Just do it, Gram

Any young Stenzel has wondered about Gram’s attitude toward flatulence. She apparently used to keep a diary, because I came across the following story written in her unmistakable handwriting on a loose leaf of paper. It seems to suggest why she might have her obsessive aversion.

I made the supreme sacrifice when I met my sweet husband, fell in love, and it became apparent that we would marry. I gave up beans. Some months later, on my birthday, my car broke down on the way home from teaching school. Since we lived in the countryside, I called Joe and told him that I would be late because I had to walk home.

On my way, I passed by a small diner and the odor of baked beans was more than I could stand. With a couple miles left to walk, I figured that I would walk off any ill effects by the time I reached home, so I stopped at the diner, and before I knew it I had consumed three steaming bowls of baked beans. On my way home, I made sure that I released all the gas. Upon my arrival, my husband seemed excited to see me and exclaimed delightedly: "MaryAnn, I have a surprise for supper tonight!"

He then blindfolded me and led me to my chair at the supper table. I took a seat, and just as he was about to remove my blindfold the telephone rang. He made me promise not to touch the blindfold until he returned and went to answer the call. Unfortunately, the baked beans I had consumed were still affecting me, and the pressure was becoming most unbearable. So while Joe was out of the room I seized the opportunity, shifted my weight to one leg and let one go. It was not only loud, but it smelled like a fertilizer truck running over a skunk in front of a pulpwood mill. I took my napkin from my lap and vigorously fanned the air around me.

Then, shifting to the other cheek, I ripped off three more. The stink was worse than cooked cabbage. Keeping my ears carefully tuned to the conversation in the other room, I went on like this for several more minutes. I must confess that the pleasure was indescribable.

Eventually the telephone farewells signaled the end of my freedom. I quickly fanned the air a few more times with my napkin, placed it on my lap, and folded my hands back on it feeling very relieved and pleased with myself. My face must have been the picture of innocence when my husband returned, apologizing for taking so long. He asked me if I had peeked through the blindfold, and I assured him I had not. At this point, he removed the blindfold, and the twelve dinner guests seated around the table chorused: "Happy Birthday!"