Thanks for that look back, Gary! ....then it was off to collage, I suppose? ....after one more look back!
Heh, the college days were a bit too graphic for this site, but yeah (fitting 'toon there)
Vivid Memories of Childhood and Beyond
- Thread starter Gary O'
- Start date
Heh, the college days were a bit too graphic for this site, but yeah (fitting 'toon there)
My mind wanders (travels) sometimes
sometimes to the edge
during those times a keyboard is employed
(forgive me)
a pre-first draft (unedited) excerpt from a morning's mental urge;
Anybody got close to near to close relatives that seem to live a cut above everone around them including you?
These are kin, that if you had the choice, you’d pick for Hitler’s cronies, their lives ending by the hand of Idi Amin’s pals.
It’s a dream you have anyway.
These are not necessarily smug folks, as they’ve been raised to be proper with kindly remarks saved for the mentally disadvantaged (you),
but still,
when in conversation, you seem to come off as a curiosity, a toy that should have been discarded but kept because, well, it’s been passed down from aged family members.
These are your kinfolks that you wish weren’t.
But there you are, at their place.
And there they are, choosing the correct fork with mindless ease, while it dawns on you that you not only have one, but both elbows on the table.
This felonious act is like discovering, while you’re waiting for the bus, you have no pants on.
Yeah, there they are, wittily chatting about current events, glancing your way, hoping you will say something so they can have a good mutual laugh, jumping on your blurted fractured words like the ravenous hyenas they are.
But you know this, so you amiably reach for your seventh dinner role, because you know the lone knife is for butter…pretty sure.
And there’s your sister, blending nicely, and even your little brother, cute little bastard, seems to be one of them, along with mom and dad, all exchanging quips and witticisms.
So you begin to feel a tad self-conscious, and thirsty, since your fourth glass of juice has managed to cause that loaf of dinner rolls to swell to the max in your twisted up stomach.
‘Why’d the moron throw the clock out the window?’
‘Whud he say? ‘
snicker giggle giggle giggle....rising, swelling to a tidal wave of uproarious laughter
‘I dunno, Gary, why did the moron do that (snarkle)?’
The beets look pale compared to you.
Only you are smiling, laughing sappily with them.
But, on the inside you’re envisioning Himmler’s storm troopers bashing down the door, and hauling everone outside.
You are untouched, saved actually.
Later you stroll out to the gazebo where everone is flailing away, hanging upside down.
You walk slowly by these relatives of yours, stopping in front of your cousin’s bobbing head.
‘TO EFFING SEE THE EFFING TIME EFFING FLY!!!!’
Later that day, sitting in the gazebo, finally with your own thoughts, you settle your mind with the calming resolution of just writing a book.....
So, you never had relatives like that, you say?
Me neither
But it still won’t keep me from writing about them....
sometimes to the edge
during those times a keyboard is employed
(forgive me)
a pre-first draft (unedited) excerpt from a morning's mental urge;
Anybody got close to near to close relatives that seem to live a cut above everone around them including you?
These are kin, that if you had the choice, you’d pick for Hitler’s cronies, their lives ending by the hand of Idi Amin’s pals.
It’s a dream you have anyway.
These are not necessarily smug folks, as they’ve been raised to be proper with kindly remarks saved for the mentally disadvantaged (you),
but still,
when in conversation, you seem to come off as a curiosity, a toy that should have been discarded but kept because, well, it’s been passed down from aged family members.
These are your kinfolks that you wish weren’t.
But there you are, at their place.
And there they are, choosing the correct fork with mindless ease, while it dawns on you that you not only have one, but both elbows on the table.
This felonious act is like discovering, while you’re waiting for the bus, you have no pants on.
Yeah, there they are, wittily chatting about current events, glancing your way, hoping you will say something so they can have a good mutual laugh, jumping on your blurted fractured words like the ravenous hyenas they are.
But you know this, so you amiably reach for your seventh dinner role, because you know the lone knife is for butter…pretty sure.
And there’s your sister, blending nicely, and even your little brother, cute little bastard, seems to be one of them, along with mom and dad, all exchanging quips and witticisms.
So you begin to feel a tad self-conscious, and thirsty, since your fourth glass of juice has managed to cause that loaf of dinner rolls to swell to the max in your twisted up stomach.
‘Why’d the moron throw the clock out the window?’
‘Whud he say? ‘
snicker giggle giggle giggle....rising, swelling to a tidal wave of uproarious laughter
‘I dunno, Gary, why did the moron do that (snarkle)?’
The beets look pale compared to you.
Only you are smiling, laughing sappily with them.
But, on the inside you’re envisioning Himmler’s storm troopers bashing down the door, and hauling everone outside.
You are untouched, saved actually.
Later you stroll out to the gazebo where everone is flailing away, hanging upside down.
You walk slowly by these relatives of yours, stopping in front of your cousin’s bobbing head.
‘TO EFFING SEE THE EFFING TIME EFFING FLY!!!!’
Later that day, sitting in the gazebo, finally with your own thoughts, you settle your mind with the calming resolution of just writing a book.....
So, you never had relatives like that, you say?
Me neither
But it still won’t keep me from writing about them....
....moving along
Labor
Let's start from the beginning (or as I've been told, mine);
Mom was in a maternity ward, toiling away.
Me? I was doing all I could to stay warm, and at home.
I was quite comfy and couldn't care less about goin' anywhere.
But this indescribable force propelled me into the chute much like someone cramming dirty laundry into an overstuffed washer.
Seventeen labor filled hours later;
'Hey, ya oughta see the mutt of a baby next to ours, geeeezus, head looks likea plumb bob!'
The young mother, next to mine, is frowning and signaling with her head toward mom.
Apparently, my trip thru the eerie canal was a tad narrow, and my noggin had taken on the shape of a butternut squash.
And why do they say the mothers are in labor?
Seems the kid is doin' all the work.
Then again, everything is work, really.
My dad proved this to me all through my growing up years.
I don't think he ever played a day in his life.
We got a boat, a large one, a cabin cruiser.
Dad had worked day and night to get it. Actually he hadn't worked to get it. He worked around the clock no matter what we needed or wanted.
The boat just happened to be the thing that seemed would be enjoyable, for the whole family.
Only every aspect about it was made into work.
Even when we were just cruising up the river, 'Gary, you stand here and watch for dead heads, you know what a dead head is dontcha? A dead head is a log that is just barely stickin' outta the water...can't see it right away, but it will tear a hole in the boat, and we'll all drown.'
'OK'
'And tighten that life jacket.'
'OK'
'Watch out for the wakes of other boats. You can get thrown out.'
'OK'
'DON'T TOUCH THAT!!'
'OK'
'Fun, huh?'
'OK'
Years later, I invited Dad to help me knock out a couple buckets of balls at the driving range. Maybe get him away from his life of toil a bit and relax.
Heh.
He swung so hard at those evasive little dimpled eggs, I thought he'd screw himself into the ground.
After watching him do several pirouettes, half the time falling down, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing under the sun he didn't work at.
Turns out, he loved work.
And he wanted me to love it too.
His frustration with me was evident when we'd go into the back yard and 'just toss the ol' ball around'.
I had better than average hand/eye coordination, and probably better than average athletic ability, so playing ball came rather easy.
I made it look easy.
No awkward moves.
A bit of flow to things.
He thought I wasn't playing hard enough.
When he caught the ball, or threw it, he'd make a little grunt.
Actually he made that little grunt just picking up the newspaper, or shaving...'See you just take little strokes, ungh, like that, ungh.'
In 'just tossing the ol' ball around', he always had a fixed, determined stare....at the ball, coupled with a grim look, like he was just sentenced to a life of breaking rocks.
I'd toss it back to him and watch his countenance tighten into a grimace as the ball sailed into his out stretched glove.
If I threw a moderately wild one, and he happened to miss it, he'd scurry back to get it like Peewee Reese was stealing home.
'OK, let's see how your fast ball is doin'.'
'Hey, nice curve, you've got a natural curve ball, boy.'
(my fast ball is goin' so slow he thinks it's a curve ball)
'One more hard one.'
Four hours of 'one more hard one' into the dark of night, three hours after Mom had advised that, 'our #&*%# dinner is getting #&*%# cold', I was given permission to carry my arm inside and plop it on the table.
It was work.
I liked to play.
But this is what I've come to determine; play is just fun work.
In my very early childhood years, I had several small toy cars and trucks.
These were mostly rubber with yellow wheels.
Several decades later, I looked up these cars. They were made by Auburn Rubber Company. I had the '56 Plymouth wagon, the '57 Ford Ranchero, the T-Bird, and the '32 deuce coupe hot rod.
I also had the red Harley, but it was larger and my early obsessions would never allow myself to incorporate it into the scheme of things.
That scheme was building towns and neighborhoods.
The whole back yard was my universe.
I did my best to make it all as realistic as possible, carving roads in the side of the hill and building tiny houses and stores out of bricks and 2x4 millends.
Using care to keep it all in scale.
Tuna cans became swimming pools.
Weeds became landscaping.
Tag, my overgrown ogre giant dog, became a pest.
The scourge of Tiny Town.
A happy, playful scourge.
Sometimes kids would come over, and bring their cars.
Only their cars were too big. They hadn't noticed.
I preferred to just play by myself.
