Vivid Memories of Childhood and Beyond

[Gary O']

something I writ quite a while back
glad I did
Herb's gone now



Herb

I’ve had my scrapes, 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.

 

[Gary O']

Does a Boy Poop in the Woods?

OK, let’s get this mystery solved right away, as I have age old first-hand experience.
Billy Dodge, my constant summer companion, is proof.
The word ‘bored’ never comes to the minds of country kids. Actually, the thought of boredom would not be the worst that could happen, as chores always led the way.
Yeah, being bored would be, at best, number two.

Speaking of….Billy and I were fighting off boredom one day by climbing an aging pile of stumps at the end of our strawberry field. Stump caves everywhere. What a fantastic pile! Sometimes ya just wonder how adults know exactly what you need for days and days of fanatical enjoyment. And they’re so cagey by saying ‘and don’t go near that pile of stumps!’….Yeah, good one.

Billy was poised to jump from one pointy cragged stump to another when he suddenly got a distracted far off look on his face.
“Whatssamatter Wild Bill, see a snake?”
“Naw, gotta take a dump…….NOW!”
We were between gramma’s house and mine, right between, which meant about 500 paces too far either way.
Actually, on many occasion, being outside anywhere meant you were too far away, what with a fear of being snagged for a nap, or lunch.
So, Wild Bill was in a pickle, but nothin’ we hadn’t handled before.
This time we made an adventure out it all by itself.

“Hey, let’s watch each other take a crap.”
“Yeah!”
“You first.”
Wild Bill knew I could dump on command, so I whipped down my bib overalls and commenced. I gotta say, it was a bit unnerving, having your pahdnah, hunched down, staring, ringside, at yer sphincter, but the show must go on. Several neatly laid logs later, willow leaves doing their job (being the first green tissue since early boy), it was Billy’s turn.
He was quick, proficient, experienced from years of nap avoidance.
He deftly whipped down his drawers, and none too early I might say, as things went rather quickly. I marveled with admiration at his efficiency.
I also marveled at the consistency of his product.
Mine being classic tight knotted cylinders of which Lincoln would be proud, notches and all, but his were more of a slushy genre….never before witnessed by our vantage points.
I could not help but provide play by play commentary.
“Whoa, Billy, y’oughta see this!
It’s a poopshake!
Wow, it broke off!”
Billy managed his own vantage point by rising a bit, bending, and staring though his own legs.
“Wow.”
Wild Bill needed a whole limb of willow leaves.
We came away that day with the new knowledge of variant consistency.
We never gave it a thought as to why. That was for mothers, and much later in life, doctors.

I know, right now you’re sayin’ ‘Wait a minute, stumps aren’t the woods!’
A word of caution; if you happen to venture into the woods near a country neighborhood, and, say, you’re on a lark to forage in the foliage to pick a few trilliums, step lively my friend, step lively.
Those trilliums are necessarily growin’ all on their own…..

 

[Gary O']

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.

Andy 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.
Andy 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.

 

[Meanderer]

Be keerful!

 

[NancyNGA]

From your story Herb...

I got to watch that happen to a chicken once, at the hands of my aunt in WV, when I was a kid. Gives meaning to the expression "Running around like a chicken with its head cut off." Later she decided it was easier to tie their feet to the clothesline first. I survived it OK ( I think:zombierolleye, but prefer to skip that and go to KFC or Chic-Fil-A.

 

[Gary O']

The Hansens

They lived right across the gravel road from Eddie’s place, and our place was down the hill a bit, right next to Eddie’s.
The Hansen’s abode was always a conversation piece of the neighborhood, adult and child.
They always had junk strewn throughout the yard. Not useable stuff, just filthy clothes, tin cans, beer bottles, and absolute crap.
Come to think about it, I don’t recall the garbage truck ever stopping there.
They had, oh, maybe eight or ten kids of all sizes, and if you just sat out front of yer place for the afternoon, you’d see one or two kids take a crap in the patch of weeds that sufficed for their front lawn.
Once gramma had me go over and borrow a cup of sugar.
Up till then, I had never ventured into their place, but I had snuck a peek into their open door a couple times. The inside was quite reflective of their yard….only more flies.
Mrs Hansen opened the door, and it was as if I’d just been vacuumed into a backdraft of a septic tank gone bad. The air, the purest of evergreen mountain air was sucked out of my lungs, and replaced with the raw sewage stench of a thousand diseased yaks.
Through tears I handed her the measuring cup and mustered the raspy word ‘sugar’.
Hours later I still had that smell hangin’ on me.

