Chapin’s World: Treasures of the Past

By J. G. Chapin

In itself, Chapin’s World has stood alone as a vast storehouse of worthless, yard-sale memories and nearly forgotten calamities. Most of which could have been avoided with a simple plan, or root intelligence. Even though the author’s wife, Sunshine, has rounded out most of his rough edges, she admits that no job was too small for Chapin to not make big mistakes.

Chapin displays a collection of inept, unwanted constructions, and suffers through unpleasant circumstances with humorous shenanigans. Feel free to jeer at Papa’s inability to decorate for Christmas with the Grandlings, or escape jury duty. Take an unscheduled ride to a home away from home, investigate a blown fuse, and relive a feeble attempt to dismantle an old-fashioned TV antenna. Treasures of the Past will drag you through the scream door, and allow you to be overrun by buffalos and rude dogs.

You won’t know whether to bow before the author, or call the caretakers, because no one appears to be safe from the devious disclosures of JC. Treasures of the Past would be considered outrageous, and totally fabricated exaggerations, if the author’s personality was not so well documented. Beware; the most ‘self-loved’ author has unleashed some newly penned mischief.

Go ahead -- turn these pages for a memorable dose of humor in Chapin’s World: Treasures of the Past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369401651

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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CONTENTS

Disclaimer

Dedication

Introduction

Perspective Evaluation

Home Away from Home

Opposing Yawns

Change

Bored Games

Another Blown Fuse

Roadside Assistance, Please

The Supervision and Deliverance of Papa

Life in the Fast Lane

Sleuth Too

You Never Listen!

It Wasn’t a Dream

(It was a Nightmare)

My First Book Signing

Diet, Exercise, and a Sombrero

The Scream Door

New Memories

Woman Over-Bored

Gardening Grandlings

City Slacker

Buffalos and Rude Dogs

Standing Tall

Treasures of the Past

Just Hangin’ Around

‘Twas the Night Before Tomorrow

Let’s Have a Circus

Cheaper Than Dirt

Wigwam Woes

What Day is This?

Appendix

Disclaimer

This book is a work of FICTION. Anything written or implied on these pages is not intended by the author to be taken as truth. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is wholly coincidental.

Dedication

This book is affectionately bestowed to those who unknowingly provided the basis for most of my tales. To society’s ninety-nine percent who had intended a relatively, low-profile life, but failed.

All individuals have plotted and planned an undertaking that practically unraveled before it began. Life remained uncertain. Each day presented a myriad of risks for mishaps. A minor misfortune translated into an overstated, absurd yarn.

I dedicate my writings to ordinary Homo sapiens, who, in the wink of an eye have given me the opportunity to spin a small problem into an exaggerated and ridiculous anecdote.

Introduction

Given the creditable fact that my wife, Sunshine had achieved success as a songwriter and published poet; she repeatedly declined any alliance with my unfavorable literacy absurdities.

Since earlier editions of Chapin’s World sold more like ‘burnt cupcakes’ than hotcakes, I felt the need to examine a varied approach.

Therefore, I attempted to make some nonsense of an otherwise organized world. Understand fully and up front that most of these incoherent ramblings are simply a compilation of useless thoughts and mundane tidbits with very little lasting value. I vow to keep each story at a length where it should take under a half hour to read. Now, be honest, you waste that much time each day in other ways, don’t you? Come on, if I can’t humor you; then humor me.

If, by chance, you gave any amount of validity to the following pages, rest assured, there remains a hotline to call for relief.

In addition, the motley cast of characters met previously in Chapin’s World, including, but not limited to, Twinkie, Toad, and Guru Clyde, were concocted merely from fancy. Once again, if you feel identification or kinship – let me offer my condolences for your unfortunate, mental state.

Every detail portrayed in Chapin’s World was written with no ill-intent or subliminal implications. (It was complicated enough for me to transcribe in complete sentences, without the incorporation of a double meaning!) And, if there is a meaning within the dribble and ramble contained herein, it was purely accidental.

Don’t be so literal. Look at life as it could be, not as it is. Indulge yourself with a lighthearted (or lightheaded) escape into Chapin’s World. All I can offer at the moment is a one-way ticket away from spending all day in reality.

Have you ever wondered what truly goes ‘round and ‘round in my bewildered mind? Relinquish those somber thoughts, and welcome what I write, but refuse to say aloud.

By now you should have baked a fresh batch of chocolate-chip cookies, and turned on your reading lamp. The time has come to swap sensibility for another volume of Chapin’s World. Enjoy Treasures of the Past.

