juice declined? Is it because the consumer prefers to buy canisters of orange juice concentrate, and have to drive in order to do so? Or, did the fat cat plutocrats who run the industry want to simply fatten their pockets by not paying good people like Bud to deliver pure quality Michigan orange juice to the homes of America (or at least a certain home in the Hycrest subdivision of Appleton, Wisconsin)? I think the Florida growers were scared of a little competition and conspired to get this fine tradition eliminated. I don't know if I like an America where we are forced to drive to the store, buy orange juice (especially in concentrate form), and in some cases, make it ourselves. Where do the presidential candidates stand on bringing back home orange juice delivery and busting up the Florida orange juice cartel? This will determine how I vote in 2008.

3. Property rights - Is it really that bad to hit buckets of golf balls into neighbors' yards? I'm sorry, if a former Kimberly industrial arts teacher didn't want us hitting golf balls into his yard, he should have made his yard less inviting. Sure, you could give us the "it's his property" argument, but darn it, there were so few trees, it was like a real-world fairway. No one short of God himself could resist that temptation. Although, in retrospect, he shouldn't have mowed his lawn so much. Hitting into his well-manicured lawn has not allowed me to have the skills necessary to hit out of the rough (which is where I play most of my golf). Say that reminds me, I wonder how his wall of trees are doing?

I think we need to tackle serious issues on this blog such as the ones I just mentioned. I am sure there are more than just these that will come up as time goes by. But, I figured this was a good start.

My first blog post...hopefully it gets better from here.