Our Retirement Dream Fulfilled
- Thread starter Gary O'
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- Dec 27, 2020
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Since I back tracked about my grand folks, I think I'll continue a bit, and post about my Dad, kinda round things out;
(Written several years ago)
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 race car drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I’d just sit there, not seein’ much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I’d placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip,
and the backs of my folk’s heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back.
I’d wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own, the cow lick being as close to curly as I’d get.
But toward the end of those long drives I’d get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I’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, 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’)
‘Are you warm enough?’
(He’s got me. I’ve got this freaking coat and cap on, don’t I…?!)
‘Maybe you should roll down the window.’ (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)
(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son. Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.
Things went like that with me and God….for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.
‘You’ve got a natural curve, son.’
(curve?...my fastball is going so slow, he thinks I’m throwing a curve ball…)
(Something here 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 heck, 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….’ .
(Whoa)
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 weight lifter 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.
(Written several years ago)
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 race car drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I’d just sit there, not seein’ much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I’d placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip,
and the backs of my folk’s heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back.
I’d wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own, the cow lick being as close to curly as I’d get.
But toward the end of those long drives I’d get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I’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, 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’)
‘Are you warm enough?’
(He’s got me. I’ve got this freaking coat and cap on, don’t I…?!)
‘Maybe you should roll down the window.’ (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)
(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son. Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.
Things went like that with me and God….for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.
‘You’ve got a natural curve, son.’
(curve?...my fastball is going so slow, he thinks I’m throwing a curve ball…)
(Something here 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 heck, 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….’ .
(Whoa)
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 weight lifter 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.
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It's funny, when writing about my days of youth, I'd post some drafts on a site a lot of teens and twenty somethings frequented.
Heh, I became 'the ol' man'
Well, I got on a writing jag, and posted my jottings daily for awhile
They were rapt
If I missed a day, they would jump me
Then comment to each other about those (my) days
Then the questions
Kinda fun
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Might as well keep it there for a bit
(the cabin can wait)
Mr Codger’s Neighborhood
Our country neighborhood yielded a gaggle of poverty stricken families, mixed with some retired folk with tidy houses and well maintained yards.
Actually, I have several family photos of us posing in front of one of those houses, like ol’ widow Jones, little white cottage, picket fence, close cut lawn.
But for the most part, there were several families that had little or nothing with a yard full of cars to piece together in order to get to work.
One such family was the Elberts.
Four kids.
Ramshackle house.
Absolute junk throughout the yard.
I remember the one time I was invited in, thru the back door, directly into the kitchen.
Mrs Elbert apologetically handed me a glass of water.
Hey, it was great!
Those colored aluminum glasses could transform ordinary water into the coldest thirst quenching nectar you’d ever want.
I glanced through the house while I waited for Daryl to find a shirt.
Things were misplaced. Daryl yarded thru a couple piles to find his prized superman T-shirt.
Meanwhile, Mrs Elbert was busy extracting coins from a piggy bank…..possibly robbing the kid’s stash, but more likely the family savings plan.
Back in those days piggy banks didn’t have a rubber plug at the bottom, just the slot on top.
There she was, butter knife in hand, coins reluctantly traveling down the blade onto the kitchen table.
I remember noting that she was quite attractive, and equated her looks to that of Daisy Mae’s sister, the one that was always lying around with the pigs.
Mr Elbert was also a handsome guy, but a tad gruff, and not really home much.
When he was home, he was always working on cars or motorcycles.
I found it all fascinating but never questioned why things were the way they were with them.
Kids tend to accept things.
What I did question was how they always had the latest toys, and some of the neatest stuff.
One time Connie came out to the street munching on an open faced peanut butter sandwich.
This was no ordinary sandwich.
It was Wonder Bread!
And it had Skippy peanut butter all slathered on top!
What an outstanding combination!
I dropped my sister’s bike and stared.
The Skippy glistened from the midmorning sun as Connie slowly gnawed away the crust.
Now I’d eaten a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and should have held back, as this was probably Connie’s breakfast and lunch, but I had to ask.
“Can I have a bite?”
Begrudgingly a small bit of corner crust with a hint of Skippy was handed over.
It was wonderful.
My first.
We never had the luxury of ever having anything but brown bread in our house, let alone Skippy.
Another time, Daryl brought out an egg of silly putty.
This wondrous glob of mysterious abilities was smushed onto the Sunday comics with the heal of his hand, right there in the dirt driveway, then carefully pulled it away, yielding the image of Dick Tracy and his wrist radio, and in color!
Then, with proper tension applied, Dick turned into elastic man.
Utterly fascinating, but I knew to never ask for such a thing from Dad or Mom.
One time I traded Daryl my self-made wired together double broom stick shake butted carbine for his dual holstered twin six shooters. They were amazing as the cylinders actually spun, and the handles were surprisingly quite real, and heavy, not the typical molded plastic.
Dad came home, and shortly after was on our way to the Elberts to trade back.
This was a mystery for me, as, being the youngest cowboy in the neighborhood; I usually got the short end of the trade.
Thinking about ‘the trade’ years later, those could very well have been real pistols, and Daryl may have actually tapped his dad’
s stash. Come to think about it, I never saw Daryl ever have them again.
Actually I never saw Daryl much either…..
Don’t get me wrong. My family didn’t suffer, but we didn’t splurge on things.
Easter was a personal huge event.
Not because of the candy, or the egg/finger dying event.
Oh no, it was solely due to what the candy came in.
For several years in succession I’d get a straw cowboy hat. OK, it was straw, but it was a cowboy hat….mine. Oh-h-h-h oh, the coup de grace of several months of giddyup, at least ‘til the first rain.
Bobby Clehm was one of my best friends.
Granted Billy Dodge was my pahdnah and trail ridin’ pal, but Bobby and I went way back.
He never could get into cowboy mode, however, cause his dad never let him over for more than a half hour, of which by the time the story line and plot for cowboy’n was laid out, it was time to go back.
But when I visited him, I mostly just helped with chores.
I found it fun to milk ol’ Bessie, and feed the chickens, and we did get to romp thru the woods trying to find ol’ Flossy for her turn at the stanchion.
