8 Random Things About Me

In random order:

1. The very best decision I ever made in my whole long life is marrying Barbara Parkin.

2. My right ear is bigger than my left ear.

3. I owe my sense of humor to my dad who was the funniest man I have ever known.

4. My children are so amazing I can't even imagine how great their kids will be!

5. Frozen raspberry zingers ring my chimes.

6. I really am arrogant.

7. Calabasitas are GROSS!

8. At times I miss Cori beyond measure.


There you are. Thanks for starting this Melissa.

And Here We Have Idaho...

For the ill/uninformed masses, the title of this blog is also the title of the Idaho state song. I have been laboring rather diligently to teach the little ditty to Daniel who leaves in two days to serve his mission in Pocatello. I figure he can impress the heck out of the spudvillians by bursting forth with a rousing rendition of their own state song. This coming from a Panamanian-born Arizona kid should wow them to no end (though they do tend to be easily amused). Enough of this blather. This is about the trip to Idaho.

My very oldest sister, Lorna came into enough money to fund another trip to Idaho (we went last summer for family/school reunions). She offered to pay for me to come along as her chauffeur/body guard/porter/lackey so off we went. The trip was to coincide with our brother Stanley's 73rd birthday. We flew to Boise to borrow our Uncle Lloyd's pickup (again) for the rest of the trip. We drove to Twin Falls to spend the night with Aunt Wyoma. What fun that was! She is 88 years old and a dear, sweet lady who lives my herself and should NOT be allowed to drive ever again! I know it's hard to give up that independence but, sweet mother-of-pearl, it was scary riding with her. It was a great visit though. I got to spend time with her looking at old pictures and talking about how it was when she and my dad were kids and her life during World War II. I hope she can still make it to Yuma for the winter. Lorna plans to bring her to Tucson so she can come visit.

The next day we drove to Mackay to stay with dear friends Carol and Lowell Fraunholtz whose claim to fame (one of many) is that their daughter is the script supervisor for the TV series "Lost". Her name is even in the credits. My best friend in high school, Brad Kirwan, met us there in Mackay so we could go fishing. He brought his dog, Tia, along and off we went to the dam to attack the trout. I took some cool pictures but will have to attach them later because I don't know how to do that yet. At any rate, I fished, he caught, Tia played with a big yellow lab, and we all had a wonderful time. To be continued...

Where Have You Been Grandpa?

Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I plan to chop this blog into more palatable chunks so as to deter potential readers from considering it to be the next great American novel. First off, the reason for such a long gap in gapoz. Upon my return flight from Boise on 22 SEP (more about that wonderful trip later) , I felt a twinge in what I imagined to be the sinus on the left side of my schnozz. No biggie, thought I. WRONG! Soon twinge blossomed to semi-large ice-pick protruding from aforementioned spot accompanied by double vision. Very long story shortened as much as I can: trips to emergency room, ophthalmologist, Dr Moe Howard, fistsfulls of pills, ophthalmologist again, MRI, and finally (oh, blessed relief!) steroids prescribed by the dear, sweet ophthalmologist. Within an hour of taking the steroids the pain that had been constant for almost three weeks was gone! I still have to have a CAT-scan and am back to wearing the eye-patch (arrrgh!) but I can function once again and even sleep.

The Short Arm of the Law or 3 Hots and a Cot...NOT!

It all started quite calmly with Benjamin and me going to the UofA football game. First game of the season, excitement in the air, anticipation you could cut with a knife! We wound up getting there too late for Ben's friends tailgating so we had to make do with the poptarts we lifted from the treat closet. Though being too late for tailgating, we were in my fine season-ticket seats a full hour before game time. Finally the Mighty Vandals of the University of Idaho from Moscow, Idaho (pronounced moscoe, Moss-Cow is in Russia) were putting the ball on the tee to kick off the brand-spanking new football season. But no, before the guy could kick the ball, the referees started shooing the players off the field. What the... Then the announcer guy says "Please evacuate the stadium, there has been a lightning strike close by so everyone go to your cars or seek shelter." Huh? I didn't hear thunder or anything. Perhaps I was distracted by the pom-pom people or something, I don't know. I told Ben that there's no way they can get the 45,000 or so of us to leave the bleeding stadium. Especially the students with their Zona Zoo tickets and bellies full of beer. Announcer guy says "Please leave the stadium, you will be allowed to re-enter with your ticket stubs." "Leave now or stay at your own risk." Your own risk eh? I figure if I get struck by lightning at my age, it's God's way of telling me "You've lived a good life, come to my arms my beemish boy!" "Oh, framshous day!" "Calooo, Calay!" Though I make a rather formidable target, I'll take my chances. Down we both sit. Soon the rain comes and brings with it a County Mountie who tells us we have to leave. "No." I say, "The guy said, stay at your own risk so I am." "You have to leave," says Mr Gestapo. "No." I repeat, "I've lived long enough to be willing to take my chances." "You have to leave." "Really?" "Really." "What about that stay-at-your-own-risk thingie?" "You have to leave." By this time Ben has left. I sit down and say "What are you going to do, arrest me?" "Do you want to be arrested?" says Sir Stormtrooper. "Not especially," says I. "I'm asking you nicely to leave," says Sgt Schultz . "I'm telling you nicely I'm not going anywhere," says I, doing some quick math to figure how many of them it's going to take to haul my 275 lb butt from the front row of the upper tier and up the steps then out of the stadium. I decide it would be more than they were willing to call in from the rest of the stadium or cave or wherever they come from. "If we take you out, you can't come back in." Ouch! He got me with that one. I did come to see a game after all. I guess watching the game would be better than three hots and a cot at the County dungeon. When I got where Ben was he said that he was talking to his Mom and she said she wouldn't come bail me out of jail.

