Down Stream...

When I was a teenager I went to aquatic summer camp in the Ozarks for a week.  In the middle of the week, we took a canoe trip down the current river.  There were over fifty of us on the trip -- three or so to a canoe.  I didn't know how to steer, so I was remanded to the middle of the boat, not that it bothered me much: that gave me a chance to look at the scenery and chatter with my friends while we rowed... 

The sky was a beautiful sapphire blue and the river was lined with luscious trees and high rocks...The one downer was that the water had a putrid smell to it, so when the bags we had with us in the canoe got wet, they stunk. 

We had been floating down river for a few hours when one of our camp counselors told us we could stop and rest.  We were all restless teenagers, so few of us were really interested in sitting on the river bank for very long -- a couple of the counselors took a group of campers across the river where there was a cave they were familiar with...

At first I wasn't interested in the cave...I was talking with friends and watching the water rush by -- I soon got bored and wanted to join the others.  One of our leaders pointed out that if I crossed the river, the other campers probably weren't too far in and I could join them...

I wanted to do this, but I wasn't acquainted with the science behind swimming across a river.  When you swim across a swimming pool, there is no current, so you end up directly across from where you started most of the time.  In a river, there is a current and you move downstream with it -- so its usually a good idea to start crossing a little upstream so you down go too far down river -- I didn't know this and no one told me.  I was used to swimming in pools and lakes, so I started swimming toward the cave, giving little or no thought to the moving river water.   

Half way across, I lifted my head for a breath and noticed that I had moved away from the cave. "Duh," I thought, "now what?"  The opposite bank was sheer rock and I wasn't clear on my position.  Confused, I panicked and started getting swept down stream.  Stupidly, I called out for help and swallowed some water. 

"Am I going to drown now?" I thought. "Help Lord!" 

I looked down and saw some rocks under me. 

"Laura, watch out!" I heard one of my friends call from the bank.  Ahead of me I saw a huge rock in the middle of the water. I grabbed it and held on tight.  Once I regained my breath, I climbed up onto it and sat there for a moment, my legs drawn up in front of me...I felt like a mermaid on a rock in the middle of the sea (albeit an awkward, confused, and stupid one...).  The rock was huge...maybe three feet across, so I was sitting pretty comfortably.

I hadn't been swept away as far as I had first thought.  I was really only a few yards away from where I had started swimming and I felt like an idiot for having panicked (I was a teenager and I felt like I had acted like a child)...but now I was afraid to jump back into the water to swim to the bank, so I sat there...I figured my friends could retrieve me when they went by in the canoe...it would only be another 20 minutes till we started off again...

It didn't seem to occur to my fellow campers that I had made any mistake, that I was afraid, or that I was stuck on a rock in the middle of the river.  They seemed to feel that I had discovered something fun and they wanted to join me.  Four or five other teenagers swam out to the rock, climbed up top and then dove back into the water, whooping with delight...

I felt really stupid -- especially when each of them returned to the shore unscathed.  

Finally after about ten minutes, a boy about my age noticed that I seemed frozen in place and asked,"Do you need help?"

"Blonde moment," I said sheepishly.  "I'm scared of getting caught by the current again." 

He smiled.  "Its okay.  I'll swim with you.  Just move with the current and don't panic...you'll be fine."

HOW could I resist that? 

We jumped in together and swam to the shore without mishap.  A few minutes later, we were all back in our canoes, heading down river. 

My friends still wouldn't let me try to steer.

Turkeys...A Memoir

My Freshman year in college I was working as a grocery store Clerk...One day while I was working the register, a guy came through my line with this terribly depressed look on his face.  "Sir, what's the matter?" I asked.

"I have just had the worst day of my life," the man told me.  "I am a turkey farmer.  When it rained this afternoon, I accidentally left the door unlatched to the building where I keep my turkeys and they all got out..."

