Vivid Memories of Childhood and Beyond
- Thread starter Gary O'
- Start date
dbl post (got a url thing...weeeeird)
Wake up in the middle of the night, needin' to go pee. Afraid to walk across the room…Tears they come, sobs are heard. Big brother, sleepin’ on the couch. To the rescue he runs..swoop me up… carry me he does.
Wipe away the tears , calm the fears. He’s felt the wrath he knows the sorrow.
Wipe away the tears , calm the fears. He’s felt the wrath he knows the sorrow.
Keep writing
don't edit
just let it flow
try to keep up with key strokes
here may not be the place to keep the pieces, but then again it may
your writing style is what I'd call impressionist, short brush strokes
I don't have that
but I sure like what I see
and what I see is quite clear
fmdog44
Well-known Member
- Location
- Houston, Texas
My dad's mom lived on a farm so there were mason jars full of fruits and veggies everywhere. She made her own ketchup and it was so sweet I drank it from the bottle.
'Farm fresh' is so very different when living on that farm
Picking and eating right there....in the garden ...no better.....none
Pull a carrot from the soil
Devour it, along with bits of dirt...m-m-m
...and mason jars?
Even water tastes better from a mason jar
Meanderer
Supreme Member
Oh....I'm so on this
Thanks, EM
Meanderer
Supreme Member
Jobs and Bosses
I’ve had a ton of them.
In my early adult life it seems that jobs just popped outta the woodwork….all kinds. For awhile there I think I had a different job every other week, and I mean different.
In Houston, walking down the street was like walking through a job carnival…
’Hey, buddy, wanna put a roof on?’
Hey pal, wanna move a house?’
Hey, hanthome, wanna put it up my pooper?’…..,OK, you had to be selective.
But you could.
One could pick up a job just by going from bar to bar, of which, in my haunts, was generally the span of fifteen paces.
One time me and my buds were between jobs, and one fine morn, strolling between the Western grill and the Hello bar;
‘Hey boys, wanna work?’
He had a bobtail truck, room for all of us.
We looked at each other, shrugged, and hopped on.
A few miles down the road and we’re turning in to a steel yard…Proler Steel….where they crush junk cars and turn them into little bits of metal.
Only thing, the gate was lined with folks that had signs, ON STRIKE signs, and boy, were they ever happy to see us.
I’d never been a scab before, but once we bombed through the line and stopped in the yard, I officially became one.
For weeks…maybe months.
I got good at crane swamping, and the foreman, now the crane operator, was good. He could swing that spider with the precision of a ballerina, and lay it down with the weight of a feather.
My buddy, still slogging away kicking pipe at Tuboscope, would ask me what I was doin’ over there, and when I told him about the money, he became a gate ramming scab too.
However, he got assigned to the dust bin.
I’d started there.
It’s where the shakers separated the metal from the, well, dust, and whatever the furnace didn’t consume.
At the end of his first (and last) day, I saw him from across the yard, coming to punch out….hilarious. Nothing but eyeballs and teeth.
He said, ‘thanks’ rather sardonically, and immediately went back to kicking pipe.
Well, good things have a way of coming to a halt, and once the wildcat strikers decided they were more hungry than angry, they figured their jobs weren’t so bad after all, and swapped their signs for lunch boxes.
It made life ‘interesting’ for us scabs.
By that time I’d graduated from crane swamper to ramp tender, and the regular ramp tender became the crane swamper.
Now Houston had a generous population of black folk, and caucasian (pink) Texans regarded these brothers a bit different than this Oreeeegone-ite.
I didn’t pay much mind, but found that same train of thought going the other way.
I’d found myself to be regarded as a ‘cracker’, of which I thought rather amusing.
Well, this ramp tender turned crane swamper that happened to be black, let me know what he thought of my rosy hind end, and whenever the opportunity arose, tried r-e-a-l hard to pick a fight.
‘Hey, biscuit eater, how ya like my job?’
(Biscuit eater?? Is that all he’s got?)
‘I’ve had better.’
‘Are you gettin’ smart with me?!’
‘You make it easy.’
It was gettin’ to the place of throw down time, as the gathering regulars, ex-strikers, gave me a sense of uneasiness.
‘Oh, you’re a smart ass boy, aren’t you.’
