Humans Are Funny People

By Tim K. Brophy

Laden with stories of the humor that human beings bring to the world, Tim K. Brophy tells tales of a strawberry shortcake-obsessed German friend, hilarious coworkers, and his various family members. Each story the author includes in this short collection shows that, while human beings can be complicated and confusing, they sure are funny people!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Apr 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798892118491

Book preview

Ox Lips

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In our younger days my wife Kim and I lived for a few months in a small cabin high in the mountains of Colorado. The cabin was very rustic; it had no electricity or running water. We used an outhouse behind the cabin next to the creek. We boiled water from the nearby stream for our cooking and bathing needs. There was an old makeshift bathtub that we used periodically if we wanted to take a real bath, but it required the hauling and boiling of a lot of water on a wood-fired stove, so it didn’t happen as often as we would have liked.

Kim’s brother, Danny, also lived with us. To provide for our financial needs, he and I worked as laborers in the construction of condominiums. All of us were still young, and the adventure was very enjoyable for the most part. We liked to think of ourselves as hardy souls, living close to the land.

While Danny and I were off at work, Kim spent each day at the cabin with our infant son, Jason, and a Weimaraner dog named Bro, as her only companions. She kept the cabin clean and homey and prepared all our meals, cooking the hot meals on a wood-burning stove. Each morning she packed a wonderful sack lunch for Danny and me, and she always had a hot meal waiting each evening when we came home from a long day at work. Going out to our old pickup truck for lunch each day was like going on a picnic. Weekends we spent hiking in the mountains, going over the mountains to Denver to shop, or just lazing around the cabin. Overall, a very enjoyable existence—except for the work.

After living in the cabin for a month or so, Kim decided she wanted to go visit her parents back in our hometown for a week. (I suspect that she was at least partly motivated by the desire to take some showers with real running water.) So, after work on Friday we drove her there. Danny and I stayed the weekend (and took a few showers), then returned to the cabin on the Sunday night, prepared to start a week of fending for ourselves. It shouldn’t be too bad, it’s only a week! On the drive back, it occurred to us that, even with Kim missing, we were still going to have to eat. We stopped at a grocery store to stock up on supplies, purchasing canned food and some other items that we thought would be easy to prepare. For our lunches we bought a cheap loaf of white bread, a budget size package of bologna, and a jar of sandwich spread—the kind with pickle relish and spices already blended in. I’m sure we also purchased potato chips, candy bars, plastic utensils, and other items, but I don’t remember those things. What I clearly remember are the bologna and the jar of sandwich spread.

My indelible memory of those items was produced by the outcome, which was a consequence of our failure to plan as well as Kim did. Living in the rustic conditions we did, Kim was always careful to keep these types of food stored in a cool place and sealed in a proper container. She made sure we purchased block ice along with our groceries so she could keep meats, veggies, and leftovers in a large cooler with the ice. The cool night air of the high mountains was also helpful in the preservative process. But Danny and I didn’t plan as well as she did. So, early Monday morning when we left the cabin, our lunch items were all in an open sack, resting on the seat of the pickup truck for easy access. Monday at noon we came out to the truck and made our sandwiches, opening the fresh package of bologna and the new jar of spread. After making the sandwiches, we sealed the bologna as well as we could and put the lid back on the jar of spread. It wasn’t quite the picnic we were used to but at least we were nourished. When we finished eating, we left everything on the seat and went back to work. I don’t remember if we took the food items into the cabin when we got home that night, but I think probably not. After all, the night air was cool—all the refrigeration needed, right?

This process repeated itself each day and, while the night storage wasn’t quite as crucial, daytime was a little more of a problem—although not one we gave any attention to. Storing an open package of bologna and a jar of sandwich spread on the seat of a pickup with the windows closed is not wise, even in the mountains. The daytime temperature in early fall could still reach seventy degrees or so, and the sun shining through the windows with a magnifying glass effect warmed the cab of the truck even more. Tuesday, and each day after, it was necessary to give the sandwich spread a good stir to remix the oil that tended to rise to the top. The bologna still looked fine on Tuesday, perhaps a little bit limper than it had been on Monday. By Wednesday the edges of the bologna were beginning to curl up, but only slightly, and it smelled a little stronger