Being the youngest of ten children could probably lead to some spoilage (do ya think?), but I do think Bekah has handled her situation rather well. Sure, she can and does play that card when she wants to, but she's civil most of the time. This is about driving, I promise.
A couple of weeks ago the red car died. The poor thing started out as a mission car so who knows what sort of abuse it suffered at the hands of 19 year old missionaries. Scott bought it, sold it to us, bought it back, then sold it back to us once again. It served us well as a car for Dan and Bekah to use but I think it took too many trips to the homestead in Mescal when Scott and Benjamin were commuting from their tent city. Other than the paint, headliner, door handles, headlight covers, battery, engine and transmission, it's in excellent condition. I think the left tail light works. Yes, we are in the market for another car.
Really, this is about driving. A couple of days ago Bekah had gone to the temple in Mesa to help some of her friends with a family photo shoot and, since we were down a car, I had to go pick her up. To save time and gas for both parties we decided to meet at the Carl's Jr at I-10 and Congress as it is the half way point between our domiciles. Good idea. She called just after 10PM so off I went. I made good time and then waited, and waited, and waited. Around 11:30 she called and said "Where the heck are you!" "I"m waiting in the Carl's Jr parking lot." "So am I." We had both been in different areas of the same parking lot with visions of car wrecks dancing in out heads wondering what was taking so long.
Here comes the driving part (at last). As I was driving her home, she asked me to take her driving on the Interstate so she could learn how to drive there and her Mom would let her use I-10 to get to her friend's house. WHAT? "You can't drive on the Interstate?" "No, Mom says it's too dangerous." Holy crap. I drove to San Bleeding Francisco from Idaho when I was 15 years old BY MY SELF! Codling is a terrible thing. I gave her a lesson on how it's pretty much the same as driving in town but easier, faster, but actually easier. I think she's ready to do it and Babs might agree...but I doubt it.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Barber of the Ville
This is a day late because I got all busy with Sarah coming home to visit, tithing settlement and the Wildcats basketball game. Oh well, 'tis the season.
Several centuries ago when Babs and I first got married, we decided that we could save a bunch of money by having her cut my hair. So we bought some clippers and away she went. For the next umpty-and-a-half years she ran the Barbara Shop cutting not only my hair but that of our six sons and sometimes their friends. Some of them didn't have haircuts from anyone else until their missions. We saved tons of money.
However, as the years flew by it became more and more difficult to have her cut my hair. She had to be in the right mood (NO ONE wants a haircut from someone who's not in the mood), the light had to be right, the planets had to be aligned, etc. Besides, she no longer enjoyed it. So, being the kind soul that I am, I told her that I would just get it cut at the BX barbershop.
All went well until she happened to be with me one day and saw me tip the lady that cut my hair. She was incensed. "YOU GAVE HER A TIP!" "YOU NEVER TIPPED ME!
"You got my entire paycheck." says I, "You could have taken a tip out of it." I solved the situation almost three years ago when I started shaving my head. I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my pate.
Which brings me to the reason for the title. A while back the sister that is the president of the Sunday School class I teach told me she was going to have chemo therapy and asked if I would shave her head if she started losing her hair. I said certainly and soon thereafter she called and I did.
Yesterday Brother Doane, who is a member of our Bishopric and has been undergoing chemo, called and asked me to shave his head. He said I came highly recommended. It was much easier since he is a Korean War veteran with much less and thinner hair than Sister Simpson. So that makes three heads I have shaved and haven't lost one yet.
Several centuries ago when Babs and I first got married, we decided that we could save a bunch of money by having her cut my hair. So we bought some clippers and away she went. For the next umpty-and-a-half years she ran the Barbara Shop cutting not only my hair but that of our six sons and sometimes their friends. Some of them didn't have haircuts from anyone else until their missions. We saved tons of money.
However, as the years flew by it became more and more difficult to have her cut my hair. She had to be in the right mood (NO ONE wants a haircut from someone who's not in the mood), the light had to be right, the planets had to be aligned, etc. Besides, she no longer enjoyed it. So, being the kind soul that I am, I told her that I would just get it cut at the BX barbershop.
All went well until she happened to be with me one day and saw me tip the lady that cut my hair. She was incensed. "YOU GAVE HER A TIP!" "YOU NEVER TIPPED ME!
"You got my entire paycheck." says I, "You could have taken a tip out of it." I solved the situation almost three years ago when I started shaving my head. I am the captain of my soul, I am the master of my pate.
Which brings me to the reason for the title. A while back the sister that is the president of the Sunday School class I teach told me she was going to have chemo therapy and asked if I would shave her head if she started losing her hair. I said certainly and soon thereafter she called and I did.
Yesterday Brother Doane, who is a member of our Bishopric and has been undergoing chemo, called and asked me to shave his head. He said I came highly recommended. It was much easier since he is a Korean War veteran with much less and thinner hair than Sister Simpson. So that makes three heads I have shaved and haven't lost one yet.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
For Crying Out Loud
Yes, I am in for it. Seriously, I think all adults should be able to just wail away like a three year old who just dropped her ice cream cone. Tilt our head back, fill our lungs and yowl like young banshees.
I came to this realization last Thursday at the conclusion of the Arizona - ASU football game. It would have been so cathartic to have been able to just boo hoo like a little kid. I really think it would have helped us all. Some 55,000 people shrieking to the sky would have been way impressive.
Saturday night I could have used another bawl fest. Babs and I were visiting Jer, Linda, and family at Ft Campbell, KY. To avoid forcing any of the grandkids out of their beds, we were happy to sleep on the very comfortable sofas in the living room.
All was well until Babs asked me to unplug the lights on the Christmas tree so she could sleep. I did so and, not surprisingly, it got much darker concealing our large suitcase that was hiding by the tree. As I strode to the comfort of the couch, I managed to catch the little toe of my left foot on the corner of the suitcase.
Funny thing about my feet. Diabetes has caused the loss of feeling in much of both of them. I thought perhaps the entirety of them both. I was wrong, way wrong. I do have feeling on the outside of my feet. Boy howdy, do I have feeling there! Sweet Mother of Pearl, I wanted to cry like the paid mourners at a Guatemalan funeral. It hurt all the way to my thigh. I know a few minutes of weeping and wailing would have made it much better. I wanted my mama.
I limped around on it Sunday to make it various shades of purple then went to the urgent care center on Ft Campbell Monday morning. Sure enough the little guy is cracked in two. Broken like a treaty with the Lamenites. They gave me some Percocet (my favorite), a spiffy blue shoe and sent me on my way. I didn't get to cry like I wanted but I did milk it for all the sympathy I could.
We had a great time with the Kentucky and Alabama Howes. Linda and Jer are wonderful hosts managing to fit all of nineteen of us quite comfortably Saturday night for Isaac's blessing Sunday.
I came to this realization last Thursday at the conclusion of the Arizona - ASU football game. It would have been so cathartic to have been able to just boo hoo like a little kid. I really think it would have helped us all. Some 55,000 people shrieking to the sky would have been way impressive.
Saturday night I could have used another bawl fest. Babs and I were visiting Jer, Linda, and family at Ft Campbell, KY. To avoid forcing any of the grandkids out of their beds, we were happy to sleep on the very comfortable sofas in the living room.
All was well until Babs asked me to unplug the lights on the Christmas tree so she could sleep. I did so and, not surprisingly, it got much darker concealing our large suitcase that was hiding by the tree. As I strode to the comfort of the couch, I managed to catch the little toe of my left foot on the corner of the suitcase.
Funny thing about my feet. Diabetes has caused the loss of feeling in much of both of them. I thought perhaps the entirety of them both. I was wrong, way wrong. I do have feeling on the outside of my feet. Boy howdy, do I have feeling there! Sweet Mother of Pearl, I wanted to cry like the paid mourners at a Guatemalan funeral. It hurt all the way to my thigh. I know a few minutes of weeping and wailing would have made it much better. I wanted my mama.
I limped around on it Sunday to make it various shades of purple then went to the urgent care center on Ft Campbell Monday morning. Sure enough the little guy is cracked in two. Broken like a treaty with the Lamenites. They gave me some Percocet (my favorite), a spiffy blue shoe and sent me on my way. I didn't get to cry like I wanted but I did milk it for all the sympathy I could.
We had a great time with the Kentucky and Alabama Howes. Linda and Jer are wonderful hosts managing to fit all of nineteen of us quite comfortably Saturday night for Isaac's blessing Sunday.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Six Days Late or One Day Early
Thanksgiving preempted my blog last Thursday and the ASU game will take up tomorrow night so here it is.
I tried very hard some time ago to write something about the poverty while growing up in Atomic City. I don't think we were poor compared with most of the other families there. My dad was a welder/mechanic and followed construction jobs for most of my siblings' lives. We moved to AC soon after my first birthday (1950) when he got a job at the Atomic Energy Commission site about eight miles north of town and pretty much stayed there except for the time we spent in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana when I was six.
Mom & Dad never discussed finances with us so I don't know how much he made while working there at the AEC site. I know when he worked in the Australian Outback on a railroad project he made $1,500 a month plus room, board and round trip transportation. Mom figured out he was making $50 a day and said absolutely nobody was worth that much money. That was in1965-66 so I assume he made much less than that at the site.
We were probably middle class compared with the others. We even had the first color TV in town. I remember playing with kids who really lived in squalor. They had no dads and I had no clue what their mothers did to make money. My Mom organized the Relief Society sisters to clean a house one family had trashed only to see it back like it was just a short time later. It seems odd now how normal it seemed then. The kids were just more kids to play with.
It didn't take much to make us happy. We would spend hours having clod fights, playing war, or operating on kangaroo rats with a piece of glass and no anesthesia. I'm rather surprised that I didn't turn out to be a serial killer.
There were plenty of old junked cars around to play in and on. Once we made a vinegar and soda bomb by mixing them in a glass jar, putting the lid on tight then setting it on the hood of an old car. It was supposed to go boom and make a big mess on the car. We wound up throwing rocks at it to make it go boom. It did make a nice mess though.
In the winter we made a toboggan by taking the hood from an old car, tying it to the back of our Jeep and pulling it around. It was great fun until we hit a big rock when I was riding in it and it split in two, pitching all of us into the snow. We tried for hours to jump off the back of our pickup into the snow in slow motion. No matter how slowly we climbed into the truck, we couldn't fall slower. Ok, so we weren't too bright. It was still entertaining. Snowball fights were much cleaner than clod fights.
I tried very hard some time ago to write something about the poverty while growing up in Atomic City. I don't think we were poor compared with most of the other families there. My dad was a welder/mechanic and followed construction jobs for most of my siblings' lives. We moved to AC soon after my first birthday (1950) when he got a job at the Atomic Energy Commission site about eight miles north of town and pretty much stayed there except for the time we spent in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana when I was six.
Mom & Dad never discussed finances with us so I don't know how much he made while working there at the AEC site. I know when he worked in the Australian Outback on a railroad project he made $1,500 a month plus room, board and round trip transportation. Mom figured out he was making $50 a day and said absolutely nobody was worth that much money. That was in1965-66 so I assume he made much less than that at the site.