My very own dirt erector set.
I needed nothing or anyone else.
But
The fun was in building. Once everything was built, it was over.
If I did let a kid play with me, they'd get all wrapped up in a plot of some kind, and jabber away at who everyone was, and several scenes would be discussed. None of that did anything for me.
I did, however, in my toddler years, sit in on a couple tea parties my sister and Bessie Dodge put on.
But, they too were enmeshed in setting up scenarios. It was as though they were miniature playwrights, discussing various acts and scenes.
And I, I was the best boy, or key grip, or maybe gaffer.
'OK, you were upset because Rock Hudson didn't show up, but I was happy because my handsome boyfriend, Cary Grant, was here, more tea?'
(seems I was hauled in to be the Cary Grant stand in)
The tea (tepid water), and the mud scones (mud scones) looked quite inviting, all set up on the tiny card table with frilly napkins and minute fine chinette.
After initial set up, all this became an unbearable bore. So, as interest faded, and the mud around my lips dried (yes, I actually ate the scones) I sidled away from their little playhouse setting, finding fascination with bugs and ants and a magnifying glass.
It seems, at least in the '50s, that 'play' was a bit overrated and overplayed.......I guess hyped would be the word.
TV ads would show kids eyes light up when they played with things like Tinkertoys and Lincoln Logs, or (be still my heart) Lionel trains.
They would say things like 'Gee' and Gosh' and have an eternal smile pasted on their little gleeful mugs.
So, me and sis would be layin' on the floor, elbows helping our hands prop our faces up, starin' at the grey and white ads, absorbing thoughts like, 'Huh, so that's what happy looks like.'
Parents would look on, paralyzed with guilt, unable to flip the channel, mainly because that was the only one that had decent reception, let alone have to get up and turn the knob.
Come to think about it, actual play hardly existed back then.
Anticipation
Unwrapping
Putting together (by illiterate overconfident parents that abhorred reading any printed matter)
Crying
Going to bed
That's what mostly existed.
I just liked building, fun work.
Around twelve, or maybe thirteen, we moved further out of town.
The neighborhood was spread out and six acres of woods, that bordered a few thousand acres of woods, was our back yard.
I scrounged some 2x4s and sheets of ply, along with some sheets of tin and fashioned myself a little hut. I loosely called it my cabin.
It was just a lean-to with homemade door and scavenged cot.
However, it was mine, my place.
Again, once it was built the fun was over.
Sure, I'd sleep in it sometimes, but it was cold, and damp, and leaked like a sieve.
I learned to appreciate the finer things of life, like a house, and a proper bed, and a refrigerator, and a toilet.
That work thing that my dad was so enrapt in took on a whole new admiration.
Labor
Let's start from the beginning (or as I've been told, mine);
Mom was in a maternity ward, toiling away.
Me? I was doing all I could to stay warm, and at home.
I was quite comfy and couldn't care less about goin' anywhere.
But this indescribable force propelled me into the chute much like someone cramming dirty laundry into an overstuffed washer.
Seventeen labor filled hours later;
'Hey, ya oughta see the mutt of a baby next to ours, geeeezus, head looks likea plumb bob!'
The young mother, next to mine, is frowning and signaling with her head toward mom.
Apparently, my trip thru the eerie canal was a tad narrow, and my noggin had taken on the shape of a butternut squash.
And why do they say the mothers are in labor?
Seems the kid is doin' all the work.
Then again, everything is work, really.
My dad proved this to me all through my growing up years.
I don't think he ever played a day in his life.
We got a boat, a large one, a cabin cruiser.
Dad had worked day and night to get it. Actually he hadn't worked to get it. He worked around the clock no matter what we needed or wanted.
The boat just happened to be the thing that seemed would be enjoyable, for the whole family.
Only every aspect about it was made into work.
Even when we were just cruising up the river, 'Gary, you stand here and watch for dead heads, you know what a dead head is dontcha? A dead head is a log that is just barely stickin' outta the water...can't see it right away, but it will tear a hole in the boat, and we'll all drown.'
'OK'
'And tighten that life jacket.'
'OK'
'Watch out for the wakes of other boats. You can get thrown out.'
'OK'
'DON'T TOUCH THAT!!'
'OK'
'Fun, huh?'
'OK'
Years later, I invited Dad to help me knock out a couple buckets of balls at the driving range. Maybe get him away from his life of toil a bit and relax.
Heh.
He swung so hard at those evasive little dimpled eggs, I thought he'd screw himself into the ground.
After watching him do several pirouettes, half the time falling down, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing under the sun he didn't work at.
Turns out, he loved work.
And he wanted me to love it too.
His frustration with me was evident when we'd go into the back yard and 'just toss the ol' ball around'.
I had better than average hand/eye coordination, and probably better than average athletic ability, so playing ball came rather easy.
I made it look easy.
No awkward moves.
A bit of flow to things.
He thought I wasn't playing hard enough.
When he caught the ball, or threw it, he'd make a little grunt.
Actually he made that little grunt just picking up the newspaper, or shaving...'See you just take little strokes, ungh, like that, ungh.'
In 'just tossing the ol' ball around', he always had a fixed, determined stare....at the ball, coupled with a grim look, like he was just sentenced to a life of breaking rocks.
I'd toss it back to him and watch his countenance tighten into a grimace as the ball sailed into his out stretched glove.
If I threw a moderately wild one, and he happened to miss it, he'd scurry back to get it like Peewee Reese was stealing home.
'OK, let's see how your fast ball is doin'.'
'Hey, nice curve, you've got a natural curve ball, boy.'
(my fast ball is goin' so slow he thinks it's a curve ball)
'One more hard one.'
Four hours of 'one more hard one' into the dark of night, three hours after Mom had advised that, 'our #&*%# dinner is getting #&*%# cold', I was given permission to carry my arm inside and plop it on the table.
It was work.
I liked to play.
But this is what I've come to determine; play is just fun work.
In my very early childhood years, I had several small toy cars and trucks.
These were mostly rubber with yellow wheels.
Several decades later, I looked up these cars. They were made by Auburn Rubber Company. I had the '56 Plymouth wagon, the '57 Ford Ranchero, the T-Bird, and the '32 deuce coupe hot rod.
I also had the red Harley, but it was larger and my early obsessions would never allow myself to incorporate it into the scheme of things.
That scheme was building towns and neighborhoods.
The whole back yard was my universe.
I did my best to make it all as realistic as possible, carving roads in the side of the hill and building tiny houses and stores out of bricks and 2x4 millends.
Using care to keep it all in scale.
Tuna cans became swimming pools.
Weeds became landscaping.
Tag, my overgrown ogre giant dog, became a pest.
The scourge of Tiny Town.
A happy, playful scourge.
Sometimes kids would come over, and bring their cars.
Only their cars were too big. They hadn't noticed.
I preferred to just play by myself.
My very own dirt erector set.
I needed nothing or anyone else.
But
The fun was in building. Once everything was built, it was over.
If I did let a kid play with me, they'd get all wrapped up in a plot of some kind, and jabber away at who everyone was, and several scenes would be discussed. None of that did anything for me.
I did, however, in my toddler years, sit in on a couple tea parties my sister and Bessie Dodge put on.
But, they too were enmeshed in setting up scenarios. It was as though they were miniature playwrights, discussing various acts and scenes.
And I, I was the best boy, or key grip, or maybe gaffer.
'OK, you were upset because Rock Hudson didn't show up, but I was happy because my handsome boyfriend, Cary Grant, was here, more tea?'
(seems I was hauled in to be the Cary Grant stand in)
The tea (tepid water), and the mud scones (mud scones) looked quite inviting, all set up on the tiny card table with frilly napkins and minute fine chinette.
After initial set up, all this became an unbearable bore. So, as interest faded, and the mud around my lips dried (yes, I actually ate the scones) I sidled away from their little playhouse setting, finding fascination with bugs and ants and a magnifying glass.
It seems, at least in the '50s, that 'play' was a bit overrated and overplayed.......I guess hyped would be the word.
TV ads would show kids eyes light up when they played with things like Tinkertoys and Lincoln Logs, or (be still my heart) Lionel trains.
They would say things like 'Gee' and Gosh' and have an eternal smile pasted on their little gleeful mugs.
So, me and sis would be layin' on the floor, elbows helping our hands prop our faces up, starin' at the grey and white ads, absorbing thoughts like, 'Huh, so that's what happy looks like.'
Parents would look on, paralyzed with guilt, unable to flip the channel, mainly because that was the only one that had decent reception, let alone have to get up and turn the knob.
Come to think about it, actual play hardly existed back then.
Anticipation
Unwrapping
Putting together (by illiterate overconfident parents that abhorred reading any printed matter)
Crying
Going to bed
That's what mostly existed.
I just liked building, fun work.
Around twelve, or maybe thirteen, we moved further out of town.
The neighborhood was spread out and six acres of woods, that bordered a few thousand acres of woods, was our back yard.
I scrounged some 2x4s and sheets of ply, along with some sheets of tin and fashioned myself a little hut. I loosely called it my cabin.
It was just a lean-to with homemade door and scavenged cot.
However, it was mine, my place.
Again, once it was built the fun was over.
Sure, I'd sleep in it sometimes, but it was cold, and damp, and leaked like a sieve.
