Chapin’s World: A Mid Amid

By J. G. Chapin

Chapin’s World is purely a figment of the author’s warped imagination, so please don’t report him to the authorities because there is nothing that can be done. He was born thinking like this. And, it was inevitable that his mind would be unleashed upon an unsuspecting public.

Chapin’s World, subtitled A Mid Amid is a book-of-life as seen through the green, ‘mid-life’ eyes of a member of a highly exploited (as of yet, unentitled) minority - redheads! It is a collection of humorous short stories of the author’s early life, family camping-trip shenanigans, vacation pranks and mishaps, and how he grew to be ‘mid’ in America’s Heartland. His light-hearted style allows the reader a chance to experience unpleasant circumstances with humor, and to tag along as he turns the most simple of situations into full-blown calamities.
Chapin’s narrative of his childhood reads like a tale by a modern day Samuel Clemens. The stories progress randomly through his life to include ‘mid-- with -- kid.’

Chapin’s World will drag you along with Chapin, his family, and a few ‘less-than role model’ friends into, but not out of ‘mid-life.’ the author is determined to find your funny bone even if he has to use a chainsaw. A Mid Amid contains twenty-seven mildly amusing, yet wildly outrageous tales by the ‘Master of Personal Disaster.’

In case you are unaware of Chapin’s writing style, he has used the formula of mixing equal, half-portions of wit and narrative. Chapin has now become quite distinguished for his ‘half-wit’ humor. But, such is Chapin’s World. If you or a loved one is struggling through the ‘mid-life’ crisis (or if you just have the strange urge to help a confessed liar succeed) then Chapin’s World - A Mid Amid is surely required reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664191488

J. G. Chapin

John G. Chapin is best known for writing tall tales about his slow lane, mundane life. Chapin has a master’s degree in communications, and has retired from a lifelong career as a Communication specialist (which, possibly, entailed masterful graffiti on the concrete walls of a highway overpass). He worked for over thirty-five years in the Broadcast Industry. More recently, as a broadcast consultant and college instructor. Lighthearted humor had always been a major part of Chapin’s world, and he expounded on a calamity to the ridiculous stage. In case you were still unaware of Chapin’s writing style, He had used the formula of mixing equal, half-portions of wit and narrative. Chapin has now become quite distinguished for his ‘half-wit’ humor. All that in hopes of entertaining you. Like Chapin’s great grandfather, Sedley, who was an early-day columnist in Osborne County Kansas under the penname of Crosby, JC too has a talent for wit and clever phrases. (And, a knack for down-to-earth wisdom.) John Chapin has been married over forty-five years to Connie, a talented, published songwriter, and poet. Their two adult children are closet writers, who expressed thoughts of their own younger generation. Their son, Brad, is a published author in the field of psychology, international speaker, and creator of the Challenge Software Program. (Search: selfregulationstation.com.) Recently, John noticed that their daughter, Leah, has, unfortunately, displayed a warped sense of humor and may join his creative endeavors. Beware!

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Copyright © 2021 by J. G. Chapin.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by: John G. Chapin

Coffee cup illustration by Connie K. Chapin

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/26/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.chapinsworld.com

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Perspective Evaluation

In the Beginning

Saturday Night on Main Street

Family Vacations

Constructive Playthings

Little Boys and Grandmas

Young Energies

Small Wonder

Hitched and Tied

Gag

All Aboard

Three Rattles and a Yelp

The White Tornado

Sleuth Truth

Legends and Lies

Cigars and Sucking Candy

The Relaxing Game

Wheezer and the Squirrel

If It Wiggles, Don’t Eat It!

Time’s out, Coach

Rambling about the Pod

Now You See Him, Now you Don’t

Dining Out

The Body Fails

High Centered and Spinning

Water Sports

Feel It in the Bones

The Passing

Appendix

Dedication

To my wife and children for their support in making this book possible by providing a rich resource of material for my stories (even though it has caused me to face the stark realization of my life ‘amid’)

To my parents, who for lack of a more creative blueprint, brought me into this world.

To all persons and places, as well as things which make up this world (while providing good reason for capital letters).

And, last but not least, to the Creator, who had better intentions when he made this world but knew all along it would work out this way.

