February 28, 2010
More times than not, the World Wide Web sir prize is the hell out of mme. Maybe like yourselves, a group or someone you may or may not know or remember will connect with you after finding you somehow on some kind of web search. Lucky Us.
Whether searching for people with cooking disorders, long lost childhood or High School names who you knew were cool way back when; they connect with wild a banned done. Maybe even an old flame or two, or someone you recognised on the news the day before, featured for eating 2770 slugs in a day, hanging from a ceiling fan will connect too. One never knows from whence they came, went or still are hear.
Even high school friends, acquaintances or the smartest science class student who you sat next to copy answers from and one who you thought for sure would be the reincarnation of Werner von Braun, they’d find you or you’d find them. It’s that easy. Some people have to take that chance because like the Enquirer, they gotta know or they’ll die of a question unanswered when death doo us finally part ways.
Maybe you wanted to see what more they’re doing in life to maybe eventually find out they will be doing life in either a prison or some kind of live-in, marriage or divorced situation where they lost the house, have to support the seven kids and wife left in it while they live in a tent; the latter net connection perhaps thanks to the Starbucks corporation, a stolen i phone or the local grocery stores bulletin bored.
What kind of meet is revealed is determined only when the wait staff come with something you may have ordered or possibly not; one never knows, unless it’s like an open faced sandwich when both you and the sandwich in question face each other before the final countdown when hunger takes over or you sit there and starve.
The net today makes all that possible. Where is so ‘n so anyway? They still owe you thirty seven cents from lunch back in high school and you thought to connect not really hoping for the change but maybe you’re just bored to death with whatever you’re doing in retirement or the third in the series of forty needle point classes.
Or besides the wonderful activities you’re diligently asked to participate by your senior center smiley faces, net searches are what you gravitate towards because alone in your own fish bowl, they take up a good part of your well thought out day.
No matter when or how many times it happens, at least in this guy’s life, it’s mostly been a treat. The past will connect through mmy home page because that may be the first thing that comes up in their search. I’ll usually figure that out because that’s how those things work; the address and forward always and easily recognisable.
This most recent touch from the past was an old high school guy. He appeared as one note in a ascending and descending glissando that comes and goes like an express credenza featured at the end of an unfinished symphony only to either stop because of fainting spells or to leave the stage because of overpowering stage fright brought on by Silence of the Lambs. Maybe as a diver an air tank ran out, wild hiding from one of those too big to ignore, very dangerous and hungry gold fish.
In any case Bobby connected from out of the blue. I’ve not heard hide nor hear of him since high school which seems as a dream and a forever ago. Now, he has sparked those old images of our past only to be refreshed; in this mind anyway.
In his one sentence message, mentioned was a few things just to let mme know how much he knew about mme and to see if in fact I was the real person he thought I was when he found whatever he found wild searching the net. He was right of course otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this little blurb about it, us and reflecting right now.
Mr. Bob wrote that he and another HS bud; one famous Dave, were discussing their past. I guess our old band name came into the conversation and for some reason mmy name came up as swell. I gather from a later and most recent phone conversation with Dave who has connected with more than the initial response that they both are in different states. One north the other south, one thousand miles apart.
As the story goes, in High School, Bob and Dave asked yours truly to be in their band. Actually I think that they didn’t have one yet but they thought if they added a drummer, then they would be well on their way. The rest is not clear. I imagine this is when another guitarist came along; the infamous and mechanically inclined Chuckey B. Another manifestation of the same band came more months later. Gene?
We were the very first mmusical/Rock ‘n Roll version of, ‘The Reflections.’ We also did our first gig before anyone ever knew of the Beatles. Our hair stayed dissimilar is probably why we never became more famous than eggs, toast and hash browns.
At the time I had been studying drumms for about six or seven months. I made sure they knew this but that didn’t seem to make any difference or bother them. They admitted to not being stadium material yet, but thought with mmy help they’d at least be able to play a few high school dances, birthday parties and a picnic or two.
The rehearsals began at Dave’s house I think. His parents seemed to be the ones with the better temperament or maybe it was the biggest living room so don’t quote mme. I don’t remember rehearsing at Bob’s house. Dave reminded mme just the other day that in fact we also rehearsed at mmy house, on our front porch to be exact.
Although I usually practiced mmy drumms to death in the basement I’mm going to go out on a limb here and say that we practiced there too. It was barely finished as I remember still seeing the rafters and subfloor in what would be the ceiling. I also had a few leftover Christmas tree lights strung around the place to give it that festive, sexy atmosphere well before those glass disco balls ever came into vogue.
Dave as I recall was a cool guy. He was the bass player who later on in life especially during rehearsals everyone would emulate because he always stood up to play. He wasn’t that energetic to jumping around when he played but just that he stood helped mme feel that his whole body was into the mmusic and especially mmy beats.
Besides that I admired his genius and inventiveness when being too tall. The basement floor to ceiling height was just over six feet but Dave’s head fit nicely between whatever two rafters he chose to stand in between. Sometimes he’d go from one to the other just to show how really versatile, creative and very funny he was.
This all had to be summertime because although our porch was closed in, it had no heat; neither did the cellar/basement. Winter wouldn’t be very conducive to warm hands or instruments. One place I DO remember rehearsing a lot was at Chuck’s house. Chuck lived in what was then farm country where the cops didn’t roam free.
HIS mom was shall we say, the most congenial and the one single parent who just went nuts over our little but getting longer song lists. She just couldn’t wait for us to finish setting up to play. She always asked mme to hurry up and set up because she just couldn’t stand to wait much longer. We could see her pacing back and forth.
To Be Continued; Tomorrow
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Cat House - 2
February 27th, 2010
Another reason I remember is because The Cat House was the first and last time something like that ever occurred. All the memories from that experience are as fresh in the noggin as if it was mmy service number and we know how that went. On the other hand, I have forgotten things that happened just yesterday.
In this case, I know it wasn’t a dream because so many visuals are clear in mmy mmined, including John’s face; and that’s something I’d sooner forget then remember in any nightmare. Only kiddin’ John. This is just a little, fun story, eh?
You’ve actually a lovely face except your last Christmas photo with you kneeling behind other family members could have used better lighting; but you’re the film guy so I guess you were in a hurry to clean up after the unwrapping trappings.
(Sit here Hon and you here little Johnny; don’t smile - MMicky will think we just woke up)
So I called John and asked him if he’d like to make a few bucks doing what he said he’d love to do. He asked mme what is that? I said he’d be filming us making a Cat House. He asked, what is that? I said don’t ask, just bring a favourite camera, a tripod and we’ll go from there. Be at mmy place at 8 a.m. tomorrow; don’t dress up and bring your lunch. We’ll be all day for two days.
He said, TWOOOO DAAAAYS?!? I said yes, one at a time, see ya tomorrow. OK, he said. The very next day, after 9 o’clock I called him again to wake him up. He asked if I could pick him up in a half hour; he’d be ready. I said, OK; don’t forget the camera and tripod. It was early, he asked what for? I said I’d tell him soon.
When I arrived at his house, he came out without the camera and tripod. I asked him where they were. He said, inside, why? I asked what he thought he was going to do today. He said he didn’t know. We sat there for about five more minutes when he knew the drill, went inside to retrieve his tools and we were off
The drive was a short one but we were late already. After a few seconds I thought, these are two Doctors, waiting for them shouldn’t be an unfamiliar situation. I relaxed and drove a few feet before John asked if we could stop for breakfast. I asked him where his lunch was and he said he’d like to have breakfast first and why did I ask about lunch when it’s still so early? I love John.
At this point I was reminded of how short this life is and sometimes we’re actually meant to enjoy it. This was one of those times. I was lucky not to be in too much of a hurry although there were further pressing situations; most of which had nothing to do with immediate so I just took a deep breath, smiled at John and asked him where he’d like to eat? He pointed and said, “Over there.”
Over there is where we went. One of the great local breakfast and all day really, food places in town was the next stop. For how long? I didn’t really care. I looked at it as a day off with a little sweating in between the laughs. I was happy to be with a pal. John is a pal and at times I wish we lived closer to each other. He’s a good mmusician, artist and friend. Creativity is our commonness. I love the guy.
During breakfast, John moved from table to table schmoozing like he usually does. It’s a small town restaurant so most patrons are regulars. I did the same thing really. Breakfast got cold but it was an enjoyable way to continue the day.
Like any Doctor will tell you, patient’s is a virtue. Two hours later we were again on our way; with the camera and tripod in tow as well as all the tools necessary to make both Doc’s happy, and hopefully their cats too. John was already happy. Having his breakfast, coffee and time to relax. We also had dates for that night.
We arrived at the Doc’s house less than seven minutes later. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, both Docs’ came out of the house not smiling. John and I exited the vehicle, both smiling. As I recall I wished them a good afternoon.
It was getting close to noon and I could understand their temperament if in fact they weren’t Doctors; but they were. All I said was that we were so sorry but we had a patient with an emergency and they understood. All smiling we went into the back yard. I did the preliminaries and asked John to film everything; from now until I say stop. He asked how long that would be. I replied, all day.
I’ll have to plug in an extra battery then he said. I said fine. He said that was left at home. The Doc’s were back in the house. I left a note on the back door that the lumber guy called and that we’d be back in five minutes. On the way the lumber guy did call (lucky mme) and another stop took place. It concerned material for the Cat House that wasn’t there yesterday so I felt relieved and still honourable.
We were back at the same spot forty five minutes later. Now it was past noon and John asked when we were going to have lunch. I said we just ate. He said that was more than an hour ago; besides that was breakfast not lunch. I said we had to do a little sweating first and if he passed that test then I’d buy him lunch.
