The Judicial Branch at its very best

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

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

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

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

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

Howe Home News (Tucson Branch)

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

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

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

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

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

Maybee?

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

Ron 2-Gazillion (more or less) Bees 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Shooting of Bucky Nelson

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

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

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

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

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

At Last, The Bucky of Nelsondom

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

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

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

Next time, The of Bucky Nelson.