"It's.....BLOOOOOOD!!!!

My son, when he was younger, had an aversion to the sight of blood, especially his own.  He has since gotten over that problem, thank goodness, but back then it upset him to no end.

It was a Sunday morning, and he and his father were out in the back yard, his father throwing horseshoes while he was playing something else.  I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast and talking to my mother on the phone, when I suddenly heard this ear-piercing scream coming from the back yard, and in races my son with his father following close behind.  All I saw was my son with his hand over one eye, and blood dripping through his fingers as he ran through the house to the bathroom, still screaming.  The only thing that came to my mind was, "Oh my god, he's lost an eye!"

My mother asked what was going on, and I replied that I'd have to call her back and hung up the phone, then went to see what had happened.

It turned out that as my husband had reached back with the horseshoe in his hand to throw, my son had been right behind him (which he'd been warned not to do, of course!), and it caught him in the face.  My husband was shook up as well, and kept asking did he need stitches, until I told him that he was just making our son worse, so he needed to leave the room, which he did.

My son, meanwhile, continued screaming at the top of his lungs, over and over, "It's bloooood; it's bloooood!" until I told him he needed to stop screaming so that I could find out where the blood was coming from.  I took a wet rag and wiped the blood away, thankfully seeing that his eye was fine.  The blood was coming from a split in his skin on the bone just above his eyebrow, where the horseshoe had clipped him, and with a bit of cleanup, antiseptic and a bandage, everything went back to a semblance of normalcy.

Somehow, despite both my son and my husband's reactions, I managed to remain calm and do what needed to be done.  I think I realized that someone needed to be the voice of reason throughout the ordeal, as they both were just making each other worse!

As it turned out, my son didn't need stitches.  But he still has a scar to remind him of what happens when you don't follow directions.  Horseshoes are really hard and heavy.

Don't Forget to Tell the Cat!

When my husband and I went on our honeymoon many years ago now, we booked my dog at the time, Mischa, into the kennels where she'd always gone when I'd go out of town before.  They were so great with her, and she knew the people there, so she didn't seem to mind "visiting" there for a few days or so.  We didn't book Frank the cat there, though, as we had someone coming over to look after him each day, and make sure he had food and water while we were gone for the four days.

The surprise came when we returned from our trip.  Frank was not at all happy with us for leaving him, and boy, did he let us know about it!  He yelled at us for ages after we came through the door, and once we sat down anywhere, he'd take turns sitting in our laps and yelling at us some more, and giving us really dirty looks when we'd get up to go do something, then follow us everywhere we went, still yelling.

I left awhile after we'd gotten in to go and pick up Mischa from the kennels, leaving my husband with Frank, hoping that might appease him a bit.  Mischa came barreling through the door, as she pretty much did everything, and ran up to Frank to say hello, as they were great buddies and she was happy to see him.

Frank, however, was not pleased with her, either!  He sniffed her nose, then turned, putting his fluffy tail and nose in the air, and snubbed her completely!  It was as if he were telling her, "You left me, too, so don't try to  be friends now!"  He wasn't at all happy until a few days went by and things got back to normal.

I called my friend Chris a couple of days later to fill her in on the trip, and got around to telling her about Frank's reaction, finding it amusing now that he'd gotten over being upset with all of us and back to acting normal.  She's a true Cat Lady, and since I'd never had a cat before Frank, I often asked her "cat questions."

"Didn't you tell him you were leaving and would be back?" she asked me.

I laughed, thinking she was kidding, but no, she was dead serious!  It had never even occurred to me that you had to tell a cat that you were leaving!

From then on, though, whenever we'd go anywhere overnight and leave him, I'd tell Frank that we were leaving, and would be back in a couple of days.  It really did make a big difference!  Even though he'd yell at us a couple of times when we got back for leaving at all, a general scolding, after a few minutes he was back to his normal self.

So whatever you do, if you have a cat and plan on leaving them home while you go gallivanting here and there, if you don't want a huge scolding and a cat attached to you for the entire day you return, don't forget to tell them you're leaving.  It works wonders, really!

And I know it wasn't just Frank, thanks to the Cat Lady!

Mr. "Not So Perfect" Either!!

I have two younger brothers, the oldest one being the one that won't let me forget the brownies episode.  Considering that, I think it's time I told a few things about him, even though he'd deny all of them.