I learned to appreciate the finer things of life, like a house, and a proper bed, and a refrigerator, and a toilet.
That work thing that my dad was so enrapt in took on a whole new admiration.
Gary. I guess it comes down to the fact that we are all made, to be so different from one another. I guess our real job in life. is to be our self.
that evokes an amen, brother
Grampa
He was a quiet man.
Work was his vocation and recreation.
I spent a lot of time at their place in my early years, his latter years.
Seems Grampa always had chores that filled his waking hours.
I was his shadow.
He wore coveralls most days, and always sported an old grey fedora.
His high cut oxfords made a shuffling sound as he walked. Parkinson’s was having it’s way with his system.
We’d dine on a bowl of hominy together in the country kitchen.
As the midday sun danced on the table through the window from between the limbs of the giant firs, I’d watch his massive hand struggle to keep his corn on the shaking spoon.
In between chores, and my naps, he’d sit in the old padded rocker and thumb through a photo album while I stood at his side.
‘The dapple was Molly and the grey was Dixie’, pointing to the work horse team he knew so well.
Seemed Grampa had a couple soft balls tucked in his upper shirt sleeves. He was a compact man at five nine, but stout, bull neck, thick arms.
I knew him in his lesser years, keeping his meaning to life by doing small jobs.
Things like sharpening the hoes with rasps, feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, or lubing the tractor.
He cut down a hoe to my size, and all three of us hoed acres of strawberries.
I saw him laugh once.
He was a proud man, brought down and humbled by an untreatable disease, but keeping his misery within.
Dad says he was hard boiled in his younger years, and short on patience. Proud.
I knew him as a much different man.
One time I peered through a cracked door to his study. He was on his hands and knees, talking to his Lord, no longer able to just kneel.
His bible was quite worn.
Dad gave to it me a few years ago.
I leant it to him at Christmas.
I’ll get it back pretty soon.
I think of times then and times now.
What a difference in pace, in conviction, in the shear enjoyment of endurance in simple living.
I see my grandkids give me an occasional glance of admiration, but nothing like the revered awe I had of him.
He died when I was ten.
I can still hear the shuffle of his feet, but it’s mine that echo his stride now.
Enough of this.
I’ve got chores to do before I sleep.
Chores to do before I sleep.
other gurls
Linda
By the age of thirteen I’d mastered the art of girlfriendmanship.
The major thing about the ladies was they needed to be dazzled, swept off their feet, so to speak.
I knew this from my vast studies of Errol Flynn movies.
So, with my now astute knowledge of the opposite sex, it all came rather easy.
Take my next conquest for example.
I’ll call her ‘Linda’, mainly cause her name was (and probably still is) Linda.
I usually change the names to protect the innocent (me), but there’s nothing about Linda here that would be defamatory…pretty sure.
She had a beguiling smile…hell, all of ‘em had those beguiling smiles, but hers kinda took on a Susan Hayward look.
And, she was cool.
Never went to the same schools, as she lived in St John’s, and I lived up in the hills twenty miles outta Portland.
But I met her at swim lessons in Portland, lessons that near drowned me as Itried so hard to get hold of that long ass bamboo pole the bitch of a swim instructor kept poking at me, pushing me away from frantically hugging the edge of the pool.
Very frustrating for her, as several times I’d glommed onto that pole with both arms and legs, while she tried like hell to push me off the ledge and into the deep end.
I’d just climb the pole, hand over hand, like a waterborne lemur, as she’d whisk me back and forth across the pool.
It only took a half dozen lessons to figger out that one really can’t breathe water…
Linda smiled at me, thus I was smitten.
Since we didn’t have very many ways of hooking up, meeting was rather sporadic.
The next time we met was at Pier Park in St John’s.
We strolled around,holding hands…sweaty hands…a real tell in regard to my rico suave persona.
But she kept smiling and I kept sweating.
Mostly, our relationship consisted of letters and phone calls.
Letters were a snap, cause I could take my sweet time in expounding on my devil may care, swash buckling life style, but the phone calls required some fast thinking on my feet.
In my vast knowledge of the opposite sex, knowing they needed to be dazzled, my acute imagination begat that of my own version of Walter Mitty.
‘Hi, how are you?’
(I could just see her smiling that Susan Hayward smile)
‘Hi, I’m OK, now that I’m able to stitch up my shoulder.’
‘What?!’
‘Oh, it’s nuthin’, just got done fightin’ a grizzly in the back yard.’
‘Oh my god! What happened?!’
‘Well, I was choppin’ wood, and he kinda got the jump on me. So I just chopped him in the neck with my axe.’
‘Are you okay???’
‘Yeah, right now I’m stitching up my shoulder while we talk.’
‘Is the bear still there?!’
‘Naw, I chased him up the hill for several miles…had to cold camp a couple days, and lost him up in the high country.’
‘Oh, so the bear fight didn’t just happen?’
‘Uh, no…..sorta.’ (sweat)
‘Well, I gotta go. Gotta tell some folks that I’ve gotta cancel the sky diving lesson for today, so see ya.’
‘Oh, are you taking lessons?’
‘No, I teach it.’
‘Oh,’
‘Yeah, so I gotta go….bye.’ (my hands now sweat faucets)
I really don’t know what ever happened that severed our relationship.
It certainly wasn’t due to my boring life style that’s for sure.
Actually, I do remember seeing her for what was probably the last time, and somehow her smile no longer did it for me.
When I was in my midteens, I used to think back on those times and get all embarrassed.
Then later, in my twenties, would vividly recall it all and just laugh my hind end off.
Linda
By the age of thirteen I’d mastered the art of girlfriendmanship.
The major thing about the ladies was they needed to be dazzled, swept off their feet, so to speak.
I knew this from my vast studies of Errol Flynn movies.
So, with my now astute knowledge of the opposite sex, it all came rather easy.
Take my next conquest for example.
I’ll call her ‘Linda’, mainly cause her name was (and probably still is) Linda.
I usually change the names to protect the innocent (me), but there’s nothing about Linda here that would be defamatory…pretty sure.
She had a beguiling smile…hell, all of ‘em had those beguiling smiles, but hers kinda took on a Susan Hayward look.
And, she was cool.
Never went to the same schools, as she lived in St John’s, and I lived up in the hills twenty miles outta Portland.
But I met her at swim lessons in Portland, lessons that near drowned me as Itried so hard to get hold of that long ass bamboo pole the bitch of a swim instructor kept poking at me, pushing me away from frantically hugging the edge of the pool.
Very frustrating for her, as several times I’d glommed onto that pole with both arms and legs, while she tried like hell to push me off the ledge and into the deep end.
I’d just climb the pole, hand over hand, like a waterborne lemur, as she’d whisk me back and forth across the pool.
It only took a half dozen lessons to figger out that one really can’t breathe water…
Linda smiled at me, thus I was smitten.
Since we didn’t have very many ways of hooking up, meeting was rather sporadic.
The next time we met was at Pier Park in St John’s.
We strolled around,holding hands…sweaty hands…a real tell in regard to my rico suave persona.
But she kept smiling and I kept sweating.
Mostly, our relationship consisted of letters and phone calls.
Letters were a snap, cause I could take my sweet time in expounding on my devil may care, swash buckling life style, but the phone calls required some fast thinking on my feet.
In my vast knowledge of the opposite sex, knowing they needed to be dazzled, my acute imagination begat that of my own version of Walter Mitty.
‘Hi, how are you?’
(I could just see her smiling that Susan Hayward smile)
‘Hi, I’m OK, now that I’m able to stitch up my shoulder.’
‘What?!’
‘Oh, it’s nuthin’, just got done fightin’ a grizzly in the back yard.’
‘Oh my god! What happened?!’
‘Well, I was choppin’ wood, and he kinda got the jump on me. So I just chopped him in the neck with my axe.’
‘Are you okay???’
‘Yeah, right now I’m stitching up my shoulder while we talk.’
‘Is the bear still there?!’
‘Naw, I chased him up the hill for several miles…had to cold camp a couple days, and lost him up in the high country.’
‘Oh, so the bear fight didn’t just happen?’
‘Uh, no…..sorta.’ (sweat)
‘Well, I gotta go. Gotta tell some folks that I’ve gotta cancel the sky diving lesson for today, so see ya.’
‘Oh, are you taking lessons?’
‘No, I teach it.’
‘Oh,’
‘Yeah, so I gotta go….bye.’ (my hands now sweat faucets)
I really don’t know what ever happened that severed our relationship.
It certainly wasn’t due to my boring life style that’s for sure.
Actually, I do remember seeing her for what was probably the last time, and somehow her smile no longer did it for me.
When I was in my midteens, I used to think back on those times and get all embarrassed.
Then later, in my twenties, would vividly recall it all and just laugh my hind end off.
moving along (these are not chronological)
Tom Gurls
1957
I was dropped off for the day at the Beasley farm.
I don’t recall how or why, but, since both folks worked, ever so often I’d just get dropped off for the day…..at someone’s place.
Didn’t matter if I knew them or not.
What did matter, I guess, was that someone was watching my 7 or 8 year old idiot savant self.
The Beasleys had a farm, cows, fields, ponds, barns of hay, yards of farm animals….and three sisters.
Horrifically wild, country girl wild, sisters.