John G. Chapin

Introduction

Warning - the following may be hazardous to your mental health! This book is meant to be neither truth nor fiction; nor to bear any resemblance to a Doctorate dissertation. In no measure should it be taken internally with any more pondering seriousness than each exaggerated situation warrants. Neither should it be chewed nor digested - only lightly tasted. What follows is not a proven fact. It is not even based on anything the least bit sane. These stories are purely a figment of my warped imagination so please don’t report me to the authorities because there is nothing that can be done for me. I was born thinking like this.

This volume is a reminiscent dribble of one man’s struggle at individuality, while striving to remain inconspicuously compatible. It is meant to be an entertaining interlude amidst the reader’s tedious routine...an escape.

Laugh at me, if you will (please do), but believe me - I’m a liar! Well, not by Webster’s true definition of the word: To make an untrue statement with intent to deceive. I have no intention of deceiving you. As a matter of fact, if you believe any of what I tell you - get help! You’re obviously closer to the edge than me! And, be forewarned, this book does not come with a ‘Sanity-back’ guarantee.)

Being an ardent pseudo-student of psychology, this book contains numerous instances for study; presenting myself in the roles of both subject and observer of the most dastardly crisis known to mankind, i.e., Mid-life!

It would be fascinating to count the stimuli, relationships and completely off-centered exchanges encountered in a lifetime. But, how do we determine what constitutes a distinguishable interaction? Well, I doubt you have the patience, or I the time remaining to pursue that subject. Therefore, what follows is a transcription of the most memorable events left undisturbed in an increasingly forgetful, and disturbed mind. If, by chance, a worthwhile tidbit is presented, (anything herein worthwhile is by pure chance) feel free to tell anyone and everyone where to obtain a copy!

Overwhelmed by a weakened stomach as I examine my own state of affairs, I spend much of my time acknowledging, even envying those with lesser sorrows (such as famine, grief or imprisonment). But, I conquered the waves of nausea to candidly relay to you the possible causes and effects of the overwhelming dilemma of ‘MID!’ Although there is no cure, the results of my efforts printed on the following pages will hopefully contribute to the early detection of those similarly afflicted.

I have also included insights to the more elusive symptoms of the ‘mid-life’ crisis. Who knows, scores may identify with some phase of Chapin’s World. We may all want to form a club or send each other Christmas cards of encouragement. The most likely candidates for club leadership roles would be those persons declared hopelessly insane, skid row derelicts, or even repeat, public nuisance offenders.

I do believe that if one rambles long and wildly enough, sooner or later a sad, random sampling of the afflicted souls will be vaguely touched upon. True, my absurdities seem to wander here and there with no discernible destination, but, like them, I, too, have a story to tell.

Alas, what I do best is make up stories. (Well, what I’m really best at is loafing, but that’s another limb to trim.) I choose my imaginary event and exaggerate it to the tenth power of ridiculous. That makes it a tall tale. (Of course, due to the length, some of my stories are short, tall tales.) All this in hopes of entertaining you.

Now just look what I’ve done. I’ve explained my whole style of writing. I hope that makes you feel better. If not - read on - you will.

Welcome to Chapin’s World!

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Perspective Evaluation

‘Mid-life’ has a stronger dose of crisis in it for some than for others. For me, a stronger dose came on rather gradually - over a period of forty-five years, to be exact. I’m a firm believer in slow and steady advancement. One must never rush into the unknown. Besides, there was not much reason to hurry since I didn’t know where I was going.

I had spent nearly twenty-three odd years, the others being even, trying to find myself. It took that long because, as it turned out, I was nowhere, and I had no idea how I got there! After money spent, time invested, and experiences survived, I still had not reached the top of the ladder. But, in spite of all my professional shiftlessness, I wasn’t at the bottom either. I was nowhere.

My dire situation stared me right in the face one day at the local supermarket when a little girl of six pointed to me and said, Look, Mama, a ‘mid-life’ crisis!

I cringed at the little urchin’s words as her mother eyed me pitifully, and hustled her untactful yet truthful offspring down the cereal aisle. I put my jar of peanut butter and a Twinkie on the nearest shelf, and slunk to the door, at which, I apologized to the checkout girl for my unnecessary presence.

I reeled with disbelief! Slowly I regained control of my lower jaw, which had fallen open when my brain was impacted with the little girl’s words. Everything moved in slow motion and was veiled in a bluish blur. I drooled uncontrollably as I fumbled for the pickup keys and, in a manner of speaking, left this world of yours. Life as I had known it was forever gone!