Perspective Evaluation

You might have wondered about the one obvious question concerning my stories that I have never fully explained. Why did I always begin a tall tale with a short narrative that seemingly had nothing to do with the story that I was about to write?

The best explanation that I can give is that I had no idea what the following story was to be. I was ready to write, but had no idea what about.

I admitted that, if I wrote a short lead it would buy a little more time for me to come up with something worth reading. Ok, I agree that it seldom worked, but I stand fast to my belief that preparation is grossly overrated.

I have heard it said, I’m not an actor or a writer, but I sure enjoy acting like a writer.

The prospect of becoming a writer has intrigued me ever since I began to scribble random phrases. It certainly was more appealing than holding a real job.

Maybe a blessing, or curse, my new vocation is a motivation to write more absurd tales. I thought what I had written before was inspiration, but, most likely, it was only desperation.

So, you wonder, where do I come up with all this nonsense? This is nonsense? This is my life! I thought everyone else was psychotic and delusional. Do you mean I’m truly special? This weird outlook on life is some sort of a gift?

Don’t lead me on if you’re just lowering me to a pedestal only to reveal that I am borderline normal after all. I’m having too much fun in this world by myself.

I would like to think that my warped outlook on life has played a small part in making you feel better about your sane world.

Home Away from Home

For reasons known only to an occupant of Chapin’s world, time was not relative to a common chest of drawers. (Unless ample time had given it some antique value.)

I reasoned this morsel of ‘time and space’ theory after I had sent a text to my friend in Hong Kong. With the time difference, it was Sunday there, but only Saturday here in the States. That meant he received my message before I had sent it.

New technologies allowed us to communicate in ‘real time.’ (Therefore, I despised my past mistakes when I was confused by the discrepancies involved in ‘unreal time, or fake time.’)

Scientists claim that a raisin is relative to a grape, and a prune to a plum, but many of my relatives do not claim me. My wife, Sunshine, has informed me of the certainty of that assumption.

A particular car manufacturer has guaranteed, with bold graphics, that those bodies moving on the TV screen were real people, not actors, and, apparently, not androids. (However, in this age of 3-D printers, I remain skeptical.)

When presented with a new idea or scheme, why was it assumed and discounted just because it had come from ‘left field?’ What unmentionable misconceptions have surrounded the validity of left-field comments?

Evidently, only imbeciles or super-geniuses were permitted to dwell there. (In other words, they are persons who customarily think outside of the shoebox.) Therefore, any declaration stemmed from that location must have been deemed unconventional.

I played left-field in little league, and no one anticipated anything worthwhile from me when I was alone out in that darkened corner of the ball field. Neither had I spewed philosophical quotes, nor had I any viable idea of why I was sent out there. I simply tried to catch up to the ball after it had stopped rolling, and throw it back into the infield. Then, I did it all over again. (What greatness had been expected to come out of left field?)

For some time now, I have wanted to know more about Einstein’s ‘theory of relativity.’ (Ok, I really don’t, but I consider it additional knowledge, which allows me to write something of substance. However, the word, substance, is qualified itself in the realm of time and space.)

As a matter of coincidence, I gained considerable insight about the emptiness of space through a recent, unenlightening conversation with Toad Ellis and Guru Clyde.

I had noticed the two wandering down my back alley. Each had come from opposite directions, and had converged near my garage. Toad was searching for the exact spot where he had last parked his old pickup, and Clyde was merely searching.

Hey, JC! Toad called as he saw me on the patio. Have you seen my pickup?

Yeah, I answered. It’s blue and leaves a thick cloud of exhaust smog about the same color.

I mean, have you seen it today? he said when I had approached the two.

Nope, I assured him. It’s been relatively clear and odor free so far in this neighborhood.

I was headed someplace to do something, Toad began. And I parked the pickup for some reason.

You, like, need to concentrate on your, like, karma, Guru Clyde suggested. Reassume, and resume, like, the personality that inhabited you, like, when you motored.

I don’t have a personality! Toad snapped. And I’m not inhibited by Carmen!

I’ve observed old man Skink, and, like, I deduced that he has multiple, like, personalities, Clyde proclaimed. One is suicidal, and, like, the other is self-destructive.

Well, it is frustrating when a person can’t remember important things, I offered. It tortures me.

I’ve got several instruments of torture, Toad confessed.

You do? I wondered.

Yeah, Toad explained. I have the orneriest cord on my hand sander.

You, like, sand your hands? Guru Clyde gasped.

No, I mean that the cord always twists the wrong way, Toad said. And tangled coat-hangers and broken shoestrings are torture.