Our wild bunch would camp out on occasion.

One mid-summer eve, we all decided to set up our tent on the heavily treed vacant property just up from Eddie’s.
We did our usual things, pee contests, scaring each other, and eating Eddie’s stash of goodies, but Andy had the brilliant idea of terrorizing the neighborhood by peeking in some bedroom windows with the flashlight up to our faces.

The Hansen’s place loomed.

Right by Mr and Mrs Hansen’s bedroom window was a huge elderberry tree.
Eddie and Bart got just below the window, me right behind.
‘Oh Frank, you’re so warm’
It was our cue to pop our grotesquely lit heads up and go
‘AAAAAAAAH!’
There was a commotion of covers and feet.
We all shined our lights on Mr and Mrs Hansen.
The word ‘Stark’ comes to mind.
Bart did his usual fall outta the tree trick, and we were gone, laughing our asses off and running.
Eddie stopped.
He’d laughed so hard that he had to pee, but a car was comin’ down the hill.
I just doubled over from seein’ the silhouettes of Eddie, his winky, and pee stream in the lights of that car.

The rest of the night was just a blur, and I really can’t put into words (just yet) how these were some of the best moments of that summer, but the memory will be etched forever.
…and I’d like to think we saved Mrs Hansen’s hoohoo for at least one evening…in spite of herself.

 

[Gary O']

The Field

There was a field adjacent to a stand of huge trees between my and Andy’s place.
It was a bit more than an acre of weeds, of which flourished, becoming a bit of a fire hazard in late summer, as folks tended to flick their cigs out the window in those days.

Andy talked the owner into letting us use it as our baseball field if we kept the weeds mowed…….if we kept the weeds mowed……more than an acre.
My dad, not the mechanic sort, had this push mower, a reel type. The only power was me, mowing the grass, leaving the dandelions.
But Andy, his dad had a shop, and in that shop was magical things, tools uncommon, cylinder honers, timing lights, callipers, wonderfully amazing tools, and power mowers, maybe three or four of them.
So, once a week, Andy and I would mow the field.
These were not self-propelled mowers, but they would literally eat that ‘grass’.
I think back now, and can’t imagine the energy we had, cause after mowing, we’d play baseball, then stay up most the night.

I had two mitts from my dad’s playing days.
A first baseman’s glove and a catcher’s mitt that looked like a bundt cake, just a big puff of leather and stuffing indented with a hardball sized hole in the middle.

We turned over an old trailer on its side for our backstop, and set up the bases with cow chips.

Andy could pitch. Hard.


One time Eddie’s mom was driving home and got outta the car and started fussing at us about getting beaned, and we should throw underhand, and a whole buncha other things that sounded like ‘and another thing, blather, blah, blather blather, blah blah, I’m gonna tell your mothers, blah blah blah’, then she got back in her car and sped up the hill.

We kinda looked at each other, shrugged, and played ball.

Andy fired a hard one into Eddie.
I mean right into Eddie.
He doubled over and sorta flopped around, making gasping sounds and holding his stomach.
We stood around talkin’ about first aid, and daring each other to administer mouth to mouth, when Eddie gathered himself, got up, and said ‘Izzat all you got?’

Actually, Eddie was a pretty tough kid. But we were all tough. Yeah, things hurt, they sometimes hurt like hell, but we’d all seen Wire Paladin and Davy Crocket just shrug things off like getting nicked in the heart with a bullet or arrow.
We'd seen Wire just wince and grunt, and get mad, so mad he'd kill, and Davy, Davy would break off that arrow that was stuck in his spleen, only he had to break it off with his teeth, cause his arms were all shot up. Later he'd dig the arrow out with his axe, to the amazement of the indians, of which were now his revered friends.
So a little ol’ hard ball knockin’ yer wind out of ya was nuthin’.

