"Punch Line"

           I have a sense of humor. Sometimes the serious aspects of life take over, and it’s the warped humor rippling through my veins that keeps me sane. My friends and family have learned not to tell jokes if I’m drinking or eating. Nothing burns like Coke squirting out the nose! I’ll roll helplessly on the couch weeping copiously at The Ghostbusters. I love puns, satires, riddles, and even knock-knock jokes.

          I have a sense of humor, and I cannot tell a joke.

          It’s a horrible thing to admit. I admire those people who can memorize and recite long passages from poetry or plays. I have in-laws who watch a movie once and replay dialogue word-for-word. I’m lucky if I can remember the title once I’ve left the theater! Jokes? They seem so simple. A few lines, the right intonation, and then the punch line. No matter how much I try to remember it all, it gets jumbled and botched.

          My mother always told me to leave the house with a little extra time and money. But I arm myself with my joke, too. Over the years, I’ve managed to refine the telling of one specific joke. I carry it prepared in case I’m in a social situation where a joke becomes necessary. “Better safe than sorry” really describes my up-bringing.

The Joke

Several teachers were driving between Austin and San Antonio one day when they saw the sign for the town Buda. They began arguing about how to pronounce the town’s name. One person insisted the pronunciation was “Booda”. The other claimed it rhymed with “You da.” Finally, the driver in the car decided to settle the argument. She pulled into the local Dairy Queen and drove up to the take-out window.

           “Excuse me,” she said politely when the young girl asked for her order. “I need to ask you, how do you pronounce the name of this place?”

           The girl looked puzzled for a moment, and then she said very slowly and distinctly, “Dare—ree—Queeeen!”

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Gonzales, Texas"

 

Gonzales County Courthouse (1894-1896)
www.usda.gove

        
          For years, we drove from our home in San Antonio to my sister’s home in Bay City, passing through the quaint town square of Gonzales. Every time we slowed through this small town’s streets, we promised ourselves that we’d stop and check out the shops and historical sites. Once the trip to Bay City became too long for Mom, we started using Gonzales as a midway meeting point. My sister, mother and I decided after one rendezvous that we really needed to spend an entire weekend there.

Carriage House Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast
www.belleoaksionn..com

         A little research led us to the Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast. This splendid home, converted into a B & B by some Aggie alumni, offered a carriage house remodeled into living room, small kitchen, and two bedrooms and bathrooms weekend paradise. A mother-daughter weekend rarely happened for the three of us, so this memory remains one that I enjoy pulling out and reliving.

         Mom could still walk at this point, but she used a walker for longer distances. She could manage going from the carriage house to the main house for breakfast every morning, and the beautiful pool, gardens, and patios didn’t challenge her too much. I think we visited every store along the square, and we discovered a few local restaurants with fantastic food. However, at the end of each day we pulled into the Dairy Queen near our B & B to order a chocolate milkshake for Mom and MooLattes for Paula and me. The locals greeted us as though we’d lived in the area our entire lives.

         The respite from this brief visit lingered in my mind, and every time I started feeling grumpy or stressed, I’d remember the lazy days in the pool and the genteel grandeur of this wonderful place. It didn’t take long before I convinced David to take me back to Belle Oaks, and Gonzales, for a much needed anniversary escape.

         With our stay, we booked the Riata room in the main house instead of the Carriage House. We spent idle hours during the first evening lounging on the upstairs balcony and playing in the pool. The next morning, we donned our running shoes and took off on the “driving tour” on foot! We walked up and down streets carefully marked by the town to view splendid homes built in the late 1800's and early 1900's. With camera in hand, we snapped shots of the County Courthouse and local churches as we strolled along.

www.belleoaksinn.com

         We haven’t managed to return to Gonzales, but I think fondly of this oasis of rest situated just a short drive from home. I believe I’ve begun to think of it as an emergency haven, like our cabin in Leakey, that I can travel to when I need to recharge.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

“Sweet Tooth”

 

            My quest to limit daily sugar intake means I travel a rough, temptation strewn road. A couple of years ago, I edged away from sweet iced tea by ordering half-n-half. I ran victory laps when “unsweet” became my go to order. At home, my Earl Grey hot gradually shifted to less sugar, then honey, and finally nothing but the wonderful blend on its own. We’d dropped all sodas about six years ago, but the urge to down a hot Dr. Pepper when my throat burns with an infection lingers in my memories. Dad’s remedy remains warm and comforting when fever devils me. When COVID-19 invaded our home right before Christmas, I begged for ginger ale and Dr. Pepper to soothe my symptoms. That influx of sodas has left me craving sugar again.

            I noticed a few weeks ago that my tea order at restaurants had relapsed to my sweet addiction. My morning Greek teas, usually brewed without honey, had crept back to a dollop each morning. My eyes draw to pictures of desserts when I browse online, and I shoot furtive glances at the donuts when at HEB. My determination to dodge candy bars and chocolate entered the maximum level of stress when Girl Scout cookies hit the streets. Every night, I allow one indulgence—either a single Blue Bell Krunch Bar or their Fudge Bar. My goal remains focused! I will wean off of that nightly treat and return to my pre-illness status of a monthly sweet treat from our neighborhood Dairy Queen.

            As I struggle to avoid the bombardment of delicacies that constantly barrage my daily routine, I focus on a plan of action that takes me away from the cravings that batter me at the moment. For my benefit, my mantra “Less is more” becomes the chant that pulls me away from reaching for a Milky Way!

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

   

"Punch Line"

          I have a sense of humor. Sometimes the serious aspects of life take over, and it’s the warped humor rippling through my veins that keeps me sane. My friends and family have learned not to tell jokes if I’m drinking or eating. Nothing burns like Coke squirting out the nose! I’ll roll helplessly on the couch weeping copiously at The Ghostbusters. I love puns, satires, riddles, and even knock-knock jokes.

          I have a sense of humor, and I cannot tell a joke.

          It’s a horrible thing to admit. I admire those people who can memorize and recite long passages from poetry or plays. I have in-laws who watch a movie once and replay dialogue word-for-word. I’m lucky if I can remember the title once I’ve left the theater! Jokes? They seem so simple. A few lines, the right intonation, and then the punch line. No matter how much I try to remember it all, it gets jumbled and botched.

          My mother always told me to leave the house with a little extra time and money. But I arm myself with my joke, too. Over the years, I’ve managed to refine the telling of one specific joke. I carry it prepared in case I’m in a social situation where a joke becomes necessary. “Better safe than sorry” really describes my up-bringing.

The Joke

Several teachers were driving between Austin and San Antonio one day when they saw the sign for the town Buda. They began arguing about how to pronounce the town’s name. One person insisted the pronunciation was “Booda”. The other claimed it rhymed with “You da.” Finally, the driver in the car decided to settle the argument. She pulled into the local Dairy Queen and drove up to the take-out window.

           “Excuse me,” she said politely when the young girl asked for her order. “I need to ask you, how do you pronounce the name of this place?”

           The girl looked puzzled for a moment, and then she said very slowly and distinctly, “Dare—ree—Queeeen!”

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman