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So, here I am, on the wrong side of sixty, weird things growing, wiry hairs, warts, splotches, weird indefinable patches, moles the size of, well......moles, and that's just on my hind end!
I've got good hearing, but only in one ear. But that works to my advantage when things like sleep inhibiting events pose a problem, what with all the snoring, and deep REM flatulence. I just put the good ear to the pillow. So, never really have to confront the wife about her little, shall we say, issues. She does, however, become a tad peeved when I ask her to repeat what she said after a lengthy one rips into full vibrato....just kidding (some).
Vision is going south. Reading glasses are strategically laid throughout the house, cars, tackle boxes, and shop......and the oval office.
It's not a serious issue just yet, but need to demonstrate more patience when trying to get the neighbor's hibachi to fetch.
However, this also works well for me, as, for the longest time, I've fixated on the oddest things while in deep conversation with individuals. It's quite a distraction for me to see a wafer like flake flitting in and out of a nasal passage while the talker breathes. It's just as distracting to observe a saliva lip string twanging away, affixed from upper to lower lip as the talker jabbers away. The intriguing thing with this phenomenon is it is usually intermittent. The micro bungee can completely disappear for several syllables, then mysteriously re-appear in full regalia, taut then loose, there it is, now it's gone, back again, sproinging from that hangy thing in the center of most upper lips.
I'm sure I've missed a ton of important discussion content because of these fixations.
Now, with limited vision, if I so choose, it's all a blur and I can mentally focus on the subject at hand.

So, it seems the older one gets, not only does one become a bit learned, but crafty....it's survival.
The tricky part is when attempting to do things one did a few decades before.
Astute judgment must be employed here, no matter what ego size. Actually, speaking of size, when these urges arise, you should immediately jump in your car, drive to the nearest emergi-center, and have the size of your prostate checked.
Hopefully the desire to perform acts of yore will fully abate by the time you get unattached from the doctor's forefinger.


I set up the grandkids slip-n-slide a couple summers ago.
Man, could they scoot.
However, when mass (somewhere between 180 to....say..... 247 lbs) meets wet plastic (at any angle, no matter how low to the ground you think you are) at the blazing speed of around 7.2 mph, I discovered that the friction of contact has much more holding power than yield. Seems water displacement is immediate, and actually enables one's heels to make rare contact with the back of one's head.
And......when a large area of glutinous hide does manage to slide several millimeters, the waterless friction gives one's skin a healthy ruddy glow, lasting several days.
I did, however, find success in the 'slip' part, at least with one foot, as my 2nd attempt, at a much greater velocity of 7.4 mph propelled one leg forward, extending my nether regions into a never before accomplished split.
Strangely, and simultaneously, I heard an eerily high pitched, ear splitting noise coming from some wild hyena-like animal quite nearby....my larynx being the exact location.
I was up and about in a matter of weeks.

Wow, you're in really good shape! Wait til you you get older....
Bruce

 rofl

Crimoney.... well.... that explains it....... Oregon.... [ouch]

Gary, I'm from Oregon too.  I thought you were talking about me.

You can take the boy out of Oregon, but you can't take the Oregon out of the boy. gottogo

BTW, Gary, Do you ever have to cut the hair growing out of your ears just so you can get your ear plugs in deep enough to shut out the noise of loud machinery? ... [waiting]

Quote from: glenn kangiser on August 18, 2011, 09:08:39 PM
You can take the boy out of Oregon, but you can't take the Oregon out of the boy. gottogo

BTW, Gary, Do you ever have to cut the hair growing out of your ears just so you can get your ear plugs in deep enough to shut out the noise of loud machinery? ... [waiting]

True words, Glenn
What is it about Oregonians?
I can spot 'em anywhere in the world.......found one at 100 yds in mainland China.
Raining, shorts, T-shirt, a bit rusty on the arms....

Ear hair? Quit fightin' those about 5 yrs ago.
Plan is to back comb 'em.
Machinery is no longer loud....just a bit of vibration.
Never could hold a pencil top my ears.....tried.....envy those than can.
So, guess they're just hair holders now......
Got some white noise that sounds like the ocean on certain days.
That's kinda soothing.
Truth, my left ear is still pretty good.
Right one is deader'n a post.
I call it driver's ear....wife denies (at least I think that's what she was sayin')
Truth, several boxes of rounds thru a 30/30 in my teens has to have done the trick

Well, Gary....

I'm from the coast clan and like many other PNW'ers may have webs between the toes.....

Now the nice thing about the hearing problem is if you tune it right, It sounds much like the unfinished symphony.....

....but suppose the wife is having a bad day and needs someone to share all of that badness with...... [waiting]

You are just standing there peeing off of the front porch minding your own business when you hear the ear curdling screech..... Glennn or GArrrrrry....

...about that time you remember something you forgot to check somewhere out there in the distance and you just start walking straight ahead without ever flinching or moving an eyelash, or ear hair as the case may be.......lightly shaking your hand off as you continue walking.....


....never looking back... smooth and steady as she goes... don't lose your cool......

...did you hear.... or did you not.... [noidea'

..........you'll never tell..... heh

Funny you should mention a 30/30, Gary.   [noidea'

I shot a skunk coming through the hole under the kitchen sink with a 30/30 when I was about nine.  Was a bit of a mess....quivering little masses of skunk flesh still wiggling off of the stove vent on the six foot ceiling.  Even a nine year old kid could easily touch them..... [scared]

Stove vent didn't go anywhere that I know of.... just into the space below the upstairs bedroom, but I suppose it must have warmed the floor a bit..... [waiting]

We used to get them under the tub but it was a closed bottom tub... modern 50's you know.   As the house settled into the wet clay at the confluence of the two cricks, that closed bottom tub would always keep the mud off of your feet.....

Ok ... it wasn't that bad.  There was still about six inches to the mud under the tub.... and about two feet under the new addition that was built by an out of work real carpenter......but fortunately the floors all planed together into one nice even homogenous mass. :)

Ok Gary... Google ads gave me this

http://www.universalsoundtherapy.com/products/tinnitus.html?gclid=CM2q2_Ti2qoCFRVVgwod3TXE9w  $47.00

Well, some of us Oregonians want that noise, I can tell you, but if you get tired of it .... cup your hands tightly over your ears with your fingers almost touching on the back of your head.  Snap your index finger off your middle finger as hard as you can against your skull...

About 30 or more times.  The Tinnitus will greatly drop in volume and continued doing this technique may even almost stop it.....

...or crack your skull like an over ripe melon.  [waiting]

Just kidding about the last one there.... it really does help most people.  [ouch]

Dang, I think I may have just found my long lost onliest brutha from anutha mutha......


Tinnitus
Yeah, I tried most things.....come to live with it.
The two times it gets me riled is when deep in the bush....miss the absolute quiet...stillness.
And when in a restaurant...background noise.

A large part of my vocabulary used to be 'Whazzat?'
Now I just smile and nod until a quizzical look appears on the jaw jacker's face......then I whip out a lone Whazzat...but just one, mind.

Hmm, skull crack...never tried that on purpose.......

I was raised in the Chapman foothills outta Scappoose.
It was a converted broom factory.
It was right where Pisgah Home rd dumped into Siercks rd (spell check)
Not sure why a broom factory was so far outta town, but the ol' guy that built it was a tad squirrely and probably craved the lack of human contact.

The place was eden for this chile.
Woods everywhere
A little creek w/catchable fish that dumped into Scappoose creek.
Willow, line, hook, worm.....fish fer dinner.
Went to the one room school off that creek.
The teacher (logger in summer) showed us the art of hand bailing steel head when they run thru yer legs.
Co-ed out house...with trough.
Field trips were field trips....beaver dams and such.
Lawdy, if kids could do that today........


Yeah, clay....the staple of most every foundation back then.
People learned to lean t'ward the high side of the floor when standing idle.....

Tub? You guys had a tub connected to the house?
Ours hung on the porch wall.

The fairer side
Yeah, tried the 'walk away' approach.......gotta sleep sometime.......
Wimin......gawd love 'em.
Continuous mystery......ethereal, soft, majestic, soft, confounding, soft....
She does keep me from eatin' dinner over the sink, so the training has been a two way street.
She finally got the grasp of the 'put the seat down' principle.
Only took 42 yrs.

Well, both fingers are tired if talkin', and I've got this job (I'm at work now), so keep a fire, Glenn.

Cheers

Gary O'

Thanks Glenn, I thought you were just pulling our legs
with that trick, but it does seem to work, at least partially.
The noise reduction is pretty impressive.
Maybe if I irritate the wife, she'll slap me back of the head and it
will have the same effect. Not sure if I really want to try that though.

Seems those troughs were the norm in Hong Kong when I was there in the 60's. The British built them in these long buildings about 40 feet long If I remember right. I'm not sure but I think they had a seperation wall in the middle so that one end was male and the other female, but still just one long trough with water flowing from one end to the other. Took this roundeye a little to get used to it.
Bruce

Quote from: firefox on August 19, 2011, 04:55:59 PM

Seems those troughs were the norm in Hong Kong when I was there in the 60's. The British built them in these long buildings about 40 feet long If I remember right. I'm not sure but I think they had a seperation wall in the middle so that one end was male and the other female, but still just one long trough with water flowing from one end to the other. Took this roundeye a little to get used to it.
Bruce

Ah, Asian facilities.
HK, at the turn of the century was pretty uptown, at least in Kowloon and neighboring areas.....but up the road, north of Shenzhen in Tangxia Village, Dongguan, the theme changed a bit.

While inspecting a factory there, an overpowering urge stopped me in my tracks.
Seems the dog I et the previous night was not CDA grade A, 'cause I was percolatin'.
I subtly grabbed my broker's shirt with clenched fists and whispered my desires in his ear.

Apparently, doubling over and grimacing was sufficient body language, as several people pointed my way to the lavatory.
Full pedal down the long straightaway, periodically stopping, frozen, like a sow in heat, then full throttle thru the tiled 'S' turn and I was home free.
'Cept there were no stalls,
and no toilets,
and no trough
....just a few tiled holes in the floor.
Clean though. Very clean.

It's just there was no way I could wrap my mind around a remote possibility of a successful mission.
The prairie dogging salad shooter would definitely have ended up mostly somewhere inside my Wranglers.
My mind raced....take off the jeans and perch...then what?
No TP
What's with the waterfall?!
Oh, no way.
The term 'Suck it up' became quite tangible.

If the tongue is the most muscular organ of the body, the sphincter has to be a close second.
So, I slowly strolled out of hole haven toward my broker, as nonchalantly as possible with compressed cheeks, and subtly grabbing his shirt with clenched fists, whisper/screamed, 'to the hotel, NOW!!'

Yeah, I've left many a scat in the bush, but a coed hole-in-the-floor lavatory was just too much.

Stop it.... STOP IT....Gary ... YOU'RE KILLING ME......... [rofl2]



Not kidding, Bruce.  It works pretty good. :)

Yeah, Bruce and Gary, I remember those troughs too.... the water was deep and cold as I recall.... [waiting]

I also went to a one room school house..... Rose Lodge School.... and my mom just retired from being the mailman out of Otis area..... speaking of which, my grandmother was a mann, but I guess you need to be telling a story for that to be a good joke.

There were two buildings.  Firsrs through third in one building...... yes, I can spill first if I want to.....

4-6 in the other building I think.  I remember the time Jeanne missed a step an the monkey bars.  Of course I did not know what happened  and had to ask her what she hurt..... that was not cool......  :o

Then there was the time the teacher smelled a slightly fowl odor in the room and made us go all out to the connected restroom and check our pants.  I already knew I didn't have a problem and returned i a couple seconds..... YOU DID NOT LOOK.........YOU CAME BACK IN TOO FAST ..... GO CHECK AGAIN....

Yeah right ...checked again....same result.... [waiting]

Terrence.... did you.......  [noidea'  

"A little, Mrs. Tatman......."

That mean ol' teacher... she was the fairest of them all.......  [ouch]

GaryO, I think you & Glenn are related...   rofl

Glenn, you forgot to tell about France...  [rofl2]    oh, and the marriage proposal in the toilet stall...  heh 

UMMMMmmmmm ....telling on yourself????? [waiting]

You wish  heh

That is true... [ouch]

Rose Lodge!!!??
Man that little Salmon river yields some mighty big fish.
I've walked that stream more than a few times.
Biggest Chinook I ever landed was at the guard rail hole.
I may just have to replace the rotting line on a dusty salmon rod and wait for fall.....

Uh, do I have to get the hose?
How close in proximity are you guy's computers with each other's?

Quote from: glenn kangiser on August 20, 2011, 12:35:53 AM

Yeah, Bruce and Gary, I remember those troughs too.... the water was deep and cold as I recall.... [waiting]

I also went to a one room school house..... Rose Lodge School....  
   

Oh man, yer killin' me.... "A little, Mrs. Tatman......."

If I remember right, our school outhouse was a three holer along with the trough.
I had a rather initial experience with the fairer sort there, in the first grade.
Francis Keller busted in on me while I was busy on the hole directly in front of the door.
She really got the jump on me, as I thought I was bein' super careful, peering thru the crack in the door. But there she was, intent on nothin' I knew about...but she was a third grader...they knew so much more...writin' sentences and everything.
Then teacher appeared.....there I was, bib overalls half-mast. But Francis was back altogether, looking at me like I was satan.....
Gave me a head start on a couple things.........

 Y'know, this ol' orb is getting' mighty small for this ol' koot.
15 yrs ago I was feeding specs into a fax machine, hoping;
1) It wouldn't wrinkle up
2) The people in England could read it
3) They would actually receive it
4) I poked in the number right
It typically burned three to four days to get a hint of resolution.
I electronically communicate with every corner of this globe every day, and now feel it routine.
Minutes ago a gentleman from Texas set me straight on something I forwarded (somewhat tongue in cheek).
It's amazing.
Anyone can google anything......tons of info...some wrong...some so right you don't have to think about it....reason, horse sense, common thinking ability is a must these days.
Yeah, back in the day you could get killed without it. Now, lots of people can get hurt, and just as quick, following skewed advice.

A couple times I let myself get in to Email debates....political, religious. I thought it'd be fun, as I fancy myself a pretty good arguer. However, they both ended up with threats to my relatives, accusations of my lineage, and pointed query's as to my exact location, 'cause they had a yen to do terrible things to my body, and send odd things down my neck....but she cooled off after awhile.
I shoulda known before hand, 'cause CB conversations used to go that way when haulin' dry vans across the lower 48...but then it was just to kill the boredom. But there was that one time this LTL guy got all ugly and wanted to meet up. Guess he didn't realize I was right behind him, and I eventually sat on the café stool right next to him.
Why is it that skinny little guys feel they have to yell so loud on a two-way anyhow?

So, I've learned to keep debates to face time.
It's just as fun.

   Thanks for letting us know that we are getting older.   Older?   Its takes me 5-10 minutes in the morning just to get out of bed!   And nothing gets done without that first cup of coffee.

   My latest phrases are:
          I can remember when . . .
          Back in my day . . .
          When I was a kid . . .
          Can you believe how these kids dress nowadays  . . .

   There are three things that indicate that you are getting older. . .
          1   The memory starts to go
          2    ahhh, ahhh, what was I saying . . .



   (A person who has never made a mistake has never done anything.)

//

Quote from: Gary O on August 20, 2011, 12:55:35 AM
Rose Lodge!!!??
Man that little Salmon river yields some mighty big fish.
I've walked that stream more than a few times.
Biggest Chinook I ever landed was at the guard rail hole.
I may just have to replace the rotting line on a dusty salmon rod and wait for fall.....

Uh, do I have to get the hose?
How close in proximity are you guy's computers with each other's?

Only time for this one this morning, Gary...... We often email messages to each other from approximately 4 feet Center to center, Gary, but currently it is ....rough guess 150 miles....... OH YEAH.... except for the detour through the NSA computers in Virginia.  [waiting]

Wish they would get their back door out of my software....slows my computer down so much..... [ouch]

I am from Widow Crick, Gary... Grandpa homesteaded there and had the first three saw mills in the area.  I used to chase the neighbor girl through the woods back there tripping through the Fern and wondering what hungry creature lurked behind the bend on the dark corner where the trees and bushes came right down to the road.

Caught her a few times but back then, I didn't know what to do with 'em after I caught 'em.  [noidea'

I managed the Widow Crick Trout farm when I was 13 years old.... get away weekends for my old dead buddy and his old dead wife.

There were so many salmon in the river in the old days when grandpa was there, you could walk across the river on their backs.  Used to sit in the Rapid Inn when I was a kid watching them jump up the falls.  Grandma was the cook there for a while.

I have to use my passive aggressive skills on the new boss on the job this morning.  Sent him 4 emails to his corporate address since midnight... three after 4 am..becoming progressively deranged with each one...  Signed a couple of them.... Love, Glenn...... [crz]

He is trying to make himself look good at my expense..... I have to show him I am a bit 'puter litrit.   heh

Quote from: bayview on August 20, 2011, 06:32:41 AM
  Thanks for letting us know that we are getting older.   Older?   Its takes me 5-10 minutes in the morning just to get out of bed!   And nothing gets done without that first cup of coffee.      

Sorry BV, just felt the need to ferret out a boomer or two for light, related conversations, and maybe a simultaneous virtual Lazy Boy Rodeo.
Other than turkeyhunter,  mountaindon, and mikeonbike, (they used to put up w/my fractured prose and musings on another forum I once frequented) extremely nice people, I'm a complete stranger here.
However, Glenn and Sassy, and some others have made me feel very much at home.
5-10 min? Boy, you're quick!
Takes me 20 min to ratchet my back to vertical. But while I'm moving around at 45° I'm able to sort my clothes cast on the floor the night before.
Pillow top mattresses....now there's a conversation.
Back in my day.......

Quote from: glenn kangiser on August 20, 2011, 07:40:49 AM
Only time for this one this morning, Gary......   

In reading your other posts, I see you are a busy guy.
You go gurl!
I've got a wedding to attend today, and a funeral tomorrow, so it's Tux Sat, and dark shirt Sun...dang I hate busted up weekends.
But I sure enjoy reading your reminiscenses (I think I just invented a word here).
Keep yer powder dry

Gary O'

My father told me a story about when he was in a nice hotel in Fez, Morocco. No TP, just a guy in the floor below with a whisk broom.
I don't think he was pulling my leg, my father, that is.

As for age. I asked my wife when we got married how old she was.
She said 12 going on 13. I thought about it for a second and then told her I was 15 going on 16. Even after 40 some years, it hasn't changed. I still keep sassing her too, so I guess it works. ;D
Bruce

Quote from: firefox on August 20, 2011, 12:05:09 PM
My father told me a story about when he was in a nice hotel in Fez, Morocco. No TP, just a guy in the floor below with a whisk broom.


Bruce

Oh, gawd! That's killer!!! rofl [rofl2] rofl
headin to the weddin', I think I can get thru it now.
Thanx pard

GO'

Glad I could help out. What I want to know was whether
that was a minimum wage job?

I just know I'm going to get fallout from that one.
Bruce

Well Bruce, that whisk broom comment killed.
Tween you and Glenn, my funnybone is spent.
W-a-a-a-a-y too much serious stuff thru the week. Gotta round things out.
Shouting down young engineering morons carrying canned agendas, and reps with blinders on but for their own bottom line, and teaching those that are to follow, drains me a bit. Meetings are a bore, only because the obvious isn't attained within 15 minutes...anything more than 20 minutes is a waste IMO. The meetings I call are stand up only. Not letting $360-$450/hr get too comfy.

Lordy, where was I....

Oh...

While wandering in thought about whisk brooms, our last dog came to mind.
I'm a dog lover.
Beagles, labs, most any breed, even the hybrid wolf my son had in Alaska was a joy....but it's playful nipping, as pups generally do, would most times leave your hand in shreds...practice I guess. What a tiger...loved his spirit.
But the whisk broom comment sent me directly to our last dog-like entity from satan...a Tibetan Terrier.
Total block head, smart, really smart, just not put to good use.
He saved his dumps for my den.
Take him out and he'd wait you out.
Keep him out and he'd still save it up.
Once back in the door, he'd head straight up the stairs to my den.
One time I stepped out to get the mail and caught him in my peripheral vision headin' up the stairs ....I stood there...he stood there....I motioned out the door...he took two stairs...then I shamed him and took him with me outside....then we both went back in....me to the kitchen...him to the den.
My only recourse was to feed him just dry dog food...found a brand that created little bricket turds and a bit of dust.......bought  two 50 lb bags, whisk broom and dust pan were additions to my den....and a new, sweepable rug.

Oh, when locked out, he developed a penchant for dumpster diving, and regularly brought home the neighbor's filled pampers.....pealed 'em back and dined on 'em like a baked potato.....
I hoped the neighbor would pick him off, but (as stated) he was smart.
Notice the referral is in the past tense...
Not getting a dog for awhile.....I'm not fit for it until my PTSD has abated some.

(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/SCHOTZY2.jpg)

That's hard to beat, Gary.

Truckin'..... reminded me of my days pullin' a 45 foot reefer 'tween here and Texas hauling produce down and hot loads of tool boxes back for a business associate.

Dang... where do I start..... [noidea'

Meetings... I hate em.  You ever want to stop production just have a meeting when you could meet one on one with the guy who needed to know, but what's up with that... wouldn't get to blow your own horn that way and force everybody to listen......... [waiting]

Lets start in El Paso with my 'ol buddie Mike, headed down to Winters for a load.  

Rolled into the Petro a bit hungry and sleepy.  Mike was already in the sleeper - hadn't got up yet.  Hadn't been parked for ten minutes when the local pregnant lot lizard came up to the window and asked if I needed serviced?....

Hmmm ....Well....... I didn't do that sort of thing but being the sometimes boring job that it is, I liked to humor her anyway.

Need serviced?

"Nah ... my buddies still asleep in the sleeper and I don't think he'd appreciate us jumpin' around all over him." [ouch]

Well, that probably would have been safer than the burrito  ol' Mikey ate..... :o

We cranked 'er up and hit the freeway east.  

It was late and time to pull over for a rest.  A bit east of El Paso is a road side rest area.  

We just got the big rig parked when ol' Mikes stomach started gurgling..... Montezuma's revenge.  The rest area was too full of trucks for us to park in a stall.  Had to park about a 1/4 mile from the services along the exit road from the rest stop.  

Montezuma wasn't waitin' fer nobody.  

Too far back to the crapper, Mike bailed out of the cabover Pete with the roll of toilet paper and headed back under the reefer where he left his calling card then crawled painfully back into the cab.  This event repeated itself throughout the night.  

The cramps just kept a comin' and a comin'.  Man, I'm glad I didn't eat the burito.  In the morning we cranked up the old NTA420 Cummins and jammed her into gear.  Getting up to speed on the freeway, It was sad to have to look back in the mirror and see that roadside looking like a cotton field ready for picking..... gottogo

I have absolutely nothing to add to this. My hands are still shaking
from laughing too much. I am totally outclassed by
the both of you.
Bruce

 rofl [rofl2] rofl
'Cotton field'!!


Oh, ho, I have a flood of truckin' stories...but they seem redundant to what's been penned...however, truckin' buddies (like yer story) brings to mind my buddy George. Never teamed with him, but he was a hoot...and not on purpose.
I was raised around wood stoves and fireplaces. The natural gas stoves down south were a bit of a mystery to me.
Had a buddy George that I tried to kill a few times, just before I met my bride.
He was a long tall Texan, cowboy hat, boots and all.
Six foot five and about six inches across.
I called him 'Two By' (the hat and boots didn't help).
Face 'd make an onion cry.

We shared a flat in Houston just off Telephone road, where we hung our hats. He was a truck driver, and I an oil field pipe inspector, of which jobs were plenty 'cause people were getting killed all the time.
One cold morn', when we both were home at the same time, I commenced to build a fire.
This little stove had a worn metal placard on it that read 'ARNIN', and a bunch of tiny words with a picture of a flame.
I cranked up ol' ARNIN, struck several matches, and called on Two By's help.
He jerked the matches away from me, folded his string of a body, and turned the pilot knob, holding it in, looking at me like, 'you yankee idiot'.
He hunched down, putting his face down close to the pilot tube, and put the lit match over it.
WHOOOOSH!
You could actually see the force of the explosion as it immediately blew through and past his scraggly bearded mug.
It was like a cartoon, side burns, beard singed to black nubs, eyebrows, nose hairs gone, hairless outstretched arm still holding the extinguished match. He eventually looked back at me, face smoking, like 'why are you trying to kill me, you won the war'.

The other time was when I poisoned him.
He had pneumonia from jumping in and out of his air-conditioned cab.
So there he lay on the couch, hacking his lungs up into a beer can, looking skinnier than what was normal for even him.
I felt sorry.
"Hey, how 'bout a bacon sandwich?"
'Yeah, toast the bread", cough, hork, groan.

The bacon in the fridge looked a bit ancient (coulda' been new cheese), but I scraped off the green stuff and fried it up, and even added tomato slices to my creation (coulda' been a red bell pepper).
He wolfed it down between hacks, and laid back down.
Thirty minutes later he was blowin' chips.
Two weeks later he was outta the hospital and driving again.
Thank god I met up with my lady shortly after, and her cookin' took over.
BLT anyone?

 [rofl2] [rofl2] rofl rofl

I don't know if I can take this much longer - 2 of ya now  d*

I'm sure this can go thru the night 'tween the both of us, but I've got a funeral to say a few words at tomorrow (easy crowd...emotional roller coaster), so better rest the mind before this proceeds t'ward a 'Devil Went Down to Georgia' thing.
Glenn, You da man d*
Nite folks

[rofl2]

Old lady is on Skype Reading this with me Gary.  My eyes are cryin' and she sounds like a lovelorn chimp trying to get my affections.  [waiting]

BLT Gary... I don't think so...... last cramps I had were from a BLT off of the Camion de Basura.  

That is garbage truck in espanol.  The Mexicans get a kick out of me trying to translate American Colloquialisms into spanish.  They now call the blue outhouse the officina azul.  (The blue office.)  We have an Asian garbage truck here......   [mouse]

It wouldn't have been such a problem if the outhouses weren't all full and out of paper.  I finally figured out that the lunch wagon is the reason we have been running out of paper and filling the crappers everyday.

Next day he shows up and says.. "Why you no in line.... you no like my food?"  ...[noidea'

"Uhhh hmmm , no ... it gave me the craps yesterday......crapped my guts out....."

"OHHHHHHHhhhhhh .... So sorry,"

" .... here ... I give you nuther one free"  ....... [waiting]

G'day mate.....

Been talking to my Aussie buddy....G' Nite, Gary.

Glenn, Sassy, Bruce, and others that may somehow find reading this stuff a pleasant distraction, I've got to confess. I do enjoy writing. There are times I can't stop, and it's frustrating that thoughts come and go before I can muster the key stokes. Then there are times I can't bring myself to type 'Hi There'.
But, Glenn, you, your prose, inspire the heck outta me.
So pardon me, pard, as I've chosen this venue to share the pangs of my frontal lobe.
Good, Bad and Ugly........

You mention Texas
Most everyone there carries around a couple sayings;
"If you don't like it, leave"
"You don't mess with Texas" (this said thru semi-gritted teeth)
Both sayings end up with a mini staredown....it can intimidate a stranger...it's meant to.

I sure wish my state would use those as mottos
'Course goin' around with "You don't mess with Texas" on yer Oregon plate would be a tad strange, but y'all get my drift.
Drove semi thru that state more than a few times...landed in Houston for a spell....took a gorgeous lady from Texas City home to Oregon. Her toes finally webbed up after a few years, but only after she came to realize that there really was only one season here...Fallsumter.....sometimes both days of sunshine are consecutive, however.

(note; I love everything about Oregon, so don't get me wrong here)

But, Texas...huge...varied...dry some places....humid/tropical others.....mouth hangin' open beautiful.
Most critters will 'bitecha'........"Oh, buddy, don't pet that one...it'll bitechall an y'all'll swell up".
or
"Watchit! That turtle is a snappy turtle...here take this here green stick an rub it's nose a bit"
SUHHHHH-NAP!
"See there?
Snappy turtle.
They snap
That's why they call it a snappy turtle
Aess aen aey puhee puhee wah.... snappy
Pay attention and take note, son"

Corpus Christi is one of my favorite places on earth.
Did some roofing there after Camille. Boats down town, people camped on the beach.
OK, not roofing, but roofer's helpering. Thought roofer's helper was bad, but mason's helper...those prima donna yayhoos want their mortar j-u-u-s-t right, no matter how many scaffolds up you hauled that bucket.
Trip one:"Haey bowah, too thick.
Trip two: Nope, can't trawl this waterah goop
Trip three: Close, no ceegar.....need milkshaeke texture....you know....miiiiilkshaaaeke...old fashioned, not Mackdonnls....don't make me come down there to show y'all. Pay attention son, hear?"
Trip four: I bring vials of water and dry mix and leave 'em on the plank.
Rhode island Red Rooster Master mason and me become pool shootin', beer guzzlin', bar brawlin' buds.
And I become a good listener, paying attention...to things not said.
A yankee can easily get set up, and come out lookin' like a dufus...it's a little fun game played throughout the south...I became a super star...broke some records in the triple A (Aey) dufus league.
Got called up to the big show (dumbass) soon after.
Still known in some parts as 'Babe Garah'....holding several dumbass records.


My buddy George and I were headed from Houston to El Paso, his home, bombin' thru towns, non-stop. His state, not mine, he narrated the terrain as my '66 SS kept us low to the ground.
Ran into a hail storm somewhere between Corpus and Del Rio.
Everyone was stopped.
There we sat.
My chevy getting' beat to a pulp.
We crept around cars and got thru the storm in about 30 seconds.
The rear view mirror showed everyone still sittin' out the hail. Paralyzed.
Day became night after staring at the sun for a couple hours. We stopped west of Del Rio to fuel up.

There was a little open air bar roadside (yeah, they just take the walls off), so we stopped.
Round tables.
Barrel chairs.
A bar.
Each table had a big wooden bowl of tortilla chips, and a tiny gourd of hot sauce.
Beer, chips, more chips and half the gourd of sauce on one chip.
OH MOMMY!
BEEEEER!
I soon learned the word Ha-ban-er-o
They mercifully brought me a plate of tortillas.
Knowing smiles (damn Gringo).
Wrapped my tongue with a tamale til the feeling came back in my throat and uvula.

Went down the hwy about 20 mi when I saw what I thought was tiny tumble weeds blowin' across the road.
I woke my bud
"What's that 2by?"
"Tranchlas"
"What?"
"Migration...time of year"
I had to stop.
Got out, spit the rest of my uvula wrap compote/balm out and watched the spectacle.
There they trudged, across the hwy and down into a ravine, far as you could see, both ways.
Can't remember how wide the trek was, but it seemed minutes before we drove outta them.

Texas has some strange and gloriously beautiful terrain, and stranger critters. No wonder they love it so.

Keep it coming Gary. I know you can't make this stuff up ;D
Bruce

Well, Bruce, you may come to regret that, so I'll hold back the keyboard to a few mild pennings.

Baked in a tux yesterday for what turned out to be the wedding of the decade ('cause that's how long it lasted).
Wedding singer was on a loop
Speaking of loops, I was able to fashion a garrote out of some lace I found at the end of the bride's gown...needless length, draggin' on the ground and all.
He lasted half way thru his 8th stanza.....the kicking and twitching was minimal.....(oh, wait, that was my hallucinary daydream while turning in my chair/spit)

My forehead could lead a sleigh.
96° in the shade....thankfully we were in the sun.

I'm headin' to a funeral in 15 min, so here's a thought I had awhile back that managed to get to black and white.



I've worked around tightly scheduled (very talented) individuals, that when going on vacation, generate a huge itinerary of going here or there at a certain time or day, reserving accommodations, scheduling even the purchase of the tickets for the scheduled events, and scheduling alternate events in case of weather, or an act of god (or satan)............
I find it more relaxing, and even more adventuresome to just go.
Just pack a few things, and go down the road.
One time we ended up on the coast, about 9pm. Turned out there was a major event happening, and we became part of a caravan of seekers of vacancies. We even started waving at each other while in route, feigning drag racing at stop lights, pointing/mocking when getting the lead to the next motel entrance, and pointing back when the no vacancy sign came within sight. It turned in to a very fun happening all by itself. Kind of an unregimented rally.
Thought we'd be doing some car camping when we found an out-of-the-way place that became a favorite over the years.

Another time we decided to stay at one of those less than desirable places (like the ones we could afford when we met).
Auberge de Cinq et Demi seemed like a nice name, so I approached the quaint little barred window that displayed hourly rates. The gentleman of Pakistani origin, asked me, in a more than perfect, sing song rendition of the English language, to fill out the little card. So I paid the $25 and signed for the 'more than four hour' stay.
The quaint little room had quaint little 30 watt bulbs of which both gave the place the special ambiance of 'help me find my shoes, and I'll help you find your purse'.
It did have a hot tub spa. Turns out putting bubble bath in those things can become an event of its own.
The bed was....dark.
We decided to just lay on top of the covers.
It was quite hot, and since we had to turn the fan off due to the 'authentic old west atmosphere' dust storm it created, we just lay there naked as two ol' trysters should be......
The wife pointed out the mural of two manatees on the ceiling.
I pointed out that it was a mirror.
Now who could possibly schedule that much fun on purpose?
Any others feel the same way, or am I the odd one?

"displayed hourly rates".....Now THAT was a clue...
You have a death wish? "I pointed out that it was a mirror."

By any chance are you near Portland?

Bruce

Quote from: firefox on August 21, 2011, 05:28:30 PM
"displayed hourly rates".....Now THAT was a clue...
You have a death wish? "I pointed out that it was a mirror."

By any chance are you near Portland?

Bruce

Oh, it was an adventure.
Yeah, movement was a give-away......coulda shoulda said it was a Wild Kingdom clip.....
Thing is, staying at a midscale motel is quite the bore....too anticeptic....no imagination.
Staying at an upscale hotel is nice, but short lived for the cash outlay.
Even when a business foots the bill, I always feel "Gee, so that's what $750 gets.
Yeah, CSI Bruce, Portland area.
Born Hillsboro, raised Scappoose area, and (drum roll about here) actually began existence in a forest service cabin at ZigZag.....the details are foggy, and my mind is on a fast track toward that same haze, so I type madly away.......


(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/whenceIcame.jpg)

Quote from: firefox on August 21, 2011, 02:05:16 PM
Keep it coming Gary. I know you can't make this stuff up ;D
Bruce

OK, man...both barrels.....maybe interesting, maybe not so humorous, but hopefully will draw a nod or two and a smile.

.........for those that have an evening of nothing:

Way back when


Now Brought to you in Enemascope!


Back in the '50s it seems all mothers were obsessed with hydrotherapy.
I'd guarantee all families had at least one rubber bottle and syringe connected by a three foot rubber umbilical cord.
Mothers tended to keep them at the ready, anxious to employ their new found apparatus, with the thought of saving their offspring from some horrible bowel obstruction brought on by an over dose of Wonder Bread....'builds yer colon clog twelve ways'.
These devices were the ultimate home remedy for a myriad of ailments; headaches, peekedness, haven't pooped for days syndrome, neuritis, neuralgia, lying, and left my report card at school tendency, to mention a few.
Not sure how fathers escaped this (if they did) but a lad of three or four didn't have a chance.
Running in for a quick drink of water, from ridin' herd all mornin', mother in the shadows of the ice box....waitin'.......
"You're all sweaty, do you feel OK?"
"Sure ma, just washin' down trail dust."
Trick question, "When's the last time you went poopoo?"
'Poopoo?'
'When?'
'Think man, think!!!'
I got nothin'.
Before I could cop a plea for extenuation of due process, I found myself astride the green ducky, bowels involuntarily discharging the gallon of water that was administered with a syringe designed for King Kong, and with undue haste.
I must say, these sessions did instill the ability to retain total recall.
After just a few of these sittings, my memory became quite acute.
"When did you go poop?" ......"At 11:37 AM, why?"
Trigger finger, toying with quick draw holster under apron, now relaxes.

Mothers had a way of ensuring of your well-being, no matter how bad it made you feel.
Grandmothers were no exception.
When gramma would pile us in the ol' chevy and head to Monkey Wards, she'd give me the once-over. Out would come her hanky.
"Spit on this."
Then she'd commence to wash my face, beginning with my ears, no less.
On the other hand, Dads and granddads had a way of shaming you into doin' it yourself, and you had to provide your own tools.
"Look in the rear view mirror. Izzat how you started out this morning? Fix it."
No matter if you used the garden hose, the rabbit hutch water, or your dog's slobber, you got 'er done, in acceleration mode.....you could get left.
One time Connie Elbert and I ended up in the tool shed at gramma's house.
Not sure who's idea it was, but seems we both had our pants down with mutual consent...then we just couldn't figure what next...ending up with the brilliant idea of touching butts. Not sure how things woulda went from there, 'cause grampa's footsteps came within ear shot right while our rear ends were curiously united.
"Hey, what's going on in there?"
Quick time scurry thru the other door...bib overall anklets deftly inhibiting large strides.
Yeah, fathers/grandfathers have a way of getting yourself together without layin' a hand on you.
They cast a very large shadow.



Mr Codger's Neighborhood

Our country neighborhood yielded a gaggle of poverty stricken families. There were some retired folk with tidy houses and well maintained yards.
Actually, I have several family photos of us posing in front of one of those houses, ol' widow Jones. Little white cottage, picket fence, close cut lawn.
But for the most part, there were several families that had little or nothing with a yard full of cars to piece together in order to get to work.
One such family was the Elberts.
Four kids.
Ramshackle house.
Absolute junk throughout the yard.
I remember the one time I was invited in, thru the back door, directly into the kitchen. Mrs Elbert apologetically handed me a glass of water. Hey, it was great! Those colored aluminum glasses could transform ordinary water into the coldest thirst quenching nectar you'd ever want.
I glanced through the house while I waited for Daryl to find a shirt.
Things were misplaced. Daryl yarded thru a couple piles to find his prized superman T-shirt.
Meanwhile, Mrs Elbert was busy extracting coins from a piggy bank.....possibly robbing the kid's stash, but more likely the family savings plan.
Back in those days piggy banks didn't have a rubber plug at the bottom, just the slot on top.
There she was, butter knife in hand, coins reluctantly traveling down the blade onto the kitchen table.
I remember noting that she was quite attractive, and equated her looks to that of Daisy Mae's sister, the one that was always lying around with the pigs.
Mr Elbert was also a handsome guy, but a tad gruff, and not really home much.
When he was home, he was always working on cars or motorcycles. I found it all fascinating but never questioned why things were the way they were with them.
Kids tend to accept things.
What I did question was how they always had the latest toys, and some of the neatest stuff.
One time Connie came out to the street munching on an open faced peanut butter sandwich.
This was no ordinary sandwich.
It was Wonder Bread!
And it had Skippy peanut butter all slathered on top!
What an outstanding combination!
I dropped my sister's bike and stared.
The Skippy glistened from the midmorning sun as Connie slowly gnawed away the crust.
Now I'd eaten a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and should have held back, as this was probably Connie's breakfast and lunch, but I had to ask.
"Can I have a bite?"
Begrudgingly a small bit of corner crust with a hint of Skippy was handed over.
It was wonderful.
My first.
We never had the luxury of ever having anything but brown bread in our house, let alone Skippy.

Another time, Daryl brought out an egg of silly putty. This wondrous glob of mysterious abilities was smushed onto the Sunday comics with the heal of his hand, right there in the dirt driveway, then carefully pulled it away, yielding the image of Dick Tracy and his wrist radio, and in color! Then, with proper tension applied, Dick turned into elastic man. Utterly fascinating, but I knew to never ask for such a thing from Dad or Mom.
One time I traded Daryl my self-made wired together double broom stick shake butted carbine for his dual holstered twin six shooters. They were amazing as the cylinders actually spun, and the handles were surprisingly quite real, and heavy, not the typical molded plastic.
Dad came home, and shortly after we were on our way to the Elberts to trade back. This was a mystery for me, as, being the youngest cowboy in the neighborhood; I usually got the short end of the trade.
Thinking about 'the trade' years later, those could very well have been real pistols, and Daryl may have actually tapped his dad's stash. Come to think about it, I never saw Daryl ever have them again. Actually I never saw Daryl much either.....
Don't get me wrong. My family didn't suffer, but we didn't splurge on things.
Easter was a personal huge event. Not because of the candy, or the egg/finger dying event. Oh no, it was solely due to what the candy came in. For several years in succession I'd get a straw cowboy hat. OK, it was straw, but it was a cowboy hat....mine. Oh-h-h-h oh, the coupe de gras of several months of giddyup, at least 'til the first rain.

Bobby Clehm was one of my best friends. Granted Billy Dodge was my pahdnah, and trail ridin' pal, but Bobby and I went way back. He never could get into cowboy mode, however, cause his dad never let him over for more than a half hour, of which by the time the story line and plot for cowboy'n was laid out, it was time to go back.
But when I visited him, I mostly just helped with chores.
I found it fun to milk ol' Bessie, and feed the chickens, and we did get to romp thru the woods trying to find ol' Flossy for her turn at the stanchion.
One time I stayed for lunch. They had strange things like squash, and Brussels sprouts, with some ungodly thing called bread pudding for dessert.
All this washed down with raw (warm) milk, garnished with floating clumps.
Oh man, was I glad to get home. OK, we didn't have Wonder bread, but we sure didn't have some horrible thing like bread mixed in goo and washed down with their rendition of milk either.

What's for Dinner?...... Gnah!!!! Whazzat?

The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I'll be darned if I'll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way. We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken....oh and ketchup.....
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for 12 or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.
"Oh, you like the pooper, aey?"
Tried this on my own kids years later. Turns out they liked poopers.

OK, keyboard is gettin' blurry.
The pillowtop beckons
Anyone care for me to further this tomorrow, or has it been two finger typing practice?
 

This is great Gary, I'm eating it all up.....Well, except the bread pudding. Keep it coming.
My sister runs a summer camp for kids in Portland.
Bruce

Great stuff, Gary and I gotta admit I'm not the sharpest tonight but I did get a few things done on the job today. :o

Had a buddy worked with me years ago at Dodge and I had a whole house to myself.  He offered to pay part of the rent so I took him up on it.  Thick glasses and a kind of a Buddy Holly look about him, he wasn't especially cute but he was a decent guy.

I was into cooking a bit to save money so it was hotcakes in the morning before we went to work.  I cooked up a batch, put 'em on the table, grabbed the syrup out of the cupboard and ol' Tom dug in.  He was happily munching away for a few minutes and I heard him drop his fork.  He dropped his jaw too and that was quite a feat for him because he only had half a jaw anyway......

I looked at him and he was just sitting there with his mouth wide opened, hotcakes and drool right there in plain view for all to see,  and pointing at his food, speechless.  No words...nothing... just his finger pointing at his hotcakes fer like ... two minutes....forward and back just kind poking in the air dumbfounded... [noidea'

A closer look revealed that a whole army of syrup loving ants had met their maker in the Aunt Jemima syrup bottle and Tom had eaten about half of them while reading the morning paper.....

Hey... beggars can't be choosers.....I mean shucks ... it wasn't like I was running some high class restaurant or something.... duhhhhuuhhh.....  [ouch]

When I was 5 we moved to Puerto Rico so my dad could
take over a textile business. After a year in the country
and a dirt floor one room school house we moved to an
area near San Juan. 4 story apartment house on the beach.
we were on the 4th floor. Elevator shaft but no elevator.
Owner was thinking ahead. Beautiful beach with a barrier reef 5
miles out that kept the sharks out. We were in the water every chance
we had. Parents would regulary check us for gills.

A beautiful cake appeared on the horizon. (top of the fridge) By this time
I think I was 9 or 10, but not sure. Cake had a delicious yellow icing
on it. Before I realized what I was doing there was a large gap in
the cake. Engineering time was at hand. Need to fill the cavity.
Hmmm Ahh sand would do, after all it was almost the same color.
Sometime latter at the end of dinner, cake was served. My piece
was just the wee bit gritty.....
Bruce

Crimoney, Bruce.... how'd they figure out who did it?