I knew where he was going with this...Turkeys are not notoriously brilliant animals...For some reason, when turkeys look up into falling rain, they have no way of keeping raindrops from going into the nasal passages in their beaks...so basically if a turkey gets caught in the rain, he's going to look up at what's hitting him on the head and he's too stupid to not look up or to get out of the rain.  Long story short, domestic turkeys always drown in rainstorms...this farmer lost his entire flock that way...

As Garrison Keeler pointed out in one of my favorite of his works, the word "Turkey" means looser or moron...no one wants to be called a "Turkey."   

I've also always thought turkeys were very ugly creatures and I've never been able to understand why people sometimes decorate their tables at Thanksgiving with pictures of them...They look okay cooked and on the platter, but in their living form, they're repulsive...it almost makes it so you don't want to eat the juicy meat on your plate...

Another thing that has always bothered me about them is, if you are what you eat, what if the intellect of the turkey can somehow rub off on you??? Let me explain what I mean...

While I was working at the grocery store, we had an interesting mishap involving a turkey...This one actually gets a little violent...(don't worry...no body gets seriously injured in my blog...)

In the meat department, one of the butchers was working with the ground beef when a woman came up to the window to tell him that she wanted her 18 pound turkey cut in half...

The Butcher smiled kindly and told her that it would be just a moment because he was elbow deep in hamburger...He could either call someone to help her, or he would have to take a minute and wash up...

She got so angry because he could not help her "RIGHT THIS SECOND", that she actually threw the turkey threw the service window in the direction of the poor Butcher...

She missed hitting him...Her husband was so embarrassed that he practically dragged her out of the store...

I've always wondered where her penned-up anger came from...could it be that she had eaten so much turkey that it had somehow affected her reasoning skills???  Probably not...I've known plenty of very gentle and kind people who eat a lot of turkey...it still makes me a little uneasy though...

Giggles...

The giggles...the phenomonen where you just can't stop laughing...this normally happens to me at places like parties (or when I was in taking a test in 11th Grade History Class and my teacher made me leave the room because I was distracting everyone with my laughter).
Lately, I was thinking abouthow I hadn't had the giggles in over a year (this was a mistake because it made the event inevitable...)
Last Saturday morning started out so depressing.  I did NOT want to get up.  I was late for church and I didn't get any breakfast... Then in Sabbath School (Adventist version of Sunday School), somebody called me "Young Lady"..." Ooh, don't get me started...
Then, Mom asked me to help her lead song service.  I was in a contrary mood, so I "tried" to sing harmony -- I stink at this... Mom kept giving me dirty looks, trying to get me to cut it out, but that just egged me on...
Finally, in the middle of the first verse of "Lamb of God," Mom actually wapped me in the stomach with the back of her hand...
Instead of making me behave like I think it was meant to, I started cracking up!  I mean a no-holds-barred belly laugh...Trouble is, I was in front of my church and we were singing about Christ's sacrifice on the cross.  I kept my laughter silent, but I was bent over laughing.  Mom was still singing, but she had this ironic, bemused look on her face.  I turned around and attempted to get a straight face again, but every time, I started to sing, I cracked up again. 
She motioned for me to get myself pulled together -- didn't happen.  Mom even tried pinching me at one stage, but that was no good...it just made me laugh even harder...(Does Mom strike you as a little bit violent in this story??? No pun intended)...
So when song service was over, Mom and I went back and sat in the pew next to Dad.  There was this guy sitting on the other end of the pew, nervously tapping his foot...trouble is, his leg bouncing was shaking the pew.  After 15 minutes of this (during the pastoral prayer and special music), Mom commented, "I am getting sea sick..."
Then Dad surprised us...He stood up like he was going to go to the Rest Room, but instead, he moved to the pew behind us.  One of our fellow Church members was wearing a top with the Chicago bears logo on it.  Her son was sitting next to her...
My father is a die-hard Packers fan.  Dad slid into the pew next to her son and whispered, "I noticed your Mom is a Bears fan...I just wanted to let you know that there is no statute of limitations on child abuse -- so when you grow up and realize how badly miss-treated you were by having the Bears forced on you, you can seek justice."
By now the boy and his mom were laughing so hard, I thought they were going to fall out of the pew...
And I had the giggles AGAIN!!!
I hope the pastor didn't think we were laughing at him when he started his sermon!!!