We were probably middle class compared with the others. We even had the first color TV in town. I remember playing with kids who really lived in squalor. They had no dads and I had no clue what their mothers did to make money. My Mom organized the Relief Society sisters to clean a house one family had trashed only to see it back like it was just a short time later. It seems odd now how normal it seemed then. The kids were just more kids to play with.
It didn't take much to make us happy. We would spend hours having clod fights, playing war, or operating on kangaroo rats with a piece of glass and no anesthesia. I'm rather surprised that I didn't turn out to be a serial killer.
There were plenty of old junked cars around to play in and on. Once we made a vinegar and soda bomb by mixing them in a glass jar, putting the lid on tight then setting it on the hood of an old car. It was supposed to go boom and make a big mess on the car. We wound up throwing rocks at it to make it go boom. It did make a nice mess though.
In the winter we made a toboggan by taking the hood from an old car, tying it to the back of our Jeep and pulling it around. It was great fun until we hit a big rock when I was riding in it and it split in two, pitching all of us into the snow. We tried for hours to jump off the back of our pickup into the snow in slow motion. No matter how slowly we climbed into the truck, we couldn't fall slower. Ok, so we weren't too bright. It was still entertaining. Snowball fights were much cleaner than clod fights.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Musings from the Muse
Yes, I know this isn't Thursday. I was all set to write then, but at almost 5:00 I found out that Bruce Larson had offered me his tickets to the U of A basketball game at 6:30. Who am I to turn down anything free? Especially tickets to see the Wildcats. I have decided to stop calling them Cats because of my aversion to felines in general. Anyway, I called Benjamin and he said he would like to go but was watching the kiddos since Lovely Lesley had a meeting at 7. "No sweat," says I. "Danny has no life, he can babysit for you."
We got to the game in plenty of time and were even able to eat the fine dinner of cheese ravioli and meat balls that Babs had prepared. The Wildcats did not disappoint, slapping an 83-57 loss on the semi-decent New Mexico State Aggies. It looks like the Wildcats will have some depth for a change as the second string did better than the starters.
Since it was late when we got back and I do so need my beauty rest, I planned to write Friday night instead. I had forgotten that I agreed to let Bekah use my TV in the living room to watch whatever-the-heck teenage girls watch when she had friends over. Alas, I was banished to the bedroom, our bedroom, not even Pete's because Danny was in there getting as much use as possible since Pete comes home tomorrow.
Our bedroom is really Babs' bedroom. It's her TV and decor thanks to our wonderful children who completely redid the bedroom as a surprise for their mother a few years ago. They changed it from a cave (not even a man-cave) into something you would see in "Better Homes and Gardens." I do have a problem with it though. The making of the bed.
It has been our custom for the centuries we have been married for the last one up to make the bed. No sweat for me for many, many years as I usually arose before Babs. Not so much now. She beats me up every day. Pre-redecoration it was no problem. It was just a matter of straightening the ancient comforter that I usually slept on top of anyway. Post-beautification is an entirely different breed of cat altogether. She won't even let me LIE on the new comforter let alone sleep on it. Should anyone desire to watch TV there in the daytime, we have to spread a blanket or sheet so as not to muss the decor. There are also now 87 pillows to deal with.
Babs ALWAYS retires before I do so she has the un-making duty. Occasionally I may be passing through and give her a hand, but it's really her job. Now, I don't know if pillowmania is a woman thing or not, but I do know that she removes three decorative pillows and sleeps with SEVEN non decorative ones. She even keeps two hidden during the day time just in case the inspectors from Better Homes and Bedrooms should happen by. Actually, I hide them for her when I make the bed. I sleep with one, count'em, ONE old, flattened, comfy pillow. Viva la diferance I say. It's one of the many reasons I love her.
I'm not sure if many read my ramblings. I do enjoy reading the comments and figure if nothing else, these musings may serve as my memoirs.
We got to the game in plenty of time and were even able to eat the fine dinner of cheese ravioli and meat balls that Babs had prepared. The Wildcats did not disappoint, slapping an 83-57 loss on the semi-decent New Mexico State Aggies. It looks like the Wildcats will have some depth for a change as the second string did better than the starters.
Since it was late when we got back and I do so need my beauty rest, I planned to write Friday night instead. I had forgotten that I agreed to let Bekah use my TV in the living room to watch whatever-the-heck teenage girls watch when she had friends over. Alas, I was banished to the bedroom, our bedroom, not even Pete's because Danny was in there getting as much use as possible since Pete comes home tomorrow.
Our bedroom is really Babs' bedroom. It's her TV and decor thanks to our wonderful children who completely redid the bedroom as a surprise for their mother a few years ago. They changed it from a cave (not even a man-cave) into something you would see in "Better Homes and Gardens." I do have a problem with it though. The making of the bed.
It has been our custom for the centuries we have been married for the last one up to make the bed. No sweat for me for many, many years as I usually arose before Babs. Not so much now. She beats me up every day. Pre-redecoration it was no problem. It was just a matter of straightening the ancient comforter that I usually slept on top of anyway. Post-beautification is an entirely different breed of cat altogether. She won't even let me LIE on the new comforter let alone sleep on it. Should anyone desire to watch TV there in the daytime, we have to spread a blanket or sheet so as not to muss the decor. There are also now 87 pillows to deal with.
Babs ALWAYS retires before I do so she has the un-making duty. Occasionally I may be passing through and give her a hand, but it's really her job. Now, I don't know if pillowmania is a woman thing or not, but I do know that she removes three decorative pillows and sleeps with SEVEN non decorative ones. She even keeps two hidden during the day time just in case the inspectors from Better Homes and Bedrooms should happen by. Actually, I hide them for her when I make the bed. I sleep with one, count'em, ONE old, flattened, comfy pillow. Viva la diferance I say. It's one of the many reasons I love her.
I'm not sure if many read my ramblings. I do enjoy reading the comments and figure if nothing else, these musings may serve as my memoirs.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Halloween even though it's Veterans Day
First I'll welcome Miss Charlotte Jaymes Howe into our grand clan. We got to go up and see her the day after she was born. It still surprises me how small newborns are. Well, maybe not Isaac. He was dethroned in less than a week from his lofty spot as the newest Howe but I doubt he minds. I figured out that the difference in weight between Charlotte and him was Franklin! How weird is that?
I tried very hard last week to write about growing up "poor." I started over three or four times then gave up and went to bed. It's hard because I'm not looking for sympathy but just trying to describe what it was like. I still haven't figured it out so I will put it off until next week.
Halloween in Atomic City was tons different from what our kids and grandkids know. It was fun but much simpler. First, there were a finite number of places to Trick or Treat. We went to every house, that's right, every house. That's how we knew we were done. It was before the commercial gurus got involved so there was no such thing as mini-candy bars or Buick-sized bags of Halloween candy. Fortunately it was also before sickos putting pins, razor blades, napalm or whatever in the candy.
Most people made their own treats to hand out. Popcorn balls, candy apples, cookies and even fudge were common. Candy bars were full-size and bigger than the normal size now. It wasn't all that expensive since they cost a nickel apiece. One guy would give each of us a dime. His name was Robly Hooper and was very fat so everyone called him Tiny. Mom said he was an "Old Batch" whatever that meant. I thought it was cool because a dime could buy even more candy.
Costumes, for us anyway, were much simpler too. I had absolutely no imagination then (and not much now) so I usually wound up putting on some of my dad's old clothes, smearing some coffee grounds on my face to simulate stubble, and voila, I was a hobo. Face paint consisted of whatever cosmetics my sister LeAnna would part with. I remember she drew a scar on my cheek once when I was a pirate. An old sheet with some eye holes would make me a ghost. I don't remember any vampires, witches yes, but no pasty-faced ghouls. And we went by OURSELVES! No parents, maybe an older sibling, but usually just a bunch of kids. It was great fun.
Veterans Day.
Today, right now, this very minute, you breathe free air because ordinary men and women made, and make, extraordinary sacrifices that you may do so.
Please thank them...
I tried very hard last week to write about growing up "poor." I started over three or four times then gave up and went to bed. It's hard because I'm not looking for sympathy but just trying to describe what it was like. I still haven't figured it out so I will put it off until next week.
Halloween in Atomic City was tons different from what our kids and grandkids know. It was fun but much simpler. First, there were a finite number of places to Trick or Treat. We went to every house, that's right, every house. That's how we knew we were done. It was before the commercial gurus got involved so there was no such thing as mini-candy bars or Buick-sized bags of Halloween candy. Fortunately it was also before sickos putting pins, razor blades, napalm or whatever in the candy.
Most people made their own treats to hand out. Popcorn balls, candy apples, cookies and even fudge were common. Candy bars were full-size and bigger than the normal size now. It wasn't all that expensive since they cost a nickel apiece. One guy would give each of us a dime. His name was Robly Hooper and was very fat so everyone called him Tiny. Mom said he was an "Old Batch" whatever that meant. I thought it was cool because a dime could buy even more candy.
Costumes, for us anyway, were much simpler too. I had absolutely no imagination then (and not much now) so I usually wound up putting on some of my dad's old clothes, smearing some coffee grounds on my face to simulate stubble, and voila, I was a hobo. Face paint consisted of whatever cosmetics my sister LeAnna would part with. I remember she drew a scar on my cheek once when I was a pirate. An old sheet with some eye holes would make me a ghost. I don't remember any vampires, witches yes, but no pasty-faced ghouls. And we went by OURSELVES! No parents, maybe an older sibling, but usually just a bunch of kids. It was great fun.
Veterans Day.
Today, right now, this very minute, you breathe free air because ordinary men and women made, and make, extraordinary sacrifices that you may do so.
Please thank them...
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I Rant, Therefore I Am
So it's not as flowery as Cogito, ergo sum, I feel the need to rant. Before the ranting begins though I want to welcome young Isaac Jacob Howe into the world and our family. You have been born of goodly parents into a very large family that loves you and are glad you are here. Hopefully you were able to say "see ya" to miss Charlotte who will be joining us soon.
Let the ranting begin! Do keep in mind that I'm an old fart.
First off, pants. Now I'm all for them in general because I really don't have the legs for skirts and not even Robin Hood looked good in tights. My complaint is aimed at who-the-heck ever designed dress and "Docker" type pants. Why on this green earth do we need a button tab, a clip thingie, AND another bleeding button tab to secure the pants around our waists? That's not even counting the zipper and belt! I'm old. There are times when I could really use velcro. Then I have to remember the entire sequence in reverse when I'm done. I don't like it. Also, we have put men on the moon and peanut & jelly in the same jar, why in the name of all that is right with the universe can't they standardize the number of belt loops? Light bulbs fit in any old socket. The little pointy things on the end of electrical cords fit into the holes in the wall. Why not the number belt loops so all I need to do is count. It's hard enough just having to do stuff when you can't see what you are doing.
Expiration dates. I noticed the other day that my shampoo has expired. I fully understand it since I have been shaving my head for almost three years now, but an expiration date on shampoo? Really? What does that mean? My hair would still be dirty? No silky shinyness? All my hair would fall out (too late)? I know some things need expiration dates like dairy products and such. In fact I noticed the date of August 10, 2009 on the tub of fake butter I opened this morning. I still put it on my toast. It tasted fine.