One time I stayed for lunch.
They had strange things like squash, and Brussels sprouts, with some ungodly thing called bread pudding for dessert.
All this washed down with raw (warm) milk, garnished with floating clumps.
Oh man, was I glad to get home.
OK, we didn’t have Wonder bread, but we sure didn’t have some horrible thing like bread mixed in goo and washed down with their rendition of milk either.
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It appears I've rambled on this thread
....and I have
I must make a confession
Writing, for me, has developed into a passion
I enjoy penning things of ordinary events, ordinary people
because
well
everything, everyone
is so much more than that
I'd intended for this to be a thread solely dedicated to our time in the mountains
But, instead of creating several threads, I'm going to park some random jottings right here
Forgive me
Here's one now
something I writ while employed
Henry
I feel as though I’m on the set of the last half hour of Papillion, or the movie Life.
Just said g’mornin’ to Henry for the gazillionth time.
He’s been an employee at this fine establishment since the doors opened, before even me, of which I’m regarded as the furniture.
We are both a bit slower of foot and noticeably grayer since we first met.
We have light conversation…about gardening, the weather, our offspring.
He’s a bit short on words.
Been thru a gaggle of engineer regimes.
Been in charge of what we call the process room forever.
It’s where we encapsulate, vacuum varnish, mold, and do all the dirty work....the dirty work that takes a mad scientist to coordinate all the tanks, racks, and ovens to yield product (as our brochure says) ‘in a timely manner’.
For him, it’s a symphony, and he’s the conductor.
Patience his not his strong point.
He’s ‘hard to work with’.
Whenever an upstart engineering manager approaches him about a certain process (more like begging for an answer, so he can document the procedure in the build book), his usual reply is, ‘You’re the engineer, you tell me….ah...hahahahahaha’.
He can be seen on any given day, meticulously scraping out the last drop of epoxy in the bottom of a 5 gallon bucket….’It’s expensive’.
About ten years ago I had to take him in to counsel.
He’d made a production worker upset, to the point of tears.
We all knew he was just being Henry, harsh words were how he communicated.
I sat with him and the production manager, and explained to him about how he represented our company, and therefore an example, blather blah, blah, blather.
I guess he took every one of my words to heart.
I guess I dressed him down, took him to his inner core, because he began to weep.
It really took me off stride, as I was just building momentum, not even getting off my final salvo.
It confirmed what I’d learned sometime before.
Gruff crusty people, folks with chips on their shoulders, that once the armor of their defense is removed, will just fall apart.
I guess he was more than motivated that day, because motivation lasts only a short time, but he has yet to come off so harsh, as he’d been so many times before.
He is not articulate in the English language.
Someone once mentioned to me that ‘Henry sure speaks funny’
‘Yeah, he speaks funny like that in seven languages.’
He was a man without a country for around twenty years.
I was one of the privileged few from our company that he’d invited to the celebration of his citizenship.
A lot of his people were there, and they all revered him as a god.
He looked good in his uniform.
That day he became ‘Henry’, and we shared a six pack of Private Reserve. He still mentions our little celebration, and has the Henry’s Private Reserve cap, I’d given him that day, hanging above his desk.
Henry has several distinct scars all over himself.
Holes the size of machine gun rounds.
Holes that remind him of the death march, of hiding under the body of the guy that became him when he took his identity papers because he’d lost his.
Holes that should have killed him more than once.
Holes that remind him of the loss of his entire family.
Holes that cause him to be even less verbal when someone inquires as to ‘what’d you do to get that?’
Holes that remind him of the price of freedom.
He still eats his lunch with sticks, sometimes sitting on the picnic bench cross legged.
It was a year or so after I’d hired on that Henry learned it was more acceptable to sit on the toilet instead of stand on it then squat.
I was glad to see that…hated always having to wipe those freaking footprints off the lid every time.
Yeah, him and I are on the other side of the hill now.
But it’s still really great to say g’mornin’ to my fellow countryman every day
….it’s actually quite an honor.
....and I have
I must make a confession
Writing, for me, has developed into a passion
I enjoy penning things of ordinary events, ordinary people
because
well
everything, everyone
is so much more than that
I'd intended for this to be a thread solely dedicated to our time in the mountains
But, instead of creating several threads, I'm going to park some random jottings right here
Forgive me
Here's one now
something I writ while employed
Henry
I feel as though I’m on the set of the last half hour of Papillion, or the movie Life.
Just said g’mornin’ to Henry for the gazillionth time.
He’s been an employee at this fine establishment since the doors opened, before even me, of which I’m regarded as the furniture.
We are both a bit slower of foot and noticeably grayer since we first met.
We have light conversation…about gardening, the weather, our offspring.
He’s a bit short on words.
Been thru a gaggle of engineer regimes.
Been in charge of what we call the process room forever.
It’s where we encapsulate, vacuum varnish, mold, and do all the dirty work....the dirty work that takes a mad scientist to coordinate all the tanks, racks, and ovens to yield product (as our brochure says) ‘in a timely manner’.
For him, it’s a symphony, and he’s the conductor.
Patience his not his strong point.
He’s ‘hard to work with’.
Whenever an upstart engineering manager approaches him about a certain process (more like begging for an answer, so he can document the procedure in the build book), his usual reply is, ‘You’re the engineer, you tell me….ah...hahahahahaha’.
He can be seen on any given day, meticulously scraping out the last drop of epoxy in the bottom of a 5 gallon bucket….’It’s expensive’.
About ten years ago I had to take him in to counsel.
He’d made a production worker upset, to the point of tears.
We all knew he was just being Henry, harsh words were how he communicated.
I sat with him and the production manager, and explained to him about how he represented our company, and therefore an example, blather blah, blah, blather.
I guess he took every one of my words to heart.
I guess I dressed him down, took him to his inner core, because he began to weep.
It really took me off stride, as I was just building momentum, not even getting off my final salvo.
It confirmed what I’d learned sometime before.
Gruff crusty people, folks with chips on their shoulders, that once the armor of their defense is removed, will just fall apart.
