John Oliver Smith
Bio
Baby, son, brother, child, pupil, athlete, collector, farmer, photographer, player, uncle, coach, husband, student, writer, teacher, father, science guy, fan, grandpa, comedian, traveler, chef, story-teller, driver, gardener, regular guy!!!
Achievements (1)
Stories (121)
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All My Friends and Relatives Eat Shit
“Hi there. My name is Ralph and I’m a Dung Beetle. I live on the western edge of the tropical Amazon rainforest in a country called Ecuador. I very seldom see the sun because of the massive overhead canopy formed by the large tropical trees in our neighborhood. We do have a daytime and a night time though. The night time is very dark and I can often see the stars through the openings in the trees. But in the daytime, it is very difficult to see the sky. Because of the light coming through the leaves above me, everything appears to have a green tinge to it. I’ve heard that in most places in the world, daylight is white. In my forest, however, the daylight is green light.
By John Oliver Smith4 years ago in Fiction
A Ton of Bull
Sitting in the cowboy’s lounge, back of the holding chutes, my mind filled with some pretty serious second guessing and anticipatory jitters about what was coming up in the next few minutes. Like I had done, dozens of times before, I made my walk out of the locker room, down the corridor toward the event arena. As I climbed up the rack of tubular metal bars separating my next ride from the rest of the world, I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake and whether or not I should have stopped taking part in this crazy sport after my last successful ride, 24 hours earlier. No surprises though. That was usually the feeling I had each time I made the ascent to the top bar before gingerly lowering my frame onto the back of a one-ton monster. The only thing that compensated for the doubt that filled my heart and mind as I grabbed onto the metal penning and put my boot onto the first rung was the absolute explosion of adrenaline and exhilaration that filled my entire body as I wiggled into position for my eight seconds (or less) on a rodeo bull. The bulls that any of us rode always waited reluctantly for their cowboy. The game was set up so that we never have to wait for them. Each preparation for the ride was, for me, as routine as shaving and consisted of a series of steps. If all went well, there might even be one additional celebratory step after everything was over.
By John Oliver Smith4 years ago in Fiction
Something Special for The Man in the Moon
In the final year of the twentieth century, I was commissioned by NASA to conduct a series of experiments using tomato seeds that had been incubated in three different conditional states. Well . . . I mean I wasn’t actually sought out by NASA to do these experiments. Rather, I applied via a lengthy form to have my Grade 8 class receive the seeds so that they could be part of this scientific study. I was successful in the application, and when word came that I would be receiving three packages of tomato seeds along with an investigator’s instructional manual, I was overjoyed to think that soon I would be in the unpaid employ of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. I imagined myself to be a simple step away from living the life of an astronaut, bouncing through the far reaches of the solar system at the end of a nylon tether. “Rocket Man – burning out his fuse up here alone!”
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Here's Johnny
Five A.M. again! That time of day seemed to come around more often than any other time of day. Sometimes it showed up unexpectedly. Sometimes it was agonized for hours, long before it ever arrived. Ready for work, I would walk, jog, run toward the grandest of all structures in the yard. That building could be seen for miles when approaching from any direction. It was actually built in stages starting with Phase I, erected in 1935. A modest piece of work at that time, but as highly functional then as it became later. The next installment was put together four years later just to the north of the first one and attached directly. It was taller than the first and gave the impression that if more would be built, that they may each grow taller and grander until a final entry may certainly reach well into the clouds. Newer additions were fabricated to the south and north of the original buildings in 1960 and 1964 respectively. They were both of the same height, which was less than the stature of the segment put up in 1939, and seemed to lack the imposing character of the two original pieces. Together, the four buildings made up what was lovingly referred to as the “Pig Barn”. The Pig Barn was the destination of my daily five-in-the-morning jaunt and the venue in which I performed several times daily. For each of my daily gigs, I would roll back the massive sliding door on the south end of the most southerly barn, revealing a central concrete alley-way bounded on each side by endless rows of pig pens. Each pen contained anywhere from eight to 15 pigs, depending on age and size. Each pig within a pen bore it’s own character and personality. Each character had his or her own voice and appearance. As I stepped up into the Pig Barn and proceeded northward along the alley-way, I could hear one or two small murmurs, “He’s here, he’s in the barn.” Gradually, more and more voices filled the soundless gaps. Gradually, more and more volume was added to the noise of this now-bubbling throng. As I would reach the center of my concrete stage, I would stop and clap my hands once and sharply. The voices would stop in an instant and at which time, I would proclaim with great gusto and enthusiasm, “Heeeere’s Johnny!!” At this point every other individual in the Pig Barn would begin to run around its own group enclosure, yelling and screaming at the top of little piggy lungs, “We love you Johnny!” I