Daylight Savings Time. It's a yankee concept that has absolutely no useful purpose in the modern world. China does quite well with only one time zone for crying out Pete's sake. Ben Franklin should have been shot the day before he thought of it.
Pinatas. Don't get me started. Kids, sticks. blindfolds, a moving target? They should just let them run with scissors and play in traffic.
Hair. This has nothing to do with the shampoo one. I am all for hair especially when it would grow spontaneously on my head. Is it fair at all that it should quit doing that just because I have "matured?" I don't think so. But, such are the adversities of life I can live with (without) that. But why, oh why do I need to have it growing out of my nose and EARS? What kind of evolutionary joke is THAT? Isn't it bad enough that us old farts lose our hearing, we should get hair blocking the sound? What? We've smelled enough too? Getting old is not for the faint of heart.
Negative political ads. I want to vomit. If it weren't for that "Freedom of Speech" thingie and I was king of the world, I would institute the Thumper's Mom's law: "If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all."
Ranto, ergo sum.
Let the ranting begin! Do keep in mind that I'm an old fart.
First off, pants. Now I'm all for them in general because I really don't have the legs for skirts and not even Robin Hood looked good in tights. My complaint is aimed at who-the-heck ever designed dress and "Docker" type pants. Why on this green earth do we need a button tab, a clip thingie, AND another bleeding button tab to secure the pants around our waists? That's not even counting the zipper and belt! I'm old. There are times when I could really use velcro. Then I have to remember the entire sequence in reverse when I'm done. I don't like it. Also, we have put men on the moon and peanut & jelly in the same jar, why in the name of all that is right with the universe can't they standardize the number of belt loops? Light bulbs fit in any old socket. The little pointy things on the end of electrical cords fit into the holes in the wall. Why not the number belt loops so all I need to do is count. It's hard enough just having to do stuff when you can't see what you are doing.
Expiration dates. I noticed the other day that my shampoo has expired. I fully understand it since I have been shaving my head for almost three years now, but an expiration date on shampoo? Really? What does that mean? My hair would still be dirty? No silky shinyness? All my hair would fall out (too late)? I know some things need expiration dates like dairy products and such. In fact I noticed the date of August 10, 2009 on the tub of fake butter I opened this morning. I still put it on my toast. It tasted fine.
Daylight Savings Time. It's a yankee concept that has absolutely no useful purpose in the modern world. China does quite well with only one time zone for crying out Pete's sake. Ben Franklin should have been shot the day before he thought of it.
Pinatas. Don't get me started. Kids, sticks. blindfolds, a moving target? They should just let them run with scissors and play in traffic.
Hair. This has nothing to do with the shampoo one. I am all for hair especially when it would grow spontaneously on my head. Is it fair at all that it should quit doing that just because I have "matured?" I don't think so. But, such are the adversities of life I can live with (without) that. But why, oh why do I need to have it growing out of my nose and EARS? What kind of evolutionary joke is THAT? Isn't it bad enough that us old farts lose our hearing, we should get hair blocking the sound? What? We've smelled enough too? Getting old is not for the faint of heart.
Negative political ads. I want to vomit. If it weren't for that "Freedom of Speech" thingie and I was king of the world, I would institute the Thumper's Mom's law: "If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all."
Ranto, ergo sum.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Justice is Served (Cold)
My blog is early this week for two reasons. First, the Oregon-UCLA football game is Thursday night and I don't want to be distracted from watching the Bruins get their hats handed to them. Second, something happened today that was a long time coming; the thief who broke into our storeroom (there's that dopey storeroom again) was finally sentenced.
I wrote about his breaking in (twice) last July if you want to get the complete background. I was quite surprised when he was caught so quickly but had no idea it would take so blasted long to give him his just desserts. I lost track of how many times I traipsed down to the courthouse for one postponement after another. All the time waiting for my turn to speak.
Another surprise for me was that in this case, and all the others I witnessed while waiting for his turn in court, I was the only victim who sowed up. Today the judge even said that hardly any victims ever appear in court. I really wonder why they don't.
We had to wait for a while today because his lawyer (Barney Fife in drag) was late. After reading all the counts, convictions , reimbursements, etc. The judge thanked me for coming so faithfully and said it was my turn to speak before she passed sentence. Holy cow! I've had all this time, what the heck do I say? Thumpity-thump-thump goes my heart. Which also surprised me too because I'm usually quite a ham.
Once I started, the thumps stopped. Basically I told the court, and him, that it had been a long time since our chat in my back yard before he drove off with our stuff. "I told you then that I understand how hard it is to support a big family and I would help you get a job." "That offer still stands." "I am a Christian man and have forgiven you." "I hope and pray that you will use the time you serve in prison to improve yourself and come out a better person with a new line of work." "You need to know though, that you didn't just take things from me and my family." "You took our feeling of safety and security." "That is extremely difficult to get back."
I then thanked the court and especially the judge for the way she handled the case and the courtroom and I would definitely vote for her in November. Her name is Terry Chandler so if you live in Pima County, please vote for her.
He got to speak next and was nervous but well spoken. He was very apologetic and seemed sincere. It turns out someone broke into his place not long after our theft, so he does have an idea of what it feels like. Barney Fife, bless her heart, got him to the right psych Dr. who has him on the right meds. He does appear to be headed in the right direction (prison).
Judge Chandler listened but told him she'd heard it before. She admonished him to indeed use his prison time to improve and to take me up on my offer when he gets out. On to the sentence!
Here's where it gets confusing. He got six-and-a-half years for the burglaries he did the same day as ours (there were seven others); four-and-a-half years for three on a different day; and two-and-a-half years for attempted robbery in a shoplifting gone wrong. If my Atomic City math serves me that's 13.5 years. BUT, the 4.5 is to be served concurrently with the 6.5 and he got credit for 480 days served. That should work out to about seven years which, with good behavior, comes to five or so.
He should have plenty of time to read so I plan to send him a Book of Mormon. Maybe I'll see him in 2015.
I wrote about his breaking in (twice) last July if you want to get the complete background. I was quite surprised when he was caught so quickly but had no idea it would take so blasted long to give him his just desserts. I lost track of how many times I traipsed down to the courthouse for one postponement after another. All the time waiting for my turn to speak.
Another surprise for me was that in this case, and all the others I witnessed while waiting for his turn in court, I was the only victim who sowed up. Today the judge even said that hardly any victims ever appear in court. I really wonder why they don't.
We had to wait for a while today because his lawyer (Barney Fife in drag) was late. After reading all the counts, convictions , reimbursements, etc. The judge thanked me for coming so faithfully and said it was my turn to speak before she passed sentence. Holy cow! I've had all this time, what the heck do I say? Thumpity-thump-thump goes my heart. Which also surprised me too because I'm usually quite a ham.
Once I started, the thumps stopped. Basically I told the court, and him, that it had been a long time since our chat in my back yard before he drove off with our stuff. "I told you then that I understand how hard it is to support a big family and I would help you get a job." "That offer still stands." "I am a Christian man and have forgiven you." "I hope and pray that you will use the time you serve in prison to improve yourself and come out a better person with a new line of work." "You need to know though, that you didn't just take things from me and my family." "You took our feeling of safety and security." "That is extremely difficult to get back."
I then thanked the court and especially the judge for the way she handled the case and the courtroom and I would definitely vote for her in November. Her name is Terry Chandler so if you live in Pima County, please vote for her.
He got to speak next and was nervous but well spoken. He was very apologetic and seemed sincere. It turns out someone broke into his place not long after our theft, so he does have an idea of what it feels like. Barney Fife, bless her heart, got him to the right psych Dr. who has him on the right meds. He does appear to be headed in the right direction (prison).
Judge Chandler listened but told him she'd heard it before. She admonished him to indeed use his prison time to improve and to take me up on my offer when he gets out. On to the sentence!
Here's where it gets confusing. He got six-and-a-half years for the burglaries he did the same day as ours (there were seven others); four-and-a-half years for three on a different day; and two-and-a-half years for attempted robbery in a shoplifting gone wrong. If my Atomic City math serves me that's 13.5 years. BUT, the 4.5 is to be served concurrently with the 6.5 and he got credit for 480 days served. That should work out to about seven years which, with good behavior, comes to five or so.
He should have plenty of time to read so I plan to send him a Book of Mormon. Maybe I'll see him in 2015.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Bees. The Final Chapter
I wrote three blogs back in July and August of 2008 about the invasion of bees in our storeroom. Yes it was over two years ago that I killed the bees. I intended to clean the bee mess out of the storeroom at that time but things got in the way. Evidently a LOT of things.
A few weeks ago Babs set the date. Last Saturday was it. We wanted it to coincide with the "Brush and Bulky" trash pick up for our neighborhood. The pick up isn't until next Monday but Babs and the other female folk are going to Phoenix Friday night and Saturday for "Time Out for Women" and she wanted to be here for the project. I'm all for women being in time-out so I agreed.
Aaron had come down from Apache Junction the night before with his kids so he could help before the football game. Jen is great with child and unable to travel or she would have been here to help too. Benjamin got here bum-early to begin the attack so the rest of us joined in the fray.
A quick description of the storeroom, It is built along the end of the house enclosing the space between the house and the alley wall. Roughly seven feet wide and thirty feet long with a small window at one end and a door at the other. At least I was pretty sure there was a window at the other end. I hadn't seen it for ten years or so since there is so much stuff crammed in there we only had access to the first six feet of space.
Some time ago Scott went on a search for the pieces of a triple bunk bed that I had made and got in far enough to bring out a board with roughly twenty pounds of honey comb attached to it. I was sure that all the contents at the front would be completely ruined by all the soapy water and poison crud I had pumped in there to kill the bees.
I was especially concerned about the doll house that Babs' dad had made for Amy. It is huge and a marvel of craftsmanship. Imagine my surprise when we found it relatively intact. It will need some repair and the honey cleaned out of it but, all in all, not bad. It and the rest of our "treasures" were saved by the fact that the floor is made of paving blocks that allowed the water to pass through the gaps between them.
We cleaned so much junk out that it would be too much for the Brush and Bulky guys so Dan and I took a truck load to the landfill on Monday and we still have plenty to put out for them this Saturday. The place is quite spectacular now with a pathway all the way to the other end. We filled the Shop Vac with dead bees and bird poop (I hadn't realized the window at the other end was open and had no screen). It does now. Many thanks to all who helped. It was TONS of work but well worth the effort.
The doll house is in the process of being cleaned and repaired. It now resides on the back patio to supply hours of enjoyment for our grand kids instead of languishing at the far end of the store room inaccessible to all but the termites.
A few weeks ago Babs set the date. Last Saturday was it. We wanted it to coincide with the "Brush and Bulky" trash pick up for our neighborhood. The pick up isn't until next Monday but Babs and the other female folk are going to Phoenix Friday night and Saturday for "Time Out for Women" and she wanted to be here for the project. I'm all for women being in time-out so I agreed.
Aaron had come down from Apache Junction the night before with his kids so he could help before the football game. Jen is great with child and unable to travel or she would have been here to help too. Benjamin got here bum-early to begin the attack so the rest of us joined in the fray.
A quick description of the storeroom, It is built along the end of the house enclosing the space between the house and the alley wall. Roughly seven feet wide and thirty feet long with a small window at one end and a door at the other. At least I was pretty sure there was a window at the other end. I hadn't seen it for ten years or so since there is so much stuff crammed in there we only had access to the first six feet of space.