I guess he was more than motivated that day, because motivation lasts only a short time, but he has yet to come off so harsh, as he’d been so many times before.
He is not articulate in the English language.
Someone once mentioned to me that ‘Henry sure speaks funny’
‘Yeah, he speaks funny like that in seven languages.’
He was a man without a country for around twenty years.
I was one of the privileged few from our company that he’d invited to the celebration of his citizenship.
A lot of his people were there, and they all revered him as a god.
He looked good in his uniform.
That day he became ‘Henry’, and we shared a six pack of Private Reserve. He still mentions our little celebration, and has the Henry’s Private Reserve cap, I’d given him that day, hanging above his desk.
Henry has several distinct scars all over himself.
Holes the size of machine gun rounds.
Holes that remind him of the death march, of hiding under the body of the guy that became him when he took his identity papers because he’d lost his.
Holes that should have killed him more than once.
Holes that remind him of the loss of his entire family.
Holes that cause him to be even less verbal when someone inquires as to ‘what’d you do to get that?’
Holes that remind him of the price of freedom.
He still eats his lunch with sticks, sometimes sitting on the picnic bench cross legged.
It was a year or so after I’d hired on that Henry learned it was more acceptable to sit on the toilet instead of stand on it then squat.
I was glad to see that…hated always having to wipe those freaking footprints off the lid every time.
Yeah, him and I are on the other side of the hill now.
But it’s still really great to say g’mornin’ to my fellow countryman every day
….it’s actually quite an honor.
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It takes very little prodding to urge me on....
now, where was I...
ah yes
reading for those having difficulty in getting to sleep;
Kids of the Hill
We moved
When I was about 10, we sold the place and moved down the road a bit.
It was at least close enough to town to be able to ride my bike to the hardware store and replenish my stock pile of BBs, and there were more kids, kids a couple three years older than me, kids that had a bit more savvy about important things, things like guns, cigarettes, and wimin.
Man we terrorized that little neighborhood.
There was only six of us, but seems it was more like twenty at times.
Life was pretty good.
We commandeered a little lean-to shed across the gravel road from our house, and there we’d meet, sharin’ whatever we brought. Actually, I couldn’t wait to wake up every summer morning…and sometimes I didn’t.
Both folks worked, and my sister was supposed to watch me, so there were long stretches of times, times we just stayed out. If I scheduled things just right, I could technically have just been company droppin’ by.
Then things got different.
I was makin’ a rare appearance at home….hunger, and noticed Mom’s car was in the drive.
Then Dad’s car pulled up.
I was fiddlin’ with some meat and bread when Dad came in the door.
He smiled, looked around, then just busted out bawlin’.
My mind did a little Wut th'? As I’d never seen him cry before.
Grampa had died.
Well, he’d been wasting away in the nursing home for months…no surprise. But seems that was my Dad’s only link to some sorta ethereal security.
Next thing I know, a few weeks later he’s goin’ off on how this orphan kid was such a great little guy.
So here comes this kid.
Dad shows him around, then he’s gone.
Dad was like that.
Not around much.
It worked for me, but now this kid. Nice kid to boot.
A little too nice. Like the replacement kid on Lassie.
Yeah, the first kid, Jeff, was great, then they replaced him with a kid appropriately named Timmy. Then the show went south, all sappy and messed up.
But, right here most of you readers are going ‘What?’
So this kid is my shadow, Dad’s fair haired boy, and I’m guessin’ I’m his guardian.
One of the things us neighborhood kids loved to do was play king of the trees.
Douglas fir trees are plentiful in NW Oregon, and huge. They can reach 300 ft in height, and these were not the exception.
Three or four of us would pick our tree and race each other to the top.
Whoever would first get to the point of being able to bend the top over and touch the tip was king.
The best part, however, was not being king, but just camping there in the limbs, letting the wind blow us back and forth.
Folks woulda crapped their pants if they’d known what we were doin’.
Well, little Brady (my personal Timmy) wanted to climb.
I became a bit evil right there, and cautioned him that climbing those trees were not the same as yer everyday apple tree…but in the tone of lure and enticement.
The little guy was doin’ quite well, as doug fir limbs are rather close together…you could almost walk up them.
Then he musta made a misstep.
I heard some yelling, and some thumping sounds.
Then I caught sight of him flopping from one bough to the next.
Kathumping all the way to the bottom.
Seemed like he took forever.
Thing is, there’s about 20 feet of no limbs at the bottom, and he was in no way gonna grab wunna those boards we used to start our climbs.
So he landed in a little Timmy heap, on his shoulder, in the bed of fir needles.
For another evil moment I sat at my treetop, kinda hoping he’d not move, at all, ever.
But the little [censored] just got a dislocated shoulder and some bruises….and a new guardian.
Things sometimes just have a way of workin’ themselves out.
Bart
I was ten or eleven.
Bart was eleven or twelve…or thirteen.
Same grade, but held back a year.
He wasn’t dumb, just a tad distracted when it came to book learnin’.
And he had a stutter.
He was 6 foot 3 inches in the fifth grade.
He wasn’t one of us tree climbers, but boy could he mechanic.
His place was up at the end of the gravel road, and literally filled with junk.
At least half a dozen old cars, and scads of parts all strewn throughout the front and back yard.
It was heaven.
So, yeah, Bart didn’t do most things the rest of us did, but he was one of us.
One time we’d all ran out of BBs at the same time. So we went on the hunt for the perfect pebbles.
Once we each had about a dozen of them, we decided to play ‘who’s the man’.
This time Andy was to come up with the rite of passage.
His gem constituted in getting shot in the hind end with a BB.
If you took it like a man, well, you were a man.
It was Bart’s turn to take it like a man, and mine to administer the pebble.
I gave my air gun a few extra pumps, and placed the roundest pebble I had in the tube.
‘OK Bart, bend over.’
Bart had these bib overalls, and they were a bit tight on him.
Up to this time, all our loose denim pants had absorbed the shots.
But when Bart bent over, his pants became quite taut, straining threads, you could bounce a quarter.
I considered the angle….
PAP!
Bart didn’t yell out, but as he turned toward me, I noticed his huge face had become rather crimson, and his eyes were on fire.