My sister, 5 years my senior, was not the engineering type.....

She would eat almost all the ice cream, but always saved some for me. Then she would send me to the store about a half mile up the road to buy some more to replace what she had taken. I never did find out if my mom ever knew about this.

And talking about sand. The beach was beautiful and all we had to do
was  run down stairs, cross over the driveway and our toes were in the sand. Maximum occupancy was on Sunday with about 19 people spread over about a mile and a half.

There was this really talented local artist that brought his bag of dies. He would make up batches of colored sand. Then he would make life like models in the sand and add the colors to where you couldn't
tell whether they weren't alive and real from 20 feet away.

The models I am refering to were full size young anatomically correct nude girls lying on their backs getting a wonderful tan.

Then there was this wide eyed mouth agape kid for an audience...
That, of course, would be me. I don't remember how long it took
me to get close enough to determine that she wasn't real.
Bruce

Well, my mind is spent from too many festivities and speaking engagements over the weekend, then jumpin' back into the work fray.
Geez, used to work 80-100 hrs a week, and play in between..hard.
Now, by the time I treat myself to a 2nd crossword puzzle I need a nap.
However, tonight I plan on spectating right after I do my aerobic lazyboy lever regimen.
Let's see, right arm...down....grasp......pull.....a one..a tw....ouch....pulled sumpm else....


"He was happily munching away for a few minutes and I heard him drop his fork. He dropped his jaw too and that was quite a feat for him because he only had half a jaw anyway......"
Aw, man, great story.
As Bruce, 'you can't make this stuff up'.

"Engineering time was at hand. Need to fill the cavity"
See, you got some stories.

Seems you just needed a little primin', Bruce. Kinda like puttin' a new sock in an ol' 600 cfm compressor.......

I just have a tiny one tonight  (c'monnn...tiny story)

Cake/ants
Sometime last century a couple buddies hid a birthday cake in my office (on the floor under my desk) for a cantankerous ol' biddy production mgr's lunchtime surprise party.
When the time came to bring the cake out, we discovered it was covered in little red ants, so much so that it looked more to be a strawberry cake than a white one.
So, my buddy shut my office door and we went to work, first trying to pick them off, then, giggling our asses off, pushed them all into the icing, smoothing over the rough spots with our fingers.
The surprise party proceeded.
Everyone had cake.
Well almost everyone......
Didn't tell anyone until years later.


Brucey?
You an engineer?
I headed an engineering group....got stories

I was going to be a machine design engineer, but things didn't quite
work out due to medical problems.

Bruce

I gotcha.
Sometimes things don't work out 'cause they're not s'posed to...........

I'm a locomotive engineer does that count.  Don't design 'em or build'em just drive'm

rlr

Of course it counts!
Fodder for stories, and man you gotta have 'em!
Give

OK, I'll start ya out.
My greatgrandpappy exited this earth when experiencing a head on collision with another train mid- state Washington.....he too was an engineer..........

OK, go........and welcome to the fray of story telling, Rick

And for Bruce
On that note, I was supposed to be a dentist.
HAH!
Now half my teeth greet me every morning, grinning back at me from a glass in the bathroom as I wake to consciousness by scaring myself in the mirror.

Worked in the Merchant Marines after a brief tour in the Marine Corps.
The medical problem had to do with my eyes, but I could still qualify
for most jobs, just not prolonged reading.

Was working on a big Sea Train ship with heavy lift cranes doing
crane maintenance. I was on watch while they were moving cargo in
Manila. They were offloading tanks that had been shot up in Nam and
needed rebuilding.

I am sure you have seen wooden docks and how thick they are, well I guess the tank they were off loading was much heavier than the others. Cable snapped and the tank went thru the dock and stuck there. That cable whipped around so bad when that happened
that I didn't have to be told to go back and check again.
Bruce

Gettin' Old, This Adventure Called 'Life' Continues, However..............  Reminds me of back when we still had full train crews on those big trains that run for long distances across country.  We call that chain gang or pool freight.  On those trains a head brakeman which does not mean he is a chief brakeman or a brakeman that is more skilled (usually just the opposite.)  Simply mean his position was braking on the head end of a train.  A rear brakeman who was a some times flagman, some time brakeman who rode in the caboose or on the rear end and usually had the most seniority.  And the conductor who is in charge of the train.  Engineer is just in charge of the locomotives.

This takes place back when they have just gotten rid of the cabooses so now everyone was on the head end.  Usually they rode on the first two locomotives.  This crew was going through a small town here in southern Idaho.  The engineer and the head brakeman see a body laying between the rails.  The engineer places the train in emergency.  They call the train dispatcher and he in turn calls the local police.  It is at night and the brakemen grab their lanterns and head out looking for this body.  Soon the police show searching as well searching for the body.  There is no body to be found.  The engineer and head brakeman know what they seen and there has to be a body.  They are now arguing over the radio with the conductor.  The conductor now thinks the guys on the head end were seeing things!

Next thing the police get a call there is a man at the local hospital emergency room some one just dropped off with minor scrapes and abrasions.  He claims he had passed out walking  home.  The next thing he knows is a train is running over the top of him.  The train stops over the top of him and he rolls out from between the tracks.  He thinks he is pretty scrapped up and flags down a car and they take him to the hospital.  He is now at the emergency room sort of drunk mad that a train ran over him.  Sort of confused how a train could have done such a thing because he was just walking home.  His adventurous life continues.  As does everyone on that train crew.  Two still working, two retired.......   

That is a wake up call I would think.  Reminds me now when I used to install roll bars on Caterpillars all over California. [idea]

If the weather was good I would work late into the night and then pull out the sleeping bag and just sleep right there. I was in The City of Industry - LA one night.  Worked all day and was right beside the tracks when it came time for the sandman to drop in.

I lifted the 966 Cat loader bucket off of the ground a couple feet, rolled out my sleeping bag in it and climbed in.... went to sleep.

Middle of the night the train comes barreling up the hill about 400 miles an hour and  hits the horn .... about 50 feet from me.  Lucky the 966 has a gigantic bucket because I thought the dang thing was going to run right over me as I woke from sound sleep.  I jumped up, sat straight up, fighting to get free from the sleeping bag straight jacket and onto the ground... the lights of the train blinding me like a lighthouse light in the night....the ground was shaking as the steel monster grabbed it and shook it with all of it's might.......

.......took me a minute to figure out where I was and that it wasn't hell because I wasn't dead...... [noidea'

Ol' Woody Spencer was with me that night as I recall.... but I don't remember if he woke up or not.  He was likely in another bucket or on the ground.  He was so deaf he could't hear his own butt fart.  Still he was a good ol' fella.  He's gone now but ....who knows ... he may be watching us from one place or the other.   [waiting]

Bruce, Rick
Those have got to have been headlines somewhere.

Glenn
"He was so deaf he could't hear his own butt fart"
Took a lung full'a coffee when I read that this morn'

Trains, Docks and Cranes...Oh My!
I was in line to do some swampin' for that gigantamous crane they had over at Hughes Tool in Houston. The line moved pretty fast, as swampers seemed to opt for the early retirement option (from earth) about once a month. Got to about 7th in line then Camille happened...kinda why I'm typin' away in the here and now.
...and thaets awl ah've got t' say about thaet.

Buddy Hans and I decided to hop a train 'cause our dads did it.
I was told some yard bosses would even tell you the schedule, and some would run you off...to jail.
Hans was a slow talkin' Scandinavian from the Dakotas. Asked him once where Scandia was. Couple days later he parted his lips, making a slight smacking/plunger like noise, and said in his up and down syllable way "Up near Dane and Norwege der....yah".....poppin' me on the shoulder.
Man, couldn't match those pops...hands like catcher's mitts.

Trains were leavin' the yard.
The yard boss had run us off twice, takin' our water jug the second time...watchin' us leave.
We hid outside the fence until dark.
A gondola was creeping east on the outside track.
Easy pickins.
High fives.....ass slappin' glee....we're headin' somewhere.

The train slowed.
stopped

Went backwards

Forwards again.... High fives.....ass slappin'

Slowed, stopped
Went backwards

Forwards again.... High fives.....arm poppin'

Slowed, stopped
Went backwards

Forwards again.... Head nods

Slowed, stopped
Went backwards

Quiet

Minutes later I peered over the edge
Our gondola was uncoupled on a spur about 5 mi from the yard.
We eventually found success, but learned a couple things.

Boxcar doors lock...from the outside

Gondolas are quite dirty (no matter how dark it is at night), thus once you get to your stop, you have become the same.

Hot shots haulin' fruit across the country don't stop much.

When exiting a box car during a slowdown thru town, first learn the roll feature wide receivers use.

No matter how callused your hands are, landing at 15-20 mph can turn your palms into protective wrist flaps if you don't know the above mentioned.

It's best to hop on a boxcar when it's at a complete stop if you have the gait of a diseased yak.

The term 'Hobo' just seems a kinda friendly portrayal of an old gent with a red bandana tied on a stick..spinnin' stories and singin' hobo songs.

They generly turn on you moments after you grab their reached out hand to board.

Give strong consideration to putting all yer clothes in a hanky on a stick, and board naked...hobos generly leave you alone then...and/or it at the very least saves a lot of scuffle and time.

When a train is goin' east and the one on the next track is goin' west, sit down young man, sit down!

All things considered, get a car, walk, hitch hike, swim, crawl. Genoa Nebraska just  sounds romantic.....they do like their oranges however.

Got a letter from Hans a year or so after.
Hey der, tink dat gondola ever left da spur?

yeah, he wrote just that way for my sake
I loved that ol' galoot

Letter head and envelope was;

Massachusetts Institute of Technology
School of Engineering
77 Massachusetts ave
Cambridge MA 02139

I was on one ship going into Antwerp Belgium in the middle
of the winter. I had shipped on as an oiler and my buddy. who I had
joined the Marine Corps on the buddy system was with me shipped on as a fireman.
We had signed up with the Merchant Marines after one hitch in the Marine Corps. His old man was a Merchant Marine and he got us signed up with the SIU. Seafarers Internatioal Union.

But I digress, My buddy is on watch in the engine room and I was in my bunk. Large thump! I wake up, look out the port hole. All you can see is flames. got dressed and lifejacket and on deck before you could say lickity split. Was about to jump in the water and swim for shore. Luckily some one grabbed me. Made it quite clear that I wouldn't last but a couple of minutes in freezing water.

Turned out we had only hit the other ship in her personel fuel bunkers which carried bunker C. Really crude stuff that had to be heated to about 180 F before it would flow. Oh, her cargo bunkers
which we had missed, were carrying aviation fuel.

My buddy who had had to get a waiver to join the Corps because he was only 5' 3 1/2" had been adjusting the feed water valve which was one of those 10 inch wheels on the end of a vertical rod so he
had to reach up on tip toes to grab it. That was when we colided with the tanker. He said it flipped him back and forth but he held on for dear life.

Finally we got docked and we were able to go ashore so we went and found a quiet bar with tables and a juke box. My buddy goes over and leans on the juke box one hand on either side so he can
check out the tunes. A really cute bar maid comes over behind him
and gives him a friendly pat between his legs, only she lifts him clear off the floor a couple of inches.

He comes back to the table with this strange expression on his face and in a low voice asks me if that bar maid was really a girl. So I said to him, why don't you just ask? I ended up having to ask.
Turns out that it had been taking hormones and was just about to
have a complete sex change operation. You should have seen the look on my buddy's face.

Bruce

1977 I was working as a switchman in a fairly good sized yard on a branch line.  This was back in the day when we could really go like the wind.  Most all the tracks were all in very good shape.  We would switch cars at a very fast rate, plus service industries so our plate was very full and we were very busy.  Lots of the seed houses were shipping bulk seeds at a very high priority plus all the perishable foods business we had on that branch.

In the middle of all this three or four hobos showed up there.  You never got them on a branch line, they were really out of place.  This brought me to corner a couple of them as we were hitting the lead. I told them this is a small yard and we switch very fast down here.  So stay clear or they were going to get killed.  One of them looked at me and said 'Sonny look at my gray hair I have been around this old railroad a lot longer than you.  I pretty much know what is going on so you just go boss some one that needs bossing.'  So that started some thing brewing inside of me.

They seemed to find enough to eat and seemed to me more than enough to drink.  They set up court under an old stock loading chute and went begging every day for about a week.  They would pass a bottle of cheap wine and and sit there by the stock loading chute or climb up there and watch and offer comments, get drunk and just be a pain. 

Then one day the old gray haired 'gentleman' walked up to me.  'Sonny, say there is a RBOX near the head end of that train you guys just built.' 
Ya' what about it? I asked. 
'Well me and my buddies were thinking about leaving here and going south.  That bunch of cars they going south?'
I looked at my switch list as if I was trying to figure out what car it was.  Oh Ya the RBOX with the open door!
'Ya Sonny thats the one.' 
Yes Sir it is billed for LA yard.  I looked him in the eye and our first conversation a week before was still brewing where he assured me he knew more about railroading that I.  So I assured him stay with that car it is going to LA.  Turned and walked away wishing them well.  Only problem was that car was billed for the Burlington Northern interchange in Silver Bow Montana.  Montana - California I guess I always got those two states mixed up.... I do know one is warmer than the other just cant remember which one..... OH well This Adventure Called 'Life' Continued for those guys.  Me, when the shift was over I went and bought a six'er and atlas and went to my room and brushed up on my geography.   [noidea'     
   
       

[rofl2] rofl

OK ....fresh stuff... I just did this one today and Sassy says I have to tell it.

We have a new foreman on the job.... came in all full of piss and vinegar and thought he was going to be MR. Tough Guy..... problem is he doesn't know I run things my way there... whenever I can.

His jerk PM on the job... likely I just complained about him.... told him to start documenting problems with our job.....though the problems are mostly from their company and architectural problems... such as things that were right on their architectural plan but not on structural so the erection crew had to spend a couple weeks modifying stuff to fit equipment on top of the Safeway.  He sent e-mail out to me, the company I sub for and his bosses to comply with the PM's request and to make himself look good to upper management in my opinion.

I sent several psycho type emails out to him, one telling him not to be sending out B...S... emails to make himself look good at my expense....then I went to work Monday wearing my camo shirt.....  :o

In all fairness to him, he has not learned not to screw with me yet... but he will.  heh

Sassy is my Safety Director on these projects. An RN with a BSN and mean as they come when I want her to be.

As I mentioned before, the crappers get full and even though they were serviced yesterday morning, they were out of two rolls of paper after lunch today in five out of eight and the others had little left.  The lunch wagon... (garbage truck).....gives lots of people the runs......[hungry]

I called the Safety Director of their company.. told him I couldn't find management on the job,  and that the crappers were out of paper, some guys came out to wash their hands because they had to use their fingers and that some had left used paper on top of the roll holder so they could use it again later.  I also told him I called my safety director and she wanted to call environmental health.

We talked back and forth about how he had been trying to keep up since my last three or four complaints.. He takes his job seriously.  I told him I asked Sassy to hold off on the call because I wanted to give him a chance to handle it.  You need to know that when this guy shows up on the job, everyone is in fear because he will shut the job down if safety is not complied with.  :)

OK.... so he shows up and heads roll... OK ... so some are chewed out.   Turns out the best guy there ... a friend, Dave... a decent guy and Super over the Safeway, is in charge and he got chewed out.

The safety director made a spreadsheet chart to have management check all of the crappers twice a day and sign for it that it was done.  You can bet this will come up at the corporate meeting.

Dave came roaring out into the yard and asked me if I called the Safety  Director because he was Senior Management there and he got chewed out.  [noidea'

I have a habit of not lying to them so I said, "Yeah, I did, and it was all because New John sent out that BS email to me last Friday."  He told me he now
has to sign for checking the crappers twice a day and he would appreciate if I contacted him next time.... I of course apologized profusely and kidded him into a better mood telling him he needed to keep John under control.  Dave wandered off back into management land and I went back to finishing up things around the yard.

About that time the police arrived asking that road signs around the street repairs be re-arranged as people are rather like cattle and get confused if they don't know exactly where to go or what to do in a new situation.  I told him that the pavers were not there but were friends and I would help take care of the problem.  I went out with the officer and fixed the signs to leave no confusion for my paving friends and walking back, I stopped by Dave's Motor Home.

He stays on site during the week.  I told him about fixing the signs and he said, "Thanks, that will make up for you getting me in trouble over the crappers."

I said, "Well, Dave, I have been meaning to talk to you about that."

He asked what about....

"Well, you mentioned that you are senior management here didn't you?"

He replied in the affirmative....

"That means you can make people do things, right?"

Yes, he replied.

"Well, I bet a case of cold beer would mysteriously appear on your doorstep if New John got to be in charge of checking the crappers twice a day." [waiting]

He said "I drink either Coors Lite or Bud Lite....doesn't matter," laughing along with me.  

I said, "Now you won't get into trouble if I walk by John tomorrow and ask, 'How's crapper Duty, John?', will you."....

"Nah... no problem."..... heh

I rushed off to the BevMo, a man of my word, then when I brought them back, we both sat and told stories for about an hour similar to this one..... A great end to the days work.  :)

Seems this day and age those health and sanitary related issues seem to weight a lot any more.  A lot of us worked in places where you were just expected to step around corner and 'do your thing'...   

I remember when migrant workers were required to have sanitary toilets and wash facilities in the fields.  Oh my gosh we are all going to go broke if we are required to treat field labors like humans.  Funny those same land owners are still there today......

Yeah... it is pretty funny, Rick.  I know the system and we all pretend that it is a gigantic issue so that a few more will have jobs and attorneys may not get to make a buck if we can out pretend them...

I make it a hobby to work the angles when I get bored.... and I am bored - this job is too mean and has gone on way too long.

Farmers down here ... always makes me think of the one who bragged about poisoning his workers garden so they wouldn't have anything. 

The way a lot of people treat migrant workers makes me want to give them a tip just to show them we are not all jerks.  I have been helped by them in Mexico when I was the migrant.  $3 for a tire repair.  What could be nicer than that.

See, readin' these kinda stories....short, humorous, straight from acquaintances, different, thus refreshing, are the way to either start or end the day....smiling.

Note to self; better add Bruce and Rick to the don't sip coffee while reading list.

"and gives him a friendly pat between his legs, only she lifts him clear off the floor a couple of inches..."
lawdy

"Montana - California I guess I always got those two states mixed up...."

Thanks, gents, for startin' this ol' coot's day right

There is a little port in Scotland called Grangemouth, which is
somewhere between Edinburgh and Glasgow. You took a cab to the
train station and then the train to either city.
The port was in behind locks, so you could only enter and exit
based on the tide level.

This is when I first started out in the Merchant Marines, and I had shipped out as a wiper, which as I am sure you can imagine, is not
the nicest job on the ship. Although it did pay more than minimum
wage.

These were SeaLand container ships and only spent about 48 hours in port at the most. I had made friends with the Radio Operator
and we decided to go in and visit Edinburgh.

After a nice time ashore it was time to head back to the ship before
it left. It had to leave during a specific widow due to the tide and locks etc.

Well we caught the train with plenty of time to spare. Now you have to remember that Scotland is a foreign country with a foreign
language, at least where us yanks were concerned.

The train finally came to a stop and everyone got off....everything
was real quiet, and I started to get nervous, so I woke up my friend
and we found a conductor. We were in Glasgow.....they had announced Grangemouth a while back...Luckily the train would be heading back to Edinburgh in a few minutes and we managed to convey
to the conductor that we would deeply appreciate it if he would
make sure we got off there.

We made it off the train and into a cab racing to meet the tide.
We get to the dock and it is my turn to pay the cab. My friend heads for the ship. I then finish paying for the cab and turn to head for the ship. There to my horror I see the radio officer walking up the gangway, and the gangway being raised at the same time.
I made a mad dash and grabbed the last step of the ladder and hung
on as it was raised the next 20 feet or so up.

This is when I was informed that the ship can sail without a wiper,
but it couldn't sail without the radio officer. No one said one word to me, but they chewed my friend out royally since they almost missed the tide.

Another one of those moments where you didn't have to go back out and check again.

I don't think I'd have made the ramp.
Yeah, travel abroad has always been a mystery for me.
I no longer feel so alone.
However, I don't have to leave the contiguous 48 to lose my way

Travelin' Stories
(wiper wasn't needed on this trip either)

Took a jet to Mexico w/my boss
2 hr layover in Phoenix
After jawin' with a local we were able to crash the little private club they have there at the airport.
Internal pride building pressure in my occipital lobe....(boss has got to be impressed).
Chikin fingers and vodka seemed like a good combo.
Check is grabbed by my new acquaintance....(what a guy....I am).
Seems the liquor turned the victuals halfway thru the master chute.
No prob, there's time.
"Meetcha at the gate Bill"...pointing.
I got nothing
Enzymes are on strike
Things seem to be heading the wrong direction
20 min later, left leg in a coma, brain hemorrhaging, I glance at my watch
OMG!!!
No need or time for paperwork.
I push back in my prolapsed rectum, tuck-snap-turn-flush...why?....habit...turn-BAP.....
Stall door 'tween the eyes...dizzy
Mirror...no blood, but two-three heads
S turn
THEY'RE BOARDING!
Dragging one leg, other leg trotting in a Z pattern, I make my way to the gate.
Lovely lady waves me thru after ticket glance

(Ah...25F...where's Bill....)
My name is announced over the intercom, and two (maybe three) stewards are coming my way.
"Where's my partner, Bill?"
"Sir, see that jet taking off? It's going to Mexico.
This one's going to Chicago."
Five hrs later I'm comin' off the plane in El Paso.
Wonder where Bill is....
Boss says I looked like 'a deer in the headlights'
Impressive

I had to make that ramp. Merchant Marines enter countries with this plastic id card, not a passport. Once the ship leaves without you, you
are an illegal alien and they lock you up. At this point, the shipping
company has totally forgotten who you are.

I have a certain fondness for Guinness so when I went ashore in Hong Kong I stocked up. Came back to the dock with three cases on my shoulder and proceeded up the gang way. Of course I had sampled a few on the way back to lighten the load. No, I don't know how many a few is. I am now staggering up the gangway, but in spite of all the commotion on deck no one is offering to give me a hand. Turns out they were all making book on whether I would make it without dropping the load. Well, I made it ok, but that was one load I didn't share.

Update.... John checks the paper..... :)

(https://i778.photobucket.com/albums/yy62/the_troglodyte/johnchecksthepaper.jpg)

Oh I just love it when a plan comes together.... [waiting]

Today -- when he was not too busy I called him over to my truck...

"Hey, John.....Keiley told me I could call you when I had a problem.... the two crappers there are out of paper....."

He started to get a bit of a grin and then stopped himself.... "Oh, that's a quick fix" he said.

We talked a bit about the building work progress and I said, "Maybe tonight you could write an email giving me some Brownie Points."

"Hey, I was told to send that email".......

"Yeah, I know".... :)

He said "Bye, Glenn" and smiled and waived when he left tonight.   heh

Ah, foreign beer......had a continuous bottle of Sam Miguel in my hand most waking hours.

Food, another story.
One of the first business meals I sat down at, was in Dongguan.
Taiwanese gents invited me to Taiwanese food.
Big bowls, 'family style' I guess.
I've never got the hang of eating with sticks, and marveled at their deftness with rice, green stuff, and bits of meat.
After a one stick struggle, I started to eat with my fingers...casual like....just nibbling really. Got a shot in the ribs from my broker "NO HANDS!" (whisper/yell).
It was though I'd whipped out an appendage from a lower region and commensed pokin' it around in the pot. But, hey! They were dippin' their sticks in the pot after mouthing twigs full of goodies!....never saw 'em eat soup....wonder........
So I'm stabbing bits of tiny fish with my one stick when a sweet ol' gal brings me a big spoon.


Man, Glenn...appreciate the ringside play by play, as close to live as it gets.
Ain't it fun to mess with heads sometimes?
.....just the ones that take their vocation a couple clicks past too serious.

Had a QA 'lady' (female dog) jump my posterior when, right before a gov source inspector was due that day, she found a piece of test equipment without cal certs.
She was about 7-8 ft tall, and tended to hover over people like a praying mantis.
So, crap, I scurried around getting the proper dox in the nic-o-time (while she was writin' my arse up anyway).
Inspector arrives....turns out he's and ol' hippie, and we share lazy-hazy days of yore.
All the while occasionally glancing over my shoulder....then this over fed long hed leaping gnome gave his blessing with his invisible wand, and a tip of the hand...signed dox, and was off. I think she hated me even more after that.

'Nother notable occasion, was when I took it upon myself to scrap some wire I'd picked up at an auction....stuff not usable left over from a lot....takin' up space.
She sprung out from nowhere (or a branch, after eating her ol' man's head for a snack), and started lecturing me on procedure...much like a rabid ump at a ball game...in my face....wonder what mouth wash she used, 'cause her breath was pretty good.....but even so, my head kept involuntarily poppin' further back as she sputtered.
Then she started thumpin' my chest, sayin' how I and another (poor headless soul) thought we ran the place and could do whatever we pleased.
I could feel my brain begin to explode, but held my cool until her hand got tired.
However, when she turned and started to prance off on her hind legs, I took the spool and slam dunked it on the warehouse floor......'Now it's scrap!!"
What is it about wimin, that one minute they can be all forceful like, and the next minute become a quivering sobbing mass of (in her case) bones and lipstick?
She hid in her locked office all day...next day it was like nothin' happened.

Down Home

Kids today seem to be having their imagination taken away from them, and given somebody else's.
Got a 7 yr old grandson that had a PS3 plugged to his wrist.
The lad was developing bad sleep habits.
His eyes had a continuous peevish look.
I get up at 3:30am weekdays, and a couple times when they stayed over, I'd see a flickering grey/bright light coming from underneath the door to the spare bedroom.
Cracked the door.
There he'd be, thumbs flittering at mach II.....glazed eyes locked on the screen.
I surgically removed the controller from his hands, unplugging the umbilical cord to the box.
He threw a little fit and fell over in a twitching heap.
PS3 has mysteriously disappeared, replaced by my football, basketball, his now repaired bike, bugs in jars, and a myriad of wood scrap projects from my shop....and the summer pool.
If continued, I'm sure I would have looked in on him one morning and he'd be in the monitor, shooting bad guys and eventually getting zapped himself....

Back in the 50's we relied heavily on our imaginations.
The converted broom factory we lived in yielded a pile of broom sticks.
These overgrown dowels easily became horses, swords, weapons of Little John of Sherwood Forest, and the prize creation of a carbine....wire two together and nail on a slab of wood and you could start pickin' off bad guys....sure wish we'd had access to duct tape back then....
There were a dozen or so kids in our country neighborhood, and we all played together, 'cept that time my big sister and Dennis Blickenson  locked me in the garden shed most of one afternoon....still wonder what they were doin'......
However,  generally we played with whatever was available......old tires, once flipped over a half dozen times to slosh out all the water, would roll all over tarnation and could be propelled by a piece of broom stick.
'Course there were mud pies 'n cakes created by our culinary experts Bessie and my sister.
Had a bite of their shiny pie once....pretty much the same experience I had when gramma gave me a spoon of unsweetened chocolate....
One time at hilltop, we were all gathered at the flat part of the country lane (paved no less) where most the population lined their hovels...pardon...homes.  A few visitors joined us, kids everwhere, pushin' tires, ridin' bikes, havin' pine cone wars, chasin' dogs, dogs chasin' bikes, when the action lulled.
We seemed to naturly migrate together, cause Daryl was exercisin' his jaw with a piece of bubble gum, and unfolding the comic. We all peered over his shoulder and listened to him haltingly read the mini episode of Bazooka Joe.
You know those childhood moments that you still vividly recall?
Well, as I peered over the shoulder of one of the visiting girls I noticed something a bit horrific. She was missing most of her ear! I looked around, and noticed another visiting kid missing one of his ears.
Then I just stopped thinking about missing ears, 'cause one of the visiting kids had dug a chunk of melted road tar out of the pavement and had started chewing it....now everyone was gathered around him, then we all dug out our own chunks....nobody mentioned how awful it tasted, and we chawed on our chunks most of the afternoon.....seems road tar retains it's flavor long after Bazooka gets that gawdawful saliva saturated insipid wad taste.
Thinkin' about it all a few years later, I remember getting a glimpse of Bessie Dodge's ear (or where her ear shoulda been) one time  when her hair was accidently pulled back, and she too was missing most of it.
Kinda thru me off, 'cause, even though she was my sister's best friend, I had a crush on her, even before I knew what crushes were. But the thing that came to mind was the visiting kids. I put two and two together and came to the thought that they were all visiting the Dodges, 'cause Bessie had a bit of a handicap and they did too.....7 yr olds really start coming into realization of things if PS3s aren't around....
Right about now if you are thinking, 'I just read this and seem to be missing the point', well then its just not for you, is it.
For everyone else, parents/grandparents, unite!
The road's gettin' hot!

There is nothing really strange about those kids missing part of their
ears. You know how some lizards have this thing where if you grab
their tail, they just let it fall off and then run away. These kids just picked up some of that DNA, so that when their parents grabbed their ear, they could get away.

So if you have kids or grand kids, be very careful where you grab them.........
Bruce

Beautiful...I would've never gone that direction.
Truly beautiful
Yer mind is flowin' and Rick is waxing creative...of all times to do chores......

Rick, you might find this of interest.
My great uncle Cal was the engineer of a train back in the early 1900s.
In 1999 got a letter of a distant relative doing a genealogy thing for our family.
Mentioned the train wreck of 1913 in Thorp, Kittitas  county, WA.
Head on 'tween freight and passenger.
Do you (or does anyone) know a best way to search this out?
Google/wiki isn't pickin' up on my exact words....or any of my words.....did find some interesting data on the Thorp family, and the Kittitas tribe however.
S'pose you don't search out train wrecks as a hobby....bein' an engineer and all.
It'd be like me looking for job related deaths for purchasing agents....
THIS JUST IN!!
Man does pretty much nothing....dies.
More at eleven...well why not now........nobody discovers him for several months....birthday party members in shock (not really)....so nothing more at eleven...except the amassed cache of framed photos with captions found in his archives.......


(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/train001.jpg)

(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/newspaper.jpg)

Something's Fishy Here

I just happened onto a few fish stories I put together years ago, and intend to do something with them one day.

They are recollections of a good friend and our experiences.
Shouldn't be a terrible read at a quiet time....


I had a fishing buddy.

Rob could pull a fish out of a mud puddle if it had a rock in it. He had an uncanny touch of what was happening at the end of his line, and stream savvy beyond my scope.
We fished most of the north coastal streams of Oregon together, going after sea run cuts, steelies, and salmon.
We'd spend the eve tying hooks, sorting lures and gear, and get our wives to pack us a lunch.
Off we'd go, swapping lies on the way, stopping at Staleys on hwy 26 to load up on bait, refill our mugs with hot coffee, grab some jerky, and head to whatever stream looked good that day.
One fine morn we decided on Beaver creek. The stream was pristine. A freshet, days before, made it a great prospect.
As our custom, we walked the creek, picking a starting point in the town of Beaver. Wading about a half mile downstream, we came upon the mamma johamma of fishing holes. The eddy, the depth, the tail out was the stuff of fishermen's dreams.
Rob decided to work it from the top, tossing his line close in, each cast drifting a bit further than the previous. Watching him was a study in precision. His worn vest bearing testimony to experience, held just a few choice lures, as he seldom snagged.
I chose to directly work the hole in the hopes of getting a much needed head start in putting keepers on my stringer. We each pulled in a couple fat cuts, and the day was looking productive when I spotted a rather large German shepherd loping down the hill towards me. Following him was a middle aged guy with no legs 'running' down the hill on his knuckles and leather torso pad. Rather unnerving, and distracting to my little adventure.
Stopping at the bank, Shorty, resting on his knuckles, watched for a while, then started throwing rocks in the hole.
Then Rin Tin Tin chased the rocks.
'How ya doin'?"
"Fine."
More rocks.
"Nice day isn't it."
"Yup."
More rocks.
"Let's see, this is public land, but your personal fishing hole, right?"
"Oh, you can fish here, I don't own it."
More rocks.
Cujo is now in a frenzy. Teeth bared, making those precious GGGRRRR noises that endears parents of small children.
"So, mind throwing rocks over there?" pointing to my buddy.
"No, I like it here, where I catch fish."
I reeled in, and commenced upstream towards Rob.
It turns into a game for Shorty's dog, as he plunges toward me, intent on maybe getting his master a couple new legs, mine.
Ever try to run or hurry when waist deep in a stream?
I yelled to Rob, "I THINK WE SHOULD FISH A BIT FARTHER DOWNSTREAM, DON'T THINK WE'RE GOING TO BE PRODUCTIVE HERE."
Shorty grunted something (apparently in canineese) and satan dog immediately retreated.
In town I found out no leg dog man was a local hero, had a big write up about him in the Reader's Digest.....and he was the mayor.
Rob and I talk about that place from time to time, and refer to it as the hole that got away.



Early one fall, Rob and I discovered the guard rail hole on the Salmon river, between Otis and the hatchery upstream.
There was a gauntlet of anglers, elbow to elbow.
We watched.
You could see these brutes coming upstream, the wake from their dorsals making a vee in the water.
Sometimes 3, 4 abreast.
About every 10-15 minutes someone hooked a fish.
Lines were retrieved.
Anglers waited.
Only one in six were successful in landing one.
There was a constant jabber from most until a fish was hooked.
Then everyone busied themselves, checking baits, hooks, lines.
It takes about 20 minutes to tire these hawgs out, and you need all the hole and more to give yourself a chance.
Some have the guts to let their line slack, culminating in pulling at the corner of the fish's mouth from downstream, prompting the fish to fight it by swimming upstream. It gives the angler more of a fighting chance, if the hook set is sure.
After an hour of watching, which isn't a bad tactic, no matter the pressure, a couple younger guys reeled in, packed up, and left. Rob and I looked at each other. We were both game. The young fella's had been in a less than desirable spot, on the upstream end of the hole. The older, retired gents had their spots way before dawn. Even if they hadn't, the spots would've been protected by their compadres.
We both hooked and lost fish.
Fall Chinook usually run 30 to 60 lbs. They'll straighten out the stoutest of stream rods, and it's a thrill to feel so much muscle at the end of your line. You can burn a hole in your thumb trying to keep your line from stripping to the backing.
The oldsters became more and more disgusted every time we hooked up, knowing it was in vain.
"Just give it a hard jerk, and enjoy your fish lips for dinner."
"Why don't you break the GD thing off, it's been twenty minutes?"
Rob broke off.
I immediately hooked another. An ol' geezer started barking at me, tossing his rod to the bank. Only I had a plan. Rob and I talked about the chances of wading the shallowest part of the hole and gaining a fighting position. The specter was the good chance of falling in, and my last conscience thought before drowning would be seeing and hearing old men scoffing as I drifted through the hole.
Turns out, the route I picked was apparently not the shallowest.
On tiptoes, leaning upstream, treading in places, keeping the line taut (not that there was an option) I got to the other, navigable, side.
This fish was a brute.
Rod straight.
Tugs coming hard.
Line heading downstream.
I'm scrambling now.
Falling over rocks.
Now sitting in two feet of water, my sandwich making its way out of my vest, floated merrily, merrily down the stream.... An old guy with dinner plates for hands, lifted me up by my armpits.

Something was not right. I never had fought a fish of this heft before, so I wasn't sure.
The fish was tiring.
I was tiring.
'Defibrillator paddles would be good about now', I thought.
The fish was spent, fighting now in spasmodic, vain attempts at freedom.
I nursed it up to the bank.
Steam coming from its heaving gills.
Steam coming from my heaving gills.
I did it!
I landed a fifty pound hawg!!
It was beautiful
In my triumphant elation I hadn't noticed that the hook was lodged in the gill.
Foul hooked!?
The beast had sucked the hook through it's mouth and out the gill, hooking on the intake!!
Thus the odd feeling that something was wrong...too much resistance, more like a halibut.
An old gent handed me his pliers.
Hathaway, the ODF&W warden, Don Knots of Otis, was on the other bank, arms folded, waiting for me to make a wrong move.
I carefully unset the hook, turned my trophy toward freedom, gently rocked him back and forth, and he was gone............
On the way home, Rob jabbered away at how he would have kept it..........it's a good thing we weren't hunting..............hunting 'accidents' are easier explained.......



After several trips to the coastal system Salmon River, Rob and I pretty much new all the good holes. The best bein' right below the weir, of which was right below the hatchery.
Plenty of anglers ran lines thru there, the well beaten paths from the make shift parking area bore witness.
It was very accommodating. A wooded gentle sloped path traveled right to the beach. On the right about 30 yards upstream, the deadline stretched across the water. Within 20-30 yards up from that was the weir. Easy pickin's if one could legally fish there, as the returning salmon piled up, resting before negotiating the little overflowing dam.
But just below that was this beach, and there was plenty of opportunity to hook into these weary returning nomads, as they rested in any slow water available.
The river created this stretch of unhurried water from the restraints of a cut bank on the other side, curving into a rapid at the tail out.
Oak, bull alders and willows graced the opposing bank, lending their shade to the spent fish.
It was the first week of summer, arriving in the early dawn hour, we were the first there. So, as we were taught from conscientious anglers before us, Rob and I policed the area of cans, their plastic six pack holders, fishing line, fast food wrappers, Styrofoam, and the plastic bags that the slack jawed troglodytes brought them in, loading up our 'pack it in, pack it out' sack.
We studied the water. Late springers were everywhere. Their torpedo shapes moving up and coasting back, holding.
However, they were not taking.
Everything in every color we presented was ignored.
An hour had passed. Anglers were starting to line the gravel beach.
We were ready to head downstream, but I had my eye on a hawg that moved little, and hung directly under a dead fall oak, of which the river had undermined its roots the winter before. The old oak had made a natural platform about six to eight feet long, ending about two feet above where the old bruiser hung.

Spring Chinook range 15 to about 40 lbs, 30 lbs being the common nice sized fish in comparison to their larger fall cousins.
This one looked to be at least 30 pounds.
I forded the river thru the rapids, and grabbing the limbs, made my way down the log.
He was still holding.
I looped a fresh bait of eggs on my hook, and back reeled my presentation down and about three feet in front of his nose.
As the bait drifted toward him, he moved to the side to let it pass.
This happened several times.
I got on my knees and studied my elusive friend.
He had the look and size of a five salter, and had been thru a battle or two. Having only one eye, and what looked like a seal bite near his adipose, I dubbed him 'Lucky'.
He was a bit dark, not the black, or the 'so rotten they're white' look about him, but I bet he wasn't going back out.
I steered my bait to about a foot in front of his eyeless side.
No movement.
I brought my line back upstream and artificially drifted the now washed out roe to the front of his nose, but on the eyeless side again.
The spent eggs were an undulating cushion of veined textured goo, and I let it envelope his face.
No movement
No movement
Then
BAM!!
I had driven him a few clicks past irritation, and he was done with it all.
He turned his head and snapped at the bait in one split second move!
Watching this front row action was the thrill of my fishing lifetime!
He thrashed the water, anglers on the beach side started reeling in.
The fight was on!
He ran, making a huge wake, and then down.
It was all I could do to hang onto my rod.
SUH-NAP!
The fight was over as soon as it started.
I had forgotten to back off on the drag!
My usual custom of tightening the drag, getting a good hook set, and then backing the drag off was totally forgotten!
Apparently I'd let my mind focus so hard on getting Lucky to bite, as they are tunnel focused on one thing, going upstream......getting home, no time to dine at this juncture, that I'd disregarded what I'd learned about salmon, and that's basically you only get one chance, especially with late spring Chinook.
Lesser fish will let you recover a mental lapse. Once a salmon is hooked in a stream, its fight to the end, and they know all the tricks.
We traveled home without fish that day, but armed with the new knowledge that sometimes, when they are not biting, it not only takes great patience, the ability to adapt at presentation, and the right gear, but you must have the mental aptitude to remember the basics at the most critical time, in order to get 'Lucky'.

My server and phone has been down for several days now.  I am getting ready to head up to the ranch for a few days.  When I get back I should have some time to go over your stuff.  If I loose it PM me. 

   

No worries Rick.... You've got stuff to do, it's been awhile since the train wreck.....it'll wait
Uncle Cal ain't too concerned
Meantime, I'll just post stuff for folk to (hopefully) enjoy...'tween news and dinner....


You know, there are oftentimes in one's life that the urge to reach out and touch someone does not go away. Results or compensation are not necessary, just a 'hey, there's a bit of a problem' note. It seems to help sometimes.
I've found the initial task is to ferret out actual people with which to correspond when a large conglomerate is involved.
I hate recvg form letters, especially if they arrive one millisecond after hitting the 'send' button.
I also learned Ebay 'arbitration' is akin to getting the Easter Bunny to act as the mutual intercessor.
So, just firing off a tongue in cheek 'your product produces a vacuum' notification is my present mode.
Over a year ago, I sent this to a well known maker of cereal.
Yes, it's verbatim, with the exception of removal of people's names.


From: Gary O'
Sent: Thursday, March 25, 2010 6:56 AM
To: 'E.S.@genmills.com'
Subject: Fiber One Chewy Bars, My Experience
Dear Mr S-

Forgive me for not using the recommended General Mills Email site, designated for consumers such as myself.
I just want to share my experience with you (an individual) in regard to your Fiber One Chewy Bars.

Saw the ad.
Bought a box.
Ate one.
Chewy, delicious, and only four fat grams!
Ate another. Good bar, really good.
Got busy, missed lunch.
Ate another Chewy Bar. Why not? I need fiber, and only four fat grams. What a wonderful thing!
Attended a rather lengthy executive meeting.
Damn near blew out my lower intestines.
Amazing how much retentive capability the human sphincter has when called upon.
However, up until said meeting, I had not known that one's bowels could actually make audible internal noises when an inordinate amount of gastric pressure is pent up. Unfortunately our species does not come with an internal sphincter, so it's quite involuntary, becoming an uncontrolled entity from within.
Even though I highly doubt my colon has lips, it seems actual words were formed from time to time.....a low pitched satanic 'MAHHHMAHHH' and a high pitched 'PEEROOWIT' being the most common, and of course the usual 'POOT' and......'QUACK QUACK'.
Since no priests were in attendance, exorcism was not an immediate option.
Making hand puppet silhouettes of ducks on the power point screen did not become the diversion I'd intended.
Moments after the meeting, I experienced what could be some sort of flatulent nitro-methane expulsion record in the category of duration and decibels...a jet engine comes to mind.
One for entry in the Guinness Book. 
The crowded hallway became quite accommodating for acoustic enhancement.
Pointing to the chap walking ahead of me (once his head turned forward again) seemed morally unsound but necessary.

Here's a novel idea;
Put the 'potential gastrointestinal discomfort' warning somewhere on the side or top of the box, not on the bottom.


Have a nice day.

Gary O'







From: Corporate.Response@genmills.com [mailto:Corporate.Response@genmills.com]
Sent: Friday, March 26, 2010 5:48 AM
To: Gary O'
Subject: Your Response From "General Mills" - 2010/03/25-1312 ZGEW
Dear Valued Consumer:

Thank you for taking the time to contact us.  We are concerned to hear of the experience that you reported having with Fiber One oats and chocolate granola bars.

We apologize for any inconvenience you experienced and appreciate this opportunity to reply to your concerns.   
 
Food quality is a primary concern at our company. Considerable care is taken in the preparation and packaging of all our products.  Our Quality and Regulatory Organization has been notified of the incident you reported.
 
Although we strive to manufacture high quality products and practice stringent quality control procedures, a consumer may infrequently purchase a package which does not meet quality or performance expectations.   
 
Because food quality is a primary concern at our company, we are very interested in collecting some additional information about the product.  Will you please call us, because we would like an opportunity to talk with you, or to collect some information from the package if it is still available.
 
You can reach us  toll free at 1-800-775-4777, Monday through Friday, 7:30 a.m. – 5:30 p.m. Central Time. One of our Consumer Service Representatives will assist you.

