In the Day

Jacks

2008-07-28T10:06:00.000-07:00

This is a charming memory written by Calamity that I’d like to share.

It may be unusual for a blogger to feature a guest author, but the story, memories and the people need to be remembered. Besides, the name of this blog is “In The Day” NOT “In MY Day”.

Please enjoy!

“Jacks”

A memory from “Calamity”

I wandered into a little boutique this afternoon. They had some little shoes in the window on sale; the kind with little bows and sparkles that a three year old just like my granddaughter would love. They didn’t have her size. But what they did have was a box of old fashioned, metal jacks. I picked them up and smiled, and a warm feeling memory overcame me.

I was in elementary school, about 5^th or 6^th grade. I had received a set of jacks at a birthday party and brought them home. I sort of knew what to do with them and spent about 20 frustrating minutes chasing a little pink ball around the room. Finally I decided that “jacks” was a pretty stupid game. And then Mom came into the room.

My Mom was a smallish woman, a little heavy, and was never athletic due to having polio as a child. She used to tell us stories about her sisters teasing her about her braces and running away when they were walking to school. Mom would never be athletic. No running games, or hiding games, or games that required a lot of physical exertion. But apparently, Mom made up for her lack of physical ability with a proficiency for other games. And “jacks” was her forte!

Mom sat down on the floor with me. She asked if I would like her to show me how to play. I smiled knowing that she probably couldn’t show me much, and nodded. Mom threw the jacks. She tossed the ball and picked up the jacks, one at a time, catching the ball after the first bounce each time. Then two at a time, three at a time, four, fivesies, sixsies, and on through tensies . . . without missing once!

I was astounded! And now Mom smiled . . .

I learned to play jacks that summer and showed my friends. We spent the summer sitting on the linoleum floor, which was the coolest place in an un-air conditioned house, and learned all the games. It seemed that whenever we mastered one game, Mom had another to teach us. We learned: “chickens in the coop”, “pigs over the fence”, “around the world”, “no bounce”, “flying Dutchman” and “eggs in the basket”.

Over the years the jacks became light in weight, made out of tin or aluminum. I have my original set, but the balls rotted out years ago. I wonder if I bought a set of heavy jacks for my granddaughter, she would someday want to know how to play. I wonder if I can remember as well as my Mom, after 40 years.

I’ll bet she could still play, if she were here, and show us all a thing or two at that.

Dark

2008-05-30T10:16:00.000-07:00

I know of a road, (CA 127) which bypasses Interstate 15 between Baker California and Los Vegas NV. The road wanders through Pahrump Nevada, then on to Los Vegas. It is a 50-mile detour, but sometimes it’s shorter than waiting for the freeway (I-15), blocked by an all-to-frequent wreck to be cleared.

It is 100 miles (give or take a few miles) from Baker CA to Pahrump NV. There is only one populated place on the road, Shoshone, at the junction of CA 178 and 127. Shoshone is a gas station and a house. Otherwise, there is nothing.

I know there are hundreds of lonely roads throughout the west just like it, but this road is so close to 2 major metropolitan areas, that its loneliness and remoteness does not register in my thinking.

A late start for the drive to Vegas put us in Baker, CA after dark. A wreck on I-15 near Jean NV, with an expected 3-hour road closure, put us on the dark highway 127 shortcut.

We followed a large truck for 30 miles or so, and I became aware that the ONLY lights we could see were our headlights and the trucks tail lights; we had not passed or seen another car since we left Baker. There was no moon. It was ink-black outside the car.

Just about here-

http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&ie=UTF8&ll=35.72366,-116.29612&spn=0.1048,0.233459&t=p&z=12

I was intrigued by the lack of any man-made light. It was a bit odd, yet familiar, like a misplaced friend’s name. I had camped out many times earlier in my life, and I guess I always took the dark for granted. I really wanted to see the stars again!

I found a shallow turnout, pulled off the road and turned the car engine off, shut off the headlights and stepped out of the car. The interior light of the car made an island of light in the blackness. We closed our doors, and the darkness took over.

The stars above us were a dizzying swarm, the sky gloriously splashed with points of light from horizon to horizon. We both stood and gaped at the sight. Familiar constellations were so bright, yet so surrounded by other points of light, we could not recognize them immediately.

There was a problem.

If you looked away from the stars you could see nothing; not the car, not each other, the highway, nothing. The earth had gone away, only the stars remained. The feeling was disquieting, the sort of “crawly” you get when you think someone is talking about you or looking at you without your knowing.

Our eyes adjusted to the darkness, and we could begin to see the silhouette of the horizon. The lights of Los Vegas 100 miles away made the faintest of glows behind the mountains to the north and LA lights did the same in the south. The glow was so dim, we had to ask one another, “Do you see it too?” It was not comforting. The distance only reinforced the alone-ness of the place.

Afraid is much too strong a word for what we felt. “Discomforted” and “Ill at ease” come closer. Why did we feel that way? There is nothing to fear out there on that highway. The most dangerous being on the planet is mankind, and there were no people in speeding cars with guns, drinking, talking on cell phones and looking for a way to prove their manhood. So what could harm us?