Mom chatted with Mrs Beasley as I settled in at the kitchen table.
‘Oh he’ll be fine, there’s plenty to do here.’
‘OK, bye bye.’
And she was gone.
The kitchen smelled of ham and eggs.
I was given a glass of milk, raw milk, warm raw milk, accompanied with the complimentary clumps.
‘You don’t like milk?’
‘Full.’ (ready to hork up my own breakfast)
‘Well, why don’t you go outside, the girls will be out in a minute.’
(Gurls??!!)
They aged around 10, 12, and 13 I’d say.
‘Mamma, can we play with the boy?’
I felt like Lennie Small’s imaginary rabbit.
They too had bib overalls, but no shoes, no T-shirt, just bibs.
‘Wanna play in the barn?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Not realizing I was the prey for catching and raping, I climbed the hay bales and crawled thru the tunnels they’d made.
It was quite fun at first.
Things turned a bit when I heard the eldest say something like ‘he’s over there, get him’.
I made for the open air, and scurried toward the corn field.
Not a chance.
The eldest tackled me at about the third row.
Everything kinda gets fuzzy after that, as I was picked up and thrown down like the calf in a calf roping contest.
My arms and legs were pinned by their knees, as all six hands eagerly explored my entire self….things even I had yet to explore.
So, being the only one present of sound mind, I immediately employed my most potent offense, which consisted of violently flopping my head from side to side.
This abated some when the eldest straddled my face.
I then went into stealth mode, lying as still as one could while being tossed up and down, probed, rubbed, and generally molested, farm girl style.
Eventually (I’d say sometime late morning) they lost interest.
Lunch.
‘Did you girls show Gary the castration shed?’
(!!!!!!!!!)
I don’t recall leaping up, running out the door, or the journey to the pond, but I have feint recollection of the sound of the kitchen chair hitting the floor, and the screen door slamming shut.
I played with the ducks and geese on the other side of the pond, taking swift glances behind me every few seconds, until I heard our Chevy pull up.
Farm girls, as a rule, turned into extremely fit, vivacious young ladies, and seemed to know what they wanted, and when they wanted it (now).
I avoided them like the plague, right up until about 15 or 16. Then we, shall we say, taught each other a few things.
Tom Gurls
1957
I was dropped off for the day at the Beasley farm.
I don’t recall how or why, but, since both folks worked, ever so often I’d just get dropped off for the day…..at someone’s place.
Didn’t matter if I knew them or not.
What did matter, I guess, was that someone was watching my 7 or 8 year old idiot savant self.
The Beasleys had a farm, cows, fields, ponds, barns of hay, yards of farm animals….and three sisters.
Horrifically wild, country girl wild, sisters.
Mom chatted with Mrs Beasley as I settled in at the kitchen table.
‘Oh he’ll be fine, there’s plenty to do here.’
‘OK, bye bye.’
And she was gone.
The kitchen smelled of ham and eggs.
I was given a glass of milk, raw milk, warm raw milk, accompanied with the complimentary clumps.
‘You don’t like milk?’
‘Full.’ (ready to hork up my own breakfast)
‘Well, why don’t you go outside, the girls will be out in a minute.’
(Gurls??!!)
They aged around 10, 12, and 13 I’d say.
‘Mamma, can we play with the boy?’
I felt like Lennie Small’s imaginary rabbit.
They too had bib overalls, but no shoes, no T-shirt, just bibs.
‘Wanna play in the barn?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Not realizing I was the prey for catching and raping, I climbed the hay bales and crawled thru the tunnels they’d made.
It was quite fun at first.
Things turned a bit when I heard the eldest say something like ‘he’s over there, get him’.
I made for the open air, and scurried toward the corn field.
Not a chance.
The eldest tackled me at about the third row.
Everything kinda gets fuzzy after that, as I was picked up and thrown down like the calf in a calf roping contest.
My arms and legs were pinned by their knees, as all six hands eagerly explored my entire self….things even I had yet to explore.
So, being the only one present of sound mind, I immediately employed my most potent offense, which consisted of violently flopping my head from side to side.
This abated some when the eldest straddled my face.
I then went into stealth mode, lying as still as one could while being tossed up and down, probed, rubbed, and generally molested, farm girl style.
Eventually (I’d say sometime late morning) they lost interest.
Lunch.
‘Did you girls show Gary the castration shed?’
(!!!!!!!!!)
I don’t recall leaping up, running out the door, or the journey to the pond, but I have feint recollection of the sound of the kitchen chair hitting the floor, and the screen door slamming shut.
I played with the ducks and geese on the other side of the pond, taking swift glances behind me every few seconds, until I heard our Chevy pull up.
Farm girls, as a rule, turned into extremely fit, vivacious young ladies, and seemed to know what they wanted, and when they wanted it (now).
I avoided them like the plague, right up until about 15 or 16. Then we, shall we say, taught each other a few things.
Lindsey
From months of bucking hay and picking berries, beans, and whatever I could get hold of, at 14 I bought a car.
My first.
’54 Chevy
$300
When you save your money in a cigar box for several months, taking it out, counting, fondling, stacking, fanning it out like a hand of gin rummy, then putting it back under the bed, w-a-a-a-a-y under, and you make a major purchase, your object of worship is gone…gone I say…just an empty cigar box with only the faint scent of cheap cigars and a hint of the smell of soft currency once soaked in the sweat of your front Levi pocket.
There are few words to describe the emptiness.
Maybe ‘bereft’.
I’d had this same experience at 12, getting my 30-30, but $79.50 from Western Auto was not the same as giving over a summer of work in one fell swoop.
The following summer I got a job hoeing roses for a famous, prize winning rosegrower that had several acres of (you guessed it) roses at the end of a gravelroad on top of the hill we lived on.
So, before sunup I’d make myself lunch, make coffee for the thermos and breakfast, fire up the green hornet and bomb up the hill, taking switch back after switchback…. sideways.
Then proceed to get ahead start on a degenerative back by hoeing roses for 10 hours.
One Friday I’d gotten a call from a pretty little girl that I’d met.
Not as beautiful as my lady now, but beyond cute…really really cute, evenp retty….her smile did funny things to my heart.
So Sunday I approached dad.
‘Hey, ol’ man. I wanna go to church with this girl.’
‘Well, what’s stoppin’ ya?’
‘She lives on the other side of Portland.’
‘You want me to drive you to the other side of Portland?!’
‘Uh, no.
I’d like to drive my car.’
(Mom)
‘ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!’
‘I’d be careful.’
‘And, (the coupe de grace) can I borrow grampa’s bible?’
‘You better be careful, cause if you get in an accident, they’re comin’ after me.’
‘Thanksdadbye.’
Mom said something, rather sputtered something, but I was already bombin’ down the drive.
Can’t recall the jaunt over the St Johns Bridge or the rest of the twenty miles.
Lindsey jumped in and we headed down the country lane to a park.
On the way, she was all over me.
I gave a thought to just pull over into the ditch, but maintained my James Bond nonchalant approach and returned her kisses, French kisses,
my first,
in my car,
driving,
For some reason, even beyond the control of my crotch, my mind relished in the sensation of tongue wrestling with this lovely being, and not on keeping in my lane…or on the road even.
It wouldn’t have mattered much to look where I was goin’ because my eyeballs were rolled back in my head.
Then a funny thing happened.
Somewhere deep in my semi consciousness, I heard trumpets blowing.
(So this is what Brad was telling me about…)
But while trying to gather my fuzzy thoughts, I had a flash back of a song that was getting popular….Leader of the Pack had a girl yelling ‘LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT,LOOK OUT!!’, then screeching tires.
Only it was Linda yelling, and the trumpet was a car horn, and the tires were those of the car in front of us.
I just remember two old couples, dressed for church, mouths open, arms waving.
I swerved.
Our rear quarter panels met.
Hard.
A sickening crunch.
My rear view mirror revealed them just sittin’ there in the middle of the road…sideways….gettin’ smaller and smaller as I floored the little chevy.
Lindsey didn’t say much when I dropped her off, but a few days later I got a letter.
My first.
I drove into the drive and parked behind the garage.
My story was that there was black ice on a corner and I slid into the guardrail.
He bought it.
I sweated blood for weeks after that, waiting for cops to haul my dad off in hand cuffs…leaving me with mom.
It never happened, but every time I got in my car, I got a little sick to my stomach.
I told him the real story three decades later.
We both had a good laugh over it.
Together.
Not at each other, but with each other.
My first.
From months of bucking hay and picking berries, beans, and whatever I could get hold of, at 14 I bought a car.
My first.
’54 Chevy
$300
When you save your money in a cigar box for several months, taking it out, counting, fondling, stacking, fanning it out like a hand of gin rummy, then putting it back under the bed, w-a-a-a-a-y under, and you make a major purchase, your object of worship is gone…gone I say…just an empty cigar box with only the faint scent of cheap cigars and a hint of the smell of soft currency once soaked in the sweat of your front Levi pocket.
There are few words to describe the emptiness.
Maybe ‘bereft’.
I’d had this same experience at 12, getting my 30-30, but $79.50 from Western Auto was not the same as giving over a summer of work in one fell swoop.
The following summer I got a job hoeing roses for a famous, prize winning rosegrower that had several acres of (you guessed it) roses at the end of a gravelroad on top of the hill we lived on.
