Anthologies Online          

      http://www.anthologiesonline.com/      Welcome to the Writing Site with an Emphasis on Anthologies

 

 

Writers: Subscribe and send in your brief bio and your best writing sample (up to 1200      words total) to apply to become a featured writer. Find free articles and markets to help you get published.  Readers: Find your favorite authors, anthologies, and other books.

  Editors, send in your calls for manuscripts. Find writers and manuscripts to fill your anthologies.

 

 This website is best viewed in IE

AO Homepage
Subscribe
Amy Lou Jenkins
Writers Wanted
Messageboard
How to Write
Articles
Anthologies
Table of Contents
Contact AO
Writing Magazines
About Contests
Search
Featured Authors
Free reprint articles
Amy Lou Jenkins is the award-winning author of Every Natural Fact: Five Seasons of Open-Air Parenting

"If you combined the lyricism of Annie Dillard, the vision of Aldo Leopold, and the gentle but tough-minded optimism of Frank McCourt, you might come close to Amy Lou Jenkins.Tom Bissell author of The Father of All Things 

"Sentence by sentence, a joy to read."   Phillip Lopate, Author of Waterfront

Follow AmyLouToYou on Twitter

 
 
 

Anthologies online participates in various affiliate programs and most links to books and products in articles/anthologies/author or any page offer some referral payment, pay for click or other reimbursement. The payment is generally pennies per click or purchase. Anthologies online also runs paid ads.The Anthologiesonline web site and newsletter are provided on an "as is" basis without any warranties of any kind and disclaim all warranties, including the warranty of merchantability, non-infringement of third parties' rights, and the warranty of fitness for particular purpose. No person or organization makes any warranties about the accuracy, reliability, completeness, or timeliness of the material, services, software text, graphics and links.  Any communication is generally considered to be nonconfidential. See Privacy Policy.

 

 

Featured Writer: Mimi Greenwood

 
  Working Mother  10 issues  
  American Baby
 

 

  PARENTS MAGAZINE
  Christian Parenting Today
  Campus Life  9 issues
  Today's Christian Woman
 
 

Mimi Greenwood Knight is a freelance writer and frequent contributor to Parents Magazine and Christian Parenting Today. Her essays and article have also appeared in Working Mother, American Baby, Today's Christian Woman, Campus Life, Sesame Street Parents, Bottom Line Personal, At-Home Mother and Mothers at Home as well as in anthologies like A Cup of Comfort Devotional, Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul, Three-Ring Circus; How Real Couples Balance Marriage, Work and Family, and Lists to Live By. She can be reached at djknight@airmail.net
 





Enjoy her fun essay, that anyone who has spent time with with young boys will understand. 

One Crappy Essay

                Anyone who’s raised a boy or who grew up with brothers can relate to the car trip I endured the other day. Once in the life of every red-blooded, American boy there comes a word that, from the first time he hears it, completely enchants him. For my five brothers it was the word “booger”. For my son, Hewson, it’s none other than the melodious “turd”.

                In the early 60s there was nothing funnier to my brothers than taking any sentence (song title, slogan, whatever I just said) and slipping booger in place of another word. I can still hear them crooning, “I’m looking over a four pound booger” then collapsing in torrents of laughter on the backseat where I was trapped with them for our annual endurance trip from Kansas City to New Orleans and back. The more they used their word, the harder they laughed. The harder they laughed, the madder I got. The madder I got, the greater the allure of the word. I also caught a glimpse of my parents once in the rear view mirror as they pretended to scold my brothers while snickering to each other. I felt completely betrayed.

                Now I’m the mom of four kids including one red blooded 8 year old boy and one far too serious 11 year old sister. As much as I’ve tried to reason with her and explain, “If you don’t let him get to you, he’ll get bored and stop saying it.” she doesn’t listen any more than I did. So last Thursday the three of us piled into the car and set out in search of a new mini van. It wasn’t Kansas City to New Orleans but for my daughter, Molly, it might as well have been as Hewson set about using his new found word with a gusto that would’ve made his uncles proud. He began with highway sign; signs like Turds May Ice in Cold Weather , Turd Limit 70, Caution Falling Turds and my own personal favorite, Highway Workers, Give Them a Turd.

