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...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
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.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Showers
If you read my previous post, you know about the trip to Minneapolis. Well an interesting feature of that trip was the fact that water fell from those big gray things in the sky on a continual basis from just East of Amarillo until we were in Iowa! For the geographically challenged, that is approximately 800 miles, 14 hours, and took us through part of Texas, all of Oklahoma, all of Kansas, all of Missouri, and part of Iowa. We don't do rain in Tucson. Water is something that has to be pumped out of the ground. We didn't see the sun from the time we left Gallup, NM until Monday morning when we were at Amy's new home in Minneapolis. This is not good for an old fat guy.
Showers Part II: Monday evening after some guys from the Elder's quorum came over and unloaded the U-Haul (actually they carried the stuff into the house, I handed them each item from the truck), I figured it would be a grand idea to take a shower since Amy kept telling me I stank to high heaven. Perhaps she was correct since I had been wearing the same clothes since Friday morning. Amy had purchased a shower curtain that morning and had installed it as she unpacked all her bathroom accouterments. She has one of those telephone looking shower thingies that I like but she had no tools to install it and the people upstairs were asleep so we couldn't borrow tools. Alas, I would have to use a regular shower head but I have suffered worse things in my long life. The absolute worst thing about a regular shower head is getting that blast of frigid water when you switch from tub to shower. When I become rich and famous, I'll hire someone to do that for me. After suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous cold water, I began to hose off three days worth of encrusted filth that would have left a ring around Lake Superior. It felt magnificent! I am a simple man with simple tastes. I like a nice, easy bar of soap. Alas again, this is a woman's shower/tub with 37 different bottles, tubes, scrapers, razors and nothing even rsembling a bar of soap. So I started reading the labels to see what I could find and finally came up with Dove Exfoliating Body Wash. I had a body that needed washing and doves are kind of cool pigeon looking things, so what could possibly go wrong? Exfoliating evidently means adding parakeet gravel so as to abrade the top layer of one's epidurmis into oblivion. I should have used sand. With no rubber no-skid thing in the tub and no telephone thingie, I was hesitant to stand on one foot lest I fall and break a hip, so I decided to sit on the edge of the tub to rinse my feet. Did I tell you it is mid-November and I am in MiniWhatTheCrapolis, Minnesota? Yes, the edge of the tub was coolish. Polar icecap coolish. Now I know why I live in Tucson and have my very own shower with a telephone thingie shower head.
Showers Part II: Monday evening after some guys from the Elder's quorum came over and unloaded the U-Haul (actually they carried the stuff into the house, I handed them each item from the truck), I figured it would be a grand idea to take a shower since Amy kept telling me I stank to high heaven. Perhaps she was correct since I had been wearing the same clothes since Friday morning. Amy had purchased a shower curtain that morning and had installed it as she unpacked all her bathroom accouterments. She has one of those telephone looking shower thingies that I like but she had no tools to install it and the people upstairs were asleep so we couldn't borrow tools. Alas, I would have to use a regular shower head but I have suffered worse things in my long life. The absolute worst thing about a regular shower head is getting that blast of frigid water when you switch from tub to shower. When I become rich and famous, I'll hire someone to do that for me. After suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous cold water, I began to hose off three days worth of encrusted filth that would have left a ring around Lake Superior. It felt magnificent! I am a simple man with simple tastes. I like a nice, easy bar of soap. Alas again, this is a woman's shower/tub with 37 different bottles, tubes, scrapers, razors and nothing even rsembling a bar of soap. So I started reading the labels to see what I could find and finally came up with Dove Exfoliating Body Wash. I had a body that needed washing and doves are kind of cool pigeon looking things, so what could possibly go wrong? Exfoliating evidently means adding parakeet gravel so as to abrade the top layer of one's epidurmis into oblivion. I should have used sand. With no rubber no-skid thing in the tub and no telephone thingie, I was hesitant to stand on one foot lest I fall and break a hip, so I decided to sit on the edge of the tub to rinse my feet. Did I tell you it is mid-November and I am in MiniWhatTheCrapolis, Minnesota? Yes, the edge of the tub was coolish. Polar icecap coolish. Now I know why I live in Tucson and have my very own shower with a telephone thingie shower head.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Travlin' Man