Ike was the exception, as he was the youngest, and smallish, so Andy let up on velocity when Ike was at the plate….and (as I later found out) Andy was thumpin’ both his sisters.
Ike had two sisters, Mona and Lisa, of which were the epitome of nasty.
The whole family was, in my opinion, too skinny, but Ike’s sisters, although being skinny, were just plain nasty, lithe, sinewy, slutty, nasty. They had a way of looking at you that reeked of nasty, a look that said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, because I put those thoughts in yer head, so what say you and I see what’s inside that special shed of yours’.

Buuut, I’m getting ahead of myself here.

 

[IKE]

The Field


Ike had two sisters, Mona and Lisa, of which were the epitome of nasty.
The whole family was, in my opinion, too skinny, but Ike’s sisters, although being skinny, were just plain nasty, lithe, sinewy, slutty, nasty. They had a way of looking at you that reeked of nasty, a look that said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, because I put those thoughts in yer head, so what say you and I see what’s inside that special shed of yours’.

Granted my sisters were very popular and both had their fair share of male suitors but they certainly weren't the floozies depicted in your story......in fact they were known throughout the county as being sweet and fun loving little angels.

 

[Gary O']

Granted my sisters were very popular and both had their fair share of male suitors but they certainly weren't the floozies depicted in your story......in fact they were known throughout the county as being sweet and fun loving little angels.

View attachment 52659

and they look like darlings

no
wrong Ike

wrote about him in the first few pages of this thread (tome)
I think the title was 'kids of the hill' or sumpm like that

This is that 'Ike'

IKE

The Eisner’s place was at the bottom of the hill.
Ike was the runt of our little mob. Thus he did some suffering….nature’s process of natural selection.
The Eisners were a tidy bunch. Mrs Eisner kept Ike in new clothes. He always looked like he’d just stepped outta the Wards catalogue.
There was no man around the house.
Mrs Eisner was quite fetching, a bit thin, but quite fetching indeed. She kept herself up, and I gotta hand it to her, maintained things pretty darn well. Remarkably, those were the days before mandated child support.
However, they all seemed to be missing a screw to their well oiled machine.
Ike’s sisters were prime examples.
Seems like they were about 13 and 15 and had been around, having the minds of 47 year old hookers.
Ike was their experimentation lab.
Andy was practice.
I was a curiosity.
Bart was their personal ‘Lennie Small’.
Eddie stayed home.
Brad damn near lived at the Eisner’s place…Brad liked to narrate his experiences…I took notes.

Ike was pretty much our gofer.
One summer day we were just sittin’ behind Andy’s place, considering tossing Ike down the hill again, when Andy developed the brilliant idea of gathering up some junk and setting it all on the blind corner of the paved road below.

A broken bat, a rusted wagon, some leaf springs and other junk, in a wash tub, set smack dab in the road, by Ike.
‘Ike won’t get in trouble as much as we will, since they already know us (the fire cracker incident, the beehive fiasco, and a few other things that enabled us to see the inside of the police station).

First car.
The guy just stopped, took the wagon, and kicked the tub off the road.
Ike set it back out.

Second car.
An ol’ gal got out, looked up the hill, right into the brush we were hiding in and yammered in her high pitched ol’ lady voice ‘I see you boys. I’m going to turn you in. Get down here right now and clean this up.’
Then she sped off, leaving the tub in the middle of the road.

It began to dawn on us that maybe this wasn’t one of our brightest of ideas when car number three, an ol’ pickup, came whippin’ by. Only he didn’t stop. Not right away anyway. Seems the handle of the wash tub hooked onto the undercarriage of his truck, and made quite a gawdawful racket for about a hundred yards, just clangin’ and bangin’ down the road.
I think the ol’ guy thought he’d lost his differential, ‘cause he seemed quite relieved to find that ol’ tub…as he unhooked it, threw it into the truck and sped off.
Another inventive event for us to laugh our asses off, and celebrate by tossing Ike down the hill.


One rainy fall day Bart and I were goofing around with the mud bank at the bottom of the road.
Bart had these huge, man sized high top leather boot shoes, of which he was quite proud of being able to stand in a mud puddle and not get his gargantuan feet wet.
‘See that? M-M-M-M-Mink oil.’
‘Huh.’