Not wild animals- there are no Grizzly Bears, and a Mountain Lion would surely prefer the smaller and less chewy (probably) sheep down the road. Coyotes are too small to take me on, as well.

The only thing left is fear of the dark and unknown. An ancient inbred feeling that something we can’t see and identify is waiting to eat us, steal our children and send us all to the bottomless pit.

I imagined the night-fear in ancestors long since gone, the feeling of being watched. A time when the flame of a candle or a campfire would be the brightest man-made light on the planet.

I imagined trying to standing between the darkness and my loved ones, surrounded by dangers known and unknown. A wolf, a bear, an enemy, a dark creature of the night made of shadows, waiting to close in around you when the light was gone.

I heard a disembodied shadow nearby say “Can we go now?” and answered, “Yes, I’m ready”. The interior light of the car lit the area as I opened the door. I started the car and banished the surrounding darkness with headlights. All was familiar again. I could see that there was no reason to be fearful.

How fortunate we are to be able to banish our fears so easily.

I will read to you (sort of)

2008-03-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

In hopes of keeping somewhat current with new stuff, I’ve added a “feature” to my blog.
I’ve run across something new that should be helpful to those of us too busy to read my blog.

Perhaps those piles of mending, ironing or uncooked veggies are interfering with the enjoyment available to you by reading my nearly award winning prose.

If this is what holds you back, I have GREAT news for you!

At the very bottom of this page (no, the bottom-bottom, following ALL of the great stories and rants below the blue footer bar), you will find an audio playback slider.
(To be clear, if I could figure out how to get the audio bar to appear somewhere else on the page, I would. I got it on the page and it works, that’s good enough.)

If you click on the little triangle on the left side, ReadTheWords.com will read my blog in an imitation of my voice. It is sufficiently annoying to keep you entertained and then complaining for several minutes.

Of course, for those of you still in the 20^th century, feel free to ignore this feature, and sound out the words for yourself. Be sure to use a Tom Hanks sort of voice, and it’ll be just like I’m there.

Jury Duty

2008-03-15T11:11:00.000-07:00

It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve added anything to this conversation. Blame it on jury duty. It’s a good subject for a Blog, but the law says that you can’t write or talk about the case until it is completely over and done.

The story is this: A 50 something lady and her sister went to JC Penny’s to shop. She was casually dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and carried a 7 or 8-inch square basket purse, open on top with 2 half-circle 6’ bamboo handles. Holding the 2 handles together held the purse closed.

The ladies went separate ways, with our “lady of Interest” (LOI) going to the costume jewelry counter. As the jewelry counter is a high loss area, the store “loss prevention team” began to watch and record her actions with video cameras.

Our subject browsed the ear-rings, holding several up to her ears in front of a mirror, selected a 6” necklace and went to a checkout counter to check the price and was told she’d need to stand in line to do so. She elected not to wait.

She moved off to other areas of the store, keeping the necklace with her as she shopped.

At some point the necklace found its way into the handbag. Loss Prevention accosted the LOI just outside the doors of the store, searched the purse and found the necklace.

Our LOI claimed to have no knowledge of how or when the necklace got into her purse. She offered to make good on the purchase price, but the store refused and called the police.

These are simple facts, but the case was not as obvious as you might think.

The state must prove 4 things in order to convict the LOI of petty theft:

She took the item without permission

She intended to keep the item

She removed the item from the store

She INTENDED to take the item

All of the allegations must be proved “beyond A Reasonable Doubt”. Items 1, 2 and 3 were easy, the tape and testimony proved all 3 fairly conclusively.

Number 4 (Intent) was not so obvious. Prosecution needed to show that the LOI INTENDED to put the necklace in her purse and keep it forever without paying.

The LOI claimed that she tried to get a price check on the item and was turned away due to the line waiting service. She further states that there were no “scanners” available to read the price. Therefore, she put the necklace in her hand (also carrying the purse), continued to shop, rejoined her sister, bought an iron and left the store. She forgot the necklace completely in as much as it was being held in the same hand as her purse, and the purse handle was the same shape as the necklace. She was sure that at some point the necklace inadvertently had fallen out of her hand into the purse. The necklace shape and size fit exactly into one of the 3 sections of her purse, and remained unseen (by her) through the checkout process. This story is more plausible than it sounds. In examining the purse, we confirmed that such an event COULD happen. The purse handles did indeed match the shape of the necklace and the necklace could have slipped easily into the purse.

That’s Reasonable Doubt.

Our LOI was a very normal person. She has a long-term marriage, was employed by a school, but out on disability. She was injured in an accident at the school, and is under the care of a doctor and is using pain medication. She and her sister testified that the medication caused her to be a little woozy and forgetful. There was no doctor’s testimony or a description of the affects of her prescription.

She has never been convicted or accused of anything like this before.

So far (for me at least) it was not an open and shut case. The $29 price of the necklace did not seem to me to be sufficient to cause the LOI to risk the embracement of a trial and possible jail, especially given her history, employment and testimony of her sister.

Others, however, believed that the thrill of the hunt might have played a part. Still others believed that poor service at the checkout counter had “encouraged” the LOI to seek a little revenge.

We were at an impasse.

We decided that the determining factor should be a review of her actions as recorded on the security tape. If there was an indication of dishonesty, we should be able to see it. If not, reasonable doubt would guide us to a “Not Guilt” verdict.