In Psalm 100, God's people are told to make a joyful noise unto the Lord!  To serve the Lord with gladness!!!  There are times when levity and giggles might be inappropriate, but it is always a joyful time when we can enjoy being in the presence of God -- It truly makes this world a better place!!!

Friday Night Celebration...

I always knew it was fun time when Mom got out her guitar.  "What should we sing first?" she asked.  

Mom and I had always loved singing together...All through my childhood, one of the highlights of the week was Friday night worship and singing Christian Music with Mom's guitar.  Some of our favorites were, "Just a Closer Walk With Thee", "There Will be Peace in the Valley", "Jesus and Me", and "We are One in the Spirit".  

Mom had a clear, beautiful alto voice -- and she loved to harmonize while we sang.  This often got interesting when I was a child because I had trouble staying on key...Usually mom would eventually give up and go back to singing melody...Sometimes when I'd sing a particularly odd note, Mom would stop playing and say (with a wry grin on her face), "What note was that?  An R?"  And then we'd both laugh and start singing again.  

Also, despite the fact that I am a definite soprano, I wanted to sound like Mom...so I would try to sing in a lower key...Mom never actually said anything about this, but I'm sure it sounded a little funny...She'd always smile though and ask what I wanted to sing next...

Mom's guitar was an old friend in our family...it was a sweet little classical guitar made of wood the color of my blonde hair.  It was the first gift Dad had ever given my mother.  Mom wasn't a fancy guitar player -- she was a hippie when she was young and she told me that during those days everybody learned to play the guitar.  Occasionally she'd accompany herself with arpeggios, but most of the time she'd strum rhythmically...I was a teenager before I realized anybody played the guitar any other way (despite the fact that I heard musicians play guitar all the time on the radio)...

Sometimes we'd sing for over an hour and then it was time for prayer.  Mom and I would each pray in turn.  It was always a very solemn and peaceful time when we prayed and I always loved it...

Next came Bible Study...We went to Church Saturday morning when I was a kid (and I still do, as Seventh-day Adventists), so Mom and I would go over our lessons for Bible Class the next day...After we were done with the Lessons, it was story time.  Sometimes Mom would read right out of the Bible and other times she'd read from a Bible story book...I always loved studying the Bible -- it was so full of incredible stories and I loved learning more about Jesus...

I think my favorite story about Jesus was the one where He calmed the storm by just saying, "Peace, be still."  Even thinking about that makes me feel more peaceful... Another one I loved hearing Mom tell was the one where Jesus raised the little girl from the dead...

In the Old Testament, my favorite story by far was about the brave Queen Esther who got to save the lives of her people -- I thrilled every time Mom read the line, "I will go to the king, which is against the law; and if I perish, I perish!" 

Come to think of it, most of my favorite stories in the Bible have the same theme: God solving an impossible problem... I've always loved thinking of God as the God of the impossible...nothing is impossible with Him...

After Bible story time was over, it was game time...and for my Mom and I, that meant "Bible 20 Questions..." 

That sounds more complicated than it really is...I'm sure you've played the game 20 questions -- you know, someone thinks of something and then you have to guess it in...20 questions...

Well with "Bible 20 Questions" all of the things guessed about have to be from the Bible...We had this down to a science...and both of us were VERY competitive about it...We would both pick the smallest, most obscure things we could think of from the Bible and make the other one guess what they were...A couple of the ones I managed to stump Mom on were, the dry bones in Ezekiel and King Xerxes' scepter (there were others, but its been so long I can't remember them).  Mom stumped me on a few too...