Some time ago Scott went on a search for the pieces of a triple bunk bed that I had made and got in far enough to bring out a board with roughly twenty pounds of honey comb attached to it. I was sure that all the contents at the front would be completely ruined by all the soapy water and poison crud I had pumped in there to kill the bees.
I was especially concerned about the doll house that Babs' dad had made for Amy. It is huge and a marvel of craftsmanship. Imagine my surprise when we found it relatively intact. It will need some repair and the honey cleaned out of it but, all in all, not bad. It and the rest of our "treasures" were saved by the fact that the floor is made of paving blocks that allowed the water to pass through the gaps between them.
We cleaned so much junk out that it would be too much for the Brush and Bulky guys so Dan and I took a truck load to the landfill on Monday and we still have plenty to put out for them this Saturday. The place is quite spectacular now with a pathway all the way to the other end. We filled the Shop Vac with dead bees and bird poop (I hadn't realized the window at the other end was open and had no screen). It does now. Many thanks to all who helped. It was TONS of work but well worth the effort.
The doll house is in the process of being cleaned and repaired. It now resides on the back patio to supply hours of enjoyment for our grand kids instead of languishing at the far end of the store room inaccessible to all but the termites.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Lower Education
There seems to be lots of discussion these days about how best to educate the young ones. Full day vs half day kindergarten, pre-school, pre-pre-school, nursery school, womb school, and the like. Back in the wilds of Atomic City school started when you were six years old and was called the first grade. Before that you were left to wander around like coyotes and pick up what you could from ultra-violent cartoons on black and white TV. They were the BEST! Neither Sesame Street norThe Electric Company were around yet and Morgan Freeman was probably still in high school.
I actually started my quest for enlightenment in a one-room school in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. My dad was a diesel mechanic and was working some kind of construction job there. I'm not sure where it was/is. I vaguely remember hearing the word Bozeman. We were only there a year then moved back to Atomic City. I was quite happy to leave because it was even colder than Idaho and the school had no indoor plumbing. It did make me glad to be a male.
Second grade we were back in A. C. enjoying big city life. There were around 150 people living there then. We had school in an old barracks building that had a pot-bellied stove and actual flush toilets. My Dad thought it was inadequate so he bought the old grocery store and converted it into a rather nice school that we could use for church on Sunday.
There were two big room in the front, one for the class room and the other was the play room. It gave us a place to go when it was too bleeding cold to go outside for recess. It had TWO restrooms, one for the girls and one for the boys. It even had quarters in the back for the teacher, Mrs. Freckleton, who was from Moore, Idaho but lived there during the week with her son Danny who was in my grade. He was an overachiever when it came to living up to his last name. I have never in my long life seen anyone with that many freckles.
Mrs. Freckleton was an absolute gem as a teacher who somehow managed to keep 25 or 30 kids in 8 different grades anxiously engaged in a good cause all day long for the whole school year. She could play the piano and taught us to sing. I attribute my love for reading to her. She was my only teacher until the fifth grade when she retired.
Anything I learned in the fifth grade was purely accidental. We didn't start school that year until after an election to decide whether we could keep the school there or be bused thirty miles away to Moreland. There was some difficulty finding a teacher to replace Mrs. Freckleton. My sister LeAnna who had graduated from High School a couple of years earlier started the year and was replaced by my mother's cousin, Mrs Rowe. She was nice and did a fine job until she had a nasty car wreck in January or February and had to quit.
Then came the evil Mrs. Heck-I-forgot-her-last-name. She was a huge pain in the behind. Her only redeeming social value was that we were able to drive her crazy. So much so she decided she couldn't stand to have all six grades all day.so for the rest of the year, the first three grades went in the morning and the last three in the afternoon.
It was the best thing since Sugar Pops cereal. I could sleep in until cartoons started and watch them every day. I was in heaven. But alas and alack, that was the end of our little school in Atomic City. The next school year we were all bused to Moreland and the Snake River School District. We still managed to get a man on the moon before the end of the decade.
I actually started my quest for enlightenment in a one-room school in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. My dad was a diesel mechanic and was working some kind of construction job there. I'm not sure where it was/is. I vaguely remember hearing the word Bozeman. We were only there a year then moved back to Atomic City. I was quite happy to leave because it was even colder than Idaho and the school had no indoor plumbing. It did make me glad to be a male.
Second grade we were back in A. C. enjoying big city life. There were around 150 people living there then. We had school in an old barracks building that had a pot-bellied stove and actual flush toilets. My Dad thought it was inadequate so he bought the old grocery store and converted it into a rather nice school that we could use for church on Sunday.
There were two big room in the front, one for the class room and the other was the play room. It gave us a place to go when it was too bleeding cold to go outside for recess. It had TWO restrooms, one for the girls and one for the boys. It even had quarters in the back for the teacher, Mrs. Freckleton, who was from Moore, Idaho but lived there during the week with her son Danny who was in my grade. He was an overachiever when it came to living up to his last name. I have never in my long life seen anyone with that many freckles.
Mrs. Freckleton was an absolute gem as a teacher who somehow managed to keep 25 or 30 kids in 8 different grades anxiously engaged in a good cause all day long for the whole school year. She could play the piano and taught us to sing. I attribute my love for reading to her. She was my only teacher until the fifth grade when she retired.
Anything I learned in the fifth grade was purely accidental. We didn't start school that year until after an election to decide whether we could keep the school there or be bused thirty miles away to Moreland. There was some difficulty finding a teacher to replace Mrs. Freckleton. My sister LeAnna who had graduated from High School a couple of years earlier started the year and was replaced by my mother's cousin, Mrs Rowe. She was nice and did a fine job until she had a nasty car wreck in January or February and had to quit.
Then came the evil Mrs. Heck-I-forgot-her-last-name. She was a huge pain in the behind. Her only redeeming social value was that we were able to drive her crazy. So much so she decided she couldn't stand to have all six grades all day.so for the rest of the year, the first three grades went in the morning and the last three in the afternoon.
It was the best thing since Sugar Pops cereal. I could sleep in until cartoons started and watch them every day. I was in heaven. But alas and alack, that was the end of our little school in Atomic City. The next school year we were all bused to Moreland and the Snake River School District. We still managed to get a man on the moon before the end of the decade.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Red States and Blue States
Writing last week's blog got me thinking more about the Fall of 1960. It was a presidential election year and the first time in my eleven years of life that I had ever thought of Democrats or Republicans. I had no idea which I was so I asked my Dad. "We're Democrats" came the reply. And that was that.
Idaho at that time, and maybe even now for that matter, was decidedly Republican. Conservative somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. I had no way of knowing that then. All I knew was that our guy was young, vital, vibrant, and a great speech maker in vast contrast to the only president I had known about who was an old bald geezer. I watched the debate. Their guy looked like a criminal in bad need of a shave. I'd seen better looking pictures on the post office wall.
Being from Atomic City hadn't exactly endeared me to my classmates and now I was the class Democrat. That's right I was it. The rest of the class were lined up like lemmings buying Cliff Notes. Chuck Knight, my fellow Atomic Cityean, may have been one too but he was in Mrs. Stevenson's class. I was all alone in my beliefs. I didn't have a clue as to what those beliefs were but evidently they were diametrically opposed to all that was good and holy.
C. Brent Merrill (not A. Brent Merrill his cousin, in Mrs. Steveson's class to avoid confusion) summed it up when he said Democraps had crap in their hair. I told him Repooplicans had poop in theirs.
My guy won...it was magnificent.
Idaho at that time, and maybe even now for that matter, was decidedly Republican. Conservative somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. I had no way of knowing that then. All I knew was that our guy was young, vital, vibrant, and a great speech maker in vast contrast to the only president I had known about who was an old bald geezer. I watched the debate. Their guy looked like a criminal in bad need of a shave. I'd seen better looking pictures on the post office wall.
Being from Atomic City hadn't exactly endeared me to my classmates and now I was the class Democrat. That's right I was it. The rest of the class were lined up like lemmings buying Cliff Notes. Chuck Knight, my fellow Atomic Cityean, may have been one too but he was in Mrs. Stevenson's class. I was all alone in my beliefs. I didn't have a clue as to what those beliefs were but evidently they were diametrically opposed to all that was good and holy.
C. Brent Merrill (not A. Brent Merrill his cousin, in Mrs. Steveson's class to avoid confusion) summed it up when he said Democraps had crap in their hair. I told him Repooplicans had poop in theirs.
My guy won...it was magnificent.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Summer of Love
It actually started in the Fall of 1960. Our little two-room school in Atomic City had been closed by the Snake River School district so they could get the money from the government for each of us. Okay, it could have been the fact that we had gone through four teachers the previous year and nobody wanted the job. We were bused 40 miles each way to Moreland Elementary where we were treated pretty much like white trash (whether we were or not).
I thought it was a grand adventure to spend a couple of hours on the bus each day and go to a "big" school. I was in the sixth grade and there were even TWO classes of sixth-graders! It was a huge change. There were more kids in my classroom than were in our whole school in Atomic City where there were only four of us in the sixth grade.
I was in Mr. Cushman's class. He was the Principal and the first male teacher I had ever had or seen. The other big difference was females, lots of females. There was only Linda Nelson in my class in Atomic City, now there seemed to be TONS! I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
It took most of the year before I finally got up enough nerve to let Christine Belnap know that I liked her. Actually it was the last day of school that we exchanged pictures and I was in love. I spent the entire summer basking in the glow.
Christine lived 30 miles away and I had neither wheels nor a telephone so we had no contact over the summer. I eagerly anticipated the start of the new school year at Snake River Junior High and seeing once again the object of my affection.
The perfect opportunity came when they had a seventh-grade "get acquainted " dance. Boy Howdy did I want to get acquainted! There she was. Standing with some friends across the gym. I walked over, extended my hand, and asked, "May I have this dance?" She reached for my hand then drew it back and said "Eew!" Like she had almost touched something disgusting. She shrank back, giggling with her friends...
and broke my heart.
I thought it was a grand adventure to spend a couple of hours on the bus each day and go to a "big" school. I was in the sixth grade and there were even TWO classes of sixth-graders! It was a huge change. There were more kids in my classroom than were in our whole school in Atomic City where there were only four of us in the sixth grade.
I was in Mr. Cushman's class. He was the Principal and the first male teacher I had ever had or seen. The other big difference was females, lots of females. There was only Linda Nelson in my class in Atomic City, now there seemed to be TONS! I thought I had died and gone to heaven.
It took most of the year before I finally got up enough nerve to let Christine Belnap know that I liked her. Actually it was the last day of school that we exchanged pictures and I was in love. I spent the entire summer basking in the glow.
Christine lived 30 miles away and I had neither wheels nor a telephone so we had no contact over the summer. I eagerly anticipated the start of the new school year at Snake River Junior High and seeing once again the object of my affection.
The perfect opportunity came when they had a seventh-grade "get acquainted " dance. Boy Howdy did I want to get acquainted! There she was. Standing with some friends across the gym. I walked over, extended my hand, and asked, "May I have this dance?" She reached for my hand then drew it back and said "Eew!" Like she had almost touched something disgusting. She shrank back, giggling with her friends...
and broke my heart.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
More B. C.
