Home » Cramps, Greasy Fast-Food, Political Correctness, Intestinal Disorders and Newspaper Routes

Kids don't get cramps anymore like we did in the 1940s. Maybe it's today's greasy fast-food that lubricates the intestines and prevents blockage. Or, perhaps it now has a modern, politically correct, euphemistic title like intestinal apprehension.

We dreaded cramps more than we feared nuclear war.

Let me refresh your memory. You sat in geography class. A gradual pressure built in your abdomen until finally you were paralyzed, fearful that the slightest movement would push the cramp over your containment threshold.

It felt like Goodyear was conducting inflation tests on their blimp.

It never failed, as the cramp reached its apex, the teacher asked you to spell Guatemala .

At that second, you couldn't spell your own name.

I prayed for relief. Go ahead and laugh, but I figured if God could handle that little Red Sea job, he could deflate my blimp.

It worked. Suddenly, the pressure and pain were gone.

I never hurt so much as when the cramp was at its peak, nor felt better than those few seconds after the cramp departed.

But, you knew they would test the blimp again.

There is but one cure for cramps. Sit patiently over a small body of water until the cause is eliminated. In that regard, cramps are akin to the leaky roof scenario. When it rains you can't fix it; on a clear day you don't need to fix it. When you're sitting, it isn't hitting.

One snowy evening after school, I suffered a severe attack as I delivered papers.

They were mild at first. I thought I could make it home before the moment of truth. Between cramps, I ran so fast that the wind hurt my eyeballs. When a cramp hit, I sat in the prenatal position until it passed.

I approached the home of a kindly widow. She gave me chocolate-covered cherries each Christmas. She would help. I knocked. No answer.

It soon became obvious. I had two options: Find a bathroom, or a Laundromat.

My eyes started to cross due to the pressure. I pondered whether you put in the bleach before or after the soap. Then, I remembered the lady's rickety garage behind the house, my last hope.

Bullets travel slower than did I to that garage. The cure came in seconds; it would be a long time before I had another cramp. I never had felt better.

I smiled and whistled through the rest of my route. And, of course, I was one paper short. Sure enough, the guy called. I apologized and told him I would bring one the next day and wouldn't charge him.

He said, if he couldn't have it on the delivery day, I could throw the stinking paper in the trash can.

I told him, that's precisely what I had done.

 

 

 

Marty RicKard Bio

Marty RicKard attended William Penn College , Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi , from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism. He also has a Masters Degree in photography. Marty was a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat. He owned New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist. For ten years, Marty’s regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. He has been published in many other magazines, including Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge. He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He has published three books, and is currently the editor of his local newspaper. He is an entertaining and inspirational speaker.