When Dad was home for worship, he didn't take "Bible 20 Questions" as seriously as Mom and I did...Dad liked to make things up that weren't really in the Bible (Dad: "You mean Rudolph the Reindeer isn't in there?"  Me: "Dad! Get real!")...Or he would purposely NOT guess an obvious one because he knew it would get my goat...(Me: "Dad! How could you NOT guess Noah's Ark???")...Dad liked to tease me...I secretly enjoyed it too, but I'd never let it on...

While we played "Bible 20 Questions", Mom and I would roast marshmallows in the gas fireplace...We each had long iron forks, and we'd stick the marshmallows on the ends of them and roast them just like we would at a campfire...We'd usually go through half a bag on a Friday night...I liked setting my marshmallow on fire, pulling it out of the fireplace, and blowing it out before sticking the whole thing in my mouth...

Every so often, some of the gooey stuff would melt onto the bottom of the fireplace...for years there was petrified marshmallow in there that Mom just couldn't scrape off...

By now it was late at night and time for Bed...Mom and I would pray before I hurried off to my room to go to sleep...The next day we'd rise early and go to church and even though Church was important, nothing could replace the Friday night Worship at home...

Root Beer Rudeness...

Have you ever gone to a store and been waited on by a rude clerk?  Have you ever wondered how in the world they keep their job?  I've worked as a clerk in the past and I am positive that if I had been as rude as some clerks have been to me, I would have been fired or at least reprimanded by the manager...

For my blog today, I thought I'd share some instances of exceptional rudeness...Warning: Some of these instances of Rude Customer Service were actually fun and I wish I could get away with them, but as I said earlier, I know that I WOULD get into trouble...

Dialog between myself and a clerk at a snack bar at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris...I had been abroad for 5 weeks, I was VERY homesick, and I wanted a Root Beer...Little known fact: It is next to impossible to find Root Beer in Europe...I thought they might have some in the airport (silly me)...I knew the French could get rude, but this was a beautifully artistic form of rudeness that I thoroughly enjoyed (both at the time and in retrospect)... This Dialog was originally in French, but (because I'm feeling generous and I want you to keep reading), I'll translate it into English:

Me: Do you have any Root Beer please? 

Clerk: (Said loudly and in a tone of vehement disgust) No, we do not have Root Beer here.  Root Beer is terrible...It is a horrible American Drink like Doctor Pepper.  It is disgusting!  You are in France now and you should learn how to enjoy good drinks.  I will give you a Coke instead and you will drink it and enjoy it and you will stop asking for terrible drinks like Root Beer!  

Me: Thanks? 

Recently, I went to the mall to buy a cover for my cell phone.  My service provider's store didn't have the cover I needed, so they directed me (unofficially, of course) to a kiosk that sold what I was searching for.  There was a clerk sitting behind the counter looking at a magazine.  I saw some covers that looked like they'd fit my cell phone...that's when the games began...

Me: How much are these covers? 

Clerk: (without looking up) Ten dollars.  

Me: Okay... (I looked for a moment or so and said)...Um, sir?  I think I've found one I want...

(This part wasn't rude...He got up, walked over to where I was and pointed out that I was looking at the covers for the wrong phone...When he showed me the right ones, he went back to his magazine, sat down, and began to read... It took me two seconds to find the one I wanted...Normally I might leave and buy somewhere else, but by now I think I was intrigued...)

Me: Uh, sir...I've found the one I wanted...

Clerk: Just a second ... (He continued to read his magazine for a few more seconds before standing up and walking over to me)...Are you sure you found the one you wanted?  

(I was almost tempted to say no to see if he would go back to his magazine, but I had to get back to work because my lunch hour was almost over...) 

Okay, this really happened...A clerk was standing behind the Register, glared at a customer walking past the register...ten feet away...no where near the clerk...I think the clerk needed a nap...

Clerk: THIS REGISTER IS CLOSED! 

Customer: (Startled) FINE!  

I was traumatized after I saw this happen...really...