Right then I decided someone was callin’ me for supper, so I took off on the dead run.
Bart, like a bear, took after me…I could hear him right behind me, huffing and puffing, cursing me and stuttering things about my lineage……’y-y-you, g-g-g-g son of a b-b-b-b’, which made me laugh so freaking hard I could hardly keep ahead.
Ever do something wrong, or dastardly, and break into a run, laughin’ yer hind end off?
I headed thru the barn, around the corner, and up to the house.
Bart waited for me in our front yard til way after dark.
But the most remarkable thing I remember about Bart was his swing.
Just a simple rope hung from a beam between two huge fir trees.
We built a platform.
We swung way out over a deep ravine, and back to the platform.
Then we put our heads together and figured we’d rake in vast amounts of money by charging admission to our ‘swing of death’.
We made a huge sign.
EXPERIENCE THE SWING OF DEATH!
TWO SWINGS FOR ONLY 25 CENTS
Only thing is, Bart lived at the end of the road, so the only potential customer would be Mr Harlon.
It was my first lesson in business.
Anyway, we got bored with the swing of death, and decided a taller platform…..the swing of the afterlife, was needed.
Bart, since it was his place, was first.
What we hadn’t considered was the wear of the rope on the beam.
Bart did his customary salutation ‘J-J-J-Geronimo-o-o-o’, and off and away he went….only he didn’t make the return trip.
In an elongated flash of a second or two, Bart remained suspended, twirling to face me, the rope descending into a heap on his shoulders.
His open mouth and furrowed brow held the expression of bewilderment and fear.
Then he twirled toward oblivion, floating down the ravine.
The last thing I saw was the little knot between his ankles still clutching the rope, while he filled the ravine with stuttering cries of anguish……
The blackberry patch was his salvation, sorta.
Andy
Andy was the neighborhood tough guy.
He didn’t brag about it, or even use it to his advantage.
But we all knew, even Bart.
Andy was the eldest of our little gang, and the strongest.
I guess he was around fourteen when I was ten, and he became my mentor.
He kinda took the place of Mickey Mantle, who had taken Joe Louis’s place, who had taken Dad’s place, even though I wasn’t really conscious of having idols. Guess every kid has one.
Andy was kinda hard to look at, and had a huge gut with a gigantic belly button that eternally hung out from under his sweatshirt.
Fascinating.
But he had a friendly countenance about him that reminded me of a happy frog, or Brian Keith, and he loved a good joke or prank.
I remember once he squeezed my dog’s paw, and my ol’ dog just sat there.
‘Go ahead, try it. Dogs have no feelings in their paws.’
So I reefed down on Tag’s paw.
That was the 2nd time my own dog bit me.
I learned a little sumpm about being playfully sadistic that day, and that you could look like you were doin’ sumpm even though it wasn’t really happnin’.
A day or so later, my sister was mysteriously bitten the same way.
Andy had the coolest bedroom, filled with stuff, and he even had his own gun cabinet…with shotguns, and a Winchester 30/30. Man I loved lookin’ at that carbine.
He’d taken a shine to me, and showed me his crystal set.
If we tuned it right, we could pick up Russia (in our imagination).
So, after picking up Russia, and listening to things like ‘Этот борщ - все, что мы собираемся есть сегодня вечером?’ for 10-15 minutes, we moved on to things like his pen collection.
Two coffee cans and three cigar boxes filled with pens of all shapes and sizes.
His collection was massive compared to my weeny oatmeal can half filled with dripping fountain pens.
Andy had a way about him that made you want whatever he had.
Whatever it was, he’d build it up in a way that made it superior.
Not in a way like bragging, but sorta matter of fact statements.
He had this ol’ beat up BB gun. It was a veteran of many a war, and he’d painted it red.
I knew my gun was better, and Eddie’s was better, but Andy touted that piece of crud in such a way that made you envious.
‘Yeah, it’s got a 22 spring in it for extra distance.’
‘Really? Wow!’
I learned that he generaly did this right before a trade.
Eddie learned this too, and after trading, discovered the non-existence of a ’22 spring’.
I lived about 500 yards up the hill from Andy, but it didn’t stop him from stringin’ two way radio line, thru the trees, into both our bedrooms.
Every night he’d call me, and we’d talk mostly about how neat it was to have a two way radio in our bedrooms.
Chhhhhhht, ‘this is so cool’
Chhhhhhht, ‘it sure is’
Chhhhhhht, ‘whataya doi…chhhht now?’
Chhhhhhht, ‘what?’
Chhhhhhht, ‘see ya tomor……chhhhhhhhhht’
I met up with Andy several years later.
He’d slimmed down, and got all handsome on me.
He was the head mechanic at a huge food processing plant in Portland.
Still had really cool stuff in his den.
His woman was rather gaunt and all skinny.
Couldn’t find a curve on her, but yet looked rather fetching, and fit well on his Harley.
I learned not long ago that he was eaten up with cancer all thru his body.
I s’pose I should have visited him, but couldn’t.
He was my idol, and he knew it.
He wouldn’t have wanted me to see him like that.
Chhhhhhhht, ‘See ya tomorrow Andy’
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 darn 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 an awful 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 hind ends 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 giggle.
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 crap 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……heck, I may search him out on face book or something, since a lot of folk have died off, and the web is so 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.
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part two;
Brad
Brad lived down the paved road about a mile toward town, so when he appeared he made it count.
He was closer to Andy’s age, so they’d pal around quite a bit.
He was bigger than me, and always challenged me, right up to the time I lost it and beat the daylights outta him with a baseball bat.
I remember his incredulous look of terror and surprise.
He never really stopped challenging me, but his taunts had lost a ton of sincerity after that.
Andy always got a kick out of it all, and looked on with great interest as to how things would play out between me and Brad, or me and Eddie, or me and Bart…never stepping in, but quite interested….guess alpha members of a pack like to keep score for future reference….
Brad’s mom was a nervous sort, not hard to look at, but nuthin’ memorable either, just his mom.
She too was divorced, but kept a tidy place.
Thinking about it, all the single moms in that area kept a tight ship. Maybe they channeled all that pent up nervousness toward dusting and mopping.
