Chapin’s World: Go Stand in the Corner

By J. G. Chapin

While the use of humor has declined, the need for it has increased. Since medical studies confirmed that laughter boosted the body’s endorphins, natural painkillers, and reduced stress, the humor found in Chapin’s World could be a lifesaver.
The ‘master of Personal disaster’ is back, with his reluctant family, and ‘less-than role model’ friends, to make you laugh out loud.
In his latest attempt of Chapin’s World, fabrications ran the gamut of outlining his family orientation, to the author’s inept deer hunt with his cousin. Chapin also did a little tinkering in his tin shed, suffered more than normal light-headedness on Pike’s Peak, and, as usual, received an ill-advised consultation from his beatnik acquaintance, Guru Clyde.
The reader is taken from babysitting mishaps with a grandchild, a struggle through the author’s military training, to the recollection of a knock-down-drag-out with his children’s pets.
Be the first and, most likely, the only, one on your block to own Chapin’s World: Go Stand in the Corner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669840398

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 © 2022 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.

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.

Cover design by John G. Chapin

Coffee cup illustration by Connie K. Chapin

Rev. date: 08/03/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

843922

CONTENTS

Dedication

Introduction

Perspective Evaluation

Crawdads and Mud Puppies

One More Lap

Conflict of Sentiment

Cold Man Winter

Family Orientation

The Birds and the Bears

Neighborhood Watch Program

His Father’s Son

Inhuman Companions

The Gift

Hut and Yarden

She Taught an Old Dog

Now and Before

Ship in a Bottle

The Positive Pessimist

Shade Tree Mechanic

The Calling

Tinkering (in the Tin Shed)

The Hunt

All Night Whiner

Family Outing

Day Trippin’

The Reluctant Chef

The Hills are Alive with...

Quality Control

Surrounded by Snake Killers

Fear Not

Appendix

Dedication

Since day one, very few people in my life wanted to be associated with this book in any way, but one person had been my biggest supporter. That was my wife, Connie Kay. She has consistently been involved with my writings, as advisor, editor, and barometer, since I often drifted too far out of sight, into Chapin’s World.

If, by chance, you enjoy a few of these tales, and my ramblings were organized into a coherent text form, the credit belonged to Connie. The many hours she spent, as she made pretty little red marks, were not in vain.

I humbly dedicate this volume of Chapin’s World to my best friend, Connie Kay Chapin.

John G. Chapin

Introduction

According to Webster, an introduction is a passage of a book that will introduce the story or the content of a book.

This book was meant as an escape to the reader, by adding just a bit of humor into an otherwise wretched, frustrated life.

The following represents considerably dimmed memories, and a case study in the failed thought process of the author. The words on these pages depict the best of his life experiences, written in story form. If you think so little of this endeavor, sorry, he has nothing more to offer. It was with the Author’s deepest regrets that he first had to live it, and now it had been written for all to see.

And you thought you had it bad. Don’t you feel better already? Your life is so much better in comparison to mine that you want to laugh out loud. Go ahead and speak it, Thank you, author, for making my day, night, and month. Thank you, author, for having such low self esteem, and lack of pride that you would even want these recollections repeated.

In all seriousness, or not, I needed a disclaimer at this point: I will not, in any court of law admit to the truth, or validity, of the tall tales that follow. I deny knowledge of any, or all of the people, places, or situations mentioned in this book.

If there ever was a worthy reason, or excuse, for the following pages, it was that I have entered my third childhood. The first, of course, was my own humble, and pretty much unnoticed childhood. The second, was when I grew up, all over again, with my children. And the third, was re-learning to play, and be silly with my grandchildren.

It is my solemn guarantee that there are no harmful substances, or subliminal messages, contained herein. You may also rest assured that these writings have been rated ‘G’ for guffaw.