Well, thank you for being you, Toad, I said.

Have to. No one else wants to be me, he replied innocently.

Did you ever think about how many, like, people, how much research and time it took to, like, decide that the body temperature, like, of a healthy human is 98.6 degrees? Clyde asked thoughtfully. And how did they, like, know any of that, like, before thermometers?

You’re abscessed with facts, Toad said.

What do you know? I scoffed. You had to take guidance counseling just to steer your truck.

Whoa! That’s a two-pucker, glass full, JC! Toad guffawed.

Glad you, like, like it, Toadman, I, like, said as I shook my head to eliminate the word like. I gotta water my cactus. Hope you find your pickup, Toad. And, Clyde, I hope you find whatever it is that you’re searching for.

My quest is, like, endless, Guru Clyde professed.

Then, I wish you closure in the endless, I said as I returned to the sanity of my patio, and pondered my reoccurring dilemma of time and space. All that I had concluded from Toad and Clyde was, that was a space I should have avoided, and I longed to have those ten minutes back to spend in a more deserving manner.

Throughout my life, I had refrained from intentionally stereo-typing individuals. If I had, I would have begun with myself. Handsome, debonair, highly intelligent, and an uncanny flair for wit and humor would have headlined my self-description. (I can include my talent for the use of over-exaggerated phrases, but I’m sure that you have already guessed that.)

I seldom listed those prominent attributes, because I was concerned that my admission to such outstanding features could have clouded my deep sense of humility, and, otherwise dignified characteristics.

I was compelled to unravel that whole relativity nonsense, even though I had no clue of understanding what it dealt with. But today it would not be solved, because Sunshine stepped out the back door, and informed me that she had made other plans for us.

Our son, Brad, and his wife, Mandy, and their three kids had rented a beach estate on the Gulf coast of Florida. They planned to spend two weeks in the rental with Sunshine’s sister, Alesia, and her husband, Ed. Even though all parties would split the cost, I’m sure that each share amounted to just over the total of my last ten years income.

I knew that all of them had worked hard for eleven and a half months, and deserved some time off. And, deep down, I was happy for them. I reasoned that if this was how they wanted to spend their money, I was all for it.

I would have probably spent the cash more wisely. With that amount of dough, I could have easily laid a track from our patio to my tin shed, and bought a used cable car to transport me to and from. It would have been furnished with a bottomless coffee pot and snack bar. But, that was just me, and I realized long ago that not everyone was blessed with my splendid insight.

My Uncle Glen had told me that real estate values would skyrocket if a trolley car was esthetically situated in the back yard. However, it was of no consequence, because Sunshine, and our neighbor, Twinkie Wilton, would, most likely, have boycotted my overgrown yard ornament.

Brad had hoped, as a last resort, that Sunshine and I would spend a few days ‘house-sitting’ while they were gone. Sunshine and Brad worked out the details and time period of our proposed ‘house sit,’ and appeared reasonably satisfied. But, for me, it meant that I would have to give up my twelve-inch TV, and musk-thistled yard, just to live in a home somewhere between ten and 69,000 times better.

Previously, I had suggested that if they ever wanted to get away, and rough it for a week, we could simply trade houses. That would have allowed them to live without all the modern conveniences, at no extra cost!

For the sake of family, I consented to bask in luxury for five or six days.

The main responsibility Sunshine and I were expected to perform was to keep an eye on things while we lavished in Brad and Mandy’s mansion, and ate their food. Oh, and we needed to care for the family cat, Cleo.

The feline was, apparently, some sort of an Egyptian-desert hybrid, and had to opt out on the Florida vacation, because she couldn’t tolerate the climate of the southeastern U. S. coast.

I surmised that with a hefty chocolate chip cookie bribe, I could handle the challenge of ‘cat maid.’

Preparation for this outing proved considerably easier than my usual weekend getaways.

I surmised that I didn’t need stink bait, my pup tent, or waterproof matches. This time, I intended to travel lightly.

After Brad had e-mailed our ‘to-do’ list for reference while we were at his house, I happened to notice that he had included a note which was specifically meant for Sunshine. It read: The extra leash is for you to use with Dad. I don’t want any mishaps like last time. I’m not sure our insurance company would cover another major reconstruction project!

Personally, I had not felt the slope on that side of their roof was a good match for that particular styled house in the first place. Furthermore, I assumed Brad and Mandy had known that the whole crane incident was simply the result of an unfortunate accident. Who was to know that there was a locking lever that kept the wrecking ball in place?

Nevertheless, they were enroute to Florida, and we were headed to our temporary abode.