(long moment of looking, staring intently at each other)
‘Neither, but, man, do I ever l-o-v-e biscuits.’
There wasn’t one man there, black or white, him or me, that didn’t bust out laughin’.
We became friendly acquaintances and never a challenge arose after that.
A few more weeks of the same ol’ thing and I got bored and went back to the pipe yards.
I’ve had a ton of them.
In my early adult life it seems that jobs just popped outta the woodwork….all kinds. For awhile there I think I had a different job every other week, and I mean different.
In Houston, walking down the street was like walking through a job carnival…
’Hey, buddy, wanna put a roof on?’
Hey pal, wanna move a house?’
Hey, hanthome, wanna put it up my pooper?’…..,OK, you had to be selective.
But you could.
One could pick up a job just by going from bar to bar, of which, in my haunts, was generally the span of fifteen paces.
One time me and my buds were between jobs, and one fine morn, strolling between the Western grill and the Hello bar;
‘Hey boys, wanna work?’
He had a bobtail truck, room for all of us.
We looked at each other, shrugged, and hopped on.
A few miles down the road and we’re turning in to a steel yard…Proler Steel….where they crush junk cars and turn them into little bits of metal.
Only thing, the gate was lined with folks that had signs, ON STRIKE signs, and boy, were they ever happy to see us.
I’d never been a scab before, but once we bombed through the line and stopped in the yard, I officially became one.
For weeks…maybe months.
I got good at crane swamping, and the foreman, now the crane operator, was good. He could swing that spider with the precision of a ballerina, and lay it down with the weight of a feather.
My buddy, still slogging away kicking pipe at Tuboscope, would ask me what I was doin’ over there, and when I told him about the money, he became a gate ramming scab too.
However, he got assigned to the dust bin.
I’d started there.
It’s where the shakers separated the metal from the, well, dust, and whatever the furnace didn’t consume.
At the end of his first (and last) day, I saw him from across the yard, coming to punch out….hilarious. Nothing but eyeballs and teeth.
He said, ‘thanks’ rather sardonically, and immediately went back to kicking pipe.
Well, good things have a way of coming to a halt, and once the wildcat strikers decided they were more hungry than angry, they figured their jobs weren’t so bad after all, and swapped their signs for lunch boxes.
It made life ‘interesting’ for us scabs.
By that time I’d graduated from crane swamper to ramp tender, and the regular ramp tender became the crane swamper.
Now Houston had a generous population of black folk, and caucasian (pink) Texans regarded these brothers a bit different than this Oreeeegone-ite.
I didn’t pay much mind, but found that same train of thought going the other way.
I’d found myself to be regarded as a ‘cracker’, of which I thought rather amusing.
Well, this ramp tender turned crane swamper that happened to be black, let me know what he thought of my rosy hind end, and whenever the opportunity arose, tried r-e-a-l hard to pick a fight.
‘Hey, biscuit eater, how ya like my job?’
(Biscuit eater?? Is that all he’s got?)
‘I’ve had better.’
‘Are you gettin’ smart with me?!’
‘You make it easy.’
It was gettin’ to the place of throw down time, as the gathering regulars, ex-strikers, gave me a sense of uneasiness.
‘Oh, you’re a smart ass boy, aren’t you.’
(long moment of looking, staring intently at each other)
‘Neither, but, man, do I ever l-o-v-e biscuits.’
There wasn’t one man there, black or white, him or me, that didn’t bust out laughin’.
We became friendly acquaintances and never a challenge arose after that.
A few more weeks of the same ol’ thing and I got bored and went back to the pipe yards.
Meanderer
Supreme Member
Thanks for sharing your marvelous exploits, old Pal! ....kinda reminded me of The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Marvelous Exploits of Paul Bunyan, by W. B. Laughead
Last edited:
Thanks for sharing your marvelous exploits, old Pal! ....kinda reminded me of The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Marvelous Exploits of Paul Bunyan, by W. B. Laughead
Heyyyyy, that Project Gutenberg eBook looks pretty cool
Didn't open anything up, but please tell me about it a bit
SPAM hell?
S-l-o-w downloads?
Any drawbacks?
Meanderer
Supreme Member
It opened as a readable ebook "Paul Bunyan and the Blue Ox". It contains many neat pictures and tales of Paul and gang. Click on this link
Use is free and unrestricted. It can be downloaded.