Thinking about it some more, all the households that had neat, well maintained places either was kept up by a single mom, or kept up by a married mom that might as well have been single….
On the flip side, there was the Hansens.
Seems they would get it on as regular as breakfast lunch and dinner, not counting the afternooner, and the night cap, and the morning paper……..
Bart’s mom must have been well tapped too, as she wasn’t the neatest of housekeepers…but always had a smile on her face and always hummed a happy little song.
Our place was kept up, but not as fastidious as those single moms, so I guess things were OK with mom and dad.
When Brad came around, things happened.
Not the best things, but really fun things.
He’d joined our BB gun wars a few times, but he was one to always want something more.
One afternoon we were contemplating what we could do with Ike when Brad thought shooting at the passing cars on the road below would perk things up.
It did.
Our marksmanship was lacking, as most our shots just pinged off fenders and bumpers and the back of an occasional window, but this one time Andy’s shot rang true. Right at the back of this passenger’s gigantic ear.
It was an amazing spectacle to watch take place.
Pap
Whap!
‘AAAAAAH, MY EAR! A BEE STUNG MY EAR!’
He commenced fanning is skunk cabbage sized ear like it was on fire, and I gotta say it wasn’t that great of a shot, ‘cause that gentleman’s humongous ear was a huge target, flappin’ in the wind at 40 mph.
The car came to a screeching halt and he hopped out, dancin’ around batting at the side of his head.
Well, one of his gargantuan ears musta picked up on our rolling on the ground laughter, as he looked right in our direction and started cussing us up and down.
We just flipped him off and invited him up for a chat.
Within 30-40 minutes the town cruiser came barreling up the road.
We started passing the football around in Andy’s yard, and when they pulled up, we became sincerely helpful as to ‘keep a lookout for those hooligans for sure, officer.’
Brad was a rather intense fellow.
If he wanted something, it consumed him.
He wanted a model car of mine.
Andy watched with great interest as Brad hauled out prized possession after prized possession to trade, riding his bike back and forth from his house, a mile away.
I feigned interest, then backed off.
The lad was beside himself.
Finally I ended up with three of his model cars, two model planes and three tubes of BBs.
It taught me an early lesson in supply and demand.
The thing I remember most about Brad was he was the one that explained things to me about the opposite sex, in great graphic detail.
So, at the ripe ol’ age of 11, I had all the mechanics down, to a tee.
A couple years later in health class, I’d be the first to raise my hand and answer any question, and even offered other facts for extra credit.
I was rather proud of that.
Funny, nobody really cared for Brad.
He could come or go, it didn’t matter.
He wasn’t dislikeable, just a bit over the top.
Eddie
Eddie was a year or two older than me, and seemed to have a one-up-man-ship problem with most of us.
And if we ever got the best of him, he’d just end up saying ‘What’s the point?’
He had really curly hair, and was actually pretty cool.
He was the city kid of our gang of six.
Never wore anything that looked worn, or even had any dirt on his ‘dungarees’ as his mom would say.
I remember the first time I heard her call Levi’s ‘dungarees’.
It became my ammo.
‘Hey Eddie. Better not climb that tree and soil yer dungarees.’
Everyone chimed in…’Dungarees???!!’
Yeah, she was Mrs Cleaver incarnate.
A neat lady though, and they had wunna those places that was always kept tidy, not antiseptic tidy, but warm tidy.
Made ya jus’ wanna sit in the living room and take it all in.
An old cuckoo clock, drapes with silk liners, doilies on the couch and chairs, handsomely framed pictures of folks, richly colored rugs on dark stained shiny hardwood floors.
Now my mom kept a clean house, but, try as she might, just didn’t have the knack in interior decor.
If I rated our place, it was somewhere between Eddie’s place and Bart’s place.
Then there was the Hansens.
Only, when Mrs Hansen opened the door, it kinda took yer breath away, and in the summer could actually bring tears to yer eyes…more about the Hansens later.
As far as Eddie’s place, I always felt like I should maybe take my shoes off when I stepped inside, only my socks were well into their 2nd week of a possible three week tour, and would’ve caused his mom to scurry for the aerosol can and hose down the area I occupied.
As a matter of fact, I preferred to just stay outside until Eddie got refitted with his afternoon outfit, all color coordinated and pressed.
I remember getting a glimpse of his socks.
They matched his shirt!
I thought, ‘dang, that’s pretty cool’, and logged it for my teen years.
He was the first to introduce Converse Chuck Taylor Allstars, and The Three Stooges, and playing army, so he had a purpose and heavily contributed to our rag tag outfit.
As a matter of fact, he was the instigator of our BB gun wars.
One time I’d accidently shot Eddie in the neck and the BB had stuck under the skin.
When his mom called him in for lunch and saw that little spot, she ‘bout came unglued.
She called us all in, and gave us the shoot yer eye out sermon.
I had the brilliant idea of explaining that we knew about the dangers of head shots, and just aimed at each other’s testicles, and if Eddie hadn’t been all bent over takin’ a crap in the Hansen’s yard, well we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.
Eddie never got to bring out his gun after that, and his visits became limited, and timed.
Funny, a few years ago I was on a ladder starting a first course of shingles.
My Lady was holding the ladder, gingerly poking me in the hind end (helping) when she noticed a bump on my calf. She commenced to fiddle with that bump and remarked that something was rolling around inside it. I handed her my knife and she cut out a rather gnarly BB.
Eddie loved playing army, and always had an invisible machine gun, making machine gun and hand grenade sounds, blowing things up, like the family sedan, or the Hansens.
Years later Andy updated me on him and a couple others.
Eddie did three hitches in nam, then came home and became an armored car guard, then a private detective.
His shiny pate had taken the place of his curls, and he developed a huge beer gut, just like the one he always kidded Andy about.
Andy had met up with him in a bar.
Eddie was wearing a wrinkled suit, tie undone, lookin’ pretty darn frumpled and raggedy.
Funny how things kinda turn on ya.
A decade or so ago I heard about his heart failure. Never made it to the funeral.
What’s the point?
