This is Embarrassing, Mom!

By Jim Schneegold

This is an extension of my free ebook entitled, “Whiskey for Teething?” I have spent the last 15 years comprising this collection of 46 stories about family, humor, inspiration and teaching children. From presenting my mom thank you letters to the joy of teaching elementary school kids, I hope you enjoy my memories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Schneegold
• Release date: Sep 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465924339

Jim Schneegold

I am born and raised in Buffalo New York. For the last 15 years I have been teaching writing to both adults and elementary school-age children. I have developed an after school program titled, "Writer's Club for Kids" where 2-5th grade students learn to appreciate their own writing. It's very rewarding.

Book preview

This is Embarrassing, Mom!

by

Jim Schneegold

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher.

Childhood/Family

Easter Magic Disappears

What My Parents Don’t Know Won’t Hurt Them

Bat Boy Trophy Rules

The Rich Kids

Mrs. Dungy

Bee Gees in Concert

Who Needs a Broken Leg?

Dream Vacation in Canada

Nana Nana Nana

Childhood Memories Revisited

Vegetables: I hate them!

Dad’s Bad Words

We Were Golfing

Wedding Readings: What an Honor

Unforgettable Person

Is That Story About Me, Uncle Jim?

Teaching/Writing

Third Graders Make Me Cry

Going Back To School at 50?

You Don’t Want To Read My Story Now?

Teacher Observation was an Education

Kids Say The Darndest Things

Writing is Sharing: It’s That Simple

Elementary Kids are Great

Humor

I’m Not Getting Older. I’m Not!

Size Matters: Trust Me

Front Porch Blues

Home Repair is Not For The Weak of Heart

Procrastination and Something About Bottles

Buried Treasure

Library Pictures Stolen

Food Shopping: Don’t Get Me Started

I’ve Got The Music In Me

How Does He Do That?

Motor Vehicle Department

Banking on Customer Service

Mrs. B.

Lawn Cutting

Inspiration

How Much Love Can You Fit in a Shoe Box?

The Letter

You’re Never Too Young To Learn

The Cuckoo Clock

Golfing with a Stranger

Jury Duty Was Awesome

The Power of Observation

Prison Letter Acknowledged

Child Entitlement: Who Me?

CHILDHOOD/FAMILY

EASTER MAGIC DISAPPEARS

It’s Easter Sunday, 8 a.m. It’s been an hour or so since the eight and twelve year old boys, who live upstairs, woke me up with screeching laughter and running from room to room, apparently looking for their Easter baskets.

At 48 years old, as far as I’m concerned, Santa Claus is alive and well and delivering presents on Christmas Eve. But I remember the day I found out there was no Easter Bunny.

I was eight years old. Thursday night in the living room, all by myself, watching television and throwing a tennis ball against the far wall. For some reason, one of the throws caromed into my parent’s bedroom. Aggravated I had to get up, I quickly ran in there and looked for the ball. It was nowhere to be found. I looked under their bed, dresser and chair. Nothing. I turned to my right and noticed the closet was slightly open about an inch. Although there was no way a ball could fit in there, I gave it a quick look.

And there they were. Five Easter baskets. Three on the bottom and two on the top for me and my four brothers. I sat there in disbelief. My first thought was that somehow my parents stole Easter baskets from the Easter Bunny. How dare they!

To be honest, I didn’t know what to think. So I closed the closet exactly how I found it and ran back to watch television. I knew I had seen something I wasn’t supposed to. What did it all mean? Is it possible there is no Easter Bunny? There had to be because how did those baskets get in the closet? My brother, Gary, who was five years older, came in the room. I didn’t say a word for what seemed an eternity. And then in my anticipation and guilt, I posed my hypothetical question, Can you keep a secret?

What’s going on? he said not giving me a direct answer to my question.

I gotta show you something. Come here. We went to the scene of the crime. I opened the closet door and showed him the pot of gold. Waiting for my nice going and pat on the back I simply heard, What are you doing in their bedroom snooping in the closet?

I was dragged back to the living room and cemented to the couch. I thought he’d like the idea I found lots of chocolate we could both dig into immediately.

You better not tell Mark (five year old brother) you found that. And stay away from that until Sunday.

Geez! You try to be a nice guy and see what happens?