We played the tape- a 40 minute, mind numbing, surrealistic, impersonal snippet of real life in a Penny’s store. People came and went without reason or explanation, were zoomed in upon by the unseen observer for no clear reason. The camera paned and zoomed around the jewelry counter and its adjacent areas relentlessly.

Finally, the LOI entered the picture, purse in her right hand, hanging at her side. You could see the necklace in her hand between the handles of the purse, positioned directly over the purse opening. She moved into an area with several chest high hanging clothing displays. She touched, nor moved nor stopped to look at any of them as she wandered through the display. Her hand carrying the purse and necklace remained at her side, completely hidden from view.

We slowed the video to frame by frame mode and waited for the LOI to exit the clothing display. Her purse hand came into view. Her fingers were moving. Her first finger and her index finger were extended, pointing directly down at the purse.

She had just dropped the necklace into the purse! She was so “casual”, and there was such a “who me?” look on her face that I lost all doubt as to her “Intension”. We could not come up with any reason to move her fingers in the way we had seen OTHER than to drop the necklace.

It was an “Ahhaa!” moment for the entire jury. It took about 5 minutes to wrap up the verdict and notify the judge.

Why did she do it? Who knows? A bad day, medication, revenge for poor service, adventure, whatever the reason, she will be paying a fine and doing a couple of weeks of community service as payment. Oh yes, and paying about $10,000 in legal fees.

Worse still is she may not have told her husband yet.

She should have picked a nicer necklace.

Old Mail

2008-02-23T15:40:00.000-08:00

I get a bunch of mail addressed to “occupant”. We all do, and it’s easy to ignore and send to the recycle bin.

Lately, though, I have been receiving a new kind of mail. Disturbing mail, mail that shows the sender knows far too much about me: Far, far too much about my age.

For instance, yesterday I received an advert asking if I had purchased my burial plot yet. (Well, no, in fact I have not. I’m still pondering the ownership benefits of an RV.) The advert went on to “imply” that I was callous and uncaring about the burden I was about to place on my grieving relatives.

Well CRAP! I didn’t know I was sick, let alone about to die. That’s not the news you want to hear from a letter, at least not one with a glossy picture of a tombstone on the front!

But wait, that’s not all!

I belong to a golf league. It’s fun and gets me out of the house. The golf league membership is divided up into age groups. That’s logical; I don’t want to compete with 20 year olds. I like a more laid-back golf game than they do.

It turns out, however I ended up in the “Super-senior” category. I just never thought of myself as a “Super Senior”, I’m still working on middle aged.

That’s not all bad, I suppose. The beer cart tends to stay closer to us “Seniors”. It carries the defibrillator.

But wait-wait, that’s still not all!

AARP offered me a senior member discount! Think about that. An organization of OLD PEOPLE, is offering me a SENIOR discount. How old do you have to be in order to get the AARP Senior Discount?

I can’t think about this stuff anymore. I gotta go take a nap.

Pasta al dante

2008-02-20T21:44:00.000-08:00

So, we’re sitting at the Palm Desert Marriott eating Carbanara and Calamity says, “I don’t know what kind of pasta that is”. “There are 1000 kinds of pasta, and that’s not one of them”

Well, OK??

The Cowboy Bar II- Duane gets some TLC

2008-02-15T17:24:00.000-08:00

Duane, (we’ll call him Duane, because it’s a good name) was a good ‘ol boy. The local phone company employed him, so everyone knew him and his truck by sight. Having a well-known truck made it harder to get away with anything, but sure made for lots of friends. It also made it hard to get anything done. Anyone seeing his truck, whether parked next to the road working on a cable, or up in someone’s driveway working on a home connection, assumed that Duane would be offended if they didn’t stop to say hello and supervise the job for a while.

The supervision part was the worst. Most people had no idea whatever how a telephone worked, so the supervision usually consisted of several well-worn phrases: “She got power? Check them fuses yet? Prob’ly lightning. Well, gotta go, don’t get ‘lectrocuted!” The last was as much a hope as warning. No one really wanted Duane to be electrocuted, but they sure enjoyed seeing him get shocked, and getting shocked was part of the job.

Although the voltage on a phone line really wouldn’t normally shock you, the voltage used to ring the phone was more than enough to make you jump around and say some bad words. Duane knew some really colorful words, and could put them together in an almost poetic string! It was an event not to be missed, if you could help it.

Duane always suspected that people would go home and dial the phone number of the house he happened to be working on, just to keep him on his toes and see if they could get him to spout some “blue” poetry.

Duane was single, and being employed and regularly paid, he had no trouble finding an occasional date. His idea of a date (not unusual for the area) was divided into 3 phases: phase1 -feeding, phase 2 -drinking/dancing and phase 3 -necking. The amount of time dedicated to each phase depended on the girl, but Duane preferred to move right on to phase 2 and 3 whenever possible. The eating phase usually included polite conversation, and although Duane could converse very well with the boys, the refined nature of dinner talk with a female mostly eluded him. He knew that if you said the wrong thing during the eating phase, phase 3 would disappear, and then what’s the point of phase 2? Duane also knew that if you met a girl at a bar, phase 1 was already taken care of and phase 2 was probably (with luck) well underway. You did have to compete with other guys in the bar with the same plan, but if the girl selected someone else, you weren’t out a dinner, anyway.