When he was younger, he was the type of kid that would get even, rather than get angry at the time he got in trouble or punished.  He was always causing what my mother referred to as "quiet trouble," and usually that meant he'd do something to either our youngest brother and/or I, causing us to yell and get in trouble for something he did.  He'd also swear that he'd never done anything; he was the perfect child, you know!  Yeah, right!


Once when he was very young, he'd been punished for something he'd done (probably just not listening and doing exactly what he pleased despite warnings to the contrary!), and our mother put him in his room and told him to take a nap.  She didn't hear any noise after a few minutes, so figured he'd gone ahead and fallen asleep.  After awhile, she went to check on him, only to find that he'd taken all the sheets, blankets and pillowcases off the beds, just to get even with her for putting him in there in the first place, and thrown them all on the floor in a pile.


He got angry another time with our mother for something, and quietly went into the kitchen and turned off the refrigerator.  Mom couldn't figure out for quite awhile why things were getting warm in there, and of course, was worried that something was wrong with the fridge.  By the time she figured out what he'd done, a lot of the food had spoiled and thawed, and had to be thrown out.


The one that I now can understand, having dealt with my own children, and that must have been the most infuriating of all to my mother, was what he'd do during one of our punishments.  The punishment would be to have us sit in a chair in the living room, no television or anything to play with whatsoever, until Mom felt we'd been punished enough and learned our lesson.  It was pure torture, not being able to move aside from squirming from time to time, or talk, or do anything but think, but it didn't make a difference to my brother.  He'd just fall asleep in the chair, seemingly not caring that this method was supposed to be a punishment.  He didn't like it, so he chose to rebel by taking a nap, and just making Mom even more frustrated.


So see, he's not so perfect as he'd like everyone to think.   As I mentioned earlier, though, he'll deny all of it anyway.  Even though I speak the truth, and he knows it!  Rotten kid!

Do NOT Try This At Home!

I love to cook most of the time, and at the risk of sounding a bit like I'm bragging, I'm usually a pretty amazing cook. But like all of us who like to cook, I've had a few mishaps in the kitchen with certain recipes.

I must've been about 13 years old, and was home alone while the rest of the family was out somewhere. I decided that I'd do something nice for everyone, and make a batch of brownies that would be ready when they got home, and perhaps still warm and gooey. So I got out all the ingredients that the recipe called for (these are from scratch, mind you, not a mix), and unfortunately, we were out of eggs.

Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remembered my Mom and a friend of hers discussing a recipe for mayonnaise cake, and saying that the mayonnaise was used in place of the eggs, so I thought to myself that why wouldn't that work for brownies, too? So out comes the mayonnaise, and into the brownie mix, stirred it all in and into the pan, then to the oven.

I didn't think anything more about it, and waited the time called for to take them out of the oven. When I did, the brownies didn't look at all good. In fact, they were a greasy, gloppy mess, bubbling in the pan and looking completely disgusting! I couldn't figure out why it didn't work until after my Mom got home and saw what I'd done, then figured out where I'd gone wrong.

In talking about making the mayonnaise cake, they'd neglected to mention that in addition to replacing the eggs with the mayonnaise, it also replaced the oil or butter in the recipe. I'd gone ahead and put the butter in the brownie mix as usual, not realizing or thinking about what it would do.

Needless to say, those brownies weren't eaten or even tried, obviously. They were completely inedible, to say the least. To this day, though, my family has not let me forget about mayonnaise in the brownies, and my brother is still highly amused by the whole episode, and reminds me of it from time to time with great glee.

Brothers are a pain. Seriously.

The Problem with Elmo

When my son was young, he had a small, stuffed Elmo doll, the little red, furry character from Sesame Street that all the kids seemed to love, I think because he spoke more like a small child and thus the kids related to him more than the others because of that.  He took Elmo everywhere with him, and had to have him when he went to bed at night.

One day, my friend Chris and her daughter, Jennifer, were over visiting, and Chris and I were chatting while the kids played in my son's bedroom.  Jennifer is about three years older than my son, and at the time, he had a major crush on her that lasted for several years.  They were getting pretty loud, but we didn't think much of that, because that was normal.  Until we heard a bang and the sound of glass breaking.

Chris and I looked at each other, and both yelled at the same time, "DON'T MOVE!!!" and went back to see what had happened.

It turned out that they'd been throwing various stuffed animals up to the ceiling in his room, Elmo being one of them.  Neither of them took into account that Elmo had very hard, plastic eyes, and when those eyes hit the light cover, he must've hit just right, because it completely shattered to the floor.