Sunday arrived and I pretended to be surprised. I looked over to my older brothers who began to eat their chocolate and jelly beans. When I looked at Mark, I saw the joy and spontaneous smile of someone who truly loved Easter and what that brought.

I wanted to go back in time. I wanted that feeling again. I wanted the mystery and magic back. But my time of innocence was apparently over. I started to question my older brothers on the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, but they didn’t answer. At that moment I felt it was up to me to find things out for myself.

In the following years, I never looked in my parent’s closet again. Oh sure the tennis ball ricocheted in there, several times, but I went in, got the ball and got out.

These days, I’m very conscious of keeping the magic alive. I go out of my way to make sure the little ones continue believing as long as they can.

When I went to share this story with my niece, Kristie (14), I walked up to her and whispered in her ear, Kristie! I have a story to show you about the Easter Bunny but I don’t want Michelle (10) to see it if she still believes.

No sooner did the words leave my mouth did I hear Kristie scream across the room, Michelle? You don’t still believe in the Easter Bunny, do you?

WHAT MY PARENTS DON’T KNOW WON’T HURT THEM

It was less than 24 hours before my little league all-star game when my friend, Craig, and I decided to sleep out in his backyard. We were eleven years old, full of energy and smack dab in the middle of a warm summer night. It didn’t get any better than that. With Smallwood Elementary School’s athletic fields’ one very short fence from our tent and our parent’s reminder of no leaving the backyard warning fading from our memory, we decided to take a midnight stroll around the grounds. It was all pretty innocent, really. We began running the bases of all three baseball diamonds, pretending to hit the grand slam that won the World Series when I heard a familiar voice.

Is that you, Schneegold?

That wasn’t any ordinary voice. That was the sound of Mr. Ramsey. Coach Ramsey to be exact. The same Coach Ramsey that was screaming at his starting third baseman in tomorrow’s big game.

If that’s you, you’re not playing tomorrow. Do you hear me, Jim?

Craig and I ran back to his house like two scared rabbits and quickly went to sleep hoping the coach would soon forget this whole episode.

The next day the big game arrived. The stands were packed. I heard my coach reading the starting lineup to the team. I wasn’t on it. Strangely enough it wasn’t on the public address announcer’s lineup either – and that one made the ears of my parents. I peeked into the stands to watch them look at each other and then quickly give me that same look. I wondered if my coach had told them already and, if so, how much trouble I was in.

Just then I saw Dad walking over to me.

What’s going on, Jim How come you’re not starting?"

I had spent most of the morning thinking of great explanations to tell him in case this predicament arrived. And one of them wasn’t, Well ya see, Dad. I was out around 1 a.m. last night running around Smallwood School and now the coach, for some reason, is all bent out of shape. Can you believe that, Dad?

Instead I whispered, "I have no idea. But don’t talk to him about it. He seems in a really bad mood today.

I didn’t know how to feel when our new starting third baseman made three errors in the first inning. My coach never looked my way. However, by the fourth inning when my replacement had struck out twice, made four errors and hurt his finger on the chain-link fence grabbing his brother’s ice cream cone, Coach had seen enough.

Schneegold – go in next inning at third! he reluctantly barked. The only memory I had after that was fielding a ground ball I turned into a double play, which, in turn, infuriated my father even more with his curiosity of why I didn’t start.

When the game was over, Dad, Mom and I walked to our car and Mom shook her head and replied, I still don’t understand why they didn’t play you until the fifth inning?"

There are things you remember from your childhood. And there are things you’d just as soon forget. On the drive home that afternoon I sat in silence. I remember thinking how I wish I wouldn’t have been out late the night before. How I wish I could have told my teammates the truth on why I didn’t start. I felt bad to have put my friend, Tom, in that position to have to play third base with all that pressure.

But when you’re eleven years old, guilt isn’t a long term emotion. Time passes and you simply move on. And one day, if you’re lucky, you become a writer and the truth manages to blurt out.

BAT BOY TROPHY RULES

In my bedroom, on top of a TV I never use, rests a trophy I never look at. I rarely pay attention to either unless I wake up in the middle of the night and the light from the living room lamp illuminates the face of this souvenir as if nothing else in the world existed.

It’s my dad’s little league baseball trophy I took as a memento from his house after he died. My brothers and I went through his belongings and this was the coolest, most meaningful possession I could ever choose. Besides, I was in the photo that was encased in its wooden base,