Okay, I've talked about rudeness, but now I'd like to spotlight one instance of unbelievable politeness and kindness that I experienced once in London...I was at Heath Row and I was at a booth trying to exchange Dollars for British Pounds... The phone rang and the clerk asked, "Would you mind if I answered the phone?"

I had never been asked that by a clerk before.  In the US, clerks answer the phone and if you have a problem with that, its just too bad...I didn't even know how to respond at first, but I stammered, "Yeah, sure...Please...go ahead..."  

It was a little thing, but it made a big impression...

MOUSE!!! EEEEEK!!!

I have never liked mice.  I think they're cute in the pet store or if I see them outside...but not if I'm close enough for them to touch me.  In the house, they're absolutely insufferable and I scream whenever I see one.  Really.  I am aware of the fact that a mouse is a small fraction of my own size and that I am in no danger when one is around, but for some reason the mere sight of a beady-eyed fur ball makes me go into fits of shrieking...

My first memorable encounter with a mouse was when I was 3 or 4 years old.  I was out to dinner with my grandma, my Mom and my Mom's Step-dad.  We had a cat at home then named Tiger who liked to hide the mice she killed in our shoes (I think you can tell what is coming up)...

It was snowy outside and I was wearing boots.  Half way through dinner I leaned over to my mother and said quietly, "There's something furry in my boot."  

Mom ignored me.  She told me later that it was because she didn't want to discuss the "something furry" at the dinner table -- especially in a restaurant.  

I kept poking her on the arm.  "Mom, Mom...there's something furry in my boot."  My voice got louder.  Still no response. 

"MOM!"  

This time Mom told me to "Shhh".  

I've never "Shhhed" well and I am someone who is very difficult to ignore.  

I decided to take the problem into my own hands.  I did not want a furry friend in my footwear, so I took off my boot and dumped its fluffy contents into my mother's purse.  When Mom saw what I had done she was mortified.  "SEE?"  I said, pointing.  "There was something furry in my boot!"  

That is something that makes an impression on a little kid... 

When I was that age, my family and I lived in a farmhouse in rural Iowa and there were tons of mice in the house -- despite the fact that we had 9 cats at one point.  At night you could hear them running on the kitchen floor...it sounded like a coffee maker bubbling.  You could hear the coffee maker going off all through the night...

When I got a little older, we moved into a small town, but it was across from a grain elevator, so there were still plenty of mice around...

For years we had a Siamese Cat who was a super-hunter, so I saw very few mice, but then Sidney passed on (RIP) and the mice began to descend upon the house...

One night, while I was a Freshman in College and still living at home, I was working late in my bedroom when I encountered one of the furry intruders.  My computer desk was right next to the doorway.  It was 2 o'clock in the morning and I was half-asleep, but typing anyway.  Then I saw something in the corner of my eye...it was a fat mouse the size of a guinea pig...I screamed at the top of my lungs...The poor little rodent jumped back a few inches before retreating down the hall...

The funny thing was that my father slept through the scream.  Part of what's funny about that now is my father is the single lightest sleeper in the entire world.  If I'm visiting my parents' house while my dad is asleep and breathe too loudly the man wakes up...That night I screamed like a prom queen in a horror movie and the man didn't budge...I did wake up my mom though...she came out of her room groggily muttering, "Laura?  Are you okay?"  

Somehow the story of seeing a big bad ugly mouse doesn't seem very funny to someone who was jolted out of a sound sleep...

It was around that time when we got a new addition to our family: Bowzer the Cat.  Bowzer was my cat.  My best buddy.  My friend... My protector from the big bad mice...  My parents hated him, but that's a story for another blog... 

When Bowzer was young, he was a super-mouse killer.  One morning I woke up to the sound of Bowzer racing around my bedroom in a mad frenzy.  I didn't open my eyes because I desperately wanted to sleep in.  A few minutes later, everything got quiet.  I opened my eyes.  In the middle of my bedroom rug, I saw two little gray lumps...I couldn't make out what they were 'cause I wasn't wearing my glasses.  

When I slipped on my spectacles, I saw two mouse corpses in the middle of my floor.  