Andy came out and suggested we build a dam, and make a lake. Eddie, Ike, and Brad appeared.
Soon we had six shovels and two wheel barrows employed.
We learned about the dos and don’ts of dam building in short order.
A sheet of ply would be our water gate.
The lake got to be about three and a half feet deep once we built the side gates for overflow.
The red clay bank we were excavating developed a huge gap in it.
Next, the dazzling idea of flooding the road when cars came.

CAR!!!

Andy and Bart lifted the sheet of ply. There was a rush of muddy water.
Something the dimension of a mid-sized dog went whooshing onto the road.

It was Ike!!

The car came close, r-e-a-l close to Ike’s head.
The driver didn’t see a thing, just kept goin’.
Andy and I picked up little Ike, squeezed out his shirt and cap, and commenced to shake him, scolding him for being on the wrong side of the dam at such a critical moment.
He loved the attention, smiling his happy dog Ike smile, then giggling his little Ike [censored] off.

In spite of everything we and his sisters put him through, he maintained a pretty happy heart, and kept a kind of innocence about him.
He was beyond likable.
None of us would say it, but we all loved the little guy.
And even though he was our projectile alotta times, if anyone out of our realm gave him grief, we'd all take turns beatin' the [censored] outta that person.....no matter how big she was.

Years later, I heard he’d become a structural engineer.
I’d like to think we had an influence on him that rainy fall day.

Last I heard, he was in Honduras, improving some villages in the outback, rerouting waters of floodplains, and teaching building techniques, but that was long ago now.
His frustration was the unions wouldn’t let him get his hands dirty with anything more than a pencil.



The lad had a remarkable resilience about him in mind and spirit. I’d like to think he’s doin’ well……hell, I may search him out on face book or something, since a lot of folk have died off, and the web is so damn handy these days….’course then I’d have to join face book….last time I did that, I learned I had more than 10,000 friends I didn’t even know. ‘sides, I’m not sure of his first name….but then, right now I’m not sure of my own first name…..


Naw, I’d rather just think my thoughts. Gettin’ tired of learnin’ how folks are ending up….but then learning of yer enemies taking a dirt nap is rather uplifting at times.

 

[Gary O']

Knock knock, who’s there

Back in the day, vacuum cleaner sales were enhanced by door-to-door folk.
One time, in the ‘70s, a hoard of ‘em attacked the little cul-de-sac we lived on.
They came in droves, piling outta vans and cars like locust.
Three were at my door, at dinner time.
But, hey, they were people tryin’ to make a livin’…..
The brains of the outfit began small conversation with me.

‘Hey, that’s a n-i-c-e ship, you build it?’

‘Uh, yeah…..please git yer vacuum nozzle away from it.’

‘Well, sir, we’re here to show you how you can be germ free with our state of the art filtered systems.’

The gentleman commenced to suck the living crap outta our couch…..really….living crap.

Then he opened his bag-o-living-crap and spread it onto some newspaper…my sports page.

I played along.

‘Wow.’

‘Do you know what that is?’ (rubbing the amorphous gooey granules between his finger and thumb)

‘No.’

‘It’s human skin.’

‘Really?!’

‘Yes, human skin….wanna touch it?’

‘Naw, that’s a used couch.
Bought it from the widow of a diseased old man.’

Once back from washing his hands, super sales guy was back on task.

‘This attachment can remove the most stubborn stains.
I’m going to pour this ink on yer couch and….’

‘WAIT!
How ‘bout the stain under the doily of that chair?’

Man, that guy scrubbed for a good twenty minutes, and actually got most of it out, building up quite a sweat.

‘Well, sir, that is one stubborn stain. What do you think it is?’

‘Probably the blood of that dead guy, got the chair from the same place, I think he actually died right there.’

Once back from washing his hands, he was ready to wrap things up.


I felt sorry for the man.
He was quite dogged about getting this sale.
And his white shirt had rings of perspiration growing at a rapid rate outta his underarms….tie was loose…..and foam was gathering at the corners of his mouth.

The vacuum systems were $800…back when $800 was closer to what $800 should be.
And they were about $787.34 more than I could afford.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him how much I appreciated him doing my curtains, couch, carpet, and chair….but.

‘Let me think about it.’