Use is free and unrestricted. It can be downloaded.
Thanks
I'll get to the stories
gonna peruse that site a bit
I'm quite new at the eBook thing
Meanderer
Supreme Member
It can be read without a kindle. (Sorry to throw you a curve!)
no worries
Spur of the moment
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 9 pm. 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 while 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 charming little room had quaint 30 watt bulbs of which both gave the place a special ambiance of 'help me find my shoes, and I'll help you find your purse' essence.
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 lie 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?
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 9 pm. 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 while 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 charming little room had quaint 30 watt bulbs of which both gave the place a special ambiance of 'help me find my shoes, and I'll help you find your purse' essence.
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 lie 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?
Amaizing Fudes
Olathe Corn
Oh…my..…gawd
a bit later this time of year I sit down to an orgasmic feast of Olathe corn on the cob.
This corn, this sweet tricolor corn, comes from a bit west of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.
It’s my entree.
Actually it’s my Japanese tea ceremony.
The Presenting of;
Enormous ceremonial platter of the polymer
Knife of the butter
Sweet tea of the carafe
Butter of the bovine
Salt of the clumsy girl with the umbrella
Napkin of the middle drawer
Sit
Contemplate
Wait....
For water to boil
Contemplate noise of the stomach
Wait
The preliminary wiping of the drool
The discussion of the ways of the Olathe festival (those bastards of the husk) while waiting
The presenting of the two ears
(or the way of the tongs)…ears ceremoniously laid on the platter of the polymer with the tongs of the lower drawer by the submissive obedient woman of the children
The way of the butter
The rolling of the ears of the corn like the wringer of the washer until the mystery of the disappearance of the butter of the bovine occurs
The discussion of the way of more butter
The shaking of the shaker of salt ceremony follows
The way of the Royal typewriter is enacted
Considering of the way of the wolf arises when
the biting of the own finger of the hand ritual is sometimes interjected into the ceremony of the grunt of the hog
The customary sacrament of the swollen lips and tongue of the mouth of the face begins from the TOO PHUKKING HOT!! observance, enhanced by the sudden inhale and involuntary lodging of the kernel of the corn in the esophagus of the throat ritual.
The burying of the tongue and lips of the mouth in the carafe of the tea formality ensues
Followed by the inevitable way of the buttered beard of the face
The laying on of the hands and smearing on of the butter of the bovine to the face of the laughing/pointing, now running/screaming woman of the children ritual commences
Culmination of the ceremony is the audible passage of the birth of the walrus, followed by the raising of the one leg demonstration of way of the duck.
Ending with the slumber of the warthog.
Olathe Corn
Oh…my..…gawd
a bit later this time of year I sit down to an orgasmic feast of Olathe corn on the cob.
This corn, this sweet tricolor corn, comes from a bit west of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.
It’s my entree.
Actually it’s my Japanese tea ceremony.
The Presenting of;
Enormous ceremonial platter of the polymer
Knife of the butter
Sweet tea of the carafe
Butter of the bovine
Salt of the clumsy girl with the umbrella
Napkin of the middle drawer
Sit
Contemplate
Wait....
For water to boil
Contemplate noise of the stomach
Wait
The preliminary wiping of the drool
The discussion of the ways of the Olathe festival (those bastards of the husk) while waiting
The presenting of the two ears
(or the way of the tongs)…ears ceremoniously laid on the platter of the polymer with the tongs of the lower drawer by the submissive obedient woman of the children
The way of the butter
The rolling of the ears of the corn like the wringer of the washer until the mystery of the disappearance of the butter of the bovine occurs
The discussion of the way of more butter
The shaking of the shaker of salt ceremony follows
The way of the Royal typewriter is enacted
Considering of the way of the wolf arises when
the biting of the own finger of the hand ritual is sometimes interjected into the ceremony of the grunt of the hog
The customary sacrament of the swollen lips and tongue of the mouth of the face begins from the TOO PHUKKING HOT!! observance, enhanced by the sudden inhale and involuntary lodging of the kernel of the corn in the esophagus of the throat ritual.
The burying of the tongue and lips of the mouth in the carafe of the tea formality ensues
Followed by the inevitable way of the buttered beard of the face
The laying on of the hands and smearing on of the butter of the bovine to the face of the laughing/pointing, now running/screaming woman of the children ritual commences
Culmination of the ceremony is the audible passage of the birth of the walrus, followed by the raising of the one leg demonstration of way of the duck.