Now it was raining, really RAINING. Like the proverbial cow passing water on a flat rock. Pitchforks, hoe-handles, cats, dogs, goats, javalina, wildebeasts, boa-constrictors, RAIN! Mr. hobnail boots must have thought he might melt so he left and I went back to my seat to wait for 30-minutes-with-no-lightning so they could re-start the game. The kick-off was a little over an hour late but, sweet Himmler's handbag, what a game! The score at halftime was 49-0 in favor of Arizona. To start the second half Coach Stoops benched all the starters to see what the back-ups could do, and they did. Fourth quarter, third string, two pom-pom people, and a flag twirler went in. They still picked off two passes and made the final score 70-0. Before the game Idaho was ranked 119th of 119 teams but I don't think that's fair. They should have been 125th. So much for the Alma Mater of our possible Vice President.

The Judicial Branch at its very best

Somehow the word got to Pima County that prospective jurors live at the Howe Home. Sarah got a summons first, then I did and then Babs did! We're waiting with bated breath for Dan's to show up. Sarah did her civic duty last month and Babs got an extension to October so she won't miss work. My clarion call was originally for 20 AUG but got postponed to the 26th (happy birthday Sarah). I seem to get "selected" at least once a year and, to be honest (which I hope I am all the time), I rather enjoy the whole business. Last year I got tagged by the Feds and went to U.S. District Court which is a whole nother ball game than what Pima county throws at you. First of all it was in a completely different building that was much farther from where I usually park. They also must think they're an airport because we had to take off our shoes to get through security. The case I just missed getting on was about a Border Patrol dude who was accused of stealing a bale of wacky weed from a bust down by Nogales. I'm not sure why he wanted a trial because it was all on video from his buddies dash-cam showing him taking the bale from the truck they busted and puting it in the back of his patrol car never to be seen/smelled again. Maybe he was just taking it to his kid's class for show and tell, I don't know. Wait a minute! This is supposed to be about my juriness THIS time.

Since they have torn up my old FREE parking place, I had to park in the Public Works parking garage. I guess it's really not that bad. It's much closer and only cost $2 with a validated ticket from the kindly jury ladies. I find the whole jury selection process quite fascinating. We, the eclectic cross-section of Pima County humanity, all turn in our summons' and get a questionnaire and a spiffy plastic juror badge holder in return. I had a 9:00 report time an got there before 8:30 (shorter walk). Oh, Holy Night! At least half of Pima County was crammed like so many anxious sardinies in the jury "assembly" room. Most of the 7:00, 7:30, 8:00, and 8:30 crowd were still milling around or going to or from various and sundry courtrooms. It was amazing to me how many of these semi-responsible folks straggled in around 9:30 and 10:00! I think there should be some kind of torturous punishment for those slackers. They should have their nose hairs pulled by Vietnamese refugees or have their elbows super-glued to each others' backsides or something. But no, the desk ladies didn't even make them watch the epic "Welcome to Pima County Jury Duty" movie that they had missed. Things cheered up once the bailiffs arrived and the desk ladies started calling off names like numbers at a bingo game. It would be much more fun if they would call them in alphabetical order. At least that way a guy could doze off until they get to the H's. After a few groups left with their shepherd/bailiff, I heard the lady of deskiness call for Ronald Ho. I figured that was close enough and answered "HERE!" It never ceases to amaze me how someone can mis-pronounce HOWE. Especially the way she did. Did her kindergarten teacher read "Ho no brone co" to her? I could deal with "howie" but "Ho?" What does she think I am, some lady of the evening? At any rate, off to the third floor we went with our bailiff, the "girl in the yellow sweater." Fun times for us in the third floor NARROW dimly lit hallway with three, count'em THREE other groups. Each bailiff was calling off names to line us up like holocaust victims going off to the showers. I found myself in the middle of row three bound for Judge Godoy's courtroom. Going into the room was sheer pleasure because it was air-conditioned and much roomier than the hallway. Being in the middle of row three placed me in the row of hard chairs in front of the nice comfy chairs in the jury box. Let the voir dire begin!

Judge Godoy is a cool lady that I will be sure to vote for the next time her name comes up on the judge ballot. She was very nice and had a good sense of humor. The rest of the morning passed with her asking yes or no questions of us like "Do you know any members of the court?" "Do you know any law enforcement officers?" "Are you left handed?" and such like that. That's what voir dire means in case you wondered. I tried to look it up in the dictionary because I didn't know how it was spelled and it was NOT in either of the two dictionaries I looked in. I finally had to call Amy to find out how to get to Wikipedia without losing all the profoundness I had written.

Back to court. If any of us raised our little hand, we could explain the yes answer from our seat or, if we were shy or embarrassed by our answer, we could go up to the judge and meet there with both lawyers and whisper our reason for wanting out of the room. Of note, the judge, bailiff, court clerk, recorder, and BOTH lawyers were all of the females persuasion . Welcome to Amazonia. The defendant was the only guy there. You could cut the estrogen with a knife! But, I digress. The trial was for a young Hispanic male who was accused of DUI on a suspended license and possession of wacky weed along with the paraphernalia for using such vile stuff. By the time we eliminated half of the group and replaced them with members of those not lucky enough to be in the three rows, it was time for lunch. I had neither the motivation nor the money to go someplace for lunch so I got a diet coke and zingers from the vending machines and slaved over work-stuff for the 1.5 hours until I had to go back to third-floor hades.