It all started when my much older sister (Lorna) was talking about her annual pilgrimage to Idaho for the Potter (my mom's maiden name) family reunion in Lava Hot Springs. I went with her two years ago when it coincided with my 40-year high school reunion and had so much fun being her chauffeur that I went with her again last year for our brother's birthday. Too bad I couldn't afford the airfare to Boise. But wait! For less than the price of a ticket for one, we could rent a car and drive there and back so we did. A little over 2,000 miles later, we had had a great and scary time (I'll write about that later). That was at the end of June, In August we (Babs and I) flew to Nashville and spent two weeks visiting our kids in Huntsville, AL and Clarksville, TN. Three, yes three days after we got home I drove with Dan in his un-airconditioned Tracker the 1600 miles to Melissa and Josh's place in Huntsville, then flew home. Exactly one month later (Sept 14th) I flew to Nashville and drove BACK with Dan. Now, two months after that (Nov 14th) I drove a U-Haul truck with all of Amy's belongings and her SUV in tow on a car carrier to Mineapolis, MN to the tune of another 1800 miles! I've driven I-40 so much that people are starting to recognize me along the way. It's like Norm going into Cheers... "RON, how have you been?" "Haven't seen you for a couple of months." "Everything OK?" My butt may never be the same. I can hardly wait to see where and how far I'll be driving come Feb 14th.
Monday, August 24, 2009
The TDY from H-E Double-Hockey Sticks
This is Departure from the latest happenings but came to my mind while driving in the middle of the night in the middle of noware New Mexico as Danny slept on our way to Alabama the weekend before last (that's a story for later). Hang on, it's going to be a bumpy ride.
This TDY took place back in 1980 when I was a young USAF Staff Sergeant assigned to a mobile training team at Lackland AFB in San Antonio, TX. For you civilians, TDY is Air Force (and Army)-speak for Temporary Duty. The Navy and Marines call it TAD (Temporarily Assigned Duty). It's one of the very few things they do that makes more sense than what we do so I'll give them that much. I never did figure out what the Y was for anyway.
I worked for an outfit called BISS (Base and Installation Security Systems). We called it Because I Said So. Our job was to travel the country and teach members of the local Security Police Squadron how to respond to the alarms generated by bad guys trying to overrun the base. Supposedly they woud disturb sensors buried in the ground outside the base perimeter or hanging on the fences (the sensors, not the bad guys) thus illuminating little lights on a display panel.
Our three-man team was to go to Fairchild AFB in Spokane, WA to give said training. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. A quick commercial flight to Spokane and we'd be in business. Not so fast, Buckwheat. I think a guy on the team had just dumped the girl who made our flight arrangements which were thus: San Antonio to Dallas, Dallas to Amarillo, Amarillo to Denver, Denver to Billings, MT, Billings to Missoula, and finally, Missoula to Spokane. She must have been REALLY ticked off.
After hopping from city to city ALL BLEEDING DAY, we were on our way from Billings to Missoula when the captain informed us that Missoula was fogged in so we would be going on to Spokane. Oh, drat! We would miss out on another take-off and landing, decreasing our chances to crash and burn, shucks. Twenty minutes later we landed in MISSOULA! The idiot pilot decided he could land and let off the ONE passenger that was going there. He (the passenger) got off and we taxied to the end of the runway to take off, but NO, it was too foggy! We waited for an hour. No dice, just fog.
Mr. pilot then informed us that it was now too late to take off so we would all get to spend the night in beautiful downtown Missoula. By the time we got our luggage and to the motel, it was 11:30PM. The sidewalks had been rolled up at 9:00 so there wasn't anything open at ALL. This was in the land before time, Circle K, and Waffle-House. The airline crew managed to convince the cook at the motel's restaurant to feed us so we wouldn't faint. by the time we got to our rooms all three TV stations had signed off for the night so we went to bed.
The next morning they fed us breakfast then took us to the airport where it was still so foggy that all the airplanes were flying over us and none could take off from where we were. Around noon they told us that the fog wasn't going to lift so we had options. Outside were two busses. Bus A would take us to Spokane, or Bus B would take us to Billings where we could get on a plane that would fly OVER Missoula and take us to Spokane.