We value you as a customer, and we hope you will continue to use and enjoy our products
 
We look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

G W
Consumer Services

>Original Message From: gary@xxxxx.com



From: Gary O'
Sent: Friday, March 26, 2010 6:30 AM
To: Corporate.Response@genmills.com
Subject: RE: Your Response From "General Mills" - 2010/03/25-1312 ZGEW

Hi G W-

Thanks for the personal form letter reply.
I'm fairly confident that this box of bars is exemplary and not the odd one, as I've garnered like related experiences from my peers.

Again, here's a novel idea;
Put the 'potential gastrointestinal discomfort' warning somewhere on the side or top of the box, not on the bottom.
If not, maybe you could just change the name to Flatulence One......................
And yes, the package is still available, as I intend to hand the bars out as gifts for my single friends......right before their dates.........
S/be a blast.

Have a nice day.

Tootles

'Valued Customer'

 rofl  yep those Fiber One bars taste good but are bad news, I won't eat them anymore...   ::)

OK, lets see, where was I ...oh, yeah, gettin' old.........

Notes on the far side of my species

They say you become invisible once you turn 55, as far as being the Adonis you once were, and the fairer sex not receiving the same amount of pheromones you had back in the days of your (or back in yore day, whatever).
OK, aside from  running thru the grocery aisles with the gait of a diseased yak, leaping and flapping yer arms, or letting gastric build up go unrestricted, 'they' may have a point.
However,
There was this one time.
I was sittin' in my Jeep in the parking lot, waiting for the missus to do her weekly inventory of every single thing the mall possibly had. I call it her hard target shopping....you know.....the target is hard to pinpoint, so why not reinvent the reason you went shopping in the first place, and find that precious thing the hobby room of gizmos was missing.
So, there I am, preparing a bank deposit......and my tax return.........and touch ups to my will (yes, I'm quite organized, keeping my dashboard filing system well seated with a fine mix of coffee splatter/dust/sneeze mist/deceased moth-wasp combination).
I sort (roil) my files, prompting me to add to the sneeze mix.
Then head to the bank.
The comely young teller greats me with a big smile....I mean really big smile. All thru the transaction, she is beaming....thus, I too begin to beam, reeling off all the snappy patter my mind could muster....what with my bulbous ego pressing against my shriveled pituitary gland.
I do my cavalier stroll out the door, doing my best to find the correct side that opens on the first try.
(So, I still have it...what a stud muffin)
I take a peek at my countenance in the Jeep side mirror.
It seems my little sneeze produced something on my mustache akin to what an unattended low end caulking gun does when the pressure is not relieved.

Invisible?! HAH!

 rofl [rofl2] rofl [rofl2]

Reminds me of the time, years ago, when I still attracted some attention, slim, worked out everyday, had my share of guys asking me out...  I had gone back to college to get my nursing degree, was pushing 40...  Anyway, I had a short skirt on & was wearing pantyhose.  I was thinking I looked pretty hot  ::)

Anyway, where a lot of the nursing classes were held, the bathroom did not have any mirrors.  I used the facilities & proceeded to walk to my class...  sat down at the desk & the person behind me said "your skirt is caught up in your pantyhose...   :o  :-[ :P  I quickly readjusted things as unobtrusively as possible & pretended in my mind that no one saw me except for the person who thankfully told me about it...  that was the only way I could continue sitting there in class  :-[

Whoa! rofl
Look who's got a story!
I don't think I can match that in that category.
Glenn? Need yer pantyhose story.

Only thing I remotely got is:

High school typing class.
I lucked out with one a them new electric ball units.
Melody sat in front of me.
Frail thing
Delicate
A bit of a snob
The quick brown fox blah blah blah....
Melody's bra strap comes in to vision.
Home row? What home row?
Elastic not only stretches, but it also contracts...reducing bust size greatly...darn near concave.
Next thing I know I'm on the front row, saddled with a Royal pounder, wearing a smallish hand print on my left cheek.
Who really needs to type anyway..........47 years later......

I didn't do panty hose, Gary....

I'm more of a Bikini guy myself..... [waiting]

(https://i778.photobucket.com/albums/yy62/the_troglodyte/machineproofsafetygear.jpg)

 Oh-ho lawdy [scared]
Now to erase the visual before bedtime...think I'll need a bigger night light. An illuminated Sponge bob is no match for Bikini Glenn

Sorry 'bout that, Gary.  [waiting]

I checked your arrival date and it was indeed after the premier showing of my Machine Proof Safety Gear.....

Quote from: glenn kangiser on September 09, 2011, 09:55:00 PM
I didn't do panty hose, Gary....

I'm more of a Bikini guy myself..... [waiting]

(https://i778.photobucket.com/albums/yy62/the_troglodyte/machineproofsafetygear.jpg)

I wore that tight little sucker for 2 hours at work, Gary......

just to prove to management that I knew a better way to be safe than the flimsy flammable chartreuse safety vest they tried to make me wear.  If we are pretending a vest makes us safe, then it is obvious that a hot pink bikini is safer. 

Everyone was watching me... and taking pictures as I strutted my stuff safely through the earthmoving machinery working on the parking lot... how could I ever drop back to the unsafe little vest after enjoying the Hot Pink Safety Bikini....

To this day they do not ask me to don safety gear on that job.....  heh
 

Well, you got no argument from me.
You got more....let's see.......let's see.....cleavage (?) than I.
Are you booked up, or are you available for our safety director's birthday party?

Quote from: Gary O on September 09, 2011, 10:31:42 PM
Well, you got no argument from me.
You got more....let's see.......let's see.....cleavage (?) than I.
Are you booked up, or are you available for our safety director's birthday party?

He cheated, that's a padded bikini top  heh

 Granted
But is that a holster, or is he just happy to see us?

Panty hose

Recall activated

Worked a third job as a laundry worker in a nursing home, for, say, 40 minutes or so.
I was busy stickin' my hand into another octogenarian pants surprise, when I heard a shriek from the lobby.
Helen, of travel, was struttin' her stuff thru the halls.
She was one of the perennial leavers.
Coat on.
Bright lips, lopsided sardonic grin administered to her left cheekbone, ending at her right ear lobe.  A veritable rendition of gramma The Joker.
Veiled church hat.
Purse on the wrist.
Lookin' for cab fare.
Only her nylons, the ones with the sexy black stripe, hanging a bit loose, and a tad askew to the left, were somewhat smeared with black diarrhea running down her leg starboard side. Seems she ate birthday cake, OD'd on iron tabs, and laid down on her right side, fully clad in Sunday regalia. Then things turned a bit south.
A stream ran up and down the hall, same course she'd taken, like one a those robot vacuums.
Aids were crying, quitting....male aids were trying to corral Helen, herding her toward the shower room.
I started weeping uncontrollably, knowing what was coming soon to a laundry room near me.

Took two weeks to get my $2.87

Front or side holster, Gary....  ???

Side, It would be my cell phone and camera holsters.  I often put my "T" shirt bottom over the holster when walking to the store to get my lunch and dinner.  I often see guys of questionable integrity do a double take and try to figure out what is covered in the holster on the side.  Never had a problem with them.... [waiting]

I noticed the city undercover officers do that.  [idea]

There was a guy who had trouble getting a date so his buddy told him to stuff a potato in his pants and the gals would be all over him.   He did it and ...no success.....

Told his buddy he still had a problem getting dates so his buddy said,  "Did you put the potato in your pants like I told you?"

"Yeah, sure I did... check it out... "

His love coach took one look and started laughing... "No wonder............. you were supposed to put the potato in the front of your pants."   [noidea'

Hey, GaryO, was that one of my patients?

I worked in a nursing home in Washington state - one of my lady patients had just had her bath, I dressed her in a dress, panty hose & all the goodies.  Left her in her room.

Few minutes later, I see plop, plop, plop down the hallway...  go check on my little lady - her panty hose & shoes are full, not to mention  her dress is soiled.   d*  Had to start all over w/her & we were so busy there at that nursing home...

I did last a year & then went into banking...   back then they didn't provide gloves, either.   [yuk]

Quote from: Gary O on August 28, 2011, 01:03:33 PM
Rick, you might find this of interest.
My great uncle Cal was the engineer of a train back in the early 1900s.
In 1999 got a letter of a distant relative doing a genealogy thing for our family.
Mentioned the train wreck of 1913 in Thorp, Kittitas  county, WA.
Head on 'tween freight and passenger.
Do you (or does anyone) know a best way to search this out?
Google/wiki isn't pickin' up on my exact words....or any of my words.....did find some interesting data on the Thorp family, and the Kittitas tribe however.
S'pose you don't search out train wrecks as a hobby....bein' an engineer and all.
It'd be like me looking for job related deaths for purchasing agents....
THIS JUST IN!!
Man does pretty much nothing....dies.
More at eleven...well why not now........nobody discovers him for several months....birthday party members in shock (not really)....so nothing more at eleven...except the amassed cache of framed photos with captions found in his archives.......


(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/train001.jpg)

Amid the colorful pantyhose and other 'stuff' I do returned this to you.  Not so much to change the cloth so much but I said I would get back to you when I got a chance.  Hate to take away form the current thread and weird bad as it has slid off the road. 

Gary I am not a railroad historian yet some are.  I would look to the records of the Milwaukee Road.  And their historical society or association.  

http://www.mrha.com/    

That I think is who your great uncle worked for.  As far as specific wrecks and derailments and all forms of mishaps becomes some what clouded because they hardly were treated as ship wrecks, sinking and such.  Railroads were trying to project the view that rail travel was exciting, safe and affordable.  Railroads then as they are now are very very powerful.  The Milwaukee was one of the most progressive roads and used a great many new innovative ideas and products of the day.  However because of some management issues and competing with the Burlington and the Great Northern and the merged Burlington Northern it found itself unable to compete.        

I seen in the Idaho Statesman the Boise newspaper a few years ago where they review news of the past.  A passenger train was coming to Nampa from Caldwell or to the west.  Train originated most likely in Portland.  But that is just a guess.  A freight train was coming up from behind and plowed in to the runaway section and it only was covered as the wreck was most complete with loss of life, equipment and goods.  

Today same main line as today of course.  The fore mentioned wreck was before Mr. Westinghouse and his air brake.  This was before Automatic Block Signals and Centralized Traffic Control today refereed to as ABS and CTC.  The rear end of the passenger train broke away from the train and now was rolling back toward Caldwell as it would still today.  Only today it would have came to a stop because of Mr. Westinghouse and his air brakes.  The head end portion would have stopped as well.  This is because the whole train would have been in emergency.

Tragically the train that was following did not have a clue that there was several cars or a car broke loose and coming toward them.  Today the signals would have turned red and the dispatcher would have been alerted and radioed that train crew.  "Stop as quickly as you can.  Get off and get away from the head end.  Something is come toward you.  Basically tell you to place your train in emergency and get off because there is going to be a heck of a wreck.

Today has this happened since I have been working?  Yes a couple times, one resulted in a wreck.  However now there are even more safeguards in place and would be a real freaky deal.  Those couple occasions were freaky enough.          

             

Rick
Really 'preciate the lead, and the background.
Did a cursory look see, but gotta forage a bit, seems.
Folks on my dad's side that are the compilers of trees and family data will be ecstatic if I can hand over a nugget or two.
Well, the sun has shown, the shop beckons, but my OCD won't let me go until I create a fauxto of Glenn's alluring pose......he's such a stud muffin

Ummm OH-oh.....  I am now afraid...... [scared]

...and to think it didn't bother me a bit to wear it around the yard in front of everyone for two hours....[waiting]

Well, 'G' man, do with it what ya like, but I think your horde of followers may urge you to keep it........

Due to popular demand, the summer safety attire aptly called 'The Kangiser Kit' as displayed on this hot off the presses calendar by the dynamic duo GNG, is now available thru FRIDGID tools.
(https://i418.photobucket.com/albums/pp266/GaryOD/GNG2.jpg)

So Manly..... rofl [rofl2] rofl

Gary, I am rather concerned about your small bust size on the front of our calendar... perhaps a bit of padding would enhance your chances of the equipment operators seeing you... remember this is all about Safety....

We don't care if they don't see each other and wreck... after all what damage would two earthmovers do to each other?  We care that they have their eyes on us at all times....... [waiting]

Mustn't smash the manly men of Fridgid ... heh

Hey is that photoshoped or? 

Sassy, oh Sassy, Glenn and Gary are..... oh never mind..... I never would have guessed.  Different world we live in.  Sassy you still might want to turn on the garden hose though.

Well shoot, most of my 'tools' are at (ahem) work....
You, or someone with a deft hand may need to pitch in.

Here's all I can muster at present
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/GNG3.jpg)

Quote from: rick91351 on September 10, 2011, 11:36:25 AM
Hey is that photoshoped or? 

Sassy, oh Sassy, Glenn and Gary are..... oh never mind..... I never would have guessed.  Different world we live in.  Sassy you still might want to turn on the garden hose though.

I am soooo ashamed    :-[   :P

Hey, Oregon bretheren are, shall we say 'close'......

Quote from: Gary O on September 10, 2011, 11:48:17 AM
Well shoot, most of my 'tools' are at (ahem) work....
You, or someone with a deft hand may need to pitch in.

Here's all I can muster at present
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/GNG3.jpg)

I think it would be best if I kept my hands in my pockets, Gary..... [waiting]

Yeah, I think we've both managed to do enough damage over the last day or so.
Got a table saw that needs my attention.....now, where's my safety mankini....

Don't hurt yourself... or anyone else who happens to see you....

Now where was that eye salve... think I'm gonna need the medicated kind for curing Pink Eye... make that  Hot Pink Eye... [noidea'

No worries, packin' my potato..and it's a baker

Quote from: Gary O on August 28, 2011, 01:03:33 PM
My great uncle Cal was the engineer of a train back in the early 1900s.
In 1999 got a letter of a distant relative doing a genealogy thing for our family.
Mentioned the train wreck of 1913 in Thorp, Kittitas  county, WA.
Head on 'tween freight and passenger.
Do you (or does anyone) know a best way to search this out?

News clip -
Anaconda Standard - Anaconda, Montana
January 7, 1913

"Seattle, Wash.. Jan. 6.—In a head on collision early today at Thorp Wash., between St. Paul train No. 6, eastbound, and a freight train, Calvin M. O'Danlels of Seattle, engineer of the passenger train, was killed. No other person was hurt. The wreck was due to the freight crew misunderstanding orders, it was said."

I have the newspaper page this appears on, and could attach it to an email if you are interested.

Another possible, and perhaps more detailed source of info:

http://nl.newsbank.com/nl-search/we/Archives?p_product=HA-SE&p_theme=histpaper&p_action=keyword&spotlightname=historical+archives&spotlightquery=archives#coverageMap

OH...MY....GOD :o

Considerations
You da woman! ;)

Now to get the details

Thank you so much!

Gary O'

Now how frikken cool is that... Nice find, considerations.  :)

Gary.... things are getting hot on the G&G line....

A inquiry has come from Down Under... from my Mate down there who is the very one who is responsible for my wearing this fine Aussie hat...... [waiting]

Here are the details... [shocked]



Lucas Phillippe Binaisse

Hi G & G, most impressed by your latest in P.P.E. designwear (Personal Protective Equipment as we call it in OZ) and the boys on site agreed on the practicality of your design, of course the safety aspect is spot on, you Cannot miss it even from a mile off your eyes are going to be drawn to it until you realize you need to stay clear of it with your D9 buldozer, and additionally we agreed that with some of the less attractive PPE designs on the current market your's is by far a large improvement and can potentially enhance the workers good looks thus promoting happy and safe workers and thereby good morale.

So just to conclude , wanting to inquire of availability of FRIDGID Safetygear here downunder, in the hotter parts of Australia, we could do with some much cooler safety vests like yours.

We look forward to your response,
Luke Binaisse of Naiscon :)



From Glenn Kangiser

Dear Luke Of Naiscon,

With your being an operator of a large and successful concrete company "down under" I can understand your need for the latest in our Machine Proof Safety P.P.E. but regret to inform you that currently with the overwhelming response and demand, supplying your continent with our advanced designs would overwhelm the capacity of our state of the art manufacturing facility.

Sorry we are unable to assist you at this time and I hope you can understand our dilemma.

We will work to increase capacity as soon as possible and get back to you as soon as we are able to fill your orders.

With all due regrets,

Sincerely, Glenn of G&G Enterprises



GARY...... do you realize what this means...... We are sitting on top of a gold mine...... [noidea'


OK ...so I am in the gold country......... and you are in Oregon... but isn't this so cool...... heh

Dang, Glenn
That'd be really really good news, but..........
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/news.jpg)

We are doomed..... :(

The work..... [ouch]

The time invested...... [noidea'

The money... the prototype cost $21.00   :(

Gary, you didn't happen to get one of those  "Bill Gates wants to share his fortune with you" emails did you....... [waiting]

Two words:
Write off

Two better words:
Bail Out

Oh, wait a minute...I think we fall under the "too small to bail" category


Think I'll just head out to the deck and put my head in the sky.
Cooling summer eve.
Big star aloft.

Feel a good howl comin' on
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/DSC_0201.jpg)
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/DSC_0201.jpg)
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/DSC_0202.jpg)

Darn, and I was just getting ready to offer some venture capital
to you guys.
Bruce

Thanks, Bruce, but it looks like our venture has already gone tits up........ [ouch]

Too small to bail.... [noidea'

Possible, Gary....

I'm only a 48A........ [waiting]

Too small to bail but might be big enough for a coffee filter....... [scared]

Nice pix, Gary. :)

Quote from: firefox on September 11, 2011, 12:11:57 AM
Darn, and I was just getting ready to offer some venture capital
to you guys.
Bruce

I still got a couple IPOs you might be interested in, Bruce.
Got a piece of Helen's ash I'm plannin' on diversifying.
And a small Oregon tap (ahem) spring water outfit that needs a few bucks pumped into it.
Ever take a bottle of Evian and look at the label in the mirror?


Hmmm, coffee filters.....hmmm, throw away mankinis.....
Glenn, FRIDGID may still be alive!

Recollections
No humor, just recollections

Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake. I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill. Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.

Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip.
Ate up everything I could hand him.
Became our I.T.
Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
Interfaced quite well with our clients.
We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
I had to make the trip one more time.

Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless, porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room. Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.
The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the ol' sink. Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
The ol' wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal. Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted.
The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town.
There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some.
"If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!"
Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm. Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the ol' Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
Eventually, I ate cake....then did the dishes.
One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... "Your throat is this big, the pill is this big".....minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...."OK, just drink your milk"
I drained the glass between pursed lips.
The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
Nice try, parents of satan.
We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it...not much choice really. Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice. To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.
The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms. They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch. Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
Dad didn't know until he got home.
Actually, it saved him an' I a trip, as when he thought we had too many cats around, we'd toss a bunch into a gunny sack and once down the road, hurl 'em out the window of our speeding chevy.
I haven't maintained the sack-o-cats legacy, but there have been times.....
The living room still had the ol' oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into it's material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
A sectional couch, we were up town.
Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
Waste basket stationed at the tail end of the ol' couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom.
Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
It was all almost worth it.
Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
It was Christmas, fever, pox forming.
Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.


Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
The gieger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either.
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.

The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt. Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll- ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.
The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.



Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.


This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.

Quote from: glenn kangiser on September 11, 2011, 12:17:56 AM
Nice pix, Gary. :)

Well, shoot, I just realized something. When doing a photo bucket clean up, anything deleted gets deleted wherever you sent it, at least it appears that way (or disappears that way).......and I thought I was getting censured on a couple other posts.......
(a little flake of data I must apply to my shrinking nugget of grey matter)

Sassy's post on roping a deer reminded me of some family history:

Back in the thirties my dad and a fellow by the name of Bob Belt were riding gathering cattle in the fall.  Bob was a best friend and they hung together a lot.  Both cowboyed and picked up money when they could riding for the cattle association.   Bob had hung a gun on his saddle that morning and said if he seen a nice buck he would take him.  They split up a little and were kicking some cows and their now big calves out of the bush.  That time of the year mamas cows they have pretty well dried up and the calves were mostly weaned out there on the range.   The calves still stick close because it is their nature and habit and a little milk now and then.

Dad heard a shot and was riding along and there was a buck laying there next to some quaking aspens.  Nice buck, big rack.  It just laid there as dad rode up.  Clearly was not dead but did not take flight.  Dad thought this must be what Bob shot.  So he dismounted, tied his horse to a quaking aspen and pulled out his pocket knife.  The deer just laid there and watched.  Dad walked over to dress this big old buck out that Bob had evidently shot.  Dad reached out to turn its head to cut its throat.  It was about then it dawned on him that this big old buck was not on its last legs nor was it even wounded.  He could not get loose because the deer was now on the attack and shoving him with those sharp antlers.  Dad was trying his best to bull dog the deer down.  It was about this time dad said he figured that Rags his dog decided that it was time to 'help out'.  Rags being a working stock dog knows one thing, heel the critter.  Not go for the head and drive the beast away from my dad but go for the rear end and nip at those hocks.

So there is a great deal of yelling, swearing and cussing.  (My dad could and at 96 now still can.  But can't seem to yell as loud!)  Bob heard the yelling and dog barking and growling and dad's horse going nuts.  So he made no haste getting around to where the noise was coming from.  Dad was about done, the deer clearly was not.  Bob jumped off his horse, pulled his rifle and yelled drop.  Dad did.  So did the the buck when that old rifle found its mark.

As you can imagine both were pretty shaky latter on in the day when what happened finely sunk in.  Both claimed to be shaking so hard at the end of the day they could hardly stay in the saddle.    Seemed like every time those two would get together they had to rehash it all out.                               

Now that's a campfire story, Rick....on a deer hunt of course.
Speakin' of dads, how's he doin'?

Thank for the concern.  Dad and I have a special relationship and we know it........

They discharged him today from the hospital.  We took him to a different facility owned by the same company.  A lot closer to us and a lost more handy as far as keeping tabs on his condition.  For 96 he does real well most of the time.  He is some what confused in the new dwelling.  He will be talking up a storm with anyone that will listen in a day or so.  Right now he needs to be getting his rest and his strength back from knocking on deaths door a couple days ago. 

Man, yer dad is flirtin' with triple digits. Remarkable.

Yeah, parents seem to become more special as one ages. Good or bad, you come to realize they did their best, and ya grab the good stuff to hunker down and gently cram down yer kid's minds.
Or you just dwell on their felonious characteristics and waller in it til yer life morphs into their reflection.....precious time ill spent.

My dad is 88. Looks pretty darn good, still. But hearing is quite a bit south, and his vision is in the shadows (macular degeneration in one eye, and detached retina in the other, amateur boxing days), so if you prop him up in a Wal-Mart entry he's lookin' OK.
He even got in the right car after taking him to father's day brunch this year.

Gotta be a bit frustrating for him, cause he's always been a doer, lookin' forward.
Now, people that kinda got in the way before, are the ones that are left. But he puts on a good front.

Not sure I'll be doin' the same. Never thought I'd get this old, let alone the 70s or 80s....

My basic plan is to instruct the kids to do the 'Of Mice and Men' thing if my mind goes first.

If they happen of observe me playing 'Hunt for Red Oktober' with the contents of my bed pan, then:
Take me on a long walk and sit me down by a babbling brook, with alders and willows huddling on the banks. Set a bag, a large bag, of wonder weed beside me...and a six pack of a good IPA...and some chips....two bags....OK, three bags....family size...and maybe pour me a shot of a high end single malt to start things off...and plug in some ear buds...OK one ear bud, left ear...LEFT EFING EAR!...crank up some Pink Floyd...any song...they're all good....OK, shine on you crazy diamond....David Gilmour...Waters is too acid tech for me....and walk away for a while....check on me every 30 min...and when I have that far away look in my eye...farther than usual...with a silly grin on my mug....then take a 42 oz Louisville Slugger and swing for the bleachers......CRACK!....back back back back....I'm outta here!

Aging Egos

Not that long ago (OK, a decade or two) I was sitting in my office, looking out the window at yet another glorious cloud filled sky, pondering, pondering what the hell I was doing, heading an engineering group, people with brains full of pulsing veins, people that actually read things, people with casual discussion of things like attenuation, gauss, and inductance vs direct current resistance.....
OK, thru the years I've rigorously maintained my hard nosed work ethic of sucking up to whoever came within reach, and somehow it kind of paid off.
So, here I am, no longer referred to as dipsh*t, now proudly wearing the moniker of Mr Dipsh*t.
The noise of my phone brings me back.
Peggy, of whom I've changed her name, but we'll call her Peggy, cause her real name sounds like Peggy, actually it's spelt exactly like Peggy, OK OK, her name really is Peggy.....where was I, oh, Peggy usually ferrets out sales calls, but she couldn't decide about the this one.
"Gary, Who's Who is on the line, do you want it?"
"Yeah, I'll take it." (I was kinda hoping they'd transfer me to the 'Why Me' dept.)

"Thank you for taking my call Mr O'Daniels."
"Sure, what can I do for you?"
"Actually, it's what we've done for you, Mr O'Daniels. We just wish to congratulate you on your entry in the Who's Who."
"Really?"
"Yes, we just need to ask you a few questions about yourself, do you have a few minutes?"
(Let's see, I've got a suicidal QA manger waiting for me in the conference room, production has a line down situation, and our CFO needs my end of month report in two minutes...)
"Sure."
"Great, tell us about your hobbies, interests, blah, blah, blah, blah......"
"Fishing, blather, blah, embellish, wood working, blather, blah, embellish, scouts, blather, bluh, embellish, embellish, embellish, blather, blather, wretch, blather." (ego pressing against my occipital and parietal lobes)
"Great, thank you Mr O'Daniels, now we just need your credit card data."
"Credit card?"
"Yes, for your personal, gold embossed issue."
"How much?"
"Just $300 Mr O'Daniels, and we'll need your 'ship to' address."
"THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS?"
"Yes, Mr O'Daniels, it's your gold embossed personal issue."
"So, if I happen to forget who I am, or just who do I think I am (as I'm referred to by my associates), I can go to the reference section of any Library and look myself up, right?"
"Well, yes."
"Without laying down $300."
"Correct."
"Then no thanks."
"Did I mention it's gold embossed?"
'Uh, yeah, but you see, if I don't get some figures to our CFO in one minute, then he's going to emboss his pants with something other than gold....Bye Bye now."

Days later, the fax machine gave birth to the confirmation of our CFO's purchase of his personal issue............

The quest for Quest

So we down sized, liquidated a couple properties, sold our residence, and moved into the rental, a '95 wobbly home. Several issues that needed to be addressed, but my bride and I were up to the tasks.
However, a mfg home has inherited issues, one being the plumbing. This one was built with quest materials. Hate 'em. The fittings used are the one time only kind. There was a time you were pretty much married to the stuff. However, I found conversion couplings called 'shark bite' that lets you proceed with pex. Nice fittings too, just press on and bam, you're connected.



(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/sharkbite-pb_1.jpg)


A newer dishwasher became available in the neighborhood, one that would actually remove the dirty from dirty dishes, and even make it all disappear! Same size too!
So I scheduled the swap out this morning, before our afternoon get together with some folks. You know, how mechanics always talk about jobs like they were changing shoes? "Yeah, I jerked out the tranny, and slapped in the new one".....suuuure.
Thing is with these shark bite goodies, the only ones seemingly available are the conversion couplings. The polybutylene to polybutylene couplings are not available...and why would they be.
So, the just-back-out-of-retirement-from-construction-now-at-my-new-Home Depot guy informed me that in getting the female 'faucet' connector hooked up to the ½" pex line required a crimping tool, a $60 crimping tool...however, he could crimp it on for me...but needed to get the ladder to get his kit of tools......20 minutes later, after taking inventory of every connector and tool on the aisle, it dawned on me that my new found guru had scurried down the aisle and went into hiding in the restroom....sitting there contemplating re-retirement....occasionally peeking nervously thru the stall gap at what could be an irate overfed ogre guy wanting to experiment with a newly purchased crimping tool on a prized part of his anatomy.
But no, like a well-trained dog, I remained tethered to aisle 12....however, while waiting to pick up the tell-tale rattle noise of those HD (for employees only) ladders, another thing dawned on me.
I could use two conversion couplings, with a strip of pex line in the middle and we'd be washing dishes automatically in no time..........except for the hardwire to plug conversion, the 'what's this bracket for' self quiz, the OMG the reservoir really was full of water I just mopped the floor discussion scene, the what hurts worse, my back or my knees session, the I need another tool than a channel lock or stillson wrench gotta go back to Home Depot discovery, and the shocking sensation of water and 15 amps.
The day has an hour of light left, so I should have just enough time to yank my back into correct alignment, slap on a couple new kneecaps, and go on my evening banana slug safari quest...there's that word again.....

Penned a few months ago, but still a fresh thought in retrospect


A continuation of my post mid-life introspect

Take my pole.....please

The other day I was looking for a bungee to re-harness a sagging fishing rod, one of 48, that's clipped to the ceiling of my den.
I foraged thru a box in my shop, marked straps-bungees-binders, of which was beneath three other marked boxes, full of assorted, 'important' stuff to organize other important stuff.

I've done it again...collecting.

Who needs 48 fishing rods?

OK, I have two level wind for salmon, four (2 level/2 spin) for steelhead, and two (spin) for trout.
The others I dust........

Are these subliminal trophies, 'accidentally' shown off with fake disdainful self-reproach when a buddy visits from Alaska?

Are they my security items?

Are they a subconscious adherence to a biblical proverb....spare the rod...?

Or am I one sick puppy, the rods symbolizing multiple choice Freudian instruments of self-flagellation?

Naw, I just like shiny things.
'Hey, look! That reel has a Super Stopper Anti-Reverse Plus Backup Anti-Reverse Pawl!
I need that!"


Upon returning from mainland China, and having witnessed utter poverty face to face, I swore I would be more aware of my first world habits. Getting home, going thru the stores, seeing hundreds of style choices for even tennis shoes; basketball, walking, hiking, running, jogging, skate boarding, posing, strutting, worshiping, and yes tennis, revolted me.

The legless man, sitting on his torso, in a dirt street of a northern Guangdong village, sewing Huarache sandals with a tiny crude manual machine, had awakened a dormant nodule of moral awareness, deep within the insole of my soul.

Had I shown myself as the epitome of Burdick and Lederer's portrayal of Americans?

Am I a lower form of the 'let them eat cake' genre?

Or am I just conveniently born in the middle of a pecking order, abhorring both poles of the spectrum?

My obsessive nature dictates order, so there's an element of inborn restraint, but on the other hand, it sends me on stock pile tears, 48 bars of Irish Spring, 12 bottles of my favorite shampoo, a drawer full of socks (all the same color).....this amuses my bride....., but even though needful things, why so much?

Are these various trappings a form of enslavement?

Is the abject poverty stricken legless man, the antitheses of luxury, sewing shoes for the comfort of someone that has so very much more than he, in misery, or is he more the free one?
Moralists, thru the ages, tend to think so, and as I take a breather, and prepare for the trek down the hill, my opinion has gone from "Yeah, right" to "Why am I building another shed to store all this crap"?

In my heart of hearts, our cabin is a mild form of that same freedom.

There, the dictates of preparing necessities, like a dishpan of hot water, and a means of heating the water, and of course water, reduce and remove the time afforded to the accustomed trappings. They become simple pleasures.

And, the not so pleasurable, but nonetheless compulsory events, the trek to the privy, the incident itself, down to the careful selection of 'site' cleanup (WHERE'S THE G-D TOILET PAPER!!!!) become a sometimes pressing race toward urgent enlightenment, a much anticipated desired relief of sorts, concluding with an immediate liberating mental trek back to tranquility.

So I ask myself, 'Is your cabin a place to put more toys and house all the electro-gizmo trappings of home, or a spill-over of collections, or a refuge from their enslavement?'


I kinda apologize in bringing up a subject that has been previously beat to submission, but on the other hand, me, being a cynic, in an unfamiliar, aging retrospective empathetic mode, I take mental adventures, and am filled with awe and wonder at the resiliance of the street artisans, like the little old legless cobbler in China, stitching away the day, then as the sun sets on his work shift, packing up his little machine (on a skid with a forehead harness?) and dragging it behind himself as he hand walks his way to the tin hut, simply filled with his mat and a humble means of cooking.
I so wanted to chat with him, but disregarding the warnings to never leave the hotel compound alone, I got restless when my broker/interpreter was away, and ventured into the village (w-a-a-ay off the Caucasian route, let alone tourist haunts).
So communication was a tad limited.

Was he the last link of a conglomerate chain?
Who was his broker?
What would our conversation have been?

Me:
So, Mr Huang (pronounced Fong in some provinces), do you know the name Nike?

My Broker to Mr Fong:
你知道耐克的名称吗?
Do you know the name Nike?

Mr Fong to my Broker:
嗯，你觉得，我是无知的无足混蛋，只是高兴地走出的一只手？
我讨厌游客的上帝。
当然，我听说耐克体育用品公司。
地狱的人，你认为我的公寓小屋支付？
(Well, what do you think, I'm an ignorant legless bastard, just happy to get a hand out?
God I hate tourists.
Of course I've heard of Nike.
Who in hell do you think paid for my 60 inch plasma set, and state of the art stereo?)

Broker to me:
No

Me to broker:
Amazing....I wonder if there is something I can do for him, a token of appreciation, maybe some little wheels, or a new torso pad?

Broker to Mr Fong:
你知道耐克的名称吗？
(This sorry, bleeding heart consumer, wants to know if you want a new torso pad, or some little wheels no less?)

Mr Fong
告诉他是给我的礼物就是立刻离开温暖的阳光我当时正在欣赏他出现之前。
(Tell him his gift to me would be to get the hell outta the warm sun that I was enjoying before he appeared, and to go back home and buy some huaraches. F---ing tourist bastards.
Oh, and leave me some Pink Floyd CDs.)

Broker to me:
No, but many thanks and have a nice day.

Me:
Incredible, a true testament to human resilience (heart blood letting profusely).

I walk away, enlightened...........

Great read, Gary and you see things a lot as I do except I'm not the organized type, ever since I quit being a mechanic and needed to find my tools.

Now Sassy has to keep things organized for me.

Yeah Glenn, in reading your posts, you are more me than me. It's quite the adventure, ain't it.


Naps

How terribly underrated.
Fought 'em from 3 to 'bout 60.
Now I wake up and start lookin' forward to the morning nap.
When three, folks would nab me and toss me on the bed most afternoons. During solitary confinement I found fascination with ceiling stains, bugs on the wall, boogers on the wall (from countless previous incarcerations), and the wispy sheer curtains, taunting me with flavors from the other side of the open window.
Eventually gramma would pardon me.
Free at last, free at last!

Next 50 some years, work/play 'round the clock. Sleeping was for suckers, could miss out on some fun.
Driving jobs, oil field, work 80-100 hrs a week, then play, hard.
Sometimes just go back to work.
Bar maids got used to preparing me breakfast for my graveyard shift.
The third day gets tricky, however. Seems you must dream whether you sleep or not. Giddiness turns to grumpassiness, then you finally drop somewhere. Waking up at the steering wheel seems to immediately raise several questions....the brief panic subsides.
Never new about REM, but drool, I hear, is a strong indicator you were there, especially when waking up with your face feeling like a glazed donut.

Now, now the nap, this sacred rite, beckons.
At work, this pathetic office job of 8-12 hrs, requires a nap at around 12:30 or 1, sometimes even at 10a. Closed door, feet on desk, 'snork', I'm up, refreshed. Can't wait to get home, finish.
Sometimes I like napping in an uncomfortable position just to wake back up so I can drift off again.
One time I fell asleep with my arms behind my head. Woke up to the phone ringing. In reaching for it, my arm just flopped down to my side. Thought I'd had a stroke while napping, both arms paralyzed. Panic. During the struggle to pick up the phone with my mouth, they started coming too.
I also have dreams, wonderful dreams, dreams of fishing. You know, the ones. You want to go back to sleep to get back in it, but can't.
Well, mine is recurring, same ones over and over...........
Sleepy now.
Hope I remember the bait this time.

It's good to see yer offspring mature.
My youngest son, 38 now, has been a commercial fisherman for the last 20 yrs.
Started with King Crab outta Bristol Bay.
He's pretty well known up and down the Oregon coast.
Knows where just about every Dungeness crab is from Warrenton to Florence.
Talked to him for a couple hrs on the phone this morn.
He's settlin' down a bit.
Had a steady woman for the last 3-4 yrs.
Kept both his boats for 'bout as long.
Cannery personnel, authorities, and acquaintances no longer run and hide when he comes around.
Bars are now a bore for him.
I listened to his stories of his latest tussles, but they're getting farther and fewer in between.
We discussed the fishing business.
Big money in, bigger money out.
He won't ever change professions.
Can't.
I understand.
His woman understands...she's a crew member.

We talked about family.

We talked about God.

We talked about sin.

We talked about Christ's blood.


We both wept.

......for joy.

Awesome!

Sassy, don't get me wrong.
I'm not a religious guy.
Never really talk about it much.
And I'm not one of those guys that doesn't preach it, but lives it.
Actually I pretty much hate it, and those that push it, and write about it in venues.......like forums (self thoathing is creeping as I type).
I come from a pretty rowdy clan.
Some bikers, some felons, some just plain ornery folk.
My youngest has pretty much followed suit.
I've treated Christianity as a nice story. One for hope for the less fortunate.
But, in my limited reading and some in depth (for me) study, I discovered a thread of reality, based on fulfilled prophecy thru the ages. Kinda logged it in my 'huh' category.
Thing is, when I study about the ultimate separation of the father and son, that being the death, ours, it takes me down, every time. I get too busted up to talk about it.
And I'm not a weepy guy...pretty far from it.
Forgiveness is huge. It's quite a load I've managed to pile up, so it's pretty easy for me to find joy and great relief in that.
But that sacrifice deal.
Whoa.
It's way too much for me to fathom with snapshot reading.
It's my ultimate study.

I agree w/you, Gary...  don't like religion...  and I have plenty of faults myself - don't tell Glenn, tho  ;)   My kids have had their problems but I still love them & forgive them  ;D

Occasionally, I will share my beliefs here on the forum because it's my world view & it's hard not too. 

I, like you, have been taken down by the awesomeness of forgiveness... 

Shopping, 'tis the Season

The wife, in yule mode, cranks out knitted and crocheted slippers for everyone on the same limb of the family tree. Sometimes a full blown afghan or two come to being.
They've been great, money saving gifts.
I, for the most part, every year, swear off buying anybody anything...it's a humbug....then, some invisible 'Christmas Present' angel from hades baps me on the head around 7:30 pm, Christmas eve, and I grab a bat and my ol' football helmet and venture thru the malls.

There have been times that I've had an epiphany and made the grandkids things, things of wood, forts, chests, 'things they'll treasure' (I think in my elfin mind). So, for 2-3 weeks before that blessed day, every evening after work, I'd be seen in my shop, sawing, joining, planing, staining, finishing, smashing my elfin thumbs, cursing, swearing, waving my elfin arms......yeah, epiphanies....everybody should have one a them %@#&*$ epiphanies

Other times, years ago,  my bride and I have found ourselves waiting for stores to open at 4 am.
It couldn't be helped.
The glisten in her eyes from anticipation of early morning adventures swayed me to wake in the dead of night on black Friday eve, tiptoe past slumbering chickens, and sit in the mall parking lot, staring at the line of crazed humanity already encircling the electronics store like it was Jericho.
One time she joined the horde, unsuccessfully coaxing me to follow.
There I sat, flashlight and crossword in hand, hair askew, bedbeard looking like I was in a crosswind.....stomach chatting with me.
Two minutes to 4, I rubbed the fog off the side window.
The crazies were jostling for position.
I lost sight of the wife somewhere around the corner of the building.
I slap on my fishing cap and begrudgingly leave the refuge of the Buick.
The doors open.
The guy with the keys gets carried away with the mob. Only thing you can see of him is his flailing arms.
I stroll in with the first 50 shoppers that will get the TV special, getting a glimpse of the wife swimming past, heading to the TV dept....only the specials were all up front. The guy with the keys and foot prints on his shirt, points me the way.
Half hour later, here she comes, TV in cart.
I, TV in trunk, am on the 2nd crossword.
We're not done...there's a mere 27 other stores that have free snow globes, free coffee, and free donuts.......the frenzy has only begun.
So we secure the TVs in the trunk, and make our way upstream, pointing to the trunk as we stroll back inside, making sure the parking lot thieves can know where at least two of the 50 TVs can still be had.
Two hours later, with globes clutched by jittering caffeine induced hands, the furrowed brows on my powdered sugared countenance lets the wife know I'm a couple clicks past jolly...and we go home....blessed home..... 



Now, shopping for people at the mall has been great entertainment for the wife and I.
We just sit on a bench, munching on popcorn, and watch mothers drag their screaming little darlings along.....and their husbands (but less screaming...most times).
We once set by one of those quarter horses (put a quarter in the slot), and noted the parent's varied techniques in skirting quarter out put;

1st dad: DON'T TOUCH IT!!!

2nd dad: sets his kid on and fakes putting a coin in, then shakes the crap out of the machine, making periodic wheenying noises.....

3rd dad: points the opposite direction, noting wonderful toy stores around the corner, while briskly whisking his kid by the horsey.


Its great fun.
...and we can afford it.

Before Lands End was engulfed by Sears and ruined anther line of product.  I had the coolest shopping method.  I and a arm load of catalogs and huge coffee mug would go to my home office.  I would lock the door and start my own Black Friday.  I would send everything to my buddy's house.

Latter my daughter after she was married conned me into Black Friday.  We both came home shot.  This and that on sale was already gone.  Read the fine print.  Limited amount on sale or first 25. 

I made her swear the oath.  We both grabbed coffee and went to the office armed with the arm load of catalogs, our cell phones and it was all over- one hour tops..........

A couple years a go I went Christmas shopping looking for the perfect wife gift.  I went to the big mall in Boise I got a ticket there.  All the roads on the mall grounds are public roads and Boise gleans heavy there over Xmas.  I thanked the officer who did trap me.  Shook his hand and told him thanks I will never be back.

I so wanted to write the mayor a letter and explain I think they are a bunch of morons.  But I paid up and never go back.  Thank you so much Mayor Beater for the ticket.  You sure showed me.  Now I am back to Amazon and Lehmans Non Electric Catalog.  Nothing is spent local really     
       

PLAIN FOLK
A retrospectation of Gramma

Kin came from the dust bowl, Okies. The Joad family (The Grapes of Wrath) represented them well.
Gramma coulda easlily played Ma Joad...if she didn't....

Gramma raised me.
Actually, she raised everyone in our country neighborhood.
She made a home with little, but always clean.
The aroma from her kitchen was everlasting.
She could turn corn bread and hominy into a feast.
Sometimes she'd just take some left over cornbread, and break it up into a bowl and pour milk and sugar on it.
Called it 'crumbs'.
Always a pie or cobbler.
Always a huge garden.
Always tending something, or someone.
She could give you a bath with a teaspoon of water.
Ever so often, we'd head to 'Monkey' Wards in the old 51 Chevy.
It was her outing.
Most times we'd be picking up something like a post hole digger, or a part for a pressure cooker that she'd ordered, nothin' fancy.
After pulling a number, we'd sit in the big room downstairs of the huge multi-storied Wards store, waiting for them to pull our order.
I remember one time she fished my hand out of a spittoon of which I'd found interest in it's contents.
I don't remember ever going in with them after that.


She had a genuine warmth that accepted anyone, and a kindness that made her home yours.
Nothing gushy, just down home, grapes of wrath folk.
Plain speaking.
She had an economy with words.
Names of things and places were all called 'whatchcallit'.
She called most everyone 'kid', except for me. She called me 'picklepuss'. For awhile there I thought my name really was picklepuss.
She had huge, pillowy gramma arms.
When she'd raise 'em to hang laundry, they'd kinda drape down, giving the impression of a giant flying squirrel, or better yet, a caped crusader...X Gramma, queen of the quilting bee.
When she'd settle you down for a nap they'd envelope you.
No one got away.
Where do grammas get those arms, and when?
She always had 'em as far back as I can recall.