Tonight I was reminded of what I was originally planning to write about last week when I got sidetracked about old phones. One more thing though. The phone we used at Fackrell's Texaco actually had a handle on the side that you had to crank to make the phone on the other end ring. How bizarre is that?
Onward. Back in BC it cost so stinking much to phone someone that didn't live close, people had to resort to an archaic form of conversation known as mail. Instead of pushing buttons on a gizmo the size of a credit card (which didn't exist then either) you would write your thoughts and questions on a piece of paper, fold it in thirds, put it in and envelope, put a 5 cent stamp (holy dodo, I just realized there is no longer a "cent" key! Do any of you even know what the symbol for cents is? or that it went AFTER the number?) on it, address it, put it in a little box out side your house, and a guy would pick it up and take it all the way to the person's house that you wanted to converse with. OK, the process was rather complex and costs about nine times as much now. BUT...
Now comes the redeeming social value of snail mail and why I was reminded of it tonight: Babs (wife) was on her cell phone conversing with Pete (son). I was eating my bowl of mac & cheese. I could hear her side of the conversation but had no idea what Pete was saying in far away Minnesota. I had to leave while they were talking and didn't get to ask her what Pete said until a couple of hours later. She is getting on in years and was only able to recall vague generalities of the discussion. SO...
Had their tete a tete been via snail mail, I would have been able to read exactly what Pete had said to her. Granted, it would have taken a couple of weeks to take place, but I wouldn't have to rely on the memory of some else.
Slow and steady wins the race?
Not on this planet.
Onward. Back in BC it cost so stinking much to phone someone that didn't live close, people had to resort to an archaic form of conversation known as mail. Instead of pushing buttons on a gizmo the size of a credit card (which didn't exist then either) you would write your thoughts and questions on a piece of paper, fold it in thirds, put it in and envelope, put a 5 cent stamp (holy dodo, I just realized there is no longer a "cent" key! Do any of you even know what the symbol for cents is? or that it went AFTER the number?) on it, address it, put it in a little box out side your house, and a guy would pick it up and take it all the way to the person's house that you wanted to converse with. OK, the process was rather complex and costs about nine times as much now. BUT...
Now comes the redeeming social value of snail mail and why I was reminded of it tonight: Babs (wife) was on her cell phone conversing with Pete (son). I was eating my bowl of mac & cheese. I could hear her side of the conversation but had no idea what Pete was saying in far away Minnesota. I had to leave while they were talking and didn't get to ask her what Pete said until a couple of hours later. She is getting on in years and was only able to recall vague generalities of the discussion. SO...
Had their tete a tete been via snail mail, I would have been able to read exactly what Pete had said to her. Granted, it would have taken a couple of weeks to take place, but I wouldn't have to rely on the memory of some else.
Slow and steady wins the race?
Not on this planet.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
The Rule of Thumbs
Last week something happened that caused me to reminisce about times gone by. I'm talking times WAY gone by. I'm talking B.C. That's Before Cell phones. Way back then there was a form of price gouging foisted upon us by the monopolistic A T & T, also known as Ma Bell. This outrage was known as "Long Distance". I know most of you young'ns out there may never have heard of it but it was an additional charge from several cents to several dollars for every stinking minute of conversation just because the person you called didn't happen to live near you.
This caused you to seriously consider not only the necessity of the conversation, but how dear your feelings were for the person on the other end. I'm so old I remember when we didn't even HAVE a telephone. There were only three in all of Atomic City. One time, when I was in the 6th grade at Moreland Elementary (30 miles from A.C.), I had to call home because my left leg fell off or something like that. I had the operator place the call to phone #3 at Fackrell's Texaco to have someone there go get my Mom (who didn't drive) and have her call the school. I'm not sure exactly what she was supposed to do about my missing limb but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
It was so exciting when they ran a new phone line to A.C. and we got our very own phone! It was a "party" line that wasn't much of a party. That meant there were several other homes that shared one single line and you had to wait until no one else was using it if you wanted to make a call. When it rang (there was actually a bell inside the phone that went ding-ding-ding) we had to wait to see if it was "our" ring which was one long and two short rings.
It was free to call the Blackfoot area that was 30 miles southeast of us but it was long distance to Arco that was 30 miles northwest, go figure. Back then they didn't think human beings could remember all seven digits of a phone number so they gave us a mnemonic help for the prefix. Our number was MUrdock 4-5033 (684-5033). Yes Virginia, that's the real reason there are letters under digits on your phone. Blackfoot was SUnset 5-xxxx. Cool, huh? I have no idea why there are no letters under the number 1, but back then there were only three letters for each of the other numbers. They left out the letters Q and Z.
They must have been added to the 7 and 9 with the advent of text messaging when we started talking with our thumbs...
This caused you to seriously consider not only the necessity of the conversation, but how dear your feelings were for the person on the other end. I'm so old I remember when we didn't even HAVE a telephone. There were only three in all of Atomic City. One time, when I was in the 6th grade at Moreland Elementary (30 miles from A.C.), I had to call home because my left leg fell off or something like that. I had the operator place the call to phone #3 at Fackrell's Texaco to have someone there go get my Mom (who didn't drive) and have her call the school. I'm not sure exactly what she was supposed to do about my missing limb but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
It was so exciting when they ran a new phone line to A.C. and we got our very own phone! It was a "party" line that wasn't much of a party. That meant there were several other homes that shared one single line and you had to wait until no one else was using it if you wanted to make a call. When it rang (there was actually a bell inside the phone that went ding-ding-ding) we had to wait to see if it was "our" ring which was one long and two short rings.
It was free to call the Blackfoot area that was 30 miles southeast of us but it was long distance to Arco that was 30 miles northwest, go figure. Back then they didn't think human beings could remember all seven digits of a phone number so they gave us a mnemonic help for the prefix. Our number was MUrdock 4-5033 (684-5033). Yes Virginia, that's the real reason there are letters under digits on your phone. Blackfoot was SUnset 5-xxxx. Cool, huh? I have no idea why there are no letters under the number 1, but back then there were only three letters for each of the other numbers. They left out the letters Q and Z.
They must have been added to the 7 and 9 with the advent of text messaging when we started talking with our thumbs...
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Mein Kampf
Today Aaron referred to my personal trainer (his little brother) as Little Hitler. I do want to set the record straight. I may have given people the idea that he is some kind of Snidley Whiplash kind of task master but that really isn't true. Sure he keeps making me do more reps each week (I'm up to 12 for most machines and 15 on some) but I think next week I go back to eight but add some more weight. He is rather pleasant to work with and hardly ever yells at me. He even helps me when I can't quite make the last rep or two of the third set. I may be even getting stronger (go figure) because yesterday I was able to do all three sets of overhead presses without his help.
I thought I had become a 265 lb weakling through many years of disuse and sedentariness but then I remembered how wimpy I was in high school. What brought this to my remembrance was the semi-fond memory of a fishing/water skiing trip that Brad, Chad, and I took to Mackay Dam in the summer of 1966 or 1967. Chad had a cool pale yellow Studebaker convertible and a boat, and a boat trailer, and skis. I had little brains, fewer arm muscles and lived on the way to the lake.
I had seen people water ski before. How hard could t be? All you have to do is hang on to a rope and skim lightly over the water. Even bugs can do it. Evidently bugs weigh less than the 200 lbs I weighed at the time. Brad and Chad both did quite well. In fact Chad could start on one ski instead of having to drop one off after starting with two. My turn.
I'm in the water, ski tips just above the surface, eagerly anticipating the jolt of the rope. Whang! There it is. Odd, shouldn't I be skimming merrily along the surface of the water? Why do I seem to be swallowing vast quantities of lake water? Perhaps they should have mentioned letting go of the rope.
After an inordinate amount of time I realized the surface of the water really should be below me and I had forgotten my gills. Air became enough of a priority that I figured out all by myself that letting go of the rope would be a decent thing to do. Having more stubbornness than brains, or muscles for that matter, I had let them drag me around the lake far too many more times when, wonder of wonder, I am on the skis and ON the surface! Woo Hoo! Whee!
At this point the boat motor ran out of gas.
Going down. Bottom floor. Dead fish, old tires, bottles, fishing gear, Jimmy Hoffa. I struggle to the surface and wait for Brad and Chad to stop laughing and refill the gas tank. I was fairly successful after that fiasco and even attempted that drop-off-one-ski thingie. A faceplant at 30-40 mph cured me of that thought. Hmm, maybe after I lose some of this tonnage and gain some muscle I'll give it another try.
I thought I had become a 265 lb weakling through many years of disuse and sedentariness but then I remembered how wimpy I was in high school. What brought this to my remembrance was the semi-fond memory of a fishing/water skiing trip that Brad, Chad, and I took to Mackay Dam in the summer of 1966 or 1967. Chad had a cool pale yellow Studebaker convertible and a boat, and a boat trailer, and skis. I had little brains, fewer arm muscles and lived on the way to the lake.
I had seen people water ski before. How hard could t be? All you have to do is hang on to a rope and skim lightly over the water. Even bugs can do it. Evidently bugs weigh less than the 200 lbs I weighed at the time. Brad and Chad both did quite well. In fact Chad could start on one ski instead of having to drop one off after starting with two. My turn.
I'm in the water, ski tips just above the surface, eagerly anticipating the jolt of the rope. Whang! There it is. Odd, shouldn't I be skimming merrily along the surface of the water? Why do I seem to be swallowing vast quantities of lake water? Perhaps they should have mentioned letting go of the rope.
After an inordinate amount of time I realized the surface of the water really should be below me and I had forgotten my gills. Air became enough of a priority that I figured out all by myself that letting go of the rope would be a decent thing to do. Having more stubbornness than brains, or muscles for that matter, I had let them drag me around the lake far too many more times when, wonder of wonder, I am on the skis and ON the surface! Woo Hoo! Whee!
At this point the boat motor ran out of gas.
Going down. Bottom floor. Dead fish, old tires, bottles, fishing gear, Jimmy Hoffa. I struggle to the surface and wait for Brad and Chad to stop laughing and refill the gas tank. I was fairly successful after that fiasco and even attempted that drop-off-one-ski thingie. A faceplant at 30-40 mph cured me of that thought. Hmm, maybe after I lose some of this tonnage and gain some muscle I'll give it another try.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I Got Your Sting Right Here!
When I told my office mates how well I was feeling last Thursday morning after my first workout, one of them said, "Wait until tomorrow." "Pshaw." scoffs I. So much for pshaw. Friday morning I couldn't lift my arms above my waist. I had to lay my razor on the sink and scrape my face against it. I was pathetic. I whimpered all morning and then realized it was FRIDAY! Saintly Doo-Doo! I had to go back to Abu Grabe again!
It turned out not to be nearly as bad as I feared and I actually looked forward to working out again on Monday (go figure). Saturday I was one big fat dynamo, mowing the front yard and doing all sorts of things other than keeping my backside glued to my recliner (college football hasn't started yet). I was so busy I hadn't taken time to take a dip in the pool until midnight.