Since we had had so very much fun already, we dicided the day was shot anyway so why not see more of Montana and ride back to Billings. So we did and we saw where the buffalo roam and the deer and the antelope play for SIX HOURS! At last we got to Billings, baorded the plane and flew to Missoula. Yes boys and girls, the fog had lifted so we were right back in beautiful Missoula. I vowed to hijack the plane if necessary to get us to Spokane but it took off without incident and got us to our destination only TWO DAYS after we left San Antonio.
This TDY took place back in 1980 when I was a young USAF Staff Sergeant assigned to a mobile training team at Lackland AFB in San Antonio, TX. For you civilians, TDY is Air Force (and Army)-speak for Temporary Duty. The Navy and Marines call it TAD (Temporarily Assigned Duty). It's one of the very few things they do that makes more sense than what we do so I'll give them that much. I never did figure out what the Y was for anyway.
I worked for an outfit called BISS (Base and Installation Security Systems). We called it Because I Said So. Our job was to travel the country and teach members of the local Security Police Squadron how to respond to the alarms generated by bad guys trying to overrun the base. Supposedly they woud disturb sensors buried in the ground outside the base perimeter or hanging on the fences (the sensors, not the bad guys) thus illuminating little lights on a display panel.
Our three-man team was to go to Fairchild AFB in Spokane, WA to give said training. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. A quick commercial flight to Spokane and we'd be in business. Not so fast, Buckwheat. I think a guy on the team had just dumped the girl who made our flight arrangements which were thus: San Antonio to Dallas, Dallas to Amarillo, Amarillo to Denver, Denver to Billings, MT, Billings to Missoula, and finally, Missoula to Spokane. She must have been REALLY ticked off.
After hopping from city to city ALL BLEEDING DAY, we were on our way from Billings to Missoula when the captain informed us that Missoula was fogged in so we would be going on to Spokane. Oh, drat! We would miss out on another take-off and landing, decreasing our chances to crash and burn, shucks. Twenty minutes later we landed in MISSOULA! The idiot pilot decided he could land and let off the ONE passenger that was going there. He (the passenger) got off and we taxied to the end of the runway to take off, but NO, it was too foggy! We waited for an hour. No dice, just fog.
Mr. pilot then informed us that it was now too late to take off so we would all get to spend the night in beautiful downtown Missoula. By the time we got our luggage and to the motel, it was 11:30PM. The sidewalks had been rolled up at 9:00 so there wasn't anything open at ALL. This was in the land before time, Circle K, and Waffle-House. The airline crew managed to convince the cook at the motel's restaurant to feed us so we wouldn't faint. by the time we got to our rooms all three TV stations had signed off for the night so we went to bed.
The next morning they fed us breakfast then took us to the airport where it was still so foggy that all the airplanes were flying over us and none could take off from where we were. Around noon they told us that the fog wasn't going to lift so we had options. Outside were two busses. Bus A would take us to Spokane, or Bus B would take us to Billings where we could get on a plane that would fly OVER Missoula and take us to Spokane.
Since we had had so very much fun already, we dicided the day was shot anyway so why not see more of Montana and ride back to Billings. So we did and we saw where the buffalo roam and the deer and the antelope play for SIX HOURS! At last we got to Billings, baorded the plane and flew to Missoula. Yes boys and girls, the fog had lifted so we were right back in beautiful Missoula. I vowed to hijack the plane if necessary to get us to Spokane but it took off without incident and got us to our destination only TWO DAYS after we left San Antonio.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
To Catch aThief (well, allmost)
While Lorna and I were in our way back from Idaho July1st we were in nowhere northern AZ when Babs called and said someone had broken into our storeroom and stolen two of Pete's bikes and her radial saw, Dremel and the big case of drill bits. They must have been scared off because they left the weed eater and new lawn chairs by the gate. The finks had pried the hasp off with a weed puller that I had left near by. She and Dan got some bigger screws and fixed the hasp since we, Lorna and I, wouldn't get back until the next day. Pete was all wadded up because we live in the ghetto and should move or get a dog or an alarm system or something.