Now the fun began. Each of us in the comfy and not-so comfy juror seats got to stand up in turn and tell the court a little bit about ourselves. So as to make it "easier" for us there was a list of things (actually more questions) on a big sheet at the front of the room to help us remember our name, where we live, marital status, etc. Every stinking time they have one that wants the number and AGES of my children. Number, not so hard. I can even name all ten. But for crying out loud, AGES? How in the heck am I supposed to keep track of THAT! It's a living, breathing thing that changes depending on the bleeding day of the year! It was even Sarah's birthday that very DAY! What is she 21, 22, 23, 17? I need a cheat sheet. I pretty much bluffed my way through until the last item. "Have you ever served on a jury? What kind? What was the verdict? I think my answer pretty much sealed my fate since the ONLY jury I have served on was for a DUI and we convicted the one-armed S.O.B.!

Howe Home News (Tucson Branch)

All is as exciting as usual at the Howe home. Morgan, Melissa's second daughter, had an emergency appendectomy last Thursday. Unfortunately they were a bit late as her appendix had already burst. She's doing fine but Grandma is frustrated at being so far away and not having the money for airfare to go help. She reminded me that we went through things like that and did just fine without Grandma even though it would have been nice to have her there. It's one of life's lessons about living away from family.

Scott, Ben, and families are firmly ensconced in the little trailers and tents on the prairie. I hauled three big barrels of water down there yesterday afternoon in Pete's recently purchased truck. Believe me when I say TRUCK, I mean TRUUUU-UUK! This monster is a 1987 Ford F-150 4X4 with a six inch lift and tires as big as a Buick. He has an extreme case of buyer's remorse and will probably put it back on Craig's List but since He only paid $2000 for it he should make out okay. I'm just happy to have the busted-up fountain chunks Finally removed from my front yard. I was afraid that mess was going to be my lawn ornament until after Dan gets back from his mission. He's going to Pocatello, Idaho by the way and reports October 15th. Back in my old stomping grounds, it should be way exciting. Oddly enough, a female in his ward is going to the same mission on the same date. That reminds me. After they, Pete and Dan, hauled off the concrete fountain chunks, they got cleaned up and went to Mesa for a ward Temple trip. Dan hasn't been to the temple yet so I guess he just hung out up there. Pete called around 8 0'clock to let us know that they were out of the temple and going to get something to eat before heading home. He called again later to inform me that they were on their way to San Diego. They had gotten to the turn-off on I-10 and decided to make a right and head for the beach. They were already in their church clothes so they'd be ready for church. They planned to stop somewhere before midnight to pick up some shorts to wear to the beach. Did I mention that they have Lisa, Annie, and Neely (the with the call to Pocatello) with them. They will be back tonight so everyone will be ready for work tomorrow. Somehow, I think they have inherited some nutso gene from somewhere.

On a much saner note, Sarah and Reese were speaking in their new ward this morning so I went to hear them. They were excellent.

Well, that’s the news from the Howe Home where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking , and all the children are above average.

P.S. Sorry about the font changes. This started out as an e-mail to my niece Ronda and went weird from there.

Maybee?

The bees are gone and I am not. Well, just the live ones since I haven't been able to make the time to dig out the store room to find and get rid of all their little non-living bodies. I think they have found honey in egyptian tombs that was still viable so I'm not in that big of a hurry to begin the monumental task of finding my way to the back of the store room. With all the rain we've had I'll need a machete and native guide to get through the jungle that used to be our back yard. The demise of the bees is good news/bad news. It's great to not have the little SOBs (Sons Of Beemama) around but since they are no longer rubbing their nasty little bee legs from plant to plant, Babs' garden quit producing. Who'd a thunk it? Maybe they won after all.

Ron 2-Gazillion (more or less) Bees 2

So, I get the spray bottle of liquid SEVIN, wait for nightfall (thud), and spray the living crap out of those *!@#%& BEES! Hmmm, the next morning many little bee carcuses, carcai, carcussses, non-living bee bodies are lying around on and in the wall! Woo Hoo! Not so fast buckwheat, there are still a multitude of the rotten little beasts of questionable parentage flying around and crawling in/out of their entrance/exit. Bollocks! Though there don't seem to be as many of them, there are still way more than I want. Sooo night falls once again (thud). I spray even more SEVIN into their scowling little bee faces. The next morning, even fewer faces!

By now I have discovered that there is no storeroom wall between it (the storeroom) and the alley wall so all of the soapy water/Hot Shot/PineSol/Wasp&Hornet Killer/Seven has been going into the storeroom soaking the crap out of who-the-heck knows what that is piled ever-so-tightly into that end of the storeroom. Oh well, such are the adversities of bee slaying.

I feel it is now time to use the bugbom and sealo foamo expando crapo stuff. Off to Wal-Mart I trot and find that it is impossible to buy a can of bugbom. By the way, I'm leaving off the "b" to fool the stupid cybersitter that thinks I might be Alkaida. Anywho, I wind up buying the super economy 4-pack of Hot Shot (my favorite brand now it seems) Fogger. Night falls (thud). I make my way to all most the back of the storeroom, start the fogger, place it on a semi-level box, and run like a dirty shirt for the door. Well, maybe not run as there was the lawn mower, 3 bikes, a table saw, scroll saw, drill press, waterbed parts, pool solar blanket and various & sundry other paraphernalia to avoid on my way out. I then shut and lock the door to wait for the morning. Sunup. Only one or two bees make their appearance. Good. After work there are a few more of them so (thud) I set off another bugbom inside and one outside spraying directly into the bee entrance/exit. Morning comes, I see no bees so I use the sealo foamo expando crapo stuff in nearly every nook I can find/reach. I left the rest of the sealing to Danny since I had to go to work and was dressed like it. He got some of the gunk on his shorts so he quit.

Hoozah! Hoozah! I think I finally won the bee war! Unfortunately I won't have time until after Sarah's wedding/reception to make my way to the back of the storeroom to see what hiveage exists and what kind of disaster I created with all the gunk I sprayed in there. It shouldn't cost much more than the wedding to clean it up.