Midnight swim. Sounds rather innocuous. Sure Babs (if she'd been awake) would have made a comment about the Sabbath and such, but what could possibly happen? The pool temperature was perfect. Refreshing beyond belief. No drowning, no sharks, no falling off the ladder, no pesky illumination by the TPD pork chopper, it was nice.
I towel off then head for bed. Not wanting to awaken Babs, I forgo turning on the light as I go into the bathroom holding the towel in front of me. I hadn't noticed that the towel was longer that the ones I usually use and managed to step on the bottom of it as I crossed the threshold. Things get blurry at this point. I stumble, I pull up on the towel, BUT, I don't land on my face nor break any appendages (maybe).
The next morning as I'm showering I notice that the big toe on my left foot is much darker than the other toes. Much darker. By the end of the day it was as big as a fist looked like Joseph's coat. It should have been painful as heck but, thanks to my gift of diabetes, I can pretty much just feel my feet when they hurt, not when they are hurt. I know that sounds weird but it is what it is.
After spending Monday morning hearing everyone tell me it's broken, I spent the afternoon at the emergency room where the Dr. took one look and told me it was broken. The x-rays proved otherwise as the radiologist couldn't find anything broken either. That's all I wanted to know. Since I couldn't feel it I just needed to know that I didn't have broken bones crunching into each other. The bad news was that I was unable to work out with Dan.
We had to put the workout off until Tuesday and then Dan wanted a note from my doctor. I thought he would have taken pity on me but no, he had me start doing ten reps instead of eight like last week. His Sadism knows no bounds. Workout number four was this afternoon and I'm still breathing so, so far so good.
It turned out not to be nearly as bad as I feared and I actually looked forward to working out again on Monday (go figure). Saturday I was one big fat dynamo, mowing the front yard and doing all sorts of things other than keeping my backside glued to my recliner (college football hasn't started yet). I was so busy I hadn't taken time to take a dip in the pool until midnight.
Midnight swim. Sounds rather innocuous. Sure Babs (if she'd been awake) would have made a comment about the Sabbath and such, but what could possibly happen? The pool temperature was perfect. Refreshing beyond belief. No drowning, no sharks, no falling off the ladder, no pesky illumination by the TPD pork chopper, it was nice.
I towel off then head for bed. Not wanting to awaken Babs, I forgo turning on the light as I go into the bathroom holding the towel in front of me. I hadn't noticed that the towel was longer that the ones I usually use and managed to step on the bottom of it as I crossed the threshold. Things get blurry at this point. I stumble, I pull up on the towel, BUT, I don't land on my face nor break any appendages (maybe).
The next morning as I'm showering I notice that the big toe on my left foot is much darker than the other toes. Much darker. By the end of the day it was as big as a fist looked like Joseph's coat. It should have been painful as heck but, thanks to my gift of diabetes, I can pretty much just feel my feet when they hurt, not when they are hurt. I know that sounds weird but it is what it is.
After spending Monday morning hearing everyone tell me it's broken, I spent the afternoon at the emergency room where the Dr. took one look and told me it was broken. The x-rays proved otherwise as the radiologist couldn't find anything broken either. That's all I wanted to know. Since I couldn't feel it I just needed to know that I didn't have broken bones crunching into each other. The bad news was that I was unable to work out with Dan.
We had to put the workout off until Tuesday and then Dan wanted a note from my doctor. I thought he would have taken pity on me but no, he had me start doing ten reps instead of eight like last week. His Sadism knows no bounds. Workout number four was this afternoon and I'm still breathing so, so far so good.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Where is Thy Sting
OK, I said Thursday would be my blog night and here it is Thursday,sort of. I actually started this laptop up before midnight but it is way beyond slow booting up and getting the internet going. Now I know why Pete left it booted up all the time and why he got a new one.
The title of this blog is a continuation of my previous one but it really has nothing to do with death, unless you consider the death of brain cells that I should have used to keep me from hiring Danny to be my personal trainer. He's been studying to take the certification test in October so somehow I thought it would be a grand idea for me to be his first client. Why wouldn't he want to try his newly acquired knowledge on an old fat man? Besides, I offered him room and board.
We decided to have one-hour workouts three days a week, on Monday Wednesday and Friday at 1:00 since the weight room at the old gym on base is almost empty at that time and I wouldn't embarrass him too much. Monday was rapidly approaching.
It's the monsoon season here in the Sonoran desert and it actually rained Sunday night and early Monday morning. It was a nice soaking rain, rain that inspired me to get up early and pull the weeds in the front yard (weeds bother me). There were many and I decided that was enough exercise for the day, maybe not the same as pumping iron, but enough. so Wednesday became day one of Danny's project to make me the man of my dreams.
1:00 indeed rolled around and there I was with Dan and his notebook in a room full of machines from the Spanish Inquisition. He had me do three sets of eight reps on various and sundry torture devices until the hour was almost up and he topped the session off with some "crunches" and a particularly devious exercise that I'm sure has been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. He called it a "plank" I think. It consists of resting on your forearms then raising your body to roughly the same position as a push up. It's supposed to be an indicator of how strong your "core" is. He said Bekah could hold the position for 15 seconds...I made it to three. "Try to make it to five," he says. I make it to three. Third try gets me to maybe four. "We'll work on this," he says.
All in all, I was satisfied with the workout even though my crunches were more like just being able to get my head off the floor. I am looking forward to Friday. I felt fine this morning other that the semi-usual excruciating stabbing pains that accompany my gift of diabetes. I was even motivated to mow the back yard (remember the rain? It made the grass grow). Now comes the sting part.
Since the lawn mowing and walking around Bookman's while Bella was at activity day(night) my feet, both of them, have felt like they are on fire. I put them in the pool, along with the rest of me, and let them soak until they were all wrinkled. Ah, much better now. Enough so I can can feel all those muscles I abused yesterday saying "Hey Ronnie, remember us?" Oh yeah, you guys...Ow.
The title of this blog is a continuation of my previous one but it really has nothing to do with death, unless you consider the death of brain cells that I should have used to keep me from hiring Danny to be my personal trainer. He's been studying to take the certification test in October so somehow I thought it would be a grand idea for me to be his first client. Why wouldn't he want to try his newly acquired knowledge on an old fat man? Besides, I offered him room and board.
We decided to have one-hour workouts three days a week, on Monday Wednesday and Friday at 1:00 since the weight room at the old gym on base is almost empty at that time and I wouldn't embarrass him too much. Monday was rapidly approaching.
It's the monsoon season here in the Sonoran desert and it actually rained Sunday night and early Monday morning. It was a nice soaking rain, rain that inspired me to get up early and pull the weeds in the front yard (weeds bother me). There were many and I decided that was enough exercise for the day, maybe not the same as pumping iron, but enough. so Wednesday became day one of Danny's project to make me the man of my dreams.
1:00 indeed rolled around and there I was with Dan and his notebook in a room full of machines from the Spanish Inquisition. He had me do three sets of eight reps on various and sundry torture devices until the hour was almost up and he topped the session off with some "crunches" and a particularly devious exercise that I'm sure has been outlawed by the Geneva Convention. He called it a "plank" I think. It consists of resting on your forearms then raising your body to roughly the same position as a push up. It's supposed to be an indicator of how strong your "core" is. He said Bekah could hold the position for 15 seconds...I made it to three. "Try to make it to five," he says. I make it to three. Third try gets me to maybe four. "We'll work on this," he says.
All in all, I was satisfied with the workout even though my crunches were more like just being able to get my head off the floor. I am looking forward to Friday. I felt fine this morning other that the semi-usual excruciating stabbing pains that accompany my gift of diabetes. I was even motivated to mow the back yard (remember the rain? It made the grass grow). Now comes the sting part.
Since the lawn mowing and walking around Bookman's while Bella was at activity day(night) my feet, both of them, have felt like they are on fire. I put them in the pool, along with the rest of me, and let them soak until they were all wrinkled. Ah, much better now. Enough so I can can feel all those muscles I abused yesterday saying "Hey Ronnie, remember us?" Oh yeah, you guys...Ow.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Oh, Death
It seems weird to be writing again so soon but Pete decided to replace is laptop since he will be gainfully employed come Monday and bequeathed his old one to me. It makes it much handier for me to blog while watching TV so my goal is to put something in here each Thursday night. We'll see how long I last. Here goes.
Lorna's head-on collision Tuesday night got me thinking about how fragile our grip is on this mortal existence. Maybe it's because of my current position on my own time line, I don't know. I became acquainted with death at a very early age as I attended the funerals of my grandparents and various uncles and aunts. Going to them had profound effect on me. Such that, as a seventh-grader I was upset by a poem that our teacher had us read that I felt made light of death. The only line I remember is: "Death is here, death is there, death is (something) everywhere." It bothered me enough that I wrote my own poem about death. It was nothing when compared with poetry that Bonnie or my Mom could write but it expressed how I felt at the time. I certainly didn't know when I wrote it how soon I would have t deal with the death of my Dad. I titled it "Death's Sweet Sleep." Here it is as best I remember it:
"Death comes calling at my door,
Taking loved ones as before.
When they are gone I grieve and weep.
So many now are lost in sleep.
Oh, that I could taste of death's sweet sleep.
No more to have to grieve and weep
for those I've loved who've tasted death.
Then to breath my one last breath.
Then to breathe again a purer air,
Air with a fragrance beyond compare.
To see again the ones I love
And dwell with the in our home above.
But I must stay to grieve and weep
For loved ones lost in death's sweet sleep."
It seems strange to think of that again after so many years and funerals. Now I find myself reading the obituaries to the point that I even check the online ones in my home town newspaper, the Blackfoot News. I feel like George Burns who said he would read the obituaries every morning and if he didn't see his name, he'd have breakfast...
Lorna's head-on collision Tuesday night got me thinking about how fragile our grip is on this mortal existence. Maybe it's because of my current position on my own time line, I don't know. I became acquainted with death at a very early age as I attended the funerals of my grandparents and various uncles and aunts. Going to them had profound effect on me. Such that, as a seventh-grader I was upset by a poem that our teacher had us read that I felt made light of death. The only line I remember is: "Death is here, death is there, death is (something) everywhere." It bothered me enough that I wrote my own poem about death. It was nothing when compared with poetry that Bonnie or my Mom could write but it expressed how I felt at the time. I certainly didn't know when I wrote it how soon I would have t deal with the death of my Dad. I titled it "Death's Sweet Sleep." Here it is as best I remember it:
"Death comes calling at my door,
Taking loved ones as before.
When they are gone I grieve and weep.
So many now are lost in sleep.
Oh, that I could taste of death's sweet sleep.
No more to have to grieve and weep
for those I've loved who've tasted death.
Then to breath my one last breath.
Then to breathe again a purer air,
Air with a fragrance beyond compare.
To see again the ones I love
And dwell with the in our home above.
But I must stay to grieve and weep
For loved ones lost in death's sweet sleep."
It seems strange to think of that again after so many years and funerals. Now I find myself reading the obituaries to the point that I even check the online ones in my home town newspaper, the Blackfoot News. I feel like George Burns who said he would read the obituaries every morning and if he didn't see his name, he'd have breakfast...