Cut to ten days later. It's 0530 Saturday morning. Babs and Bekah are still at girl's camp. I woke up, went to the bathroom and planned to go back to sleep. I heard a noise but thought it was Pete getting up so I decided to make the bed since Babs would be coming back that morning. I noticed Pete was still in bed then heard more noise. I decided to check the back yard so I threw on some some pants and went to check it out. When I got outside I could see that the storeroom door was open and there,in the alley was a guy loading our stuff into his car. I walked over to the wall and said "What the blank are you doing!" "You allready broke in here a week ago!" "That wasn't me." The little weasel said. "I heard about this place from someone else." (nice to know I'm on the thieve's network, the retards probably have me on speed-dial) "Why do you keep taking my stuff?" "I'm out of work and have a family to support" he says. "I'll help you find a job! Just quit taking my stuff!" "I need to get out of here before the cops come" he says. "I haven't called the cops and won't call them if you just give my stuff back." "Okay, I'll go get your stuff and bring it back." "Really? How about giving back the drill press and belt sander in the back seat of your car?" "I gotta go" he said and drove off down the alley. I got a good look at his plate (AHC-7552) so I called 911 and told them. I woke Pete and he said I should have gotten him up earlier so he could have grabbed his shotgun and shot the turd in the face. That's all I'd need, Pete in jail for shooting the guy. With my luck, he would have missed and left the guy paralzed so he could sue me for everything I would ever have in my life. We now have police report number two. This time the creep got the table saw and the scroll saw along with the drill press and table saw. The only thing left is the router that he left in the alley because he hadn't put it in the trunk yet. Oh, they ran the plate and it was a stolen car. I went to Ace Hardware and for $10 I got bolts and such so now the hasp is bolted on so he'll at least have to work up a sweat next time. We're having a secrity door made for the storeroom and burgler bars for the rest of the windows and doors. It will cost about $3,000 but that's less than the $11,000 worth of stuff we've had stolen in the past two years. I plan to go to the swap meet Friday to see if I can find the jerk and/or our stuff.
Cut to ten days later. It's 0530 Saturday morning. Babs and Bekah are still at girl's camp. I woke up, went to the bathroom and planned to go back to sleep. I heard a noise but thought it was Pete getting up so I decided to make the bed since Babs would be coming back that morning. I noticed Pete was still in bed then heard more noise. I decided to check the back yard so I threw on some some pants and went to check it out. When I got outside I could see that the storeroom door was open and there,in the alley was a guy loading our stuff into his car. I walked over to the wall and said "What the blank are you doing!" "You allready broke in here a week ago!" "That wasn't me." The little weasel said. "I heard about this place from someone else." (nice to know I'm on the thieve's network, the retards probably have me on speed-dial) "Why do you keep taking my stuff?" "I'm out of work and have a family to support" he says. "I'll help you find a job! Just quit taking my stuff!" "I need to get out of here before the cops come" he says. "I haven't called the cops and won't call them if you just give my stuff back." "Okay, I'll go get your stuff and bring it back." "Really? How about giving back the drill press and belt sander in the back seat of your car?" "I gotta go" he said and drove off down the alley. I got a good look at his plate (AHC-7552) so I called 911 and told them. I woke Pete and he said I should have gotten him up earlier so he could have grabbed his shotgun and shot the turd in the face. That's all I'd need, Pete in jail for shooting the guy. With my luck, he would have missed and left the guy paralzed so he could sue me for everything I would ever have in my life. We now have police report number two. This time the creep got the table saw and the scroll saw along with the drill press and table saw. The only thing left is the router that he left in the alley because he hadn't put it in the trunk yet. Oh, they ran the plate and it was a stolen car. I went to Ace Hardware and for $10 I got bolts and such so now the hasp is bolted on so he'll at least have to work up a sweat next time. We're having a secrity door made for the storeroom and burgler bars for the rest of the windows and doors. It will cost about $3,000 but that's less than the $11,000 worth of stuff we've had stolen in the past two years. I plan to go to the swap meet Friday to see if I can find the jerk and/or our stuff.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
No Luck Truck
About a month ago the little blue Metro finally gave up the ghost and lost it's engine. Scott and Benjamin weren't having much luck finding a replacement so Scott asked if he could buy back the Prism that he sold to us aout a year ago. It sounded like a fine idea to me when he offered $900 which was exactly what we owed the mean tax collector. The boys (Pete and Dan) had been bantering about the idea of getting a small pickup anyway and Bekah is still too scared to drive much anyway. It seems at least once a month a pickup would be rather handy to have around. So I made a call to our credit union in Utah and refinanced the Lexus again (I did that last year to buy the Prism and pay our taxes). 2,000 smackeroonies were soon deposited into our account and we began the search. Craig's List is a wonderful thing so in no time at all we had a number of prospects to check out. Dan had a job interview at the CSC computer warehouse where Aaron and Josh worked out by the Raytheon plant, so we checked out a truck after the interview. He got the job but the pickup was not so good. A couple of days later on April 1st (April Fools?) I had Dan and $2000 cash with me to go check out a 1994 Nissan extended-cab semi-beauty. The guy who had it on Craig's List had lowered the price from $2750 to $2700, to $2350 and now had it at $2150 so I thought I could get it for 18 or 1900 dollars.