He said, OK. He plugged in the extra battery then began to film everything. He shot footage of us taking tools out, stacking them up and dismantling the same stack in several different ways; including in slow motion. We set up one of those 16 foot folding ladders every way it could fold and work, laughing all the way.
We spinned the ladder, sat on it, stood on it as it lay sideways, made a Z with it, an upside down U or like a scaffold would be. I stood on that in the middle of the yard as John just shot mmy legs and feet; we just had fun. Two cats on a lark.
We even set different tools on the ladder in positions that would never work but looked funny. Mind you this was not something that was paid by the hour. I’ve always wanted to do something like the Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, (in this case two) Laurel and Hardy or just be crazy and have some fun in a way that things ‘normally’ wouldn’t be happening. In this case they were happening… so;
After all our fun that day, the next day I went back alone and built the whole thing in five hours. The Doc’s were ecstatic with the results of their feline’s new recreation spot. The woman Doc began placing cat toys, cat furniture and cats everything inside including the cats. That was the final test of safety and security.
They too were happy once all the sniffing and scratching for a way out was over. There was none even remotely evident. After discovering there was no escape through the door or chicken wire everything worked out fine. John was happy. I was thrilled and so was the Doc’s and cats. The day sunny, air fresh; smiles? Yes.
A few days later after a little editing on John’s part, I returned to further review the whole situation and to make sure nothing was left to chance. I gave the Doc’s a copy of the video. They wanted to see it right away. I stood in their living room during the final cut. I was even more thrilled when they just cracked up and gave thanks for a fine addition of safety for their ten family members. Life is coolier.
Thanks John.
Another reason I remember is because The Cat House was the first and last time something like that ever occurred. All the memories from that experience are as fresh in the noggin as if it was mmy service number and we know how that went. On the other hand, I have forgotten things that happened just yesterday.
In this case, I know it wasn’t a dream because so many visuals are clear in mmy mmined, including John’s face; and that’s something I’d sooner forget then remember in any nightmare. Only kiddin’ John. This is just a little, fun story, eh?
You’ve actually a lovely face except your last Christmas photo with you kneeling behind other family members could have used better lighting; but you’re the film guy so I guess you were in a hurry to clean up after the unwrapping trappings.
(Sit here Hon and you here little Johnny; don’t smile - MMicky will think we just woke up)
So I called John and asked him if he’d like to make a few bucks doing what he said he’d love to do. He asked mme what is that? I said he’d be filming us making a Cat House. He asked, what is that? I said don’t ask, just bring a favourite camera, a tripod and we’ll go from there. Be at mmy place at 8 a.m. tomorrow; don’t dress up and bring your lunch. We’ll be all day for two days.
He said, TWOOOO DAAAAYS?!? I said yes, one at a time, see ya tomorrow. OK, he said. The very next day, after 9 o’clock I called him again to wake him up. He asked if I could pick him up in a half hour; he’d be ready. I said, OK; don’t forget the camera and tripod. It was early, he asked what for? I said I’d tell him soon.
When I arrived at his house, he came out without the camera and tripod. I asked him where they were. He said, inside, why? I asked what he thought he was going to do today. He said he didn’t know. We sat there for about five more minutes when he knew the drill, went inside to retrieve his tools and we were off
The drive was a short one but we were late already. After a few seconds I thought, these are two Doctors, waiting for them shouldn’t be an unfamiliar situation. I relaxed and drove a few feet before John asked if we could stop for breakfast. I asked him where his lunch was and he said he’d like to have breakfast first and why did I ask about lunch when it’s still so early? I love John.
At this point I was reminded of how short this life is and sometimes we’re actually meant to enjoy it. This was one of those times. I was lucky not to be in too much of a hurry although there were further pressing situations; most of which had nothing to do with immediate so I just took a deep breath, smiled at John and asked him where he’d like to eat? He pointed and said, “Over there.”
Over there is where we went. One of the great local breakfast and all day really, food places in town was the next stop. For how long? I didn’t really care. I looked at it as a day off with a little sweating in between the laughs. I was happy to be with a pal. John is a pal and at times I wish we lived closer to each other. He’s a good mmusician, artist and friend. Creativity is our commonness. I love the guy.
During breakfast, John moved from table to table schmoozing like he usually does. It’s a small town restaurant so most patrons are regulars. I did the same thing really. Breakfast got cold but it was an enjoyable way to continue the day.
Like any Doctor will tell you, patient’s is a virtue. Two hours later we were again on our way; with the camera and tripod in tow as well as all the tools necessary to make both Doc’s happy, and hopefully their cats too. John was already happy. Having his breakfast, coffee and time to relax. We also had dates for that night.
We arrived at the Doc’s house less than seven minutes later. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, both Docs’ came out of the house not smiling. John and I exited the vehicle, both smiling. As I recall I wished them a good afternoon.
It was getting close to noon and I could understand their temperament if in fact they weren’t Doctors; but they were. All I said was that we were so sorry but we had a patient with an emergency and they understood. All smiling we went into the back yard. I did the preliminaries and asked John to film everything; from now until I say stop. He asked how long that would be. I replied, all day.
I’ll have to plug in an extra battery then he said. I said fine. He said that was left at home. The Doc’s were back in the house. I left a note on the back door that the lumber guy called and that we’d be back in five minutes. On the way the lumber guy did call (lucky mme) and another stop took place. It concerned material for the Cat House that wasn’t there yesterday so I felt relieved and still honourable.
We were back at the same spot forty five minutes later. Now it was past noon and John asked when we were going to have lunch. I said we just ate. He said that was more than an hour ago; besides that was breakfast not lunch. I said we had to do a little sweating first and if he passed that test then I’d buy him lunch.
He said, OK. He plugged in the extra battery then began to film everything. He shot footage of us taking tools out, stacking them up and dismantling the same stack in several different ways; including in slow motion. We set up one of those 16 foot folding ladders every way it could fold and work, laughing all the way.
We spinned the ladder, sat on it, stood on it as it lay sideways, made a Z with it, an upside down U or like a scaffold would be. I stood on that in the middle of the yard as John just shot mmy legs and feet; we just had fun. Two cats on a lark.
We even set different tools on the ladder in positions that would never work but looked funny. Mind you this was not something that was paid by the hour. I’ve always wanted to do something like the Marx Brothers, Three Stooges, (in this case two) Laurel and Hardy or just be crazy and have some fun in a way that things ‘normally’ wouldn’t be happening. In this case they were happening… so;
After all our fun that day, the next day I went back alone and built the whole thing in five hours. The Doc’s were ecstatic with the results of their feline’s new recreation spot. The woman Doc began placing cat toys, cat furniture and cats everything inside including the cats. That was the final test of safety and security.
They too were happy once all the sniffing and scratching for a way out was over. There was none even remotely evident. After discovering there was no escape through the door or chicken wire everything worked out fine. John was happy. I was thrilled and so was the Doc’s and cats. The day sunny, air fresh; smiles? Yes.
A few days later after a little editing on John’s part, I returned to further review the whole situation and to make sure nothing was left to chance. I gave the Doc’s a copy of the video. They wanted to see it right away. I stood in their living room during the final cut. I was even more thrilled when they just cracked up and gave thanks for a fine addition of safety for their ten family members. Life is coolier.
Thanks John.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Cat House - 1
February 26, 2010
Somewhere in and around the early 1990’s I was living in Marin County, California; again. Because I’ve moved around so much I’mm not sure what number time this was when returning to the Golden State. It’s one of the fav’s.
I can back track in the annals of time if you really want to know. Like the old history classes, I’mm not good at remembering dates other than a few birthdays, anniversaries, the fourth of July, Christmas; I always forget Easter and Thanksgiving because they keep changing. I remember mmy discharge date.
I also remember mmy military serial number mostly because when it was given under duress by one of those loud mouth confidencio’s with stripes and a mean demeanor, he said it would be branded in the noggin the rest of mmy life. Until most recently, and I’mm talking just the other day about forty something years later I thought that a fallacy until I actually did have to prove it at a VA visit.
The town was named Fairfax; the street was Mono, no less. Coincidentally I moved there married; stayed there after being divorced. The marriage continued, (sort of) there for sicks months while we were Stereo. Five years after that I was still mono on Mono. Women were once more in MMicks mix, and writely so.
Fairfax is situated across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco and north on highway 101. You’ll make a turn exiting west onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard then drive perhaps three or four miles and there you are. Fairfax, Ca. cool little burg. Town parades; anyone can call up the mayor; that kind of thing.
While living there I was asked to build a Cat House. For any of you thinking otherwise, it was not what you’d think. The structure was meant to be named just that because it was really for Cats; felines to be more precise. Pets no less.
Ten of them to be exact. I had met the owners. A Doctor as it turned out was the wife and I think the hubby was a Psychiatrist or something; I forget. But I’mm sure of the wife’s vocation because she was the one who wanted the structure built to preserve her little menagerie of felines from street traffic; little there was.
Not too many weeks or months earlier I had met John at a jam across the street and at the house of another friend, Tim. As usual I don’t use last names in this blog, mostly because they’re innocent by standers so to speak, and goodness knows I’d not like for them to be embarrassed at anything I’d reveal without their knowledge; unless of course they read these things too and either ask to change the lie or say something else to express their happiness at being left an anonymous entity. This saves court cases while I still have the stereo and car.
John was an out of work something. At the time he didn’t know what that was either so I can’t say anything that would contradict that. He did tell mme that he was interested in films after attending a film school in Los Angeles, but as far as I know he didn’t get too far with that. Presently he designs green playgrounds.