So, before sunup I’d make myself lunch, make coffee for the thermos and breakfast, fire up the green hornet and bomb up the hill, taking switch back after switchback…. sideways.
Then proceed to get ahead start on a degenerative back by hoeing roses for 10 hours.
One Friday I’d gotten a call from a pretty little girl that I’d met.
Not as beautiful as my lady now, but beyond cute…really really cute, evenp retty….her smile did funny things to my heart.
So Sunday I approached dad.
‘Hey, ol’ man. I wanna go to church with this girl.’
‘Well, what’s stoppin’ ya?’
‘She lives on the other side of Portland.’
‘You want me to drive you to the other side of Portland?!’
‘Uh, no.
I’d like to drive my car.’
(Mom)
‘ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!’
‘I’d be careful.’
‘And, (the coupe de grace) can I borrow grampa’s bible?’
‘You better be careful, cause if you get in an accident, they’re comin’ after me.’
‘Thanksdadbye.’
Mom said something, rather sputtered something, but I was already bombin’ down the drive.
Can’t recall the jaunt over the St Johns Bridge or the rest of the twenty miles.
Lindsey jumped in and we headed down the country lane to a park.
On the way, she was all over me.
I gave a thought to just pull over into the ditch, but maintained my James Bond nonchalant approach and returned her kisses, French kisses,
my first,
in my car,
driving,
For some reason, even beyond the control of my crotch, my mind relished in the sensation of tongue wrestling with this lovely being, and not on keeping in my lane…or on the road even.
It wouldn’t have mattered much to look where I was goin’ because my eyeballs were rolled back in my head.
Then a funny thing happened.
Somewhere deep in my semi consciousness, I heard trumpets blowing.
(So this is what Brad was telling me about…)
But while trying to gather my fuzzy thoughts, I had a flash back of a song that was getting popular….Leader of the Pack had a girl yelling ‘LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT,LOOK OUT!!’, then screeching tires.
Only it was Linda yelling, and the trumpet was a car horn, and the tires were those of the car in front of us.
I just remember two old couples, dressed for church, mouths open, arms waving.
I swerved.
Our rear quarter panels met.
Hard.
A sickening crunch.
My rear view mirror revealed them just sittin’ there in the middle of the road…sideways….gettin’ smaller and smaller as I floored the little chevy.
Lindsey didn’t say much when I dropped her off, but a few days later I got a letter.
My first.
I drove into the drive and parked behind the garage.
My story was that there was black ice on a corner and I slid into the guardrail.
He bought it.
I sweated blood for weeks after that, waiting for cops to haul my dad off in hand cuffs…leaving me with mom.
It never happened, but every time I got in my car, I got a little sick to my stomach.
I told him the real story three decades later.
We both had a good laugh over it.
Together.
Not at each other, but with each other.
My first.
Last edited:
The Up Sell
(a little story)
So, I got lazy.
I was tired.
The Jeep needed an oil change.
There’s a kid on the corner waving a big sign…$19.95
I can’t buy oil and filter for $19.95
I drive in.
I’m not gonna say the name of the auto lube outfit, but, boy, they come a runnin' in a jiffy.
‘Are you interested in our universal, complete, no worry, super duper, I’m gonna put it up yer hind end service package?’
‘No…I only have twenty bucks in my pocket.’
‘OK sir, just pull up into the stall.’
‘I recommend our premium, synthetic, one billion zillion mile, high viscosity lubricant.’
‘How much?’
‘It’s on special today for only $57 a quart.’
‘No…I only have twenty bucks in my pocket.’
‘Here’s what your tranny fluid looks like, I recommend a change.’ (showing me a spot on a white napkin).
‘Can I have the napkin for a minute?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Here, you can have this back now, that’s what my snot looks like.’
Moments later…
‘Here’s what your air filter looks like, I recommend a new one.’
‘You…took….my…air….filter….out?’
‘Its part of our basic package.’
‘Well, take the other part of your basic package, and put it back in….but first, blow it out from the inside.’
‘We don’t recommend that.’
‘I know.’
Moments later…
Another napkin
‘Here’s what your antifreeze looks like. I recommend you get that changed for winter, and to flush out your radia….’
‘You wanna know what my crap looks like? Keep that rag in my face…it’ll happen.’
Moments later…
‘Sir, please step into the office and we’ll get things wrapped up.’
‘Just sign here. It’s a disclaimer, waiver, loop hole, stating you really don’tgive a poop about your car.’ (last ditch effort).
‘That’ll be $19.95’
‘Can you change a hundred?’
'You said you only had twenty dollars.'
'I know....I lied....you started it.'
(a little story)
So, I got lazy.
I was tired.
The Jeep needed an oil change.
There’s a kid on the corner waving a big sign…$19.95
I can’t buy oil and filter for $19.95
I drive in.
I’m not gonna say the name of the auto lube outfit, but, boy, they come a runnin' in a jiffy.
‘Are you interested in our universal, complete, no worry, super duper, I’m gonna put it up yer hind end service package?’
‘No…I only have twenty bucks in my pocket.’
‘OK sir, just pull up into the stall.’
‘I recommend our premium, synthetic, one billion zillion mile, high viscosity lubricant.’
‘How much?’
‘It’s on special today for only $57 a quart.’
‘No…I only have twenty bucks in my pocket.’
‘Here’s what your tranny fluid looks like, I recommend a change.’ (showing me a spot on a white napkin).
‘Can I have the napkin for a minute?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Here, you can have this back now, that’s what my snot looks like.’
Moments later…
‘Here’s what your air filter looks like, I recommend a new one.’
‘You…took….my…air….filter….out?’
‘Its part of our basic package.’
‘Well, take the other part of your basic package, and put it back in….but first, blow it out from the inside.’
‘We don’t recommend that.’
‘I know.’
Moments later…
Another napkin
‘Here’s what your antifreeze looks like. I recommend you get that changed for winter, and to flush out your radia….’
‘You wanna know what my crap looks like? Keep that rag in my face…it’ll happen.’
Moments later…
‘Sir, please step into the office and we’ll get things wrapped up.’
‘Just sign here. It’s a disclaimer, waiver, loop hole, stating you really don’tgive a poop about your car.’ (last ditch effort).
‘That’ll be $19.95’
‘Can you change a hundred?’
'You said you only had twenty dollars.'
'I know....I lied....you started it.'
Ribs and other Bones
There’s nothing like a good meal for a get together,
and the good meal is a barbeque.
Being a northerner that spent some years down south, I can say those boys down there know barbeque.
Ribs, fallin off the bone.
Chikin, smoked, from wood, not wunna those fancy pellet rigs, but by an ol’ guy raised in a ‘grease house’, from a pit the size of a horse trough.
Beans, I didn’t know beans could taste like that. Odd things, strange herbs, spices, homemade sauces, a bit a fat meat, marinated for hours. They were a meal all by themselves.
Tater salad…M-M-M-M, none like it.
Sweet tea, steeped in a gallon jug in the sun.
Beer, Lone Star or Falstaff, didn’t matter, both tasted like mop water from a jukejoint, but did their job of cleansing the palate for the next bite.
Sip, rib, sip, chikin, sip, beans, sip, salad, guzzle the rest.
Made ya just fall down and scream.
Houston.
Down the street, Telephone road, was wunna those grease houses.
An old black gent lived there with what seemed like three generations of family.
Everbuddie's grampa, even mine for awhile.
Everyone called him Chili.
Bid overalls, white butcher’s apron, leather baseball cap was his eternal uniform.
Had a high pitched, raspy voice, and always a smirk on his ol’ mug.
More often than not, you’d find me sittin’ at his dilapidated picnic table after work, watchin’ him toil over the pit.
Nuthin’ attractive.
Tin lean-to roof, pile of wood, ol' white fridge that made a humming sound laboring in the heat, vats and jars, brushes, large forks,
and the huge pit with a homemade steel lid, that once he was satisfied with how things were goin’ he’d drop down and come out to talk to me…..talk about stories…old day stories…..bone chilling, horrific stories.
Naw, nuthin’ attractive….. ‘cept for the rich savory aromatic fragrance emanating from that glorious pit.
I’d sit there, sweating like a pig, drool stream gathering on the table in a puddle…
‘Chili!
WTF ol’ man!?’
‘Boy, you know it’s not ready….I’ll tell ya when it’s ready.’
It was worth the wait.
Fourth of July…or as they say down there JOOOlah, everyone barbequed.
Po foke, rich foke, middle class foke, all had their pits goin’.
You couldn’t walk two steps without getting hit upside the head with the aroma of the gods.
One fourth, me and my lady were flat broke.
I’d come off a month long stint in Brownsville, inspecting oil field pipe, big job.
Tuboscope laid some folks off after that, so I volunteered for some time off myself.
Took most of June, just me and my lady…nobody else.
Ran outta money…rent was paid, car was maintained, just broke….food crumbs in the fridge, empty bottles piled in the corner of the carport below…sittin’ on the couch smokin’ a partial I’d dug outta the butt can.
‘I’m goin’ back to work.’
‘It’s the fourth.’
‘Oh’
Chili and family had gone somewhere.
It was hot.
Most neighbors had headed to Galveston.
Our guts were eatin’ guts.