I allowed Sunshine to punch-in the security code at their house, which afforded us entrance. (Actually, I had purposefully lagged behind, because I had never been able to remember any numbered- sequence beyond two, and besides, it had been kept a secret from me.)

Mandy said that we could use their bedroom while we’re here, Sunshine said as she disappeared through a hallway door.

Where’d you go? I called as I followed with her luggage and my plastic bags of belongings. Holy smokes! This combination master bedroom, walk-in closet, and bath is bigger than our whole main floor at home.

Don’t fret. All you really need for existence is a comfortable recliner, double fudge brownies, and a TV anyway, she said sarcastically. Let’s get our clothes hung in the closet, and then we’ll see if they left any other instructions for us.

You check for notes, I corrected. I’m going on a scouting party to look for snacks.

After we had unpacked and established our temporary accommodations, I went outside. Since Brad and Mandy lived on the edge of town, there was plenty of wildlife to observe in the backyard.

All in all, it wasn’t an unbearable hardship to spend the entire night outside since my attempt to break the security code failed miserably. And, on the plus side, the excessive July heat was slightly dampened when the sprinklers automatically kicked on. However, I was a little put-out that Sunshine hadn’t missed me until she noticed that I didn’t show up for breakfast.

She said that, until she had heeded my absence, she was somewhat curious as to why she had gotten the best night’s sleep in months.

That home away from home had more conveniences than my house had things to be convenient. The kitchen faucet simply had to be touched to spout water. And, I do mean, spout. (Perhaps I could have been more diligent about the direction in which the faucet was pointed.) And I discovered that a modern microwave is considerably more complicated than my old hot plate. (However, it appeared to have lost some power after I used those metal bowls in it.)

The house contained eleven TVs, and each had eleven different remotes to operate the tubes. I found that if I pushed only one wrong button, nothing worked except the garage door.

After three days, I had inspected every inch of the property, found several more concealed snack caches, and had been clawed or bitten eighteen times by Cleo. It had been a painful but good seventy-two hours.

I had not found one single imperfection in the house that required my attention. As a matter of fact, the solid oak woodwork was so sound and original in color, that it was almost impossible to find the correct varnish to refinish my newly forged scratches.

"I feel like I should be doing something constructive for Brad and Mandy to come home to," I whined.

No! You just leave well enough alone, Sunshine snapped. I’m sure that they would be quite happy to come home to a foundation and framework that was vaguely as intact as when they left.

During daylight hours, I ambled about in the yard, and performed bootless tasks within reach of my coffee cup and snacks which sat on the deck. At night, I surfed the TV from the comfort of Brad’s recliner, had more snacks, and devoured enough coffee to ensure consciousness for the late, late, late movie.

Since I have always been an early riser, I spent the mornings outside with an assortment of ticks and mosquitoes. When I had swatted and scratched the bloodsuckers more than enough for one day, I decided to join Sunshine in the kitchen.

Do you think that Brad and Mandy need all these trees in the yard? I asked her as I walked in from the deck.

Don’t even think of deforming their beautiful environment, she warned.

I’m just tired of sitting around doing nothing, I explained.

That’s all you do at home, and you don’t seem to mind. Sunshine answered. Now, put down that chainsaw and let’s eat.

After dinner on the fourth day, I reorganized our grandchildren’s clothes closets to insure that they conformed perfectly with regards to a Nigerian color code, categorized Mandy’s nursing-curriculum textbooks according to ailments and signs of the zodiac, and revamped Brad’s complete, upcoming business, travel schedule to oblige my favorite TV listing.

It had been hours since I had either fouled-up the settings on all of their audio/video stations, or stained any carpet beyond repair. I was pleased to report that Brad and Mandy’s home had survived a fifth day.

I decided to check on Sunshine, and see if she had enjoyed the opportunity to put fingerprints all over someone else’s property as much as I had. Even though I had chosen to spare her the petty details of a few of my less favorable clandestine escapades, I did have a few trivial, non-incriminating questions.

Hypothetically speaking, what is the best treatment for a severe burn on a cat? I asked sheepishly.

Why? Sunshine wondered as her face began to pale.

For the sake of a meager explanation, I confided, Let’s just assume that someone didn’t know that the countertop stove was on when they sat Cleo down to brush her.

You didn’t? She shrieked. I wondered why the poor thing has been cowering in the basement clothes hamper.

Come to think of it, did Cleo always have a bobbed tail? I asked.

At that point, I definitely resolved to withhold any more descriptions of my afternoon’s undertakings,