They were very nap inducing, coupled with her high pitched nasal country tone singing you to slumber, her super powers were always too much for extended consciousness.

As sweet as she was, she could be stubborn when necessary.
We had a collie dog named King.
Our family had a long history of keeping a dog outside.
It rains a lot in Oregon and a wet collie in a small house is not a good combination.
King was gun shy, and whenever we had a thunder storm he'd run under the car or house, or in the house if you'd let him. Thinking back, I think the whole family was gun shy, as we'd oftentimes run furtively out to the car to sit out the storm...something about the tires grounding the car.
One of these storms hit relatively close one evening, so we decided to get in the car and drive the mile around the corner, up the hill, to gramma's house. King followed, running right behind the car. Maybe he'd heard about the grounding theory.....sweet dog, but his intellect was a bit skewed. Looked like Lassie, but was more the antichrist of the collie world.
Arriving at gramma's, she greeted us by opening her screen door a few inches.
It was enough for king to forcefully nose his way in.
Ever try to get a dripping wet panic stricken dog out of your house? Evidently gramma had.
In less time than you could say 'whatchcallit' , king was flying back out the door, through the air and off the porch. He did a couple belly rolls and slinked under the car.
Gramma put her broom back, behind the door, at the ready, like it was her shot gun.

Work for her was recreation, rewarding, sustaining.

In church you could hear her high pitched Minnie mouse voice whining out a hymn, tears in hers eyes.


She lived to be 97, out living three husbands.
A year after one of them passed, she'd go to Mode-O-Day, buy a bright flowered dress, get her hair done, put on a bit of rouge, and snag another one.


Of anyone's passing, hers I feel the most.

As it's been said, a full life, well lived.
Her last words to me was, "I just want to be where there's life".

I believe she is.

Little things gettin' bigger

I have a regimen, everything in it's place...always.
Move my shaving mug two inches and I'm like a milk cow without a stanchion.
Heck, swap the toothpaste tube with my polygrip and my day starts out pretty much upside down.......
Speaking of shaving mugs, yes I hit the edges of my beard with a razor...I like the feel of my lady's soft on my cheek....but the other mug, the shaving mug, is a prize I won't soon give up. I know folks that have these fancy foam heating devices for the feel of that barber's shave.
Shoot, a mug, a cake of William's soap, some hot water and a good badger bristle brush and yer downtown.
In my youth, trappings were just things in the way. Shower? Hah, just jump in the stream, then fish the day away lettin' the sun dry yer clothes.

Now, now the shower is a sacred rite. The hand held nozzle, oh what a marvel, and towels...I made a study on towel absorbency...after buying the thickest, plushest one I could find and still it was like a squeegee, pushing the water off....so I looked closely at the worn out rag of my favorite towel I was replacing, and noticed those little loops of the terry were not loops but open ends.....no loops, huh. Back to the store...make that stores....finally found one with open ends of the terry...both sides. It's now my towel. Super absorbent. Hang that puppy out on a bright day and it's like a fabric of sunshine.
Washcloths, same thing, what happened?
Had the wife cut up some old towels to the size washcloth I prefer...presto.....I can once again do the double hand back and forth back scrub.

Dinner ware
I keep a substantial fork and those wide bladed butter knives on hand...and a big, thick spoon, one that can blade thru the hardest of ice cream.
Thin pancake flipper, flat cast iron skillet, large stainless bowls, knives thick, sharp, serated.

Weekend clothes are shorts, shirt, tennies, any time of year.....actually these are now rags that I give the sign of the cross every time I toss them in the hamper....both times of the year...but sure are comfy...and that's big.
One weekend I was putting beer cans in one of those pop can gobblers, one at a time, when a finely dressed lady just plopped her bag of cans down beside me.
'What, time too precious to waste on recycling?'
'No, I just thought you needed the money.'
Might be time upgrade the uniform.

The bed stand
Articulated lamp hooked to the wall, water glass, cell phone, reading glasses, pen (for crossword). Keys, wallet, money clip, 1911 in the drawer.

Bed
Used to be where ever I fell.
Now
Pillow top mattress, down filled smushable pillow, cool side waiting to be turned, window wide open, homemade comforter, bride on the side...night night, sweet dreams...drooling a river.

Yeah, little things are big now, and so much more enjoyed.

This gettin' old stuff is gettin' old.

Gonna do sumpm about it.

Options are limited.
1.   Fix diet
2.   Exercise
Exercise, yeah right.

So, it seems I gotta target the diet.
This sedentary mode of writing and pondering deeply profound thoughts of profound depth is quite fun, but is not the good brother of my javelina-like eating habits....and conjuring up deeply profound thoughts of profound depth makes me hungry. Just writing the words 'deeply profound thoughts of profound depth' gives me a hankerin'.
So after tapping out a few pages of deeply profound thoughts of profound depth I'm ravenous.

It's just conquering taste buds, right?

If that little Gandhi guy can do it, what with all that savory India cuisine all over the place, surely I can hold back from bland things like T-bone shteak  (sorry, slavered a bit).......
If I could only slow down and enjoy it...smaller bites.....chew for gawd's sake. I tend to chow down like someone's about to take it from me.

Went on an eating regimen a few months ago.
My goal was to lose 40 lbs.....only 57 more to go.......

The wife can drop weight like she was on a raft in the middle of the Pacific.

Couple years ago she did this raw food thing.
Came home one day, ravenous.
Dinner is usually ready when I get home.
This day was no exception.
The aroma smelled like....nothing.
There she was, munching on a carrot, nose twitching.
Next day was a huge surprise.
'What's for dinner?'
'Lasagna'
(Be still my heart, she's come to her senses)
I just never realized raw rutabaga, beets and parsnips if prepared with special forces camo tactics could resemble comfort food.
In opening the fridge, foraging for possibly something left over from our carcass eating days, possibly a bit of remains, or forsaken carrion, my eyes locked on a forgotten bag of coconut.
(Ahhhh-HAH! Sweetened, processed sustenance!)
I furtively secreted a huge mouthful, keeping my head in the fridge.
(AUGH! Shredded rutabaga!)
After several days like this, my strength started to wane.
The lawn clippings started to become an attractive food source, when my bride finally came back around...after losing several pounds....and that was my salvation. Those greased filled things on those rollers at the 7-11 were gettin' kinda old.
I do know one thing. Whatever I do, it's going to be a mutual effort....my bride is the cook...and I mean cook....using the stove and oven.

Cooked carrots? Come own.

Seriously Folks

OK, I'm not kidding myself.
I really gotta do something about my girth.
Tying my shoes begets a blue/reddish hue to my mug as my triple chin bellows compress, and my pony keg abs cut off oxygen to my lungs.

Here we are, The Holidays.
I waddle down the hall to the front office, sugar cookie cheek filled face giving the appearance of a gargantuan chipmunk.
I check my in box.
There's a row of goodies.
From vendors.
Addressed to me.
I scurry back to my office.
I really should share.

My bride and I have discussed our not so little problem.
Thing is, she has the mental discipline to change.
Me? I too have total conviction, swearing abstinence.....right after one of her savory meals.
Two poops and a nap later I'm re-considering.

The choice;
Do I abstain from goodies and drop weight and get back to my lithe self?
Or
Do I continue to enjoy the twanging of my buds, knowing one day I'll plop over, probably during a meal, lying/twitching on the dining room floor with a mouth full of apple pie......paramedics calling for back up.
Or, do the Elvis thing.
Naw, I'm gonna get fit, cause this summer is the summer of cabin enhancements, and by May I'm gonna be the thin man, flitting around our high desert haven like those tree rats the wife is so fond of.
Gonna start now.
Today.
Just one more cookie....cookies.......

Grampa

(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/GrampaandGramma002.jpg)

He was a quiet man.
Work was his vocation and recreation.
I spent a lot of time at their place in my early years, his latter years.
Seems Grampa always had chores that filled his waking hours.
I was his shadow.
He wore coveralls most days, and always sported an old grey fedora.
His high cut oxfords made a shuffling sound as he walked.  Parkinson's was having it's way with his system.
We'd dine on a bowl of hominy together in the country kitchen.
As the midday sun danced on the table through the window from between the limbs of the giant firs, I'd watch his massive hand struggle to keep his corn on the shaking spoon.
In between chores, and my naps, he'd sit in the old padded rocker and thumb through a photo album while I stood at his side.
'The dapple was Molly and the grey was Dixie', pointing to the work horse team he knew so well.
Seemed Grampa had a couple soft balls tucked in his upper shirt sleeves. He was a compact man at five nine, but stout, bull neck, thick arms.
I knew him in his lesser years, keeping his meaning to life by doing small jobs.
Things like sharpening the hoes with rasps, feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, or lubing the tractor.
He cut down a hoe to my size, and all three of us hoed acres of strawberries.
I saw him laugh once.
He was a proud man, brought down and humbled by an untreatable disease, but keeping his misery within.
Dad says he was hard boiled in his younger years, and short on patience. Proud.
I knew him as a much different man.
One time I peered through a cracked door to his study. He was on his hands and knees, talking to his Lord, no longer able to just kneel.
His bible was quite worn.
Dad gave to it me a few years ago.
I leant it to him at Christmas.
I'll get it back pretty soon.
I think of times then and times now.
What a difference in pace, in conviction, in the shear enjoyment of endurance in simple living.
I see my grandkids give me an occasional glance of admiration, but nothing like the revered awe I had of him.
He died when I was ten.

I can still hear the shuffle of his feet, but it's mine that echo his stride now.

Enough of this.

I've got chores to do before I sleep.

Chores to do before I sleep.

Very special...

Very well written. 
Thanks for sharing. 

rlr

Quote from: Gary O on November 26, 2011, 09:59:32 PM
Heck, swap the toothpaste tube with my polygrip and my day starts out pretty much upside down.......

You know it's going to be a bad day when you swap the polygrip with your Preparation H.

 [rofl2]        ;D............ :-[ and vice versa  [waiting]

Lawdy, I really am gettin' old
Waxed poetic this morn after checking out yet another grey day in the Pacific North Wet

Bear with me

Took this photo a few minutes ago


(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/trees2.jpg)
I trekked through the garden this winter morn
Observing the trees, yet months to adorn

Veiled in ghostly season haze
The willow rests its limbs in phase

Catkins, leaves, lost to the season
Feeding the earth, the thicket, the future
Nature displays its progression of reason

The willow, so frail in contrast to oak, to fir,
even to lesser plants of wood
Finding strength in numbers, shielding wind
For the farmer, for the soil, for good

A lesson learned
As in covers of books
Strength is hidden in their looks
Bending, yielding, yet not breaking
Drawing sinuous vigor
from streams, from lakes, from brooks

Lyrics

I love a good tune, but if the sounds are less than what I like, I'll listen to the lyrics.
Back in the day, when I had two good ears, and music options were controlled by twisting a knob, I'd sometimes sing to the lyrics, or so I thought......

Seems the waves were jammed with mediocre tunes

Stevie Nicks

Remember her?
What the heck was she sayin'?
It's like her uvula got wrapped around her tongue.
Or did the song writer just lay down sound notes for lyrics?
♫♪ S-a-y la foo ma h-e-i-i-e eve her I re-w he-y ma ev-e-ah so meh gypsy foo ma h-e-i-i-e eve her I re-w ♪♫
I couldn't even hope to sing even the wrong words to her tunes.

Then, Later, MJ
Billy Jean
♫♪ The chai-r is not my son (??)♪ ♫

or

Manfred Mann
♪♫ Blinded by the light..... Wake up like a douche you know the roller in the night (what??) ♫♪

But there was one, the magic one
Righteous beat, soulful tune, and smooth smooth lyrics
I'd listen
I'd drive
I'd sing...... the lyrics..... the right ones

http://youtu.be/mmdPQp6Jcdk

Then there was this one

Didn't much matter if I knew all the lyrics cause the pedal was smashed to the floor and turns needed negotiated

http://youtu.be/znaYWPIM72A


But now.....for sippin' on a Friday evening.....un-knotting the tension...... Cole Porter can do it for me (with a little U2 applied)

http://youtu.be/ZTFKZMiQM3U

Thanks for listenin' with me

MISTER NOMER

Happy people are well liked, and seem to gather a crowd most times, at parties and get-togethers.

Sad people, not so much.

But I have this burden, and am a bit drawn to the downcast.
It's aggravating for both parties, as usually the sad just want to be left alone to bask in their sorrow...kinda like when you make a mad person laugh....done this to my bride countless times.

But there was this time, many years ago, in a southern town.

A gentleman was up at the bar, twiddin' with his drink.
Then chugging.
Then getting another.
I laid down my cue stick and pulled up a stool.
The barkeep poured me a brew, as the ol' guy spilled out his story.
The crease in my face turned sober while I listened, and while the hops sent my mind the other direction.

It was quite touching.

I became sad.

Having spent himself and the little money he had that day, he left.

It was raining outside, so I stayed, now absorbed in my own gloomy thoughts, soaking up a few more beers.

And it was cheap.

Happy Hour

Littler Things

So, I'm sittin' here in my lazy boy fiddlin' with an obscure crossword, and listening to the debate, when these veiny old man's feet, pokin' outta my horse blanket come into my line of vision, ....tiny blue and red blood vessels sprinkled on a lily white canvas....when in heck did that happen?

OK, my feet have never been objects of beauty to gaze upon with delight, but my mangled big toes have been great instruments of fright when hopping around on one foot and dangling the other behind a fleeing child. Thing is, they're not normal old man toes.
In my young working life there were times I'd opted to employ an intimate study of the inner workings of my colon, when I should've been listening to the boss as he commanded for everyone to lay the pipe down on three.
So, I have these bulbous things where toes should be, that have somewhat of a blend of horse hoof and hawk's talon-like remains of nail protruding, from these new potatoes, at a 45° angle.
But that's not my problem tonight. I've used these miniature hobgoblins as instruments of entertainment. But the little guys on the other end have this tiny obstinate nail, of which its tensile strength highly out-weighs the nub of a toe it's lodged on.
So, I'm staring at it, fixated.
Time for a trim.
I get the hoof cutters.
I don't bend well, never have.
But, all goes OK, right up until I notice a little hangy bit of nail at the very edge.
After several attempts in alternating breathing with bending, the little sucker is still there.
So, I give it a yank.
Now I'm lookin' at what is enough meat to make up another toe...still attached to that flippin' hangy....in my hand.

It hurts.

And it's gonna hurt tomorrow.

And I'll still feel it this weekend.

But!

That little chunk should be ripe enough to chase screaming grandkids with by Saturday!

 [rofl2] rofl [slap]  Stop it, I'm trying to eat my dinner!!!

Funny how other peoples problems take you places you have not been in awhile.  I was reading last night Gary O' posting about his toes.  Then Don_P's posting about his shoulder problems.  This caused me to flash back to a very important person in my life.  Strange as it might sound an Orthopedic Doctor, that was some what storied here in Boise.  Dr. Daines, he repaired my three broken arms as a kid, and later when I was involved in a lumber mill accident and my left leg was crushed.  (I was lucky they even saved it.) 

He told me three things that made a profound mark in my life.  First off I complained to him about the age of eight, when you bumped the bone on the side of you foot.  (You know the one opposite the arch.)  It hurts.  He listen to me, a very concern eight year old.  Very concerned that something is going wrong with me feet.  He nodded his head understanding it all completely.  Then told me if it hurts, you are not supposed to do it again.  Not really a revelation.  But strangely told me I was normal.  And gave validation to a fact of life.  If you hurt yourself and continue to do so who is to blame?

The Lord blessed me with very long narrow feet.  Why this was in his plan God only knows.  Again back in Daines' office.  I do believe this most likely my last broken arm.  I had a pair of flip flops on.  He was looking at my feet and out of the blue tells me.  'You got some of the homeliest feet I have ever seen.'  This embarrassed me greatly.  He even took time to tell my mother that one should not let kids wear shoes that bunch the toes up and cause them to deform.  Mom was as red as I, but for a different reason when we left.  I was just embarrassed, she was worse off, she was pissed.  But it also strangely told me I was an individual.  I blew off the embarrassment of the moment.  Mom she very slowly got over being up set, mad and pissed at the doctor.

For the sake of space I will not go into the accident at the lumber mill.  I will tell you that it was not good.  I will also tell you that of it was not for a much more aged and wiser Doctor Daines it was very possible the bone saw would have come out.  I do remember laying on the ground there and telling the Superintendent of the mill and my Dad both.  Tell them to get Daines.  Daines did clear off his appointments that day.  From that day on it was six months of straight casts, it was one readmission to the hospital to have it rebroken.  It was about three months in a half cast and a couple in a walking cast.  My left leg had atrophied to me looking something like those WWII Prisoner of War photos.  My leg had went from being huge.  I could pop the seams in Levis in the thighs before the accident.  (If I could get a strain on something with my legs it was going to come.)

It was getting close to being released and his bookkeeper was wanting money.  Up until now I was just thinking lets get out a cast.  I had hardly thought ten years, twenty years, or the now forty years.  The insurance company was wanting to settle.  So I had to ask Doctor Daines where are we?  Will we recover?  Your people are wanting money.  I sort of need to settle with the insurance company.  With my family the last thing you do is the first thing it looks like most other people do now.  File a law suite. 

So Daines laid me back down and measured me, my legs and my hips and all that.  Tossed the tape back in the drawer, noted the measurements on the chart.  Puts the chart down and once again gave me some of the most important advise I feel I ever received.  Basically he told me your left leg is now considerably shorter than the right.  It will cause you hip problems.  So what do you do?  That is up to you, basically what do you want out of life.  You without a doubt can receive some disability and play that game.  Or you get on with life.  Your whole life is ahead of you.  You just have to choose how you choose to live it.  One was sort of tempting I must say.  The other I would have not traded for the world.  I have seen stuff, been places and enjoyed life.  I have had way more scars and sutures than I care to count.  Even occurred a broken ankle with plates.  Doctor Daines was not there for that one, for he passed.  I wished I would have went back to his office and told him thank you.

I also wonder, the what ifs.  What if it had been today.  Back then the doctors casted all the limbs.  They cut the casts off.  There was so much more one of one.  When I had the ankle fracture.  It was the nurse practitioner that did all that.  I seen a very busy Doctor that if a met on the street he would not remember me, he certainly would not know me.  One thing about Daines over the years he got to know me.  So I would like to offer up a, Thanks Doc if you are reading this somewhere in the Ethernet!  Been one hell of a ride you put me on!   

Well, Rick, I've read a few hints of your maladies in your previous posts, but damn, you gotta know pain.
Lesser men woulda hung it up and taken up starin' out the window, blamin' society or folks, or God....and advising grandchildren how bad their pathetic miserable futures are.

I've had my scrapes, but most have.

Other than getting mashed here and there, there was a couple times I lifted something that a forklift shoulda, and felt and heard a sickening crunching in my lower back...kinda like when a tooth is pulled the hard way. Payin' now for sure...probably should see a doc to see how many discs are involved.

There was one time, working at Tektronix (like people actually worked there) I was leaving one of their massive cafeterias. There was these stairs that if taken normally one would get all screwed up in stride 'cause they were each about a pace and a half. So, there I am, beboppin' on the diagonal when my right ankle turned out, casting me into a full roll. Nothing fancy, just floppin' over and over until I ran outta stairs. This cafeteria had huge windows, so everyone got entertained, faces plastered at the windows. I got up, raised both arms like Nixon's farewell, and hobbled off to the car. Thing is, I haven't been able to run since, without my ankle givin' me fits for days....but I've been told that I ran like a diseased yak so not a great loss, except in regard to aerobics or emergencies............

However, we had an old engineer, Herb, and he was the nicest cantankerous ol' magnetics engineer I ever knew.
Back in the mid '80s, when I took on the task of joining the little company I'm at now, touted as some sorta savior by the scrawny lady that was my boss at a startup, he was one of them that spoke about me in my presence in the third person. A bit of a hurdle for me to get things changed and moving a better direction, but he turned out playful.
One day he asked if I wanted to see sumpm.
So I follow him into the men's bathroom.
He turns the corner and commences to pull his pants down.
I immediately catch on, expecting a gaggle of paparazzi engineers recording my clandestine tryst with Herb.
But it turns out he just wanted to show me what lightning can do to a leg when it passes thru yer torso and out your foot.
NGAH!! Ol' Herb had one good leg and a piece of bacon with a knee on it.
He commenced to explain how the docs told him he'd never walk, and in the first person to boot.
He really was cantankerous though. Every time I'd ask him how long he'd be to wrap up a quote, he'd say 'I don't know', then I'd say
'Longer than three years?'
'No'
'Longer than three months?'
'No'
'Longer than three weeks?'
'No'
'Longer than three days?'
'No'
'Three hours?'
'I don't know'
Note to self; somewhere between three days and three hours
Note 2; Herb is getting ready to have a difficult time
We did manage to learn how to get along thru the years....a little give....a little take.
Another trick of his when I'd pressure him was to drop his pencil and say 'You're the manager, you figure it out'......ferroresonant  transformer...yeah right.

He was a bit of a close talker.
Unfortunately his breath required the space of the grand canyon, teeth (both of 'em) floppin' around in what was left of his gums.
Made it hard to keep a dry eye.
The fun times would be when an upstart engineer would shun his advice.  From then on they'd be on their own...floundering.
There he'd sit,.... watchin.... grinnin' ......gummin' his puddin'-in- a-cup.

Ol' Herb is gone now. Not gone gone, but sittin' home, top knot in a fancy ice chest near at hand.
Post brain surgery.
Not likin' how he's ending up.
I check in on him from time to time.
Like learnin' to walk with not a whole lot more than one leg, he has accepted what's dealt, and always ready to return an acidic reply, smilin' that wry sarcastic smile.

Glad your Dr Daines was able to help restore your leg...  having much pain now?  Seems like when you get older, those old injuries start speaking up & letting you know they're there...

Quote from: Sassy on January 28, 2012, 01:25:51 PM
Glad your Dr Daines was able to help restore your leg...  having much pain now?  Seems like when you get older, those old injuries start speaking up & letting you know they're there...

For me to say it never bothers me would be some what untrue.  Especially the last coupe years.  But I really do not think I am ready am ready for a wheel chair quite yet.   ;)   I remember back then what was considered physical therapy.  About an hour of a guy from Mountain Home Air Force Base took me and showed me how to do crutches.  Next day was stairs with crutches.  Left then right side and "Thanks!  We will see you."   :P

The fractured right ankle with the plates I never know it is there.  It never has bothered me.  I was kicked by a green broke horse as I stepped off him.  He sort of swept his hind leg up and got me.     

 Y'ever been outside of a too early morn when the birds wake up?
It settles ya some.
Did that just now, openin' doors at work, getting' ready for the humans to appear.

I'm not talkin' big birds.
Seems crows wake up later, like they were playin' cards all night,
and eagles must stay in their aeries sittin' there hunched from the wind till light,
and owls of course are just punchin' out from a long night-shift of hooting and looting.
No, I'm talking' little guys, sparrows, wrens, finches, maybe a robin or two.
Those sounds sweeten the morn like none other.
I don't recall a bad day after doin' that.........

Quote from: Gary O on February 03, 2012, 08:53:44 AM
Y'ever been outside of a too early morn when the birds wake up?
It settles ya some.
Did that just now, openin' doors at work, getting' ready for the humans to appear.

I'm not talkin' big birds.
Seems crows wake up later, like they were playin' cards all night,
and eagles must stay in their aeries sittin' there hunched from the wind till light,
and owls of course are just punchin' out from a long night-shift of hooting and looting.
No, I'm talking' little guys, sparrows, wrens, finches, maybe a robin or two.
Those sounds sweeten the morn like none other.
I don't recall a bad day after doin' that.........

APPARENTLY!!  You have not worked all night, had a crappy time of it.  You are in a bad mood and you just hit the rack and chirp, chirp, chirp.  There is a plague of Chihuahua chirping birds out side the window.  Good thing Ellen keeps my shotgun locked up from me.  [waiting]  I reserve the right to have a crappy morning. 

Yet okay I will settle down.  One of my favorite times is just that up at the ranch.  I slide out of bed and let Ellen sleep.  I quietly go outside, sit on the step and usually put on my work boots.  They always seem the easiest to get to and they walk well.  Tig my red healer tries her best to prevent me from tying my laces.  This is because right now she needs a petting and reassured she is okay.  Addie my wife's healer is so much more polite, she waits patiently for me to finish.  Then she will approach for her good morning.

They know I am about  to make our morning rounds, the dogs run out ahead and return again for a petting.  We walk a loop to the shop, up by the aspen grove, then to the orchard, stop by the water troughs to see if any big deer or maybe a yearling elk might have stopped by.  The sun is lazy there in the morning.  It takes a while to wake up.  Actually there is a huge hill to the east it has to work itself up before it brakes over into our little valley.  I loop over around the blue berry patch and return via the garden shed.  We then rejoin the road or path or route that we commenced this journey on.

Yet accompanying us on this stroll there will be a chorus of sparrows, wrens, chickadees wishing us good morning from the wild roses and brambles.  As I get close to the aspen grove and the shop, the voices change some what.  Not a lot however the woodpeckers and small owls who have not settled down for the day join in there.  There might be a few Clark's nutcrackers hanging there that join in as well.  As I turn the corner by the shop and walk the primitive road, I keep the dogs close.  And I keep a careful eye out for a doe and fawn, or a young bunk that might be sprouting his antlers.  They hang out there.  The air is chilly there, not cold but chilly.   As we pass the aspen grove and get closer to the orchard the blue birds hang in there and a few wrens dot the sage as well.  The sun is still struggling up the other side of the hill.  But the birds are up as we are.

Strange it is to me the transition there at the water troughs, the pine trees start there.  And the Steller's Jays, the gray jays and may be even a pinon jay, or a western scrub jay seem to like it there.  We turn again now north, for a short distance.  Just the distance of the spread of the orchard.  For this trip is more east and west.  When we make the corner of the orchard fence and start walking now west the birds are more quite here.  The orchard is young and not visited by many birds.  And to the other side there is little of interest to the birds.

But soon we are passing other side of the aspen and greeted there again by full chorus.   Now we are close to where we come back to where we started.  Now the sun has finished the climb up the hill.  It is shines on our little valley.  This is a great time for me.  I return to the trailer and now Ellen is up and has coffee made.  I get a hot cup of coffee and a chair and sit there and watch the shadows being peeled away as the sun chases away the darkness.  I sit there and meditate on it all.  The heavy coffee cup feels so warm in my hands.  The aroma of the coffee, the sage, the pines is so soothing as is the music.  The music of the breeze in the trees, accompanied by the birds.  Lord God help me indeed help us all if this is ever common place.   

           

Hope

Sometimes the reward of being positive is immediate....sometimes fruition comes after you're gone....but sometimes there's those hints......and sometimes that's enough

Having children taught me a lot about myself.
Didn't realize how selfish I was.
I kinda wish I'd have had them later in life, but then we might not have waded those streams, and camped, and done the things we did together.


...and my daughter, well, things were great for her, but they were also horrific, as her brother was going off the deep end in her formative years.
Her and I lost touch for some time, as I was pretty absorbed with my eldest.
She put herself thru a lot, heavy heavy drugs, terrible situations, then pulled her own ass out of it.
Tough kid.
Could kick the crap outta most guys, however quite fetching, like her mother, but not for sissy boys.
Still, we were not close, not like we both needed.

A while back we had a throw down, but it opened a door that was really never there before.
I wanna share a page (of many) from her ending Email.
Bear with me, or 'change channels' as I attempt to reach a parent of which may be attempting to reach a child.....an adult child.

There's always hope, always.

Pardon the text text

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shortly after, we went shopping, and dining, and more shopping......many laughs, some tears.
Yeah, we still get into verbal fisticuffs, but now there's that door....it remains unlocked

Thanks for sharing, Gary.  Very special...

  The adventure......getting old....etc

Next week, the wife and I are going to sign adoption papers for her grand daughter......

We've had the little gal since she was born........four years ago.............crack baby.......

I think I posted some things way back then.

The little gal is doing very well now........

And now I'm trying to figure out what the word retirement means.

Pics on the way......





sparks

Quote from: sparks on March 10, 2012, 01:14:31 AM
  The adventure......getting old....etc

Next week, the wife and I are going to sign adoption papers for her grand daughter......

We've had the little gal since she was born........four years ago.............crack baby.......

I think I posted some things way back then.

The little gal is doing very well now........

And now I'm trying to figure out what the word retirement means.

Pics on the way......

sparks

Lord Bless You Guys.......

From Rick and Ellen

Quote from: sparks on March 10, 2012, 01:14:31 AM
  The adventure......getting old....etc

Next week, the wife and I are going to sign adoption papers for her grand daughter......

We've had the little gal since she was born........four years ago.............crack baby.......

I think I posted some things way back then.

The little gal is doing very well now........

And now I'm trying to figure out what the word retirement means.

Pics on the way......





sparks

[cool]   Way to go.  She will help you maintain your youth. ;D

"She will help you maintain your youth"

Boy, is that ever a fact

...and, they're great garden tenders
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When I was about 10, we'd moved down the road a bit. It was at least close enough to town to be able to ride my bike to the hardware store and replenish my stock pile of BBs, and there were more kids, kids a couple three years older than me, kids that had a bit more savvy about important things, things like guns, cigarettes, and wimin.
Man we terrorized that little neighborhood. There was only six of us, but seems it was more like twenty at times.
Life was pretty good.
We commandeered a little leanto shed across the gravel road from our house, and there we'd meet, sharin' whatever we brought. Actually, I couldn't wait to wake up every summer morning...and sometimes I didn't.
Both folks worked, and my sister was supposed watch me, so there were long stretches of times, if I scheduled things just right, I could technically have just been company droppin' by.

Then things got different.

I was makin' a rare appearance at home....hunger, and noticed Mom's car was in the drive.
Then Dad's car pulled up.
I was fiddlin' with some meat and bread when Dad came in the door.
Then he just busted out bawlin'.
My mind did a little WTF? As I'd never seen him cry before.
Grampa had died.
Well Geez, he'd been wasting away in the nursing home for months...no surprise. But seems that was my Dad's only link to some sorta ethereal security.
Next thing I know, a few weeks later he's goin' off on how this orphan kid was such a great little guy.
'Bout then I had another of those WTF? Moments.
So here comes this kid.
Dad shows him around, then he's gone.
Dad was like that. Not around much. It worked for me, but now this damn kid. Nice kid to boot.
A little too nice. Like the replacement kid on Lassie.
Yeah, the first kid, Jeff, was great, then they replaced him with a kid appropriately named Timmy. Then the show went south, all sappy and effed up. But, right here most of you readers are going 'What?'

So this kid is my shadow, Dad's fair haired boy, and I'm guessin' I'm his guardian.
One of the things us neighborhood kids loved to do was play king of the trees.
Douglas fir trees are plentiful in NW Oregon, and huge. They can reach 300 ft in height, and these were not the exception.
Three or four of us would pick our tree and race each other to the top. Whoever would get to the point of being able to bend the top over and touch the tip first was king. The best part, however, was not being king, but just camping there in the limbs, letting the wind blow us back and forth. Folks woulda crapped their pants if they'd known what we were doin'.
Well, little Randy (my personal Timmy) wanted to climb.
I became a bit evil right there, and cautioned him that climbing those trees were not the same as yer everyday apple tree...but in the tone of lure and enticement.
The little guy was doin' quite well, as doug fir limbs are rather close together...hell you could almost walk up them. Then he musta made a misstep. I heard some yelling, and some thumping sounds. Then I caught sight of him flopping from one bough to the next.
Kathumping all the way to the bottom.
Seemed like he took forever.
Thing is, there's about 20 feet of no limbs at the bottom, and he was in no way gonna grab one'a those boards we used to start our climbs. So he landed in a little Timmy heap, on his shoulder, in the bed of fir needles.

For another evil moment I sat at my treetop, kinda hoping he'd not move, at all, ever.

But the little bastard just got a dislocated shoulder and some bruises....and a new guardian.

Things sometimes just have a way of workin' themselves out.

It has been a rough last week.  I lost my dad and my best friend I ever had! 

From having a wonderful week before.  Thursday, May 3, 2012 we sorted and hauled cattle up to the range and turned them out on our Forest Service Permit.  I never remember turning out such a fine set of cows, calves and real nice two year old bull.  I hauled a couple cows over here to our valley property and put them on pasture here.  I took one over to the cattle auction to sell Friday.  Then chased the cattle truck up to the Prairie.  When I came down as soon as I got in cell phone range I called dad at the Assisted Living and told him everything and got him all caught up. 

The following evening I called over there and because of a client falling down they could not let me talk to dad.  The following morning I called to talk to him.  They had just found him when he did not come out for breakfast.  He had passed away in his sleep.  The night caregiver reported on her chart at 04:15 George was snoring.  When we got over there about 15 minutes latter and went in to his room he looked so natural.  Ellen and I sat there and talked until the others started showing up.  I was so expecting dad to open his eyes and say, "If you get the hell out I'll go to the can and get dressed and come out and we can talk."         

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George (Dord) Gordon Russell 1915-2012 George (Dord) Gordon Russell 96, of Nampa, Idaho died peacefully Saturday, May 5, 2012 in his sleep at a Nampa care center. Truly, his passing was a surprise. George, known by family and close friends as Dord, lived a full life where he loved to explain, "When you've seen the world literally go from the horse and buggy to the moon and back you have seen a lot."

George was born July 11, 1915 to George William Russell and Ethel (Jones) Russell on a Russell family homestead near Kuna, Idaho. When old enough to travel, George and Ethel returned to their homestead at Smith Prairie, Idaho. George was raised there until his parents divorced in 1925, when he was 10 years old. He and his mother followed an aunt to Seattle where he attended school until the eighth grade and, as was common in those days, dropped out to find whatever work he could. He supported himself and his mother by both delivering Seattle papers and working at the stables. When his mother remarried when he was 15, he returned to Smith Prairie, Idaho. The Prairie, with its family ties and its way of life, was center to him.

Besides helping with the family homestead, he rode several years for the Smith Prairie Cattle Association and worked around the many sheep ranches of Mountain Home and Bruneau. When the work would become scarce there, he would often train polo and cavalry horses and work at the Boise Riding Academy and Stables. On October 22, 1936 George married LoRene Alice Dodd in Mountain Home, Idaho. They returned to Smith Prairie where they continued to ranch and farm until 1942. It was then that George and LoRene moved to Seattle to join the war effort. George became a welder in the shipyards and later trained and tested to become a rigger. He always explained that he liked that job a lot better even though it was outside in the Seattle rain. He loved splicing and working with the lines and he would grin and say "And it paid more!" And while there he even found time to work with the race horses at Longacres, especially when Lou Crawl from Idaho came to Seattle.

When the war was over, George suddenly announced to LoRene that they were selling out and returning to Idaho. When they returned to Idaho, they purchased a farm on Eagle Island. True to his livestock heritage, he and LoRene wintered sheep there for Gabaola for several years. In 1952 they sold that farm and moved to Meridian. There he found employment at Idaho Pine Co. However, true to form, he soon found himself looking for another farm. In 1954 they purchased a farm off of Maple Grove where George farmed and milked cows while continuing to work at the sawmill. Idaho Pine closed for a period of time and reopened as Meridian Pine and George became self employed hauling bulk wood shavings and wood chips to dairies, feed lots, and chicken farms.

In 1965 George and LoRene purchased the homestead and the cattle grazing permit at Smith Prairie which they leased out the ground and grazed their cattle up there in the summers. Though they never returned there to live, they loved dreaming that some day they would. George loved to return there just see what was going on. In 1967 he sold the property on Maple Grove and bought eighty acres at Kuna. There, beside trucking, he was a member of the Hereford Association and raised registered Hereford cattle. They sold the ranch at Kuna 1977 and downsized and semi retired to Nampa. In early 1980's he bought another property at Smith Prairie. In 2000. George sold the small farm in Nampa where they were living and moved to a small acreage on Willow in Nampa. There he had a horse or two, and never missed a livestock auction if he could help it. Even into his eighties, George remained very active, loved to help others, and loved his family and friends. To the end, he always had a love for babies and children. And of course always loved to talk livestock.

August 3, 2001 the love of his life LoRene A Russell passed away. George continued to live by himself a for several years. His family however found they had to move him into assisted living where he was very well taken care of in several valley facilities, the last being Ashley Manor on Middland in Nampa. He loved to talk and was very quick witted clear to the end. The family wishes to thank the staff there for the care and love he received. Also thank you to XL Hospice who were fantastic with their care for George and updates and concerns for the family. Truly his passing was a surprise to all of us. Many thanks to all of you! George is survived by his son and daughter in law William B. and Sue Russell of Truth or Consequences N.M. His almost daughter Linda Nicks of Colorado Springs Co. His son and daughter in law Rickey Lee and Ellen M Russell of Nampa, Idaho. Along with grand children and great grand children covering a host of states. Dad / Dord / Grandpa you will be so missed! He was preceded in death by his wife of 64 years LoRene A Russell and his 101 year old brother Jack Russell of Laurel, Mt. who passed away last year. A viewing will be held on Wednesday, May 9 from 5-7 p.m. at Summers Funeral Homes, Ustick Chapel. Graveside services will be held on Thursday, May 10 at Morris Hill Cemetery at 2:00 p.m. Arrangements under the direction of Summers Funeral Homes, Ustick Chapel.

So sorry to hear about your Dad.  I am sure he was proud of you for carrying on his legecy and his passion.  We are never prepared for the passing of loved ones but it sounds as if he lived a full rich life.  Take care.  My prayers are with you and your family.

The value of rare precious things is immeasurable.
It's a precious thing, a best friend.
It's a rare precious thing when he's your dad.

Rick, it sounds like your were his best friend too.
Having a son for a best friend, well now, it's hard to imagine things getting better than that.

Well done, sir, well done indeed.

So sorry to hear of your Dad's passing Rick. There's a big hole there now. Take care. All our best to you and Ellen.

Don & Karen

My thoughts & prayers are with you Rick & your family.  Sounds like your dad enjoyed his life. 

That's a bittersweet story.  God bless him and your family too.

-f-

Rick ksorry to hear about your loss. I know the hole is current and deep but hopefully the thoughts and prayers of those thinking of you in this time, assist in some of the healing process....

String Trimmers, Global Warming and Cow Pies

Because of certain events in the last week or two like a death in the family, then before that there was rain, rain then hot temps and high winds.  More trips up to the ranch than I think I really did.  So in other words we were far behind.

I woke up to the fact that the weeds were about to take over in couple places we cannot spray or do not spray.  No!  Strike that thought!  No, not about spraying, but the weeds.  They had taken over.  So after we finally got our garden in.  We plant mainly anymore  just a salsa garden.  With lots and lots of tomatoes and peppers then some the summer squash and cucumbers.  I decided it was time to attack the weeds. 

I first had to run to the gas station and with a 2.5 gallon gas can for two gallons of gas to mix with two cycle oil.  Not really a can, I do remember those however.  Just old verbiage and nouns are hard to.......  Anyway this one is plastic and it does have the old spout.  Once again thank you Mr. Government for making life safer and simpler.  Have you actually tried to fill a chainsaw from one of those new gas cans?  It is sort of like needing someone to help you tinkle when you have both arms broke at the same time.  These new spouts and cans are a far worse danger than the old ones were ever made out to be.  They are going to spill more fuel and cause more fires than any of the old ones.

Two gallons of gas and two cycle oil worked out to about $10.00.  Remember when you could..........?  Actually two gallons of two cycle gas for most people is like a whole summer and fall with a normal sized city lot and dispose of some when snow flies in the winter.  Rick and Ellen go through that fairly quickly with two acres here and the ranch up there.  We heat mostly with wood.  Last year was 100% with wood.  So I very seldom let the fuel get old and stale.   

So it was time to unbury the string trimmer from the corner in the tool shed.  The head was full of line and there was even a fresh spool hang on the wall.  I think Ellen was outfitting me for action.  Can you remember when you got string trimmer line next to something and it would snap off.  Then you had to pull the head all apart and find the end of the string and rethread it and on and on!  Well that was aggravating.  However it at least gave you a break.  One to stop, rest your back and re-thread.  Not so with the new lines today.  You run them wide open and for a whole tank of fuel and the head just happily spins and dispenses line whistling and humming and thumping and a line never breaks. 

I filled it with fresh fuel and gave the rope a pull.  Half hoping that the starter rope would not pull.  But the big old Husky-var-na trimmer roared to life.  And I commenced the spring ritual of mass string trimming.  Plus this gives me an opportunity to make my carbon footprint larger.  That seems important to me right now as I struggle with who am I?  This after the loss of my father.  Strange at 60 years old I now seem to be wondering just who the heck I am.  He was always there, even though the last couple years his short term memory was gone most the time.  He was still dad and my mentor and the family leader.   Now it is just me, well there is Ellen, but she is a girl.
   
I started in the Idaho Power easement, a wasteland of cheatgrass and foxtail this time of year.  It is most likely 25 foot wide and 120 foot long of which we really can not do anything with.  I own it, I pay taxes on it.  However I really cannot put a shed on it, I really can not landscape it.  It is just a dry part of my lot.  Idaho Power has to be able to get in there in the event of line or transformer repair.  It does serve as a good no mans land between me and my neighbor to the west.  Strange as I think of it. I have my yard fence there.  (Chain link, tall and stout.)  Then there is the easement, twenty five feet of no man's land.  Then there is the fence on the property line.  Then when the neighbor built his house he also installed a chain link corral for his five or six kids and growing family.  Plus this time of the year with all the foliage there is in my yard.  Landscaping which would make a landscape architect pass out, hardly with envy.  That, as well as the neighbors landscaping which looks a little more professionally done.  So if you are in my yard do not try to escape to the west.  I spent a day there string trimming the easement  Well it seemed like a day but closer to an hour.  Well long enough to run out of both fuel and string.  I stopped for a cool glass of water and to check my e-mail before I went out to conquer a few thistles and wild ash trees with the sprayer and the Agent Orange.  When I had finished defoliating my little portion of the world, and before protestors arrived on the scene, next on the agenda was string trimming a cattle corral.

The cattle corral where also there was an an over abundance of cheatgrass and foxtail grass and hidden down in them were these carefully disguised cow pies.  The weather being warm and if you have ever or never been around cow pies or the leavings after a cow does it's thing.  I might need to explain cow feces is thin not watery thin but a little thicker than.....well if you are a concrete guy lets say about a eight or ten inch slump.  If you are a cook it it is sort of like a thick cake batter or pie filling.  The hot sun and weather sort of crusts it over.  It looks hard yet the inside remains remarkably fresh. 

If you were in a pasture environment when you were a kid.  (There were more of us then, than now by a long shot.)  Spring arrived and off came the shoes.  As a kid the first thing you figured out do not step on the honey bees with bare feet!   They will sting you and somehow get their stinger into the most calloused feet.  The next thing is just because cow pie looks hard does not mean it is.  Just because the top may be brown and hard looking, it is a trick do not go there.  That is insulating that soft gooey center.  I am sure that universities have studied the time it takes to set up firm.  Those findings would be set into a step chart table with humidity and ambient temperatures.

I do not think anything pulls your mind back into reality of the moment, as when you sort of have your mind in coast.  You do not have the Agricultural University's chart in hand.  No, you are just doing a mundane thing of weed whacking or string trimming.  You think you are in full control, the motor is running at a full open.  Fittingly making the largest carbon footprint it and you can possibly produce.  The trimmer's head is happily spinning and dispensing line, whistling and humming and thumping.  Suddenly your safety glasses are green and you can not see.  Your hands and face are moist and green, you and your clothes now smell like cow pooo-pooo.  You cannot believe it, and true to human nature you have to look and then take a second look. Like what caused that?  Did I hit a cow pie?  No silly, remember if cows could fly.  It was just a good thing you were not looking up.  Or your mouth was not open! 

Then another thought came to my mind.  What if dad in his passing and he and his old cowboy and mischief friend.  My great uncle Bob Simmons just dropped in for the moment.  Not that I think stuff like that occurs.  However I could not help from thinking of Dad and Uncle Bob standing in the yard watching and laughing and Uncle Bob saying,  "By golly Dord he did it."                 