Hadn’t been so hungry in a long time.
A friend invited us to a company get together.
The park was filled with heavenly flavors.
Kids, old folk, parents, all had plates heaped with goodies, goodies that tempted me to follow ‘em, floating on the fragrant waves.
We strolled over to the tables.
$3.50
$3.50??!!
I had 37 cents.
One the way back to the garage apartment I swore I’d never put myself in that position again…especially on the fourth.
I think wunneezdaze we need to head back down south for a spell.
Something about the word ‘brisket’ that just sounds savory…didn’t know what it was ‘til I landed in Texas.
There’s nothing like a good meal for a get together,
and the good meal is a barbeque.
Being a northerner that spent some years down south, I can say those boys down there know barbeque.
Ribs, fallin off the bone.
Chikin, smoked, from wood, not wunna those fancy pellet rigs, but by an ol’ guy raised in a ‘grease house’, from a pit the size of a horse trough.
Beans, I didn’t know beans could taste like that. Odd things, strange herbs, spices, homemade sauces, a bit a fat meat, marinated for hours. They were a meal all by themselves.
Tater salad…M-M-M-M, none like it.
Sweet tea, steeped in a gallon jug in the sun.
Beer, Lone Star or Falstaff, didn’t matter, both tasted like mop water from a jukejoint, but did their job of cleansing the palate for the next bite.
Sip, rib, sip, chikin, sip, beans, sip, salad, guzzle the rest.
Made ya just fall down and scream.
Houston.
Down the street, Telephone road, was wunna those grease houses.
An old black gent lived there with what seemed like three generations of family.
Everbuddie's grampa, even mine for awhile.
Everyone called him Chili.
Bid overalls, white butcher’s apron, leather baseball cap was his eternal uniform.
Had a high pitched, raspy voice, and always a smirk on his ol’ mug.
More often than not, you’d find me sittin’ at his dilapidated picnic table after work, watchin’ him toil over the pit.
Nuthin’ attractive.
Tin lean-to roof, pile of wood, ol' white fridge that made a humming sound laboring in the heat, vats and jars, brushes, large forks,
and the huge pit with a homemade steel lid, that once he was satisfied with how things were goin’ he’d drop down and come out to talk to me…..talk about stories…old day stories…..bone chilling, horrific stories.
Naw, nuthin’ attractive….. ‘cept for the rich savory aromatic fragrance emanating from that glorious pit.
I’d sit there, sweating like a pig, drool stream gathering on the table in a puddle…
‘Chili!
WTF ol’ man!?’
‘Boy, you know it’s not ready….I’ll tell ya when it’s ready.’
It was worth the wait.
Fourth of July…or as they say down there JOOOlah, everyone barbequed.
Po foke, rich foke, middle class foke, all had their pits goin’.
You couldn’t walk two steps without getting hit upside the head with the aroma of the gods.
One fourth, me and my lady were flat broke.
I’d come off a month long stint in Brownsville, inspecting oil field pipe, big job.
Tuboscope laid some folks off after that, so I volunteered for some time off myself.
Took most of June, just me and my lady…nobody else.
Ran outta money…rent was paid, car was maintained, just broke….food crumbs in the fridge, empty bottles piled in the corner of the carport below…sittin’ on the couch smokin’ a partial I’d dug outta the butt can.
‘I’m goin’ back to work.’
‘It’s the fourth.’
‘Oh’
Chili and family had gone somewhere.
It was hot.
Most neighbors had headed to Galveston.
Our guts were eatin’ guts.
Hadn’t been so hungry in a long time.
A friend invited us to a company get together.
The park was filled with heavenly flavors.
Kids, old folk, parents, all had plates heaped with goodies, goodies that tempted me to follow ‘em, floating on the fragrant waves.
We strolled over to the tables.
$3.50
$3.50??!!
I had 37 cents.
One the way back to the garage apartment I swore I’d never put myself in that position again…especially on the fourth.
I think wunneezdaze we need to head back down south for a spell.
Something about the word ‘brisket’ that just sounds savory…didn’t know what it was ‘til I landed in Texas.
RadishRose
SF VIP
- Location
- Connecticut, USA
Hah, Gary you're cooler than the other side of the pillow!
heh
it’s sweaty work bein’ this cool
OK, truth;
folks everwhere, all walks, are the coolest
I’ve come to study ‘em
Some are a bit flamboyant (legends in their own spare time)
but
The everday ones, they are the best at it
Kick is…they don’t even know it!
glad ya liked the story
More thoughts on Dad
My first remembrance of my dad was seein’ him come home from work through the kitchen door.
Guess I was about three.
He was a giant in my eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, curly auburn hair combed straight back, kindly smile bearing witness to his good feeling of getting home.
My circle of life was complete when he arrived.
I never really ever ran up to him like a lot of kids do, as I revered his presence.
He was my god.
He was a simple man, and we lived simply.
It was all us kids needed, ever.
Oh he had dreams, big dreams, and later on a good portion were realized, but with the sacrifice of a working man.
That’s what it took.
At about 4 years of age I remember my dad explaining an appendix to me after overhearing someone talk about having theirs out.
‘Oh, it’s a little man inside you that keeps you well, and sometimes the little man will save up all that sickness and pop.Then he has to come out.’
Seemed to satisfy my curiosity and maybe any other explanation would not have done much better.
Four year olds are quite impressionable, as overhearing my sister talk about a schoolyard mishap gave me a more vivid picture than I should have created.
‘Dennis Blickenship fell off the slide today and split his head open.’
(SPLIT….HIS….HEAD….OPEN??!!)
This gave me the vision of a kid runnin’ around with two head halves, split down the middle, propped up by his shoulders.
Course Dennis Blickenship was a bully, and I felt kinda good about it, bein’ he was the one that tied me up in the tool shed all afternoon while him and my sister did whatever they did.
Still…….
What’s for Dinner?...... Gnah! Whazzat?
The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I’ll be darned if I’ll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way.
We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken….oh and ketchup…..
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for twelve or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.
“Oh, you like the pooper, aey?”
I don’t think parents really realize how they give their children a sense of comfort and well-being.
I remember long trips in the Dodge, trips that would become overnight stays.
And me and sis would be sittin’ in the back.
No seat belts. Seat belts? Those were for racecar drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I’d just sit there, not seein’ much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I’d placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip,
and the backs of my folk’s heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back.
I’d wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own,
the cow lick being as close to curly as I’d get.
But toward the end of those long drives I’d get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I’d faintly hear my parents chatting away,
voices becoming unintelligible murmurings in sync with the hum of the motor, until I was zonked, slumped over like I’d just been shot.
Their voices were quite soothing, and I looked forward to those long trips, just for that.
Not sitting by the car for days waiting for voices on a long trip, but none the less, a subconscious thought of that scene was a comfort
….quiet voices in a cloud of nothing else but stillness…all is well…… I have parents that I can willfully take for granted, without even really thinking about it.
I wasn’t the most curious child in the world.
I could very well have been in the world’s top three least curious.
Actually, the term ‘acute awareness’ might as well have been in a foreign language.
Untied shoes, zipper at half mast, jam from breakfast on my afternoon chin, all were part of my repertoire.
As mentioned, I looked upon my father as God.
I revered his very presence.
And it was intimidating.
So, just me and God are going down the road.
Mom, in her momliness, ‘Don’t forget your coat and cap!’
The morning became quite warm.
I don’t know where we’re goin’…never knew…..never asked.
The sun is beating down through the windshield.
Sweat is beginning to pour outta my cap and into my coat.
‘How ya doin’ over there?’
‘G-o-o-d.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
(THINKING????!!!)
(GOD IS ASKING ME A QUESTION!!!)
(THINK MAN, THINK!!)
(Whaddya think Adlai’s chances are?....How‘bout them Mets?...what then???!...I got nuthin’)
‘Arrre you warrrrm enough?’
(He’s got me. I’ve got this damn coat and capon, don’t I…?!)
‘Maybe you should roll down the window.’ (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)
(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son.
Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.
Things went like that with me and God….for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.
‘You’ve got a natural curve, son.’
(curve?...my damn fastball is going so slow, he thinks I’m throwing a curve ball…)
(Somethinghere about me)
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn’t until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with ‘the stares’, fixated on absolutely nothing.
But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging,
getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful existence, and center on the intangible zephyr of… existence.
I simply call it ‘The Happiness of Being’.
Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands,
then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it…really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half…and a towel.
One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still…survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old’s life passing before his eyes…three times…..my dad’s arms musta got tired,
so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion’s den.
Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the harsh jokes…me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them.
Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I’d become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match….hardly anyone is in my league….maybe satan….maybe.
I have learned to stay away from that mindset.
People are too precious.
This weekend we went to lunch with my dad and his wife.
His 90th birthday is next month.
Can’t see to adjust the remote on his hearing aids.
Food ends up on his shirt and lap.
Laughs out of context.
Can’t find his way to the restroom by himself.
Nose runs constantly, while eating.
But, he’s a happy heart.
And, his lady is 20 years younger.
Not sure if he planned it this way, but she’s his caregiver.
I owe her.
The man loves his sugar.
Ordered pecan waffles.
Extra syrup.
Extra butter.
She cut.
He spooned.
Ever last drop of pecans, butter, syrup.