‘Sir, we won’t be coming back this way.’

‘Good.’

‘You don’t understand. This deal is today only.’

‘Good.’

‘Perhaps I could discuss this with the lady of the house.’

‘Of course, only make it your lady of your house…about career choices…..and get the ef outta mine.’

‘Here Kemo.’

Patience.
I learned I don’t really need mucha that virtue at given times…..and Kemo, well he jus likes people.



Today, it’s telemarketing.
Sometimes, at the office, the receptionist will let one get by.

‘Gary, I’m going to send you a little gift to your home, and all you have to do is blather blather blah blah, and Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary, blather blather blah blah,'

‘Interesting’

'and Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary, blather blather blah blah,'

‘Interesting’

'and Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary,'

‘Interesting.
Hey, can I put you on hold for just a sec?’

‘Sure Gary.’

It takes about 1.37 minutes before the little blinking light goes out. I think the record is close to 4 minutes.

 

[IKE]

Gary I can remember the Kirby door to door guy doing a demo at our house when I was a pup.

One of his big 'shocker' selling points was vacuuming the mattress and showing my parents all the shed white flaky skin......parents didn't purchase one because Kirby's were really expensive even back then but as soon as the salesman left mom drug out her trusty Electrolux and spent a couple of hours tearing the covers off all the beds and vacuuming the mattresses.

 

[Meanderer]

 

[Gary O']

Simpler Times

Y’know, it’s funny how sweet memories are garnered from simple things.

Years ago when the boys were small, we picked a mess of green beans. I mean a lot, three gunny bags full.

The boys had fun runnin’ up and down the rows of string beans in between pickin’ their own sack full.
Sippin’ water in a mason jar, trudgin’ to the outhouse, eatin’ raw beans…..with a little dirt on ‘em for flavor.
The farm had several acres of rows and rows, long rows.

Once back home, we all sat at the kitchen table, stringin’, snappin’, jabbering away at everything.
Empty jars boilin’ in the kettle.
Shadows lengthened.
Dinner on the back porch.
Baths for the boys, story time, tuck in, don’t let the bed bugs bite.

Wife and I get serious with the canning process.
Cooker steamin, rattlin’. Jars lining up. Lids poppin’.

2 AM, the pile is manageable. Thru bleary eyes we look proudly at the bounty, smiling at each other.

“I didn’t know you liked green beans so much.”

“I don’t, you?”

“No, not so much.”

The boys are 38 and 40 now, and fondly remember those days.

Nobody remembers eating the beans…….

 

[Meanderer]

 

[Gary O']

wrote this a few years back
when we lived in town
kinda miss this stuff, some


Little things gettin’ bigger

I have a regimen, everything in its place…always.
Move my shaving mug two inches and I’m like a milk cow without a stanchion.
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.

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, serrated.

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 to 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, lady on the side…night night, sweet dreams…drooling a river.

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

 

[Gary O']

penned several years ago;

I really enjoy my grandkids that fill a portion of my leisure time.
Never thought I would.
I was a bit fastidious in my early years of fatherhood, and the gooey fingers of my own little ones would drive me up the wall,
patting and smearing the freshly windexed windows of my ’62 Impala SS…
and not just the sides, but the rear window..the one that takes a double jointed contortionist to get at the slanted crevices…
only to be filled with slobber induced graham cracker goo from an inquisitive poop factory midget.

Now? It’s been decades since I’ve given thought to the grime of the under carriage of any vehicle I have. The grommet brush and polish long retired.
My puddle jumping Wrangler has cured me of any remaining vestiges of that section of my OCDs.
And these little beings are a happy thing for me.
Some are getting toward the hulk stage, and resist my hugs a bit, so I just put ‘em in a half nelson and twist the living crap outta ‘em.
Right now, as I type (5:30 in the morn), two are sleeping in the living room, feet hangin’ off the lazy boy, the other with his head hangin’ upside down off the couch.

They are ten and thirteen now, and Papaw is no longer their fascination. But they are still wary, ‘cause they have no idea what’s coming next from me….mainly ‘cause I don’t either………..but somehow a spoon of cranberry sauce in the hand and a light wisp of the feather duster on the face just seems like the thing to do……

 

[Gary O']

this became rather lengthy

Reaching back to living in town, still working;

Techno-effing-ology

So, Monday my Lady calls me at work.
Now the only time she calls me at the office is when someone has died, or she’s not going to make the pie that she’s been luring me with her verbal fore play for days, or our computer died.