Monday, August 9, 2010
Why I Live in a Desert
Babs and I got back last week from a ten day trip to the South. Our son Scott had been transferred to Birmingham, AL and I volunteered to drive to drive the U-Haul full of all his worldly belongings. Since I was a truck driver in a previous life I figured hauling the stuff for a family of nine would be no sweat, especially since it would be my fourth trip that way in two years. Then Babs decided to come along. This woman detested driving the 40 miles to Benson, AZ when our kids were living there and thought a trip to Phoenix was absolute death. But, by coming with me she would be able to visit our kids at Ft Campbell, evidently enough motivation to go cross country in truck with me.
Though skeptical at first I was pleasantly surprised by how well she did on the 2,000 mile trek. She was a more-than-capable navigator and certainly kept me alive by not allowing me to over drive like I did on the other trips. Instead of driving straight through, she convinced me to make it a three day journey. Tumacacori, NM and Lonoke, AR are fine places to spend the night. I'm sure she was impressed by my breaking out in song for no particular reason.
After a night at Jer & Linda's place on Ft Campbell, KY, we borrowed their Corolla and headed for Birmingham. Let me tell you something about Birmingham. It's weird. It's the biggest city in Alabama but you can't tell because it's almost completely hidden by forests and hills. Green until you want to vomit. I had the GPS with me while Babs drove the car so I was depending on Olivia (the Australian chick GPS voice) to guide me to Scott & Suzie's new home. By the way, we called the GPS voice Olivia because we couldn't remember the other Australian chick's name (Nicole Kidman). Somehow she was confused and sent me the the opposite direction of his house so I had to turn the truck around in a space the size of a postage stamp. Major correction but successful none the less. We then began to unload the truck.
Now this is why I live in a desert. HUMIDITY. Ok, the lack thereof. Heat in the desert is HOT. Heat in the HUMID South, SUCKS! I had forgotten how it feels to sweat just because you are alive. Breathing. No concept of working up a sweat. Sweat is like Wal-Mart there. We did manage to get all the stuff into the house though it did take two days. It was tough to leave there knowing it would be quite some time before we see them again.
Jer was at the W.C. Handy Jazz Festival in Florence, AL so we stopped there on our way to Ft Campbell and got to see him perform with the jazz ensemble. They were great and I realized that the tuba player is the hardest worker in a jazz ensemble. It was fun to hear him do some barbershop quartet too. We took the direct route to Ft Campbell on mostly two lane roads with beautiful scenery all the way.
We had fun at Jer & Linda's home then flew back on Monday. Until we got on the plane, we didn't realize we were sitting in different rows, from both Nashville to Denver and Denver to Tucson. Scott bought the tickets. May he thought we'd had enough time sitting together...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Annie Oakley I'm Not
I was bored and sad that nobody had commented on my last blog (I changed the title to protect...something) so I was reading some of my past blogs and realized that I hadn't written about the other shooting. Once again we return to those thrilling days of yesteryear...
It was the Fall of1965 (probably) my Dad was working as a diesel-shovel mechanic on a project building a railroad to an iron mine in the outback of Western Australia. He had been gone for a couple of months and I missed him dearly but he was making about three-times as much money per month than he ever had made before so that sort of made up for him not being at home.
The other benefit was me having free use of the vehicles and guns while he was gone. Deer season came around so my two very best friends (Brad Kirwan and Chad Eberhard) and I planned a hunting trip to the Eastern part of Idaho by Palisades. I'm not sure why we went that far away since there were plenty of deer much closer but what would be the adventure in that.
One Friday afternoon after school we piled our supplies, guns and selves into my Dad's pickup and camper, hooked our jeep to the back and off we went to the beautiful area by Palisades Dam in search of poor defenseless Bambi. It was probably in November because I remember it being colder than nails in the woods where we camped that night. There may have even been snow on the ground. It was COLD.
The next morning we awoke before dawn to get ready for the big hunt. Brad was in the camper cooking us some breakfast while Chad and I were getting our guns loaded. We had both of the pickup doors open with Chad on the driver's side and me on the passenger side. It was just getting light enough for us to almost see what we were doing.
I had my Dad's J C Higgins .270 deer rifle pointing down into the seat of the pickup while I loaded bullets into its magazine. After putting the last bullet in and closing the bolt, I realized that I had cocked the weapon. My puny brain said, "You don't want to leave this thing cocked." So the easiest way to uncock it would be to...yes Virginia, pull the trigger!
Unfortunately not one single cell of the rest of that puny brain remembered that upon closing the bolt I had jacked a round into the firing chamber. Now, keep in mind that Chad was standing at the other open door of the truck, less than three feet from the business end of said rifle.
BOOM!!! And a flash brighter than the sun!
Chad lets out a blood-curdling scream and grabs his belly.
I walked around to the back of the camper where I meet Brad barreling out of the back door. He said later that he had never seen me quite that white.
"I know where we can hide the body." He says. "We passed a waterfall on the way in here. We can throw Chad's body over the falls and they'll never find it." "We can say he got lost while we were hunting."
We both started walking to Chad's side of the truck, fully expecting to find his lifeless, bloody remains lying on the forest floor. But no, much to our surprise, he was still breathing. Well, panting really, and holding his belly. When he removed his hands from his abdomen lo, and behold, there was no blood, no gaping hole, no nothing!
At this point I think he said something about me scaring the crap out of him or something like that. We were so happy that he wasn't dead and we wouldn't have to drag his lifeless body back to the waterfall that we momentarily forgot about what damage I must have done to the truck whose gas tank was only inches from where my rifle went off.
We thoroughly searched the seat and cab of the pickup but never did find where the bullet went. There were powder burns and a mighty fine hole in the seat but that was all.
I didn't tell my Mom when we got back and nothing was said about it at all. Until one day the following summer when my Dad was back from Australia and Brad happened to be with us as we were getting into the pickup. My Dad pointed to the blackened hole torn into the seat and asked if I knew anything about how that could have gotten there. Since I knew he wouldn't kill me with Brad as a witness, I told him the whole story of the "Miracle at Palisades." He traded the pickup in for a new one the next week...
It was the Fall of1965 (probably) my Dad was working as a diesel-shovel mechanic on a project building a railroad to an iron mine in the outback of Western Australia. He had been gone for a couple of months and I missed him dearly but he was making about three-times as much money per month than he ever had made before so that sort of made up for him not being at home.
The other benefit was me having free use of the vehicles and guns while he was gone. Deer season came around so my two very best friends (Brad Kirwan and Chad Eberhard) and I planned a hunting trip to the Eastern part of Idaho by Palisades. I'm not sure why we went that far away since there were plenty of deer much closer but what would be the adventure in that.
One Friday afternoon after school we piled our supplies, guns and selves into my Dad's pickup and camper, hooked our jeep to the back and off we went to the beautiful area by Palisades Dam in search of poor defenseless Bambi. It was probably in November because I remember it being colder than nails in the woods where we camped that night. There may have even been snow on the ground. It was COLD.
The next morning we awoke before dawn to get ready for the big hunt. Brad was in the camper cooking us some breakfast while Chad and I were getting our guns loaded. We had both of the pickup doors open with Chad on the driver's side and me on the passenger side. It was just getting light enough for us to almost see what we were doing.
I had my Dad's J C Higgins .270 deer rifle pointing down into the seat of the pickup while I loaded bullets into its magazine. After putting the last bullet in and closing the bolt, I realized that I had cocked the weapon. My puny brain said, "You don't want to leave this thing cocked." So the easiest way to uncock it would be to...yes Virginia, pull the trigger!
Unfortunately not one single cell of the rest of that puny brain remembered that upon closing the bolt I had jacked a round into the firing chamber. Now, keep in mind that Chad was standing at the other open door of the truck, less than three feet from the business end of said rifle.
BOOM!!! And a flash brighter than the sun!
Chad lets out a blood-curdling scream and grabs his belly.
I walked around to the back of the camper where I meet Brad barreling out of the back door. He said later that he had never seen me quite that white.
"I know where we can hide the body." He says. "We passed a waterfall on the way in here. We can throw Chad's body over the falls and they'll never find it." "We can say he got lost while we were hunting."
We both started walking to Chad's side of the truck, fully expecting to find his lifeless, bloody remains lying on the forest floor. But no, much to our surprise, he was still breathing. Well, panting really, and holding his belly. When he removed his hands from his abdomen lo, and behold, there was no blood, no gaping hole, no nothing!
At this point I think he said something about me scaring the crap out of him or something like that. We were so happy that he wasn't dead and we wouldn't have to drag his lifeless body back to the waterfall that we momentarily forgot about what damage I must have done to the truck whose gas tank was only inches from where my rifle went off.
We thoroughly searched the seat and cab of the pickup but never did find where the bullet went. There were powder burns and a mighty fine hole in the seat but that was all.
I didn't tell my Mom when we got back and nothing was said about it at all. Until one day the following summer when my Dad was back from Australia and Brad happened to be with us as we were getting into the pickup. My Dad pointed to the blackened hole torn into the seat and asked if I knew anything about how that could have gotten there. Since I knew he wouldn't kill me with Brad as a witness, I told him the whole story of the "Miracle at Palisades." He traded the pickup in for a new one the next week...
Friday, May 7, 2010
Oats, of the Wild Variety
This is in memory of Preston Belnap. His funeral was today, May 7, 2010.
Back in the dark ages when I was a young and stupid lad of 17, I had acquired a taste for that evil brew known as beer. Perhaps it was due to my father drinking beer every single day of his adult life, I don't know. I had discovered that I could pass for 21 and purchase the stuff without showing ID at most of the little Mom & Pop stores in Blackfoot. They were the precursors to 7-11, Circle K, and the like.
Though I semi-enjoyed the flavor, I was not impressed by the cost. I was rather poor (and cheap) at the time and could not justify spending 25 cents for a 12 oz can of beer when I could get the same size can of soda-pop AND a Hostess Fruit Pie for the same quarter. I quickly learned it was much better to spend someone else's money on beer. Since I had "friends" with the same desire for beer but more money than I, we developed quite a symbiotic relationship where I would use their money to buy the beer and take my cut from how ever much I bought.
There were several times that they ran me to a store during 7th period study hall to buy a case and I had to drink my six-pack on the way back to the school to catch the bus home. I must admit it made the hour-long ride back to Atomic City a bit more bearable.
I had been at these escapades for some time when I started dating a nice girl from our rival school, Blackfoot High. Her dad was in the Stake presidency of the LDS church there. Needless to say she was way not impressed when she found out about what I was doing and let me know that I needed to make a choice. It was an easy one for me since I knew I could get along quite well without the beer but was really, really smitten with her.
Months go by and I am being a good little boy. It is February 11, 1967. My girlfriend is in Utah on a debate team trip. Enter the above named Preston Belnap, one of my old drinking buddies. We planned a double-date to a stake dance in Moreland. Preston has money, we have time before we pick up our dates, the lethal pieces begin to fall into place. Preston's funds buy us six cans of Colt45 malt liquor and a six-pack of Nehi lemonade pop for Preston to chase the beer with since he was more enamored of the buzz than flavor of the beer. He was also not very coordinated so he needed a place where he could stand up to drink lest he should spill it on himself and we attend the dance with him smelling like a brewery.