Duane liked the women, that was for sure, and it got him in some trouble down at the Cowboy Bar.

Duane and I finished a long day of fixing stuff for other people, and Duane needed a cold Budweiser to get back to his own world. Now, a word in my own defense, I didn’t normally hang out at the Cowboy Bar, but Duane thought it would be real nice if I went with him to meet “The Boys”. He was right; they were a friendly bunch, especially if you bought them a beer. Why, they took you right in as one of their own! Took your beer too.

I was sitting at a table, and Duane went to the bar to pick up the next round (strictly a serve yourself sort of place). The bartender turned his back to make change, and in the blink of an eye this short guy with bowed legs and cowboy hat walked through the door, directly up to Duane and hit him a fearsome whack, right in the mouth.

Duane outweighed his attacker by probably 50%, so Duane took a staggered step back, gave “The Little Cowboy” a snarl, balled up his fist and decked him. From beginning to end, the whole process took maybe two seconds.

Duane stood rubbing his spit lip with sort of a hurt look on his face (that doggy “why me” look), as The Little Cowboy got to his feet. Duane collected himself and yelled, “Why the hell did you do that? Who the hell are you?” Duane was so stunned by the situation; even his usual command of colorful language had escaped him.

The Little Cowboy regained his footing next to the bar, holding his already swelling eye (looking like he had somewhat less conviction than before he got decked) and said, “You can’t steal my girl and get away with it!”

The quizzical look on Duane’s face deepened, like the look you see on a kid taking a test in school he hasn’t studied for, or a dog’s look when talked to by a drunk. He was sort of hoping someone would give away a clue without him having to say anything.

There was silence in the bar.

Duane came up blank. His brain and memory had deserted him completely. Absolutely nothing and no one came to mind. He hadn’t been out on a date for several weeks, and the date had been with an old steady girlfriend (no Phase 1 required). Duane had no idea who The Little Cowboy may have been talking about, so in desperation he blurted out the name of the last girl he had dated, followed by a somewhat righteous speech.

"Oh man, are you Ronda’s boyfriend? I had no Idea she had a boyfriend. You coulda just told me though; you didn’t have to hit me. I don’t need to date somebody else’s girl!”

The Little Cowboy looked at Duane, and said two words that made the bar go deathly still; “Who’s Ronda?”

There was a long, pregnant pause, and the Little Cowboy (not being able to stand the silence) blurted “You can’t deny you took Charlene out last week! Her best friend mentioned you by name! You can’t duck this one, Troy!”

There was another pause- 2 seconds, 3 seconds, then, as though someone had given some silent signal, everyone in the place exhaled, and began to talk at once. The bartender did what a good bartender should, and took charge. He looked The Little Cowboy straight in the eye and said (in very simple words so as not to be misunderstood; “This is not Troy, this is Duane. Duane is Troy’s LITTLE brother. If I’s you, I’d save myself another black eye, and go get a new girl friend. Now, before Duane gets mad, get the hell outa here”.

The Little Cowboy looked at the bartender, looked at Duane, then scanned the faces of other patrons in the room for confirmation. There was a silence that could only mean that the truth had just been revealed.

The Little Cowboy turned and sort of slid out of the bar, hoping not to attract any more attention. We all heard his pickup truck fire up, and roar off into the evening.

The Cowboy Bar went back to normal. The beer was again the center of attention and Duane’s good character and restraint were confirmed.

Not only did he not steal that guy’s girlfriend, he only hit him once.

That’s the kind of guy we all wanted to know.

The incident became known as “The Little Cowboy Incident” (or just TLC) to those of us that were there. Duane had to put up with a bit of ragging about being caught up with by unwanted TLC down at the Cowboy Bar.

Duane drank out of the side of his mouth for the rest of the week.

The Cowboy Bar

2008-02-06T10:34:00.000-08:00

There is a small town in the southwest corner of Wyoming that has a bar. Actually, almost every small town in Wyoming has a bar, and this one is fairly typical. It’s been a local watering hole for 75 years or so, and looks just like it did when it was built, except older and droopier. Oh yeah, now it has a new, neon Budweiser sign in the window.

Now, I’ll grant you that 75 Wyoming summers and winters have aged the bar a bit, but no more so than the people that frequent the place. They (the bar and the people) look like they belong together.

The bar was built on Main Street in the little town, and was conveniently located adjacent to the feed supply store, the bank, and the hardware store. You could run your in-town errands and grab a quick beer with the boys, all without moving your pickup truck (or horse. There was a hitching rail outside, just in case.).

I suspect the builder assumed the Cowboy Bar would burn down from time to time, so it was sort of thrown together. Heck, whole towns used to burn down, so what chance did a bar with a bunch of drunks rolling their own cigarettes in front of a wood stove have? But fate was kind to the Cowboy bar, and it still stood proud and original, if crooked. There was not a single level surface, or square corner anywhere in the place. The imitation oak bar may have been square and level when it arrived from Denver, but the warped floor didn’t allow it to stay that way.