Perspective Evaluation

Nature had always been a major part of Chapin’s world. If the environment began to pressure me with unreasonable demands, like getting out of bed before noon, bathing regularly, or smiling, I reacted in the same manner as any other well adjusted, mature Man-child. I said, Whatever, and ran off to the great outdoors. I wanted to rough it, in the wild, and have competition with the elements. That was the way it was meant to be, as long as it was controlled

I have always been a sports fan. My love of sports knew no boundaries, and no time clocks: only a continuous horizontal seventh inning stretch. I envied persons who played games, or wrestled nature, and got paid for it. And those who experienced the thrill of victory or explored the Amazon. But what realistic chance did the average John have to land a trophy marlin, or set a new world record in the downhill slalom? Not much, I contend, if he was too lazy to get out of his recliner!

Therein, was the very reason that I daydreamed, fantasized, and participated in over-imaginative exaggerations! In that nonexistent state of elsewhere, the crowd went wild, anytime I chose. Hey, it was the next best thing to reality! (And I didn’t have to get dirty or hurt.)

But I suppose you have guessed by now, that, even I took my humor seriously. So, if this fiasco is to be finished by suppertime, I need to shove the typewriter into WARP drive -- ‘Where All Reality Perished.’

Since time is short, I left out the rough draft and any worthwhile narration.

Two notes of warning: You should never read these words aloud in public, and never allow more than the blank spaces, to have come into contact with your brain.

This publication was meant only for the eyes of those with little, or no literary taste!

All right, have some popcorn, and get ready for Chapin’s World: Go Stand in the Corner.

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Crawdads and Mud Puppies

"I don’t want to play ‘Take a Beating’ with you," I protested as Grant urged me to sit on the couch with him in front of the TV.

But, Papa, I just got this new video game, and I need someone to play it with me, Grant said.

Why can’t you just sit there quietly and play by yourself? I wondered.

It’s no fun, he responded. I need a partner to fight with.

I can’t relax if my character is getting beat up, I pointed out. That’s not a game.

Yes it is, argued Grant. The whole point is for one player to make a tactical nuke.

How about a game of checkers? I asked hopefully.

Checkers is a game for old people, he scoffed.

"I am an ‘old people,’" I reminded him.

I know that he agreed. But I need you to play, because I beat you all the time.

How come all these video games involve beating someone up or killing zombies, I questioned.

Papa, Grant said as he looked me in the eye. You don’t want me to grow up thinking I’m a loser, do you?

I’ve done pretty well with that feeling myself, I said smugly. Why don’t you play outside with a wiffle ball? It’s only ninety-seven degrees.

Oh, you’re no fun, he said as he got up from the couch.

"How old are you, Grant? I asked.

You know I’m six years old, he responded.

It took you six years to realize your Papa was no fun? I wondered aloud. When I was six, I had fun playing all day with a cardboard box and an old bicycle tire.

Grammy, Grant yelled. Papa has started on his ‘when I was your age’ story again. Can you come out to the TV, and play with me?

Video games, camera phones, the superhighway in the palm of a hand have taken away the thrill of personal thoughts. A push of a button, and the entire world was with you.

Where was the pioneer spirit that explored an abandoned brush pile, or turned over rocks in search of lizards? Even fish bait was now sold in containers, over the counter at convenience stores. No one had to dig their own night crawlers, or seine crawdads and mud puppies anymore.

Maybe that was not such a bad thing, the more I thought of it. At the tender age of eight, I remembered when my Pa and Uncle Gene planned a fishing trip, and we went out the night before to catch live bait. We had plenty of places on the property where I could have dug earthworms, but they wanted minnows and frogs to lure the ‘big ones.’

The lesson ‘put things away when you were done with them’ was taught to all family youngsters, but, evidently, forgotten by the adults.

Now, where did I put those minnow buckets? Pa muttered aloud.

I got one in my pickup, Gene said. But we’ll need at least two more.

I bet they’re in the car shed with the fishing poles, and dip net, Pa said. John, go look and see.

Off I trudged to the big car shed that housed everything, but a vehicle.

Evening had begun, and I couldn’t see very well. Someone had leaned a stack of lumber against the wall and covered the light switch.