Dang, I miss a couple days and look what happens.
I'm gonna get home tonight and read this.

A great and honoring little story Rick...

My dad is gone now too. And what remains are those oh so real memories of the natural moments we shared doing a simple activity - cutting the grass, or looking into the stream for trout. Of course we all thought those moments would last a lifetime (and I guess they did).

I was truly sorry to read about your Dad's passing Rick. Probably not the only one that sat up late with you the other night, typing something, erasing, screen goes out, refresh, repeat.
Grandad's pocket knife was passed on to me when I was 14. I can remember tagging along behind from earliest memory with the menfolk. That old knife, sharpened thin, one tip broken and reshaped, was ready for any task, opening sacks, cutting twine, scraping the manure off your boots or carving up an apple just plucked from the tree hanging over the road up to the house. It used to worry me. I'd lose it for a couple of years, and then it'd turn up again, I quit worrying long ago, it always turns up.

A great read, Rick.
Nicely done.
Really went well with my coffee this morn.

...and Don, yeah, I still have grampa's Case knife.....somewhere

Cheers

 

Mr Kilson

The old Kilson place was quite run down.
It was once a tidy little place, a couple out buildings, a barn, some acreage, a small filbert and apple orchard, and a cozy little house.
Now the orchard was all over grown, the barn needed a roof, and everything needed paint.
Us kids overheard folks talking about not seein' the ol' guy for awhile, so we volunteered to round up suma his chickens and fix him a meal.

He had a dozen or so bandy hens and roosters runnin' free, so it seemed a good sport, and for a good cause.
Took us all mornin' to snag one scrawny rooster, from under the house, but hey, we'd cook it up for the ol' coot.

Daryl tried to wring that bird's neck, but it was a bit tougher than the young hens we were used to.
Eddie ended up sawing on him with his case knife....took awhile. The ol' bandy just laid there on the stump, lookin' up like....'geezus man, end it'!
As we were pluckin' we swapped stories about how our folks would wring chicken necks. It was rather horrific for me, the first time I witnessed this.
Gramma, sweet gramma, was takin' these birds, the ones grampa I had fed for what seemed years, and was snappin' their heads off like no tomorrow.
Hens, the ones I'd named, were zippin' around, trying to fly, runnin' at me, floppin' down, then runnin' again...only they didn't have any friggin' heads!
There gramma was with a pile of hen heads, goin' after more.....didn't know this lady that cradled me to sleep for a nap most every day of my four years was so blood thirsty.
And those dang heads, starin' at nuthin'....it was my little nightmare of reality.....gotta eat, gotta kill to do that.
.....and watch out for gramma.

Anyhoot, we got the bird plucked and gutted. Then commenced to knock on Mr Kilson's door.

No answer.

We went around back and peeked in the kitchen window.
There was ol' man Kilson in his chair, TV blastin'.
We strode thru the kitchen and into the tiny living room.

'Hey, Mr Kilson?'
Nuthin'
'HEY!! MR KILSON!!'
Nuthin'

We got right in between the chair and the TV.
There we all were, Eddie with his bloody hands and knife.
Daryl with the bloody chicken.
All of us tracking in chicken blood.
And there was Mr Kilson.
His eyes had the same look of those first chicken heads I'd seen six years before.

So I got busy yesterday.
Mowed and trimmed the lawn, did a couple delayed projects and generally did what geriatrics do (scatch, itch, burp, fart, grunt, while searching for what ever it was).
A few years back, I cut a huge hole in the back of our house and installed a french door....I love french doors.
I have a mini ceremony morning and evening, opening 'em up to hear the birds in the garden, and the angels in my head sing.
Also, they accommodate the moving of large items, large items like TVs and baby grands, and couches, and beds....and rather quickly, like when the offspring (spawn) discovers where we live, after discovering they 'just can't make it on our own'.
Yeah, quick exit, escape, hide.
Anyhoot, I now have a path from our living area, thru my den, thru the french doors, and onto the deck.
I usually sit out there, stoke the fire pit, sit back, sip, and watch my rhubarb grow, thinking profound things like, 'I should just bring the coffee pot out here', or 'ice chest, eueka!, I'll get an ice chest for the deck!' or thoughts of developing a spring loaded gizmo that an oldster can just set their belly (or sagging boobs) on and ease themselves down to do their garden tending.....actually I will develop this...Whamo here I come. Note to self; include boob rack...one for the ladies too.

Where was I (had to toss another piece of wood, carving gone awry, on the pit).
Ah, yesterday....even though I love the french doors, they are not screen friendly. So I zipped over to Home Dopey to get one'a those magic screens. It's a doorless screen that is somehow magic....the word 'magic' adding $19.95 to the 'but that's not all' price.
They don't have them.
I made my own...abra cadabra....presto...screen with a dowel for weight at the bottom...duh....$3.95
Now we'll be house fly free this summer.
The fly swatters will now become marsh mellow skewers for when the grandpuppies come over.

Today.

Today is father's day.

The day beings from other planets (that think they are somehow my spawn) target my place, my beloved deck, my back yard, my toilet, my fridge, me, and zoom in to terrorize the daylights outta my kingdom. Grand kids with silly string, and humongous squirt guns that make Papaw do his jump-scream-cuss trick, and pets that crap, and parents with laugh tracks on self activating pull strings, and parents with tape measures, sizing up rooms for their furniture....
Bestowing gifts of wooden objects (they know I like wood) from exotic lands (China) that I'll feign putting in my curio (and toss them in my Jeep the next day for a thrift shop donation).

And they don't readily go away. After several hours, saying things like, 'we really should go'...my eyebrows twitch upward, I try to hide my glee, when my lady sez, 'oh, but it's so early' (the goddamn sun is setting!!)...but I realize that it's just intermission, and the stroke of midnight is still in the distant future.

So, after several hours, I'll do my customary thing, cracking the bathroom door open every twenty minutes and whispering, 'Are they gone yet?'

But this only after taking my dad to Brunch, and watching him smear syrup and butter around his mouth, then commence crying and drooling over how things used to be.

Today is father's day.....for whom the bell tolls.

This too shall pass

Gary your Father's Day posting made me think of something I had written.  Why?  One you stated "the angels in my head sing".    ???   The other you stated your dad "then commence crying and drooling over how things used to be."   ??? Seems to me that is where I like to write the most, how it was.  Although I mostly eat high protein and low carbs.  So the syrup and what ever it goes with is sort of a stranger to me.  But I don't think where your dad is at is a stranger to me.   

Were They Angels and Why?

For the last couple months something has kept popping up in my brain. It was an experience I had in my mid or late teen years. My dad and I decided to make a trip to the Prairie in the middle of winter. One of my dad's buddies up there had came into a huge amount of railroad ties. Railroad ties were and are the prized fence post. The top of the heap. The king of fence posts. So we set out with one of the trucks. Dad for some reason had not tossed in a set of tire chains. Back then in the winter time there is one way into the Prairie. That was via Mountain Home and over Anderson Dam. It is still that way today however at times they do try and keep the road to Boise open but there is no guarantee.

There is another summer time road to the Prairie that that is called Cow Creek. It like the road to Boise receives no winter time regular maintenance. When we got to the Cow Creek Road dad noticed that there had been a lot of traffic over that road so he decided to go via Cow Creek. We made good time until the road became very slick and truck was going down the road side ways. We got straightened out, and kept going. We started to pull a hill and it was so slick we spun out. So we had no recourse without chains to turn around and go back. That is when we had a huge problem. We found ourselves stuck between two hills.

I had a new pair of boots, they were Danners and had these new fangled Vibrim waffle stomper soles. I got out of the truck and I could stand and walk very well. Dad on the other hand had just his regular slick soles shoes and five buckle over shoes. We talked it out and one of us was going to have to walk out. There is a friend of ours Greg Kundson that has a ranch just not to far out of Mountain Home. I was going to have to walk to the main road and walk or hitch a ride to that ranch and get help with a set of chains or something.

So I started walking, in no time I reached road. The first vehicle that past me threw on its brakes and backed up. It was an International – jeep – something pick up. A lady opened the door on the passenger side and asked if I would like a ride. I told them thank you I would. She scooted over and away we went. The seats were covered with folded canvas and real Indian blanket some how put together. The inside as well as the out side was neat as a pin. No farm dust or city stuff. Both her and the driver were older. Both had long, long gray or silver hair. They were very clean and well kept. We had a nice conversation to our friends ranch. But a couple things have always bothered me about this ride. While they were hardly from around there they seemed to know way more than they should. They said they were coming from Sun Valley – Hailey – Ketchum area. Seemed to be from Sun Valley. Yet they knew the ranch I wanted to go to. They seemed to know people from the Prairie. It was just sort of at ease conversation but how did they know?

They dropped me off as I requested and walked the short distance to the ranch house. I got Gregg and we went to Irlands and got a set of chains and off we went for the Cow Creek Rd. We almost got there and we met dad. Dale Knox was up there delivering fuel. He still had a few hundred gallons of fuel on his truck and had good traction and lent dad his chains. Knox and dad use to hunt together once in a while. So we got back to Greg's and chatted and headed on home.  Waste of time and trip or was it.....

That trip was always sort of right of passage for me as I experienced my life. I had to get it done. Real man stuff or so I think or thought for a long time.  Now as I drive that road once in a while out to Mountain Home from the Prairie in the summer time. It never seems to fit. The distances seems to great from where we got stranded and the road. Because it seemed to be just a mile or so and I was on the main highway. US Highway 20. I no more than stepped off the Cow Creek Road and here is this pickup. This is what bothers me. I was a kid, I loved pick ups and cars and I could not ID this vehicle. It was a pickup. It was your typical metal cab – metal dash board.  But I never got a fix on what brand – make – or model. The man and woman both looked a lot alike. Both had long, long gray silver hair. Not a spot of dirt on their clothing did I notice nor their vehicle. When I started to explain were I needed dropped the driver the man seemed to exactly know where I was talking about. Our conversation was so smooth and friendly for just picking up a kid on the side of the road. They seemed to know the Irlands and the Davisons and Acurigucuis and Agurruis but they were not from there.

So the older I get the more I need to know for some reason were they Angels? If they were then why did they pick me up? If they were why did they not have a message from God. Why did they not say we have a message for you.....?  Not that I am bothered that they did do what they did.  But some things just do not line up from the place we got stranded and the time it took me to get to the highway.  They were right there.  Their cleanliness and friendliness was almost unreal.  The time it took to get it all done.....  It is just hard wrap my mind around it.......                           

Dang, what a good read.
Thank you for that, Rick.

It sparks some thoughts of my own I had a few days/months ago, and I plan on pasting 'em right here.....and in my next book.
I've got a few hundred pages tucked in an unkempt file or two.

Now to sort/compile...of which I so hate

Rick....I've learned to accept those things in my life rather than try to explain them. They are what keep me believing  that there is a higher power.

No matter how bad or how bleak things get, something always happens to pull me out of it.

Fascinating story, Rick - kept me glued to the 'puter  :) 

I was digging through some files the other day.  I wrote this about a year or so ago and shared it with Gary.........  Thought I would toss it on this pile.......  This evening I was thinking about all the traveling we used to do.  Seemed like we were always heading out to some place.  Now an over nighter in Salt Lake City, or Seattle seems as distant as the fourteen hour flight out Frisco to Hong Kong....  I would bet my passport has expired by now.... 

The Ferry to Bella Bella

I know not the name of the Canadian ferry we rode between Port Hardy and Prince Rupert.  I know not even the year.  I do know that we had to put in at Bella Bella a first nations village on the Inland Passage.  A First Nations person or native indian explained to me as we stood leaning on the rail of the ship watching the world go by.  We for some reason came together there on the rail he a little older than I and we spent hours talking about his world of logging and fishing, and mine as a locomotive engineer,  livestock and ranch.  Exchanging our worlds as we talked, we pointed out eagles and osprey.  Seals and what might be an orca now and then to each other.  He explained Bella Bella was only a flag stop on the route up and down the Inland Passage.  Meaning if there were passengers or freight for there they  would put in.  I do not think at the time there was a place to off load autos.  Little reason as there are no real roads into nor out of Bella Bella from what he told me.  In fact it is on an island.  Campbell Island I found out latter.

As the ferry put into the dock we were greeted by one of the most wonderful adventures I have ever over looked.  On the dock there was a huge metal stair way sitting there on the dock.   The back ground was village and Canadian Pacific green.  The foreground was not ground but  rather inland passage water.  Though I am sure there was play ground equipment some where at a school or park in the village however this was the happening at the moment place for the kids.  After all the big ferry was  coming to town, momma or dad or aunts or uncles, may be grandmother from Victoria would be getting off.  Indian children were hanging off the stairway.  Some hung up side down knees locked around pipes and iron supports.  Looking at the world up side down.  Coats and sweater and shirts hung down over there heads as they looked at the upside down wold.  Shouting and waving at us as we approached.  Some of the most daring boys and a girl or two climbed high up underneath almost to the top.

Dogs that had apparently accompanied the children and the adults to the dock were backing excitedly.   Some too excitedly for some of the other dogs and soon several dog fights started on the dock as if by command.  No one seemed overly concerned about the dog fights and the dogs seemed to be able too by nature sort out  their differences very well on their own.  With a few sharp bites and tugs and growls, yollows and whimpers it was all over with.  No one came running to defend their dog.  If any were really their dogs or they might belong to the village.  Dogs might like it as well when the ferry comes to town.  This seemed to be a raw real world.  One where one lived only because you were able to live life there.

Amid the kids waving and laughing, a few adults standing around chatting and the dogs barking and fighting.  A 1978 or so Ford pickup made its appearance.  You could only tell that this was a 1978 Ford pickup because of the general out line of rust.  It was rusted through in more spots than it seemed to be held together with.   Slowly it drove up to the stairway and the kids shimmied and slid down off the stairway with the expertise of a high steel worker or firemen coming down a fire-pole.  They mostly hid from the driver.  He was shouting something at them in some tongue we could not understand.  He got out of the rusty pick up he seemed to be the boss.  He too was First Nations as were the deck hands.  They wore jackets or uniforms from the Canadian Ferry Line I guess to look official.  No one seemed all that impressed and more a job requirement.     

Ropes were heaved to the dock from the ferry.   After tying the ferry off to the dock, the deckhands all joined together in the ritual of shoving the huge metal stairway to the boat.  And the pilgrimage ended for some.  As a few men and ladies all seemed to be First Nations People or indians where I am from.  They made their way down the stairs.  Most carried boxes.  Kids and adults were shouting and waving at friends and relatives as they made their way down the huge stairway.  On the dock there were kisses and hugs and handshakes and nods and grins.  There was a ocean going  kayak expedition that off loaded as well.  Brightly colored yellow kayaks and fancy bags and grips and water-tights and dry boxes and on and on was carried down the stairs.  They so looked out of place in this place.  A place of wool mackinaws, blue jeans and stout leather work boots.  It was a place of fishing clothes and rubber boots.  Not plastic boats and synthetic carry ons.  It was a place where people lived in nature as part of it.  It hardly seemed to be a place to be attended for a week or two by outsiders.  Their presence there almost seemed to profane the place.   It was a place that nature begrudgingly let the hardy stay and let a few really live there.     

When all the ceremonial colonial off loading from the sea going expedition was accomplished.  Then the pilgrimage started for others up to Prince Rupert.  All carrying boxes tied with rope, there seemed to be an absence of American Touristor luggage, soft sides, or rollabouts.  This was real travel in the real world for these people.  A place you left only if you have to.  It was Sunkist Navel Orange boxes from Florida and Ruby Red Grapefruit boxes from Texas, it was apple boxes from Winanachee. Washington.  All tied  with rope.  Half inch hemp or line from a fishing boat, or twine from some ones unpacking.    How many wives here would even think of going some where, anywhere without at least a matching set of Costco soft sides?  Oh the embarrassment here in the states if men were seeing their women off and women were seeing their men off with Sunkist Orange and Grapefruit boxes.

The lines soon were hauled in, huge doors on the ship slid shut and we were started to pull away from the dock.  I could not take my eyes of this picture of real kids, and real people and their real world.  Then suddenly something else started to unfold on the dock.  The rusty pick up as starting to leave and drive back up the dock to the island.  The kayak expedition was still taking up most of the dock.  One had its bow or stern turned to the pickup.  Hard to tell kayaks especially when you do not know them.    The pick up ran over the projecting kayak and just kept right on going.  Someone from the expedition now was running after the pickup as hard as he could run, shouting and waving his fist.  The pick up never deviated its speed but clearly was winning the foot race....

I have often wondered the outcome of that accident.  Do kids still climb and hang from the stairs at Bella Bella?  Do dogs still fight on the docks?   Does drugs and alcohol take it tole on the First Nations peoples in Bella Bella as it does across this whole continent and the countries with-in?  Or are they lucky enough to have missed it?  I do not know what the soul connection was to Bella Bella that day.  I do know I would not fit there if I were to return.  I am not a First Nations person.  But oh how it stuck to me.  Stuck deep in my heart.  Oh how at times have I wanted to return?  Something in me wants to get off that ship in my work boots, blue jeans, flannel shirt and a wool mackinaw, pull a wool watch cap down over my head and yes carrying a Sunkist Grapefruit box on my shoulder.

I step on that dock turn and walk up the dock to the streets and roads of Bella Bella.  I nod politely at the ladies, stop and joke with the kids and teens.  Talk to the men asking about their families.  You still married?   How was the hunt?  The catch - what is running?  No halibut; still early yet; yes?   Your working in the timber where?  Wow your are lucky fellow, thats good job!  Man hang on to it!  You here for just your days off?   When you due to be back?  How are the kids?  Any chance we play some cards and drink some coffee?  When the Sockeye return this year we go fishing then okay?  Any crab jobs on up the coast?  Early winter?  Damn chilly wind for now!

Yep!!  Damn chilly wind for now!

                       

     


                       

     

Well, Rick, it was as good this time as it was a year ago.

Cheers to you, sir.

(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/zbestfriend.jpg)

I'll Never Forget My Best Friend

I was three.
He was a few months.
Neither of us had much to play with....but each other.
We never lacked.

He'd look up at me with complete unwavering trust.
Trying to read my face.
Ears perked up when I spoke.
Wherever I went, he followed.

He rapidly grew, and soon we were face high to each other.
We'd roam the patch of woods up the hill from our place, him guarding my every step, sometimes blocking my way when I got too close to the cliff edge. I didn't know it at the time.

I'd take my naps nestled into his chest.
He'd lie there, never moving a muscle.

As I grew to boyhood, he remained a part of me, my shadow.
We'd wrestle....he'd let me win.

We'd hunt.

We'd fish.

Not that he took part.
He was no hunting dog.
Just my companion.
We'd share lunch.
He'd listen, as we sat on the creek bank.

Years passed.
I got very busy, but not so busy that we wouldn't still roam the woods every so often, even though he had a bit of a time keeping up.
The day came when he just didn't get up.

I was sixteen.

Mom told me to take him in to the vet.
'He'll be able to fix him up.'
I gathered him up and laid him in the passenger's seat of the pickup, right beside me, and we had one of our conversations while I drove the twenty miles.
It had been awhile.
Too long actually.


I sat on the stool beside the exam table, while the vet did his thing.
Once again my best friend and I were face high to each other.

The vet was talking with my mom.
He handed me the phone.
It was time.
He had to be put to sleep.

OK, I brought him in to get fixed up, and now he's going to be put down....just like that.
I was told I had to leave the room.

Like hell.

I held his face with both hands, and his ears perked up as we had one of our conversations, telling him the reality.
I cradled his head, holding it to my chest, not moving a muscle until he went to sleep.

Even though the wipers were going, I had a hard time seeing through the rain drops on the way back home.

I'll never forget my best friend

Thanks for sharing my friend ......... about your old friend. 

Certainly about those were the best of times, those were the worst of times.

rlr

Henry

I feel as though I'm on the set of the last half hour of Papillion, or the movie Life.
Just said g'mornin' to Henry for the gazillionth time.
He's been an employee at this fine establishment since the doors opened, before even me, of which I'm regarded as the furniture. We are both a bit slower of foot and noticeably grayer since we first met.
We have light conversation...about gardening, the weather, our offspring.

He's a bit short on words.
Been thru a gaggle of engineer regimes.
Been in charge of what we call the process room forever.
It's where we encapsulate, vacuum varnish, mold, and do all the dirty work.....the dirty work that takes a mad scientist to coordinate all the tanks, racks, and ovens to yield product (as our brochure says) 'in a timely manner'.
For him, it's a symphony, and he's the conductor.
Patience his not his strong point.
He's 'hard to work with'.
Whenever an upstart engineering manager approaches him about a certain process (more like begging for an answer, so he can document the procedure in the build book), his usual reply is, 'You're the engineer, you tell me....ah...hahahahahaha'.

He can be seen on any given day, meticulously scraping out the last drop of epoxy in the bottom of a 5 gallon bucket....'It's expensive'.

About ten years ago I had to take him in to counsel.
He'd made a production worker upset, to the point of tears.
We all knew he was just being Henry, harsh words were how he communicated.

I sat with him and the production manager, and explained to him about how he represented our company, and therefore an example, blather blah, blah, blather.
I guess he took every one of my words to heart.
I guess I dressed him down, took him to his inner core, because he began to weep.
It really took me off stride, as I was just building momentum, not even getting off my final salvo.
It confirmed what I'd learned sometime before.
Gruff crusty people, folks with chips on their shoulders, that once the armor of their defense is removed, will just fall apart.
I guess he was more than motivated that day, because motivation lasts only a short time, but he has yet to come off so harsh, as he'd been so many times before.

He is not articulate in the English language.
Someone once mentioned to me that 'Henry sure speaks funny'.
'Yeah, he speaks funny like that in seven languages.'

He was a man without a country for around twenty years.
I was one of the privileged few from our company that he'd invited to the celebration of his citizenship.
A lot of his people were there, and they all revered him as a god.
He looked good in his uniform.
That day he became 'Henry', and we shared a six pack of Private Reserve. He still mentions our little celebration, and has the Henry's Private Reserve cap, I'd given him that day, hanging above his desk.

Henry has several distinct scars all over himself.
Holes the size of machine gun rounds.
Holes that remind him of the death march, of hiding under the body of the guy that became him when he took his identity papers because he'd lost his.
Holes that should have killed him more than once.
Holes that remind him of the loss of his entire family.
Holes that cause him to be even less verbal when someone inquires as to 'what'd you do to get that?'

Holes that remind him of the price of freedom.

He still eats his lunch with sticks, sometimes sitting on the picnic bench cross legged.
It was a year or so after I'd hired on that Henry learned it was more acceptable to sit on the toilet instead of stand.
I was glad to see that...hated always having to wipe those freaking footprints off the lid every damn time.

Yeah, him and I are on the other side of the hill now.
But it's still really great to say g'mornin' to my fellow countryman every day....it's actually quite an honour.

Geriatricology

These days I have to be careful as to how I sit. Actually, briefs keep the low riders in place. Otherwise lefticle or righticle can suddenly awaken my giddyup.

This happened to me a couple times not that long ago.
Once in a library.
While waitin' for the missus, I commenced to sit down on a bench.
Jumped straight up. Letting out a HEEEEYAHHHH!
The librarians all looked at me like I was some kinda deranged Tourette victim.
My lady came around the corner and told them 'he's just acting up cause I'm taking so long'.....it worked.

The other time was in the Portland Fine Arts Museum.
It's not good for me to get bored.
We toured the new exhibits, exhibits of things like a chunk of torn cardboard with scribbling on it. Nicely matted and framed though....$3500usd.
An outstanding sculpture of this nude guy was parked in the middle of the grand foyer, life size, detail down to the color of his molds and freckles.
This father with his 10 year old daughter, then me and a half dozen others, were all encircling the roped off sculpture.
The girl looked spellbound.
I said 'touch it'
'No, really, go ahead, touch it'
She looked at her dad. He nodded.
She reached out, one finger moving slowly toward the sculpted hind end.
'AAAAACH!'
I couldn't help myself.
Poor thing, I really didn't think she'd jump that high.
The father whisked her off, and the Barney Fife looking security guard assigned himself to me.

We toured the fine arts dept, and man, those guys knew their way around oils and brushes.
Huge paintings of fine ladies and scenes.
These were of course roped off, with little signs that read DO NOT TOUCH, GARY

Details unimaginable.
Such clarity of life itself.
How in hell did they do it?
What was their beginning and final brush stroke?
When were they satisfied with it?
Were they ever satisfied?
'Oh-a yeah-a, that's-a bitch-a I-a painted when I'-a was-a so-a loaded-a I couldn't-a stand-a up-a.
It's a real-a piece-a of-a poop-a.'

We went back to the current framed masterpieces of dumpster findings.
I leaned up against this public scale lookin' thing and asked the guy admiring it what he weighed.
Guards were moving my direction, so I decided to sit, stay.
I was tired anyway.

Sat square on a pant spud.

I shot into the air like I was on one'a those giant cartoon springs.
'HEEEEYYAH!'

Sometime later, maybe 5-10 seconds, four security guards swarmed me from all directions. Barney said something like 'Sir, you are going to have to leave.'
I said something like 'What, you think I wanna spend the night here?'
Then more authority figures came.

It was a nice day outside.
The aroma of the hot dog cart was too much for me.
People of all sorts, strolling thru the park blocks, held my attention while my lady fully satiated herself with 'art'.

Things just work out sometimes.

 [rofl2]  Gary, thanks for the entertainment  [rofl2]

Here to help

Burn baby Burn

Summer

Houston Texas (Lake Houston)

My Boss's sailboat

Me, onion paper Irish skinned me.

After learning how not to tack, jumping in and out of the water, warm Lake Houston water.

Noon

'Huh, getting a tad pink.'

9 pm

'Hey, everybody, look at the glorious sunset!' pointing my direction.

It's me

Home

It's the usual 110°F and 180% humidity.
My lady turns on the fan.
I'm freezing
I fall on the bed
I note something high pitched coming from my mouth as I lose consciousness.
I awaken to something cooking and someone screaming.

It's me

'Go to the store and buy everything they have in the skin care first aid section....then swing by the burn center at Ben Taub and wipe out their stuff....take my 45.'

'Hurry!'

She finally get's home
It's all dark in the house, except in the bedroom where I'm a quivering, glowing mass....doing a great impression of a gigantic fire fly.

'Do you want the spray or the rub on stuff, or the gauze pads?'

'Put.......some......thing.....on.......me.......n-o-w'

'Oh gaud, not the rub!'

Get......the......spray

'What the hell izzat spray, sodium hydroxide or sulfuric acid??!!'

'Get.....the.....gauze'

'DAMMIT WOMAN, quit tickling me!!'

'Hey baby, where ya goin' sweetie?'

I don't want to move, but make my way to the shower, fiddling with the temp.....ah, warm.

My upper body is OK (ish), mainly 'cause back in those days I'd work and play outside with no shirt.
I'd start the summer with a nice healthy glowing burn base and end up with a maroon like skin tone.

But my upper legs.
I coulda posed as a burn victim.

My skin festered up, boiled, and sloughed off.

I learned that getting excited would keep the damn sheet off my legs.

Two weeks of work loss.

Two jobs, 160 hrs of no wages.

The house is no place for a lad in his early twenties to be for two weeks.

My lady learned my impression of a raging lion/hyena creature was a tad intolerable...and learned to shop...for days.

So I skulked through the house alone, leaving sloughed skin trails from the fridge to the toilet to the bed.

Sense, self awareness.
I gained a bit of this in those two weeks.

Wow Gary that sounds like fun.  Sort of like back in the free love days of the late sixties.  Noticing  wonderful peaceful meadow and getting naked run off through it..... into a hedge of brambles, poison ivy and stinking nettles next to the creek full of hungry leaches.  My word that was livin'....... :D   

 Paper Work (it can be thrilling)

So I'm goin' through my weekday morning routine, opening the little factory for the umpty umpth time, makin' coffee, turning on things, unlocking doors, greeting the birds, and headin' to the john for my second morning constitutional.
Our stalls have those handy dandy double roll TP devices, the ones where you should never ever ever get yourself into trouble.
Well, I prepped my favorite stall, rolling off a liberal bee hive and swabbing the lid, then settling in for the first business of the day.
Once both legs were fully comatose, I reached for a few squares. However, there was only one left. Happily, the other roller, becoming employed from the activity of the empty roll, dropped down (what an ingenious mechanism), of which the three remaining squares it contained wafted daintily to the floor of the adjacent stall.

Huh.

I examined the 9.2 square inches of double ply in my hand. If I separate them I could maybe.......

The now luxuriously expansive looking three squares, just out of reach, looked quite fetching.

I reach down and under, stretching and twisting my torso beyond what I thought capable.

J-u-u-u-u-st one more little.....'ACH!!'...my unorthodox stretch/twist begets a cramp somewhere in my stomach.
My sudden pain filled lurch activates the lid, having been the veteran of many a seating, and a tad loose at the hinges, gave way, vaulting my lithe self into an immediate reverse hecht.

Now I'm jammed between the wall and bowl, right leg curiously up in the air, left shoulder in the other stall, left ear impersonating a suction cup on the wall of a thousand boogers.

I'm clutching the three squares.

My inherently acute MacGyver instincts immediately detected, 'there's actually a thousand and one ways to die'.
I thought I'd blacked out, but it was just the inventively designed motion activated lights flicking off.
Y'ever close yer eyes, and yer mate flicks off the lights, then you open 'em and think you've gone blind?
A windowless lavatory is rather pitch black without artificial lighting.

Minutes turn to days....wait, no, seem like, minutes seem like days.

The door opens!

Lights!

It's Henry's feet!

'Hey, buddy, ol' pal. I got a little problem here.'

He's gone?!

He's back,.....with four glorious rolls!

'Henry, you magnificent bastard, thank you s-o-o-o-o much.'
He's gone again (?!!!), leaving the rolls on the sink counter.....(?!!)

During my tenure of double stall occupancy, I hadn't noticed that my snoozing legs had actually dropped to the floor.
So I rolled to my side, and hugging the porcelain bowl of stall number two, hauled myself up to safety, wobbling gingerly back to my stall, roll in hand.

The rest of the morning was spent like I'd just survived a near death experience. The coffee tasted better, the mundane things I'd done a gazillion times before was actually exciting, and even filling out the maintenance req form for stall number one, and the terse memo to the janitor, was a bit stirring, but I held back my emotions.

How was yer day?

Dad's Baby Blue '55 Step Side Chevy

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P6140180.jpg)

When I was a 'kid' dad had a baby blue '55 Chevy step side pick-up.  Dad took a lot of kidding about his baby blue pick up.  It was the last real pick-up we ever had.  Oh we had other pick-ups after that but they were well new and modern.   I so wish I had the old '55 today.  Of course it was a gas rig, with a carburetor and a distributor.    It had a four speed transmission and you and it drove like a truck.  It was not a easy riding hybrid of today.  It was a real pick-up truck.  There were of course no lap belts or seat belts or shoulder harness.    The dashboard was metal and the gauges were simple, heater controls ran from wire cables.  Heck there was even a throttle knob if your foot got tired.  The spare tire mounted on the side, the rear fender was let in to allow for the tire.  It had a bracket from the factory that way.  They quit making real pick-ups in the mid-sixties I guess.   Pick-ups were a Spartan utilitarian vehicle back then.  Tastefully appointed with a single bench seat, with the gas tank located in the cab and behind the seat.  Back then pick ups had their own aroma in the cab.  They all seemed to smell a little like gasoline, and little aromatic from oil and grease.
   
Dad smoked cigars back then so that as well was mixed in to the potpourri aroma of pick-up.  I knew a lot of cigar smokers back then.  Not the fancy cigars of now but the Roi Tans, Ben Franklins, or my dad's favorite "What America needs is a good 5 cent cigar ...William Penn."  I even suspect 'alot' of good old church goin' Mormons and Nazarenes pickup's smelled of that from time to time, along with Luckies, Cools and Camels.  None back then seemed to come with filters much.  I have to admit I smoked my share of Camels and lots with out filters before I quit.

Old pickups, had a tail gate latched with hooks on chains that rattled and shook and knocked the paint off back there after the factory chain covering weathered away and they went unprotected.  The tailgates had three positions then.   Four if you counted gone or the removed position.  That was from when as now you were not paying attention and backed in to something.  You could latch it up, you could hook the tail gate out straight like todays models.  But then there was also let it down.  Down was used when you were unloading bulk feed or gravel or sand.  Straight out as when you were hauling something like lumber or fence posts.  Up was for when you needed to keep something inside like milk cans going to and from the creamery, rolls of barb wire, drums of oil or the burnin' barrel when you went to the dump.  Yes once upon a time people had these burning barrels that you burned your trash in.  And once in a while you drove to the dump and emptied them.

Dad's pickups had a stock rack or sheep rack on the back.  Seems as if that was the last pickup we had with such.  He built a lot of them for sheep owners and their herders.  The stakes or posts went down into the stake pockets in the bed.  They were mainly made from 8 quarter oak.  The sides were made from four inch 4 quarter plained fir boards.  They were spaced at four or five inches and the stock rack reached to the top of the cab.  The front bulkhead was solid with a small window cut in to it.  It slid into place in a slot in the side boards with a tie chain in the top front to keep them all snugged up.  The rear gate was one piece swinging gate and not the best design.  Dad made all the hardware for the closures and the pipe hinge on the back.  The boards and hardware were all held on to the stakes with carriage bolts.  Dad never had any power tools to speak of.  Holes were all drilled with a brace and bit.  Ever stake or post was hand fit with a plane and a rasp to a jig he had.  That was where I guess learned to use a ratchet, tightening down the nuts on carriage bolts.  And dad's wonderful instructions of, "No you don't use a damn lock washer there!"  To this day I still do not understand where you use a damn lock washer.  But when I am feeling unsure I will slip one on, or if I am feeling mischievous.

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P9160097.jpg)

I made many rides to the Prairie and the the ranch in the old blue Chevy pick-up.  Sometimes Dad would let me ride back there.  I would stand there, up on the stock rack and looking out, wind in my face and blowing my hair.  The road was a lot different then and the road was slower.  There was a lot of single track road, you had to pull over when you met someone.  But that was okay because you knew everyone and then you had a chance to talk.  So today when I travel up and down that same old road; yet hardly the same old road because it is now wider and faster.  I think back at that little old blue Chevy skimming along that dirt road.  Especially near the back waters of Arrowrock Reservoir.  Some mornings it was so still the water was a mirror.  The canyon walls reflected in the water and you were amazed.  Here I am fifty years latter doing the same thing.  Still traveling along that same road.  Only back then there was only a handful of rigs over that road in a day.  Now I think of that old blue Chevy pick up in the wilds of Idaho.  And it was.... we were thirty or forty miles of road like that.  If it were a Glenn Ford Panavision movie the camera would have panned back.  The blue step side pick-up would become a little blue dot on a hill side, a small rooster tail of dust behind.  Not really a soul around for miles and miles back then.  Well outside of a rancher riding for cattle or sheepherder moving sheep, and grazing on permit, you really were alone.   Maybe there might a real adventurous fisherman, or a lost family on a drive.

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P9160102.jpg)

That was how my wife first got up there.  I took her up the summer after we met in 1969, to show her my private Idaho.  She laughed and giggled, she had been there before.  She had wondered where she had been and this was it.  Her dad got off on a drive and ended up up there with the family when she was a little girl.  The sheer cliffs of the canyon and steep hills had made a impression and some of that impression was sort of scary bad.

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P9160109.jpg)

I wish back when our kids were small I would have had a blue '55 Chevy step side pick-up with a white stock rack and our two kids in the back.  Amazed at the scenery, skimming along a single track road in the wilds of Idaho.  The cool of the shade and the warmth of the sun as the melt together as we skim along that dirt road.   Now I yearn for a blue '55 Chevy step side pick-up with a white stock rack with the grandkids.  Drink deeply kids, drink deeply as this is your heritage.  A heritage that was began before your forefathers left Illinois in the mid 1800, yes before that.  Maybe it begins before they left England or Scotland and the promise of a new world.  Someday you might understand but it can never be understood fully, for this world evolves and changes. Drink and breathe deep kids.  For this is a flavor you may never taste again.  Yet chase freedom and the right to drink and breathe deep.  May you never loose the taste of your heritage and your idea of freedom.  But your heritage shall grow....... drink deep and sew carefully.

                         

 Really enjoyed the ride, Rick. (Dad had a '52 chevy stepside, green)

Quote from: Gary O on July 08, 2012, 09:57:48 AM
Really enjoyed the ride, Rick. (Dad had a '52 chevy stepside, green)

52 was a very good year....  (My wife was born that year.)

Wow the old GMC Green I bet....  Did it have the starter peddle on the floor or a button you pushed after you turned on the key or was it modernized?  When did they change that over?  ANY BODY KNOW?

I am starting to blog again a little.  I am finding that I really missed it.  I might go back and cover last year a little.  But I usually post the same thing here as well.  Well some times   [waiting]     

Amaizing fudes

Olathe Corn

Oh...my.....gawd

This time of year I sit down to an orgasmic feast of Olathe corn on the cob.

It's my entree.

Actually it's my Japanese tea ceremony

Prepare the table of the beast

Presenting of;
Enormous ceremonial plate of the polymer
Knife of the butter
Sweet tea of the carafe
Butter of the bovine
Salt from the clumsy girl of the umbrella
Napkin of the middle drawer

Sit

Contemplate

Wait....
For water to boil

Contemplate noise of the stomach

Wait

Contemphrickingplate

The preliminary wiping of the drool

The discussion of the ways of the Olathe festival (those bastards) while waiting

The presenting of the two ears ceremoniously laid on the plate with tongs by submissive obedient wife (the way of the tong)

The placing of the butter between ears....
The removing of the butter from between own ears and placing on ears of corn after coming to full consciousness of;
The way of the butter,

The laying on of hands to laughing wife ritual

The rolling of the ears of corn like old wringer washer until the mystery of the disappearing butter occurs.

The discussion of the way of more butter

The shaking of the salt ceremony follows

Considering of the way of the wolf arises when
The biting of own finger ritual is sometimes interjected into the ceremony of the grunt of the hog

The customary sacrament of swollen lips and tongue commences from the too #$%&#*! hot observance, enhanced by the sudden inhale and involuntary lodging of the kernel in esophagus ritual.

The burying of tongue and lips in carafe formality ensues.

The way of the Royal typewriter is enacted

Culmination of the ceremony is the audible passage of the birth of the walrus, followed by the raising of one leg demonstration of way of the duck.

'Are ya scared?'

My lady and I were taking our 5 and 7 year old grandsons for a walk, just up the hill, in our suburban neighborhood a few years ago.
There was a wooded glen, just off the main road.
I noticed the youngest was looking around and every once in a while quickly behind himself, eyes bulging.
'Are ya scared?'
'No stupid, we're in town.'
A lota times their conversation was like two old men, one grumpy.
Made me chuckle, as we had told them about 'the deep dark woods'.

Another time, we took them to a park in Portland, an arboretum.
With visions of playground equipment, slides, swings, and merry-go-round, the youngest kept asking, 'When are we going to the park?'
'We are at the park!'
'Where?'
'You....are....standing on it!!'
Their conversation, killer, always.

They would spend the night, and watch scary movies till they were frozen to their chairs, couldn't even go pee.
Not the youngest so much, but the eldest, he loved to be scared.

One time we were watching PeeWee's Big Adventure, and when large Marge did her sudden change over to monster Marge, he shot outta his chair like he was catapulted from a gigantic spring, landing in namaw's lap six feet away.

He loved for me to tell scary stories when we sat out on the deck on a summer night.
'Tell me another one, papaw.'
One time I told one so scary,......with eerie glowing eyes on the TV, even when it was off, and then in the window, piercing the dark,...... that he asked me to stop. I could tell that he was torn, but his terror won out.
It's funny how just a hint of the presence of something sinister is far scarier than a full description of some drooling, toothsome ogre monster.

When I was about four or five, we lived out in the country.
A sparsely populated neighborhood tucked back in the Chapman hills about twenty miles outta Scappoose.
Our place, and gramma's place, atop the hill, was separated by five acres of strawberries carved out of a thicket of fir trees.
Ever so often I'd stay at gramma's on a summer evening.
She made good pancakes....and the folks were going out.

One time I waited too long at home. There was just too much cowboy'n to do, and I'd lost track of time.
It was already twilight, and I had several hundred yards up the hill thru a couple clumps of trees to negotiate.

As I trudged thru the first glade of trees, I thought about eyes staring at me.
I'd seen lots of bear sign in my tiny travels, and some bobcat and cougar scat here and there. So, plenty to consider.
(Actually, years later, coming from town one evening, we pulled into the garage, and a big cat jumped down from the rafters and fled into the night. We just saw body and tail, but it was, without a doubt, a full grown cougar.)

Whistling seemed to rid the noises of the stillness in the dark regions of my petrified mind.
A generous moon lengthened shadows, turning stumps into animals of prey, licking their lips, fixated on my dashing form, like Tag would when I showed him the stick I was about to throw.
Ever so often I'd give a quick glance back, but the glaring, glowing eyes that were obviously there would mysteriously disappear.

The clearing, the path, the 300 yard dash.

Breathing came in gasps and pants...or was that the breath of the galloping cougar that was about to sink his teeth into my neck any minute, and tear my puny body to shreds.

The folks will wonder in the morning, 'Where's Gary?'

Then, days later, they'll find bits of Oshkosh b'goshes, right at gramma's door, and shreds of poop stained fruit of the looms, and the brim of my straw cowboy hat, the hat part that once housed my furrowed little noggin now several miles away in a steaming mound of mountain lion poopoo.

The clump of trees loomed ahead, separating me and gramma, good ol' pillowy armed gramma.....even good ol' grumpy grampa.

I heard something shriek, or was it a howl...I don't recall my feet touching the ground over the last few yards thru their back yard thicket.
I do recall gramma, and her audible laughter, her high pitched teehee, as I hung my coat in the utility wash room of the back porch.
Apparently my countenance that morphed from bug eyed terror to smiling relief in the time space of flipping a light switch sorta tickled her.

The pancakes were extra good that next morning.

Good read my friend, good read....Felt like I was there.   [cool]

c*

Posted this to my blog a week or so ago..............

Ellen and I were at the cattle auction in the early spring a few years ago.  This was BR (Before Retirement)  We were looking of pairs, or cows with their calves to buy.  My reasoning for doing so is flawed economically I know that.  The key for any successful business or farming or ranching operation is you must take in a great deal more than you spend.  That is just good business, farm and ranch 101.  Just the same as any household budget, you have to make more than you spend.  Sort of Dave Ramsey FPU in a nutshell.

Though my reasoning is flawed I do this for a couple reasons.  Keeping back replacement heifers lessons your income when the feeder cattle go to market.  The good side of that is it also lessons your tax liability.  But it also really lessons productivity in your heard.  In that a heifer has to be raised up old enough to breed.  Then she has to go through her gestation period.  Then she has to calve and raise that calf up old enough to wean and sell.  Therein lays reason number two.  First calf heifers some times just have a heck of a time calving.  Your chance of loss of calves in calving first calf heifers is also greater for both heifer and the calf.  Then you even have the one that as in humans after they calve really have no interest in their off spring.  Yes even in the animal world after all the misery of carrying and panting and blowing and straining and pushing.  The confused proud young mother says to heck with this I am leaving this on a park bench, the orphanage door step or the folks door step and disappears in to the night.  Well heifers really don't have that option.  Rather on occasion they choose to tap dance all over their calf, kick it and refuse to let it suck    So you have to sort of mother them up for a day or two and  after awhile they will bond 99 times out of a hundred.

So in order to be the least amount of pain in the derrière of the people that lease my property and watch over my cattle I usually go the easy route and just buy cows and calves and take the hit in the checkbook.  Not a good business practice but.... I really do not want to impose more than I already do.
   