Everything slanted off to the northeast, floor, bar, and tables- the whole works. You could drop a marble on any surface in the place, and know exactly where to go to find it. That is, if it didn’t get hung up on one of the warped floorboards on the way.

Shaky as they may have been on building standards, the builders sure did know what a proper bar ought to contain, and the Cowboy Bar had it all:

· A long wooden bar with a brass foot rail the length of the bar, with a big oak framed mirror behind the bar.

· Bar stools tall enough to reach the bar, and steady enough not to drop a customer, and chairs with arm rests to help the customers stay in the saddle.

· Steady, solid tables not likely to tip over or collapse if sat on or fallen on, and furniture too heavy to be conveniently used as a club.

· A pool table heavy enough not to get knocked around by unruly patrons, and too hard to sleep on.

And lastly:

· A big wood stove in the corner of the room, sitting on a big metal plate, with a metal stovepipe wandering crookedly up and out of the room.

Oh, there is one last thing any good bar MUST have- a bartender.

Good bartenders should boast of being equal parts priest, psychologist, bouncer, accountant, and salesman. That being the ideal, bartenders in the Cowboy Bar were short on one or two of the primary qualifications, usually determined by how much the bartender drank, and how early in his shift it was.

The bartender is such an integral part of the life of the bar, the bartender’s state of well being often sets the mood. If the bartender tells a new joke and everyone laughs, good times for all. Perhaps even a free drink. The downside was listening to that one new joke over and over until somebody comes up with a new one, or the place closes for the night. Even with a few beers to ease the pain, the same old joke could wear on the nerves. On the other hand, a churlish barkeep would almost assure that the mood of the bar would follow suit, and SOMBODY would get punched during a long evening.

Most bartenders at the Cowboy had to be imported from somewhere else. It’s OK if the owner was local, but he’s got to have the good sense to bring in a bartender from the outside. Outside bartenders brought new stories, and tended to be more impartial when there was a dustup.

The bartender at the Cowboy Bar was from the city. Green River, Wyoming to be exact, a real city right on the freeway with the railroad running right through.

Even with the occasional temper flare up, the Cowboy Bar was about as safe as anywhere in the world. Mostly, the patrons and the bartender took care of one another. It was, after all, in the bartender’s best interest to keep as many friends as possible, and the patrons knew they would be doing business with one another for the rest of their lives. When tempers flared, a punch might be thrown, but apologies and free beer followed within a day or two.

I can only remember the local deputy sheriff going to the Cowboy bar once. He had a beer and left. The reason for the deputy’s visit was to find out why the bartender sometimes left beer on the back steps of the bar at night. The bartender told the deputy that occasionally the beer cooler got too full. That seemed reasonable to the deputy, so off he went. In reality, the back step was the pickup point for local high school boys looking for a 6 pack of Bud Tall boys. I’ve always wondered why the deputy didn’t figure out that the cooler would be less full at closing than after the beer delivery. No Sherlock Holmes here.

Most in town figured it was safer to keep the boys in town than have them drive into Evanston or Green River, (a 60 or 70 mile round trip) to get and consume a beer or two. They were mostly right, except for an unplanned pregnancy or two. Besides, the bartender made a bunch more money in bribes off the kids that way.

Welcome to the Cowboy bar. If you’d like, next time you’re here I’ll introduce you to some of the patrons.

I’m afraid you’ll need to buy your own beer.

How did I get here?

2008-02-01T20:24:00.000-08:00

Rant 2 of 2

Power and glory are not even in the picture anymore. Now it’s figuring out how to talk to anyone under 50 without sounding like I just stepped out of an old black and white movie.

Suddenly, my kids and grand kids look at me as though I’m living in some sort of museum. (My phone still has a wire to the wall.) My ability to stay “hip” is gone (ZZ Top is still cool, right?) and that has been followed by many physical abilities, like hearing (He said shut up, not stand up!), eyesight (We must need a new TV, this one is getting fuzzy.), Waistline (Jane, are my pants zipped?), Memory (Jane, are my pants zipped?) and, of course, sex appeal (What do you mean it doesn’t matter if they’re zipped?).

Dignity slipped away somewhere in there as well, but I didn’t notice until the really good looking girl at the checkout counter offered to help me with my grocery cart. I heard her say to her friend as she walked away, “He seems like a nice old guy, but someone should tell him his pants are unzipped”.

Let this be a warning to you, my children. One of these days your post-teen son or daughter will look at you as though you had just stepped out of a Li’l Abner comic strip and say something like “Dad, PLEASE check your zipper”, or “Mom, that dress just might look better if you wore a bra.”

You too will hear these words, or word like them. When you do, I want you to pause and listen VERY carefully. If you listen well enough, you will hear me, your mother, 2 grandfathers, 2 grandmothers, and half a dozen more generations just like them laughing our asses off!

‘Nuff said. I do not intend on writing about this again- ever.

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful Wife
And you may ask yourself-well...how did I get here?

Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...same as it ever was...

Thanks to "The Talking Heads"- Evermore!

In The Day

For no good reason, Rant 1

2008-01-30T22:18:00.000-08:00

When I was young, my parents wanted great things for me. Nothing unusual, all parents want the best for their kids. They probably dreamed of me as a captain of industry, wielding power with justice, gathering glory and wealth with bold deeds and farsighted inventiveness.

