A Few Floria Farts

My parents left the U.P. in 1966 and moved to Milwaukee. They lived with my sister and her husband for about a year and then found an apartment of their own. My mother took to the move very well, in fact they both did even after living for over 50 years in Munising, MI. Dad started over pumping gas in a station on the third shift, mother eventually found work as the dessert lady for the Bluemound Tennis & Racquet Club, an upscale club in the suburbs of Milwaukee. Life settled into a nice routine, both worked, Dad eventually kept the books for Mitch the gas station owner, then moved on the Real Estate, eventually settling in at the same place of employment my mother worked, the Bluemound Tennis & Racquet Club.

They split duties at home, Mother would come home and make dinner and dad would do the dishes. When my dad did dishes he always lit up a small cigar and wore an apron. The apron was to keep his clothes clean, the cigar to remind everyone that he was still the husband.

One evening Dad and Mom came home and as they came into the house Mom passed some gas. It was an SBD, silent but deadly. Little noise escaped other than that tell-tale woosh, but the old man damn near passed out. He said "Margaret, my God, that is terrible, have you been like that all day?"

Mom almost doubled over in laughter. She said, "I have a cold and can't smell a thing. I wondered why no one was coming into my area to get a dessert, piece of pie or any treats like usual. In fact people just stayed away. I guess I couldn't smell anything all day."

My poor mother.

Along the gas line, another tale.

We lived in an apartment from 1958 until 1961 at 820 W. Superior Street, Munising, MI. It was and upstairs apartment in a home owned by Bill and Dolly Revord, who lived downstairs. My mother was a hefty woman and in those days tightly girdled. I was sitting in the living room one day and Mom was in the kitchen making dinner. All of a sudden I hear three sharp claps, as though someone clapped their hands together mightily. Almost as soon as the thunderclaps passed my mother rounded the corner, legs crossed and unable to speak because she was laughing so hard. I asked what that noise was. My mother, God love her, told me that she had let a fart in the kitchen and apparently the girdle had the cheeks of her behind so tightly compressed it came out as three distinct claps. My, my, my Mom could applaud with her butt.

Another time:

When my brother Dean was young, before I was born there was an incident that lived long and loud in my Father's memory. Dad always slept in the "raw." The house at 812 W. Superior had hardwood floors and the bedrooms were no different. Dad would take a bath before going to work and when he went to get dressed he would often sit on the floor to put his socks on. He said the floor felt good because it was cool.

One morning as he sat to put his socks on a concussion erupted that my Dad described as thunderous. His words were, "It rolled across the floor and hit the baseboard," between their room and Dean's, "with a resounding BANGO." Dad then heard Dean from his room exclaim, "WOW!"

Small events, but lived long in the annals of Floria humor.