We were in my 1957 VW Beetle looking for a nice, dark, secluded place to do our nefarious deeds when we found the perfect spot behind the old Garrett Trucking building. We got out of the car and Preston handed me a can of beer. I opened it and tossed the opener to him. This was before pop-tops, ok. I took a swallow and, with the can still tilted to my lips, I saw a police car pull around the side of the building. "COPS!" I yell to Preston, so we jump back into the car to beat a hasty retreat. But no, beetle no startee.
Blackfoot's finest then strolls up to my window and asks, "What are you guys doing here?" "Resting", says I (the product of a seriously vacant brain under far too much pressure). "Oh really", says the gendarme. "Let me see your driver's license." I gave it to him as he was shining his flashlight into the car. "What's that on the floor there?" Quite a valid question since I had put my open can of beer on the floor between my feet. Preston, ever-so-much more clever than I, grabbed a bottle of pop and held it up. "See, it's pop, we're just drinking some pop."
"Oh really," says the gestapo. "Get out of the car." We piled out and they found my can and the rest of the beer. Once they had our beer they could have sent us on our way but no, that would ruin the rest of the story. "Get back in your car and drive to the police station and don't try to get away because I have your license." Why of course, I thought, we'll get right in this VW with its Pfaff sewing machine motor and leave your police cruiser in our dust! Yeah, right.
When we got to the station we were fingerprinted and told that if we were 18 they would just put us in the drunk tank overnight but, since we were both 17 we would have to call our parents to come and get us. CALL MY PARENTS! I'd much rather take my chances in the tank with the drunk Indians and their can openers and toenails than call my folks that are 30 miles away and in bed. No dice. Preston called his while I contemplated running from the building and having three warning shots fired into my legs.
Now you need to know that my dad did not like to answer the phone. It was just a little quirk of his that endeared him even more to me at this point in time. No sweat, I can tell Mom. I'm her darling boy. No problem. Baritone voice, "Hello." BIG problem. I really, really wanted to ask for my mommy but my mouth just wouldn't form the words. "Hi, I'm at the police station." "Police station?" "What the Hell are you doing at the police station?"
Have you heard the verbal "fine print" they say at the end of radio commercials? That's pretty much what I sounded like as I said, "Preston-and-I-got-caught-drinking-you-have-to-come-get-me-goodbye." Click. It was a very long wait.
While Preston's folks sprung him, the police were nice enough to let me make another call. I called my date and said that something had come up and I wouldn't be taking her to the dance. Preston kept his date.
A year or so later Mom & Dad got there and soon there after we were on our way out of the station with a court date the next week. Justice is swift in Blackfoot, Idaho. As we were walking out my Dad said, "As much trouble as your brother got into and was gone for months at a time, I never once had to get him out of jail." "You know I drink, if you want to drink just drink at home." "Hell, I'll even buy it for you, I just don't want to have to keep getting your butt out of jail." I told him that I didn't really want to drink (semi-true) and I wouldn't drink again (true). He died just over a month later. It's a promise I have kept to this day.
The court date came and there we were with our shiny faces in front of the Judge. I was charged with possession and consumption since I'd actually had a swallow and Preston hadn't opened his can when we got caught. As is the case in small towns (Blackfoot about 9,000 at the time and Atomic City less than 50), almost everyone knows everyone else.
The judge was the Stake president whose counselor was my girlfriend's dad. As he read what the charges he was quite surprised and asked, "Aren't you Boy Scouts?" "Ron, don't you go with ____? my counselor's daughter?" "What are you two doing here?" Hmm, where had we heard that before? "What do you think I should do with you two?" At this point the vacuum between my ears overpowered the muscles that control my vocal chords and I said, "But your highness, it's only our first offense."
Let this be a warning to all. Don't ever, ever, ever say that to a judge. He turned red in the face. He was, shall we say, a wee bit peeved. "FIRST OFFENSE, FIRST OFFENSE!" "Let me read you the law young man! (I stopped breathing) "Right here it says illegal possession and consumption of alcohol by a juvenile is punishable by a maximum of one year in jail and a one-thousand dollar fine!" "I don't see anything at all about first offense." I wet myself.
I wanted Perry Mason to magically appear, I wanted what I said stricken from the record, I wanted my Mommy. Fortunately for us all my brain was completely dead by this time. The judge regained his composure and after noting that Preston would have been guilty of consumption too if he would have had time, gave us each a 5-day suspended sentence. Justice had been served.
My Dad had me frame the court petition with all the charges on it and hang it over my bed for some light reading before retiring and upon awakening each morning.
As a side note, the newspaper couldn't print our names since we weren't 18. The article said a 17 year old Atomic City youth had been arrested for underage drinking. There wasn't exactly a plethora of 17-year-olds residing in beautiful downtown Atomic City at the time...I was it.
Back in the dark ages when I was a young and stupid lad of 17, I had acquired a taste for that evil brew known as beer. Perhaps it was due to my father drinking beer every single day of his adult life, I don't know. I had discovered that I could pass for 21 and purchase the stuff without showing ID at most of the little Mom & Pop stores in Blackfoot. They were the precursors to 7-11, Circle K, and the like.
Though I semi-enjoyed the flavor, I was not impressed by the cost. I was rather poor (and cheap) at the time and could not justify spending 25 cents for a 12 oz can of beer when I could get the same size can of soda-pop AND a Hostess Fruit Pie for the same quarter. I quickly learned it was much better to spend someone else's money on beer. Since I had "friends" with the same desire for beer but more money than I, we developed quite a symbiotic relationship where I would use their money to buy the beer and take my cut from how ever much I bought.
There were several times that they ran me to a store during 7th period study hall to buy a case and I had to drink my six-pack on the way back to the school to catch the bus home. I must admit it made the hour-long ride back to Atomic City a bit more bearable.
I had been at these escapades for some time when I started dating a nice girl from our rival school, Blackfoot High. Her dad was in the Stake presidency of the LDS church there. Needless to say she was way not impressed when she found out about what I was doing and let me know that I needed to make a choice. It was an easy one for me since I knew I could get along quite well without the beer but was really, really smitten with her.
Months go by and I am being a good little boy. It is February 11, 1967. My girlfriend is in Utah on a debate team trip. Enter the above named Preston Belnap, one of my old drinking buddies. We planned a double-date to a stake dance in Moreland. Preston has money, we have time before we pick up our dates, the lethal pieces begin to fall into place. Preston's funds buy us six cans of Colt45 malt liquor and a six-pack of Nehi lemonade pop for Preston to chase the beer with since he was more enamored of the buzz than flavor of the beer. He was also not very coordinated so he needed a place where he could stand up to drink lest he should spill it on himself and we attend the dance with him smelling like a brewery.
We were in my 1957 VW Beetle looking for a nice, dark, secluded place to do our nefarious deeds when we found the perfect spot behind the old Garrett Trucking building. We got out of the car and Preston handed me a can of beer. I opened it and tossed the opener to him. This was before pop-tops, ok. I took a swallow and, with the can still tilted to my lips, I saw a police car pull around the side of the building. "COPS!" I yell to Preston, so we jump back into the car to beat a hasty retreat. But no, beetle no startee.
Blackfoot's finest then strolls up to my window and asks, "What are you guys doing here?" "Resting", says I (the product of a seriously vacant brain under far too much pressure). "Oh really", says the gendarme. "Let me see your driver's license." I gave it to him as he was shining his flashlight into the car. "What's that on the floor there?" Quite a valid question since I had put my open can of beer on the floor between my feet. Preston, ever-so-much more clever than I, grabbed a bottle of pop and held it up. "See, it's pop, we're just drinking some pop."
"Oh really," says the gestapo. "Get out of the car." We piled out and they found my can and the rest of the beer. Once they had our beer they could have sent us on our way but no, that would ruin the rest of the story. "Get back in your car and drive to the police station and don't try to get away because I have your license." Why of course, I thought, we'll get right in this VW with its Pfaff sewing machine motor and leave your police cruiser in our dust! Yeah, right.
When we got to the station we were fingerprinted and told that if we were 18 they would just put us in the drunk tank overnight but, since we were both 17 we would have to call our parents to come and get us. CALL MY PARENTS! I'd much rather take my chances in the tank with the drunk Indians and their can openers and toenails than call my folks that are 30 miles away and in bed. No dice. Preston called his while I contemplated running from the building and having three warning shots fired into my legs.
Now you need to know that my dad did not like to answer the phone. It was just a little quirk of his that endeared him even more to me at this point in time. No sweat, I can tell Mom. I'm her darling boy. No problem. Baritone voice, "Hello." BIG problem. I really, really wanted to ask for my mommy but my mouth just wouldn't form the words. "Hi, I'm at the police station." "Police station?" "What the Hell are you doing at the police station?"
Have you heard the verbal "fine print" they say at the end of radio commercials? That's pretty much what I sounded like as I said, "Preston-and-I-got-caught-drinking-you-have-to-come-get-me-goodbye." Click. It was a very long wait.
While Preston's folks sprung him, the police were nice enough to let me make another call. I called my date and said that something had come up and I wouldn't be taking her to the dance. Preston kept his date.
A year or so later Mom & Dad got there and soon there after we were on our way out of the station with a court date the next week. Justice is swift in Blackfoot, Idaho. As we were walking out my Dad said, "As much trouble as your brother got into and was gone for months at a time, I never once had to get him out of jail." "You know I drink, if you want to drink just drink at home." "Hell, I'll even buy it for you, I just don't want to have to keep getting your butt out of jail." I told him that I didn't really want to drink (semi-true) and I wouldn't drink again (true). He died just over a month later. It's a promise I have kept to this day.
The court date came and there we were with our shiny faces in front of the Judge. I was charged with possession and consumption since I'd actually had a swallow and Preston hadn't opened his can when we got caught. As is the case in small towns (Blackfoot about 9,000 at the time and Atomic City less than 50), almost everyone knows everyone else.
The judge was the Stake president whose counselor was my girlfriend's dad. As he read what the charges he was quite surprised and asked, "Aren't you Boy Scouts?" "Ron, don't you go with ____? my counselor's daughter?" "What are you two doing here?" Hmm, where had we heard that before? "What do you think I should do with you two?" At this point the vacuum between my ears overpowered the muscles that control my vocal chords and I said, "But your highness, it's only our first offense."
Let this be a warning to all. Don't ever, ever, ever say that to a judge. He turned red in the face. He was, shall we say, a wee bit peeved. "FIRST OFFENSE, FIRST OFFENSE!" "Let me read you the law young man! (I stopped breathing) "Right here it says illegal possession and consumption of alcohol by a juvenile is punishable by a maximum of one year in jail and a one-thousand dollar fine!" "I don't see anything at all about first offense." I wet myself.
I wanted Perry Mason to magically appear, I wanted what I said stricken from the record, I wanted my Mommy. Fortunately for us all my brain was completely dead by this time. The judge regained his composure and after noting that Preston would have been guilty of consumption too if he would have had time, gave us each a 5-day suspended sentence. Justice had been served.
My Dad had me frame the court petition with all the charges on it and hang it over my bed for some light reading before retiring and upon awakening each morning.
As a side note, the newspaper couldn't print our names since we weren't 18. The article said a 17 year old Atomic City youth had been arrested for underage drinking. There wasn't exactly a plethora of 17-year-olds residing in beautiful downtown Atomic City at the time...I was it.
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