I was seduced by the dream. In my youth, I also dreamed of accomplishing great things. I greeted life with a firm grip and a confident smile, a “Captain” of my own destiny.

But, as happens in the real world, my grip on power was not real. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. My life has been and is an amazing series of adventures, moments of great love and almost daily laughter, but the earthshaking decisions that changed my entire world never seemed to be a big deal at the time.

The big decisions seemed smaller than they really were. Should we buy this car? Lets live over there. Could we afford a house? Lets buy a boat! Wanna have a baby? (That one may be an exception).

Lets look at that “BABY” question..

If someone asked you if you would accept the responsibility for a small animal, that would live in your house, eat your food, have medical bills, shed on the couch, demand attention daily and bite the neighbor, Your answer may be entirely different than if someone asked, “Wanna free puppy?”

Now jump to the “baby” question. “Lets have a baby!” takes on a whole new, somewhat sinister meaning. Babies do all the same stuff free puppies do, except they will live with you for a very long time, borrow your car, raise your insurance rates, and then want to go to Harvard. Oh yah, by the time they are 12 or so, they will think you’re old fashioned and not very bright. Just ask them.

If it’s a boy, in the near future your son will ask for BIG BUCKS to rent a limo and tuxedo, buy flowers and a dinner (at a restaurant you can’t afford), all to impress someone else’s daughter (probably a gold digging bimbo). No matter how cute, she clearly will be from a family you do not want to see added to your family’s gene pool. Besides, girls should not distract your son until he is MUCH older and has made his mark in the world!

If it’s a girl, you will be spending the same big bucks to buy a prom dress that covers WAY too little skin, fake nails and hair extensions. You’ll watch as your daughter runs to jump in a limo (with deeply tinted windows-Who knows what can happen!), to go to a restaurant (that you can’t afford) for dinner, accompanied by an 18 year old with a beard darker than yours. At least you THINK he’s 18, you daughter wouldn’t fib about that –would she? Any thought about this guy’s DNA in your family’s gene pool makes your blood run cold.
Besides, boys should not distract your daughter until she is MUCH older and has made her mark in the world!

That’s pretty much the end for you.

There are no really big decisions left for you to make. Either it’s too late; your spouse has “everything under control. Don’t worry dear.”, or the kids have moved back in and you only need follow them around.

Life becomes very personal, sort of like when you were a small child. Can I eat yet? “Don’t eat that, it’s full of polyunsaturated sugar, alcohol, and oxidants, and will make your prostate swell”.
Someone else will make the decisions, and let you know what you are supposed to do.

The issues left for you are the ones no one else cares about; age old questions that appear on every man’s list in some form- stuff like:
Boxers or tighty-whities?
Miller Lite or Bud Lite?
Is Dos Equis really an import?
I think I’ll go with the Packers to win it all this year!
Should the rules of golf be changed to make an O.B. tee shot be treated the same as a lateral water shot? Boy, that’ll speed up the game!
I can’t help but wonder if the President of the United States is in the same boat. (I am fairly sure Bill Clinton is. I also suspect his wife wishes he would just shut the hell up). Scary, huh? Well, maybe he has an aid to help him (I'll bet it's a man!)
At least he has someone to blame.

The Ranch Part 2

2008-01-30T00:29:00.000-08:00

Good people

Many years after my family and I left my Grandfather’s ranch, the place across the river (once owned by the 2 old brothers) went up for sale. I don’t know whether the old man’s daughter had won in the end, or if age had finally caught up with the brother. Whichever happened, it created the opportunity for my uncle to purchase their ranch.

My aunt and uncle were always 2 of my favorite people. They just seemed to strike a chord with me that said “family”. They had also just purchased the place across the river from where I formed some of my most lasting memories. It always seemed like “home”, and was now occupied by family.

It was nearly 50 years ago that my aunt and uncle moved to the ranch with their 2 mostly grown boys. Electricity, phone service and even television were available by then, but it was still a hard life. Work on the 1000-plus acre ranch caring for cattle, raising hay for the winter, and maintaining the ranch itself was never done, and took up 100% of all of the family’s time. Even when the boys later brought wives, and still later, their own children to the mix, work on the ranch was full time for all. The only things that took priority over the ranch were family and education.

It’s difficult to explain how much hard physical labor is involved in working a ranch. A ranch this size, located in snow country, with unpredictable rain, wild animals, bad roads and bouncing cattle prices, filled everyone’s day, and many of their nights with work and worry.

During the summer, a day could include everything from milking the cow, helping a calf come into the word, fixing fences, harvesting hay and/or grain, rounding up cattle, and branding calves,

In winter, the daylight didn’t last as long, but the workday was not one bit shorter. The snow was always knocking down a fence somewhere, and the cattle needed to be fed every day. It is tough work loading 20 or 30, 60-pound bails of hay on a truck in a driving snowstorm, then hauling them to the cattle and spreading them out for the cattle to eat. No matter how hard they tried, their milk cow never seemed to be able to get the hang of milking herself twice a day.

Any rancher would be able to add several more pages to the list of work to be done every day, but I think you get the idea. Ranching is not for the weak and timid.