Ending with the slumber of the warthog.
Homework
‘Oh, your wife stays at home.’
Heh.
My wife worked eighteen to twenty hours a day, seven days a week.
We still have old movies of her, tethered to the stove and sink.
I learned of this type of career quite early in our marriage.
‘Honey, would you watch the baby? I need to go to the store.’
‘No worries, baby. Take yer time.
Toddlers have one gear…scoot.
I think our first born was around 8 months, or 18 months, or 27 years.
Stay at home mothers keep a log of birthdays.
Dads are too busy with pet/child recognition.
Anyhoot, all I had to do was watch the little critter.
What could be so hard about that?
Wife’s gone, kid is quiet, I’m just gonna ease onto the couch, open the paper and catch up on anything sports.
Seems there was a tiny shadow flitting by.
The sound of a diaper rustle, or dog crotch tongue sonata entered the fading reaches of my posterior lobe.
Next thing I know, my lady is comin’ in the door.
Easy peasy
I shoulda told her about those naps
Yeah, right
‘Oh, your wife stays at home.’
Heh.
My wife worked eighteen to twenty hours a day, seven days a week.
We still have old movies of her, tethered to the stove and sink.
I learned of this type of career quite early in our marriage.
‘Honey, would you watch the baby? I need to go to the store.’
‘No worries, baby. Take yer time.
Toddlers have one gear…scoot.
I think our first born was around 8 months, or 18 months, or 27 years.
Stay at home mothers keep a log of birthdays.
Dads are too busy with pet/child recognition.
Anyhoot, all I had to do was watch the little critter.
What could be so hard about that?
Wife’s gone, kid is quiet, I’m just gonna ease onto the couch, open the paper and catch up on anything sports.
Seems there was a tiny shadow flitting by.
The sound of a diaper rustle, or dog crotch tongue sonata entered the fading reaches of my posterior lobe.
Next thing I know, my lady is comin’ in the door.
Easy peasy
I shoulda told her about those naps
Yeah, right
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 snappay turtle…here take this here green stick an rub it’s nose a bit”
SUHHHHH-NAP!
“See there?
Snappay turtle.
They snap
That’s why they call it a snappay turtle
Aess aen aey puhee puhee wahy…. snappay
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 un 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 miles 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.
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 snappay turtle…here take this here green stick an rub it’s nose a bit”
SUHHHHH-NAP!
“See there?
Snappay turtle.
They snap
That’s why they call it a snappay turtle
Aess aen aey puhee puhee wahy…. snappay
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 un 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 miles 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.
Other Folk
I think it important to be in touch with all walks of life, with all ages, of different peoples. It’s been an education.
In my travels thru Asia and the Americas, I’ve acquired many acquaintances that continue today.
I’ve been in session with people representing most corners of the world, at one table, and once the crust of false détente is removed,
they are just individuals. People with families. People with concerns, of which once business is set aside, tend to open up, like a fine wine, if you’re a good listener.
My natural demeanor is on the humble side.
When visiting factories, I’d dress down, wearing a sweater with wranglers and soft shoes.
This tactic, because I represented money, and potential for their success, would keep communication avenues more open, than if I’d worn a three piece suit….and it was comfortable, which enabled me to think more clearly when in negotiation.
In my factory visits, I tend to bring my own flavor of down home warmth, as I am somewhat of a largish huggy guy. And I find it amusing to check the reaction of a rather gruff individual after one of my close encounters.
One gentleman, gnarly, road map of a face, well dressed, stoic, cadre surrounding his perimeter, sat unmoved thru a bladder buster meeting at a mainland factory in China.
I sought him out afterwards, and struck up conversation with him thru interpretation, culminating in a one-way hug. Nothing.
I walked away thinking you can’t win ‘em all.
Couple days later I was touring a factory and noticed him at the other end of the main production floor. Once he noticed me, his arms stretched out as he made his way across the factory towards me.
Warm hug, long warm hug.
His.
Back pats.
Big smiles.
No words however.
An enhanced tour commenced. A glorious meal followed.
Turns out he ran the show at that rather large golf bag factory.