Two (Gazillion) Bees or NOT Two (Gazillion) Bees

Two weeks or so ago, Josh, my son-in-law was walking to our house from his truck when a lady in the alley hollered at him and waved him over. "Do you live in that house?" she asked. "Yes," he said. "Well you have BEES swarming on the side of your house!" "OK, I'll take care of it" says Josh. I was gone to Douglas, AZ to visit my nephew in prison there and didn't get home until way after dark so when Babs told me about the bees (hmmm, that may be why we've been finding so many bees in the pool) I looked but didn't find any. The next morning (Sunday) I went out to look again and, sure enough, there they were buzzing around the corner of our storeroom where it meets the alley wall. I got a close look and couldn't tell if they were going down into the concrete block wall or into the storeroom. I saw my neighbor working in his yard so I went over to speak with him about bee removal. After our chat, I went to take another look to see if they were African or just plain honey bees. They wouldn't show me their papers but didn't have little afros or gold chains that I could see. While I was checking them out one of the little beasts stung me on the back of the hand. I could see the stinger and the piece of its little butt that it left behind (no pun intended...well maybe not). My natural reflexes took over so I started shaking my hand. The rest of the bees took offense at that and began buzzing around my head. I beat a hasty retreat into the house to avoid any more stings. I removed the stinger with tweezers and put some Melagel on it. It didn't swell up like a Mickey Mouse hand or anything so I must be pretty dang tough. At church that afternoon I got more advice on how to get rid of them than Hillary has ugly pictures on the internet. Everything from soapy water to bugbomb , to prayer. When I told Pete, my son, later on that day he said, "Oh, no problem. Tyler and I have used his dad's bee suits and killed tons of hives with soapy water." He then made several macho animal sounds and began to thump his chest, so I left. I really didn't want to kill the little fetchers if they were honey bees because I like to eat the veggies and fruits they inadvertently pollinate, so I called Tyler's dad, Jerry to see if he would come check them out. He did and they are NOT. Oh no, they are the Africanized ones. He said he could tell because they are darker than regular bees. I mentioned something about being racist but believed him. A few nights later I called to ask him if I could borrow his bee suit since lazy-butt Pete had made NO effort in that area. He (Jerry) said it probably wouldn't fit my rotundity but offered to don the garb and do the deed. I got the 5-gallon buckets ready and filled them with soapy water. Ten gallons poured into the wall/storeroom later, Jerry left comfortable in the thought of no more bees and no more problems. I returned to the wall and sprayed a can of ACE Wasp and Hornet Killer into their little bee home for good measure. My plan was to use some of that expando foamo sealo crap the next morning to bar any entrance/exit in the future. When I went there the next morning, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Not reindeer or Santa but a gazillion bees swarming like nothing had happened. Nonplussed, I bought some Hot Shot Flying Insect Spray (kills for 4 weeks!) at Safeway and waited for nightfall. Spray, spray, spray. Kill, kill, kill? No, no, NO! All it did was tick them off to the point that we had to turn off all the lights and pretend we weren't home. Next day off to Ace I go to buy a bottle-spray thingie that attaches to the hose. I figured I could put the soap in the bottle and spray the little buggers with enough soapy water to float a battle ship. The guy there said to use PineSol instead because it kills better. Some helpful hardware chick said if that didn't work I should use some stuff called SEVIN. She said her grandma had bee trouble and paid bee people $100 a pop THREE different times to get rid of the bees to no avail but when she was trying to buy something to get rid of grubs in her garden, they suggested SEVIN. They told her not to use it around bees though because it would make them croak. Hmm, no dummy she, she sprayed and hasn't had any bees for years. I bought a bottle of SEVIN and some more sprayo expando crap and, once again waited for nightfall. Before it did, I happened upon some AMDRO that I had left over from getting rid of the ants we had a couple of years ago. Great stuff! one application and no red ants in the back yard and no black ants in the front. The ants take the gunk and feed it to the queen, she says thanks, then croaks. Worth a try I thought so I dumped the remaining AMDRO into the hole and on the wall. Sure enough the next morning it was gone. There were still a few bees so I figured they were feeding queenie-pie and would soon be in the bee obituary column... Not so much. They were back in force by the next day. I was unable to use the SEVIN for the next two nights because I was gone to 's Camp for bear/boy patrol all night and was too blasted tired the next night. This is the SEVIN night! I have sprayed them twice and will go spray once more when I finish this. If it doesn't work I still have bugbomb and paint thinner to try. My only fear is that I'll croak before they do and find out God is a bee. A very, very large bee. A very, very ticked off large bee who is not pleased with me for offing so many of his kids.

The Shooting of Bucky Nelson

Of all the people I have shot (almost 2 that I know of) Bucky Nelson was the first.

Let's go back in time to Labor Day weekend 1963. Mom and Dad decided to go out of town to visit friends and left Bonnie and me at home to fend for ourselves. Before you start thinking child neglect, she was 15 and I was 14 and perfectly capable of feeding myself except with my left hand. As they were going out the door my Dad said, "Ike, (he called me Ike) DON'T MESS WITH THE GUNS!" He didn't yell or anything he just spoke in upper case letters most of the time. Now the thought of messing with the guns hadn't entered into my puny little head until then. I had my 22 caliber rifle out of the gun cabinet before they cleared the driveway. Not wanting to be alone in this activity, I drove (yes I could legally drive at 14, in Idaho, in the daytime only) over to pickup Bucky, knowing he would have .22 shells or the money to buy them. He had neither. We stopped by Fackrell's Texaco gas station/store/bar/cafe/motel/post office so he could tell his mom (drinking at the bar) that we were going out to the dump to shoot some rabbits thus distracting her, the other patrons and Quentin, the proprietor, while I stole a box of shells (I had no money and less morals then, okay). Off we went to the town dump mentioned in a earlier blog. We had a passel of fun shooting up the countryside and even a couple good-for-absolutely-nothing jackrabbits. Having expended the entire 50 round box of shells (or so we thought) we headed back to my pickup.