The guy had a small garage where he fixes up cars and resells them. Pete met us there and both he and Dan drove the truck. It ran like a little champ so I offered him $1800 he said he had someone coming with $2050 the next day and wouldn't budge so I had Dan go get $50 from the ATM so I could pay the little man. Pete said the idle was a bit low so while Dan was gone, the little Asian Man (he said his name was Man) adjusted the idle. Man got the title and I traded him $2060 for it (the ATM only spit out twenties). Mr Man only had $7 so I wound up paying $2053 for the pickup. It still had the plates from the previous owner on it and the title had been signed and notarized May 21, 2008 with the buyers section still blank. It is a fairly common practice for dealers to wait to sign the buyers section in case they sell the vehicle in a few days. Woo hoo! I am now the proud owner of a TRUCK!
I didn't like the idea of driving with someone else's plates so that night I paid a dollar to get a three-day permit from servicearizona.com to use until I got the new title and plates the next day which was Thursday. We drove the truck around a bit and took it out to our place on Saturday to plink at bunch of water-filled medicine bottles (they explode so coolly!). The road to the place is all narrow, dirt, and bumpy so it was nice to see how the pickup handled it.
The next Monday Dan took it to Ben's property to bring him some plywood and move some sand. No problem. At around 8:30 that night I get a call from Dan. Big problem. The truck had quit just as he turned onto Kolb Road from I-10. I grabbed some tools, flashlights, and such and went to rescue him and the pickup. The battery was pretty much so I had to face Babs' car in the wrong direction to try a jump-start. It didn't. Just then some nice policemen came and offered to push the truck down to the U of A Technology Park access road and off of Kolb. One blocked the lane we were in while the other used his car to push Dan to safety. Nice guys.
The battery was old and decrepit like me so we took it out and off to the overnight Autozone to see if it was salvageable. It was not. With a new battery and two gallons of gas in tow (just in case the gas gage was wrong) we went back to the ailing truck and gave it a drink and a new source of electricity. It started but made a horrendous noise when it did so I had Dan immediately shut it down and called Babs to get the number for a tow truck. It was 12:30 AM at this time. In a fit of complete stupidity, I told Dan to go home and I would wait for the tow truck and call him when I got the pickup to Aaron's father-in-law's gas station.
I had brain-farted the fact that I had worked a twelve-hour day BEFORE Dan called about the pickup. How long could it take for a tow truck to show up anyway? Half-an-hour? Forty-five minutes? Maybe and hour at the most? It came at 2:45. Eighty dollars and an hour later Dan picked me up at the station and took me home.
Pete was the first to contact Mr. Man and explain to him the Arizona Lemon Law which is that if a dealer sells you a vehicle and said vehicle has a major mechanical problem within 15 days or 500 miles, said dealer must repair said vehicle with a maximum charge to you of $50, or return the purchase price in exchange for said vehicle (we had had said vehicle for 5 days and 147 miles). Mr. Man would have none of that saying he was a private party and NOT a dealer and would not give Pete his last name nor return any more calls.
I called him the next day and instead of leaving a message, I paged him to the home phone. When he called back, I rationally explained to him that the law is on my side and, even though I don't want to do it, I would contact the Attorney General of Arizona and or whomever else I need to to get satisfaction. "You broke truck! You no wanna pay! You overload truck! I call Attorney General too!" was all he kept yelling. I kept telling him to calm down, that there was nothing to yell about but I would need his last name so I could get paperwork to him...silence. "I need your last name so I can get documents to you."...click.