So with that long explanation Ellen and I find ourselves at the sale yard or cattle auction every year in the spring looking to replace the cows that we sold last fall or we lost for some reason.  We sit there watching the parade of cattle and listening to the sing song of the auctioneers.  Ellen loves to go to the auction and has went by herself and bought cows and calves for us when I have been working.  So she seems to get more into it than I.  She likes sitting there watching intently knowing the next time the gate opens it is something we are going to want to buy.  BR (Before retirement)  Me - my mind was most likely wondering when the railroad was going to call and I was going to have to leave and go to work.  Or I was trying to figure out if I needed to lay off sick or lay off sickness in the family due to the fact the dog did not look to healthy this morning.  Or then I might have been thinking about going to the great restaurant there at the Treasure Valley Livestock Auction.  Dreaming of having one of those double burgers with ham.  Topped with lettuce and nice slice of tomato, pickles and onion.  For a side I think a big old plate full of french fries and catsup, or maybe potato salad and a cup of coffee.  Followed by a piece of pie, most likely apple warmed with a big old scoop of ice cream and more coffee.  Or I might have the hot beef sandwich, with a big old scoop of mashed potatoes and ladled all over that drowning it in a sea of brown rich gravy, with coffee and followed by the pecan pie and more coff....eeee I screech out a yelp most likely from the wind being knocked out of me.  I am awaked from my daydreaming by my wife's elbow in the ribs.  Instantly my hand flips up in the air repositioning my arm to shield my now sore ribs.  One of the two ringmen or gatemen hollers "YEP" to get the auctioneers attention.  I look down in the ring to see what I just bid on.  Everyone in the sale barn is looking at me and my flopping around and wild gesturing.  I stayed with it and bought it at a reasonable amount as I regained my wind.  The cow a black angus and a strapping good calf departed the sale ring and the gate slammed shut and I gasped out my buyer number.  Good thing Ellen is a good judge of cattle. That was done now back to day dreaming as I rub my ribs.

I attempted to multitask for a while.  My mind tried to stay on the cattle auction and my stomach started on a rerun of lets see now it was ........with a side of mashed potatoes and ladled all over that drowning in a sea of brown rich gravy, with coffee and followed by the pecan pie and more coffee.  However the auction soon dimmed and my mind returned to both worrying about the railroad calling, and should I lay off or stay marked up and my pondering the reason for laying off or taking the trip off.  However I think most likely this gave root to a bowl not a cup of clam chowder with a very liberal sprinkling of tabasco (about the only thing liberal about me anymore I have noticed) followed by plain hamburger delivered on plate of french fries, lemon meringue pie or maybe a piece of......

I feel a nudge not a poke this time.  (I am happy)  I turn to my wife and she says,  "Buy her."  I look down into the ring, there  is a small black cow young and by her side is a nice calf.  Most all the cows we have been buying are bigger cows, more roomy and nice looking.  This cow was small and the tassel on her tail has gone missing.  The calf looks nice but I really don't care for the cow.  She is too small and 'punched up' so I don't do anything.  Ellen is giving me a dirty look.  I know I am getting into trouble here.  The auctioneer is asking to start this cow and calf way to high and he drops the start down a little and my ears are starting to massage my brain.  My stomach is starting to churn and not from the food I have thought of.  I knew what was coming next, he dropped her down a little more.  Then he said the words I knew were coming.  "If I don't get a bid I'm splitting them up."  Meaning the cow will sell to a beef buyer (she will go to slaughter) and the calf well go to a person who raises calves to resell or some times for veal.  The price was right but she was just a little cow and without a switch on the end of her tail.  I so hated to see that happen to this little cow and calf.  Ellen gave me the look and out of guilt and valor of I will save you little cow and up went my hand.  Someone else bid back however dropped right out.  So we were the 'proud owners' of this little cow and calf.

The gateman on the side where the livestock exits to must have been thinking of a double cheeseburger with fries because he thought the auctioneer had split the pair.  The cow exited the auction ring and left her calf behind.  He slammed the gate shut.  There is just something to me when I hear that gate slam shut that says its over.  It has been finaled.  What occurred next was one of those things that light up your day.  The auctioneer said to the gateman, "Hey you forgot one."

The gates on an auction ring or the ones I have been to are always solid and heavy built made to open and close hundreds of times a day.  Bulls and cows test them.  They run into them, they shove and push against them.    You pull a spring loaded latch from the side with a rope so that you are out of the way.   They are not like a ranch gate that you can see through.  There is usually however a small window cut into them so the gateman can make sure the last critter that sold is gone to be yarded in the proper pen.

As the gateman jerked the rope to open the gate, our little cow who now had discovered that she was missing her calf had turned and was making a run at the now opening gate.  That little cow was coming on, her eyes were wild and burning bright like a locomotive busting through snow drifts when she knocked the gate aside.  Truly what unfurled was hell hath no fury like a mother protecting her children.  She circled the ring putting both gate men behind their guards built to shield them from such action.  The calf who was just sort of standing there sniffing the wood shavings looked up to see mom very upset.  He got a good talking to in cow language and fully understood he messed up.  Momma now was making the run for the exit and the calf was running hard to keep up.  Its tail was up in the air and rear legs were digging in and out the ring they went.  The buyers and the crowd laughed.  The auctioneer looked up at my wife and I and said with a smile.  "Well she might not be very big on cow but she is sure huge on momma!"

 Enjoyed that, sir Rick.

I haven't been around cattle that much, but the one thing that sticks out to me in yer story is the visual of it's tail in the air.
I've seen cows running with their tails in the air, and right then realized where the term 'high tailed it' came from.

Thanks again, Rick

For anyone that has never worked on a dairy farm there is one important tale that must be told.  Always spray for flies before kneeling next to the udders.  If you are not awake for the early morning milking session you will be once the maure laiden tail cracks accross your ear and cheek.  Ouch!   

 
Too funny, John.
A childhood friend lived on a dairy farm.
My first overnight visit was quite the education.
Didn't matter what time of day it was, standard or daylight 'saving', those bovines needed relief early morning and evening.
I got to learn how to hand milk and hook up the machines.
However, his sisters, all four, had agendas of their own......I think I'd have been molested save for my trusty bib overalls...farm girls.....buuuut, that's another story.

Funny thing, one of our grade school field trips was at Alpenrose, the big commercial dairy in Portland.
We all lined up and took turns at one squeeze...wonder what that cow thought.
Cows are funny subject for me, and I could easily go off on a tangent about their thought processes.
Like when people drive down a country lane, and when seeing a cow, yell 'Moooo' out the window.

Cow
'Huh, there's a cow drivin' that chevy...wonder where he got that kinda money..........'

Quote from: Redoverfarm on August 19, 2012, 10:20:18 AM
For anyone that has never worked on a dairy farm there is one important tale that must be told.  Always spray for flies before kneeling next to the udders.  If you are not awake for the early morning milking session you will be once the maure laiden tail cracks accross your ear and cheek.  Ouch!

Here some of the huge dairies, (I guess there are no small ones left.) bob or dock the cows tails.  Stock cows loose them in a variety of ways from freezing to rough handling from owners.  Some of the old cowboys on the range would take a knife and cut the tassel off the tail (Below the where the tail end just to mark them.) if they were a problem cow or wanted to ship it come fall.   

 

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P9040257.jpg)



It would be difficult for me to accurately describe my mothers knife.  Oh she had other knives, but to describe  the one she always used that would be impossible.  It was just an old fashioned butcher knife.  She used it clear up until the end when we really had very little choice other than to move her into an assisted living facility.  Alzheimer's or some other hellish thing had come upon her.  Her doctor and those at the assisted living places pinned it on Alzheimer's.  We did as well, but were also informed they would not really know for sure until afterword and they could do an autopsy.  We chose not to.  She went through several companies and facilities as my dad did as well later.  She was never happy in any of them.  She seemed sometimes to me to go out of her way to be unhappy in any of them.  A sad end to such a person.  At any rate, after they both passed her knife came into my possession.  Oh it was not a thing locked in a vault though it should have been.  We sort of treasure it, I am thinking of framing it when I get my wood shop moved and set back up and in order.
       
I believe mom told me that knife her and dad bought after they were married or it might have came with the deal..  They were together for a long time; over 60 years.  Mom never claimed to be a cook.  Yet she was a master of home cookery and not to be confused with a home chef.  Yet from time to time she would venture out of her comfort zone.  Most of her cooking was from a cookbook from the nation of unpublished featuring the state of unmeasured bordered by untimed.  Her oven was set at 350 and do not ever touch that.  That was an act of war.  The stove I remember the most the timer you never touched, because it would never shut off.  Either it was messed-up broke or we were never smart enough to figure it all out.  Rather she knew when a casserole or cake was done by smell and sight most the time and a toothpick of course which she hardly needed but gave her the benefit of the doubt.

She cooked my kind of comfort food.  I hear people talk about comfort food and I have come to the realization that one mans comfort food is another mans distain.  I guess that distain can change as well over the years however.  I had a huge dislike back then for baking powder biscuits.  I swore that I would never eat another one after I left home.  Well I really never left home because after we were married I still worked for dad for about a year and was always a phone call way afterwords.  In short Ellen and I was around there a lot.  To her I am sure it seemed all the time some times.  There were cattle to sort and hay to harvest or to feed most the time.  Because of mom's lack of measurements and her special terminology this tended to intimate Ellen about mom's home cooking.
   
Today I think if I had to choose one meal that mom made a lot that I would so love to have again but at one time swore I would never touch it again.  That would be deer chops, fried potatoes and gravy, fried apples and baking powder biscuits and homemade strawberry jam.  Funny I remember that was served a lot in the late fall and early winter when there was a surplus of cooking apples and venison.  And for some reason that never went well with me.  Now I only can dream.  However that would never been called comfort food by me.  My choice of comfort food if I had to pick one would have to potatoes and white gravy.  The potatoes would need to be boiled (not mashed)  or fried and the gravy home made of course from the scrappings in the pan that cooked the meat be it beef or pork.  A little salt and lot of pepper.  Well most likely a lot more salt than suggested by those who try and run your life by food.  Moms style of cooking without a doubt shortened their lives a great deal.  Dad was 96, mom was like 88 when she passed away.
                     
Mom was a meat and potatoes cook and that was how I learned to cook.  She was a cast iron fry pan cook.  She was the boss of the kitchen cook.  She and the foul mouthed Gordon Ramsey could have yelled at each other all day and never done any good.  She was a peel the spuds with a knife gal never a fancy peeler although she had them in the drawer.  She use the same knife to trim the meat and the peel fruit and I guess anything else that needed cutting.  She was a fried spuds cook and lots of them, or a boiled potatoes person.  Very seldom did she mash potatoes other than Thanksgiving and Christmas now that I think back on it.  She always cooked extra back then.  And then there was alway someone popping in around dinner time.  If you stopped by there at dinner time; you best plan on eating.  (I think they knew that.)  Never mattered to her who you were be it one of the founders of Micron Corp who by the way would on occasion would visit us.   To an old Basque friend from Mountain Home that at one time owned a many bands of sheep before the USFS forced them out of business.  Or be it someone off the road they all sat the same at her table just the same and there was always plenty.  It never went to waste that is for sure.  In Idaho potatoes were cheap as was meat for us.  We raised our own beef and harvested a lot of wild game.  She came from a large family that came to Idaho from the dust bowl of Oklahoma.  To her Idaho was the land of plenty and loved to tell me about all the food they had after they got here.  But she was a died in the wool Sooners fan and an Okie at heart to the end.

What ever your comfort food is it means a lot to the person.  My grandfather on dad's side was an old lathery cowboy who went by Rawhide or just Hide.  (That was just his close friends.)  When he was in the 'nursing home' dying of cancer his only complaint I heard him voice was the mashed potatoes.  "You can not get a damned fried spud here in this damned place."  Comfort food to some friends we had from Thailand it was sticky rice.  To some it is a thick rich stew and a chuck of crusty bread, or a hot bowl of chowder or Chicken and Dumplings.  Comfort food to me has to be guarded somewhat away from the norm lest it lose its magic and charm and become the norm.

Watching mom in the kitchen cooking was artistry in motion and the timing was magic.  Mom would peel the potatoes with the knife.  Pull out a heavy cast iron skillet and sit in on the stove with one hand.  She would heat up some grease, oil or what every she had on hand.  In went the the potatoes followed by salt and pepper.  She then would cover them with one of several hodgepodge of lids she had.  She would turn the spuds a couple times and then suddenly, almost magically just at the right moment a cast iron fry pan or skillet would hit the stove again with one hand.  A little bacon grease went in to it.  She would toss in a couple steaks, or chops salt and pepper and cover.  She knew when to turn them never a wasted motion or a second thought.  Off came the lid from the fry pan and the meat was turned, salt and peppered,  lid went back on and the heat was cut usually down a couple notches.  It was about here she would put together a salad, she had been a salad chef at he Hotel Boise and was very good at them.  Or she would open a can or two of vegetables that went on the stove.  She did a lot of improvising and on the fly creativity with canned vegetables.  Turn that down, uncover the meat, that went on to a platter.  Mom was a well done cook.  If you wanted rare, medium rare or anything other than done I am afraid you were out of luck.  Just best go some place else.  Funny she might have been a one speed meat cook but it was always cut it with a fork tender.  They were never as burned or dark brown and crusty and tough as shoe lather that one thinks of well done.  They were always moist and flavorful.  Anyone that sat at mom and dad's table was always truly amazed how she did it.  She said she learned it cooking for a huge bunches all the time.  Be it family or a bunch of cattlemen or sheepmen and their herders it all went on the table at the same time.  I was amazed at how she could pull everything off at the same time no matter what.  When she placed the meat on the platter, she some how had the flour in the skillet and stirred that into the meat grease and thickening that up all at the same time.   She would grab the milk and pour just what she needed into the skillet and turned the heat up.  Grabbed the spatula turned the fried potatoes once more and cut the heat.  Sat that off just in time for the gravy to boil which she would attack with salt, pepper and a spoon stirring for all it was worth.  It was soon thickened and every thing went in to bowls family style.  Made no difference to her if it was just her and dad or ten or twenty.  Her table always seemed to be a talkative place, lots of food and lots of sharing.  Sometimes mom and dad communicated a lot by arguing. 
         
But mom was not a large lady, in fact she was sort of small and petite red head.  She could take a cast iron fry pan full of gravy one handed and pour it in to a serving bowl.  She might have been the queen of her kitchen but potatoes, and white gravy were king in her kitchen it seemed.  And so were the people.  I guess they were in most peoples kitchen back then.  We visited a lot of ranch people back then and it was pretty much all the same.  Or at least they were here in Idaho.
   
That is how her knife ended up in the shape it was in.  She literally wore it almost into before we had to sadly take it away from her and move her into assisted living.  We always figured it was the potatoes.  It was concave and wore out where the spuds were pealed.  But just how many tons of potatoes and pounds of carrots, apples and other things had to be pealed?

Thanks a bunch Mom for the knife and the memories!

Rick

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P9040257.jpg)

Thanks for sharing Rick.  A lot of heart and soul went into that knife over the years.

 Excellent, Rick

Thank you, Pard

 
IMO, there's nothing like a good meal for a get together,
and the good meal is a barbeque.

Being a northerner that spent some years down south, I can say those boys down there know barbeque.
Ribs, fallin off the bone.
Chikin, smoked, from wood, not wunna those fancy Yeager pellet rigs, but by an ol' guy raised in a 'grease house', from a pit the size of a horse trough.
Beans, I didn't know beans could taste like that. Odd things, strange herbs, spices, homemade sauces, a bit a fat meat, marinated for hours. They were a meal all by them selves.
Tatar salad...M-M-M-M, none like it.
Sweet tea, steeped in a gallon jug in the sun.
Beer, Lone Star or Falstaff..didn't matter, both tasted like mop water from a juke joint, but did their job of cleansing the palate for the next bite.
Sip, rib, sip, chikin, sip, beans, sip, salad, guzzle the rest.
Made ya just fall down and scream.

Houston.
Down the street, Telephone road, we lived on Munger, was wunna those grease houses.
An old black gent lived there with what seemed like three generations of family.
Everbuddie's grampa, even mine for awhile.
Everyone called him Chili.
Bid overalls, white butcher's apron, leather baseball cap was his eternal uniform.
Had a high pitched, raspy voice, and always a smirk on has ol' mug.
More often then not, you'd find me sittin' at his dilapidated picnic table, after work, watchin' him toil over the pit.
Nuthin' attractive.
Tin leanto roof, pile of wood, ol' white fridge that made a humming sound laboring in the heat, vats and jars, brushes, huge forks, and the huge pit with a homemade steel lid, that once he was satisfied with how things were goin' he'd drop down and come out to talk to me.....talk about stories...old day stories.....bone chilling, horiffic stories.

Naw, nuthin' attractive..... 'cept for the rich savory aromatic fragrance emanating from that glorious pit.
I'd sit there, sweating like a pig, drool stream gathering on the table in a puddle...

'Chili!

WTF ol' man!?'

'Boy, you know it's not ready....I'll tell ya when it's ready.'

It was worth the wait.


Fourth of July...or as they say down there JOOOlah, everyone barbequed.
Po foke, rich foke, middle class foke, all had their pits goin'.
You couldn't walk two steps without getting hit upside the haid with the aroma of the gods.

One fourth, me and my lady were flat broke.
I'd come off a month long stint in Brownsville, inspecting oil field pipe, big job.
Tuboscope laid some folks off after that, so I volunteered for some time off myself.
Took most of June, just me and my lady...nobody else.
Ran outta money...rent was paid, car was maintained, just broke....food crumbs in the fridge, empty bottles piled in the corner of the carport below...sittin' on the couch smokin' a partial I'd dug outta the butt can.

'I'm goin' back to work.'

'It's the fourth.'

'Oh'

Chili and family had gone somewhere.
It was hot.
Most neighbors had headed to Galveston.

Our guts were eatin' guts.
Hadn't been so hungry in a long time.
A friend invited us to a company get together.
The park was filled with heavenly flavors.
Kids, old folk, parents, all had plates heaped with goodies, goodies that tempted me to follow 'em, floating on the fragrant waves.

We strolled over to the tables.

$3.50

$3.50??!!

I had $.37

One the way back to the garage apartment I swore I'd never put myself in that position again...especially on the fourth.

I think wunneezdaze we need to head back down south for a spell.

Gary, I got smoke in my eyes!  Don't think I was ever that broke.  Oh my word all that food and zeroed out!  Dang!  My stomach hurts thinking about it.....  But you did get the slobbers running!   

Been thinking about treckin' to Baton Rouge myself.  Would swing over to Houma and a joint out in the bayou.  We ate at before OH MY WORD!!  Then would have to make the trip on over to Lafayette.     

Quote from: rick91351 on September 04, 2012, 11:08:31 PM
Been thinking about treckin' to Baton Rouge myself.  Would swing over to Houma and a joint out in the bayou.  We ate at before OH MY WORD!!  Then would have to make the trip on over to Lafayette.   

Looks like my work is done here.......

Here's something that some folks got a kick out of, you might too.

A friend has recently had a birthday, so I Emailed him some things to prepare for, well, the inevitable; 


Hey, Rodney, happy 49th.
Since you are approaching the 'golden' or maybe bronze years, I've got some advice and things to be aware of.

But don't read this now.

Just save it for a year, because you still have three hundred and sixty some wakeups before that magical milestone of fifty (50!!) .

So continue to enjoy what you've been doing, because once you hit fifty (50!!)...(and you will 'hit' it), things change a bit.

You'll make little noises when you commence to get outta your lazy boy.
Then you'll notice that those same noises will emanate from your wretched larynx when you commence to sit in said lazy boy.
I say 'commence' because by this time, all the wonderful things you did in youth...broken bones and sprains, from 'watch this' fetes of yore have caught up with you, and your leg muscles are now atrophied into strings of half cooked pasta, so you ease into/onto or out/off of anything, like toilet seats, cars, power chairs, Harleys, and slippers.
You take renewed interest in your grabber, and strongly consider installing a knee joint in the shaft for doing the paperwork in the oval office....enabling you to abandon the simulated bronco busting rodeo session you seem to need, up stretched left hand making little circles in the air while the other is performing 'the reach'.

Speaking of larynxes, you'll find that throat clearing takes several tries...like starting an ol' model T.

......wait, that's sixty.....you're only approaching fifty (50!!).

Ah, the age of enlightenment.
By now, people have looked upon you as a giver of advice, and that has worked, and has even seemed pretty cool.
The address of 'sir' is no longer a surprise.
You handle it all quite well.

But

When you reach fifty (50!!), you begin to have little chats with yourself...
('I'm fifty(50!!) , I should know something by now. These people think I do......let's see let's see E=mc².....WTF is a joule?')

You begin to have partial recall, and even that is a struggle.
The procedure is touching your chin with the fingertips of your right hand, and looking up or down.
Numbers and dates are up.
Names and places are down.

You put on 157 lbs in 13 minutes, just from sniffing a bran muffin.

You start to notice growths and weird hair in weird places.

While you slumber, a pubic hair can grow the length of 3 feet...on the pointy end of your ear lobe.

Of a morning, you look in the bathroom mirror, and find a goblin looking back.
Just smile at it (quit screaming for gawd's sake), comb back your ear hair and greet the day.

'Doc, take a look at whatever that is on my left knee.'
'Uh, Rodney, that's just your right testicle.'
'BTW, when's the last time I ran my finger up your pooper?'

Learn the difference between the words colostomy and colonoscopy...it's important when checking in.

Self keeping becomes secondary.
'Honey, there's a puffed wheat in your mustache.'
'Oh.....so?'
'We had puffed wheat two weeks ago.'
'And your point, dear?'

The underwear from high school has finally given up the ghost, so you begrudgingly retire the grey tattered shards of elastic, but consider the frugal acquisition of 12 headbands.

You discover your new fresh (actually brilliant white) Hanes briefs are quite the contrast to the occasional poop stain...of which is no longer occasional......poop cake can become a concern.

Oh, and you discover you no longer have a hind end.
It has furtively crept up and nestled onto your lower back, leaving you with just a six inch line and a tuft of hair, giving your Levi 550s even that much more of a 'relaxed fit'.

You still catch the ladies taking a hind sight, however, it's not so much one of allure, but more one of mystery and somewhat quizzical pity as your gluteus minimus brings up what's left of your rear.....'That poor man has no popo......musta lost it in the war'.

Your shopping consists of looking for obscure things like extra large Icy Hot patches.....mummy size.

The fire in your eyes is now just pain recognition.

Speaking of fire, get wunna those birthday candles that don't blow out.

It'll help you keep the fire.



Something I put in a book somewhere;

Eating/pooping² (part 1, discovering texture)

Preschool (intro to social, sharing)

School (the teacher is God)

Teenage (high school hell, for teen and parent, hormones are an entity requiring exorcism, the teacher is Satan)

College/military (fun, fun, fun; learn, drink, fornicate, kill)

Pre-parental Early adult (more fun, but serious, sipping not chugging, serious pursuits, mating, career)

Parental (joy)

Parental hell (see teenage)

Midlife (see early adult, attempts at hindsight adjustments)  (you are here)

Grandparent (brief joy)

Grandparental hell (hiding, see teenage)

Musing Youngish Geezer (lazy boy-crossword-Jeopardy sessions, looking upon mate with renewed ardour, reflecting, attempting things you did with ease years ago)...  (or you may already be here)

Geezer (whazzat? Whoozzair?)

Eating/pooping² (part 2)...Nurse!? I did it again (toothless smile)

Dirt nap


Happy birthday Rodney, and welcome to life, the real one.

  I was going to start a new thread for this, but decided what I have to say fits here best.

A few of you know that my mom passed away two years ago come October. Yesterday I received a registered letter stating that mom's burial plot is actually owned by another family.....they purchased several plots in 1992. This came to light when a member of that family passed away recently.

The cemetary screwed up. The 1992 purchase was never updated on the plat map.

In about two weeks.......I'll be burying mom......again

Life is getting real strange......or is it?




sparks

Sorry to hear that Sparks.  I think the cemetary should make it right.  But that is not much comfort with having to deal with it.

  Thanks John,


It's a really big mess, however I think I've got most of it under control. The cemetary board of directors will take responsibilty for all costs.

A new burial plot has been afforded to me.




And the grieving process has started all over ....again






sparks

Sparks really hard to say anything to ease your pain and grief.   Hard for us to get our hands and heads around what you are going through with this.  I really can not say much other than time shall heal.

Rick

I can't say anything John and Rick didn't Sparks as far as sympathy.

What I can say is that you have again showed your character as being better than most of the world.

Far too many people would be thinking about how much money you could milk out of this rather than just trying to respectfully give a loved one a final resting place.

I've said this about this forum many times...."I'm in good company here"!

 Well, it seems rather obvious to me, that I can't post for awhile on this, my own thread, due to the upswing in class it's taken....
However, crass individual that I am, down deep, in an obscure crevasse of my left ventricle, I now have a strange sensation of remorse, and sudden urge to have my brother fetch my mother's pre-urn box from his storage unit, that's been there since June of '08......
Damn, I wish I (and my brother) had a lick of humane feelings sometimes....and this is wunna those times.

Thanks, sparks, for gracing this thread every now and then.....always a pleasure.

♫Some enchanted iiiiiiiland♪

OK, a weekend well spent.
Haven't done that for awhile.
Lady sez, 'I'd like a kitchen island.'
When my lady wants something for her kitchen, it gets done, especially when more food prep surface is involved.

Kitchen islands are a tad expensive in my (pocket) book.

$400-$600 for what she wanted

So, I made use of the scraps I have, and only bought a melamine sheet, some 'underlayment', and a bit of trim.


Obvious scrap wood...SPF and OSB.
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/isle1.jpg)

White melamine top
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/isle2.png)


A little green guy greated me this morn...And apparently left me a little sumpm outta the south end hopper
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/islevisitor.png)


Underlayment and trim....the trim is photopaper crap, I might be sorry about that down the line, but we're pretty gentle with things.....
Funny, what others call underlayment, I use for overlayment....and some stain/sealer.
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/isle3.png)
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/isle4.png)



I'm no carpenter, and certainly no finish carpenter (how do those Finns do it?), but I'm happy with the results for $55
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/isle5.jpg)
(https://i1125.photobucket.com/albums/l588/Garyo424/isle6.png)

Yeah, I know, need to fill in the staple marks...it'll happen

 We moved Mom today.

She is now in her final resting place.

Very proffessional and handled with dignity.





sparks

Thanks Sparks for the update.  May you and your family be at peace. 

Rick & Ellen

Funny thing, today, of all days, I was at the office, early morning (5ish), sitting at my desk, mindlessly going thru the contents from my inbox, and kathump, a Mexican house centipede lands on my arm from the ceiling.

I think I scared the crap outta him, cause after unclutching my chest and eventually finding a way to stop screaming, I noticed him freeze right in the middle of my out basket.
So I jumped back down from my credenza and sopped up the excess beverage of my freshly hand rubbed coffee stained desk top.

OK, OK, I didn't get that startled, but did lurch a bit.....maybe a couple/six inches.....aaaand possibly a tiny NNNGUUH!

Little fella got the jump on me.


Seems we have inherited the little guys from our Mexico imports.....and they really like the space between the ceiling and the false ceiling above my office.
(http://i.imgur.com/EFqae.jpg)


After we got done scaring each other, he skittered to the edge of my desk then turned around and looked at me, like; 'Dang, big fella, ya damn near killed me there with all that arm waving and hot coffee.'

Kinda cute, really.
(http://i.imgur.com/bkRxc.png)

Gurls

My first real girlfriend, other than 'dancer number three' (as I called her) from the Jackie Gleason Show, was Patricia....fourth grade I think it was.
She had this smile, this beguiling smile, and if per chance she cast one your way, well, it turned all us guys into befuddled masses of profound stupidity, and I was no exception...and she knew it.

So every time she would come near, or I mysteriously found myself near her, I'd make sure and do something cool, like flip my fountain pen up in the air and nonchalantly catch it, writing side down. Unknowing that I'd just sprayed myself with a unique pattern of Sheaffer traditional blue .....'Boob, James Boob'.
Oh, yeah, and her eyes...flashing, batting brown eyes....and some kinda smell too...better than, say, my catcher's mitt, or even gramma's rhubarb pie.

That's all I remember about her looks.
Didn't even consider the shape of her hind end, or if she even had one for that matter.

One blessed day her parents invited my parents to dinner.
I sat across the table from her, sipping my shaken not stirred fruit punch, creating a rather distinguished looking purple mustache.

These folks had lived outta the states for a few years, and rather proudly offered up their unusual cuisine.
There, on my plate, was a heaping festering mound of curry and rice. Not the spicy curry of the orient, no, this was some sorta green slimey slices of slug guts.

Patricia smiled at me.

I forked the slug slices, and moved them around my plate, mustering and encouraging my life long taste buds of fried potatoes, hamburger patties and ketchup.
I furtively went to the potatoes.
Only they were swimming in some sorta god awful milk sauce....not fried, definitely not fried.
I think I had two bites, feigning nausea, gladly skipping dessert which looked much like mousse of dog vomit.

Patricia invited me up to her room (HER ROOM!!!), upstairs, legs of Patricia, leading the way....huh, Patricia has legs...nice, really really nice legs (fantasy log note 137; wimin my age have legs too. Take note, with etching fluids).

And there I was, in a girl's room.

Puffy, fuzzy things.
Pink things.
Lacy, frilly things.
Some sorta awning of posts and frilly cloth over her bed.
Pillows, stuffed toys, more pillows, more toys.

So there we were.
'Nice place ya got here' (I almost said 'doll face', but somehow knew my Bogart wasn't working any better than my Bond).

'You are in third place on my list.'

('what? there's a list?')

'If you kiss my locket, you'll be at the top.'

('If I kiss her locket?')
('what the heck is a locket?')

She pulled a dainty gold chain from where, I'd discover years later, cleavage came from.
Her locket was a little gold heart.
I felt really really stupid.
Here I was, in a gurl's room, with all this claustrophobic crap, and even considering kissing her locket for cryin' out lowd.
Get me the heck outta here!

(bat, bat, smile)

S-o-o-o-o after I kissed her locket, landing me solidly into first place, we went downstairs.

Funny thing. Next day at school, I took on a much different persona.
My once pitter patting heart went back to a normal beat.
Her smile took on a more sneer like function.
Her batting eyes became nothing more than a possible Tourette to me.
Her smell took on the odor of curry.
Basically, she disgusted me...and less than 24 ago, I kissed her locket....damn.

My first fleeting relationship.

Not for locker room lore.

Awareness

Christmas 1954
I knew what was coming....really, for once I knew.
The tree, the lights, the bubbling ones, the tinsel, the snow outside, the oil stove warming everyone (that stood smack dab on the stove), the windows adorned with Christmas icing, and....the presents.
I just took it all in, quietly, unassuming, sizing things up.
('Hmm, so this happens, say, every year...huh')

I never said much for, oh, about twenty some years, and at four didn't say anything, ever.
I cast a rather small shadow, and more than a few times got left at places. Not on purpose, but I just wasn't much of a bother to anyone...to the point of, to some extent, non-existence.

Mom forgot me at the Montgomery Wards store once.
Huge multi-storied store...fascinating.
She eventually came back and got me even though I wasn't quite done window shopping.
I wonder how far out of the store she got, or did she get halfway home, or even home and realize, setting the table, that, hey, the tiny person that normally occupies the booster seat is not here.

I really enjoyed the anonymity.
It gave me time to take in all I could, and remain in my own thoughts.
Kids were pretty much trained to be out of sight when folks came over.
Ever once in a while someone would ask,

'And what's your name young man?'

'Dad, it's me, Gary.'

My sis would take my hand and guide me over to the tree, pointing out each and every glittery thing.
It was a no shyt moment, but knew it made her feel good, so let it happen.
The day came.
I should say the day before came, as we traditionally opened gifts on Christmas eve.

Gramma and Grampa came down the hill to participate.
I'd say it was around 6pm, as it was dark out and everybody had already eaten.
My sis played santy, handing gifts to Gramma and Grampa.
I was busy watching while cracking the walnuts and Brazil nuts from my stocking.
I couldn't help but observe the fake happiness and surprise from everyone as they opened their gifts...everyone but Grampa. He was rather gruff, and had a habit of saying exactly what he thought.

'I already have a tie.'

I loved him.
Didn't even give much thought to that emotion back then, but now I know I loved him.

It came to be my turn to open my gifts.
Not a big trick, as my stuff was in a large sack.
It was a sack full of toys.....cars, trucks, a harmonica, and some little bags of hard candy.
The thing is, the toys were all kinda beat up, trucks with missing wheels, and everything was a bit scuffed, dented and rusty in places.
It didn't bother me a whit. I loved it all.
But I remember the look on my Dad's face as he watched me haul them outta the bag.
He was ashamed.
I felt like saying something comforting...but didn't.
My feelings of making the situation even harder on him by saying 'it's OK' won out.
Every Christmas after that was huge.

Funny, not haha funny, but oddly strange my thoughts on his mental processes.
For years I rather pitied him for toiling to get us what he thought was what we wanted.
Him, the bread winner, the toy winner, the house, food and warmth provider. How he fell head first into the American dream...the freaking nightmare.
But in my early years of fatherhood I came to understand.
He was from an era that dictated those things....'things'.

Christmas 1972
We were a tad impoverished.
Poverty stricken was a status I was striving for.
We managed a few meager toys from the five and dime, and wrapped them in newspaper, placing them under the tree limb from the neighbor's backyard that had miraculously blown down from one of their giant firs.
We watched the boys unwrap their tinsel strength early China bobbles.
They lasted almost long enough to get 'em outta the newspaper, disintegrating in their little ink stained hands.

However, as my lady wiped last Wednesday's headlines from their fingers so they could drink their mug of hot cinnamon tea and suck one their tiny candy canes, I whipped out to the truck to bring in the toy of toys...the one that would give back.
My eldest named the little puppy from the pound, Felix.
Felix the dog...hey, it was original.
Only he was too young to pronounce the name Felix, so it came out 'juwix'.
The thing is, a few moments after cleaning up the vomit and diarrhea from the truck seat, floorboard and doors, and me, it dawned on me that Felix may not have been the best of finds.
The next morning my eldest seemed to have lost track of him, so we both went looking.

'Juwix....Juuuuwix...heeeere Juwix'

I got a kick out of his determination in locating his new little buddy, trudging around the yard, big cheeks housed upon his tiny neck earnestly calling out with his baby Elmer Fudd like voice...'Juwix....Juuuuwix...heeeere Juwix'.
Unfortunately we found Juwix.
He was under a gap in the wood pile...rather stiff.

So, as my Dad, twenty some years before, I vowed to provide a better Christmas for the years to come.
Not lavish ones, but ones that bore a couple substantial gifts for each of my little beings.

Christmas now?

I already have a tie.



 

Our Thanksgiving Story

 
We ate.


Whew, tired now.


OK, the highlight.
After stuffing myself with stuffing, we settled in to a rousing game of head bobbing scrabble.
I say 'head bobbing' because we don't use a timer, so some people....I won't mention names, but let's just say I've known her for 43 years, and still catches my eye.....and nose......not my ear...........some people take a fortnight or two to lay down the word 'MAY'.....and after a bit of wine and turkey and gravy, my head tends to bob, even though firmly propped up by my hands, elbows on the dining table.

One of the grandkiddies, he's thirteen now, still likes to chew on things...dangerous things, just to still get a rise outta Namaw.
Heh, he excused himself and proceeded to the restroom.
I heard some coughing.
Not the normal cold like coughing, but more like gagging, and kacking.
I told my lady my concerns, but we played on, which consisted of my head plopping onto the table while she fretted over the letters AAZQTXP...
So, our darling teen hulk finally emerged from the bathroom, and a bit sheepishly sat back at his place at the table.....and layed out a rather moist letter K.
Apparently he was wallering the tile around the inside of his mouth and got it lodged in his throat, but managed to proceed nonchalantly to the can and hork it up into the tub..along with other less distinguishable bits and pieces, but I could tell he'd dined mostly on green olives and cranberry sauce.

Now it's our special K.

One of the mysteries that seems to plague me currently is a set of pick-up keys. They have disappeared, vanished into thin air. Yet I can not accept that they are missing as if raptured by God in these last days. They are somewhere just not here in my possession. You should not loose stuff in a thirty foot fifth-wheel trailer. Our current dwelling, our home away from home. Oh, but wait, this is our home now. That and two storage units and a shop filled with our stuff. But then that is another very touchy story. One that causes Ellen to tear up out of the blue. I asked her what is the matter and I receive in reply, "We have no home!" Now normally this causes a man to fly in to action and fix the situation. However because of all the counseling training I have done and done unto me I know I can not do that.

There are places where I can swoop in on the vine yodeling like Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan to carry her away. Or times I can appear from behind the curtain as the hot headed D'Artagnan in the The Three Musketeers pulling my blade to defend my lady. These times are not those times. I have been told and taught and taught I must let her process her own feelings. And myself I do fall into the grief and anger of the moment from time to time. Usually when looking for things stored in boxes we can not find. Or looking at our stored furniture and not knowing how well it will survive the cold of winter. Then I want and do roar in anger at times. However that said we are comfortable, we are warm and dry and all in all life is pretty good. We have no major medical issues we know of. I am no longer trapped on a train somewhere unable to return home. We sold our home in a down market.

So with all that said what does that have to do with lost pick-up keys? As the politicos all say, "That is a great question." And strangely it falls somewhere in the line of the pick-up tool box and the fifth-wheel trailer. The toolbox is one of those silver boxes that sits across the front of the pickup box. It sits suspended from the rails of the pick up box. 90% hangs down into the pick up bed. It fastens in with a bolted J bracket and a bolt in side the box. They are easy to unbolt and get out. It was a the most surprising Christmas I think I ever received. It was like a pony! A present from Ellen five years ago. To her I need a tool box in the pickup and I so agreed. I am a ranch kid. You never go anywhere with out a shovel, an ax, a Pulaski and a chain or two. Then there is the set of jumper cables and enough wrenches, pliers and screw drivers to disassemble all the components of a Mack Truck along side of the road. Well that is during the good weather. Then in the late fall and winter time you need a set or two of tire chains. Because of the roads to the Prairie and the winter storms I opt for a set for the front and a set for the rear because it is a four wheel drive. (Might as well use them all when you are going to get stuck). Now indeed all that stuff can be hauled very messy and dangerously on the floor of the back seat. However if you ever occur a roll over with all that stuff in the cab with you. If the wreck does not do you in, rest assured two sets of truck chains and a very heavy duty logging chain will. So for safety issues and other reason I have a tool box.

However with all that there is a problem I can not haul our little fifth-wheel trailer with my tool box mounted in the back. It like most of these old units are set up where they are close to the hitch and mounted very low. (The main reason I love to pull it. You hardly know it is there.) So I have to remove the toolbox when I have the little fifth wheel. It is because on a tight backing or turning maneuver the trailer will get the tool box. This in turn will damage the fifth wheel trailer, that also will damage the tool box and then that will damage the pick up. So if I have to move the little fifth wheel I empty out the tool box. Unfasten the fasteners and remove it. I set it some where when finished moving the little fifth-wheel put it back in, fasten it down and put all the valuables back in it. WWHHHUUUW! Lot of work just for that.

Now if you are a serious fifth-wheeler you have a tool box that sets down inside the pick up box. But they are hard to retrieve things out of. So I opted not to get one of those because we just move the little fifth wheel camp trailer up in the spring to the ranch and out in the early winter back to the valley. That is all the further it goes now days. Then we got the big fifth wheel. The hitch sits a lot further a head to the front and it is higher. In fact the whole unit is higher. So I have decided to try using my old tool box and not get a new one that sets down inside the pick up box. So my last trip to the ranch I grabbed our old tool box.

I brought it down here to the RV Park and mount it. I never have locked my tool box up. I never figure I needed to. It went mostly to the ranch and back. But here in this new environment of RV parks and our road trip down south and who knows what to expect next. I thought it would be handy to be able to lock it up. The only key I knew of that might fit the tool box was on my primary key ring. However it had gone missing for several days. Ellen and I looked and looked for that key ring. Then she came up with the idea, "Have you looked in the car?" I told her I just had the car to the car wash and cleaned and vacuumed it. I would have seen it then. I did however remember seeing four keys sitting by themselves not on a ring in a hollow place in the console while vacuuming. One was a key to the shop up at the ranch the others the were unknown to me.

I went back out and unlocked the car got the loose keys from the console and tried them. The first one I tried fit, it turned it matched with the second. There was two keys that fit the toolbox out of the blue. Ellen can not remember how the four keys got there. She thought I put them there, they were just laying there in the console one day. She made several trips in and out from the ranch with them. They survived there with three grandkids and three dogs. They survived her sacks of sewing and yarn going to her gals sewing circle up there at the Prairie and on and on and they were never lost. To which I do thank the Lord for keeping an eye out for them. That they never got flipped out on the floor and lost. Lets face it lone keys are so venerable to being lost. Then there is the issue of two keys for my toolbox I never use just show up out of the blue. A toolbox or tool storage or just a tool locker that we never have locked in five years of traveling in and out of the Prairie with it. Then I decided I have to lock it up. So I guess my real question is where in the world did those keys really come from? Well let see I think I can rule out someone broke into the car and set them there.........

Lost a car key for about 4 months a year or so ago. Found them when the Kleenex box in the car got empty. They were in it.

an excerpt of something I'm working on;


DAD

My first remembrance of my dad was seein' him come home from work through the kitchen door. Guess I was about three. He was a giant in my eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, curly auburn hair combed straight back, kindly smile bearing witness to his good feeling of getting home. My circle of life was complete when he arrived.
I never really ever ran up to him like a lot of kids do, as I revered his presence. He was my god.
He was a simple man, and we lived simply. It was all us kids needed, ever. Oh he had dreams, big dreams, and later on a good portion were realized, but with the sacrifice of a working man. That's what it took.
At about 4 yrs of age I remember my dad explaining an appendix to me, after overhearing them talk about someone having theirs out.

'Oh, it's a little man inside you that keeps you well, and sometimes the little man will save up all that sickness and pop. Then he has to come out.'

Seemed to satisfy my curiosity and maybe any other explanation would not have done much better.
Four year olds are quite impressionable, as overhearing my sister talk about a schoolyard mishap gave me a more vivid picture than I should have created.

'Dennis Blickenship fell off the slide today and split his head open.'

(SPLIT HIS HEAD OPEN??!!)

This gave me the vision of a kid runnin' around with two head halves, split down the middle, propped up by his shoulders.
Course Dennis Blickenship was a bully, and I felt kinda good about it, bein' he was the one that tied me up in the tool shed all afternoon while him and my sister did whatever they did.
Still.......

What's for Dinner?...... Gnah! Whazzat?
The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I'll be darned if I'll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way. We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken....oh and ketchup.....
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for 12 or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.

"Oh, you like the pooper, aey?"




I don't think parents really realize how they give their children a sense of comfort and well-being.
I remember long trips in the Dodge, trips that would become overnight stays. And me and sis would be sittin' in the back.
No seat belts. Seat belts?
Those were for race car drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I'd just sit there, not seein' much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I'd placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip, and the backs of my folk's heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back. I'd wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own, the cow lick being as close to curly as I'd get.
But toward the end of those long drives I'd get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I could still hear my parents chatting away, voices becoming unintelligible murmurings, until I was zonked, slumped over like I'd just been shot. Their voices were quite soothing, and I looked forward to those long trips, just for that.
Not sitting by the car for days waiting for voices on a long trip, but none the less, a subconscious thought of that scene was a comfort....quiet voices in a cloud of nothing else but stillness...all is well...... I have parents that I can willfully take for granted, without even really thinking about it.

I wasn't the most curious child in the world. I could very well have been in the world's top three least curious.
Actually, the term 'acute awareness' might as well have been in a foreign language.
Untied shoes, zipper at half mast, jam from breakfast on my afternoon chin, all were part of my repertoire.
As mentioned, I looked upon my father as God.
I revered his very presence.
And it was intimidating.
So, me and God are going down the road.
Mom, in her momliness, 'Don't forget your coat and cap!'
The morning became quite warm.
I don't know where we're goin'...never knew.....never asked.
The sun is beating down through the windshield.
Sweat is beginning to pour outta my cap and into my coat.