I fumbled around with a pile of torn, cracked, unmatched vehicle floor mats. No buckets under there. I moved a little farther into the shed, and saw a pink sky that glowed through the dirty windows. There was barely a walk-path through the junk, and I tripped several times on some rope and old asphalt shingles.

The third time I went down, I felt a bucket. That was my lucky day, I fell right smack dab onto the missing minnow buckets.

Got ‘em, I called out the door.

It’s about time, Gene said sarcastically. I thought we were gonna have to send the Boy Scouts out for you.

You’re welcome for the buckets, I said as I threw them out the door.

Ow! Gene hollered. Watch where you toss those cans.

Sorry, I half-heartedly apologized. I was talking to one of the Cub Scouts.

Did you get the seine while you were loafing in there? Gene asked as he rubbed his shin.

It’s not in there, Pa said. I keep it in the tin shed with the Christmas decorations so I’ll know exactly where it is.

I’ll get it, Gene offered as he opened the door to the tin shed. Whoa! You’re gonna to have to get another shed if you keep collecting stuff.

I just hauled two loads to the junk yard last week, Pa said.

You think that little mess in there is bad, I taunted. Try to find the haystack that covered the needle in the car shed. When it’s dark!

Here, Pa said to Gene, Let me tell you exactly where the seine is in there. On the right side, there are three broken handled rakes standing inside the door. Then, you’ll find a bushel basket full of old useless water sprinklers, several leather work gloves for the left hand, and a stack of Christmas decorations. The seine is lying right next to the decorations on top of that old push mower I need to fix.

Pa and I heard a little thrashing, scuffling and a whole lot of grumbling inside the tin shed. Then silence.

Got it, Gene said when we were nearly ready to shut the door and call it a day.

About time, I mumbled. I thought we were going to have to get the Girl Scouts.

The netting was caught on the mower handle. Gene grumbled as he exited the tin shed with half the seine’s net over his head."

Look what we caught, Pa, I snickered as Gene tried to free the seines’ strings from his nose.

Ignoring my mirth, Pa simply said, Gene, pick up your eyeglasses and baseball cap, and let’s get loaded.

When Gene finally got his glasses situated, he noticed the sun was pretty low. I don’t think we have time to go to White Rock Creek for minnows.

I hate to walk along that slippery creek bank in the dark, I agreed. It’s too hard to stand up, and all the fallen trees catch the net.

We can just go up towards the Center Marker to old Hoyt’s pond. Gene suggested. We can fill these buckets with mud puppies and crawdads in fifteen minutes.

We loaded the buckets, seine, and a couple of lanterns in Gene’s pickup. Because he had a bench seat, I sat in between the two men.

Looks like a good Milo crop this year, Pa said as we headed out of town.

Could use a little rain, Gene answered.

Could use some fudge, I chipped in.

Still thirty minutes of daylight left, Pa said when we arrived at the pond. Pull in here through the fence gate, and drive down as close to the pond as you can.

John, you help your Pa get the snarls out of the net, Gene said. I’ll get my hip waders on.

What’s this? I asked as I pulled on a brown clump that was stuck in the seine.

It’s a crawdad we snagged last summer, Pa remembered. I meant to hose it off, and throw the net over the clothesline before I put it away. No matter. Gene, you got the waders, you take the ‘water end of the seine.’

Gene grabbed one of the end poles and headed into the pond. Whew! Gene gasped, This water’s cold when it laps over the boots.

Well, Pa said, That’s far enough out anyway. Walk slow, and keep the weighted side right on the bottom. A little faster now, or they’ll all get ahead of the net.

I can’t walk much faster, Gene puffed, There’s six inches of mud on the bottom of this ol’ pond.

After nearly ten minutes of slipping and sliding by both men, Pa said, That’s far enough for this pass. Angle toward the bank, and come out quick.

Both men held the seine tight as they moved up the bank.

I’ll get the buckets, I shouted as I headed to the pickup.

Be quick about it, Gene urged. We got some lively ones here.

Put all the ‘dads in one bucket, Pa directed. They’ll nip up the puppies if we mix ‘em.

We picked about fifteen or eighteen crawdads, and at least that many mud puppies from the net.