Roundup was an important event each year. All the local ranchers got together to scour the hills and nearby valleys for cattle that had been turned out to graze in the forest for the summer. Often there were new calves born during the summer, and they needed to be matched with the correct mother, to determine to whom it belonged and be branded with he correct mark. The cattle from all the different ranches were mixed together when they were gathered, then sorted out by brand, once safely in a pen.

Selecting the right time of year for Roundup was a guessing game. As the weather began to cool in the fall, the cattle naturally began to drift down out of the mountains, but sometimes the snows began with little notice, trapping some of the cattle in the high country. If the ranchers didn’t go get them, they could starve. Roundup was hard, dangerous work. He country could be rough and unforgiving, and some of the cattle would go wild without human contact. They really didn’t want to be rounded up. Two events clearly show how wild the cattle were, and how tough the ranchers were.

My uncle had been rounding up cattle in an area thickly covered by brush and patches of woods. He got off his horse to answer the call of nature, and before he realized what was happening, a steer charged him from behind. The steer had apparently been following him, and as soon as he was off his horse, the steer came after him. My uncle was lucky; he dived behind a tree and escaped the enraged charge. The steer, turned and would have charged again, but uncle was able to regain his saddle. The steer ran into the underbrush, not to be seen again.

Wild cattle were not the only danger. Once, while chasing a steer through heavy woods on horseback, the horse jammed my uncle’s leg against a tree. The leg hurt like hell, and my uncle was forced to spend the rest of the day in the saddle, for fear that if he got off, he would not be able to get back on again. The family examined his swollen leg that night and fairly well determined that it was broken. There was no question of going to the doctor before roundup was complete. The following morning, they tied my uncle in his saddle, with a homemade splint on his leg. He rode for 2 days before he felt confident that the roundup could be completed without his help before he went to the doctor. I’ve always felt that real “tough” was not who you could whip, but what you could overcome in your day to day life.

The ranch is no longer a “working” ranch, and the valley and all its land has been sold off for summer cabins. The ranch house is still there, but it is a bed and breakfast, catering to “weddings and get-togethers”. You can find a picture of the house here: http://www.wildsidebb.com/index.html complete with recorded elk calls. If you look carefully, just to the right of the dance band, you can also see the place across the river where I lived a long time ago.

2008-01-25T13:00:00.000-08:00

My Mom and I lived with my Grandparents for a bit more than a year while my Dad served his time in the Army. It was just at the end of WWII, and I was very small, but still old enough to remember events of great importance. Of course, the events important to me were not the same as for others. A 4 year old has a very different view of the world than any adult.

My Grandparents lived on a small ranch in south central Idaho, located in a mountain valley cradling a moderate size river. The ranches in the valley were connected to the rest of the world by a dirt road, the river and for the luckier residents, a battery powered AM radio. There was no electricity, and the US Mail delivery ended in a Post Office box in the small town about 5 miles down the valley. Although the “town” had a small store, any real shopping had to be done in Boise, about 50 miles to the south. Getting to your mail in the winter was a matter of luck. A ski trip into town to pick it up could be the only option. The Post Master could supply a place to sleep should you need to stay over night before skiing home.

The valley and ranch were a paradise for someone my age. I had 2 dogs (Mutt and Jeff) to keep me company; a barn equipped with cats to chase, a milk cow, and a front yard the size of a city block. The ranch was mostly mountain meadow grass for cattle, but was surrounded by a pine forest on the three sides opposite the river, that extending for miles into mountain terrain.

The ranch house was about 200 yards east of the river, which ran (more or less) in the center of the valley. The house was very small. With only 2 small bedrooms, a living room and kitchen, it was smaller than almost any modern house. No, I didn’t forget, there was no bathroom (inside).

I suppose the house had to be small. The only sources of heat were the big wood stoves in the living room, and kitchen for cooking. The house was always cold in the morning, and in winter, I stayed in bed until my Granddad got the stove going.

Bath day, (for me) included a galvanized washtub in front of the stove. Water was hauled in from a spring house a few yards behind the main house, and heated on the big kitchen cook stove. Baths were a once-a-week event, due to the effort involved.

That’s where we lived. It was a throwback to another age, a time and place where people still lived in the 19^th century. No TV, radio (except on special occasions to save the battery), electricity, phone, mail service or grocery store.

The things we did have, however, were love, family and good, interesting neighbors.

There was another ranch across the river from ours. The white ranch house sat on a bluff above the river about ½ a mile from us (as the crow flies). The two brothers that lived there had done so all their lives. They were 80 or so at the time, and about as set in their ways as is possible. One of the brothers had been married years ago, and had a daughter living in the city (Boise) that would come to visit on rare occasions. He was quite happy with that long distance arrangement.

One year, the daughter decided it was time to get her dad out of his old bib overalls and into town. It didn’t seem right to her that someone in her position, in that day and age, should have a relative living in such an “unrefined” circumstance. To rectify this situation, she had purchased a new suit for her father from “The Golden Rule Store” in Boise, and headed for the ranch. She planned to dress her dad up, and show him how it felt to be “refined”, and then coax him into joining her in the city. Further refinements were to follow.