Still awake?
you better make a Dr's appointment
Brad
Brad lived down the paved road about a mile toward town, so when he appeared he made it count.
He was closer to Andy’s age, so they’d pal around quite a bit.
He was bigger than me, and always challenged me, right up to the time I lost it and beat the daylights outta him with a baseball bat.
I remember his incredulous look of terror and surprise.
He never really stopped challenging me, but his taunts had lost a ton of sincerity after that.
Andy always got a kick out of it all, and looked on with great interest as to how things would play out between me and Brad, or me and Eddie, or me and Bart…never stepping in, but quite interested….guess alpha members of a pack like to keep score for future reference….
Brad’s mom was a nervous sort, not hard to look at, but nuthin’ memorable either, just his mom.
She too was divorced, but kept a tidy place.
Thinking about it, all the single moms in that area kept a tight ship. Maybe they channeled all that pent up nervousness toward dusting and mopping.
Thinking about it some more, all the households that had neat, well maintained places either was kept up by a single mom, or kept up by a married mom that might as well have been single….
On the flip side, there was the Hansens.
Seems they would get it on as regular as breakfast lunch and dinner, not counting the afternooner, and the night cap, and the morning paper……..
Bart’s mom must have been well tapped too, as she wasn’t the neatest of housekeepers…but always had a smile on her face and always hummed a happy little song.
Our place was kept up, but not as fastidious as those single moms, so I guess things were OK with mom and dad.
When Brad came around, things happened.
Not the best things, but really fun things.
He’d joined our BB gun wars a few times, but he was one to always want something more.
One afternoon we were contemplating what we could do with Ike when Brad thought shooting at the passing cars on the road below would perk things up.
It did.
Our marksmanship was lacking, as most our shots just pinged off fenders and bumpers and the back of an occasional window, but this one time Andy’s shot rang true. Right at the back of this passenger’s gigantic ear.
It was an amazing spectacle to watch take place.
Pap
Whap!
‘AAAAAAH, MY EAR! A BEE STUNG MY EAR!’
He commenced fanning is skunk cabbage sized ear like it was on fire, and I gotta say it wasn’t that great of a shot, ‘cause that gentleman’s humongous ear was a huge target, flappin’ in the wind at 40 mph.
The car came to a screeching halt and he hopped out, dancin’ around batting at the side of his head.
Well, one of his gargantuan ears musta picked up on our rolling on the ground laughter, as he looked right in our direction and started cussing us up and down.
We just flipped him off and invited him up for a chat.
Within 30-40 minutes the town cruiser came barreling up the road.
We started passing the football around in Andy’s yard, and when they pulled up, we became sincerely helpful as to ‘keep a lookout for those hooligans for sure, officer.’
Brad was a rather intense fellow.
If he wanted something, it consumed him.
He wanted a model car of mine.
Andy watched with great interest as Brad hauled out prized possession after prized possession to trade, riding his bike back and forth from his house, a mile away.
I feigned interest, then backed off.
The lad was beside himself.
Finally I ended up with three of his model cars, two model planes and three tubes of BBs.
It taught me an early lesson in supply and demand.
The thing I remember most about Brad was he was the one that explained things to me about the opposite sex, in great graphic detail.
So, at the ripe ol’ age of 11, I had all the mechanics down, to a tee.
A couple years later in health class, I’d be the first to raise my hand and answer any question, and even offered other facts for extra credit.
I was rather proud of that.
Funny, nobody really cared for Brad.
He could come or go, it didn’t matter.
He wasn’t dislikeable, just a bit over the top.
Eddie
Eddie was a year or two older than me, and seemed to have a one-up-man-ship problem with most of us.
And if we ever got the best of him, he’d just end up saying ‘What’s the point?’
He had really curly hair, and was actually pretty cool.
He was the city kid of our gang of six.
Never wore anything that looked worn, or even had any dirt on his ‘dungarees’ as his mom would say.
I remember the first time I heard her call Levi’s ‘dungarees’.
It became my ammo.
‘Hey Eddie. Better not climb that tree and soil yer dungarees.’
Everyone chimed in…’Dungarees???!!’
Yeah, she was Mrs Cleaver incarnate.
A neat lady though, and they had wunna those places that was always kept tidy, not antiseptic tidy, but warm tidy.
Made ya jus’ wanna sit in the living room and take it all in.
An old cuckoo clock, drapes with silk liners, doilies on the couch and chairs, handsomely framed pictures of folks, richly colored rugs on dark stained shiny hardwood floors.
Now my mom kept a clean house, but, try as she might, just didn’t have the knack in interior decor.
If I rated our place, it was somewhere between Eddie’s place and Bart’s place.
Then there was the Hansens.
Only, when Mrs Hansen opened the door, it kinda took yer breath away, and in the summer could actually bring tears to yer eyes…more about the Hansens later.
As far as Eddie’s place, I always felt like I should maybe take my shoes off when I stepped inside, only my socks were well into their 2nd week of a possible three week tour, and would’ve caused his mom to scurry for the aerosol can and hose down the area I occupied.
As a matter of fact, I preferred to just stay outside until Eddie got refitted with his afternoon outfit, all color coordinated and pressed.
I remember getting a glimpse of his socks.
They matched his shirt!
I thought, ‘dang, that’s pretty cool’, and logged it for my teen years.
He was the first to introduce Converse Chuck Taylor Allstars, and The Three Stooges, and playing army, so he had a purpose and heavily contributed to our rag tag outfit.
As a matter of fact, he was the instigator of our BB gun wars.
One time I’d accidently shot Eddie in the neck and the BB had stuck under the skin.
When his mom called him in for lunch and saw that little spot, she ‘bout came unglued.
She called us all in, and gave us the shoot yer eye out sermon.
I had the brilliant idea of explaining that we knew about the dangers of head shots, and just aimed at each other’s testicles, and if Eddie hadn’t been all bent over takin’ a crap in the Hansen’s yard, well we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.
Eddie never got to bring out his gun after that, and his visits became limited, and timed.
Funny, a few years ago I was on a ladder starting a first course of shingles.