I have to say, both of them followed directions well, as they were standing like statues and weren't moving at all, and stayed that way until Chris and I got the big pieces of glass picked up, then the rest vacuumed so that they wouldn't get cut.  Their eyes were huge and they were scared to death, expecting that they were in major trouble and would be punished, but instead we warned them of the dangers of throwing things inside the house, figuring the scare they got was punishment enough.

That time.

Several visits later, the two of them were playing in another room in the house, and we heard, again, another crashing noise, only this time not the sound of shattering glass, and went in to find that, yet again, Elmo had been used as a UFO in the game  they were playing, and again, hit the light cover on the ceiling in that room!  This time, the cover didn't shatter, but instead broke into two pieces.  My son was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "Ow, ow, ow," but in a very soft voice, then finally showing us where the corner of the light cover had hit him in the shoulder, leaving a round, bleeding mark.

This time, they were punished, and told in no uncertain terms that there would be no throwing of any stuffed animals in any room, ever again.  And there never was.

My son, however, still has a perfectly round scar on the back of his shoulder where the corner of that light cover hit him, to remind him of that day.

Poor Elmo, though.  Being used as a projectile couldn't have been much fun.

Personally, I favored Oscar the Grouch and the Cookie Monster.

The Slumber Party

My daughter has recently begun asking when she can have a slumber party.  So far, since we don't have a house of our own, I've been able to put her off, but once we do, I've agreed that she'll be able to have one.  This brought back memories of when I had my own many years ago, and doesn't exactly make me feel as if it's such a good idea, judging from what went on back then.


I'd begged and begged my mother to be able to have a slumber party, as they were all the rage when we were in 6th grade, and finally she agreed.  I was allowed to invite four of my best friends at the time, and we settled on a date and time for one Saturday night.  Included in the festivities were Sherri, Debbie, Sheryl and Renee.  The night started with snacks, then pizza, then later, of course, popcorn and we watched television and played games, did each others' hair and told ghost stories, but of course, the main idea was that there was no "slumber" involved whatsoever.  The point was to stay up all night long.


We all had sleeping bags laid out in the living room once my parents and brothers went to bed, though my parents didn't get much sleep, either, what with four giggling girls downstairs.  We talked about everything we could imagine, including boys, of course.


There was a bit of friction between Debbie and Renee, though mostly on Debbie's side.  When she found out I was inviting Renee, she was not happy in the least, and asked me to "un-invite" her, but I wouldn't do it because I wanted Renee there.  So she didn't speak to Renee all night, and at one point, in protest, got in her sleeping bag and went to sleep.  Or at least, pretended to.  So this, to the rest of us, made her fair game!


We poked her, whispered in her ear, dripped water on her head, shook her; all with no reaction, and we all knew then that she was faking, so we started talking about her as if she wasn't there.  That did it!  She "woke up" and was absolutely furious, as we all smiled at her until she stopped ranting, then said, "Gotcha!"


She was not amused.


The next morning, after we all did finally fall asleep due to complete exhaustion, my mother woke us up for breakfast, which we sat through bleary-eyed and not talking much, and the other parents came and picked their daughters up, one by one.  Once everyone's things were gone from the living room, we had to clean up.


Feathers.  Everywhere and all over the place.  My mother says to this day that that's what she remembers most about that slumber party, is cleaning up all those feathers.  Back then, everyone had feather pillows.


And we didn't even have a pillow fight.


I'm thinking maybe I should think twice about allowing my daughter's slumber party.  But knowing me, I'll probably go through with it.  Yeah, sucker for punishment, I know.

The Unknown Comic

Starting back in 1976 (again, showing my age!  Not that I care....!!), there was a television show called "The Gong Show" that ran for about a half hour on the days it showed.  It included people coming onstage and doing various entertainment acts, and if they were terrible, the panelists would "gong" them by banging on a huge gong behind them, which meant they were out of the strange sort of competition.

There were several "regular" acts that came on as well, one being The Unknown Comic, a guy who wore a paper bag over his head with eye and mouth holes in it, who'd come out in a really bad polyester suit and tell terrible jokes.  So bad that you laughed at him anyway, I think mainly because the whole concept was bizarre.

