Funny Stuff

Our Canada - - Features - Bon­nie Mc­creadie,

As a young girl grow­ing up out­side of the city, we sur­vived the long win­ter months by hav­ing a huge gar­den in the sum­mer. We’d do a lot of can­ning, make pre­serves and freeze all kinds of fruits of vegeta­bles, as well some of the chick­ens that no longer laid eggs. Plus, we would or­der var­i­ous meats, juices and other goods from a frozen­foods com­pany.

To store ev­ery­thing prop­erly, my dad bought us a huge deep freezer. It was as big as a tank, and once it was moved into the shed at­tached to the back of our house, that’s where it stayed.

Our home was al­ways open to vis­it­ing rel­a­tives and the friends of my three brothers. We also had sev­eral fam­i­lies in need over for meals. So, that old freezer had more vis­its made to it than my brothers did to the prin­ci­pal’s of­fice. That tells you how much we de­pended on it!

One af­ter­noon, when I was about nine years old, my mom asked me to get some­thing out of the freezer for sup­per. At that time, I weighed about as much as the freezer’s lid. As I looked in­side, I no­ticed that all of the re­main­ing food in there was ly­ing along the very bot­tom. The wheels in my head started turn­ing as I tried to fig­ure out how to reach what we needed for sup­per. Be­ing short in stature, I de­cided the only way to com­plete the task would be to sit down, fac­ing for­ward on the edge of the front side of the freezer, reach down and in with my right hand while keeping the lid open with my left hand. That’s ex­actly what I tried to do, how­ever, as I reached down, grav­ity took over, and I wound up at the bot­tom of the freezer on my be­hind, with my heels up on the top of the freezer wall and my hands hold­ing up the lid. Stuck and squashed into the shape of a “V,” I be­gan to scream for my mom to come and pull me out. It seemed like I called for an eter­nity, but fi­nally she came into the shed to res­cue me… or so I thought. In­stead, she stood there and laughed so hard I thought she would pass out. I yelled at her, “Mom, stop laugh­ing—pull me out!”

Even­tu­ally, she stopped laugh­ing long enough to yank me out. By that time, I was ex­pe­ri­enc­ing “Frozen Rump Roast Syn­drome.” She tried to re­deem her­self by ex­plain­ing that she thought the yelling was from the other kids play­ing out­side. Thanks a lot, Mom!

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