My Lady was holding the ladder, gingerly poking me in the hind end (helping) when she noticed a bump on my calf. She commenced to fiddle with that bump and remarked that something was rolling around inside it. I handed her my knife and she cut out a rather gnarly BB.
Eddie loved playing army, and always had an invisible machine gun, making machine gun and hand grenade sounds, blowing things up, like the family sedan, or the Hansens.
Years later Andy updated me on him and a couple others.
Eddie did three hitches in nam, then came home and became an armored car guard, then a private detective.
His shiny pate had taken the place of his curls, and he developed a huge beer gut, just like the one he always kidded Andy about.
Andy had met up with him in a bar.
Eddie was wearing a wrinkled suit, tie undone, lookin’ pretty darn frumpled and raggedy.
Funny how things kinda turn on ya.
A decade or so ago I heard about his heart failure. Never made it to the funeral.
What’s the point?
Still awake?
you better make a Dr's appointment
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One more little story, and its back to cabin living
Penned a few years ago;
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 juke joint, but did their job of cleansing the palate for the next bite.
Sip, rib, sip, chikin, sip, beans, sip, salad, guzzle the rest.
Made ya just fall down and scream.
Houston.
Down the street, Telephone road, 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!
Wut the hey 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.
Penned a few years ago;
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 juke joint, but did their job of cleansing the palate for the next bite.
Sip, rib, sip, chikin, sip, beans, sip, salad, guzzle the rest.
Made ya just fall down and scream.
Houston.
Down the street, Telephone road, 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!
Wut the hey 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.
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Hoookaaay...back to our mountain cabin experience;
(written Sept 2014, months before we moved to the cabin)
Ee whipped down to the cabin(s) this weekend to lay the 2x6 floor and nail on the exterior trim and finish staining/sealing.
Love to find places that have cheaper stuff than the Home Dopies of the world.
Found this obscure place that has all kinds of salvaged building materials and unusual wood pieces.
I was like a kid in a candy store.
Settled on some rough cut 1x6 fir.
I have this vision.
My lady shares the same vision.
'Give the place a rustic look...yeah'
Here's where things got complicated.
'rough cut' is not necessarily 1x6
It can be 1x6...in places
Other places it can be 1x5...or 1x3.....
Thusly, getting things level and plum don't work so well with rough cut.
If you try to match 45° cuts (like a picture frame), you end up searching thru the pile for same widths...there are no 'same widths'.
And 1x tends to split when pummeled with a 7d ring shank nail...especially when on tippy toes on the uppermost 'THIS IS NOT A STEP' part of the ladder....leaning far to the right, one centimeter past the colossal misfortune zone, clinging to the wall like a morbidly obese batgrampa.
Our neighbor Greg, down the road, must think I am the most abusive husband ever, because these lovely rustic trim boards absorbed every guttural moniker I could sputter, beginning with the pronoun 'you'....loudly.
Buuut, as usual, we had fun, rested in places, enjoyed our meals outside, and mustered a sense of pride in what two aged wheezing overfed almost retirees could accomplish in one day.
Oh, and we had a little visitor Saturday night.
Sometime after total dark set in, while we were still relaxing (plopping, heaving, gasping, slumped) in our camp chairs, sipping ice tea, admiring our work, we both saw something flutter in front of the cabin.
'Whazzat?'
'Dunno'
'Huh'
We got up, stumbled around putting the rest of the tools away, tripping over the little sapling stump (cleverly positioned between the two cabins) for the 27th time, and trudged into our new rustic boudoir.
Gotta say, it was nice to lie there on the bed, gazing at our handiwork.
Mylady zonked out immediately.
I heard a noise.
A nibbling or skittering, mouse like noise.
I was thankful she didn't hear it (let the little guy enjoy his evening), 'cause she'd be up and searching for it...with a hammer.
Read my book till I got sleepy, and twisted off the lantern.
Laid there in the dark, barely making out the ceiling beams.
Saw something rather dark flutter.
Twisted on the lantern.
A bat was zooming around the cabin.
Huh......
.........A BAT??!!
Nudged the little woman.
WE GOT A BAT!!
Covers fly.
We're up.
I wish I had a video of us flailing away at that critter with the only things available.....foam cushions.
Gave the shotgun a thought.
We opened both doors, but the little sucker just wanted to go up.
It would stop, cling to a high corner, panting (I imagine...or maybe that was just us), then, after we threw shoes and books at it, commence to fly around and around, deftly dodging slabs of foam.
I jumped up on the bed, strategically teetering, making pathetic circles with my arms while falling backwards onto the floor.
My lady didn't miss a beat, remaining a non-stop foam whisk machine.
I figger we got about 47 minutes of aerobic flailing until we finally got it out the door.
Next trip I'll put the screens on.
(written Sept 2014, months before we moved to the cabin)
Ee whipped down to the cabin(s) this weekend to lay the 2x6 floor and nail on the exterior trim and finish staining/sealing.
Love to find places that have cheaper stuff than the Home Dopies of the world.
Found this obscure place that has all kinds of salvaged building materials and unusual wood pieces.
I was like a kid in a candy store.
Settled on some rough cut 1x6 fir.
I have this vision.
My lady shares the same vision.
'Give the place a rustic look...yeah'
Here's where things got complicated.
'rough cut' is not necessarily 1x6
It can be 1x6...in places
Other places it can be 1x5...or 1x3.....
Thusly, getting things level and plum don't work so well with rough cut.
If you try to match 45° cuts (like a picture frame), you end up searching thru the pile for same widths...there are no 'same widths'.
And 1x tends to split when pummeled with a 7d ring shank nail...especially when on tippy toes on the uppermost 'THIS IS NOT A STEP' part of the ladder....leaning far to the right, one centimeter past the colossal misfortune zone, clinging to the wall like a morbidly obese batgrampa.
Our neighbor Greg, down the road, must think I am the most abusive husband ever, because these lovely rustic trim boards absorbed every guttural moniker I could sputter, beginning with the pronoun 'you'....loudly.
Buuut, as usual, we had fun, rested in places, enjoyed our meals outside, and mustered a sense of pride in what two aged wheezing overfed almost retirees could accomplish in one day.