Back then he was unemployed and living with or in the same house as one of his girlfriends; or girl friend was not clear at that point. When he reads this he’ll probably correct it on more than one count. We’ll see if I can keep the car.
After talking a bit with the Doc and hubby who it seemed could care less about the upcoming project, the Doc and I walked outside to their little backyard. “There, is where I’d like the Cat House,” she said. ‘There’ was up against a cinder block wall; one side of their garage. “Come out from there,” she said.
At this point I asked her how big she wanted the thing but like most people who daily don’t look or pay attention to or at any kind of measurements in their lives, this was the problematic question of the minute. How big is small or vice verse?
Without going into any great detail here just let mme say that one could write a book on this little subject alone. It would include whatever happened in our grammar school systems but suffice it to say I just brought out the 30 foot tape from mmy pocket and gave her a few examples of length, height and depth.
This usually saves time when trying to figure out the difference between inches, feet, and yards and how tall the person standing next to you actually may be, give or take a foot or four. After a few examples the Doc decided that a twelve by twelve foot structure would be a good size for her ten furry creatures in order for them to have enough space to get into trouble or each other. Most were fixed.
Then of course the question of height was to be solved. She decided that although a normal cat’s height was less than a foot; a four foot height would be plenty. All well and good for the cats I said but if a human is to get in the thing to do whatever, then she may want to think of those friendly exchanges in the furthest reaches of the so called Cat House. How good are you at crawling?
I guess the other option was if she’d like to stand up while doing whatever with any of the ten furry beauties or did she think crawling on all fours was even better? I didn’t have to explain further; after all she was a Doctor. That’s with a capital D. When big D’s think measurements, centimeters are their specialty but not really feet; unless we’re talking podiatrist - maybe. I’ll have to look that up.
In any case it didn’t take too many increments of a minute before she was convinced that seven feet was a good height. At this point I added that most times lumber is stocked in even amounts of increments; (notice I said most times) so an eight foot height may save some labor time of cutting the proposed material; all of which was yet to come. She agreed. We continued with the design
OK then. That’s all settled. The next step was to give her suggestions as to material options. A good range of those were locally available depending on a few different scenarios she may like to consider. For example; use was one. What did she perceive the occupants would do; like to see; have in it with them; those kinds of things when comfort and even weather were concerned. Is there a roof?
That’s when she imagined just one very open pen. Meaning all the sides, including the top or ceiling was to be chicken wire. The side with the front door I was to make was also to be the same material. Basically the whole thing was to be open to the air outside, which included the wind, sun, rain, moon and stars. There’s not much snow in that part of the world to actually make a difference.
Cats being the animal that they are have no problem handling cold; really. Some humans think otherwise when their pets as family members are concerned but that’s again; another little story one could write about animal to human, human to animal behaviour. When I lived in South Dakota with FACE (mmy cat) she just loved to trek in 50 degree below weather; sometimes for a few days hunting.
The only problem I had with this was that in that part of California, like many others really, in winter it rains like hell for days at a time. Floods in that area are not uncommon. When the Doc realised this she said that the cats will then not be allowed to be outside during the worst weather. I gathered then that this enclosure was to be more of a spa for them, than an actual home. No problemo.
I stood there thinking for a half a minute then the Doc and I went back into the original Cat House, or her home really and I drew a picture of what she’d actually see when the structure was complete. She was satisfied, I was thrilled and the next phase was to take place. Here’s where John a local friend comes in.
John as you recall was a film guy so I called him up and asked if he’d like to do a short film. Years later which was about a month ago I called John to ask if he remembered this and he said, No, he didn’t. I know there was a VCR copy of the rest of this experience at mmy place on the rez but forget trying to find it as the situation stands; asking John was another option but the guy has no recollection whatsoever, which I found to be; well, John, really. Some things don’t change.
The only reason I remember this actually happened is because it actually did happen and John’s image as well as his voice is on the tape. Like Nixon and Watergate, I know if the tapes were available it would be definitive; truth proof.
TO BE CONTINUED;
Somewhere in and around the early 1990’s I was living in Marin County, California; again. Because I’ve moved around so much I’mm not sure what number time this was when returning to the Golden State. It’s one of the fav’s.
I can back track in the annals of time if you really want to know. Like the old history classes, I’mm not good at remembering dates other than a few birthdays, anniversaries, the fourth of July, Christmas; I always forget Easter and Thanksgiving because they keep changing. I remember mmy discharge date.
I also remember mmy military serial number mostly because when it was given under duress by one of those loud mouth confidencio’s with stripes and a mean demeanor, he said it would be branded in the noggin the rest of mmy life. Until most recently, and I’mm talking just the other day about forty something years later I thought that a fallacy until I actually did have to prove it at a VA visit.
The town was named Fairfax; the street was Mono, no less. Coincidentally I moved there married; stayed there after being divorced. The marriage continued, (sort of) there for sicks months while we were Stereo. Five years after that I was still mono on Mono. Women were once more in MMicks mix, and writely so.
Fairfax is situated across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco and north on highway 101. You’ll make a turn exiting west onto Sir Francis Drake Boulevard then drive perhaps three or four miles and there you are. Fairfax, Ca. cool little burg. Town parades; anyone can call up the mayor; that kind of thing.
While living there I was asked to build a Cat House. For any of you thinking otherwise, it was not what you’d think. The structure was meant to be named just that because it was really for Cats; felines to be more precise. Pets no less.
Ten of them to be exact. I had met the owners. A Doctor as it turned out was the wife and I think the hubby was a Psychiatrist or something; I forget. But I’mm sure of the wife’s vocation because she was the one who wanted the structure built to preserve her little menagerie of felines from street traffic; little there was.
Not too many weeks or months earlier I had met John at a jam across the street and at the house of another friend, Tim. As usual I don’t use last names in this blog, mostly because they’re innocent by standers so to speak, and goodness knows I’d not like for them to be embarrassed at anything I’d reveal without their knowledge; unless of course they read these things too and either ask to change the lie or say something else to express their happiness at being left an anonymous entity. This saves court cases while I still have the stereo and car.
John was an out of work something. At the time he didn’t know what that was either so I can’t say anything that would contradict that. He did tell mme that he was interested in films after attending a film school in Los Angeles, but as far as I know he didn’t get too far with that. Presently he designs green playgrounds.
Back then he was unemployed and living with or in the same house as one of his girlfriends; or girl friend was not clear at that point. When he reads this he’ll probably correct it on more than one count. We’ll see if I can keep the car.
After talking a bit with the Doc and hubby who it seemed could care less about the upcoming project, the Doc and I walked outside to their little backyard. “There, is where I’d like the Cat House,” she said. ‘There’ was up against a cinder block wall; one side of their garage. “Come out from there,” she said.
At this point I asked her how big she wanted the thing but like most people who daily don’t look or pay attention to or at any kind of measurements in their lives, this was the problematic question of the minute. How big is small or vice verse?
Without going into any great detail here just let mme say that one could write a book on this little subject alone. It would include whatever happened in our grammar school systems but suffice it to say I just brought out the 30 foot tape from mmy pocket and gave her a few examples of length, height and depth.
This usually saves time when trying to figure out the difference between inches, feet, and yards and how tall the person standing next to you actually may be, give or take a foot or four. After a few examples the Doc decided that a twelve by twelve foot structure would be a good size for her ten furry creatures in order for them to have enough space to get into trouble or each other. Most were fixed.
Then of course the question of height was to be solved. She decided that although a normal cat’s height was less than a foot; a four foot height would be plenty. All well and good for the cats I said but if a human is to get in the thing to do whatever, then she may want to think of those friendly exchanges in the furthest reaches of the so called Cat House. How good are you at crawling?
I guess the other option was if she’d like to stand up while doing whatever with any of the ten furry beauties or did she think crawling on all fours was even better? I didn’t have to explain further; after all she was a Doctor. That’s with a capital D. When big D’s think measurements, centimeters are their specialty but not really feet; unless we’re talking podiatrist - maybe. I’ll have to look that up.
In any case it didn’t take too many increments of a minute before she was convinced that seven feet was a good height. At this point I added that most times lumber is stocked in even amounts of increments; (notice I said most times) so an eight foot height may save some labor time of cutting the proposed material; all of which was yet to come. She agreed. We continued with the design
OK then. That’s all settled. The next step was to give her suggestions as to material options. A good range of those were locally available depending on a few different scenarios she may like to consider. For example; use was one. What did she perceive the occupants would do; like to see; have in it with them; those kinds of things when comfort and even weather were concerned. Is there a roof?
That’s when she imagined just one very open pen. Meaning all the sides, including the top or ceiling was to be chicken wire. The side with the front door I was to make was also to be the same material. Basically the whole thing was to be open to the air outside, which included the wind, sun, rain, moon and stars. There’s not much snow in that part of the world to actually make a difference.
Cats being the animal that they are have no problem handling cold; really. Some humans think otherwise when their pets as family members are concerned but that’s again; another little story one could write about animal to human, human to animal behaviour. When I lived in South Dakota with FACE (mmy cat) she just loved to trek in 50 degree below weather; sometimes for a few days hunting.
The only problem I had with this was that in that part of California, like many others really, in winter it rains like hell for days at a time. Floods in that area are not uncommon. When the Doc realised this she said that the cats will then not be allowed to be outside during the worst weather. I gathered then that this enclosure was to be more of a spa for them, than an actual home. No problemo.
