July 23, 2014

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Coonridge Digest
Herb: Giving kindness the way it should be done PDF Print E-mail
Written by Frieda Marie Crump   

By Freida Marie Crump
Coonridge Digest
Greetings from the Ridge.
It takes very little these days for Herb get himself into a royal snit and last week he was snitting full-bore as we stood in the checkout lane of the grocery store. The lady ahead of him had her hands full, both of groceries and children, and a goodly-sized line had backed up behind her as she carefully laid out a row of food stamps.

 
A skill that technology does not help PDF Print E-mail

Greetings from the Ridge.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Both of the teenage girls were star students, and one will likely be named valedictorian of her class this spring. I was sitting across the table from them at a church banquet and couldn’t help but overhear:
“So how to you do it?”

 
End of winter . . . time to party! PDF Print E-mail

Greetings from the Ridge.
I’m ready for a party. Oh, I know that living in this most blessed of nations it’s hard to say that we deserve anything, but dog-gone it, after living through a winter like we’ve just endured I think we’ve earned the right to treat ourselves to a shindig. Print up the t-shirts proclaiming, “I survived the winter of 2014!” Break out the champagne or if you’re Methodist, crack open a bottle of grape juice.
Maybe we could hold a Holi, a celebration in Northern India where the villagers douse each other with gaily colored powder and in some cases throw buckets of dyed water on each other. Before you pooh-pooh these weird native traditions, think back to the last Super Bowl celebration. I’d suggest that we commemorate the end of this God-awful winter by Holi-ing our own neighborhoods. Walk into your local coffee shop or church service and toss of bag of bright yellow cornmeal into the air and shout, “Winter’s over! We beat the bugger!” In some villages the Holi is ended by the women beating their tie-dyed husbands with bamboo sticks. I’ll have a small quantity on my front porch if the urge hits you.

 
D-U-H! What Were You Thinking? PDF Print E-mail

Greetings from the Ridge.
Lillian Ferguson was a flibberjibbet. No other word for it. When I was a young girl growing up on the Ridge, Lillian provided hours of pleasure and amusement for the neighborhood by simply being herself.  She was the most innocently audacious woman I’d ever met and she reached the zenith of her idiocy when she’d hang her underwear on the clothesline.

 
There’s magic in the number ‘ten’ PDF Print E-mail

Greetings from the Ridge.
I got snookered in. Seems like I always do. The article in the magazine was entitled, “The Top Ten Reasons for Visiting a Health Spa.” I have absolutely no desire to go a spa myself nor do I see any chance of me getting the urge in the near future, but I read the list. My curiosity had nothing to do with shape of my thighs or my hip tone, but it was a list and God knows we’re all suckers for lists.

 
Herb: the thorn in Freida’s side PDF Print E-mail

Greetings from the Ridge.
Some women marry partners. I married Herb. I said, “Herbie, I think this calls for a celebration!”
“Of what?”
“Thirty years! This makes thirty years for the Coonridge Digest!”
“I agree. The Black Plague only lasted four and didn’t do near as much damage.”
“Herb!”
“The Great Chicago Fire only went for three days.”

 
Hurray for the Heroes of Winter! PDF Print E-mail

Greetings from the Ridge.
I’m sure you’ve been there. You sit in the store’s parking lot, the temperature hovering somewhere between chilling and killing as you try to summon up the courage to get out of the car and make a break for the automatic doors. You gauge the distance and wonder if you can dash all the way to the store without breathing, knowing that the first gasp of artic chill will stab your lungs like a blast of killer popsicle. Then you see him hurry by.
Most stores hire a young man to retrieve the orphaned carts from the lot’s frozen surface. He’ll gather up an aluminum train of about forty rickety-wheeled carts then push them back into the store where you’ll hope they thaw out enough to grab. Here I sit worrying about simply walking into the store while this kid is spending eight hours on the set of Dr. Zhivago for my convenience. He’s my winter hero.

 
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