No shock to anyone, I screamed...

Mom yelled up the stairs, "What's going on?" 

"Bowzer put two dead mice near my bed."

"That means he loves you," she told me.  

I looked that up.  Its true.  It is a sign of affection when your pet gives you something its killed because technically it is giving up food for you...oddly enough I didn't "feel the love" at that moment.

"Clean um up and come down to breakfast," she added. 

"No!"  I replied.  "I'm not getting out of bed with the rodents there and I'm DEFINITELY not picking them up."

"Wimp!" Mom said.  

"Fine, you do it..."

"No!"  Mom retorted.  "John!"  Mom called to my dad who was watching TV.  "Go up and help your daughter!" 

"With what?"  He asked.  

"Bowzer killed two mice and put them in the middle of her bedroom and she won't get up until they're moved."

"Laura, pick um up!" He said. 

"No!"  I said.  "That's gross!"  

"That's gross," Dad repeated, mimicking my voice.  "Wimp!"  

"Whatever, Dad!  Are you going to force your beloved, cute, adorable daughter to handle rodent corpses?" 

"Since when are YOU cute and adorable?" 

"You said I was yesterday, Dad!"  

"That was before you made me stop watching the History Channel to dispose of your cat's leavings...He's your cat you know!" 

"Yeah," I agreed diplomatically..."But you're the man of the house and you're supposed to protect your family."  

"You're supposed to protect your family," Dad repeated in a high voice again.  "Fine, I'll do it...I'll get rid of the mouse bodies...The things I do for you...You'd think I loved you or something..."  

"I love you too, Dad," I said.  "Please get rid of the mice???"

"Oh, for Pete's sake! I'm coming, I'm coming," he muttered.  

Dad came up the stairs with a bunch of paper towels and bent down to pick up the furry corpses.  "If he leaves any more of them, young lady, they're yours..." He said, glaring at me over the rims of his glasses...

"And deprive you the joy of helping your daughter?  Never!" 

Dad muttered something under his breath again and walked out of the room and started down the stairs...then Dad let out a yelp and his pace quickened into a run before I heard the back door open and close with a slam.  

"What happened?" I called down the stairs.

"One of the mice was still alive," he said.  "It started wriggling around in my hands so I threw it outside..." 

(I swear to you this next part is true) A few years later, Bowzer the cat gained a few pounds -- he ended up weighing 35 pounds...he was HUGE!  By then I had moved away to Grad School, but I was home on a Christmas visit.  Mom and I were watching TV one evening, when Bowzer strode into the living room with a tiny little mouse walking next to him...Mom and I stared in disbelief. 

It got even more unbelievable when the two of them sat down in front of the fireplace ...next to each other.  I was too shocked to scream...this did not look real.

Mom and I could not believe our eyes.  We looked at each other and then looked down at the happy pair who were apparently enjoying the warmth of the hearth.  

"Bowzer," I whispered to my kitty.  "Bowie...MOUSE!  There is a mouse next to you.  Chase it...Kill it!" 

Bowzer looked up at me and purred in response...I know in Heaven the Lion will lay down with the lamb, but I didn't want that to start on this earth with my pet cat and a rodent...

Mom stared at the scene for a few long seconds and said, "Laura, maybe the mouse is dead.  I'll get the broom and dust pan." 

Mom retrieved the items from the kitchen and approached the mouse and started to sweep the furry beast into the pan, but the moment she touched it with the broom's bristles, the mouse jumped up and scurried across the floor, finding refuge under the corner cupboard...Bowzer just stared up at us, blankly...

Its been years since then, and I'm happy to report that my parents no longer have mice.  They no longer use cats as mouse-killers though...Now they call the exterminator. 

Henry XIII, Hardware Stores, and Gravel Roads...

My mom and dad never really argued when I was a kid...their disagreements usually took the form of a competition.  Here are a few examples: 

We'd be driving home in the car and they'd be talking like this: 

Dad: I'm telling you, Henry the eighth was a Plantagenet...