It wasn’t that hard to get her dad into the new suit, after all most dads will do most anything to keep their daughters happy, at least in the short term. Everyone was amazed at the transformation, and the daughter was so pleased she could hardly contain her excitement.

The suit makes the man- the adds all say so- but the adds don’t tell the whole story; the suit may make the man look good, but the suit won’t change his attitude.

Lunch was to be served in the afternoon, and the old man’s big trip into town was to follow. The daughter’s master plan was in motion, and she felt as though she was in complete control at last. The schedule even had a deadline, (of sorts) based on the notion that traveling after dark was dangerous, and a timely start was crucial. Lunch and the big trip were at hand.

As the afternoon had worn on, the old man had disappeared in the general commotion of the visiting relatives and a couple of drop-in neighbors. The guest of honor and his new suit were missing. Lunch was on the table but the old man was not at his assigned place. He had vanished without a trace.

At first, the daughter was FURIOUS. She was sure her father was just being stubborn or attempting to make her look bad in front of the family and ruin her plan. He should know better than that, SHE knew what was best for the old coot. The hour grew later and later, and the daughter began to worry. She began to have visions of her poor (but well dressed) father suffering a heart attack, brought on by his sudden introduction to the 20^th Century, with only bears, and wolves for help.

Almost as soon as the daughter’s panic began to set in for real, she spotted her father, strolling slowly up towards the lunch table from the general direction of the river. He had a bit of spring in his step, and looked very pleased with himself. He also looked a little damp and rumpled.

The explanation was quite simple; the old man’s new clothes had too much starch, and he had taken a short dip in the river to rectify the situation (sans hat, of course). Afterward, he spent an hour or so drying out in the sun, and had taken a short nap. His cloths felt better, they still looked “store-bought”, and he was ready for lunch.

The daughter’s end of he table was a quiet place throughout lunch. She knew her plan was doomed. Her father could never adapt to city life, and she finally knew so for sure. The old man, however, was more social than he had been for years. He exchanged stories of the “old days” with anyone who would listen, punctuating each story with a poke in the ribs and a laugh. It’s hard not to feel good when you’re eating well in a new, comfortable suit of clothes!

I wonder what the old man would think if he knew his old ranch house was now a bed and breakfast. That’s probably another story.

2008-01-22T13:33:00.000-08:00

A first blog should really tell something about the author, as well as set the tone for what may follow in future entries. This chapter, my very first, will be called “The Waiter”.

In 1964, I was in the US Army, stationed in Germany. Two buddies and I got a 3-day pass and headed for Garmish, then a US Army rest and recreation center. The hotel was built in the pre WWII war era for high-ranking German officers, and was a 5 star hotel in every way but cost. Post-war prices were set by the US government to be in line with the wages of soldiers stationed in Europe. As I recall, a nights lodging was in the $3 to $10 range for a single, with a view of the Eibsee. Prices were for soldiers, but the services were the best.

My buddies were there to sleep. No activity before noon- heck no life before noon for them.

I was just too excited to stay in the room, the Grand Hotel and adventure waited downstairs.

I wandered into the dining room (food before adventure), and was seated alone. I was just beginning to make sense of the expanse of silver, glassware, plates and a ship-shaped folded napkin, when a 5-foot tall waiter my grandfather’s age silently appeared next to my right elbow and quietly said “uh-hem, How may I be of service”, handing me a multi-page menu the size of a legal pad.

I was intimidated. An 80-year-old, tuxedo-wearing Germans at 8 AM still shook me up. All he needed was a monocle, and I would have spilled all my state secrets. But this was not that guy- this man, no matter what else he had gone through 20 years before, was at that moment my waiter. He was there to serve ME, to keep MY plate silverware, crystal ware, and tablecloth in place and clean. He knew it, and convinced me, as well.

I wanted Eggs Benedict. I’m not sure I knew what they were, but I could tell by the name that they were special. My waiter took the order as though I had ordered diamonds and presented them to me as though they were a secret, only to be known to him and me. They were everything I expected, a dish, taste and presentation that I will never forget.

I began a conversation with my waiter during my selection of the Eggs Benedict, and I confessed to him that my palate was limited and I didn’t know what to try next. He asked where I came from, and what I liked. He thought for just a moment and said, “I will be happy to make suggestions for each meal, if you will sit in my section of the restaurant”

I did just that, and for 3 days the old waiter guided me from meal to meal, through course after course of some of the best an upscale European hotel has to offer. As to quality, I cannot now testify. I can only assure you that to an untrained palate, there was NOTHING I did not enjoy! We explored fish eggs from Russia, Goose livers from France, cheese from several countries, wild game from who knows where, and wines, always wines to match.

After the 3 days, I left with a real sense of loss. The old waiter had become a culinary guide to places I had not known existed.

I have wondered recently while enjoying a good meal, if the old waiter could ever possibly understand what a profound impact he had on my life. I’m sure there are those that will argue that if I was ready for adventure then I would be in the future as well, and the outcome would be the same. I assure you, however, that the patience, quiet assurance and respect given me by the old waiter could never be replaced. Had he looked down at the American bumpkin and belittled my quest, would I have had the courage to try again?

Whoever he was, he has my deepest thanks and respect. Bon Appetite, my friend.