Then ordered pecan pie.
With ice cream.
Ate every bite.
Well, at 90, what the hell, go for it.
The rest of us ordered normal food, with salad, soup.
When our salads and soups came, there was nothing for him yet.
He jokingly complained.
I told the waiter to bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
(half joking)
Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.
However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.
Last time he’d wandered into the ladies room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him.
There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.
He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww,hooohoo….’ .
(Geeezus)
Do I wanna go there?
As we all rose from the table, his lady put his leather jacket on him.
She dresses him quite sporty.
Levis, plaid shirt, Nikes, black leather jacket….and syrup.
Once his coat was on, he raised both arms,
shaking like a weightlifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
Folks in adjacent booths clapped.
Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.
I’ve got 27 years to get there.
I’ll take my time.
(penned six years ago in a sorta diary, before I’d forget)
My first remembrance of my dad was seein’ him come home from work through the kitchen door.
Guess I was about three.
He was a giant in my eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, curly auburn hair combed straight back, kindly smile bearing witness to his good feeling of getting home.
My circle of life was complete when he arrived.
I never really ever ran up to him like a lot of kids do, as I revered his presence.
He was my god.
He was a simple man, and we lived simply.
It was all us kids needed, ever.
Oh he had dreams, big dreams, and later on a good portion were realized, but with the sacrifice of a working man.
That’s what it took.
At about 4 years of age I remember my dad explaining an appendix to me after overhearing someone talk about having theirs out.
‘Oh, it’s a little man inside you that keeps you well, and sometimes the little man will save up all that sickness and pop.Then he has to come out.’
Seemed to satisfy my curiosity and maybe any other explanation would not have done much better.
Four year olds are quite impressionable, as overhearing my sister talk about a schoolyard mishap gave me a more vivid picture than I should have created.
‘Dennis Blickenship fell off the slide today and split his head open.’
(SPLIT….HIS….HEAD….OPEN??!!)
This gave me the vision of a kid runnin’ around with two head halves, split down the middle, propped up by his shoulders.
Course Dennis Blickenship was a bully, and I felt kinda good about it, bein’ he was the one that tied me up in the tool shed all afternoon while him and my sister did whatever they did.
Still…….
What’s for Dinner?...... Gnah! Whazzat?
The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I’ll be darned if I’ll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way.
We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken….oh and ketchup…..
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for twelve or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.
“Oh, you like the pooper, aey?”
I don’t think parents really realize how they give their children a sense of comfort and well-being.
I remember long trips in the Dodge, trips that would become overnight stays.
And me and sis would be sittin’ in the back.
No seat belts. Seat belts? Those were for racecar drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I’d just sit there, not seein’ much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I’d placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip,
and the backs of my folk’s heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back.
I’d wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own,
the cow lick being as close to curly as I’d get.
But toward the end of those long drives I’d get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I’d faintly hear my parents chatting away,
voices becoming unintelligible murmurings in sync with the hum of the motor, until I was zonked, slumped over like I’d just been shot.
Their voices were quite soothing, and I looked forward to those long trips, just for that.
Not sitting by the car for days waiting for voices on a long trip, but none the less, a subconscious thought of that scene was a comfort
….quiet voices in a cloud of nothing else but stillness…all is well…… I have parents that I can willfully take for granted, without even really thinking about it.
I wasn’t the most curious child in the world.
I could very well have been in the world’s top three least curious.
Actually, the term ‘acute awareness’ might as well have been in a foreign language.
Untied shoes, zipper at half mast, jam from breakfast on my afternoon chin, all were part of my repertoire.
As mentioned, I looked upon my father as God.
I revered his very presence.
And it was intimidating.
So, just me and God are going down the road.
Mom, in her momliness, ‘Don’t forget your coat and cap!’
The morning became quite warm.
I don’t know where we’re goin’…never knew…..never asked.
The sun is beating down through the windshield.
Sweat is beginning to pour outta my cap and into my coat.
‘How ya doin’ over there?’
‘G-o-o-d.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
(THINKING????!!!)
(GOD IS ASKING ME A QUESTION!!!)
(THINK MAN, THINK!!)
(Whaddya think Adlai’s chances are?....How‘bout them Mets?...what then???!...I got nuthin’)
‘Arrre you warrrrm enough?’
(He’s got me. I’ve got this damn coat and capon, don’t I…?!)
‘Maybe you should roll down the window.’ (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)
(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son.
Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.
Things went like that with me and God….for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.
‘You’ve got a natural curve, son.’
(curve?...my damn fastball is going so slow, he thinks I’m throwing a curve ball…)
(Somethinghere about me)
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn’t until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with ‘the stares’, fixated on absolutely nothing.
But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging,
getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful existence, and center on the intangible zephyr of… existence.
I simply call it ‘The Happiness of Being’.
Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands,
then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it…really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half…and a towel.
One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still…survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old’s life passing before his eyes…three times…..my dad’s arms musta got tired,
so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion’s den.
Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the harsh jokes…me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them.
Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I’d become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match….hardly anyone is in my league….maybe satan….maybe.
I have learned to stay away from that mindset.
People are too precious.
This weekend we went to lunch with my dad and his wife.
His 90th birthday is next month.
Can’t see to adjust the remote on his hearing aids.
Food ends up on his shirt and lap.
Laughs out of context.
Can’t find his way to the restroom by himself.
Nose runs constantly, while eating.
But, he’s a happy heart.
And, his lady is 20 years younger.
Not sure if he planned it this way, but she’s his caregiver.
I owe her.
The man loves his sugar.
Ordered pecan waffles.
Extra syrup.
Extra butter.
She cut.
He spooned.
Ever last drop of pecans, butter, syrup.
Then ordered pecan pie.
With ice cream.
Ate every bite.
Well, at 90, what the hell, go for it.
The rest of us ordered normal food, with salad, soup.
When our salads and soups came, there was nothing for him yet.
He jokingly complained.
I told the waiter to bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
(half joking)
Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.
However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.
Last time he’d wandered into the ladies room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him.
There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.
He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww,hooohoo….’ .
(Geeezus)
Do I wanna go there?
As we all rose from the table, his lady put his leather jacket on him.
She dresses him quite sporty.
Levis, plaid shirt, Nikes, black leather jacket….and syrup.
Once his coat was on, he raised both arms,
shaking like a weightlifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
Folks in adjacent booths clapped.
Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.
I’ve got 27 years to get there.
I’ll take my time.
(penned six years ago in a sorta diary, before I’d forget)
‘Again’
I’ve nursed a fondness for music
Not an obsession
But it’s there
When I was around 13 I thought the guitar was a sexy, easy thing to conquer
Mom took me to a music teacher
A teacher of the guitar
Older Spanish fellow
Thick accent
Learned the keys, notes
High E to low E
And back
Over
And over
‘again’
He’d go eat dinner
Come back
‘again’
Years later (seemed) we proceeded on to ‘Little Brown Chug’
And there we stayed
‘again’
Dinner
‘again’
After the fingertips of my left hand developed calluses on their calluses I came to the conclusion we weren’t gonna move on to House of the Rising Sun right away,
or in my lifetime
But, man, could I ever knock out Little Brown Jug
A few decades later, I happened onto another guitar
Ran thru a few Brown Jug riffs, then centered on It Takes a Worried Man
Found it relaxing
After several renditions, and weeks turned into months of relaxing, singing a worried song,
one day while I was at work, the family sold my instrument to the lowest bidder
We went to dinner at the local smorgasbord that night, their treat
During dessert, they told me of their deed
I wondered how they'd come in to such extravagant funds
Heh, I was gettin’ rather weary of that song too
Anyway, other than profound lilts from the echo of the shower walls, I’ve never been given to creating a tune worthy of listening
But
I’m a good listener
I’ve nursed a fondness for music
Not an obsession
But it’s there
When I was around 13 I thought the guitar was a sexy, easy thing to conquer
Mom took me to a music teacher
A teacher of the guitar
Older Spanish fellow
Thick accent
Learned the keys, notes
High E to low E
And back
Over
And over
‘again’
He’d go eat dinner
Come back
‘again’
Years later (seemed) we proceeded on to ‘Little Brown Chug’
And there we stayed
‘again’
Dinner
‘again’
After the fingertips of my left hand developed calluses on their calluses I came to the conclusion we weren’t gonna move on to House of the Rising Sun right away,
or in my lifetime
But, man, could I ever knock out Little Brown Jug
A few decades later, I happened onto another guitar
Ran thru a few Brown Jug riffs, then centered on It Takes a Worried Man
Found it relaxing
After several renditions, and weeks turned into months of relaxing, singing a worried song,
one day while I was at work, the family sold my instrument to the lowest bidder
We went to dinner at the local smorgasbord that night, their treat
During dessert, they told me of their deed
I wondered how they'd come in to such extravagant funds
Heh, I was gettin’ rather weary of that song too
Anyway, other than profound lilts from the echo of the shower walls, I’ve never been given to creating a tune worthy of listening
But
I’m a good listener
more grandchild Thoughts
From years back, now
spirit cries
Little guy
Little mild guy
all slumped over in the Jeep
wee hours of the morning
taking him ‘home’
spent the night at namaw and papaw’s
got him new glasses
‘how ya doin’ professor?’ (head rub)
nod
‘mild mannered reporter’ or ‘professor’
names I’ve given our little buddy
tiny little knocks on the door......that wouldn't waken a mouse
'knock harder'
porch light casting the shadow of a stray
tappity tap
little mild guy
running back to the jeep with his sack of clothes
mother is somewhere
nobody answers
‘father’ is 100 miles away
will brother Jess answer the door?
will it be his step mom?
is anyone home?