I stood there thinking for a half a minute then the Doc and I went back into the original Cat House, or her home really and I drew a picture of what she’d actually see when the structure was complete. She was satisfied, I was thrilled and the next phase was to take place. Here’s where John a local friend comes in.
John as you recall was a film guy so I called him up and asked if he’d like to do a short film. Years later which was about a month ago I called John to ask if he remembered this and he said, No, he didn’t. I know there was a VCR copy of the rest of this experience at mmy place on the rez but forget trying to find it as the situation stands; asking John was another option but the guy has no recollection whatsoever, which I found to be; well, John, really. Some things don’t change.
The only reason I remember this actually happened is because it actually did happen and John’s image as well as his voice is on the tape. Like Nixon and Watergate, I know if the tapes were available it would be definitive; truth proof.
TO BE CONTINUED;
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Dead Man's Hill - 4 - The end
February 25, 2010
I had a very difficult time seeing where we were headed. Gary and Sal were screaming at the top of their lungs that I should maybe try a little braking just to slow us down a little bit. Sal was of course screaming the loudest because he was perched precariously on the top of this monster X. Gary safe inside yelled out to Sal not to jump off or for sure he’ll break every bone in his eyes, nose ‘n throat.
As the driver of chance, I quickly took mmy eyes off the road while looking up at the top of our plywood cab to see Sal’s fingers appear like they were becoming part of and melting into the plywood. At this time I wasn’t screaming to high heaven like they were because I was the steerer-driver and in full speed control.
Like Mario Andretti, Jimmy Johnson, that guy with the nice feathers in his cowboy hat and even Danica Patrick all rolled into one, I was without a doubt going to win this Fourth of July 500 miler with just one lap to go. No one was going to cut mme off or pull ahead at the very last minute because I was faster than a speeding bullet but not disguised as Clark Kent. I was the great Andretti for sure.
By this time Sal was screaming so loud for mme to pull over but I couldn’t because that’s where all the parked cars were. A little further to the left and we were almost in the middle of the street. I had enough sense about mme to be aware that just by chance someone may open the driver’s side door of any number of parked cars. I yelled that caution to Sal but I’mm not sure he heard.
I yelled that to Sal again but he didn’t care; he said his hands were about to fall off or he was trying not to let go; I think he said; and again reiterated he just couldn’t hold on any longer. It was definitely a bumpy ride. On the roof Gary and I could hear Sal plopping up, down and sideways while screaming – HELP!
Gary of course encouraged him not to let go while passing along in screaming tones that if he did he’d really be sorry. “Just hang on Sal, we’re almost there,” was Gary’s next bit of sagely advice. He tapped mme on the shoulder and began to laugh uncontrollably. This made Sal scream even more and even louder.
When I looked past Gary and out the back window/door Sal’s legs were flailing like two dead seals caught on the end of a whale boat’s hook. He had only one shoe on. When I yelled this to Gary, Sal in his panic tones said that same shoe fell off just about the time he jumped on the top before this Luge - type run began.
I yelled to Gary that after we stop we should wait for Sal to go back and retrieve his shoe or his parents would be real angry if he didn’t. Gary didn’t care, he said; just turn around and watch where we’re going or I’mm gonna kill us all; poor Sal
Needless to say he was right. As soon as I turned back around one of those parked cars driver’s side doors opened out. I had just enough time to react. I turned the wheel slightly towards the center of the street thereby missing that door by a millimeter or less. The thickness of the paint probably made the difference I said while correcting the wheel again; this time to the right thereby missing an oncoming bus full of passengers watching with mouths wide open.
I then quickly looked back to witness Sal’s flailing right leg hit the guy getting out square in the stomach as we passed him like lightning in a tornado. The guy doubled over while shaking his fist exclaiming something about our mothers as he slowly fell; knees down to the pavement. I thought we were leaving a trail of destruction even our hero mr. X would be proud to witness. We raced onward.
“Luckily the leg that Sal smashed him with was the one without the shoe. He’ll be alright. I just hope he’s not still there when Sal goes to get his shoe,” I screamed. Gary said he didn’t care again, just as long as we don’t crash. As soon as he said that I immediately thought to apply the brakes ever so gently in order to slow us down; but not too much. I squeezed the pedal down with confidence.
As soon as I did the brake cable broke and now Gary started to scream too… and right in mmy ear! Now we were at top speed. Chuck Yeager’s X-15 had nothing on us except he was in space and we were down here on earth with Clove Road traffic. Like the racing pro I thought I had become I yelled to Gary that now it was up to him to stop us. Sal heard this and began to curse in between his yells.
I’d say what they were but I’mm not sure what words were coming out of his dirty mouth. All I can remember is that truck drivers and demented, crazy people couldn’t understand him either. What we and everyone would know is that he was definitely freaked out from almost slipping off the top of the cab ride.
Remember the brake lever you’re supposed to pull in these kinds of emergencies I yelled to Gary. Whereupon Gary grabbed the thing and with as much muscle as he could muster, pulled back with all his might. The wooden lever broke in Gary’s two clasped hands. WOW! I yelled; he should have pulled just a little at a time because we were facing the horrendous speed faster with no brakes at all.
Sal didn’t hear this because that’s when he yelled for Gary to pull the extra lever emergency brake and for mme to pull over to the right as we slowed down. I said we couldn’t slow down at all nor pull to the right because the extra brake lever was now broken in Gary’s hands. Sal didn’t hear this above Gary’s screams.
I then begged Sal to hold on; the entrance to the park’s driveway was coming up in a few seconds. I was gonna make as wide a right turn as possible in order not to turn over which I explained in a panic would make Sal some kind of version of mince meat as he would roll on the hard pavement and maybe crack his skull.
I yelled to the boys that when I count three or they felt us turning, to lean to the right. That may help the overcompensated turn and maybe prevent us from crashing and turning on X’s left side. They were mostly in panic mode but I was making the final turn for us to win the 500 and no one was even coming close.
Looking ahead we all thanked the heavens that there was absolutely no other human in sight; no pregnant women with kids; no strollers in the way or anything so frightening as even two dogs would be. Even senior citizens were no where to be seen. It was our turn for some luck and here it was. We held on hard.
I looked ahead at the fast approaching cross streets that at this time of day were busy with traffic streaming and speeding back and forth from left to right, right to left. Instead of the dreaded turn, for a split second I thought to take a chance on a green light but in the next millisecond I said hooooooooold oooooooon booooooooys herrrrrrrre we goooooooo!!! ONE! TWO! THREEEEEEE!!!....
Luckily in those days the good ‘ol park department crews were always on top of it with their proud versions of manicured lawns, trimmed trees, bushes, beautiful gardens, clean ponds and clear sidewalks. When I turned into the slight incline up the very wide driveway it was more than enough to knock Sal off the roof.
Gary and I both heard him scream like we’ve never heard him scream before. X got lighter as Gary and I leaned towards the right as much and as hard as we could but monster X was going so fast that her right front and back wheel kept lifting up and up and up as we tried to make the fast turn without any damage to X or most importantly to ourselves. Our monster X was about to flip over.
As hard as we tried for a safe landing, it wasn’t to be. Monster X’s new Soap Box Derby wheels gave way and began to bend out of shape with all the weight and I’mm sure an inordinate amount of centrifugal force. The sounds were deadly.
Gary and I both yelled in fear of death as monster X finally tipped over on its side while leaving the asphalt and headed to a meadow while chasing a few very scared and scurrying squirrels. X slid another twenty or thirty feet on the grass. Gary and I pushed our faces to the plywood floor which was now really a wall, in hopes of not breaking any bones, heads, lips or teeth. Time was in slow motion
The plywood monster made crunching sounds the whole way and abruptly came to a full stop that jerked both riders miraculously through the front window and on to a nice green meadow landing. We lay there laughing really hard while yelling for Sal and at the same time wanting to be sure that we were actually in one piece each. We had small cuts, bruises and green stained clothes.
Half a minute later Sal came hobbling up to us with torn pants and blood on one cheek. Other than that he said he was in great shape. All at once we yelled and screamed each and every occurrence from when we first began rolling down the hill to our fateful and non- serious medical inducing landing. We were ecstatic.
Sal gave us his view from the top and we gave him our view from the inside. This euphoria lasted for a good fifteen minutes until walking back to monster X. Slowly we examined around the scratched, dented and frayed at the edges mess.
We decided that all monster X needed really were some new wheels, new brakes that would work next time and a new white paint job. White because we thought the angels must have saved us from a fate worse then our parents could dish out.
We all agreed that we’d paint a big black X on our car. We’d not abandon hero’s.
We could also live with the dents as they would show our experience in several crashing and survival techniques that we promised ourselves we’d spread the tale of our own Dead Man’s Hill by writing it down some day; OK-Gary and Sal?
Post Script.
This ride was not on the real Dead Man’s Hill; but it was this experience that far surpassed anything we’ve ever encountered on that little slant with a bend. One day I’ll write about that particular hill. The one that was really called Dead Man’s Hill and the one where many times we all were champions.
I had a very difficult time seeing where we were headed. Gary and Sal were screaming at the top of their lungs that I should maybe try a little braking just to slow us down a little bit. Sal was of course screaming the loudest because he was perched precariously on the top of this monster X. Gary safe inside yelled out to Sal not to jump off or for sure he’ll break every bone in his eyes, nose ‘n throat.
As the driver of chance, I quickly took mmy eyes off the road while looking up at the top of our plywood cab to see Sal’s fingers appear like they were becoming part of and melting into the plywood. At this time I wasn’t screaming to high heaven like they were because I was the steerer-driver and in full speed control.