This is a good time to describe my rifle. It was a bolt-action single-shot .22 caliber. That means that before you (or I) could shoot this sucker, you had to open the bolt, put a shell in the chamber, close the bolt, pull a little knob at the back of the bolt to cock it, then pull the trigger and voila, whatever happens to be in front of the barrel receives a small chunk of rapidly moving very hot lead.

Okay, we're walking back to the truck. I am carrying my rifle much like a loaf of bread down at my side with, for no known reason unto mankind, my finger inside the trigger guard. While thus strolling along, my innate ineptitude came to fore and I tripped over some sagebrush and fell flat on my face. Oddly enough, as I was falling I heard my rifle discharge. Being quite sure we had used up all the ammo, as I got to my feet I said, "Bucky, we could have shot another poor defenseless rabbit." "I had another shell in my gun..." "Bucky?" Bucky?" Where the heck did he go? Oh, there he is. Why is he lying on the ground writhing around holding his thigh? Hmm, perhaps his thigh was what was in front of the little opening in the end of my rifle barrel when that little piece of rapidly moving lead came out. Yes Virginia, that's what happened. I picked him up (adrenlin, baby), carried him to the truck and drove like a young madman back to Fackrell's. I went in the bar and told his mom that I had shot her son in the leg. She concealed her hysteria rather well I thought by running around in circles screaming "He shot my little Bucky!" "He shot my little Bucky!" at the top of her ample lungs. Cooler heads prevailed and they loaded Bucky into the back of her car and sped off to the hospital in Blackfoot (30 miles away). There was nothing left for me to do but drive home. I walked into the living room where Bonnie was watching TV, flopped onto the couch and announced, "I just shot Bucky." She said, "I'll help you pack." "You could probably be a state or two away before Dad comes home and kills you."

Dad didn't kill me. I don't even remember what my punishment was. Bucky had a semi-small hole through the meaty part of his thigh as a memento of our adventure. Thirty years later he showed up at my mother's funeral and told me he remembers me every winter when the weather turns cold...and his thigh begins to throb.

At Last, The Bucky of Nelsondom

All right ladies and gentlemen and sports fans of all ages, the time has finally come for tales of Bucky Nelson. By the way Nick, my blogs are long, tough noogies, get over it.

Bucky Nelson was born Harry Lynn Nelson or that's what his folks named him anyway. He was named after his mean grandfather who owned the other store/gas station in atomic City. It was at the opposite end of town as Fackrell's Texaco, probably less than 1/4th of a mile away on the only paved street in town and was a Utoco station. He (Grandpa Nelson) may not have been mean. My only memory of him is when he was yelling at me for stealing "politically incorrect named for African-American" babies. The filter would not print the name, but that's what they were called. They were made of rather hard licorice shaped like a baby and were two for a penny but I didn't have a penny or an old beer bottle (also worth a penny) to trade for them. It could have been my first attempt at crime in my checkered past. Holy Crap! I really am digressing. Back to Bucky. His dad was not too fond of the name Harry (or his own dad of that name) so he called little Harry, Buckshot. Which got shortened to Bucky, and stuck. My earliest memory of Bucky is when he first moved to town, my friend Lecky and I were throwing rocks at him for some reason that escapes me now. Bucky was 6' 3" tall and weighed 203 lbs. He was definitely the biggest kid in the third grade (we were in the 2nd grade at the time). As we were running away from him, he caught Lecky by the shirt (I was much faster then) and proceeded to throw him in the air then pound the crap out of him when he came down. This is when I thought he'd make a much better friend than an enemy, so I started to help him pound the crap out of Lecky. By the way, Lecky's real name was Lester, also named after his grandfather who they called Leck. Lecky had been my best friend up to this point but was much smaller and easier to beat up. Oddly enough, he remained my best friend and fully understood my motive in switching alliances and said he would have done the same if he could have out run me.

This seems long and may have outdistanced Nick's attention span but I want to tell one more about Bucky. One bright summer day found the two of us out at the town dump searching for treasures. Fine stuff like broken wagons to slide down the trash hill in, old comic books, dirty magazines, whatever. I was at the top part of the hill where people would dump the trash and let it slide down the side of the hill, when, low and behold! I found the best treasure in the whole of trashdom! It was a huge glass insulator from an old power line! It was shaped like a bell and about 6" tall and 5" across the bottom. It even had a couple feet of wire left on it! "I must show this wonderful treasure to Bucky," said my little mind. " I know, I'll throw it down to him so he can marvel at its wondrousness." So a couple spins around my head, and off it goes, in the air, right at Bucky's head. Since he was looking the other way and it was rapidly approaching his cranium, my tiny mind kicked in and decided I should let him know it was coming. "HEY!" I shouted. Just in time for him to turn toward me and have the rather large glass insulator hit him above his left ear and drop him like a ton of bricks, rendering him unconscious. A more empathetic boy would have been concerned about Bucky's well-being, however, being more pathetic than empathetic, and also being fully aware of his quick temper, I knew he would eventually awaken and kill whoever threw the stupid thing at him. Thus being much more concerned for my welfare than his, I started running for town as fast as my pudgy legs could take me. Looking back, I saw him get up, rub his head and with steam/smoke coming out of his ears, seek the object of his hatred. It seamed like 436 miles I ran with him right on my heels until I finally made it to the safe-haven of the Women's bathroom at Fackrell's Texaco station. He pounded on the door for awhile (but NOT on me) until he got tired and went home. He was fine the next day with really not that big of a lump over his left ear. We even went back to the dump to see if we could find the glass insulator, but it had become someone else's treasure... we never found it.