Our computer died.

We used to have two, but discovered one would suffice, and less cords.

But it died.

My tie to the financial world….and sports!
OK, no panic……gotta be sumpm simple.

‘No worries, baby, uh (how to put this) is the little light blinking?’

‘%#!*&%!!*&%$###!!’

‘Ah, yes, of course you’re not an idiot…I’m the idiot, now please stop worrying and get back to making that pie crust.’

I rushed home.

The screen was black.

Huh, appears my used flat panel I’d bought for $10 at a garage sale had given up the ghost…..not bad, 3 years of service.

Whipped over to wally world to get the one they had for $99.
A dewy fresh new sales kid that seemed to have run out of oxy 10 was eager to help me.

‘Just show me where the monitors are.’

‘We don’t have monitors.’

A brief panic took temporary control of my frontal lobe.
Has it happened?
Do I have to now thumb words on a fricking screen to communicate?

‘But your ad says you have them, and on sale.’

‘Oh, maybe we do.’

The lad better get to know his product, he’s only 50 years away from greeter status.

Dang, monitors are light now.
Felt like I was toting around a picture frame.
Back at the house, I yard it outta the styro.
No instructions (?)
No manual (?)
I hook it up.
Nothing.
There’s a disk.
I must admit, I had yet to insert a disk in the shoe box of a tower I’d bought a year ago.
I couldn’t find where the disk goes.
After clawing at every logical side I open a little flimsy door and start trying to jamb the disk into whatever crevice I could find.
After several minutes of hunched over grunting on all fours, cursing, sweating, flashlight in hand, my Lady pokes a button, and the disk holder slides out.
I thank her in my voice of satan sneer.
I assume the disk is now doing its thing and go look for printed matter.
Nothing.
The screen remains black.

‘Baby, where’s the box and styro?’

‘It’s in the recycle.’

‘Go…get….it…………………please.’

I go over the Styrofoam with a fine tooth forensic comb.
Nothing.
I read every word on the box.
Nothing.
I mistakenly tear open the little silica dry pack, spilling a gazzilion teeny weeny poisonous micro beads onto the kitchen floor.

‘No need to glower like that, baby, I’ll clean it up.’

The screen remains black.
Where’s the on button?!
There are four buttons on the monitor, conveniently located on the bottom of the screen frame.
I pick it up, and with my reading glasses and mag light in my mouth, notice the engraved international sign of a flashing light.
The on button.
I press it.
The screen remains black.
OK, recall.
When I bought my new tower a year ago, the instructions were;

Plug it in

Then the start-up message on the screen said something like;

That’s it; proceed to your porn sites.

Oh, and BTW, you better make a backup disk, because we are too chintzy to provide one.

I don’t hear the familiar whirring sound I’m accustomed to hearing from the old tower when a disk was inserted, so I pick up the little shoe box and put it to my ear.
There may be a noise.
My wife is giving me a quizzical look, much like my dog used to after I’d fallen off a ladder…..very irritating.

Patience, old man, patience.
I sit back in my lazyboy.

Mental recall….mind warp back to stardate 1995;

I’m at Circuit City.
Just purchased my first PC.
$19.95….and three years commitment to AOL

‘Sir, I recommend the extra warranty.’

‘How much?’

‘$137.95’

‘AAAAHAAAAAHAHAHAAAAA…..no.’

In getting home and opening up the boxes, I find the instructions.

They go something like this;

Welcome to a whole new world!
Enclosed, you’ll find 37 CDs, and several cords with funny looking connectors.
Put all that down…NOW!
Please carefully read the following;
(Page 1 of 1859)
This is written to totally confuse the crap out of you, and, to impress, we have given it to you in 247 languages.

Or just refer to the quick/easy sheet provided.

Ah, so thaaaaat’s what that glossy spill proof fold out is.
I unfold the tablecloth size easy start up instruction sheet.