Oh, and we had a little visitor Saturday night.
Sometime after total dark set in, while we were still relaxing (plopping, heaving, gasping, slumped) in our camp chairs, sipping ice tea, admiring our work, we both saw something flutter in front of the cabin.
'Whazzat?'
'Dunno'
'Huh'
We got up, stumbled around putting the rest of the tools away, tripping over the little sapling stump (cleverly positioned between the two cabins) for the 27th time, and trudged into our new rustic boudoir.
Gotta say, it was nice to lie there on the bed, gazing at our handiwork.
Mylady zonked out immediately.
I heard a noise.
A nibbling or skittering, mouse like noise.
I was thankful she didn't hear it (let the little guy enjoy his evening), 'cause she'd be up and searching for it...with a hammer.
Read my book till I got sleepy, and twisted off the lantern.
Laid there in the dark, barely making out the ceiling beams.
Saw something rather dark flutter.
Twisted on the lantern.
A bat was zooming around the cabin.
Huh......
.........A BAT??!!
Nudged the little woman.
WE GOT A BAT!!
Covers fly.
We're up.
I wish I had a video of us flailing away at that critter with the only things available.....foam cushions.
Gave the shotgun a thought.
We opened both doors, but the little sucker just wanted to go up.
It would stop, cling to a high corner, panting (I imagine...or maybe that was just us), then, after we threw shoes and books at it, commence to fly around and around, deftly dodging slabs of foam.
I jumped up on the bed, strategically teetering, making pathetic circles with my arms while falling backwards onto the floor.
My lady didn't miss a beat, remaining a non-stop foam whisk machine.
I figger we got about 47 minutes of aerobic flailing until we finally got it out the door.
Next trip I'll put the screens on.
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Someone, on another site, posed the question; ‘What is your definition of a cabin?’
My reply;
For me?
It's more than even Kinkaid could replicate.
It's warmer than the warmest of wood stoves.
It has more charisma than the grandest of orators,
more appeal than the most opulent edifice built.
Yet it's simpler than the simplest of abodes.
...all the while doing its modest magic
Turning a mason jar to a drinking glass,
a tuna can to an ash tray,
a wooden apple box to a cabinet,
a burlap bag to a slip cover,
favorite old clothes to attire of choice,
a stranger to an acquaintance,
an acquaintance to a friend,
a wife to a mistress,
a life....to living.
And for me,
it's now home.
My reply;
For me?
It's more than even Kinkaid could replicate.
It's warmer than the warmest of wood stoves.
It has more charisma than the grandest of orators,
more appeal than the most opulent edifice built.
Yet it's simpler than the simplest of abodes.
...all the while doing its modest magic
Turning a mason jar to a drinking glass,
a tuna can to an ash tray,
a wooden apple box to a cabinet,
a burlap bag to a slip cover,
favorite old clothes to attire of choice,
a stranger to an acquaintance,
an acquaintance to a friend,
a wife to a mistress,
a life....to living.
And for me,
it's now home.
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Those of you who are reading this little saga, and may get inspired to buy some land, build and live happily ever after, know this, yes I'm self taught, but I've been building things since I could hold a Handy Andy hammer.
Yes, you can do this, but I've seen some hovels, good money spent, but horrible, unsafe builds.
One of my last projects before moving to the mountains, was refurbing a 100 yr old house.
That effort doubled our investment
The point being, don't go off half cocked
Yes, you can do this, but I've seen some hovels, good money spent, but horrible, unsafe builds.
One of my last projects before moving to the mountains, was refurbing a 100 yr old house.
That effort doubled our investment
The point being, don't go off half cocked
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It's a given, snow...in the mountains
How much......don't know 'til it comes
Seems weather forecasts forsook us in our immediate area
They'd predict inches, we'd get feet
The land we bought is in some sorta vortex
The blows could come from any direction
Guess that's what happens when yer surrounded by mountains taller than yours
When we bought the land, I figured most blows would come from the east
It was the only direction that has some flats
The nearest mountain was Mt Yamsay
Native name for protector (I've been told)
But, no, the winds came from everywhere
Thing is, 3-4 feet of snow...with wind, will give you 10-12 foot drifts
Of which limited our view from the cabin window
But, snow, without a wind, is a gentle event
Begetting a sweet quietude unrivaled
So, of a morning, coffee in hand, I'd just stand on the porch and watch it happen
How much......don't know 'til it comes
Seems weather forecasts forsook us in our immediate area
They'd predict inches, we'd get feet
The land we bought is in some sorta vortex
The blows could come from any direction
Guess that's what happens when yer surrounded by mountains taller than yours
When we bought the land, I figured most blows would come from the east
It was the only direction that has some flats
The nearest mountain was Mt Yamsay
Native name for protector (I've been told)
But, no, the winds came from everywhere
Thing is, 3-4 feet of snow...with wind, will give you 10-12 foot drifts
Of which limited our view from the cabin window
But, snow, without a wind, is a gentle event
Begetting a sweet quietude unrivaled
So, of a morning, coffee in hand, I'd just stand on the porch and watch it happen
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As nice as the views snow bestows, sooner or later, one must get to work
If not, you might not readily find yer vehicle
There's a pickup under there;
Then, there's the path to the wellhouse;
....and of course the path to what can be the most important little building;
between cabins becomes inaccessible, with their roofs shedding the white stuff;
If not, you might not readily find yer vehicle
There's a pickup under there;
Then, there's the path to the wellhouse;
....and of course the path to what can be the most important little building;
between cabins becomes inaccessible, with their roofs shedding the white stuff;
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I'm beginning to think this little saga hasn't really found a very good place to be
There HAS been a few very nice folks that have posted some great remarks, and I really appreciate that.....but.....it's been awhile for those and the occasional 'like'
I'm not fishing for remarks or likes, just don't wish to clog up a site if it's not so kosher here.
Movin' on
Keep the fire
There HAS been a few very nice folks that have posted some great remarks, and I really appreciate that.....but.....it's been awhile for those and the occasional 'like'
I'm not fishing for remarks or likes, just don't wish to clog up a site if it's not so kosher here.
Movin' on
Keep the fire
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