'How ya doin' over there?'

'Goooood.'

'What are you thinking about?'

(THINKING?!!!)

(GOD IS ASKING ME A QUESTION!!!)

(THINK MAN, THINK!!)

(Whaddya think Adlai's chances are?....How 'bout them Mets?...what then???!...I got nuthin')

'Are you warm enough?'

(He's got me. I've got this damn coat and cap on, don't I...?!)

'Maybe you should roll down the window.' (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)

(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son. Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.

Things went like that with me and God....for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.

' You've got a natural curve, son.'

(curve?...the damn thing is going so slow, he thinks I'm throwing a curve ball...)



Something about me.
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn't until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with 'the stares', fixated on absolutely nothing. But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging, getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful existence, and center on the intangible zephyr of existence.
I simply call it 'The Happiness of Being'.


Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands, then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it...really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half...and a towel.

One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still...survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old's life passing before his eyes...three times.....my dad's arms musta got tired, so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion's den.

Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the cruel jokes...me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them. Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I'd become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match....hardly anyone is in my league....maybe satan....maybe.

I have learned to stay away from that mindset.

People are too precious.

Mac and Velma's

Back in the '70s, ....before 'coffee shops', before anyone knew what a Starbucks was, a little cafe sat at the edge of hwy 30, between Linnton and St Johns, smack dab in the middle of Portland's northwest industrial section of mostly huge tanks of gas, diesel and oil.
They just opened for breakfast, closing at around 11 AM.

Mac was a long retired Marine.
Grey hair in a crew cut, high and tight.
The typical tattoo on his forearm, not ones like today, but just a simple anchor.
Velma was the chief cook and bottle washer.
Didn't see her much, just heard her, bangin' pots and pans, flippin' hotcakes.
Mac was the entertainer and pourer of coffee.
Always wiping his hands on the little bar towel tied to the front of his white apron.
White short sleeve shirt.
Stiff collar.
The tiny coffee shop was always spick and span.
Simple.
Mostly white.
A dozen red stools at the wooden counter.
Three padded booths.

'There he is, last of the all time greats!' was his typical greeting of a trucker that pulled his tanker rig into the gravel parking lot.

Of a cold morning, after working all night, I'd stop there, needing a shot of joe for the 30 bleary miles to the house.

The coffee was always good.
Back when coffee was just coffee.
They call it 'house brew' now.

Mac would yard a plain cake donut outta the glass lidded pedestal container for me with his dinner plate sized hand.
'How ya doin' kid?'
I was not an all time great.
Truckers, gnarly truckers, with gravel for voices, and road maps for faces, they were the all time greats.

The donut was not sweet, but a saccharine contrast to the java.
I'd listen to Mac's snappy patter with the truckers.
Sardonic retorts to Mac's rhetoric was pure entertainment.
Everyone looked forward to the upbeat boost Mac would give them.
It was a good start to another day.

I drove by that spot not long ago.
The little café is gone.
Mac and Velma may very well have taken it with them.

Last of the all time greats.

 Hey folks, been a while.
How's everbody doin'?

How/what you been doin' Gary O'?

Well, I'll tell ya.
I've been enmeshed in another site....of youthful creative artisans (of which shame me with ease)

Right now you're thinkin' ('Gary is nothin' but a web whore')

Eau Contraire mon frère

I've been busy writing my next book

It's now done, and it's actual book size (352 pgs)

Right now yer thinkin' ('Gary is nothing but a spamming slut')

Eau Contraire mon frère

I'm not gonna mention the name of the book (yet).

But

I'm itchin' to share an excerpt with y'all.
You see, those kids seem to enjoy my fractured prose. And that's cool, but I'd like some input from you geezers (anyone older than Justin Bieber), so I can fixate on a market niche.

Right now you're thinkin' ('Gary is nothin' but a product pushing bastard')

Ya got me.

No, really, I have few aspirations, but like everyone else, have little time to waste on bunny trails at this time in my life.

So, next time you profound masters of the building world lay your levels down, consider taking a moment to cruise thru a bit of a read, and tell me what you think.

Excerpt;


GURLS


Tom Gurls

1957
I was dropped off for the day at the Beasley farm.
I don't recall how or why, but, since both folks worked, ever so
often I'd just get dropped off for the day.....at someone's
place.
Didn't matter if I knew them or not.
What did matter, I guess, was that someone was watching my
7 or 8 year old idiot savant self.

The Beasleys had a farm, cows, fields, ponds, barns of hay,
yards of farm animals....and three sisters.
Horrifically wild, country girl wild, sisters.
Mom chatted with Mrs Beasley as I settled in at the kitchen
table.
'Oh he'll be fine, there's plenty to do here.'
'OK, bye bye.'
And she was gone.

The kitchen smelled of ham and eggs.
I was given a glass of milk, raw milk, warm raw milk,
accompanied with the complimentary clumps.
'You don't like milk?'
'Full.' (ready to hork up my own breakfast)

'Well, why don't you go outside, the girls will be out in a
minute.'
(Gurls??!!)
They aged around 10, 12, and 13 I'd say.
'Mamma, can we play with the boy?'
I felt like Lennie Small's imaginary rabbit.
They too had bib overalls, but no shoes, no T-shirt, just bibs.
'Wanna play in the barn?'
'Yeah, sure.'
Not realizing I was the prey for catching and raping, I climbed
the hay bales and crawled thru the tunnels they'd made.
It was quite fun at first.
Things turned a bit when I heard the eldest say something like
'he's over there, get him'.
I made for the open air, and scurried toward the corn field.
Not a chance.
The eldest tackled me at about the third row.
Everything kinda gets fuzzy after that, as I was picked up and
thrown down like the calf in a calf roping contest.
My arms and legs were pinned by their knees, as all six hands
eagerly explored my entire self....things even I had yet to
explore.

So, being the only one present of sound mind, I immediately
employed my most potent offense, which consisted of
violently flopping my head from side to side.
This abated some when the eldest straddled my face.
I then went into stealth mode, lying as still as one could while
being tossed up and down, probed, rubbed, and generally
molested, farm girl style.

Eventually (I'd say sometime late morning) they lost interest.

Lunch.

'Did you girls show Gary the castration shed?'

(!!!!!!!!!)

I don't recall leaping up, running out the door, or the journey
to the pond, but I have feint recollection of the sound of the
kitchen chair hitting the floor, and the screen door slamming
shut.
I played with the ducks and geese on the other side of the
pond, taking swift glances behind me every few seconds, until
I heard our Chevy pull up.
Farm girls, as a rule, turned into extremely fit, vivacious young
ladies, and seemed to know what they wanted, and when they
wanted it (now).
I avoided them like the plague, right up until about 15 or 16.
Then we, shall we say, taught each other a few things.


Patricia
My first real girlfriend, other than 'dancer number three' from
the Jackie Gleason Show, was Patricia....fourth grade I think
it was.
She had this smile, this beguiling smile, and if per chance she
cast one your way, well, it turned all us guys into befuddled
masses of profound stupidity, and I was no exception...and
she knew it.
So every time she would come near, or I mysteriously found
myself near her, I'd make sure and do something cool, like flip
my fountain pen up in the air and nonchalantly catch it, writing
side down. Unknowing that I'd just sprayed myself with a
unique pattern of Scheaffer traditional blue .....'Boob, James
Boob'.
Oh, yeah, and her eyes...flashing, batting brown eyes....and
some kinda smell too...better than, say, my catcher's mitt, or
even gramma's rhubarb pie.
That's all I remember about her looks.
Didn't even consider the shape of her hind end, or if she even
had one for that matter.
One blessed day her parents invited my parents to dinner.
I sat across the table from her, sipping my shaken not stirred
fruit punch, creating a rather distinguished looking purple
mustache.

These folks had lived outta the states for a few years, and
rather proudly offered up their unusual cuisine.
There, on my plate, was a heaping festering mound of curry
and rice. Not the spicy curry of the orient, no, this was some
sorta green slimy slices of slug guts.
Patricia smiled at me, batting her eyes.
I forked the slug slices, and moved them around my plate,
mustering and encouraging my life long taste buds of fried
potatoes, hamburger patties and ketchup.
I furtively went to the potatoes.
Only they were swimming in some sorta gawd awful milk
sauce....not fried, definitely not fried.
I think I had two bites, feigning nausea, gladly skipping
dessert which looked much like mousse of dog vomit.

Patricia invited me up to her room (HER ROOM!!!), upstairs,
legs of Patricia, leading the way....huh, Patricia has
legs...nice, really really nice legs (fantasy log note 137; wimin
my age have legs too. Take note, with etching fluids).

And there I was, in a girl's room.
Puffy, fuzzy things.
Pink things.
Lacy, frilly things.
Some sorta awning of posts and frilly cloth over her bed.
Pillows, stuffed toys, more pillows, more toys.

So there we were.
'Nice place ya got here' (I almost said 'doll face', but
somehow knew my Bogart wasn't working any better than my
Bond).
'You are in third place on my list.'
('what? there's a list?')
'If you kiss my locket, you'll be at the top.'
('If I kiss her locket?')
('What the heck is a locket?')
She pulled a dainty gold chain from where, I'd discover years
later, cleavage came from.
Her locket was a little gold heart.
I felt really really stupid.
Here I was, in a gurl's room, with all this claustrophobic crap,
and even considering kissing her locket for cryin' out loud.
Get me the heck outta here!
(bat, bat, smile)
S-o-o-o-o after I kissed her locket, landing me solidly into first
place, we went downstairs.

Funny thing, next day at school I took on a much different
persona.
My once pitter patting heart went back to a normal beat.
Her smile took on a more sneer like function.
Her batting eyes became nothing more than a possible
tourette.
Her smell took on the odor of curry.
Basically, she disgusted me...and less than 24 hours ago I'd
kissed her locket....damn.
My first fleeting relationship.
Not for locker room lore.


Linda
By the age of thirteen I'd mastered the art of
girlfriendmanship.
The major thing about the ladies was they needed to be
dazzled, swept off their feet, so to speak.
I knew this from my vast studies of Errol Flynn movies.
So, with my now astute knowledge of the opposite sex, it all
came rather easy.
Take my next conquest for example.
I'll call her 'Linda', mainly cause her name was (and probably
still is) Linda.
I usually change the names to protect the innocent (me), but
there's nothing about Linda here that would be
defamatory...pretty sure.
She had a beguiling smile...hell, all of 'em had those beguiling
smiles, but hers kinda took on a Susan Hayward look.
And, she was cool.

Never went to the same schools, as she lived in St John's,
and I lived up in the hills twenty miles outta Portland.
But I met her at swim lessons in Portland, lessons that near
drowned me as I tried so hard to get hold of that long ass
bamboo pole the bitch of a swim instructor kept poking at me,
pushing me away from frantically hugging the edge of the
pool. Very frustrating for her, as several times I'd glommed
onto that pole with both arms and legs, while she tried like hell
to push me off the ledge and into the deep end. I'd just climb
the pole, hand over hand, like a waterborne lemur, as she'd
whisk me back and forth across the pool.

It only took a half dozen lessons to figger out that one really
can't breathe water...
Linda smiled at me, thus I was smitten.
Since we didn't have very many ways of hooking up, meeting
was rather sporadic.
The next time we met was at Pier Park in St John's.
We strolled around, holding hands...sweaty hands...a real tell
in regard to my rico suave persona.
But she kept smiling and I kept sweating.
Mostly, our relationship consisted of letters and phone calls.
Letters were a snap, cause I could take my sweet time in
expounding on my devil may care, swash buckling life style,
but the phone calls required some fast thinking on my feet.
In my vast knowledge of the opposite sex, knowing they
needed to be dazzled, my acute imagination begat that of my
own version of Walter Mitty.
'Hi, how are you?'
(I could just see her smiling that Susan Hayward smile)
'Hi, I'm OK, now that I'm able to stitch up my shoulder.'
'What?!'
'Oh, it's nuthin', just got done fightin' a grizzly in the back
yard.'
'Oh my god! What happened?!'

'Well, I was choppin' wood, and he kinda got the jump on me.
So I just chopped him in the neck with my axe.'
'Are you okay???'
'Yeah, right now I'm stitching up my shoulder while we talk.'
'Is the bear still there?!'
'Naw, I chased him up the hill for several miles...had to cold
camp a couple days, and lost him up in the high country.'
'Oh, so the bear fight didn't just happen?'
'Uh, no.....sorta.' (sweat)
'Well, I gotta go. Gotta tell some folks that I've gotta cancel
the sky diving lesson for today, so see ya.'
'Oh, are you taking lessons?'
'No, I teach it.'
'Oh,'
'Yeah, so I gotta go....bye.' (my hands now sweat faucets)
I really don't know what ever happened that severed our
relationship.
It certainly wasn't due to my boring life style that's for sure.
Actually, I do remember seeing her for what was probably the
last time, and somehow her smile no longer did it for me.

When I was in my mid teens, I used to think back on those
times and get all embarrassed.
Then later, in my twenties, would vividly recall it all and just
laugh my ass off.



Lindsey
From months of bucking hay and picking berries, beans, and
whatever I could get hold of, at 14 I bought a car.
My first.
'54 Chevy
$300
When you save your money in a cigar box for several months,
taking it out, counting, fondling, stacking, fanning it out like a
hand of gin rummy, then putting it back under the bed, w-a-aa-
a-y under, and you make a major purchase, your object of
worship is gone...gone I say...just an empty cigar box with
only the faint scent of cheap cigars and a hint of the smell of
soft currency once soaked in the sweat of your front Levi
pocket.
There are few words to describe the emptiness.
Maybe 'bereft'.
I'd had this same experience at 12, getting my 30-30, but
$79.50 from Western Auto was not the same as giving over a
summer of work in one fell swoop.
The following summer I got a job hoeing roses for a famous,
prize winning rose grower that had several acres of (you
guessed it) roses at the end of a gravel road on top of the hill
we lived on.
So, before sunup I'd make myself lunch, make coffee for the
thermos and breakfast, fire up the green hornet and bomb up
the hill, taking switchback after switchback.... sideways.

Then proceed to get a head start on a degenerative back by
hoeing roses for 10 hours.
One Friday I'd gotten a call from a pretty little girl that I'd met.
Not as beautiful as my lady now, but beyond cute...really
really cute, even pretty....her smile did funny things to my
heart.
So Sunday I approached dad.
'Hey, ol' man. I wanna go to church with this girl.'
'Well, what's stoppin' ya?'
'She lives on the other side of Portland.'
'You want me to drive you to the other side of Portland?!'
'Uh, no.
I'd like to drive my car.'
(Mom)
'ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!'
'I'd be careful.'
'And, (the coupe de grace) can I borrow grampa's bible?'
'You better be careful, cause if you get in an accident, they're
comin' after me.'
'Thanksdadbye.'
Mom said something, rather sputtered something, but I was
already bombin' down the drive.
Can't recall the jaunt over the St Johns Bridge or the rest of
the twenty miles.

Lindsey jumped in and we headed down the country lane to a
park.
On the way, she was all over me.
I gave a thought to just pull over into the ditch, but maintained
my James Bond nonchalant approach and returned her
kisses, French kisses,
my first,
in my car,
driving,
For some reason, even beyond the control of my crotch, my
mind relished in the sensation of tongue wrestling with this
lovely being, and not on keeping in my lane...or on the road
even.
It wouldn't have mattered much to look where I was goin'
because my eyeballs were rolled back in my head.
Then a funny thing happened.
Somewhere deep in my semi consciousness, I heard
trumpets blowing.
(So this is what Brad was telling me about...)
But while trying to gather my fuzzy thoughts, I had a flash
back of a song that was getting popular....Leader of the Pack
had a girl yelling 'LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT!!',
then screeching tires.
Only it was Linda yelling, and the trumpet was a car horn, and
the tires were those of the car in front of us.
I just remember two old couples, dressed for church, mouths
open, arms waving.
I swerved.
Our rear quarter panels met.
Hard.

A sickening crunch.
My rear view mirror revealed them just sittin' there in the
middle of the road...sideways....gettin' smaller and smaller as
I floored the little chevy.
Lindsey didn't say much when I dropped her off, but a few
days later I got a letter.
My first.
I drove into the drive and parked behind the garage.
My story was that there was black ice on a corner and I slid
into the guard rail.
He bought it.
I sweated blood for weeks after that, waiting for cops to haul
my dad off in hand cuffs...leaving me with mom.
It never happened, but every time I got in my car, I got a little
sick to my stomach.
I told him the real story three decades later.
We both had a good laugh over it.
Together.
Not at each other, but with each other.
My first.

Quote from: Gary O on September 08, 2012, 01:35:22 PM
Here's something that some folks got a kick out of, you might too.

A friend has recently had a birthday, so I Emailed him some things to prepare for, well, the inevitable; 


Hey, Rodney, happy 49th.
Since you are approaching the 'golden' or maybe bronze years, I've got some advice and things to be aware of.

But don't read this now.

Just save it for a year, because you still have three hundred and sixty some wakeups before that magical milestone of fifty (50!!) .

So continue to enjoy what you've been doing, because once you hit fifty (50!!)...(and you will 'hit' it), things change a bit.

You'll make little noises when you commence to get outta your lazy boy.
Then you'll notice that those same noises will emanate from your wretched larynx when you commence to sit in said lazy boy.
I say 'commence' because by this time, all the wonderful things you did in youth...broken bones and sprains, from 'watch this' fetes of yore have caught up with you, and your leg muscles are now atrophied into strings of half cooked pasta, so you ease into/onto or out/off of anything, like toilet seats, cars, power chairs, Harleys, and slippers.
You take renewed interest in your grabber, and strongly consider installing a knee joint in the shaft for doing the paperwork in the oval office....enabling you to abandon the simulated bronco busting rodeo session you seem to need, up stretched left hand making little circles in the air while the other is performing 'the reach'.

Speaking of larynxes, you'll find that throat clearing takes several tries...like starting an ol' model T.

......wait, that's sixty.....you're only approaching fifty (50!!).

Ah, the age of enlightenment.
By now, people have looked upon you as a giver of advice, and that has worked, and has even seemed pretty cool.
The address of 'sir' is no longer a surprise.
You handle it all quite well.

But

When you reach fifty (50!!), you begin to have little chats with yourself...
('I'm fifty(50!!) , I should know something by now. These people think I do......let's see let's see E=mc².....WTF is a joule?')

You begin to have partial recall, and even that is a struggle.
The procedure is touching your chin with the fingertips of your right hand, and looking up or down.
Numbers and dates are up.
Names and places are down.

You put on 157 lbs in 13 minutes, just from sniffing a bran muffin.

You start to notice growths and weird hair in weird places.

While you slumber, a pubic hair can grow the length of 3 feet...on the pointy end of your ear lobe.

Of a morning, you look in the bathroom mirror, and find a goblin looking back.
Just smile at it (quit screaming for gawd's sake), comb back your ear hair and greet the day.

'Doc, take a look at whatever that is on my left knee.'
'Uh, Rodney, that's just your right testicle.'
'BTW, when's the last time I ran my finger up your pooper?'

Learn the difference between the words colostomy and colonoscopy...it's important when checking in.

Self keeping becomes secondary.
'Honey, there's a puffed wheat in your mustache.'
'Oh.....so?'
'We had puffed wheat two weeks ago.'
'And your point, dear?'

The cheap lingerie  (http://www.robustbuy.com/womens-clothes-lingerie-sets-c-1083_1085_1088.html)from high school has finally given up the ghost, so you begrudgingly retire the grey tattered shards of elastic, but consider the frugal acquisition of 12 headbands.

You discover your new fresh (actually brilliant white) Hanes briefs are quite the contrast to the occasional poop stain...of which is no longer occasional......poop cake can become a concern.

Oh, and you discover you no longer have a hind end.
It has furtively crept up and nestled onto your lower back, leaving you with just a six inch line and a tuft of hair, giving your Levi 550s even that much more of a 'relaxed fit'.

You still catch the ladies taking a hind sight, however, it's not so much one of allure, but more one of mystery and somewhat quizzical pity as your gluteus minimus brings up what's left of your rear.....'That poor man has no popo......musta lost it in the war'.

Your shopping consists of looking for obscure things like extra large Icy Hot patches.....mummy size.

The fire in your eyes is now just pain recognition.

Speaking of fire, get wunna those birthday candles that don't blow out.

It'll help you keep the fire.



Something I put in a book somewhere;

Eating/pooping² (part 1, discovering texture)

Preschool (intro to social, sharing)

School (the teacher is God)

Teenage (high school hell, for teen and parent, hormones are an entity requiring exorcism, the teacher is Satan)

College/military (fun, fun, fun; learn, drink, fornicate, kill)

Pre-parental Early adult (more fun, but serious, sipping not chugging, serious pursuits, mating, career)

Parental (joy)

Parental hell (see teenage)

Midlife (see early adult, attempts at hindsight adjustments)  (you are here)

Grandparent (brief joy)

Grandparental hell (hiding, see teenage)

Musing Youngish Geezer (lazy boy-crossword-Jeopardy sessions, looking upon mate with renewed ardour, reflecting, attempting things you did with ease years ago)...  (or you may already be here)

Geezer (whazzat? Whoozzair?)

Eating/pooping² (part 2)...Nurse!? I did it again (toothless smile)

Dirt nap


Happy birthday Rodney, and welcome to life, the real one.

The procedure is touching my mind........the  underwear from high school has finally given to the ghost..ha ha ha ....

Well, F.Aguilar, I've added to the list since I penned this, but hey, those elastic bands are resilient!
(welcome to the forum, BTW)
cheers

Ok so how do I get the book? PM me so you aren't such an internet whore...  ;D

 Hey Barry, OK, I'll PM ya.

(note to self; I may have just doubled my book sales) 

BEER

With fruit

Up until a couple decades ago I never really cared what kinda beer.
Cold beer was....better.
But one time, while team driving with a happening dude, we stopped for the night. Found a bar. Shot the breeze about the usual; politics, sex, sports, sex, economics, sex, ingrown toenails, sex, carburation vs fuel injection, sex, and....beer.
He seemed to know his way around several types and flavors; pilsners, stouts, lagers, ales, porters and on and on.
My main selection was 'wet'.

I noticed he had a piece of fruit in his beer.

'Corona with lime, good beer.'

I try one.
Actually, it was rather refreshing.

But just that one time.


Dark beer

While golfing, my club wielding hippy buddy offered one of his porters.
Black Butte porter
Man, that was gooooood beer.
Was
For awhile it became my beer of choice.
Then, like an old girlfriend...a flame that went out as fast as it flared up, my taste for it just disappeared.


IPA

After months of just getting whatever was on sale, my lady and I dropped by the Edgefield poor farm, one of McMenamins beer gardens.
Cool place.
One of our sometimes favorite haunts.
A quaint place on the grounds is called the 'little red shed'.
Cozy
Stone fireplace
Bowls of peanuts, of which you were encouraged to toss the shells on the dirt floor.
Short bar, rather up close and personal.
I asked the barkeep what his favorite beer was.

'IPA'

'I Pee what?'

'India pale ale'

He then went on with the IPA story about the Brits needing beer in India.
He drew one for me.
Not a lager
Not a pilsner
Definitely not a dark beer
Not any ale I'd ever had.
It was very good.
Distinctly good.
It became the beginning of a fascinating quest for me to find the best one. The best of the best in my opinion.
Up until last night, I'd actually hoped I'd never find it....traveling around, tasting, sampling.

But,

the hunt is over.

This beer, this medium dark beer....not dark, not amber, but a rich bodied color of....maybe mahogany, was capped with a glorious head.
A head that was not scraped off, but about two inches higher than the brim.
A head of tight little bubbles, bubbles so small they didn't really look like bubbles at all, but more like combed fleece.
This beer, this beer looked the epitome of the word 'quench'.

I knew I'd found it.
I hoped I'd found it.
I hoped it tasted half as good as it looked.

It tasted....better.

There is none other for me.

I cannot go back.

I refuse to go forward.

Why would I?

I have arrived at my destination.




cheers




(http://i.imgur.com/Bt6hflf.jpg)

Alright my copy came in. I just flew in from San Diego and checked the mail on the way in and there it was. Now the first thing I had to do after flying all day was visit the Oval Office so I covered about the first 10 pages. Funny stuff! I wish I could write like that   [cool]

(http://barrybroom.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Wunnozedaze.jpg)

Barry, you, you spam whore!
I......I.....I love you

Anyhoot, glad yer likin' it.
Thing is, in places it wanders a tad.
The editor (me) is a bit of a dufus.

However, I do highly recommend the oval office as the best reading location, since the stories are quite short.


Hope you enjoy it reading half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Happy perusing

cheers

While several on this forum were trading ideas about stump removal ranging from Epson Salts to barbeque briquettes, KY Jelly and a big winch, and det cord and gun powder, this caused me to think of an old guy I worked with at the gravel pit.  Bill was his first name, and after chatting for a couple months discovered he was a distant relative of some kind on mom's side. 

It turned out Bill was a great powder monkey and perfected his trade with the Morrison Knudsen Company.  The one time world's largest construction company out of Boise, Idaho.  However, Bill got his start as a powder monkey as a young man at the mine at Stibnite, Idaho.  The Bradley's of General Omar Bradley fame owned it and it was in full production back then in WWII.  The shown photo is part of a settling pond and they needed a road put around it.  There were several stumps and dead trees in and near the water that needed cleared before construction could begin. 

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/boise057_zpsdabb1e20.jpg) (https://s593.photobucket.com/user/rick91351/media/boise057_zpsdabb1e20.jpg.html)

So this was Bill's introduction to underwater blasting.  His boss or supervisor as I guess today they are known by  (At least when I have to talk to a boss or some one in charge, they are now know as a supervisor....  Museums seemed to have been altered to being Interpretive Centers,  and mechanics are now techs)   told him to get some powder and caps and the row boat and blow those stumps and dead trees.  So being loyal and more or less a teen age kid, was very agreeable to do such.  It was a huge fir stump that he decided  was going to be his first attempt.  So he rowed out to it and spent several hours packing and mudding in the powder.  When he was about to finish, another thought hit.  We have all had them- the what ifs.... what if the powder becomes wet and does not function as advertised.  This called for more powder more digging under that stump,  working up to his waist in the water until hypothermia almost took him out.

Caps were on, taped and wired.  The wire was strung.  He took up a 'safe position'.  He connected the wire to the firing devise.  Safety was on, trigger was locked.  The call went out, FIRE IN THE HOLE! - FIRE IN THE HOLE!  The safety came off, and the trigger was turned.  What happened next was a sight, according to Bill, that Hollywood has never dared to recreate.  The huge stump that he work so hard to loosen.....  Huston we had lift off. At T+1.... hairy long stringy roots hung down below the large bull roots as it cleared the water.  The once tranquil settling pond was reduced almost to a dry hole and the water was turned into a vapor from the explosive force.  At about T+2.5 the stump went from a vertical launch path to a more horizontal course.  Seems as if now it was heading for the large building in  the photo-the mess hall.  It was a sitting duck.  However being a stump, it had the aerodynamics of a well.....a ..... stump.  At T+3 the coursing stump now took another course correction and landed embedded in the hillside above the mess hall.  The now floating water vapor followed the stump up the hill with a mini down pour through the valley or really a large draw.  The metallic rich water gave the surrounding area a strange smell for several months.   

Bill reported that he received more training- most in the form of OJT.  However, he was never asked or told to blow any more stumps........  Life for him went on............

Excellent read

Thank you brother Rick

The Quiet One

The younger grandson, of the two that seem to inhabit our place a bit more than the others, is a rather curious George kinda monkey. Always exploring simple things, getting deep into the mechanics of grass, bugs, baking powder, the science of kitty litter and Kool-Aid, canning jars and why lids seal, namaw's underwear drawer, papaw's banking stuff, and ancient glass floats and their relation to papaw's hammer....anything really.

When he was around three, he was in the spare bedroom...for hours....quiet.
We were all in the family room watching some movie.
Here he comes, with a somewhat quizzical but triumphant look on his face.
None of us noticed anything right away, and I may have remarked how nice it was to have him join our ranks, when his mother shrieks 'OH....MY....GAWWWD!!!?'
His little mug went from a 'look what I did' expression of profound discovery to quizical horror as we all took turns shrieking.
Seems he'd found interest in the inner workings of his belly button, and had managed to get hold of the very end and pull it inside out, strutting out of the bedroom and down the hall with about three inches of inverted naval tube stickin' out.

The lad has never been bored....nor have we.

Mess with your belly button and your butt will fall off.  So sayith my mom..........................

My latest unemployment experience;

The owner came to me and asked if I wanted to take part in our sharing of a lay off week or two.
I knew it was coming.
In previous regimes I'd be told I was going to be laid off, but they needed me there, so it got rather tricky.
It's called working without a paycheck.
'Hey, Gary, we're doing it too.'
('uh, yeah, only I don't have the latitude to run my money thru the laundry like some folks')

So now, it's straight up.
We have a very talented (skeletal) technical crew.
Can't afford to lose anyone.
So we share, and take turns with a week off here and there.

My week comes.
I file for unemployment on line.
It's my 'waiting week'.
You're not paid for your waiting week. (not sure why it exists...I mean who's waiting, and for what?)
Months pass.
I get asked again.
Why not.
Yes, I'll do my part.
I file for my sacrificial week on line.
Weeks pass.
No check.
I go on line.
No activity showing.
('huh')
I call.
Here in Oregon, there is no longer a place to go,
to stand in line,
for days,
to talk to a comatose counselor.
The one that says, well, Gary, looks like you're screwed.

So, I call.

Message;
'Welcome to the Oregon unemployment dept.
Your call is of no real importance to us.
Actually, we're not even here.
But, if you persist, we'll call you back.
That's right, we'll call you.
So, leave your name, number, and social security number (bruuuhahahahaa) and stand by.
Waiting time is less than three months, so be ready with your info, because you'll have 3.5 nanoseconds to pick up, and we'll make sure to call while you're pooping.
Bye bye now.'

I get the call.

'Please press one for English.
Por favor, doblar, se sentirá cierta molestia
Please enter your social security number, claim number, mother's aunt's deceased daughter's mother-in-law's maiden name, and serial number of your radial arm saw.
If you don't have a radial arm saw, please get one and call back.
Please stand by.'
'This is Helen, how may I not be able to you?'

'Ah, Helen, thank god, a real person.'

'Please enter your social security number, claim number, mother's aunt's deceased daughter's mother-in-law's maiden name, and serial number of your radial arm saw.'

'But I just did!'

'This is for security reasons.'

'Please re-enter the serial number of your radial arm saw......
........
..... Thank you,
now, how may I not be able to you?'

'Somehow my waiting week did not get recorded.'

'You did not file,'

'But, you see, I did.'

'No, you didn't.'

'Yes, I did.'

'No, you didn't.'

'Is there anyone I can discuss this with, because I did all that your on line form asked for.'

'No, you didn't.'

'Yes, I did.'

'No, you didn't.'

'Yes, I did.'

'Have you read the manual?'

'Have you read the manual???!!'



'Is there anyone else I can discuss this with?'

'No.'

'Helen, there's got to be something that can be done.
It's my money we're talking about.'

'Not really, it's your employer's money.'

(sputter %$#&*^, spit)
'uh, Helen, it's the reason why that amount is not included in the little place on my paycheck where it says 'net income'. You know, where the monetary amount is printed out in alpha characters? Yeah, that's where it comes from.'

'Well, in any event, you have waited too long.'

'I want my money, Helen, who do I talk to?'

'There's nothing I can do.'

(at this time, I came to the realization that Helen is not going to budge)

'Do you know what the term 'civil servant' means, Helen?'

'Yes.'

'I don't think you do.'

'I think I do'

'No you don't'

'Yes I do'

'No you don't'

'Sir, if you wish to pursue this issue, you'll have to send it in for review.'

'Well now, that was very astute of you to offer this up.'

'It will take 5-7 weeks.'

'Time is the one thing that's on my side.'

'OK then, you'll be getting a call.
Be sure to have your information ready.'

'Oh, I will Helen, I surely will.'

Lana called.
Lana was very informative.
Lana likes people.
Lana doesn't like to play god with people's money.

Turns out, if you file on line, you have 15 minutes.
After 15 minutes, nothing is recorded.
Oh, and if you use the phone to file, you have 2 minutes.

I get a three page form the following week.
I fill it out and mail to back the same day.

I recv my benefit check in 6 days.

I suppose there's much worse bureaucratic systems in other states/countries, but we're working on it.

(https://i220.photobucket.com/albums/dd161/redoverfarm/scenes/country%20plans/gettingolder_zps0b610130.jpg) (https://s220.photobucket.com/user/redoverfarm/media/scenes/country%20plans/gettingolder_zps0b610130.jpg.html)

(http://club.coolamonrotary.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Joke-Old-Men.jpg)

This may already be in the 10 pages of this thread, but I can't remember...

Don't matter, John.
Good tends to repeat itself.

My dad is failing


Penned a few weeks ago;


Interesting

Had to visit Dad yesterday.
Don't like doin' that anymore.
He's gone quite a ways downhill.
Physically, he's OK......kinda.
He's been well into the Tim Conway shuffle for some time now.
Watching him head to the restroom is like watching an arcade duck scuttle back and forth.

Mentally, he's hardly a shadow of himself.
The neurologist says he's suffered a stroke.
Seems it was during or around the time of my son's wedding a few weeks ago.
Conversation with him is different now.
Not even the same old stories.

Thing is, he no longer has any short term memory, and fractured recall of anything long term.......anything.
He's got a new word in his vocabulary. One seldom used before;
'Interesting'.
He uses it like a scientist that just stumbled onto something never considered.

'Dad, do you remember your children's names?'
'Who?'
'Your children.'
'I have children? What's their names?'
'Well, there's me.'
'I have a child named Me?'
'You have three children.'
(20 second pause)

'Interesting...

What's their names?'

'Do you remember what gramma used to say?'
'Wait a minute, we have the same gramma?'
'No, my gramma is your mom.'
(pause)

'Interesting...'

'Saaaay, who are you?'
'I'm your wife, and this guy is your son.'
'REALLY?' (lips quivering, starting to cry)
(quickly) 'Hey Dad, who's gonna win the series this year?'
'I try to be serious.'
'I was talking about baseball.'
'I played it.'
'I know......do you keep up on the fight game?'
'I used to box.'
'I know.....do you remember any of those fights?'
'Fights?'
'You used to box.'

'Interesting...'

"Well, I better get going.'

'OK, it's been nice talking to you. You should come back when you can stay longer. I really miss you.'

The way his cognizance swings in and out really takes me off guard, as I'll chime in with what he's talking about, only to find he's already lost it.

'I'll be back in a week or two.'
(turning to his wife) 'He seems to be a nice guy.....what's his name?'
'Gary, he's your son.'

'Interesting...'

Sheeeesh




a couple or so days ago;

So, my dad has bladder cancer.
They found a cauliflower lookin' thing hangin' upside down in the upper region.
'we got it all'
Three days later...'it's spread throughout his system'
My brother and I w/be going with him to the hospital to help his wife make a decision whether or not to ply him with chemo.
What decision?

He's 90.

I'm gonna tell 'em to let him be...until he's racked with pain.....then it's the morphine motel (he won't be stayin' long).

If my brother argues, I'll beat him like I did 50 yrs ago after I discovered he ratted me out for taking Dad's Bonneville thru a switchback sideways.

At present, I've got weightier decisions.
Whether or not to let that damn noisy Jay live or not.
Got a bead on him right now...one more aggravating noise.....c'mon.....

yesterday;

Not to be morbid or anything, but nobody gets out alive.
However, like my dad, I think I'd like to go slow...maybe some pain...to help me to look longingly forward to the dirt nap.
An abundant supply of weed would be required.

I mean, if I was beboppin' outta the 7-11 with an icy, thinkin' 'once I get the oil changed, I'll grab the lady and head t' SPAH-LAT!....a runaway semi turns me into what Asperger sounds like.
I'd really be pissed (if I had time)

now;

Thing is, I'm not down about it.
For a while now, I've been kinda prepared for it.
The other thing, I'm not close to anyone in my family.
Never have been.
I'm closer to complete strangers.
It's not a bad or good thing, it's just the way it is.

True, I don't like seeing my dad in a bad way.
He's always been able to do everything.
Now, now he can't do anything.
If I was him, I'd be lookin' for Kevorkian's number.



So, when I get in a mental dither, I write.
Some of it spills out here, some may go into another book.

A fun thing is reading what has splattered onto several pages.
Most times I surmise that, yes, I'm a certifiable nut job, and go make something (kindling) in my wood shop.
And that's pretty much the end of it....usually.

This one's different.
He's gonna linger.
I know he is.
He unthinkingly loves living too much.
I do believe he thinks he'll somehow get better.
It's gotta be very frustrating for him.

Wonder how I'd be.....

Would I really do the self imposed 'mice and men' thing and grab a huge bag of weed, a case of IPA, some Doritos, ear buds blaring some '70s Gilmore Pink Floyd in my good ear, and plop myself by a country stream, waiting for my faithful son to bap me on the back of my head with a well placed Louisville slugger, once I have a happy sappy look on my mug?

Or would I just lay there in my decrepit crib with a semi full bedpan, blubbering about back when.........

Whatever...I've got wood to butcher.



Sorry for the wandering prose


Night tch'all

Gary our life could be the same at this point. Been battling with my father 88 years old and bedfast.  Hasn't recongnized me for months or even spoke.  Kidney failure to boot.  I will keep you in my thoughts that all works out for the best.

Guess it's a phase of living.

I remember when we were kids, we'd endure the older folks, aunts, uncles, grammas, grampas, all sittin' around talking about somebody named Clarence...

'Yeah old Clarence didn't last too long after his pancreas went south'

'.....how's Eunice doin?'

'well, her thyroid has been givin' her fits since she had her goiter taken care of'

Course all us kids just sat there, not a word, like ceramic toads, until we got the nod to go outside.
Seems there was a compulsory time line to stay inside, sittin' proper, until they got tired of lookin' atcha.

Then time flies like a meteor until you're the one talkin' about 'Clarence'.

Thank you, John.
Yeah, our thoughts are parallel.

Raisin' the glass to that

...excerpt (yeah, another freakin' book)

Funny how you get trapped in an era.
Don't even know it.
The influence is subtle.
My folks raised us in the years after the war.
The 50s were promise, opportunity.
Reach out, take it.
Pay for it, later.

They were raised in the 30s.
Midwest.
Depression.
Dust bowl.
Struggle with whatcha got.
Savor things like onion soup, for days, weeks....for lunch, dinner.....and breakfast.

It colored their thinking.
Media didn't help.
Pictures in Look magazine of happy families, in their Ford convertibles, at the beach.

Dad and Mom were fully immersed in the pursuit of the happiness of the 50s.

Thing is, they really didn't have examples of taste, at least conservative taste.

We bought shiny things.

Aerodynamic furniture.
A whole room full, at one time.
Sharp, pointy corners.
Cutcha.
One misstep and yer shin is bleedin' like a stuck pig.

The fashion of the day was racy rocket shapes.
They didn't have the forethought or enough handed down culture to invest in things that would maintain a muted style of the ages.

We didn't buy convertibles, or speedy cars, but whenever we did get a new sedan, we'd pile in and drive the 250 miles to show it off to Dad's cousin Curt.
Him and Curt were in some sorta unstated competition, 'cause when their family got a new car, they'd be up at our place.

This went on for years.

Then things changed.

Curt and family pulled ahead in the socialite dept.
I could tell just by looking at their clothes.
Things matched.
Kip and Kelly were color coordinated.
Millicent would inspect Curt every hour or so, and advise him to go change if she spotted something outta place or wrinkled, or just plain stale.
She'd gone from happy go lucky to becoming rather stiff over the years, making those around her almost as uncomfortable as her.
Things were never ever quite right.
Gotta say, she maintained a tight ship.....off course, but tight.
Still looked good, years later, there in the nut bin.
The far away, tormented look in her eyes was more pronounced. Still tidy though.

But, yeah, by the early 60s, they'd arrived.
Even their suitcases matched.
Soon after, guess who acquired matching luggage?
After that the contest was pretty much over.
All their stuff became understated elegant.
Ours, try as we might, always had that price tag look.
That 'got it at Wards' motif.
Mom, bless her heart, just didn't have the knack, the taste, the ability to make it all work.
It's not like she didn't spend the money.


1966
Mom's 20 year reunion, high school.
Planned it for days, maybe months.
Lost weight.
Hair done.
Hair redone.
New coat, fur.
Dad, new suit, shiny, sharkskin.
Gold Bonneville. Shiny.
Car dealers were Dad's 'friends'.
They tended to display their gold inlays ever time he appeared at the dealership.
Gotta admit, that 1966 Pontiac was sharp.
'Tiger' gold, with a black leather-ish hardtop.
I made a rare appearance, since somebody had to watch my brother.
Hours before they were to head out, Dad says 'I'll be right back, gonna gas up' (gonna get loose).
Half an hour later, here comes Dad into the drive;
BRDRDACKA BRDRDACKA BRDRDACKA BRDRDACKA
He'd dropped off a curb somewhere and put a dent in the oil pan.

And this event etched a groove deep into my psyche;

Mom, incredulous, beside herself.
Dad, ready to get a rental car.
Mom, having nothing of that.
(in those days rental cars had little stickers, saying; rental car)
It was a terrible stigma for her.
The worst, the very worst.
'Well, we can't go.'
Whenever these kinda things happened, it just sorta ruined the aura of 'family'.
Us kids kinda disappeared, slinking, fading into the wood work.
They went. Can't remember how the drama turned out, but they went, by god they went.

Heh, our family was typical.
I could look down the neighborhood street and note every house, every garage, every living room had pretty much the same crap we did.
Stuffed to the gills with new things.
HiFis became stereos, ovens became self cleaning, TV sets became furniture, moms became working moms, Dads became strangers.
And every bedroom held the same argument, or the same emptiness.
It gave me a resolve.
I didn't even know it at the time.
All I thought I wanted to do was get away, stay away.
But it colored my way of thinking.
Nothing profound.
No astute ability on my part.
Just caught up in the era.

The age of Aquarius.

The hippy age.

Discovery of a new word, racism.

Freedom.

The fallacy of getting 'things',
keeping 'things',
working day and night for 'things',
waxing,
polishing,
insuring,
tossing
'things'.

The value of true relationships.

And like my folks,

it's never left me.

Wonder what the next generation will bring to the table.

Hope it's not onion soup.

When I was about four, five maybe, all I wanted to become was a cop.
Not a Dragnet, Sgt Friday cop, but one that wore the blue, the boots, the service cap, the badge, the...gun...and holster.
OH YEAAAH
Not a doubt in my mind.
Thing is, I was never around cops per se, at least not for a few years.
So all I had for ready reference was the local service station guy. The 'almost a cop' guy.
He had a uniform, and if I recall, had some sorta badge.
And he had a service cap. The one with the glossy bill, and high rise front.
Yeah, he was almost a cop.
I always liked stopping there.

'Fill'er up?
'Ethyl?'

He'd get the pump going, cranking the numbers to zero, sticking the nozzle in, flipping the lever, filling the back seat with the glorious aroma of gas fumes of which I breathed deep (couldn't get enough).

'Check 'at oil?'

He lifted the hood and did....something, appearing at the driver's door, showing Dad the dip stick, resting it in display on a really cool red rag, then tucking that rag in his back pocket. Letting half of it stick out......cool.
Sometimes he'd go to the rack of oil, grab wunna the glass bottles with a stainless steel spout, and pour in a bit of oil.
Then he'd spray the windshield with some sorta soapy liquid, wiping all that off with the magic blue towel until the grime and streaks was totally gone. All the while talking about the weather or the 'goddamm Yankees', or Joe Louis.
And he had BO...yeah, real big guy aroma.....wow.
Man, I wanted to be him, only I'd strap on a gun, as that was the only thing his was missing.
What a cool job!
Just doin' that all day long.
'Check 'at oil?'
'Whuddaya think about them goddamm Yankees?'
tuck
wipe
pump
....kids in the back seat, lookin' at me in awe...wide eyes ogling my holster...and ivory gun handle....and red rag.