would dance on my private stage in full view of my audience, throwing my arms and hands in the air while facilitating the perpetuation of shock-waves of porcine passion through the entire length of the barn. Some of my fans would stand on their hind legs and dance themselves while pawing at the sky. All would continue to scream, “We love you Johnny!” All would reach out for me in the hopes that I would reach back and touch them in turn. And when I did touch them, it was often more than they could handle, and they would drop to ‘all fours’ and then roll on the floor and convulsively gyrate until brought back to a condition of lucidity by their friends, whereupon the whole fit of unbridled rambunctiousness would begin again. I would sometimes continue my performance for nearly 30 minutes before I would stop and sign autographs for my adoring fans. They would bare their fair white and bristlely skin and thrust body parts in my direction. With blue and red grease markers, I would scrawl my name on their backs or limbs or faces or ears. They would attempt to embrace me while tugging at my clothing. I would have to push them away in fear of being mauled or thrown to the floor and trampled by the maddening crowd. After the autograph sessions were completed, I would provide them with a buffet meal and plenty of refreshing beverages. They would partake oh-so-willingly. After they finished they would look at me adoringly and proclaim, “You are the best Johnny – the absolute best and we love you with all of our four-chambered and homeothermic hearts.” As I would leave the barn and roll the door closed, they would beg me, “Please come back again Johnny. We love you truly and dearly and we would simply die without you.” I would reply while blowing kisses, “Five o’clock tomorrow it will be then.”
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Fiction
All Members Rise
In my life I have been a member of several organizations like 4-H, Co-operative Groups, Farm Associations, Teacher Organizations, Hockey clubs, Baseball teams and Social Media groups. I have belonged to Book clubs and Record clubs. I have been a card-carrying member of my favored political party for over 50 years. However, the most “memberable” groups to which I have ever belonged are the one’s that didn’t take me seriously as a member. What I mean by that , is that I was seriously a member of a few Comedy groups, clubs and organizations in which I never had to be serious while being a member. Groucho Marx once stated that, “He would never want to be a member of a club that would accept him as a member.” Comedy clubs are like that – if you are serious about being a member of the group, then you can’t be a serious member. Seriously!!!
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Geeks
The "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" Project
Many Mandarin words that don’t have their foundation in Chinese tradition and culture or that are used to describe Western ideas, items, activities and phenomena, simply end up being combinations of Chinese characters and English sounds. For example, Bangqiu (pronounced bahng-chee-oh) is how one would say baseball in Mandarin. “Bang” is the sound that one might hear as a baseball bat strikes a baseball. “Qiu” is the Mandarin word for ball. Together, they portray the Chinese idea of baseball - 棒 球 . As foreign as these Chinese characters may seem to a North American baseball fan, they are no less foreign than the game of baseball itself is to the average high-school student in Wuhan, China. Baseball is not a traditional sport in China. Neither does the game have any cultural background in the long history of the country. Only recently have Chinese Nationals become even remotely interested or familiar with the game. Chinese men’s baseball teams have participated occasionally in the World Baseball Classic held every four years and, several players of Chinese ancestry have played briefly in the Major Leagues. However, there are no Chinese-born players currently active in the Majors. Fairing somewhat more successfully, the National Women’s Fastpitch Softball team, the Beijing Eagles, finished ninth out of 16 teams at the 2018 World Championships in Japan. Still, baseball and softball have a long way to go to achieve a status even mildly comparable to the status of the game in other parts of the world. Out of the nearly 250 thousand schools in China, only 52 of them offer a program or field a team in softball and/or baseball. Only a small percentage of the average citizens in the People’s Republic of China have ever spoken the word bangqiu and an even smaller number have any idea of what the game is about. With this in mind, baseball / softball is a reasonably tough sell in China. Not to be deterred by this fact however, I felt that the time was right to start a team of my own. So, let the project begin!
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Education
My Mother's Plan
There was an immense time in the life of this universe in which none of us existed. And, there will again come a time when neither you nor I exist. We should all feel fortunate to have shared our brief sliver of time with Mom. Who could have known that such a tiny window in the existence of the cosmos could provide such a wealth of joy and wonderful experiences? Who could have known that the way Mom lived her life would have such a positive and long-lasting influence on me and my family and indeed, all the other people in her life? Who could have known that every accomplishment, big or small, would become a goal for which we also strived in our own lives? She was our golden standard, our role model, our guide and our teacher. So many of the things I have done and do now are analyzed within the framework of Mom's life. Maybe MOM had a plan. If she could have planned her life 92 years earlier, at the moment she was born, what would she have said?
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Families