My mind flashes back to the game of twister. You know, the game where innocent unsuspecting couples get together, and dry hump each other to conquest.
We were invited to the Eilkers, and after several after dinner cordials, Ed laid out the glossy twister sheet.
And Jeri explained the rules to us couples.
However, after Ed noticed Phil had both hands on Jeri’s hind end, and his face buried deep in her heaving cleavage, he called a halt and brought out the monopoly game.
Seems their explanation of pregame warm up was not well received.

Actually, Ed had the better feeling hind end, if you ask me.

But, yeah, a glossy spill proof sheet of easy hook up.

I poured over the instruction…..actually poured…...coffee.

Once we were hooked up, we both sat there and waited……..

BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BDDDRIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE

BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BRDDDIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE

BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BRDDDDIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE.

The getting on, as a rule, took only several days to sometimes weeks.

I’d get home from the office.
My usual greeting went from ‘Hey baby, what’s for dinner?’ to ‘Are we on?!!’

‘Yes we are, dinner is somewhere in the fridge.’

Evening consisted of sitting around the old PC, listening;
BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BRDDDDIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE.

Both of us poised to arm wrestle to our deaths for first on.

Her quest was infantile things like recipes, knitting patterns, world events, and cute puppy pictures.

Mine were more of a mature, profound nature….porn, old porn, new porn, odd porn, oh my god my mind is now so screwed up porn, and on to sports, porn, old porn, new porn, odd porn, oh my god my mind is now so screwed up porn.

Funny, when we first got it, a rather demure, frumpy lady at the office approached me and, in considering getting a PC herself, asked just one rather quiet little question….’is there porn?’


(back to the present)

‘snark!’ (I wake up) I’ve got a kink in my next to last toe, and my hind end is in a coma…

BUT!

The monitor has a picture!

The CD did its thing, in spite of myself.
All is well again.
Damn, that LED screen is bright.
I’m considering wearing sunglasses, cause I’ll be damned if I’m gonna poke any more buttons to find intensity adjustments.

Now? My lady has a chrome book, I still have a PC….and life around the web is our evening entertainment here at the cabin.

 

[Meanderer]

Uh, yeah......

 

[Gary O']

other jottings of length

written when living in town, somewhat fresh from last trip to mainland China;

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 lady....., 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, my 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.


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 resilience 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. ******* 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 bloodletting profusely).

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

 

[Vinny]

I can remember back until I was 4.

 

[Meanderer]

Street cobbler in Shanghai, China, in 2003.

 

[Gary O']

Street cobbler in Shanghai, China, in 2003.

Man, if that ain't exemplary

 

[StarSong]

other jottings of length

written when living in town, somewhat fresh from last trip to mainland China;

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 lady....., 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, my 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.


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 resilience 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. ******* 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 bloodletting profusely).

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

My grandmother used to say, "Be careful how much stuff you collect. Before you know it your stuff will own you." She was ahead of her time, a minimalist extraordinaire. Her daughter, my mother? Not so much.

A little over five years ago my mother went into assisted living and I began clearing items from her home. I kept the bar soap and we have only used up 2/3 of her stash.
Last night my daughter's family came over for dinner. Her kids are little and get a kick out of fancy paper napkins. My daughter looked at the napkins, cocked and eyebrow and said, "You STILL have more of Grandma's napkins???" I told her that she may wind up with some of them in her own inheritance. Eye roll.

 

[Gary O']

office days
around the turn of the century

Hot afternoon
I volunteered to drop off a hot package at FedX
Big line
Appeared everone in SE Portland had a hot package that’d missed the regular pick up

A fresh new Mercedes convert pulls into the parking lot
A leggy blonde’s lithe figure flows onto the tarmac

She’s carrying wunna those coolers some guys use for lunch boxes

I turn, face her
‘Beer?’

Her eyes stare thru me
‘Bull semen’

‘With beer?’

Nothing

‘How much?’

Not a flinch, but shakes her tendrils out, somewhat like Rita Hayworth.

I begin to hate her
Turns out, no matter how comely, demeanor plays a role in attractiveness

‘One hand or two?’

Now she turns, but away from me, rather quickly

I can see her shoulders begin a stifled tremble

I turn back around, face the front of the line

smiling

win

 

[Gary O']

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 ate 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 a bit too much.