Oh, woe was me! How repulsive I had become. What gave me the right to show myself in public places? How dare me squeeze a tomato or use the self-service lane? But, I hadn’t known. I just hadn’t known.

Why only last night my wife, Sunshine, said that if she didn’t know better, she would have thought I was five years old by the way I acted. Oh, what a dear, sweet person. True to the very ‘mid.’ Could my wretchedness have evaded her also? (Rhetorical.)

Somehow I had always assumed the mid-life crisis syndrome only struck a person in his prime. If that was true, why strike me? There wasn’t a prime bone in my body! How could something that hasn’t grown be cut down? There must have been a mistake. I was dealt what, in reality, belonged to some young, successful executive! I still worked on my first Charles Atlas course, and I was only halfway through the book, I Made a Million Bucks by Age 21, You Can Too.

Sure, John Hancock signed the Declaration of Independence at the age of thirty-nine, as was Mark Twain when he penned Tom Sawyer, but what was left for me? It would have been plagiaristic, not to mention rather foolish, to re-do either. What a predicament I had grown into!

Broke? No, that would have been Heaven! I was so far in debt that insurance salesmen would not talk to me! At times, I was almost elated with my own depression. What utterly preposterous thoughts we humans have. (Sorry, what I meant was, if I were still considered human, I would have been familiar with those thought patterns.) How foolish the dreams and schemes I devised. Humans spent more energy, and contemplated a proper way to live, than living. When backed into a corner, a man clawed for survival. But when survival was assured, and ‘mid-life’ was the enigma, he groped for what? Did he long for the companionship of those like himself? Did he strive to revive? Or simply resolved himself into uselessness, and vowed never to detain the worthwhile ones? Or, have eaten too much of their needed food supply? Or, needlessly invaded their space? Or, breathed too much of their precious oxygen?

The young scoffed and ridiculed, while the elderly patronized ‘mid-lifers.’ New comic strips have arisen - Mid Man, Void Man, Vacuum Man. Or, maybe an entirely new sociological research study entitled, The Event Horizon of Age!

But, until someone has become strong enough to step forward and fight for equal rights, I must remain hidden. (Closet mid.) I must hold fast to this human-like cover for fear of mockery.

Now you know the truth. Now you know the ugliness of it all. Now you know what low form of life had put words such as these down in print. After all, if I weren’t avoided by your world, and befriended only by a typewriter, this book would have never been.

What a pity, some said with evil sarcasm, but then, I know you were above such remarks. So, since you have already opened this book, let me tell you about this "Mid Amid."

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In the Beginning

Being Colorado born, (which was neither here nor there, but mostly there from here) the Rockies have always made me a little ‘higher up’ than most. My precise, physical entrance befell the world in Canon City, home of the Colorado State Prison. There is probably irony in that, and perhaps a story, but not in this book.

I should have told you that, since my mother was a small woman, barely over five foot, and hardly outweighed a good sack of potatoes, it was understandable that she suffered. No matter how hard the doctor pushed and pleaded, she gave birth to me anyway.

My father regretted the event so much he didn’t even show up! He didn’t come to see me for quite some time, as a matter of fact. (However, I forgave him when I learned that he was in Europe winning the Big War, at the time.)

Most of the loved ones in the Rocky Mountain state belonged to Mom’s side of the tree, and since my exit from those surroundings was nearly as quick as my entrance, my memories translated into very few words. (Funny, I’m told, they all knew my name on such short notice, yet I could not tell one of them from the other.)

Go east, young man! was surely the chant of Colorado relatives who foresaw the future problems of that pre-mid mid.

Mom and I headed to Kansas and sat up housekeeping. At two months, I told my mother that I’d rather stay in the high country because the ski season had just begun. She promptly dismissed my vocalization as a wet bottom, changed me, and we began the trek.

Mom said I was cuddled, kissed, and pinched by every passenger on the eastbound train. That was likely an early indication of my tragic fate – if I was indeed such a desirable infant, why was there no kidnap attempt? (Even then it was obvious that I may as well had ‘Future Mid’ stamped on my forehead!)

