BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’ve got a question…

Do any of you know what the statute of limitations is on produce thievery? I only ask because I think I must be in some kind of serious trouble. Especially if the sins of the parents are visited upon the offspring.

I know, doesn’t make much sense, does it? Well, maybe I can explain.

You see, my parents were Murvel Sellars Sr. and Sonja Sellars. Now, I realize those names are in no way synonymous with Bonnie & Clyde, but bear with me, because I think the Federales could be kicking down my door at any moment and I want to make sure the world hears this story before “the man” shuts me up…

Wayyyyyy, wayyyy back when… And, I say wayyyy, wayyyy back because it was when I was a kid, so you know it has to have been a long time ago (think 40 plus years.)

Anywho, way back when, my parents and their friends, would go out camping and such. Of course, we kids would come along too. We’d cook over the campfire, hike, and do all sorts of relaxing, fun, camping things. Well, it wasn’t unusual for us to camp within a short distance – maybe nearby, maybe even a couple of miles – of farmland. Said farmland would often times be planted with sweet corn.

I think maybe you can see where I’m headed here?

Well, I suppose some of you city folks might not… So, by way of explanation, we were occasionally known to “raid a corn field.” As in, go out in the middle of the night and help ourselves to a dozen or so ears of fresh sweet corn right out of the field, under cover of darkness… Clandestine Cob Coppage…  Kernel Kleptomania… Golden Grain Grabbage…  Starch Stealing… you get the idea…

From there we would often boil, roast, grill, and even BBQ the ill gotten gains. Now, I need to point out that this wasn’t a nightly occurence by any stretch, but hey, it happened a time or two during the summer months.

And now, I think that thievery has come back to haunt me. SWAT teams and such will probably be surrounding my house and launching tear gas in through the windows very soon.

Why would I think that?

Well, like I said, my parents were Murvel Sellars Sr. and Sonja Sellars… And, I’m Murvel Sellars Jr.

Still not understanding? Well, I don’t blame you… So, here’s the kernel of the story:

I checked my site logs the other day and discovered that Murvel and Sonja  Sellars are being searched out on the internet. Of course, the searches have lead the Federales straight to me, because my parents are both deceased and I don’t exactly hide out in the shadows if you know what I mean.

And, what makes me think it’s the Federales? Easy… I tracked the IP address right back to the offices of the US Department of Agriculture in Fort Collins, Colorado.

As I recall, that was some pretty good corn. Not worth prison time, but still pretty good.

Wonder if I should just call my attorney and turn myself in. Shucks, maybe I can butter someone up and work out a sweet deal…

More to come…

Murv

…Or, Erma Bombeck revisited. Take your pick…

“At Wit’s End” was the title of Ms. Bombeck’s column. Or, at least, one incarnation of it. When I first started reading it in syndication it was simply titled “Erma Bombeck”.

If you are unfamiliar with this woman and her legacy, she was a humorist and writer who, to my great sadness, left us back in 1996. However, I will spare you a recounting of all the details of her career, because you can get them simply by clicking on her name since I linked it to the ErmaMuseum, which is a site celebrating her life and prose.

So, why do I bring up a long dead humorist? Well, primarily because of all those dominos I’ve been going on about as of late. You see, their sharp edges keep generating more and more leaks in my brainpan. In a recent blog, “BBC – Bureau of Blog Content” (Sunday, Jan 18, 2009) Ms. Bombeck’s name came up in relation to my rambling.

Well, as it happens, I was an avid fan of her writing. (I still am, because I haven’t yet read it all). I could easily relate to her dry humor, her take on life, and her general perspective on all that was. In short, her columns, books, and prose spoke to me.

I never had the opportunity to meet the woman, nor did anyone in my family. At least not that I am aware. And, when they were each asked about it, the reply from all was that not a one had ever so much as contacted her, much less met her.

So, why would I ask such an odd question as that? Trust me, there’s a reason I interrogated my family about Ms. Bombeck.

It all started because of another little something in her column that made me a fan. Actually, it was something contained in a particular column, and I first saw it in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch back in 1976.

Yes, 1976. The bicentennial. Fancy quarters. Red, white, and blue. Biggest 4th of July celebration to date. Yes, that 1976…

The thing that stuck out about this column were the names – not ALL of them – but those of the two major players in the story. I will let you see for yourself. There are two jpg’s of the column below. One is in its original state, as I found it when going through my father’s personal effects after his death. The other is brightened, contrasted, and enhanced via my old pal Photoshop, in hopes that it will make it easier to read after all the years it spent tucked away in a wallet.

Original

Enhanced

Notes:

1. In the left hand column, the sentence below the one that ends “…four weeks to” reads: get it fixed. You just can’t get people to…
2. In the right hand column, the sentence below the one that ends “Is the ceiling a…” reads: composition? I’ve always suspected the

(I did the above as notes because I didn’t want to risk trying to flatten out the folds in this extremely brittle piece of paper)

Now, I certainly realize the humor is dry, acerbic, and even a bit morose in some respects. But, it is still funny. On top of that, I am also well aware that the humor is somewhat dated. When I showed it to EK, though she found it amusing, her initial comment was something to the effect of, “You can certainly tell it was from a different era. She’s having a drink before she takes him to the hospital.“

While that little tidbit is certainly part of the humor, it also speaks to an era where DUI’s weren’t feared as they are today (and rightly so)…

I suspect that by now you have all picked up on at least part of what struck me with this particular column. Of course, it is the surname of the two primary characters in this story, that being Sellars. Sellars with an A, not with an E. The lesser common spelling. Sellars just like M. R. Sellars.

Now, some of you may be well aware of my full name – Murvel Russell Sellars, Jr.  When I was a kid everyone called me Rusty. I’ve mentioned that in other blogs. And, my father was known as Russell. Just like, Russell in the column.

But, if that isn’t enough by itself, the real kicker is the “primary” primary character, his wife. Yes, Virginia, believe it or not, my mother’s name was Sonja.

Sonja with a J. Not with a Y, not with an I.

It was spelled with a J, just like the Sonja in the column.

I’m dead serious. I can prove it too, though I’m not going to post copies of birth and death certificates to this blog…

In any event, Sonja and Russell Sellars, my parents, were unwittingly the stars of an Erma Bombeck column.

For the record, my father never fell through the ceiling. I do seem to recall, however, that he put his foot through a rotten spot on the roof when it was being re-shingled.

I guess that was close enough for Erma, even if it was fiction that mirrored a tidbit of truth…

Oh, and BTW, today would have been my mother’s 67th birthday. Sadly, she left us in 1987, well before Erma. Still, I like to think they managed to hook up for a drink over there on the other side, and have a laugh about it all…

More to come…

Murv