Like Mario Andretti, Jimmy Johnson, that guy with the nice feathers in his cowboy hat and even Danica Patrick all rolled into one, I was without a doubt going to win this Fourth of July 500 miler with just one lap to go. No one was going to cut mme off or pull ahead at the very last minute because I was faster than a speeding bullet but not disguised as Clark Kent. I was the great Andretti for sure.
By this time Sal was screaming so loud for mme to pull over but I couldn’t because that’s where all the parked cars were. A little further to the left and we were almost in the middle of the street. I had enough sense about mme to be aware that just by chance someone may open the driver’s side door of any number of parked cars. I yelled that caution to Sal but I’mm not sure he heard.
I yelled that to Sal again but he didn’t care; he said his hands were about to fall off or he was trying not to let go; I think he said; and again reiterated he just couldn’t hold on any longer. It was definitely a bumpy ride. On the roof Gary and I could hear Sal plopping up, down and sideways while screaming – HELP!
Gary of course encouraged him not to let go while passing along in screaming tones that if he did he’d really be sorry. “Just hang on Sal, we’re almost there,” was Gary’s next bit of sagely advice. He tapped mme on the shoulder and began to laugh uncontrollably. This made Sal scream even more and even louder.
When I looked past Gary and out the back window/door Sal’s legs were flailing like two dead seals caught on the end of a whale boat’s hook. He had only one shoe on. When I yelled this to Gary, Sal in his panic tones said that same shoe fell off just about the time he jumped on the top before this Luge - type run began.
I yelled to Gary that after we stop we should wait for Sal to go back and retrieve his shoe or his parents would be real angry if he didn’t. Gary didn’t care, he said; just turn around and watch where we’re going or I’mm gonna kill us all; poor Sal
Needless to say he was right. As soon as I turned back around one of those parked cars driver’s side doors opened out. I had just enough time to react. I turned the wheel slightly towards the center of the street thereby missing that door by a millimeter or less. The thickness of the paint probably made the difference I said while correcting the wheel again; this time to the right thereby missing an oncoming bus full of passengers watching with mouths wide open.
I then quickly looked back to witness Sal’s flailing right leg hit the guy getting out square in the stomach as we passed him like lightning in a tornado. The guy doubled over while shaking his fist exclaiming something about our mothers as he slowly fell; knees down to the pavement. I thought we were leaving a trail of destruction even our hero mr. X would be proud to witness. We raced onward.
“Luckily the leg that Sal smashed him with was the one without the shoe. He’ll be alright. I just hope he’s not still there when Sal goes to get his shoe,” I screamed. Gary said he didn’t care again, just as long as we don’t crash. As soon as he said that I immediately thought to apply the brakes ever so gently in order to slow us down; but not too much. I squeezed the pedal down with confidence.
As soon as I did the brake cable broke and now Gary started to scream too… and right in mmy ear! Now we were at top speed. Chuck Yeager’s X-15 had nothing on us except he was in space and we were down here on earth with Clove Road traffic. Like the racing pro I thought I had become I yelled to Gary that now it was up to him to stop us. Sal heard this and began to curse in between his yells.
I’d say what they were but I’mm not sure what words were coming out of his dirty mouth. All I can remember is that truck drivers and demented, crazy people couldn’t understand him either. What we and everyone would know is that he was definitely freaked out from almost slipping off the top of the cab ride.
Remember the brake lever you’re supposed to pull in these kinds of emergencies I yelled to Gary. Whereupon Gary grabbed the thing and with as much muscle as he could muster, pulled back with all his might. The wooden lever broke in Gary’s two clasped hands. WOW! I yelled; he should have pulled just a little at a time because we were facing the horrendous speed faster with no brakes at all.
Sal didn’t hear this because that’s when he yelled for Gary to pull the extra lever emergency brake and for mme to pull over to the right as we slowed down. I said we couldn’t slow down at all nor pull to the right because the extra brake lever was now broken in Gary’s hands. Sal didn’t hear this above Gary’s screams.
I then begged Sal to hold on; the entrance to the park’s driveway was coming up in a few seconds. I was gonna make as wide a right turn as possible in order not to turn over which I explained in a panic would make Sal some kind of version of mince meat as he would roll on the hard pavement and maybe crack his skull.
I yelled to the boys that when I count three or they felt us turning, to lean to the right. That may help the overcompensated turn and maybe prevent us from crashing and turning on X’s left side. They were mostly in panic mode but I was making the final turn for us to win the 500 and no one was even coming close.
Looking ahead we all thanked the heavens that there was absolutely no other human in sight; no pregnant women with kids; no strollers in the way or anything so frightening as even two dogs would be. Even senior citizens were no where to be seen. It was our turn for some luck and here it was. We held on hard.
I looked ahead at the fast approaching cross streets that at this time of day were busy with traffic streaming and speeding back and forth from left to right, right to left. Instead of the dreaded turn, for a split second I thought to take a chance on a green light but in the next millisecond I said hooooooooold oooooooon booooooooys herrrrrrrre we goooooooo!!! ONE! TWO! THREEEEEEE!!!....
Luckily in those days the good ‘ol park department crews were always on top of it with their proud versions of manicured lawns, trimmed trees, bushes, beautiful gardens, clean ponds and clear sidewalks. When I turned into the slight incline up the very wide driveway it was more than enough to knock Sal off the roof.
Gary and I both heard him scream like we’ve never heard him scream before. X got lighter as Gary and I leaned towards the right as much and as hard as we could but monster X was going so fast that her right front and back wheel kept lifting up and up and up as we tried to make the fast turn without any damage to X or most importantly to ourselves. Our monster X was about to flip over.
As hard as we tried for a safe landing, it wasn’t to be. Monster X’s new Soap Box Derby wheels gave way and began to bend out of shape with all the weight and I’mm sure an inordinate amount of centrifugal force. The sounds were deadly.
Gary and I both yelled in fear of death as monster X finally tipped over on its side while leaving the asphalt and headed to a meadow while chasing a few very scared and scurrying squirrels. X slid another twenty or thirty feet on the grass. Gary and I pushed our faces to the plywood floor which was now really a wall, in hopes of not breaking any bones, heads, lips or teeth. Time was in slow motion
The plywood monster made crunching sounds the whole way and abruptly came to a full stop that jerked both riders miraculously through the front window and on to a nice green meadow landing. We lay there laughing really hard while yelling for Sal and at the same time wanting to be sure that we were actually in one piece each. We had small cuts, bruises and green stained clothes.
Half a minute later Sal came hobbling up to us with torn pants and blood on one cheek. Other than that he said he was in great shape. All at once we yelled and screamed each and every occurrence from when we first began rolling down the hill to our fateful and non- serious medical inducing landing. We were ecstatic.
Sal gave us his view from the top and we gave him our view from the inside. This euphoria lasted for a good fifteen minutes until walking back to monster X. Slowly we examined around the scratched, dented and frayed at the edges mess.
We decided that all monster X needed really were some new wheels, new brakes that would work next time and a new white paint job. White because we thought the angels must have saved us from a fate worse then our parents could dish out.
We all agreed that we’d paint a big black X on our car. We’d not abandon hero’s.
We could also live with the dents as they would show our experience in several crashing and survival techniques that we promised ourselves we’d spread the tale of our own Dead Man’s Hill by writing it down some day; OK-Gary and Sal?
Post Script.
This ride was not on the real Dead Man’s Hill; but it was this experience that far surpassed anything we’ve ever encountered on that little slant with a bend. One day I’ll write about that particular hill. The one that was really called Dead Man’s Hill and the one where many times we all were champions.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Dead Man's Hill - 3
February 24, 2010
Sal and I began to push the lone rider towards our final destination of Dead Man’s Hill. After a few short steps we all agreed that the two man starter-pusher was the best solution. Gary’s next suggestion was to add another block before the switch because it was that much easier therefore the ride would be too short. So that we did, even though we all knew he was still in the driver’s seat. We puffed.
After the four blocks Sal got in and Gary got out as we continued toward our destination. It was at this switch that we all asked each other where the famous helmet was stored. No one bothered to remember the thing. I said that at monster X’s speed I’mm not sure it mattered that much. Sal said that he thought it would help us look more professional. Gary couldn’t believe it was left behind.
At this thought we all agreed with Sal seeing as how that’s why we even made the hood hinges the same colour; for the same reason. We all decided it was too late to go back. By this time, about 11 a.m. the main suburb streets were beginning to get cluttered with more vehicular traffic. Now trucks and big city buses spewed exhaust in our nostrils because we were at that lowest position.
We rested after Gary’s last block. As a group we decided to add a few more blocks to the predetermined route not just for safety and smelly reasons but most importantly due to hills we’d encounter on the old way; the same one’s we didn’t realise we’d have to trek before heading out of Gary’s driveway. The traffic changed route was longer but we were still determined to reach our final goal.
After the initial four plus blocks there was no turning back now; by the way crossing a street didn’t count as any part of a block. That was just something we had to cross to get to the other side to begin counting the rider’s next block.
At this point I was beginning to really get tired and was trying to think ahead to just exactly where mmy turn as a rider would begin. I asked Gary, the new partner starter-pusher where he thought it would be. He said in a dry, flat, bored tone, “After Sal’s four blocks.” “Thanks Gary,” I said with eyes rolled upward.
I took the new information into consideration when trying to calculate mmy turn to ride. Best as I could figure, it was the very beginning of the last hill we’d have to climb. I thought to mmyself, oh heck I wonder if it’s too steep to ride inside. In three blocks I was to find out soon enough. We continued pushing Sal. He smiled
Sal’s four blocks went pretty easy as most of his turn was a straight away with a few stops in between for red lights and cross streets. Also in our travel we encountered a number of irate male legal drivers and their honking car horns.