                Molly’s pleas of  “MAAA- MAAA, make him stop!” started a tug of war inside me. On one hand, I remember too well the booger days of the late 60s. On the other hand, when I looked from my new position in the rearview mirror and saw the impish look on Hewson’s freckled face as he sang out, Unlawful to Turd and Authorized Turds Only, I felt a laugh growing inside me. I remembered my brothers singing, “She’s Got a Booger to Ride”, took a deep breath and told Hewson, “All right, Buddy, enough turd talk for a while. Find something else to do.”

                He did for a few miles then we hit a populated area and the billboards began. A national motel chain offered Free Continental Turds. An airline invited customers to Come Turd with Us. I disguised a chuckle as a cough.

          

 
 

     Molly turned red in the face. “Mom, “I’m going to clobber him if he doesn‘t shut up!”

                We passed a truck warning, Caution Wide Turds.

                Another truck offering, Quality Refrigerated Turds! A good one!

                “Mom, aren’t you going to say anything?”

                I swallowed repeatedly, made myself think of something sad, and tried changing the subject, “What   
                ‘cha reading there, Sis?”

                She cut her brother a look and held up the book in her lap. “It’s for school. A collection of poems by
                 Edgar Allan Poe.”

                “Oh”, Hewson retorted. “Turdy Allan Poe. I’ve heard of him,” then broke into a rousing rendition of
                 “Hail to the Turd”. (Better than “Turd to the Chief” I thought. But didn‘t say it.)

                We passed through a No Turd Zone and a car with an I Brake for Turds bumper sticker. That’s when Molly walloped Hewson good. But, as any brother can tell you, laughter is stronger than Novocain for deadening the sting of a sister’s slug. He didn‘t miss a beat, Caution… Steep Turds Ahead.  She punched him again. I tried to referee from the front seat.

                “Molly, if you’ll stop pounding your brother I’m sure he’ll stop talking turd for a while. Right,
                  Buddy?”         
                  Nobody heard me.

                 Yield to Oncoming Turds POUND!

                Center Lane for Turds Only POUND!

                This Turd Stops at all Railroad Crossings DOUBLE POUND!

                I threatened to “Pull this car over and you’ll both be sorry.” I was talking to myself. That’s when I saw it, clearly written on the passenger side mirror. Turds in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear. No, I can’t. I owe it to Molly, to all of sisterdom to take her side on this. I willed myself to remember how badly I wanted to open the back door of our old Impala and kick my brothers out onto the highway.

                The fray in the back seat continued as we turned off the interstate and into a residential neighborhood, Slow Turds at Play.

                “I’m gonna kill him, Mom. I MEAN it!”

                Quiet! Turd Zone.

                “All right, I warned him.”

 

                Fines higher in turd area.

                “Mom, you’re just gonna’ let him say it?”

                No more signs but Hewson was on a roll, “A turd in the hand is worth two in the bush”.

                “Yeah” I thought. “The early turd gets the worm.” I tried my hardest to conjure up a picture of my brothers after we got home from New Orleans and they recruited a few neighborhood boys in singing, “The booger, my friend, is blowing in the wind.”

                “Got turds?’ Hewson asked.

                “The squeaky turd gets the grease,” I thought.

                That was last week. Molly hasn’t killed her brother yet and we still haven’t found a new mini van. We’re setting out to shop some more today.  Things aren’t looking good though. As we climbed in the van, I overheard Hewson singing, “Who let the turds out! Who? Who? Who?” 
 

See More of Mimi Greenwood's work at http://www.writergazette.com/mimigreenwoodknight.shtml