Next time, The of Bucky Nelson.

MRI not BMI (Big Monsterous Idiocy)

For the myriads of you who are anxiously awaiting tales of Bucky Nelson, you'll have to wait one more blog. I just can't bear to let the BMI thing go by without making a comment other than the one I made on Linda's blog. Ladies please, oh please, do NOT fall into the trap of thinking that somehow a machine or chart can tell you if you are fat or not. The only real way to accurately measure body-fat is to be weighed under water. That gets your specific gravity and is absolutley correct but who cares anyway. For the better part of my career in the AIr Force, every human wearing the USAF uniform was subject to MAW. Good old MAW. It stood for Maximum Allowable Weight. Much like BMI the chart, it decided that if you were so tall, say 72" the absolute most you could weigh and still be usable cannon fodder was 211 lbs. That's it, end of story. Whatever height you were, you had a MAW. If you were caught being over that MAW you were put on the Fat Boy program and made to suffer further indignation at the hands of medical personnel, your First Sergeant, commander and anyone else who thought you might be too fat to live. My "normal" weight then was 220 lbs. At that weight I felt, functioned, and looked pretty darned good. I could, and did manage to starve myself down to that 211 when I knew a weigh-in was coming but the whole concept was/is ridiculous. I complained for years that they should target fat people not heavy people. The only way to get that MAW adjusted was to go to The medical center at Lackland AFB and be wieghed under water like I described before. It was way past stupid. Finally, about three years before I retired, they went to measuring body fat instead of just using that MAW crap. They would measure your neck, waist, and hight (and hips for women). They would then subtract the neck measurement from the waist one throw some chicken bones, spin around three times, chant unintelligible phrases to the East, then use that number with your height to look up your fattitude on a chart to see how much you could weigh. It was TONS better (for me at least) as I never had a problem the rest of my career and did't worry or sweat about forthcoming weigh-ins. So ladies and gentlemen,I am all for Linda's FON but prefer MRI. No, I don't mean that huge magnetic machine that can see soft tissue and pull the fillings right out of your teeth, I mean the Mr. Rogers Index..."I like you just the way you are."

Non-Pyro Fire--Don't try this EVER!

The next and last time I almost burned down the garage had more to do with idiocy and less to do with my pyromaniacal tendencies. I was in high school at the time and had pretty much outgrown my fascination with the pretty yellow flames. Being rather klutsy by nature and by practice I managed to spill some light blue paint on my nice white jeans. I loved those jeans and couldn't afford new ones so I tried to remove the blue with some paint thinner. I must admit it did its job, it made the blue thinner, bigger, but thinner. Now instead of a semi-small blotch of paint, I had a stain roughly the shape and size of Alaska. Well, if a little thinner could do that, why not use even more? I put the blotchy pants in a metal pan and added the rest of the gallon of paint thinner to let them soak. Remember the previously mentioned idiocy? After letting them soak while I watched "Car 54, Where Are You?" or some-such drivel, went out the the garage to see how the thinner had completely removed any tinge of blue. Okay, sot so much. Now the pants were nothing but a thinner-soaked mottled mess. What to do? What to do? I know! Burn them in the stove! I threw the dripping jeans into the stove that Dad had made (see last blog) and set them on fire. Let me tell you, paint thinner added to denim fabric doesn't just make a fire. Oh no, no, nonono. One match and you have a FIRE!!! (boldfaced, underlined, 24 pt font in red)! The stove began to glow. First red, then yellow, then WHITE! I was quite sure concrete couldn't burn but was beginning to doubt it. I was certain the sheer magnitude of the heat going up the stovepipe was going to set fire to the roof. This may have been the point when I promised the Lord I'd go on a mission. I was ready to become a monk, join a convent, absolutely anything to not burn THIS garage to the ground too. I don't know if He took pity on me or was having a good chuckle, but the stove/barrel started to cool down and the fire eventually went out. Every bit of paint had burned off the stove so it was now blackened and no longer the pretty silver color it had been. I re-painted the thing so Dad was none the wiser about my latest attempt at arson. That must have been the culmination of my semi-stellar career as a pyro because I don't remember even being tempted to do anything along those lines again.

Turn out the lights, the pyro's over

The first time I burned down our garage I was probably 8 or 9 years old. With any kind of luck it was before my baptism so I couldn't be held acountable for it but I really think I could have been 10 or 12. We had an old wooden garage that was about 50 feet or so from our house. The house had an attached garage that my dad had converted into a utility room and later enclosed part of it for my bedroom (another story entirely). The wooden garage also had a lean-to against the back of it that was left over from when we lived in a trailor and needed more room so Dad built an addition that "leaned" against the trailor. It now became additional storage space for all sorts of stuff like old mattresses pictures, cloth and whatever you would normally put in the attic if you had one. You need to know that my Mom never threw away ANYTHING, ever, in her whole life. This necessitated a plethora of space to hold the stuff she never threw away. The 4th of July was soon upon us and we were planning to go fishing at Mackey Dam so the folks had purchased some sparklers, bottle rockets, black snakes, and other "harmless" celebratory pyrotechnics for us little kiddies. I lacked the patience to wait for the 4th, or darkness for that matter, so I decided to take a sparkler and go into the realative darkness of the lean-to to watch it sparkle. It was quite anticlmactic what with it being 2 o'clock in the afternoon and not much darker than outside so I let it burn out and tossed it back behind the mattresses. How was I to know with my not-so-well-developed brain that that sucker was still just a few degrees cooler than the surface of the sun? A few hours later someone noticed flames out of the top of the garage and the excitement bagan! It was far too much for the garden hose and soon many neighbors were there dragging our jeep out before it caught fire but were pretty much unable to save anything else. I can still see my Dad hosing down the roof of our house to keep it from catching fire. It took about 30 minutes to get a fire truck there from the atomic energy site that was about 8 miles away and by that time there wasn't much but a smoldering pile of rubble. Burned up in the blaze was our boat & motor, all the camping gear and Dad's $3,000 lathe. $3,000 then was like $4 billion now. The fire was blamed on faulty electrical wiring so I let it. I didn't tell my Mom that it was my fault until one time when she was visiting us in Texas and I was in my 30s and to big to as well as too poor to sue. With the insurance money my Dad built a bigger cinder-block garage with a concrete floor and a nice pit in the middle of it so we could work on the underside of cars. It had electricity but no heat so He built (I swear, the man was McKyver) a stove out of a 50-gallon barrel. It laid on its side on legs he'd welded to it and had a stove pipe that went up through the roof. He cut a door in one end so we could burn wood in it to keep us nice and toasty warm in the winter. Idaho only has two seasons, winter and August so we got a lot of use out of that stove. It also came in handy when I tried to burn this garage down too. More tomorrow...