The mostly adult drivers were yelling to us to take that thing off the road; we’re causing undo hardships to those who have the right of way. They usually did this by sticking their heads out of their car windows; passenger sides as well while presenting us their gritted teeth as if to show us their new dental work. We of course thanked them with little kid’s smiles continuing on our way; waving.
We had no choice really, unlike now a day when some corner curbs have sloping cement. Back then it was still a four or five inch drop from sidewalk to pavement. This was the second time we considered adding shocks; not just because of each corner’s obstacle but observing the uneven and multidimensional sidewalks we all thought that if the men in blue came along, it would be a much harder push.
We were now reaching the end of Sal’s last stretch. Straight ahead and at the end of this block and its red light it would be mmy turn. Unfortunately for mme the light had turned green for our right of way. Before I could jump in for the quick switch Gary started pushing harder as Sal yelled to both of us to quickly push to the other side of the street so we wouldn’t have to wait in traffic. We puffed on.
I did this reluctantly not only because I was beat and it was mmy turn but I had lost the opportunity for the uncounted ride across the street to the next side. That wasn’t the half of it. We reached the other side of the street, which was Clove Road and the same street that was one side of the park we were to enter. A hill.
This is where the one long up hill began before we were to go downhill again just before entering the park. At this point we stopped again to rest and to take turns swigging what little water was left in the single, small bottle we had brought to quench thirst. Yes we were all quite thirsty and a bit tired, Gary and me. It wasn’t an easy slog. Sal got out, I quickly got in as he and Gary pushed. They puffed.
It wasn’t long, maybe about twenty feet when both of them said that the hill is too steep to push anyone who wanted to ride inside. We’d all have to push at this point. Needless to say I was quite unhappy about this but it was obvious they were telling the truth. The slog was just as slow as at the beginning. The grunts and groans coming from the two emaciated Clydesdales was another clue that in fact I had to get out and be the third starter-pusher. I was gritting teeth.
Of course as had happened at the beginning of this excursion, I had no sympathy for either one of them. After all it was finally mmy turn and it seemed like we had gone at least several miles before it was. I asked them to try a little harder while at the same time lifting mmy butt off the plywood seat in hopes to make the car lighter. That didn’t work. I also couldn’t use the brakes this way either.
Of course I know now as an adult with a little more education in these things the new position wouldn’t work. Begrudgingly I exited X and began to help the two starter-pushers. Now all three of us trudged our monstrosity X with no motor, up the asphalt hill and up to the hopeful precipice where I was to jump in again.
Meanwhile the whole way I kept saying that in fact although we were passing a few corners which would be considered blocks this wasn’t part of mmy ride because I wasn’t actually sitting inside steering. I was steering through the opening we called a window but Gary and Sal decided that our butts had to touch wood in order for it to be considered a true ride. I was relieved at the truth.
It took us just as long to reach the top of that hill as it took us to get from Gary’s beginning ride through Sal’s and on to mmy turn; it was only three blocks more. But those three blocks were much longer in length than all the other eight combined. It was certainly a long, slow slog but we made it and now we were at the top of the Clove Road hill. The park entryway beckoned our quicker arrival.
The next ride was mmine of course. As we stopped at the top of the hill looking down we thought there’d be no way I should brake anywhere along the downhill route before we approached the slight curving entryway to the park. Just beyond that was one of the busiest intersections around. We had to turn in.
The park entrance is where we knew there would be no more vehicular traffic to hinder us. As long as there were no pregnant mothers or strollers in our path we could just barrel our way downhill and coast as far as we could before anyone had to push again. This more than excited us as we took in the long downhill run
Gary came up with this scenario I thought later on in life mostly because it was his turn to push. Sal of course agreed wholeheartedly as the partner pusher. They also thought there was no need to push any further because of the long downhill so he and Sal thought to ride along with mme. Somehow all three were to roll on.
Gary was the back seat passenger so to speak while Sal would jump on the top of the cab and ride with us all the way to as far as we could go. An added bonus Gary said was that their extra weight would ad even more momentum to our ride, thereby giving us the first real thrill of the day’s fun to run activity. Until…
This scenario made mme squint both eyes while thinking of how fast we’d actually be going when reaching the slightly curved entryway. As the steerer driver mmy first thought was for all of us to gather and pray that nothing got in our way when we reached the bottom where most mothers and their babes in strollers would most likely be congregating before entering the park themselves.
Needless to say, the boys didn’t give us much time to think this through. All they seemed to be concerned about was not pushing and most importantly of the ride ahead without exerting much energy on their part. I on the other hand as the designated steerer-driver was being a bit more cautious; not to mention skeptical
I asked the boys if they thought both our braking systems would work just in case of not only the mother and child scenario but I was concerned about senior citizens as well. They of course would not be fast enough to jump out of our way, right? That question was never answered. Speed took control of their minds.
In unison as if to assure their mothers in a lie that they indeed finished their homework before being allowed ice cream, the boys yelled their confident affirmations with a long scream of Bonnnnnnnnn-Saiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!
Like World War Two Kamikazes unafraid of death while giving their long running, getting faster and faster to a final push; I as the steerer-driver had all our lives in mmy two little shaking hands, wrists and skinny arms. God help us.
The getting faster and faster downhill run without a windshield was making mmy eyes blurry almost immediately like a spring release when the crisp, fresh air rushed into mmy pupils like a dam’s waterfall being let out after a winter’s run off and fill up to the top of the dam before finally running over. I couldn’t see
What happened next frightened all of us out of our nice dry pants…
That’s right; to be continued:
Sal and I began to push the lone rider towards our final destination of Dead Man’s Hill. After a few short steps we all agreed that the two man starter-pusher was the best solution. Gary’s next suggestion was to add another block before the switch because it was that much easier therefore the ride would be too short. So that we did, even though we all knew he was still in the driver’s seat. We puffed.
After the four blocks Sal got in and Gary got out as we continued toward our destination. It was at this switch that we all asked each other where the famous helmet was stored. No one bothered to remember the thing. I said that at monster X’s speed I’mm not sure it mattered that much. Sal said that he thought it would help us look more professional. Gary couldn’t believe it was left behind.
At this thought we all agreed with Sal seeing as how that’s why we even made the hood hinges the same colour; for the same reason. We all decided it was too late to go back. By this time, about 11 a.m. the main suburb streets were beginning to get cluttered with more vehicular traffic. Now trucks and big city buses spewed exhaust in our nostrils because we were at that lowest position.
We rested after Gary’s last block. As a group we decided to add a few more blocks to the predetermined route not just for safety and smelly reasons but most importantly due to hills we’d encounter on the old way; the same one’s we didn’t realise we’d have to trek before heading out of Gary’s driveway. The traffic changed route was longer but we were still determined to reach our final goal.
After the initial four plus blocks there was no turning back now; by the way crossing a street didn’t count as any part of a block. That was just something we had to cross to get to the other side to begin counting the rider’s next block.
At this point I was beginning to really get tired and was trying to think ahead to just exactly where mmy turn as a rider would begin. I asked Gary, the new partner starter-pusher where he thought it would be. He said in a dry, flat, bored tone, “After Sal’s four blocks.” “Thanks Gary,” I said with eyes rolled upward.
I took the new information into consideration when trying to calculate mmy turn to ride. Best as I could figure, it was the very beginning of the last hill we’d have to climb. I thought to mmyself, oh heck I wonder if it’s too steep to ride inside. In three blocks I was to find out soon enough. We continued pushing Sal. He smiled
Sal’s four blocks went pretty easy as most of his turn was a straight away with a few stops in between for red lights and cross streets. Also in our travel we encountered a number of irate male legal drivers and their honking car horns.
The mostly adult drivers were yelling to us to take that thing off the road; we’re causing undo hardships to those who have the right of way. They usually did this by sticking their heads out of their car windows; passenger sides as well while presenting us their gritted teeth as if to show us their new dental work. We of course thanked them with little kid’s smiles continuing on our way; waving.
We had no choice really, unlike now a day when some corner curbs have sloping cement. Back then it was still a four or five inch drop from sidewalk to pavement. This was the second time we considered adding shocks; not just because of each corner’s obstacle but observing the uneven and multidimensional sidewalks we all thought that if the men in blue came along, it would be a much harder push.
We were now reaching the end of Sal’s last stretch. Straight ahead and at the end of this block and its red light it would be mmy turn. Unfortunately for mme the light had turned green for our right of way. Before I could jump in for the quick switch Gary started pushing harder as Sal yelled to both of us to quickly push to the other side of the street so we wouldn’t have to wait in traffic. We puffed on.
I did this reluctantly not only because I was beat and it was mmy turn but I had lost the opportunity for the uncounted ride across the street to the next side. That wasn’t the half of it. We reached the other side of the street, which was Clove Road and the same street that was one side of the park we were to enter. A hill.
This is where the one long up hill began before we were to go downhill again just before entering the park. At this point we stopped again to rest and to take turns swigging what little water was left in the single, small bottle we had brought to quench thirst. Yes we were all quite thirsty and a bit tired, Gary and me. It wasn’t an easy slog. Sal got out, I quickly got in as he and Gary pushed. They puffed.
It wasn’t long, maybe about twenty feet when both of them said that the hill is too steep to push anyone who wanted to ride inside. We’d all have to push at this point. Needless to say I was quite unhappy about this but it was obvious they were telling the truth. The slog was just as slow as at the beginning. The grunts and groans coming from the two emaciated Clydesdales was another clue that in fact I had to get out and be the third starter-pusher. I was gritting teeth.