People at their machines kept their heads down as we passed.
As I and my broker got in the private car to go back to the hotel, he came rushing out and gave me another hug.
I remember his watery eyes as he spoke his only words, halting words, directly to me that day, eye to eye.
“Preasa, come back.”
My broker chattered away at him. His face went back to stone and he walked away.
I heard later that he had a wife in half a dozen countries, so I wasn’t his main squeeze, but I’d like to think he got a glimpse of down home America, and his hug deficiency was a bit sated....and maybe America was not just about money.........
I think it important to be in touch with all walks of life, with all ages, of different peoples. It’s been an education.
In my travels thru Asia and the Americas, I’ve acquired many acquaintances that continue today.
I’ve been in session with people representing most corners of the world, at one table, and once the crust of false détente is removed,
they are just individuals. People with families. People with concerns, of which once business is set aside, tend to open up, like a fine wine, if you’re a good listener.
My natural demeanor is on the humble side.
When visiting factories, I’d dress down, wearing a sweater with wranglers and soft shoes.
This tactic, because I represented money, and potential for their success, would keep communication avenues more open, than if I’d worn a three piece suit….and it was comfortable, which enabled me to think more clearly when in negotiation.
In my factory visits, I tend to bring my own flavor of down home warmth, as I am somewhat of a largish huggy guy. And I find it amusing to check the reaction of a rather gruff individual after one of my close encounters.
One gentleman, gnarly, road map of a face, well dressed, stoic, cadre surrounding his perimeter, sat unmoved thru a bladder buster meeting at a mainland factory in China.
I sought him out afterwards, and struck up conversation with him thru interpretation, culminating in a one-way hug. Nothing.
I walked away thinking you can’t win ‘em all.
Couple days later I was touring a factory and noticed him at the other end of the main production floor. Once he noticed me, his arms stretched out as he made his way across the factory towards me.
Warm hug, long warm hug.
His.
Back pats.
Big smiles.
No words however.
An enhanced tour commenced. A glorious meal followed.
Turns out he ran the show at that rather large golf bag factory.
People at their machines kept their heads down as we passed.
As I and my broker got in the private car to go back to the hotel, he came rushing out and gave me another hug.
I remember his watery eyes as he spoke his only words, halting words, directly to me that day, eye to eye.
“Preasa, come back.”
My broker chattered away at him. His face went back to stone and he walked away.
I heard later that he had a wife in half a dozen countries, so I wasn’t his main squeeze, but I’d like to think he got a glimpse of down home America, and his hug deficiency was a bit sated....and maybe America was not just about money.........
(this is rather crude in places, sorry)
Acquaintances
Not friends
Not family
Not even people you know, really.
Just folks you know of, been introduced to, maybe work with, or even share an activity.
But not friends.
No, not friends.
Houston
Took a second job in a fab shop, bending, shearing, twisting metal.
Big place.
Lotsa noise. Lotsa work.
Night shift.
A huge gay guy a couple shears down is blowing me kisses.
I blow a couple back from boredom.
The guy next to me clues me in that he’s not kidding.
I stick a metal rod thru my legs, one end on the steel table, and smash it with a 4 lb hammer.
The gay guy winces.
I point and nod.
The guy next to me damn near cuts his hand off in the brake, doubled over with laughter.
Graveyard shift is over. So him and I go get breakfast.
A little café called The Western Grill stayed open all night.
Cheap, generous meals.
The guy calls himself Bruce Wade….too good a name to be real.
Older fella, premature grey-white hair, bent up western hat.
Turns out he’s a hustler, between ‘jobs’.
Now Bruce looks like he hasn’t done much physical labor, as his hands are soft, nails manicured, and his clothing is of a thin nature. Street shoes.
His buddy shows up and we move from the counter to a booth.
His buddy looks like a business man in a top level exec position.
Older. Larger fella.
Receding hairline, thinning hair, business cut….not like, ‘Hey I see you got a haircut’, but trim, just off the ears. Greying at the temples.
He was quite polished, head to toe…not flashy, not gaudy, a bit understated.
He spoke well, smooth, not slimy smooth, but refined.
He seems happy.
They talk about fish. Not like you and I talk about fish.
He pulls some real estate documents out of his attaché case.
Bruce’s countenance lightens up.
Seems his gig at the metal fab shop is over.