To make a long story less long, we got his name and address and have had a lawyer sign a letter requesting him to contact us about repairing the truck or returning the purchase price or we will contact the Attorney General, Motor Vehicle Dept, 9 on Your Side, Vinnie & Guido, or all of the above. We sent the letter by certified mail and are waiting for his response. My ball is now in his court...
The guy had a small garage where he fixes up cars and resells them. Pete met us there and both he and Dan drove the truck. It ran like a little champ so I offered him $1800 he said he had someone coming with $2050 the next day and wouldn't budge so I had Dan go get $50 from the ATM so I could pay the little man. Pete said the idle was a bit low so while Dan was gone, the little Asian Man (he said his name was Man) adjusted the idle. Man got the title and I traded him $2060 for it (the ATM only spit out twenties). Mr Man only had $7 so I wound up paying $2053 for the pickup. It still had the plates from the previous owner on it and the title had been signed and notarized May 21, 2008 with the buyers section still blank. It is a fairly common practice for dealers to wait to sign the buyers section in case they sell the vehicle in a few days. Woo hoo! I am now the proud owner of a TRUCK!
I didn't like the idea of driving with someone else's plates so that night I paid a dollar to get a three-day permit from servicearizona.com to use until I got the new title and plates the next day which was Thursday. We drove the truck around a bit and took it out to our place on Saturday to plink at bunch of water-filled medicine bottles (they explode so coolly!). The road to the place is all narrow, dirt, and bumpy so it was nice to see how the pickup handled it.
The next Monday Dan took it to Ben's property to bring him some plywood and move some sand. No problem. At around 8:30 that night I get a call from Dan. Big problem. The truck had quit just as he turned onto Kolb Road from I-10. I grabbed some tools, flashlights, and such and went to rescue him and the pickup. The battery was pretty much so I had to face Babs' car in the wrong direction to try a jump-start. It didn't. Just then some nice policemen came and offered to push the truck down to the U of A Technology Park access road and off of Kolb. One blocked the lane we were in while the other used his car to push Dan to safety. Nice guys.
The battery was old and decrepit like me so we took it out and off to the overnight Autozone to see if it was salvageable. It was not. With a new battery and two gallons of gas in tow (just in case the gas gage was wrong) we went back to the ailing truck and gave it a drink and a new source of electricity. It started but made a horrendous noise when it did so I had Dan immediately shut it down and called Babs to get the number for a tow truck. It was 12:30 AM at this time. In a fit of complete stupidity, I told Dan to go home and I would wait for the tow truck and call him when I got the pickup to Aaron's father-in-law's gas station.
I had brain-farted the fact that I had worked a twelve-hour day BEFORE Dan called about the pickup. How long could it take for a tow truck to show up anyway? Half-an-hour? Forty-five minutes? Maybe and hour at the most? It came at 2:45. Eighty dollars and an hour later Dan picked me up at the station and took me home.
Pete was the first to contact Mr. Man and explain to him the Arizona Lemon Law which is that if a dealer sells you a vehicle and said vehicle has a major mechanical problem within 15 days or 500 miles, said dealer must repair said vehicle with a maximum charge to you of $50, or return the purchase price in exchange for said vehicle (we had had said vehicle for 5 days and 147 miles). Mr. Man would have none of that saying he was a private party and NOT a dealer and would not give Pete his last name nor return any more calls.
I called him the next day and instead of leaving a message, I paged him to the home phone. When he called back, I rationally explained to him that the law is on my side and, even though I don't want to do it, I would contact the Attorney General of Arizona and or whomever else I need to to get satisfaction. "You broke truck! You no wanna pay! You overload truck! I call Attorney General too!" was all he kept yelling. I kept telling him to calm down, that there was nothing to yell about but I would need his last name so I could get paperwork to him...silence. "I need your last name so I can get documents to you."...click.
To make a long story less long, we got his name and address and have had a lawyer sign a letter requesting him to contact us about repairing the truck or returning the purchase price or we will contact the Attorney General, Motor Vehicle Dept, 9 on Your Side, Vinnie & Guido, or all of the above. We sent the letter by certified mail and are waiting for his response. My ball is now in his court...
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