P.S. There have been questions about who is "s" in my last blog. It was supposed to be "girls" but only the s came out. Babs told me it's because of the cybersitter not allowing the word "girl" so we'll see if any of those words describing a young human female come out in this paragraph. , , s...so there! She was right! That previous sentence was "Girl", "girl", "girl"s...so there! Holy crap! I guess I'm stuck with using quotation marks anytime I want to use that word.

Pyro Part II, The Outhouse

I believe much of my pyromania stemmed from the unenlightened attitude of parents when I was a child. They did such horrible things like tell us to go out and play. They then left it up to us to create our own entertainment and sent us on our way like so many young coyotes. So, not having the "benefit" of nursery school or kindergarten, we set about to invent our own amusement. We pretty much took over anything that had been abandoned whether it be a dynamite shack, old grain combine, building, town dump, or outhouse. These became our forts, clubhouses, etc. One abandoned outhouse in particular was behind the defunct Midway Cafe, it (the cafe, NOT the outhouse) had been a semi-fine greasy spoon where my mother had served as cook before the town incorporated and became known as Atomic City, and she became the town clerk and Justice of the Peace. She was the first woman to marry a couple there (I have the newspaper clipping to prove it). Again, I digress, this outhouse made a great fort because, with the advent of indoor plumbing, the hole underneath had been mostly filled in with dirt and no longer had that lovely fecal odor. A horizontal board was missing on one side (so much for privacy) but the door could still be secured from the inside allowing us to carry on our nefarious deeds free from the prying eyes of humans. We had also dug under the back of the building to allow semi-easy exit should we be discovered by grown-ups or s. On the day that shall live forever in my brain, Chuck Knight found a match. Yes, that's right, a single match left in a discarded matchbook. On any given day in Atomic City, it was either windy or windier so we got our other partner-in-arson, Rick Boisjollie, and adjourned to the out/clubhouse. We also brought some torn up newspaper in a mason jar. With ONE stinking match our opportunity for some nice flames was rather limited. After several failed attempts, Chuck finally lit the match then the newspaper in the jar. At this point things become a bit hazy what with Father Time clouding my memory but at any rate, while we were watching the flames in the bottle, somebody, probably me, thought it would be a grand idea to also set fire to a large piece of cardboard that was on the wooden floor. Ooh, aah, cool fire. Oh oh! The flames are now licking up the door. The LOCKED door. Not wanting for us to become crispy critters, I gathered what puny thoughts I had remaining and shouted, "Down the bumhole boys!" So down said bumhole we rapidly went and climbed out the emergency egress hatch. Whew! Safe at last. We were on the outside and the fire was on the inside. Rick and I thought we'd better put the fire out now since Chuck remembered it was his nap time and ran home. We began the rather futile and puny effort of tossing little handfuls of dirt through the opening in the side left by the missing board. In our defense, we lived in a desert so the thought of using water never entered into our little heads. The conflagration eventually became large enough to attract the attention of some larger human beings who stood around and watched the out/clubhouse burn to the ground. I was certain we would both be beaten (unenlightened remember?) but John Weise, the owner of said outbuilding, showed up and said, "Ah, I was going to get rid of that eyesore anyway, now I don't have to haul it off." Thus we were off the hook and thoroughly unrepentant. Next time, dear readers, how to burn a garage to the ground without really trying.

Pyro--The best mania of them all.