I find out these guys are glorified flim flam men.
Conning people that want something for nothing.
It’s now an old con game, but then it was rather fresh.
Run an ad in the paper;
12 month lease for the price of 3.
Being transferred.
Must move.
Gated community.
It was common, being transferred to or from Houston in those days.
Bruce and his accomplice would get in free with a promotion, bedazzling the real property managers with false documents and a load of believable horseshit.
Then run their ad.
When folks arrived, Bruce would call the ‘manager’ (his accomplice) and here he’d come, showing the fish around the place, rec facilities, pool, club house, golf course, tennis court, convenience market, yadda yadda.
Once they got 6-8 couples to sign on and hand over their checks, they scheduled their move in….a few weeks down the line…long enough to enjoy their own stay, and line up these fish, all trying to move in at one time……..
These guys were fascinating to me.
Not because of their smooth ability to con folks, but because they could very well have been successful gents in the business community.
They got a real charge out of it all.
Last I heard, the big fella had taken a slug while in a deli, tryin’ to pilfer a chunk of corned beef, and Bruce, he was doing another stretch.
Not long after, a year or so maybe, I sat in a cheap movie house and watched The Flim Flam Man, starring George C Scott.
It made me smile, and a bit sad, so reminding me of couple acquaintances I knew of…………
Acquaintances
Not friends
Not family
Not even people you know, really.
Just folks you know of, been introduced to, maybe work with, or even share an activity.
But not friends.
No, not friends.
Houston
Took a second job in a fab shop, bending, shearing, twisting metal.
Big place.
Lotsa noise. Lotsa work.
Night shift.
A huge gay guy a couple shears down is blowing me kisses.
I blow a couple back from boredom.
The guy next to me clues me in that he’s not kidding.
I stick a metal rod thru my legs, one end on the steel table, and smash it with a 4 lb hammer.
The gay guy winces.
I point and nod.
The guy next to me damn near cuts his hand off in the brake, doubled over with laughter.
Graveyard shift is over. So him and I go get breakfast.
A little café called The Western Grill stayed open all night.
Cheap, generous meals.
The guy calls himself Bruce Wade….too good a name to be real.
Older fella, premature grey-white hair, bent up western hat.
Turns out he’s a hustler, between ‘jobs’.
Now Bruce looks like he hasn’t done much physical labor, as his hands are soft, nails manicured, and his clothing is of a thin nature. Street shoes.
His buddy shows up and we move from the counter to a booth.
His buddy looks like a business man in a top level exec position.
Older. Larger fella.
Receding hairline, thinning hair, business cut….not like, ‘Hey I see you got a haircut’, but trim, just off the ears. Greying at the temples.
He was quite polished, head to toe…not flashy, not gaudy, a bit understated.
He spoke well, smooth, not slimy smooth, but refined.
He seems happy.
They talk about fish. Not like you and I talk about fish.
He pulls some real estate documents out of his attaché case.
Bruce’s countenance lightens up.
Seems his gig at the metal fab shop is over.
I find out these guys are glorified flim flam men.
Conning people that want something for nothing.
It’s now an old con game, but then it was rather fresh.
Run an ad in the paper;
12 month lease for the price of 3.
Being transferred.
Must move.
Gated community.
It was common, being transferred to or from Houston in those days.
Bruce and his accomplice would get in free with a promotion, bedazzling the real property managers with false documents and a load of believable horseshit.
Then run their ad.
When folks arrived, Bruce would call the ‘manager’ (his accomplice) and here he’d come, showing the fish around the place, rec facilities, pool, club house, golf course, tennis court, convenience market, yadda yadda.
Once they got 6-8 couples to sign on and hand over their checks, they scheduled their move in….a few weeks down the line…long enough to enjoy their own stay, and line up these fish, all trying to move in at one time……..
These guys were fascinating to me.
Not because of their smooth ability to con folks, but because they could very well have been successful gents in the business community.
They got a real charge out of it all.
Last I heard, the big fella had taken a slug while in a deli, tryin’ to pilfer a chunk of corned beef, and Bruce, he was doing another stretch.
Not long after, a year or so maybe, I sat in a cheap movie house and watched The Flim Flam Man, starring George C Scott.
It made me smile, and a bit sad, so reminding me of couple acquaintances I knew of…………