My son was about 12 or so when one night, thinking he was going to be funny, came into the family room with a paper bag on his head, with holes poked in it for the eyes and mouth, and started dancing around and acting silly.  I looked at my husband and he at me, and at the same time, we both said, "It's the Unknown Comic!" and laughed hysterically.  Meanwhile, we watched our son, who had no idea what we were talking about, literally "deflate" in front of us.  The dancing completely stopped as he slowly removed the bag from his head, looking completely confused.

"Who's the Unknown Comic?" he asked, which of course, sent us into another round of laughter, so we explained the whole thing to him.  He didn't seem very impressed, however.

Parents are so mean sometimes.  You try to be entertaining, and they just ruin everything.

Cucumbers?!!

I've mentioned before, briefly, our other dog, Sheba.  She was a Boxer-mix that we got when she was a puppy from a co-worker of my husband's, and grew up into a really sweet dog, great with the kids and very protective.  For some reason or another, she seemed to think that she was supposed to be Chops' protector as well.  But that's another story for later.


One summer, we planted a vegetable garden in the back of the very small rental house we lived in at the time.  It was our first attempt at doing a garden ourselves, and we made a big one, and were really pleased at how well everything grew and at the quantity of delicious vegetables we got out of it.  We planted all sorts of things.


One thing I began noticing, though, was that where the cucumbers climbed up the wire fencing, once they'd bloomed and the cucumbers started getting to pretty good size, any of them that slipped through the fencing to the outside while they'd grown looked like something had been eating at them, and I assumed it was some sort of bug or worm at the time.


Until one day, when I'd picked all the ready cucumbers, sorting through to look for the ones  that had "bad" parts, and was going through the bag.  Sheba was sitting patiently at my feet, staring at me as I separated the good ones from the bad ones, and I teasingly asked her, "Do you want this?" and held out one of the cucumbers, not expecting for a second that she'd actually take it.  After all, dogs don't like cucumbers!!!  Do they?


Apparently, Sheba did!  She took the cucumber gently from my hand, walked over to the other side of the yard, then lay down with the cucumber between her front paws, chewing on it as if it were the best treat ever!  It was then that the realization dawned of what was really going on with the bitten cucumbers that had slipped through the fence.  Yep, Sheba was taking nibbles off the ends that poked through the fence, though not being at all grabby about it, seemingly just taking a taste off the part she could get to.

If nothing else, she was very dainty and polite about it.  Obviously, though, we were not meant to have pets that didn't have some sort of quirk in their personality.  Definitely keeps life interesting.

Bees!!!!

One summer that we spent in Memphis, we spent time also at my maternal grandmother's house with the cousins on that side of the family.  One of the things the six of us that were old enough at the time would do for entertainment while there was to walk down the street and around the corner to a small church that was located set back from the road and at the top of a hill there.  We would take cardboard boxes, unfold them, and slide down the hill on the cardboard, which kept us busy and out of our mothers' hair for awhile.

At the bottom of the hill was a small patch of trees that we called the forest, as that's what it looked like to us as kids at the time.  There was a lot of undergrowth around the bottom of the trees, and the trees were thick and green.  When we tired of sliding, we'd explore in the trees a bit.

There we found a huge wasps' next hanging from one of the trees, with the wasps buzzing around it, and didn't dare get too close, knowing enough to not want to rile them up, but it was fascinating to watch them go in and out of the basketball-sized nest.

My cousin Randy, who was just a few months younger than me, was more fascinated than the rest of us, and couldn't stop talking about that nest.  Being a bit of a trouble-maker, Randy came up with the idea that he wanted to throw a rock at the nest just to see what would happen.  The rest of us, tried to talk him out of it, but once Randy got an idea into his head, he was going to follow through with it, and to heck with the consequences.  Yet, of course, we all watched to see if he would really do it, and if he could actually hit it from a distance.

It took about three or four tries, and we were all laughing at Randy and teasing him, saying he'd never hit it, and were just about to go back to grass sledding, when suddenly, we hear this very loud "thunk!" as the rock he threw hit the next, knocking a hole in it, and turned to see the sudden swarm of extremely angry wasps coming out of the nest and towards us!

We all scrambled, screaming, "BEEEEEEESS!!!!" and running as fast as we could back to our grandmother's house.  All of us but one, that is.  Our cousin Alan.  For some reason, Alan just froze when he saw the wasps swirling out of the nest, and they seemed to head right for him, landing and beginning to sting as we were yelling at him to run.  He finally did, screaming and flailing his arms to try to get them off him, and the rest of us ran ahead and down to our grandmother's house, running in and talking all at once to our mothers and grandmother, trying to tell them what was happening and not making any sense at all, until Alan came crying to the door.