Of course as had happened at the beginning of this excursion, I had no sympathy for either one of them. After all it was finally mmy turn and it seemed like we had gone at least several miles before it was. I asked them to try a little harder while at the same time lifting mmy butt off the plywood seat in hopes to make the car lighter. That didn’t work. I also couldn’t use the brakes this way either.
Of course I know now as an adult with a little more education in these things the new position wouldn’t work. Begrudgingly I exited X and began to help the two starter-pushers. Now all three of us trudged our monstrosity X with no motor, up the asphalt hill and up to the hopeful precipice where I was to jump in again.
Meanwhile the whole way I kept saying that in fact although we were passing a few corners which would be considered blocks this wasn’t part of mmy ride because I wasn’t actually sitting inside steering. I was steering through the opening we called a window but Gary and Sal decided that our butts had to touch wood in order for it to be considered a true ride. I was relieved at the truth.
It took us just as long to reach the top of that hill as it took us to get from Gary’s beginning ride through Sal’s and on to mmy turn; it was only three blocks more. But those three blocks were much longer in length than all the other eight combined. It was certainly a long, slow slog but we made it and now we were at the top of the Clove Road hill. The park entryway beckoned our quicker arrival.
The next ride was mmine of course. As we stopped at the top of the hill looking down we thought there’d be no way I should brake anywhere along the downhill route before we approached the slight curving entryway to the park. Just beyond that was one of the busiest intersections around. We had to turn in.
The park entrance is where we knew there would be no more vehicular traffic to hinder us. As long as there were no pregnant mothers or strollers in our path we could just barrel our way downhill and coast as far as we could before anyone had to push again. This more than excited us as we took in the long downhill run
Gary came up with this scenario I thought later on in life mostly because it was his turn to push. Sal of course agreed wholeheartedly as the partner pusher. They also thought there was no need to push any further because of the long downhill so he and Sal thought to ride along with mme. Somehow all three were to roll on.
Gary was the back seat passenger so to speak while Sal would jump on the top of the cab and ride with us all the way to as far as we could go. An added bonus Gary said was that their extra weight would ad even more momentum to our ride, thereby giving us the first real thrill of the day’s fun to run activity. Until…
This scenario made mme squint both eyes while thinking of how fast we’d actually be going when reaching the slightly curved entryway. As the steerer driver mmy first thought was for all of us to gather and pray that nothing got in our way when we reached the bottom where most mothers and their babes in strollers would most likely be congregating before entering the park themselves.
Needless to say, the boys didn’t give us much time to think this through. All they seemed to be concerned about was not pushing and most importantly of the ride ahead without exerting much energy on their part. I on the other hand as the designated steerer-driver was being a bit more cautious; not to mention skeptical
I asked the boys if they thought both our braking systems would work just in case of not only the mother and child scenario but I was concerned about senior citizens as well. They of course would not be fast enough to jump out of our way, right? That question was never answered. Speed took control of their minds.
In unison as if to assure their mothers in a lie that they indeed finished their homework before being allowed ice cream, the boys yelled their confident affirmations with a long scream of Bonnnnnnnnn-Saiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!!!
Like World War Two Kamikazes unafraid of death while giving their long running, getting faster and faster to a final push; I as the steerer-driver had all our lives in mmy two little shaking hands, wrists and skinny arms. God help us.
The getting faster and faster downhill run without a windshield was making mmy eyes blurry almost immediately like a spring release when the crisp, fresh air rushed into mmy pupils like a dam’s waterfall being let out after a winter’s run off and fill up to the top of the dam before finally running over. I couldn’t see
What happened next frightened all of us out of our nice dry pants…
That’s right; to be continued:
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Dead Man's Hill -2
February 23, 2010
We painted our car top to bottom all black of course. We also painted a big white X on every side including the hood and top of the cab just in case airplanes traveling in low altitude overhead were to notice our every intention to be found.
The overall paint job copied our favourite local bad guy stock car driver. He had big X’s painted on his car which was disqualified more times than not. This was due to just a little extra weight of a few sand bags he laid in the back trunk for traction. Unfortunately this was discovered most times, especially after a win, which wasn’t that often. But we loved him just the same. He was our pack leader
Mr. X and his X painted coupe was certainly our hero with no number unlike the rest of the pack of mostly mechanics who raced every Saturday night in the summer. Weissglass Stadium was just down the street from where we lived.
The ‘Stadium’ was almost a quarter mile oval track that with a little tweaking could have actually been considered a circle; it was that small. Other times we’d see little league baseball or high school football games in the same place; an every year small time circus also planted itself there for a few weeks as well as wrestling and boxing matches. It was our little ‘hoods’ outdoor everything spot.
Anytime anything we wanted to see but couldn’t pay for like the every Saturday evening car races in the summer, our little group would try to sneak in the front gates. Most times we’d ask to tag along with an adult or we’d walk fast during a thick crowd entry hopefully not to be seen by the ticket taker on either side of the rather wide entryway. To slip in unnoticed we asked to hold strange adult hands. Sometimes we surprised them by just grabbing theirs. Most didn’t agree.
These turn downs were largely due to our vaguely planned begging to escape to inside. One by one we kept on trying our luck anyway. It was a numbers thing. The gathering spot was predetermined mostly because X needed our crowd of cheers. We cheered even louder when he turned our way to be recognised by us.
So of course our car had to be dedicatedly constructed in X’s honour. Instead of a real car’s round contours ours had to be flat and straight on all sides due to the difficulty we decided was too much for the cheap plywood we had to work with.
Finally the construction was complete. One thing we decided was not a very good idea to forget was to put hinges on the front hood. We thought this important just in case we had to work on the engine like X must have done.
Of course we had no engine but that didn’t matter; it was the thought of having one that did matter. Besides, we still needed to work on the steering and brake system after the body was constructed so we pulled all of those nails out and asked Santa Claus to buy us three hinges for our redesigned hood/engine cover.
Gary’s dad suggested we search in the older garage for more jars that may hold the exact hinges we needed. Gary’s grandfather saved everything he’s ever owned so luckily we found two that matched and one that didn’t but it worked anyway. We decided to paint them all the same colour as they’d show in public and we wouldn’t want to be embarrassed as seeming to be unprofessional.
We labored more summer days on the actual workings of everything we needed to steer and stop this monstrosity. Needless to say, X wasn’t a very small car; and because it was all plywood it had rattle sounds that metal would never make. We thought shock absorbers could have been added but we didn’t know where to find any used ones for free let alone any that would work with our special car.
When we looked under and behind the huge tires, specifically at the shocks of Gary’s parent’s big black Packard limo, we just couldn’t see how something like that would work anyway. Without much discussion we decided to go shock less. Besides we were all impatient to start our new and daring driving experience. The thing rolled so we were excited and more than ready to begin our joy rides.
As planned Gary got in while Sal and I yelled out ‘Shotgun!’ Whoever said this first was automatically considered the front seat passenger for the simple fact of calling it out first. To Sal and I, it didn’t sound like the other was first so Gary was the deciding vote. He said we had both said it in unison. Gary’s solution was that Sal and I would ‘shoot for it’ with the game known as Odds or Evens.
One person called Odds and the other had Evens which meant that whoever won three times first, they were the winner. For those not familiar with the hand game of decision makers; someone would call, ‘Shoot!’ Then both parties would shoot out one hand with either one finger or two fingers protruding from a fist.
To further explain, if one person had one finger out and the other had two, that was an odd combination and Odds would win. If both had one finger out, or both had two fingers out then Evens would win. A win three times determined who won overall. I called Evens and so did Sal.
We probably did this more times than necessary when Gary said, “I’ll say GO.” Just to decide who the Odd or Even guy was took a little while longer but in the end, I was eventually Even, Sal was the Odd guy. (That doesn’t look right, today)
Finally, Sal won so I was to be the first starter-pusher for what we had predetermined to be about three city blocks for each turn; rotating from the passenger to the driver and so on until we got to a hill of any consequence. At that point all of us would be pushers. The person steering from the outside also would take turns. Inside the car they entered and push, I began… or tried to.
Like the wolf in the three pigs, this nine year old short and very thin guy huffed and puffed just to get the monster X and its two passengers to the driveway exit of Gary’s property. That thing was more than a heavy, struggling push for the first thirty something feet. I was tired by the time we reached the driveway exit. Most of the push was on grass but we were convinced the street would be easier.
Luckily for mme the driveway was a short, four foot, steep slope. I pushed hard enough to watch the big monster X drift for about ten feet into the street while Gary turned right to head the car further on. I ran to catch up to continue the momentum but the thing just crawled to a halt. I pushed again while struggling to gain a continued rolling motion. The car was too heavy for mme to make much headway with the kind of speed we all expected to feel while inside or out.
At this time we all noticed we forgot to install a speedometer but we were also sure that at this rate we’d not threaten any land speed record any time soon. Like a stalled car with ignition problems or anything that kept any kind of real car moving slower than a slug as the stuck and lonely driver tried to push car’s beast to the curb; and as much as I tried, the monster X was even slower than a slug.
I was breathing heavy. The boys riding inside weren’t too sympathetic until the exhausted crawl set in about thirty feet later. It was at that point that we all wondered what would happen when reaching any kind of a slight grade in the up direction. Going downhill we discussed was not going to be a problem.
Like our hero X, the human cargo carried like his sand would take us to any finish line with flying colours. But that wasn’t our immediate problem. Momentum was. It was a hard decision we must have talked about for ten minutes or so. I came up with the idea of two guys being the starter pushers thereby making the car lighter while adding another person was like a bigger engine that much more speed would surely be the result. X needed two guys.