One day me and Dad were headin' down the road.
Just him and me,
and he sez, 'Whaddya wanna be when you grow up?'

'A service station guy!'

Things kinda turned south right then.
Dads.
Go figure.
Whud he do for a living? Work in a warehouse?
Prolly jealous.
(http://i.imgur.com/TZYVNOC.jpg)

After that, I never shared my true thoughts with him....for years....decades maybe.

Heh, turns out folks rather frown on service stations guys....with guns.

But, hey, if that ever happens........

(http://i.imgur.com/D8NqEJh.jpg)

Some time ago, a few years now, we were bringing our grand kids to our house for Christmas.
I was in a mood.
This mood was driven by the fact that I wanted Christmas to ourselves, on the coast, hiding, eating decadent things, watching the tides from our bed, hanging the 'do not disturb' sign on the door, humping, sleeping like overfed dogs.
But, n-o-o-o-o, here we were, hauling these two trunk monkeys to our place. And only 'cause their gramma (namaw) didn't want them to have a miserable Christmas.
Now, now their drunken father could swill beer and drive, and maybe (be still my heart) smack into a telephone pole, killing only hisself.
And their mother (our daughter) could freely run around with her despicable friends to parties, doing mile long lines of coke, and whatever I don't care to know.

There they were, in the back seat, smacking each other over the head with The Pokey Little Puppy and Tootles.

We passed an entertainment park.

Voices from the back seat;

'ENCHANTED F-O-O-R-R-REST!!!'

'We had the best time there!'

'Good rememories.'

A rush of memories came to me too.
The Alice in wonderland path.
Keeping up with them.
Wheezing.
Panting.

They did enjoy themselves though.
Getting lost in the funhouse.
Screaming hysterically midway in the rabbit hole.
Getting cotton candy everywhere.
Buuuut once their namaw calmed me down and cleaned me up, I was good to go.

We were almost home.
The little one, we call him 'Mayo', still had a smile on his face as his older brother patted him on his head, wiping his sneeze goo filled hand in his brother's hair.

As we pulled into the drive, the monkeys, dead asleep, slumped over in their seatbelts like they'd been shot, stirred, jumped up and fought each other to be first in the house, first at the tree, first into the stockings hanging by the tree, giving me a rush of rememories too.

We played table games as namaw cooked, wrestled in the living room until we knocked off some yuletide dainties, and shot pellet guns in the back yard.

Little did I know that that Christmas was gonna be one of the best times ever for them.......and for this old humbug too.

They grow so fast

aaaand I got old rather fast too

I hope y'all are having a very merry Christmas

Cheers

Santy O'

(http://i.imgur.com/ZGNDOxG.jpg)

For the last month I was getting a mental message I needed to contact an old buddy in Pocatello.  We hired out on the railroad in the same switchman, brakeman class.  Our seniority date was 7/22/76.  He and I both were working stiffs.  I drove ready mix truck - he was a head down hind end in the air production welder for Bucyrus-Erie at the Gun Plant in Pocatello before we went railroading.  Being close to the holiday I did not want to bother him.  It is not unusually for me to get those weird got to call things once in a while.  I just dismissed it.... 

We both thought a lot a like, we were both very prone to speak our minds but never ever would talk to any manager about anyone or anything that might get some one in trouble.  There was sort a band of brothers and sisters on the railroads back then.  Certain line you never crossed.  Well those of us that subscribed to such.  If some one needed talked to I always figured as he did I could hold my own talking or other ways.  It was an unwritten rule or law thou shall not blow in a brother or sister no matter what.  We were last of the rails that railroaded the old way.  We knew cabooses and helper engines.  A and B locomotives, goats, and yard dingers.  Stuff that people that hire out now never will know.  We never will learn their ways so it is reciprocal....  We did most our railroading without radios and were fluid in railroad hand signs.  He stayed in train service I went in to engine service.  I could tell who some one was by their hand signs and the way they were delivered.   

I went out to town yesterday and had a cell phone message from a cousin of his.  My buddy passed away Christmas Eve in his sleep.  She said he had always talked very highly of me and thought I needed to know.

Damn Shane I miss ya' sorry I did not call....... Most likely will drive to Pocatello and say good by to a brother.......         

I'd like to leave this thread alone a bit, and just bump it for a few days.
Folks need to read stuff like this.
It's raw, it's real, it's life.

Thank you for sharing, Rick

 'Interesting' Gary is sad.  How the mind slips way as if vanishing down the drain of life.

Dad who was my best friend and we could talk about everything.  He did not attach to Interesting, but "Yes Sir" just say it.  "Yes Sir" that was it...Some times it was 'Yes Sir, Yes Sir'.  I was expecting a tale of horsemanship or hardship that he went through, or cows or a bull he had owned but it was a simple 'Yes Sir.' and that was it and stare off into space.     

I noticed it with my mother - Hers was, "Well when things get straightened up." Then once in a while she would trow a curve ball, "Well when things get straightened out." 

We got a call one day she needed to go to the hospital.  She had been 'failing' more and more.  We knew that but now they were detecting a discharge  a little blood was showing up on her sheets and panties.  So we drove her to the hospital.  The doctor met us in a hall way and told us the prognoses was not good.  She is in a lot of pain though she would never admit it.  He could not properly examine her.  He suggested that we bring her back tomorrow and they might be able to and then there was a battery of tests like bone density and .......... 

I cut the doctor off. 'My mom is eighty some years old.  She does not ever know who I am or anyone else.  She has no quality of life, for the past couple years she has refused to eat other than a spoon full if this or that and she is done.  Why are you going to put her through hell and scare her with all these tests.  She is done man, done.  Unless you can regenerate her body and mind.'

He looked at me when I finished and said, 'We can make her comfortable if that is what you want.  We can set up hospice care for her.... '   In other words I pretty much wrote moms ticket out of here.

I had one chuckle from her we were leaving Boise on the freeway and went by a Ford Dealership.  All the cars were parked in nice even rows of course.  It was dark but the nightlights shone bright on all those cars.  She busted out into a laugh like she used to laugh and said 'What the hell are they all parked there and looking at.  My God that is stupid!'  And just laughed

Mom loved Chinese food and I asked her that trip the last trip I had her on.  'Young lady would you like to stop off and get some Chinese food.'
She did not laugh or kid back but simply said, 'No sir you better get me home my mom and dad are waiting up for me.....'

With in a week or two she was no longer with us...............     

Dang, Rick. What a great read, brother.



Here's some introspect where I think I'm at..pretty sure;

2014

SHEESH, twenty fourteen.
Twenty anything.
Never considered getting here.

My father is dying, but more active than me.
My woman is moving slower, but can do laps around me when we walk.

We stare, blankly, wondering what the hey each other is saying.

My grandkids are big....huge.
I mostly just wanna kick their hind ends now.

I hurt....in the weirdest places (everywhere).

My gut makes odd, possessed noises....somewhere between freight train and garbage disposal.

I itch......places I no longer can get at.

My vision is not far reaching, nor close range, so I squint with a quizzical look on my grizzled mug.
 
I can't smell my own farts.

My hands sleep longer than I do.

If something I need falls to the floor, I kick it over by furniture so I can hold on, on the way down.

There is no 'easing' into the lazyboy.

I drink gallons of water to keep my pee stream in the realm of pathetic.

I can't hear much of anything due to that constant freaking ocean noise.
Which makes sense, because my ears are starting to resemble conch shells.

I often wondered why old folks are all grumpy and crotchety all the time.


Heh, we've earned it.

Well said Gary

Heh we earned it....  Love it.....

Age or experience oft is discounted as being set in his ways.....   ;D 

Keen observation usually from someone that does not know _________ from Shinola.  But can not miss an opportunity to offer criticism!     

So.......all I did was fix the oven, and my immediate reward is acute bursitis.
The only perk is my shoulder now smells like a peppermint patty.

Damn...ovens.....a foot off the ground. Thus, I've gotta hunker down....double up the kitchen sink rug for knee padding and lean into the oven.
Simple job really, two screws, two terminals.
Twist, twist.
Snap, snap.
Tada!
New element.

Heh

The connections are in the back of the oven.
A very dark oven (breaker is off).
Trouble light? Moi? Naw.
After fumbling around in the dark, leaning in, for, oh say, fifty seven seconds, my back tells me that using a trouble light is a pretty darn good idea.
I sit back on my haunches.
A yoga like move that I've learned to use after my customary realization that I'm gonna need approximately 27 more tools for this simple job.

An immediate burst of energy enervates throughout my being.
Enabling me to jump straight into the air, uttering an adjective of enlightenment on the way up; 'AAAHHHHGNAAAGHHH!'
Seems my left testicle was nestled comfortably behind my leg, turning the back of my knee into a human vise.

The enlightenment?

Along with the sweats, I really should wear underwear when doing even the simplest of household tasks.

I realized that at my age I don't really give a rat's butt anymore.

.. If walking is good for your health, the postman would be immortal.

.. A whale swims all day, only eats fish, drinks water, but is still fat... A rabbit runs and hops and only lives 15 years, while

.. A tortoise doesn't run and does mostly nothing, yet it lives for 150 years.

And you tell me to exercise?? I don't think so.

Just grant me the senility to forget the people I never liked,

the good fortune to remember the ones I do, and the

eyesight to tell the difference.

Now that I'm older here's what I've discovered:

1. I started out with nothing, and I still have most of it.

2. My wild oats are mostly enjoyed with prunes and all-bran.

3. I finally got my head together, and now my body is falling apart.

4. Funny, I don't remember being absent-minded.

5. Funny, I don't remember being absent-minded.

6. If all is not lost, then where the heck is it ?

7. It was a whole lot easier to get older, than to get wiser.

8. Some days, you're the top dog; some days you're the hydrant.

9. I wish the buck really did stop here; I sure could use a few of them.

10. Kids in the back seat cause accidents.

11. Accidents in the back seat cause kids.

12. It's hard to make a comeback when you haven't been anywhere.

13. The world only beats a path to your door when you're in the bathroom.

14. If God wanted me to touch my toes, he'd have put them on my knees.

15. When I'm finally holding all the right cards, everyone wants to play chess.

16. It's not hard to meet expenses . . . they're everywhere.

17. The only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.

18. These days, I spend a lot of time thinking about the hereafter . . .I go somewhere to get something, and then wonder what I'm "here after".

19. Funny, I don't remember being absent-minded.

Too good.
I've got to save that, in file, somewhere.............




I went to bed last night with a severe case of the giggles.
Wonder if this is the flip side of my male menopause malady.

So, yeah, we trudge to bed.
My woman is out before she hits the pillow.
I'm layin' there doing all I can to stifle my uncontrollable brevity.

In writing about our early marriage experiences, back in the far regions of a frontal lobe, I stumbled upon an occasion that I've tried hard to forget.
It's funny, embarrassing things one did in their youth become pretty fond memories if one lives long enough.

It was in the very early seventies.
Had just one tiny child.
We were both still very lithe, and rather dewy.
We were at the beach.
Cheap thrills, sand, sea, beer.
Saw a guy carrying his woman to the ocean and tossing her in.
Good idea.
I whisked my lady up and started running to the sea.
Thing is, I hadn't fully straightened up.
So I'm running...still tilted forward.
Now I'm running....rather desperately....to keep from falling.
My wife is kicking,screaming.
It's not helping.
My strategy of running fast enough to recover balance is not working.
I maybe made it 50 feet.
Then lurched, fell forward...landing in a somewhat ungainly heap.
Wet sand is hard.

The scene just struck me funny last night.

I may need to see a shrink.

Well, crap.

I may have fallen head first into male menopause.

I had to move some financial stuff around...I mean I 'had' to.
Thought it'd be a struggle.
Wrung my hands for days...OK, maybe a few hours.
Then made 'the call'.

'Sure Mr O, not a problem.'
'We'll send you the details and confirmation number tomorrow.'
I wanted to cry....really, got all choked up, couldn't talk.
Only mustered out a frail  'thank you'
'Is there anything else we can do for you, Mr O?'
'No'
'Well, you have a nice day now'
'You too'

Watched American Idol the other night.
Had to turn the light off by my lazy boy.
Didn't want my woman to see her hairy an ol' man blubberin' away, face all twisted up, cause some pimple faced kid got a gold ticket.
Had to pretend cough to keep from exposing my sissy self.

just can't hold it in.

Analyse this, here I am.

Man, I need to punch something

Ever sit on the back deck of a late summer afternoon and, in a quiet moment, a child or grandchild will come barrelin' around the corner, panting, temporarily spent, plopping down in the porch rocker beside you?
And you grab their interest by whittling on sumpm....
And they say, 'papaw, what'r ya makin'?'
'A punjab.'
And their interest is piqued, so you go into an analytical story of the workings of a punjab in relation to life itself.
Only their interest fades to REM stage, fighting the afternoon nap by jumping up and running off....right in the middle of yer profound dissertation of the dangers of teenage hood....

I mean, so what if you were peeling potatoes for supper.

.......coulda been a punjab.

Gun love

Man, I've got this gun fetish.
Had it since I started walking on my hind legs.
I'm not gun nuts, only one cabinet, no safe, no shrines.
But
Since I was a kid, and bought that Winchester 30-30, I've always had a piece of metal that I've worshiped.
Right now it's my Ruger GP-100 357.
It fits my hand s-o-o-o-o-o well.

And the trigger action;
squeeze
Zero barrel movement all thru the action.

Been a 1911 nut for decades.
Used to time myself, stripping, cleaning, re-assembling.
It's been nothing but a pain, lately.

But that revolver.

It's love.

Sorry Springfield, Kimber, S&W.....you sexy sluts

Ruger 357
damn near self-cleaning;
(http://i.imgur.com/7UtKo7K.jpg)

Adventures of living at Prairie

WOW as I ponder the last couple weeks and wonder where they went.  I like most people  building a house sort of get wound up tight and forget the good stuff.  Some times the good stuff comes easier - some times good stuff comes hard.  Some times the hard stuff comes disguised as bad but is good......

It all comes with a price be it good or bad.  The little country store up here has had every other week Taco Tuesdays all you can eat tacos – Some times people bring something to toss out on the table and we graze.  After word the dominoes and the pinnacle cards come out.  Table and chairs are moved all around and they play - some of us watch and talk.  I used to play pinnacle before the railroad stole my life.  Now I am watching and remembering those times before the railroad.  The game is coming back to me slowly now.  I talked to a logger up here harvesting timber from the burn for a while.  He just dropped in to see what condition his condition was in.  He drank a beer or two - the kind that has Clamato.  Me I'm sober since 1989 so I nurse a Diet Coke or an iced tea.  On the wall the large screen TV is playing off the satellite dish.  No one is apparently paying any attention to it.  Well until out of the blue some stud types show up on the TV with some girls that have almost nothing on.  And what they do have on sort of resembles a for us old guys that can remember back that far a Fredericks of Hollywood catalog  or if you are a young'in todays Victoria Secret catalog.  A couple of the women made a mad dash for the remote.  Elaine scored the remote and thumbed the channel off to something at looked like a test pattern.  I heard said, "It's a good thing Mary did not see that with her grandkids here."  They were all over across the room playing a board game or a card game.  I was unaware if they were aware of the TV.  Yet if we the adults were aware most surly the kids had their radar on......  Thank God America is not dead.  Thank God a Norman Rockwell painting still lives like this.  Places scattered out across this land.  I think God we still can visit them, and most of all to be part of them.   

As I wrote here in - some times the good stuff comes easier, some good stuff comes hard sometimes it is disguised.  It all comes with a price be it good or bad.  Our last February or first of March trip to town had a disaster moment.   It was a  disaster yet nothing was hurt really other than self pride, self sufficiency.  In classes I have taken those two culprits, those two exact things keep us away from the clan of man and others.  They cause us to almost fell we are more important and more creative than God Himself.  So I thank God no one was hurt, no one was injured   Yes no one was injured and as by what I will call divine providence it occurred where it did.  The road being closed between Boise and here.   There are road closed signs posted and if caught you can be ticketed.  The road around by the dam is a lot longer and tiresome.  Yet has a lot more paved miles.  It is sort of thou shalt things yet......  I knew the road from Boise was passable because the highway district has been working on it.  In fact I even called some one from the highway district and asked them what they thought.  I received the same answer I would have replied had it been me.  'Ya give it a shot and if you don't like it turn around and go back.'  Sounds so simple yet......how many people in the west and Pacific Northwest every year get stranded or freeze to death or die from exposure just doing the same thing?  The road from Boise is no exception.  Yet I know the road and know I can turn around and go back.  So I talk myself and my wife and the dogs into lets give it a try.  All three agree we shall.  However by doing so it could have been injurious to my wife and I - and others.  We turned off the freeway and went around the sign.  We almost made it to the top of the first grade or summit.  The road has a fairly thin coating of clay mud sort of like a potter slip.  I am holding over to the middle of the road or a little past.  Yet I cannot hold it over.  I turn the wheel  slightly, gingerly  to correct it.   It is slowly yet surly pulling me to the barrow pit or ditch on the other side of the road.  Like a NASA video of a black hole devouring a star that is our pick up.  In my mind I triangulate our course in my head.  We might make it.  A short 120 feet from the top I stop because we are now caught in the Idaho clay mud vortex for sure.  So I stop......  I think to myself if I put it in reverse we might just be able to back down to safety.  So I do and take my foot off the brake and are body slammed in to the barrow pit and the side hill. But we do stop.  I open the door and step out to assess the situation.  It is so slick with the Idaho clay 'dobby' mud you can not stand up.

As I mentioned earlier providence in deed divine providence for this is absolutely the last place on this route that you in close proximity to cell phone service until you reach the spotty service of Prairie  Down below this point there two other place after you leave the pavement where if you are addicted to you cell phone you can stop and treat your cell phone withdrawals.  Oh there are places but from the road and not a three hour climb to a mountain summit - up and back down in the dark just to check your Facebook page.  Call three friends and post something on Twitter.  So  I reach in and get my cell phone.  And struggle to the top of the hill though not far yet it is with this mud you can not hardly walk.  Yet maybe thirty feet there is sand - and the going gets good well not good but better......   I check for service....  It is there ..... Now my next dilemma......  Who do I call? ......Who is one my A list to call?  I think it over and call Pastor Joseph the guy that worked with me framing the house.  I tell him our problem and ask if he can give us a hand.  Joseph says he will be right there.  Well as right there as can be.  For it is an hour from Prairie to there on a good road.  This is not a good road.  So I go back to the pick up and change into my insulated bibs a grubby shirt - no coat because it is going to be trashed.  I get Sid the Shovel out of the tool box and a bunch of log chain and the pick up tire chains - one set.  I go under the front end and start pulling mud and cleaning sticky clay mud from the front end.  I get a set of chains on there.  I figure as as much time as I have I might as well try the rear end as well.  That turned out to be a lot harder or bordering on impossible with the bank where it was.  But it was something to do. Dig we must.....

About an hour and a half Joseph arrived white knuckled and not impressed with the road.  We talk about the options of getting us out.  I want him to pull me from the head end on the sandy spot on the road.  He opts for the rear end snatch grab and jerk out of the barrow pit thing.  I talk him into the head end being so I am chained up there.  So he gets into position  hook up and pull us out half way.  I take another hook and out it comes.  So now how do we get home?  Joseph says he figures back to the freeway and around by the dam.  And we can buy him dinner he missed in Mt. Home.  One thing about Pastor Joseph - God first then there is a jumble of helping others and food.  And he is thin and in shape.  I wonder when it is going to come crashing down on him. So far so .........  So I get turned around and down off the hill I come on that slick mud with the chains on the head end.  With more than a half ton of wonder board and other stuff in the back and chains on the front.  The rear wanted to be in the front, and the front in the back.  So would have speed up to keep it straight then slowly slow back down and the rear end would try and pass again.  I wanted to get the chains off but something was telling a little further a little further.  When we got to where there is a small RV park I stopped and jumped out to pull off the chain and got a laugh.  I went to the rear and no chains.  Huummm!  OH YA! Headend. DUHH!! Head end..... Joseph and I stood there and talked a short time, and someone else showed up and we told them what happened to us. They decided to go around as well.   We made sure Joseph was well feed on the way home.....

I look back the bad was not all that bad fact of the matter it was really pretty good that nothing bad had happened.  It was good that Joseph would come to our aid.  It was good I stopped where I did and we could get the other couple turned around or they surely would have ended up as we did.  Life is never dull with Norman Rockwell......

Man, be gone a coupla months and I miss a Rick read.....



Dad passed away last week.
91

Man, I must be a weird ol' coot.
I just don't get sad or down with anyone's passing.
I may have spent a bit too much time with tribal elders.

Folks close, my sister, mom, grandfolks, friends, and now dad.
They all experienced what we know as life.
And then, in some way, they go back.
Pretty simple.
Either you savor life, the good and the bad, or you get all careful and watch TV or something....you become a watcher....now that's sad.


Folks around the shop kept askin' 'how ya doin'?
'Fine, you?'
The owner stopped by my office and asked if I wanted a card, knowing how I am.
I selfishly said no, then reconsidered....

I'm giving the eulogy at his memorial on the 24th.
Nobody else around willing or emotionally able.
Guess everyone has some sorta purpose.

Can't wait to get back to the cabin next month.

Gary sorry for your loss.  It wasn't but last fall I lost my Dad as well.  When it does come close to home which I am sure it will just remember it is a part of life.  We will survive but there will always be a piece missing. 

Gary I have been wondering about dad.  Must be the vibe thing.  I am sure sorry to read his passing.  I am taken remembering your writing of interesting from time to time as I take a rest now and then.  I look over the hills and meadows - honest the word interesting pops in to my head.  I smile and giggle under my breath.  Don't want to let anyone know I have lost it any worse than I already.  I think someday ---- interesting ------ wonder what is under that rock ---- interesting.  Drove an Arizona highway I could see ahead forever ------ interesting.      Wonder what is up over that saddle as I climb a draw ---- notice a bug I don't think I seen before ----- interesting.  Thanks Gary now I have a song locked in my head.... interesting.  Your dad made more than one impression.....           

Well.....ain't you guys the peach trees in this filbert orchard

Quote from: Gary O on May 15, 2014, 07:51:51 AM
Well.....ain't you guys the peach trees in this filbert orchard

I like to think of us being the sycamore in the ponderosa pine forest.  The one pine tree that grows in the middle of a desert flat.  I think of myself being the one guy in the office (never worked in one) on tie less or blue jean Friday show up with a suit and tie or a tux and scowls at those that would so conform. 

I've spent most of the week composing my father's memorial.
I've given speeches, held seminars, been the keynote speaker more than a few times, but it seems these events were just a preparation for this.

Not sure how many will be there this Saturday, it bein' Memorial weekend and all.
I really don't care.

If there's only ten of us, we'll share eleven people's memories of my Dad.

If the church is full, well, it's gonna get intimate.

I can make folks laugh and I can make 'em cry.
I'm the funeral guy.
The crowd is easy...emotions are at nerve ends, ready to erupt.

But this is so different.

There is no way I'm going to 'perform'.

I'm going to give my utmost to simply, surgically, depict everything I know about my Dad,
everything I've ever understood about my Dad,
everything good, everything not so good.....about my Dad.
Nobody will go home not knowing a bit more.... about my Dad.

Funny thing.
He'd be proud.

I wish I could see him,
in the audience,
one more time,
nodding his head,
smiling that smile that only he could.

Wish I could, one more time.

Sure wish I could....just one more time.

Gary sounds like your living the best of times....living the worst of times..... good to miss him.  The alternative sure is not cool.....

Welp, the festivities are over.

I knew about ten people of the 200 or so that came.
Hate it when they know me and I don't know them from Adam.


I'm now officially the eldest of the clan.

My head hurts. (freaking Irish wakes)


I'm precutting timbers for the new cabin.

Life goes on......

Quote from: Gary O on May 26, 2014, 08:47:23 AM
Welp, the festivities are over.

I knew about ten people of the 200 or so that came.
Hate it when they know me and I don't know them from Adam.


I'm now officially the eldest of the clan.

My head hurts. (freaking Irish wakes)


I'm precutting timbers for the new cabin.

Life goes on......

Thanks for the update and sharing.....

rlr

Not to belabor it...oh, why not.
One more shot.
There's only one funeral per customer.

So I'm the keynote speaker, or...not sure what the preacher said.....sumpm about life portrait, a synopsis per se.

Anyhoot, my brother nudges me and sez he wants to get up with me to say a few words.
Heh, he laid the first egg, and it was a doozey.

Yeah, we both bombed.

OK, there were over two hundred folks there...totaling eighteen thousand years.
Do the math.

Now I had a string of successful funerals hangin' on my belt, going back precentury.
Laughing, crying.
Pretty confident this would be no different.

I don't think anyone moved. Ever.
It was like talkin' to the stones on Easter Island.
I kept checkin' the mike.


After my brother crashed and burned, I looked at my notes and mentally scribbled out half the jokes.

I tried one, just to make sure;
'Dad always told me that if you are nervous about talking in front of a group, just envision them all in their underwear.'
I slowly panned the audience, stopped and stared at a couple grizzled degeneratarians.....then shuddered.
My brother, our wives, and a few folks laughed...then caught themselves.

Some folks think funerals are for sorrow and weeping only.
I call BS.
I consider that to be a bit too masochistic.
My dad enjoyed a good laugh.

So, my brother, our wives, and some select clan hit the bar down the road.
Man, the memories we shared were hilarious.
Not sure, but I think we closed the place.

'twas a good sendoff.

In many cultures, the funeral is more of a celebration of life.  Sure you feel pain and sorrow about not having the person around anymore, but then you think about how it would be if you were in that casket your friends and family were all standing around crying and feeling terrible.  I think everyone grieves differently, and even if you feel terrible you should force a chuckle at a speech like that because you know the person speaking needs you to.  After all the funeral is for the living left behind, not the person that has passed away.

Sorry for your loss. 

I can identify with this, Adam...it's rather tribal.

To add a bit, my family spirit beings seem able to be touched.
When I hold a saw, my grampa comes very much alive.

Ellen asked me if I would preach and officiate my father-in-laws funeral.  I told her I would be honored.  I made one mistake  I took a chance with an open mic.  One granddaughter went to the mic and told everyone there they ought to lighten up....  Grandfather would not have liked the sad and solemn funeral and she did not either.  If looks could kill she would have been zapped and slapped by my mother in law......   Apparently none of us seemed to have seen him in the same light as she did.  None of us seemed to remember him as the fun loving quick witted person she seen grandfather as.  To me his personality and humor was left frozen in the North Dakota farmlands when he escaped off to the CCC's pre WWII.  This was also noted by a lot of people shuffling their feet and looking at their laps and a twinge of head shaking wondering just were in the world she came up with that one.  Very practical was Ellen's side of the family.  Lightening up did not seem to be in the fold of the German - Norwegian tradition he had propagated.  Pretty simple and straight forward was his stock......

My concentration sort of took a left turn thinking of everyone in Bozo the Clown hair and noses.  It was a sort of military funeral as he was a WWII vet.  Sort of spoiled the flag folding and presentation for me.   I managed to capture the somber tone once again as the bulk seemed to demand.  By golly I managed to pull it back in and pull it off........     

   

So, the JB weld on the Jeep radiator housing finally gave up the ghost.
Dang, I think that was six months ago.

To braze or not to braze?

Aftermarket radiators are $150.
S-o-o-o-o, got it, the hoses, clamps, coolant.

Simple job.
I'll just knock this out and be watchin' jeopardy in an hour.

Took me all evening.

The toughest part of it all was getting the intake hose off the engine...and on the engine.
It's underneath....hiding...behind several other lines, hoses and brackets, and greasy things.
I could see it.
I could feel it.
I could actually get my hand wrapped around it.
That is all.

OK, taking it off...a razor knife....duh.
However, getting the hose clamp off was an adventure.
I could put my fingertip on the screw.
My trouble light revealed I was touching the non-screw end.....
It takes approximately 47 minutes to grind off a hose clamp when lying on yer back, reaching up with weary quivering 65 yr old arms.

Putting the new one on....not so fast, nimrod.
There's a convenient rise in the flange end so one can know there will be no leaking of coolant once the hose is on and the clamp is fastened in the correct position.

Once the hose is on.

After repeated attempts to press the hose on, I came to the realization that I shoulda worked out with those handgrips for '20 minutes every night' that I'd promised myself several years ago.

Soap!

I'll just slather the flange and the inside of the hose with soap!

In my weakened state, it didn't seem to matter.

In one last effort, before trudging to the showers in utter defeat, I took my bad arm, the one that is just happy to hang by my side, sometimes, on a good day, holding down the shift tab on the keyboard....and reached up, grabbed that hose, and, gritting my partials, doggedly pressed it, one more time....evenly onto the flange.

I'd like to take just a minute here to expound on the obscure long term benefits of the many teen and preteen months of, shall we say, extracurricular activity.
That hand is still amazing, and evidently still has more purpose than just opening stubborn canning jars.

The Jeep is now able to hold in all it's coolant, and all is now well in my tiny world.

Dawgs are the greatest of drinking partners;

They don't tell stupid stories.
They don't get louder.
They don't sing...unless you do.
They're not offended by the term 'bitch'.
They're not offended by your farts. They enjoy them, taking in as much as possible, then looking into your eyes with an expression of sincere admiration that says 'good one'....and.....theirs are much much more potent.
They hang around when you pass out...especially if they are already passed out.
The snoring, twitching and air running is acceptable (they are really not bothered by whatever you do).
They have sense enough to take it outside when they feel the urge to throw up....or pee.
(I recommend drinking on the back deck for the lesser intellectual pups...or people).
But, if you happen to be the one to inadvertently blow chips, say, on the floor or deck, they don't go 'ewwwww!', but have been known to diligently clean things up....you don't even have to ask.
No training required.

and

walking sideways over to the water bowl is hilarious!

Ode to ol' Gray



So' I've got this rag bin.

It's my special dresser drawer.

Third one down.

Where I keep the holy raiment of yore.

These are semblances of tank tops, sweat shirts, button up shirts.
They cannot be hung in the closet, lest they wither, spindle and involuntarily fall off the hanger to the carpet, never to be found, draped atop the dusty 17 pairs of shoes I never wear.

I have one that is the favorite of the favs.

It was a tank top, a gray tank top....pretty sure.
He comes to 'old Gray'.
Holes are getting bigger.
Thus, ol' Gray is getting bigger.
I think he's a 4X now.
I won't tell him.
He has a perpetual stain in the belly area.
I won't tell him that either.
Found him in the garbage a few months ago.
IN THE GARBAGE!!
Ol' Gray......tossed like....like....a rag.
I gently pulled him out of the refuse, like an abandoned newborn child.
Shook him at my woman.
Coffe grounds flittering to the floor.
'THIS! IS OLD GRAY! MR GRAY TO YOU!
IF HE GOES, I GO!!'

Dinner in the garage was cold.

I just laid him in the wash this morning.
I always have a bit of angst when I do this.
Hoping he doesn't get caught up in the lint catcher.
One day, not long from now, he'll become just a wad of fuzz, frolicking in the dryer.
Not a bad way to go, really.
I miss him already.

But,

Mr Beachy, my 'South Beach' imprinted blue tank top is waiting in the wings, fourth drawer down.
Akshly, he no longer shows South beach. I think it's 'out each', of which is a conversation piece with the babes.

'the babes' is my sweatshirt, keeping company with Mr Beachy in the fourth drawer, as I type.
Had to retrieve her from under the sink, beside the Bab-o cleanser, a few years ago.

I'd rifle thru my woman's dresser drawers and toss all her old underwear out,

but

I like seein' 'em on her too much.

sigh

Recently I received an e-mail from our friends in the Seattle really the Tacoma Area.  Wondering where I am going to write my best seller in the house now that the house is pretty much complete or finished. I did come up short an office or writer's space in the design.  That was okay I told myself after all I am getting to old for that dream. I never have published.  I have never sold a story nor a book.  Nor a photo or anything I have created. Photography and writing was always been 99.9% as when I cook for my own enjoyment.  Oh I do toss out snippets of what I write now and then.  Or post a photo somewhere.  But most of my stuff is just mine. Yet there in the back of my mind there is always the idea of a project that I do sell.  That people clamor for more books and articles.

This letter of query did kick my mind in to gear and free some writer's rust. So I replied

Well that is a great question and I really have pondered that one.a lot.  I so hate typing on a laptop.  Writing is a struggle.  Yes it is a struggle for me anyway!  Wink!! Let alone on a laptop.  But when I go into writers mode my brain is firing so much stuff at me just trying to get a few chunks copied and secured is not easy.  Proofreading is a joke because my mind knows what I wrote.  I reread it and it is what I wanted to says but did not hit the page at all.  Right there somewhere between mind - fingers - eyes and jumble...  So when I proof read it is like my mind sees it as it should be but not as it is.  Hard to explain.

I am so excited by the thought of a desk with my 'old I Mac'.  Dad had a smallish desk we kept.  Small file drawers on both sides.  Pencil drawer in the middle.  I am thinking it was a Thomasville most likely wrong on that. But if you go back through when you were here.  The one bedroom that had the closet with the cubby hole above.  (Not the one Ellen said was going to be her sewing room / spare bedroom)  Single window off to the west.  That desk goes in there between the closet and the outside wall.  A niche just made for a desk.  I have a feeling I will spend a lot of time there and on the 'kitchen table'  or the dinette / nook table where we all sat while you guys were here.

But then after I sell ten million copies of my best seller I will have my own writer's cabin.  Wink!!!  With its custom built bookcases and my huge rosewood desk that I kept from the downstairs office.  The cabin is smallish with western artifacts and an old pot belly stove trimmed in nickel.  Glowing cherry red as I crank out page after page while Ellen is sewing her quilts on her longarm machine in the Quilters Cabin next door not far away yet worlds away.  Hers I see has been invaded by a ton of gabby ladys visiting most likely dropping off an applique for her to quilt.

I the writer am stumped - I'm tired and need a nap.  Funny how exhausting writing can be.  I trudge over and say Hi! I listen to the gossip for a couple minutes.  I raid the teapot of some spicy concoction filling a Shelley Dainty Blue tea cup.  I stand there in the middle of the room with cup and saucer in hand like a snubbing post in the middle of a corral.  The writer moves to the counter and eyes the cookies the quilter in residence has set out.  He stashes a few Snickerdoodles in his writers coat pocket and I notice my famous Chef Paul Prudhomme's Decadent Chocolate Chip Cookies were also visiting the Quilters Cottage today.  Two of those go into the cookie pocket depository.   As he sets the cup and saucer in the sink his mind trails off.  Tails off to when I made those years ago and kids of the neighborhood somehow someway knew it.   Damned little thieves, the urchins  would rob me clean of them....yes rob me bare as quick as they came out of the oven.  Me the writer struggles not to smile at the thought that kids liking them and loved us for not rationing them out.  But then what the heck good is a cold chocolate chip cookie when it can be eaten warm and gooey.  I never could vouch for the milk they consumed.  Me and my lactose intolerance.   
         
As the writer leaves the ladies - he makes a point to not say goodby or even smile just leaves as his custom.  If they say good bye he does reply in kind.  Good byes in life are so unnecessary other than to people you truly care for.  Hi's and Hello's are required.  Glad to see you's often are a damned lie one hides behind.  With his cookie thoughts on his mind the writer trudges back to his cabin.  Back to a writers solitude and loneliness.  So his bruised brain can make up stories of not being lonely and bored.  While the writers loneliness could be nurtured and suckeled to life at the Y Stop or the Prairie Store or any of the ranches around.  He chooses not to.  Yet when he ventures anywhere he is sponging and sucking up all he comes in contact with.  For while part of him is very lonely yet the part of a writer is overflowing with stories and ideas and urges.

He has however noticed how people since he has sold ten million copies now often take time to tell him about their lives and experiences.  Same people a few years ago that would hardly even speak now are chirpy little mynabirds.   Really he does not care to listen and sponge from that so much as experience life but the writer does listen.  After all they buy the books and lots of them.   He notices the phone rings a lot more now.  He also notices he picks and chooses when he decides to pick it up.  When locked in the cabin he just turns it off.  That after I first sell my first ten million.

the writer retires to the room with a window

sits

muses, as he looks across the pond
'the geese have arrived early this fall'

His iphone buzzes

'Hmm, it's an update from my publisher
only ninemillionninehundredthousandninehundredninetynine to go....

well, looky there, Gary O' left a review'

Quote from: Gary O on October 26, 2014, 09:58:17 AM
the writer retires to the room with a window

sits

muses, as he looks across the pond
'the geese have arrived early this fall'

His iphone buzzes

'Hmm, it's an update from my publisher
only ninemillionninehundredthousandninehundredninetynine to go....

well, looky there, Gary O' left a review'

LOL Where I fell in love with writing as an adult was under the stairway to the basement not to long after we were married. I had a sort of cubical where the only windows were the tiny basement windows they allowed back then. 1920 house and all. Wonderful eye level view of a gravel driveway and all. Even watched ants from there dragging stuff over the rocks to where ever the ant hill was. That little retreat is where I set up with an Olivetti portable typewriter (a manual at that)and before long I got a great deal on an electric - then soon a portable word processor. Strange sort of machine. Sort of a go between a typewriter and a computer. This thing had a amber screen sort'a like a computer back then. And when you got finished with your project of maybe a couple pages or so. It seemed then you put the paper in much like a typewriter and pushed a magic button and it printed. Then page two same way.

We moved from there to the house out in the country and a series computers 286 - 386 - 486 then stuff exploded. Experimented with hardware and software from Word Perfect, MS Office and knock offs. I had a wonderful office there. It was in the basement yet still looked up and out. This evolved to my man cave. No TV was allowed in to it. I hate TV except for NCAA Football and Nascar Racing. My mancave was a reading and writing place. I did allow in a sound system. Actually it had an egress window with a wonderful view of a huge galvanized window well part of my love of house remodeling and wood work. Yep I made theses puppies built in. Hand made not out of a Costco nor an Ikea box. The egress window I hired cut out from the concrete basement wall before I framed it. Now today sometimes I sort of wonder what I did to myself selling that and trading that for this.  Now that I am retired and could used it now....

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P1080406.jpg)

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P1080411.jpg)

(https://i593.photobucket.com/albums/tt15/rick91351/P1080412.jpg)

So Gary please hold notice I had nor have no such place with a pond nor lake nor goose, swan nor mallard nor even a moose. The Good Lord gave no providence to claim a view of such let alone a claim to grieve, loon nor even lowly coot do I view. The proposed writers area I shall have a view of sage brush, lava rocks and a small pine tree grove with a hand full of trees and lava rocks. As of late several people have visited our house. They looked at the more than ample walk in master closet and ask is this your writers nook. I start to tremble, no window, no draft or breeze. Yet I would still write. But please Lord give me a view and some air in this stage of my life. Real air that I can draw in and feel.

Gary please also notice I am jealous and found wanting.  You have cranked out several books to completion.  You have actually sold a book or two.  You have an IPhone. Up here where we dwell if it does not have a cord it does not work. So I have no Iphone nor cloud to hide my work and carry it along. Also there is another problem up here in the sticks. I have people that can fall trees and mill them. We have people that can put in a drinking water spring and plumb it to wherever. I swear they are so good they can run water uphill and down the other side to a tap without a siphon nor a pump. But never have a midnight computer failure. Hard drives up here is the road out to Mountain Home or Boise with the sun setting and stealing your vision as you go into the shady spots. Memory up here is said to be not what it used to be...... a keyboard sort of holds up a shed from falling over..... In the valley I had a geek that I swear was awake and up 24/7 and had fixes and hardware and hardly charged me anything. He held a regular job on the railroad as well... I have been over there at three in the morning eating breakfast burritos and drinking Doctor Pepper right along with the head geek.... as well as three in the afternoon eating breakfast burritos and Doctor Pepper...  I found I could receive a good discount in his work not with beer nor whisky, scotch nor bourbon...  But a case of on sale Doctor Pepper, a box of deli hot or cold chicken and a bag of Doritos was worth huge dividends on the next emergency crash call. So goes geekdom....up here.

Well, looky there.
I jus normally assume everone has a smarty phone.


sumpm I writ recently;

Future considerations

In preparing for what I imagine to be an extended 5-10 yr sabbatical (moving to my cabin) in six months, I've come across a bit of a poser.
I'll be off grid, unplugged, relying on gas, diesel, solar, batteries, generators to light a bulb or....maintain some sort of connection to the outside world.

Smart phones are extremely low voltage, and can be tethered to laptops.

So, it appears I must part company with my faithful tracfone, or 'Flippy' as I've come to call my traveling partner.

('bout the only time he calls me is when a new boner pill has hit the market)


I'll miss Flippy, nestled in his little leather pouch clipped to the sun visor in the Jeep.
He never asks for more than $10 every three months.


I've chatted this around.
Seems everyone I know that has smart phone is 'getting ready to upgrade'.

Here's where the problem lies;

Seems now, when you buy a new phone, you might as well immediately saunter a few paces over to the customer service desk and trade it in for....a new, even smarter phone.

So

If I buy one now, it'll be a laughable relic by the time I move to the cabin.

I may just totally unplug....



Naw, Ricky, you are a rich man.
You've got the vision in yer head, same as the old man, imprisoned in a dungeon for decades, hangin' upside down....smilin'.

I will buy yer book.
I'll be of the first.

As for me and my fractured prose, I've lowered my goals a tad.
Now, now my goal is just to match the number of books written with the number sold.


So far, so good.




Two peas in a pod, we are.


Cheers, mate

Well crap.

It happened again.

Watched a rerun of 'The Voice'.

Couldn't keep from blubberin' when the kid from East LA sang this really beautiful song....turned all the chairs.

Ever try real hard to not cry?
Woman thought I'd choked on a popcorn kernel until she saw all the goo erupting from my nose, thru my fingers.

Really whooped it up when they showed his folks all cryin' an' happy.

It's inevitable now.

I need a hysterectomy.

I sit here nursing my coffee and looking at the news.  It appears another Polar Vortex is coming our way.....  I think I am sort of stumped....  I'm 60+ years old.  I am hardly ignorant of current events and weather changes and seasonal stuff.  I know a lot about back woods survival and even know a thing or two about cattle and horses.  I was around the railroad for thirty some years on the east side the Blue Mountains of Oregon in a lot of blizzards as well as whiteouts on the Snake River Plain.  I have seen so much snow on the front of locomotives from hard charging pounding drifts and drifted behind the back door they had to shovel the crew out.  That said I don't remember seeing or even hearing about a polar vortex.....Until last year.  Hummm!!!  Sort'a wonder if they are the same or different than the old Alberta Clippers that Willard Scott on the Today Show reported about.  Something about a Alberta Clipper that I understood just by the name.  Sort'a like a Zephyr or a Chinook I just sort of knew without someone having to explain.  How many movin' parts to a Polar Vortex and who the heck is footin' the bill on this one...... 

Quote from: rick91351 on November 09, 2014, 11:24:04 AM
I sit here nursing my coffee and looking at the news.  It appears another Polar Vortex is coming our way.....  I think I am sort of stumped....

Well, no worries, Rick.
I consulted an extremely reliable source, and it turns out a vortex is one of these;
(http://i.imgur.com/PsGtQyr.jpg)

Howevah

Based on those findings, a polar vortex is none other than one of these;
(http://i.imgur.com/zGSNSWh.png)

Yes that's right, yer common Yeti

No, no need to thank me.

I have this reliable source.....


(http://i.imgur.com/znhy54Q.jpg)

Thanks Gary I figured if anyone could straighten this out it would be you and your reliable clientele.  Cheers!!! 

Yeah

I call 'em Cliff notes.........

As for me;
(http://i.imgur.com/FV4BilG.jpg)

enough about me

where were we...

ah

I think a polar vortex is some sorta huge snowy swirly thing,
so I googled 'huge snowy swirly thing' and it said, see polar vortex.


....and now we know