Of course at the new home site, I was greeted by grandma and grandpa, three uncles, fourteen assorted great aunts, sixty-three shirttail relatives, and two stray dogs. Whereupon, each of the welcoming committee poked me in the belly, pulled at my toes, and squeezed my cheeks. Some made infantile ‘cooing’ sounds while they wheezed hot breath in my face. (To which, I preferred the stray dogs!)

My first home had two rooms – a large one inside, and one smaller one outside. The house didn’t have running water, but I did.

I was an only child until my younger sister, Marjorie was born. So, for quite some time Mom and I were the main attractions in that little berg. Mom was a new kid in town too, you know.

Life was great in young Chapin’s world! All my demands were met. Hey, you, bring in the clowns, I need a giggle! (Referring to the ridiculous lengths that I made people go to before giving in to giggles). More food! More attention! I demanded. Ah, that was living – I was sure of it.

There was only one sad instance. My Grandpa died when I was four, so I hardly remembered his smile. Though, to this day, no one has ever made toast dunked in coffee taste as good as he did.

My great uncle Charley was everyone’s uncle. He was a bachelor for most of his life, but he would have made a great father. The cache of pink peppermints found in his shirt pocket was unlimited.

His life was simple, and his happiest moments were spent alone with his dog, Boy. He idled-away many winter days as he sat in front of his kitchen stove with his feet propped on the open oven door. (Charley did, not Boy.) I weathered many a cold, Kansas blizzard doing the same thing with him. In retrospect, I wondered if he was a perpetual mid.

For many years he handled the farm work for an old maid named, Minnie, who lived up near the Nebraska state line. When they married, by choice, most of five counties were in shock at the unlikely couple!

Charley was a handy man rather than a handyman. If he ever rebuilt a motor, you could junk it, because it would never run again! He could till the soil and raise enough crops and hogs to feed the 12th Cavalry, but he didn’t know which end of a paint brush to hold.

When manufacturers had begun to make cars longer, he simply knocked the end out of his old garage, and added a four-foot high, dog-house style addition for the extended length of the hood.

After Charley and Minnie were married, they moved to her farm. My Grandma May, who, coincidentally, happened to be Charley’s sister, moved into his former house in town just south of ours.

I stayed in the country with the newlyweds on several occasions, and did a lot of bullhead fishing with Boy. I played tug-of-war with the fish, and the dog pulled me back out whenever I lost. Charley’s house had no indoor plumbing, but luckily I didn’t have the coffee habit then!

An unusual number of my elderly relatives suffered from near or total blindness by the time I became acquainted with them.

My Great Uncle Jesse was entirely blind, and was pretty much cared for by his wife, Blanche. I say ‘pretty much,’ because sometimes she tended to forget about him.

Let me explain. Whenever my sister Margie, gave Blanche a permanent, she was amazed at her hair (the lack of it). It was a silvery white, but so thin that when Margie rolled it up, there were only five or six little curlers on Blanche’s head. Just imagine, if you had curled Fu Manchu’ whiskers! Even when it was combed-out, there was a pinkish tint about it as the scalp showed through.

Anyway, Margie flustered Blanche when she said, Oh, by the way, how’s Jesse? Sometimes she wouldn’t even have all the words spoken, and Blanche flew out the back door with a towel around her neck and six curlers that topped-off her round, pink head.

She mumbled, Now where could he be? I took him out back this morning to get a little sun.

Meanwhile, after Jesse was full of gamma rays, hours earlier, he had proceeded to grab the clothesline and crossed the yard, back and forth, like a dog on a leash, until someone took him elsewhere. Sooner or later, Aunt Blanche remembered that she didn’t live alone, and rescued the weary backyard traveler.

Jesse may have lost his sight, but not his ambition to tinker in his little shop. He did a fair job with calculations, and his handsaw made reasonably straight cuts, but he was no master with a hammer and nail! A seventy-five year-old, blind man with a hammer yielded an illegal array of smashed, mashed, and gnarled nails!

I don’t recall him complaining much, but of course, a piece of peppermint candy here, or a quarter there made everyone look very good in a kid’s eyes.

Also, I remember a couple of blind brothers who were relatives of mine, Solly and Lawrence. Solly’s real name was Solomon, but I didn’t know that until I read his obituary years later.

When I first met Solly, he wasn’t completely blind, or so my Pa said. I had to prove that fact to myself (over and