(great, looks like I’ve got an office buddy today...)
right now, he essentially has no one
some evenings spent alone in the apartment
waking to no one
trudging to school to have breakfast
hope he has a friend or two
little mild guy
loves science
when his mother is mentioned, he looks down
head nodding that he misses her
I can’t see his eyes, but the pain in his face is obvious
Stoic little face
his spirit cries
‘what shall we do, professor?’
face staring at the closed door, shrugging
‘Wanna go to work with papaw?’
Quick head nod
wait...
brother opens the door
professor grabs is clothes sack
darts inside
stolen an ol’ man’s heart, he has
I really don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else right now
I want to kidnap him
we need to have him at the cabin every summer day we can
little mild guy
better days;
three years ago last summer, stayed at the cabin three weeks
thirteen then
gave me grief most the time
but
while waiting at the train station
he hugged me
'I love you so, papaw'
turns out, a crusty ol' hard ass can still soften some
From years back, now
spirit cries
Little guy
Little mild guy
all slumped over in the Jeep
wee hours of the morning
taking him ‘home’
spent the night at namaw and papaw’s
got him new glasses
‘how ya doin’ professor?’ (head rub)
nod
‘mild mannered reporter’ or ‘professor’
names I’ve given our little buddy
tiny little knocks on the door......that wouldn't waken a mouse
'knock harder'
porch light casting the shadow of a stray
tappity tap
little mild guy
running back to the jeep with his sack of clothes
mother is somewhere
nobody answers
‘father’ is 100 miles away
will brother Jess answer the door?
will it be his step mom?
is anyone home?
(great, looks like I’ve got an office buddy today...)
right now, he essentially has no one
some evenings spent alone in the apartment
waking to no one
trudging to school to have breakfast
hope he has a friend or two
little mild guy
loves science
when his mother is mentioned, he looks down
head nodding that he misses her
I can’t see his eyes, but the pain in his face is obvious
Stoic little face
his spirit cries
‘what shall we do, professor?’
face staring at the closed door, shrugging
‘Wanna go to work with papaw?’
Quick head nod
wait...
brother opens the door
professor grabs is clothes sack
darts inside
stolen an ol’ man’s heart, he has
I really don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else right now
I want to kidnap him
we need to have him at the cabin every summer day we can
little mild guy
better days;
three years ago last summer, stayed at the cabin three weeks
thirteen then
gave me grief most the time
but
while waiting at the train station
he hugged me
'I love you so, papaw'
turns out, a crusty ol' hard ass can still soften some
I have come to know many an individual
Some so remarkable I just look
In awe
Quite a few have had many tough struggles in life
And have come thru
Shinning
Countless stories have been written about folks like these
Reader’s Digest used to be full of ‘em
There is one I’m focused on right now
Nuthin’ glorious, to speak of
Heh, on the surface, her life has been pretty much unspeakable from my perspective
See, her ‘sexual orientation’, as is the PC phrase of today, is with the same
I’m so biased I can’t even put it in proper English
Anyway
She’s not a lesbian
I think the street term is ‘Bull Dyke’
Born with physical defects
Hands, one arm, sorta screwed up
If that wasn’t enough, not long ago she was in a horrific auto accident
People died
She didn’t
Just got more physically screwed up
Large gal
Man features
But a female
First look
Somebody totally unlovable
By
Anyone
Yet
She has this, this attitude
That I so admire
Sardonic
Matter of fact
A fixed grimace that, if closely examined, is a reluctant smile
Brutal truths told with a shrug
An outlook on life that speaks nothing but courage
At one time I would have disgustedly prejudged
Not would’ve considered my thinking wrong
Now?
I would be proud to introduce my friend to anyone
Except
I’m a bit over protective of her
Don’t want to see her hurt more
If we were in a bar together
Well, there’d be many a fight
Other’n that, I have no reservation about my friend
She has given me a new perspective on folks
Her story would never have made Reader’s Digest
Or prolly most Christian periodicals
But
She’s my hero
good on you, 'Sam'
Some so remarkable I just look
In awe
Quite a few have had many tough struggles in life
And have come thru
Shinning
Countless stories have been written about folks like these
Reader’s Digest used to be full of ‘em
There is one I’m focused on right now
Nuthin’ glorious, to speak of
Heh, on the surface, her life has been pretty much unspeakable from my perspective
See, her ‘sexual orientation’, as is the PC phrase of today, is with the same
I’m so biased I can’t even put it in proper English
Anyway
She’s not a lesbian
I think the street term is ‘Bull Dyke’
Born with physical defects
Hands, one arm, sorta screwed up
If that wasn’t enough, not long ago she was in a horrific auto accident
People died
She didn’t
Just got more physically screwed up
Large gal
Man features
But a female
First look
Somebody totally unlovable
By
Anyone
Yet
She has this, this attitude
That I so admire
Sardonic
Matter of fact
A fixed grimace that, if closely examined, is a reluctant smile
Brutal truths told with a shrug
An outlook on life that speaks nothing but courage
At one time I would have disgustedly prejudged
Not would’ve considered my thinking wrong
Now?
I would be proud to introduce my friend to anyone
Except
I’m a bit over protective of her
Don’t want to see her hurt more
If we were in a bar together
Well, there’d be many a fight
Other’n that, I have no reservation about my friend
She has given me a new perspective on folks
Her story would never have made Reader’s Digest
Or prolly most Christian periodicals
But
She’s my hero
good on you, 'Sam'
Pushin’ 70
Don’t feel it
Even bled myself off my hypertension meds
Bought a cuff, Omron…good cuff.
Scared the shit outa myself
197/93!
Not good
Got a new doc
Asian gal
Young
Hip
Had to break her in with my philosophies on death and dying
She’s OK with it
Still
Blood tests galore
Everthing negative
Here’s where things get sometimes difficult
‘Your cholesterol is great, but due to your age group, I’d like to put you on meds to control it’
‘No’
‘OK’
Didn’t have to go thru my opinion on docs and their practice of offering drugs after a seminar on, say, cholesterol…and my thoughts on not really wanting to live much past 90, and how I’ve lived about three lives worth already…etc, etc
She suggested I get a colonoscopy
I suggested I don’t
She said I could poop on a stick every year or get the colonoscopy ever ten years
I told her I’d shit on a stick ever day for ten years instead of that personal prison like assault
She said ‘OK’
Heh
We have an outhouse
No need for the floatation device (napkin)
The directions said I could mail it, or bring it in.
I brought it in
Tried to give it to the receptionist
‘You have to take a number’
‘Really?!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes’
‘But there are eight people ahead of me with numbers’
‘Sorry’
‘Wait, I already have the number 2 right here in this packet’
‘Please take a number and wait your turn’
‘Really?...I mean I could have just mailed it, but thought I’d drop it off’
‘I mean, would you be the one to take care of the mail?
‘You need a stamp?’
‘No, I need a slot, or for you to take it from me when I stick my hand out..’
The folks waiting were chortling and snickering at my incredulity
An office door opened
‘Next’
‘Hey, would you just take this?’
There was an applause as she took my sample
My poop is good, by the way.
(I coulda told her)
Anyway, back on meds
Pressures are 130s/60s
Don’t feel it
Even bled myself off my hypertension meds
Bought a cuff, Omron…good cuff.
Scared the shit outa myself
197/93!
Not good
Got a new doc
Asian gal
Young
Hip
Had to break her in with my philosophies on death and dying
She’s OK with it
Still
Blood tests galore
Everthing negative
Here’s where things get sometimes difficult
‘Your cholesterol is great, but due to your age group, I’d like to put you on meds to control it’
‘No’
‘OK’
Didn’t have to go thru my opinion on docs and their practice of offering drugs after a seminar on, say, cholesterol…and my thoughts on not really wanting to live much past 90, and how I’ve lived about three lives worth already…etc, etc
She suggested I get a colonoscopy
I suggested I don’t
She said I could poop on a stick every year or get the colonoscopy ever ten years
I told her I’d shit on a stick ever day for ten years instead of that personal prison like assault
She said ‘OK’
Heh
We have an outhouse
No need for the floatation device (napkin)
The directions said I could mail it, or bring it in.
I brought it in
Tried to give it to the receptionist
‘You have to take a number’
‘Really?!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes’
‘But there are eight people ahead of me with numbers’
‘Sorry’
‘Wait, I already have the number 2 right here in this packet’
‘Please take a number and wait your turn’
‘Really?...I mean I could have just mailed it, but thought I’d drop it off’
‘I mean, would you be the one to take care of the mail?
‘You need a stamp?’
‘No, I need a slot, or for you to take it from me when I stick my hand out..’
The folks waiting were chortling and snickering at my incredulity
An office door opened
‘Next’
‘Hey, would you just take this?’
There was an applause as she took my sample
My poop is good, by the way.
(I coulda told her)
Anyway, back on meds
Pressures are 130s/60s
