Corn in the Nose and Chaos Next Door

Growing up on a farm near Plainview, Illinois, we had the undeniable pleasure of knowing our neighbors, whether we wanted to or not. Across the rutted, pothole-riddled country road lived the Christ family—a surname so perfectly suited to their otherworldly chaos that even the local preacher blushed at the sheer accuracy. If ever a household embodied the spirit of turning water into spilled milk and loaves into breadcrumbs on the carpet, it was them.

 Charlie and Mary Christ were the illustrious heads of this circus, reigning over their kids—Dale, Nancy, and Eddie—in what could only be described as a patchwork of a house. It had started as a one-room schoolhouse, where my dad and Uncle Robert once learned their ABCs, and over time, Charlie’s "carpentry skills" transformed it into a maze that would’ve confounded even the most accomplished of rats.

 Speaking of Charlie’s handiwork, his claim to fame was his conversion of the family garage into a "master bedroom," complete with a side door he grandly termed as their "private entry." That architectural marvel came crashing down—literally—when Charlie, fueled by Falstaff beer and poor decision-making, backed his car into the garage one night. Mary woke up to find a car fender cozily resting by her nightstand. It was probably the most exciting thing their bedroom had ever seen.

 Now, dietary advice from my mom was simple: “Never accept food from the Christ family,” This wasn’t snobbery. It was survival. Nancy, ever the proud teenage homemaker, would cheerfully recount how they had to hide leftover cake and cookies in the refrigerator or cabinets to keep the rats from staging all-night buffets. Why this was deemed something to brag about is a mystery I’ve never solved.

 Eddie, the youngest of the Christ brood, was a pint-sized tornado of mischief and curiosity, trailing behind us farm kids like an awe-struck shadow. But Eddie didn’t just follow; he found ways to make his mark. Take, for instance, the infamous corn crib incident—a story that should have become a local legend.

 One sunny afternoon, Eddie and I decided that burying ourselves in a mountain of shelled corn was the pinnacle of entertainment. All was fun and games until Eddie started squirming and announced, with unparalleled drama, that a kernel of corn had invaded his nostril. Being the seasoned expert in child diagnostics, I gave it a cursory glance and declared him perfectly fine. Case closed—or so I thought.

 Fast-forward a few days to the Christ family breakfast table. Mary looked over at Eddie mid-bite and exclaimed, “Eddie, wipe your nose! You’ve got a booger hanging out!” Always the dutiful son, he complied, but instead of a booger, something far more alarming emerged. Mary’s eyes widened in horror as she inspected his nostril. There it was—the kernel of corn, now sprouting like a determined little seedling, having found the perfect combination of warmth and moisture inside Eddie’s nose to germinate.

 Eddie earned his place in the Christ family hall of fame, forever remembered as the kid who accidentally turned his nostril into a greenhouse. As for me? I learned two valuable lessons: never underestimate the agricultural potential of a human nostril and always check thoroughly when someone claims to have corn stuck in their nose.

 And then there was Dale, the family prodigal son turned into a carnival groupie. At 16, he ran off with the local carnival after the town of Shipman’s yearly picnic, presumably lured by the promise of an illustrious career assembling and disassembling rides. His parents—clearly not ones to let education get in the way of destiny—fully supported his dropping out of school. Occasionally, Dale would swing by for a visit, entertaining everyone with tales of the tilt-a-whirl and bumper cars. He was, by Christ family standards, a success story.

 But Dale’s high-flying career ended in true carnival style: tragically and absurdly. One summer day, screams echoed from the Bible household. My sister and I, morbidly curious and slightly terrified, ran over to investigate. Mary was inconsolable, sobbing something about Dale being “killed.” Our imaginations ran wild. Murder, perhaps? Turns out, no. While dismantling a Ferris wheel at a fair in Madison County, Dale was crushed under its unforgiving metal embrace. It was less poetic and more a grim punchline.

 This was the kind of shock that could rattle even the most stoic farming communities. And because no story of the Christ family would be complete without a touch of the absurd, they decided to memorialize Dale in the most tasteful way possible: with a 9x12 framed photo of him in his casket, proudly displayed atop their television. Nothing says "home sweet home" like a little morbid decor glaring at you while you’re trying to catch the evening news.

 As for me, that Ferris wheel? It’s no longer a symbol of carnival fun—it’s a cautionary tale on the perils of ambition and questionable engineering. I’ll stick to the roller coasters, thank you very much.

Growing up near Plainview meant living in a world where the line between comedy and calamity was often blurred—and the Christ family colored outside those lines with gusto. Their home was a living sitcom, their tragedies tinged with the kind of surrealism that only small-town life can produce. But beneath the laughter and the eyebrow-raising anecdotes lies something deeper: a reminder that every family, no matter how chaotic, is stitched together by love, loyalty, and a flair for the dramatic.

Eddie’s nasal agriculture, Dale’s carnival swan song, and Mary’s living room memorial weren’t just punchlines—they were proof that even the most unconventional lives deserve to be remembered, honored, and chuckled over. In a world that often demands polish and perfection, the Christ family gave us permission to embrace the mess, to laugh through the tears, and to find empathy in the most unexpected places.

So here’s to the neighbors who made us cringe, cackle, and care. May we all have a little bit of Eddie’s curiosity, Dale’s daring, and Mary’s unapologetic flair for interior design. And may our own stories—however wild—be told with the same blend of humor and heart that makes Empathy on the Rocks more than just a blog. It’s a toast to the beautifully imperfect.