Mom: He was a Tudor...Different dynasty altogether...

Dad: No...

Mom: His last name was Tudor...

Dad: No, Honey, I realize he may have had a different last name, but it was all the same family.

Mom: No.

Dad: I'm right...

Mom: No you're not.  

As soon as the car would pull up in the driveway, Mom opened the door, hopped out of the car and started running toward the house.  "Confound it, Lynn!" Dad would mutter, pull the key out of the ignition and hurry towards the house himself.  

I usually followed behind laughing.  

When we got inside the house, Mom had already pulled the "H" Encyclopedia off the living room bookshelf and opened it to the appropriate page, "HA!  John, I WIN!!! Henry the Seventh and his descendants are all listed under the House of Tudor.  So there!" 

"Encyclopedia's wrong," Dad would mutter walking towards the kitchen. 

"Heh heh heh," Mom laughed under her breath.  

One of my favorite disagreements happened after I left home to go to grad school...I've gotten the gist of the conversation though.  They were at Lowe's buying supplies to fix the bathroom.  Dad did not want to do home maintenance that day and he was grumbling as they walked out of the store towards the parking lot.  

Mom: I don't understand why you're so unhappy, John.  I thought guys liked going to the hardware store.  

Dad: Common misconception, Lynn.  Women always say that hardware stores are for men, but that's not true...They're for women and their honey-do lists. 

(Dad was standing in the middle of the parking lot now while he was talking, two or three guys had stopped to listen to him) 

Dad: Hardware stores and home-improvement stores exist so that women can send their husbands to them on their days off when they would much rather be working with their hobbies or watching TV.  Trust me, hardware stores, like most of the rest of the shopping industry, are the invention of women for women. 

(By now a few more people had gathered around now and they started applauding loudly.  Mom just shook her head and walked away toward the car.)

Another one of my favorite contests was the video games...When I was a kid we had a ColecoVision video game set.  We had a bunch of the fun games: Venture, Dig Dug, etc. My parents really liked playing Q-Bert.  Q-Bert was serious business.   Mom and Dad would spend Sunday afternoons playing that stupid game so much I actually got tired of the "quip quip quip" noise those characters would make when they bounced on the cubes and even started rooting for the snakes that chased Q-Bert.  
My parents, on the other hand, would each practice while the other one was sleeping or at work and leave notes attached to the TV announcing the new high scores.  I don't remember who finally won the Q-Bert battle...I think it was a tie...

My parents also liked to race in their cars...I'm not talking about drag racing.  When I was about 12 years old, Mom and Dad both left for work around 1:30 pm in separate cars.  I would often go to work with Mom at the video store.  On their way to work, they would stop at the same gas station to fill up their car or buy something else.  It was always a race to see who got there first.  Dad would take the main high way, Mom would take a parallel gravel road a few miles south of the main highway...few police patrolled the road, so she tended to go a little faster than the speed limit...we always got to the gas station before Dad did and he could never figure out how...(Never try this at home...you're about to find out why...)

One day we were going very fast down the gravel road...by fast I mean at least 80 miles per hour.  "Your father can never figure out how we always get there so fast," Mom said laughing.  

Suddenly two ground squirrels ran out into the road and Mom swerved.  The car started to spin and we slid down into the ditch, still moving quickly.  I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Mom was silent wondering what we were going to hit first: A culvert or a telephone pole.  

Then all at once, we found ourselves up on the gravel road, moving in the right direction, going the speed limit.  Both of us had prayed a silent "Lord, help us" and God must have answered -- there was no other plausible explanation.  

That day, Dad beat us to the Gas station and Mom learned a lesson...beating your husband to the gas station isn't worth risking death...After that, Mom always went the speed limit...God had saved us once, she pointed out, but the Bible says not to tempt him...

Mom and Dad still compete and argue that way...Right now Mom wants a swimming pool and Dad's dead set against it...Who will win?  Only time will tell...