As I think back on the whimsical days of my youth, the thing that stands out the most is/was my my overpowering fascination with fire. Since hunched-over homos came out of their caves and became sapiens, Man (not Woman) has been unalterably drawn to the flame like so many moths (probably male ones). Holy crap! Making fire used to be harder than Chinese arithmetic! A guy had to wait for who knows how long for lightning to strike a tree or fellow homo that was close enough to him so he could get a good blaze going before the rain put it out. Maintaining that spark was no mean trick either. Even if he got it back to the cave, his mom/wife would just yell at him to "get that thing out of here! You'll ruin the drapes!" I would imagine there was an inordinate amount of charred skin and flaming faces before somebody (a guy) got brave/hungry enough to take a bite out of a lightning-struck brontosaurus and said, "Hey, anyone got some Bullseye barbecue sauce? This is tons better than raw." "Look Oogah- Boogah, how it's all brown and tasty instead of red and tough to chew."
Back in the 80s there was a movie with Rae-Dawn Chong (Tommy's daughter) and Ron Perlman called "Quest for Fire" that I thought was excellent and covered this subject quite well. That was during my I-don't-pay-attention-to-movie-ratings period so it may have been rated R or PG 35. I just remember that there were no real English-type words or subtitles but you could understand what the different tribes/people were saying. It's probably out there on VHS some place and would be worth watching. But, I digress, this is supposed to be about my pyromaniacal youth.
Much like others of my ilk, age, and gender I found I could make my very own conflagrations with only one match if absolutely necessary. Ah yes, matches. What a marvelous invention! Probably invented by the Chinese. Those little yellow suckers invented all sorts of cool stuff like pizza and gunpowder. Who'd a thunk eventually you would be able to rub a little red-tipped strip of cardboard against an almost slick black stripe of who-knows-what-the-heck-that-is, and POOF, flame at your very fingertips.
Probably a neophyte's first encounter with the uncontrollable attraction is the campfire. Be proud Mom & Dad (especially Dad) you started the little bugger on his way by introducing him to the great outdoors. LITTLE BOYS PLAY IN THE CAMPFIRE. It is a given. You could no more stop them than you could, with your puny arm, divert the course of the mighty Rillito if it ever runs again. My parents also contributed to my mania by living in Atomic City, Idaho. Much like most small (I mean waaay small) towns then and now, there were no laws against starting fires on your own property (or other people's for that matter). Why we even had the audacity to burn weeds and such without a permit, fire department, hose, or much sense. We, like most if not all the residents of good old A. C. had a 50-gallon barrel in the back yard that we would put our trash into, set it on fire, and let it burn down to ashes. Once the barrel was full of ashes, we (eventually me) would load it into the back of our pickup, haul it out to the town dump (more stories of that place to come later), empty it down the slope of rotting refuse, then bring the empty barrel back to start the process all over again. Sounds like loads of fun, eh kids?
One time when I was probably in high school, I put the trash in the burn barrel but, since it was rather windy (when was it NOT windy in G. O. A. C) I decided to help make the trash more burnable by adding some gasoline. I grabbed the jug o' gas that we used for the lawn mower and poured the entire contents over the trash in the barrel (it was REALLY windy ok?). At this point I realized I had forgotten to bring matches so I went back into the house to get some. In the meantime the gas I had poured on the trash was seeping oh so merrily to the bottom of the barrel. When I returned with the matches I struck one and BOOOOOM!! I invented the 50-gallon garbage howitzer. The barrel was EMPTY! Unfortunately the contents were now not-so-neatly distributed from hell to breakfast all over our back yard. Pa was NOT amused.
Well kiddos, it's late and I have rambled enough for one sitting. Tune in next time for tales of burning a cat, an outhouse, and our garage (almost twice)...Dad/Grandpa

Memorial/Decoration Day 2008

Okay folks, so here goes my first blog! After all the whining I did about getting it set up, I find it strangely difficult to get started. This has been quite a different Memorial Day for me. First of all it was nice to NOT have to get to the church by 0600 so Seth and Benjamin could get on their way to Aaronic priesthood/Scout camp. Let's hear it for the big snow storm in the White Mountains! I'm sure some of the boys are disappointed but, tough noogies, it's better than being popsicles. Buck up little camper, that $5 Wal-Mart sleeping bag would have just made it easier to stack your frozen little body it the back of one of the trailers. Camp Zion will be plenty cold and much more fun for the drivers. Meeting at 1000 was sooo much better for all concerned. So much for the scouts, good-bye and good luck. In a blogoid email I sent to most of you last week I talked about the possibility of visiting Your Mom/Grandma's parents' grave/crypt (okay, that's probably too many slashes in one short sentence, but so what?). In the email I spoke of how, when I was a kid, Memorial Day was always called Decoration Day and of how my sisters (who knows where Stanley was) and I would help our mom make flowers out of crepe paper then dip them in wax so they would last longer when we put them on the graves of our family members who had passed away (as opposed to those graves of the ones still alive). Last summer I got to take a trip to Idaho with Lorna and took pictures of those graves. Most of the Howe ancestry are buried in Arimo, ID. It's a very small town right on I-15 between the Utah border and Pocatello. That's where you'll find my Mom & Dad, grandparents, and most of my aunts and uncles (Wyoma, Rebecca, and Lloyd are still on this side of Heaven). My Potter grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts and uncles are buried in the Lava Hot Springs cemetery. Lava Hot Springs is about 20 miles East of I-15 between McCammon (just North of Arimo) and Soda Springs. There is a pioneer museum in Lava that has a whole section about the Potters that settled that area. Do stop by if you are ever in the area. Anyhoo, today in keeping with the Decoration Day genre Babs, Sarah, Reese, Dan and I all made the trek to the Evergreen Cemetery (on Grant road between Wilmot and Craycroft) to visit the final resting place of Grandma and Grandpa Parkin. We had difficulty finding where their ashes are but let it be known to one and all, I had the right building and the right wall! I had to check with the office though to find their exact location. We left some flowers (artificial so they will look nice for a long time) and had a rather enjoyable time (I thought so anyway). We came home and had a fantastic barbecue with Scot & Suzie and family along with Melissa, her s & Danny (Josh is on the mountain). Of course Sarah & Reese were there as was Pete, Dan and Bekah. The following were excused: Amy-in Mesa; Jer & Linda and family-in Sedona; Benjamin-at Camp Zion Lesley & kids- her folks; Aaron & Jen and s-in Apache Junction. It was great to have everyone here for Dan's graduation last Thursday. Thanks so much for coming. You have no idea how much pleasure I get just being around all of you and listening to all the conversations going on and once amid all the noise the grandkids make! It is a joy beyond measure! Now that you are asleep or beyond bored, I'll end this mess and get it posted. I love you all...DAD/Grandpa