The wasps had gone, but the poor kid was covered in stings.  My aunts and my mother set him on a high stool, all three working on putting baking soda paste on the stings, as we all stood around watching, and Alan sniffled every so often.  We all felt sorry for him.  Thank goodness he wasn't allergic!

Meanwhile, our mothers kept asking what had happened, and we kept looking at each other but not saying anything, until we were threatened with a day of sitting on the couch without being allowed to talk or move until somebody confessed.  A fate worse than death, I tell you!

After this threat, and knowing full well that they'd follow through on it, all at the same time, the rest of us pointed at Randy and told on him, completely ratting him out for throwing the rock.  Needless to say, Randy was punished to the extreme.

Randy passed away a few years ago, and I hadn't seen him for many years before.  Hard to believe I'll never see him again.  But you can bet I'll never forget him.

Or the day of the bees.

Mammaw's Garden

When I was very, very young, I remember visiting my paternal grandmother and grandfather in Memphis during the summer.  I always called her "Mammaw" and him "Papa."  Now that it's getting into summer, and as it does every year, it reminds me of going there to visit, even though it's not nearly as hot here as it is there.


They lived in what I remember being a duplex, made up of four apartments; two downstairs and two up, made of dark stone with concrete floored porches at the front of each.  A little ways down the street there was some sort of store, and the sign hanging outside had a happy, smiling pig on it, though I'm not sure why.  I think it had something to do with barbecue, as a lot of things in Memphis seem to do.


The thing I remember most, though, is the garden out in front of their apartment.  It was walled in, and right next to an alley that went down the side of the building.  I don't remember there being a gate to get in and out of there, but instead remember jumping down from the wall into the garden, where it seemed to be a lot cooler and always damp.  There were plants in the garden, but I don't know what type they were, just the smell of them; a kind of bitter, earthy smell that I haven't ever smelled since then, but remember to this day, and would remember now if I ever smelled it again.


I used to love to go into that garden and play by myself; it was my own special place when we visited there and like my own world, closed off from everything else by the wall that was higher than I was.


That building has long since been torn down, and the neighborhood has gone downhill since.  I don't think there's anything there that was there when I was a child.  But I still think of it fondly from time to time, when life was simple.

Pigtails

One of our favorite places to go during the summer is to visit the Renaissance Festival, which takes place from mid-June until the first weekend in August every year on the weekends, at a location about 45 minutes' drive from where we are now.  It's usually the four of us, along with two or three of our nephews, depending on who's available and interested, and sometimes we meet friends down there as well.

The Festival consists of booths where various merchants and artisans sell their goods, ranging from pottery to knives to jewelry to clothing, and loads of other interesting things.  There are also game booths, a few rides, a petting zoo, shows, fortune tellers, jousting and loads of great food, along with all the people and artisans who work there dressed in Renaissance finery.

One of the favorite games for the boys is called "Vegetable Justice."  This consists of one of the workers there dressed as a jester, putting his head through a hole in a panel as he's standing behind it on a step stool, and his hands through two holes at either side.  The game consists of the players buying so many tomatoes for a dollar, then throwing them and trying to hit the guy dead in the face with it, while he shouts out insults and jokes at them.  Occasionally, someone actually hits him, and the crowd cheers, as they manage to put the most obnoxious guys possible up there to be hit.

My daughter was about seven years old one year we went, and as the boys were lining up to take their turns and try to hit the jester, she was watching attentively at the side, and caught the jester's attention.

"Hey," he calls over to her, "you with the pigtails!"

She points to herself and he says, "Yeah, you!" and makes a face at her.

My daughter, being no slouch in the "Oh, yeah?!" department, promptly places both fists on her hips, leans forward from the waist, and sticks her tongue out at him!

The jester then makes another smart comment, while the crowd is laughing at her getting the best of him, so she then puts each thumb in her ears, waggles her fingers, and sticks her tongue out at him again, wiggling her hips.  This time, she even got the best of the jester, as he started laughing and couldn't stop, saying, "Good one; you got me!"

Just goes to show you, never mess with a little girl in pigtails.  She'll get you every time.