We got time for one more try? Gene asked. I’m wet anyway.

Let’s move a little farther down the shore, Pa said as he pointed toward the pond’s dam. The water is deeper there, so don’t go out quite so far this time.

How’s this? Gene asked as he tried to maintain his balance.

That’s good, Pa replied. "Let’s move, but keep in mind that drop off we found last…."

That’s when Gene went out of sight, and then popped back up like a bobber with a bluegill on the hook. He flailed his arms, and kicked his legs, but he only went in two directions, one was up and the other was down.

Hang on to the pole! Pa yelled. I’ll pull you back to dry land.

Gulp, Gene snorted. My waders are so full of water, gulp, I can hardly walk.

Pa looked like a professional angler that I had seen on TV, as he pulled and guided Gene closer to shore. All at once Gene lost his footing, and went down face first with a splash. He quickly surfaced with a gasp as he wiped his eyes with one hand, and hung on to the pole with the other. He blinked twice, and let out a shriek that prompted all the coyotes in the area to yelp. He was face to face with a fifteen-inch snapping turtle that was all tangled in the seine’s net.

Gene slipped and scrambled toward the bank, while he hung on to the pole to stay afloat. The snapper fought to dive, and then head out to sea. Whenever the turtle had enough thrust to make a good, hard dive, he pulled Gene down with him. But, when Gene regained his footing, he pulled the snapper back up with the net.

In the meantime, Pa backed up the bank, and finally, pulled Gene to shore. I was simply caught in the moment.

When Gene had reached solid ground, he dropped the seine and sloshed up the bank as well as he could, while his waders overflowed.

Get the bucket! Gene yelled. I got more critters in my waders than there is left in the seine.

Pa had the seine flipped over, and used a long screwdriver and tire iron to free the snapping turtle. When the snapper finally gained his release, Pa grabbed him on each side of the shell, and tossed him out in the water.

Good riddance, Gene said as he sat down on the pickup bumper, and removed his waders. John, open the bucket lid while I dump my boots.

Looks like you found a school of minnows after all, Pa exclaimed as Gene dumped a good, big bunch of them into the bucket.

They didn’t bother me near as much as the crawdads and mud puppies in this other boot. Gene moaned as he dumped the second boot in another bucket. I don’t care if they are mixed in this bucket, they deserve each other!

Let’s get the waders, buckets, and seine loaded up, Pa said. It’ll be dark by the time we get home.

And I’m starting to get chilly in these wet clothes, Gene said.

And I’m starting to get hungry for fudge, I chipped in.

Oh, no, Gene whined.

What? Pa wondered as we crawled into the pickup.

My keys are gone, Gene said. I put the pickup keys in my pocket before we started to seine.

You lost your pickup keys in the pond? Pa said, which evidently by the repetition, clarified our predicament even more. They are fifteen feet out there, under six inches of mud at the bottom, and guarded by that snapper.

I ain’t going out there after dark, Gene and I said in unison

Let’s walk back to the road, Pa said as he climbed out of the pickup. Maybe we’ll get lucky and hitch a ride to town.

Yes, times have changed since then, and so have my opinions.

Sure was nice that fish bait was sold over the counter, and no one had to dig their own night crawlers. And, someone else seined crawdads and mud puppies.

Everything in the ‘good ole’ days,’ wasn’t.

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One More Lap

The only thing time really changed was pages on the calendar. In the three generations that I had seen firsthand, what I surely attested to was, ‘kids would be kids.’

When I was first exposed to the rigors of pee wee baseball, at the age of five, I was evidently quite naïve. I thought that the point was to learn how to catch, hit, and run the bases. However, there were an equal number of youngsters, who, theoretically, should not have been there. Their whole purpose on the team was to chase ground squirrels in the outfield, or to look for lost coins under the bleachers.

While I nursed an afternoon game sunburn or sore arm, they had a soda with the money they’d found. I tried to raise my batting average all summer, but my friends played in the dirt around second base.

My Pa always said, "Don’t pay them no mind, they won’t amount to