Almost Lost Stupid Dog

Yet more proof as to why we called Chops a Stupid Dog, and another reason to question how I didn't completely go over the edge in dealing with him!


In the summer of 1999, we were in the process of moving to another house, after selling the one we'd lived in for seven years.  The only problem was that, although we'd found a buyer, we hadn't found a house to move into yet, so we'd made arrangements to stay somewhere else until we did.  However, we couldn't take any of our pets with us, so we booked kennels for the cat and the two dogs.


The dogs were put in cages in the back of the truck we had at the time, and Chops immediately started yipping.  He hated riding in any sort of vehicle, whether it be in the back or the front, but on the way to the kennels, I started feeling sorry for him (stupid me!), and stopped at a Park-N-Ride for the local bus company, thinking I'd let the dogs in the cab of the truck with me, and hopefully stop his yipping, as he sounded very upset and quite pitiful.  I took Sheba, the other dog, out of her cage and led her on the leash to the truck.  She jumped right up onto the seat, I told her to stay and she sat there, waiting patiently.  Then I went to get Chops.


As soon as I grabbed hold of the leash, he was straining at it and trying to get away, and eventually slipped the collar and started running all over the parking lot!  Despite my calling him, first starting out nice and then getting irritated that he wouldn't come to me and chasing him all over, I still couldn't get the stupid dog to come to me and get in the truck.  There was just no way he had any intention of getting into that truck again!


Finally, I gave up and went ahead and took Sheba to the kennels and signed her in, getting that taken care of, and then drove back to the Park-N-Ride to look for Chops again, still furious about the whole thing.  Sure enough, he was still there, running all over the parking lot and having a good old time.  I finally got so frustrated that I got in the truck and started driving home, completely giving up on the whole thing and way past angry.


As I drove off, I glanced in the side view mirror and noticed, about a block behind me, Chops running like crazy to try to catch up with me, the little brat!  I stopped at an apartment parking lot along the way, got out and he was still running from me and wouldn't come near me, probably since I was yelling my head off at him by then!  So I got back in the truck and started driving away.  Once again, I looked in the mirror and there he was, running behind the truck.  When I came to the next parking lot, I stopped again, thinking there was no way I was ever going to catch the idiot, and mumbling to myself that I didn't know why I was even trying, but apparently,  and luckily, Chops had worn himself out from all that running.


There he was, about five feet from the truck, panting like mad and not even trying to get away, completely exhausted, so I took advantage of the situation and picked him up, almost throwing him into the truck cab, yelling at him as I did.


All the way back to the kennels, he made no noise whatsoever, aside from heavy panting as he tried to catch his breath.  Not a yip out of him.  I got him to the kennels and inside and checked in, then finally went back out and breathed a sigh of relief once I was back in the truck.


That was the closest I'd ever come to doing some serious bodily harm to an animal.  Another reason I refuse to ever have a male dog again.


I have to admit, though, that when I think about it now, the thought of the sight of him in the side mirror, ears flapping as he was running behind the truck makes me smile a bit.  Stupid dog.

Randolph Scott

A lot of people these days don't even know who Randolph Scott is.  He was an old movie actor around the same time as Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, and all the greats.  Being a movie buff from way back, I've enjoyed several of the movies he was in, and I recommend that if you're interested, do a search and find out more about him.  This has nothing to do with my post, however, so I'll continue on.

If I had to describe my family, I'd have to say that we're a crazy bunch, but we definitely know how to have fun. When we all get together, there's a lot of joking around and teasing, but everyone has a good sense of humor.  A least, we think so.

Most of us have seen the movie "Blazing Saddles" at least once, and one of the scenes from that movie apparently amused all of us.  Cleavon Little, who played the sheriff in that movie, was asking the townspeople at one point to do something for him, and they were all hesitant, until he says, "You'd do it for Randolph Scott," and they all put their hands over their hearts and repeat, "Randolph Scott!" in a patriotic, awed way, and then they go on to help him with saving the town.

Now, every time my family is together, at one point or another, someone will say, "You'd do it for Randolph Scott!" and we all put our hands over our hearts and repeat, "Randolph Scott!" just like in the movie.  We've done this in public before as well, bringing laughs from everyone around us as well as our group.  The kids have no idea who Randolph Scott is, either, and those of you reading this who haven't seen the movie won't think it's funny, probably, but those of you who have will get it.

I propose that everyone else start doing this as well.  We could start a patriotic revolution!  Do it for Randolph Scott!