Both Gary and Sal didn’t seem to like that idea at this point. They were very comfortable even at the slow speed. I suggested either one of them to at least try the starter pusher part for about five feet to experience a little ahead of time as to what their turn would be like in a different position. I promised that if they did this then they might change their mind when it came time for their turn.
An extra incentive stressed was that the monster X would go even faster with two people being the starter-pushers as opposed to the slow crawl of just one in that position and the fact that the other two would probably get pretty bored going so slow. It would even be slower when considering the time it took the starter pusher to rest in between the huffs, puffs, aches, pains and the mandatory water breaks; especially since we had only one very small bottle to go around.
Then of course we had to be back by dark; not to mention the fact that Dead Man’s Hill steep downward grade was waiting to be challenged that same day. Look how many joy rides we’d miss if we took so long to get there; was the best scenario and one that finally convinced the two riders to change their minds.
So Sal being the passenger was the designated starter-pusher helper seeing as Gary was already holding the steering wheel tighter than a cowboy grabs the rope on a bull. The fact that there was two more blocks to go before the switch didn’t help Sal to get out ungrudgingly of course but we all decided it wasn’t really any fun going so slow after all.
Besides, we also conceived that our Dead Man’s Hill arrival would be that much quicker just because we had just made a level headed decision and the best for all concerned. Of course Gary said that after Sal and I had yelled in unison, “Only two more blocks before we switch, right?!” Why we yelled that with a question ending was that we as starter pushers didn’t think it fair to begin again from the new decision spot. After all, it wasn’t as if the rider-steerer had just begun either.
… So much like this little story began; again it will continue on the morro
We painted our car top to bottom all black of course. We also painted a big white X on every side including the hood and top of the cab just in case airplanes traveling in low altitude overhead were to notice our every intention to be found.
The overall paint job copied our favourite local bad guy stock car driver. He had big X’s painted on his car which was disqualified more times than not. This was due to just a little extra weight of a few sand bags he laid in the back trunk for traction. Unfortunately this was discovered most times, especially after a win, which wasn’t that often. But we loved him just the same. He was our pack leader
Mr. X and his X painted coupe was certainly our hero with no number unlike the rest of the pack of mostly mechanics who raced every Saturday night in the summer. Weissglass Stadium was just down the street from where we lived.
The ‘Stadium’ was almost a quarter mile oval track that with a little tweaking could have actually been considered a circle; it was that small. Other times we’d see little league baseball or high school football games in the same place; an every year small time circus also planted itself there for a few weeks as well as wrestling and boxing matches. It was our little ‘hoods’ outdoor everything spot.
Anytime anything we wanted to see but couldn’t pay for like the every Saturday evening car races in the summer, our little group would try to sneak in the front gates. Most times we’d ask to tag along with an adult or we’d walk fast during a thick crowd entry hopefully not to be seen by the ticket taker on either side of the rather wide entryway. To slip in unnoticed we asked to hold strange adult hands. Sometimes we surprised them by just grabbing theirs. Most didn’t agree.
These turn downs were largely due to our vaguely planned begging to escape to inside. One by one we kept on trying our luck anyway. It was a numbers thing. The gathering spot was predetermined mostly because X needed our crowd of cheers. We cheered even louder when he turned our way to be recognised by us.
So of course our car had to be dedicatedly constructed in X’s honour. Instead of a real car’s round contours ours had to be flat and straight on all sides due to the difficulty we decided was too much for the cheap plywood we had to work with.
Finally the construction was complete. One thing we decided was not a very good idea to forget was to put hinges on the front hood. We thought this important just in case we had to work on the engine like X must have done.
Of course we had no engine but that didn’t matter; it was the thought of having one that did matter. Besides, we still needed to work on the steering and brake system after the body was constructed so we pulled all of those nails out and asked Santa Claus to buy us three hinges for our redesigned hood/engine cover.
Gary’s dad suggested we search in the older garage for more jars that may hold the exact hinges we needed. Gary’s grandfather saved everything he’s ever owned so luckily we found two that matched and one that didn’t but it worked anyway. We decided to paint them all the same colour as they’d show in public and we wouldn’t want to be embarrassed as seeming to be unprofessional.
We labored more summer days on the actual workings of everything we needed to steer and stop this monstrosity. Needless to say, X wasn’t a very small car; and because it was all plywood it had rattle sounds that metal would never make. We thought shock absorbers could have been added but we didn’t know where to find any used ones for free let alone any that would work with our special car.
When we looked under and behind the huge tires, specifically at the shocks of Gary’s parent’s big black Packard limo, we just couldn’t see how something like that would work anyway. Without much discussion we decided to go shock less. Besides we were all impatient to start our new and daring driving experience. The thing rolled so we were excited and more than ready to begin our joy rides.
As planned Gary got in while Sal and I yelled out ‘Shotgun!’ Whoever said this first was automatically considered the front seat passenger for the simple fact of calling it out first. To Sal and I, it didn’t sound like the other was first so Gary was the deciding vote. He said we had both said it in unison. Gary’s solution was that Sal and I would ‘shoot for it’ with the game known as Odds or Evens.
One person called Odds and the other had Evens which meant that whoever won three times first, they were the winner. For those not familiar with the hand game of decision makers; someone would call, ‘Shoot!’ Then both parties would shoot out one hand with either one finger or two fingers protruding from a fist.
To further explain, if one person had one finger out and the other had two, that was an odd combination and Odds would win. If both had one finger out, or both had two fingers out then Evens would win. A win three times determined who won overall. I called Evens and so did Sal.
We probably did this more times than necessary when Gary said, “I’ll say GO.” Just to decide who the Odd or Even guy was took a little while longer but in the end, I was eventually Even, Sal was the Odd guy. (That doesn’t look right, today)
Finally, Sal won so I was to be the first starter-pusher for what we had predetermined to be about three city blocks for each turn; rotating from the passenger to the driver and so on until we got to a hill of any consequence. At that point all of us would be pushers. The person steering from the outside also would take turns. Inside the car they entered and push, I began… or tried to.
Like the wolf in the three pigs, this nine year old short and very thin guy huffed and puffed just to get the monster X and its two passengers to the driveway exit of Gary’s property. That thing was more than a heavy, struggling push for the first thirty something feet. I was tired by the time we reached the driveway exit. Most of the push was on grass but we were convinced the street would be easier.
Luckily for mme the driveway was a short, four foot, steep slope. I pushed hard enough to watch the big monster X drift for about ten feet into the street while Gary turned right to head the car further on. I ran to catch up to continue the momentum but the thing just crawled to a halt. I pushed again while struggling to gain a continued rolling motion. The car was too heavy for mme to make much headway with the kind of speed we all expected to feel while inside or out.
At this time we all noticed we forgot to install a speedometer but we were also sure that at this rate we’d not threaten any land speed record any time soon. Like a stalled car with ignition problems or anything that kept any kind of real car moving slower than a slug as the stuck and lonely driver tried to push car’s beast to the curb; and as much as I tried, the monster X was even slower than a slug.
I was breathing heavy. The boys riding inside weren’t too sympathetic until the exhausted crawl set in about thirty feet later. It was at that point that we all wondered what would happen when reaching any kind of a slight grade in the up direction. Going downhill we discussed was not going to be a problem.
Like our hero X, the human cargo carried like his sand would take us to any finish line with flying colours. But that wasn’t our immediate problem. Momentum was. It was a hard decision we must have talked about for ten minutes or so. I came up with the idea of two guys being the starter pushers thereby making the car lighter while adding another person was like a bigger engine that much more speed would surely be the result. X needed two guys.
Both Gary and Sal didn’t seem to like that idea at this point. They were very comfortable even at the slow speed. I suggested either one of them to at least try the starter pusher part for about five feet to experience a little ahead of time as to what their turn would be like in a different position. I promised that if they did this then they might change their mind when it came time for their turn.
An extra incentive stressed was that the monster X would go even faster with two people being the starter-pushers as opposed to the slow crawl of just one in that position and the fact that the other two would probably get pretty bored going so slow. It would even be slower when considering the time it took the starter pusher to rest in between the huffs, puffs, aches, pains and the mandatory water breaks; especially since we had only one very small bottle to go around.
Then of course we had to be back by dark; not to mention the fact that Dead Man’s Hill steep downward grade was waiting to be challenged that same day. Look how many joy rides we’d miss if we took so long to get there; was the best scenario and one that finally convinced the two riders to change their minds.
So Sal being the passenger was the designated starter-pusher helper seeing as Gary was already holding the steering wheel tighter than a cowboy grabs the rope on a bull. The fact that there was two more blocks to go before the switch didn’t help Sal to get out ungrudgingly of course but we all decided it wasn’t really any fun going so slow after all.
Besides, we also conceived that our Dead Man’s Hill arrival would be that much quicker just because we had just made a level headed decision and the best for all concerned. Of course Gary said that after Sal and I had yelled in unison, “Only two more blocks before we switch, right?!” Why we yelled that with a question ending was that we as starter pushers didn’t think it fair to begin again from the new decision spot. After all, it wasn’t as if the rider-steerer had just begun either.
… So much like this little story began; again it will continue on the morro
Monday, February 22, 2010
Dead Man's Hill
February 22, 2010
Looking at the title there, it doesn’t seem as ominous today as it did years ago when life or death stared us in the face. Clove Lake’s park was where Dead Man’s Hill and Dead Man’s Curve were located. At this point I’d have to ask siblings the actual name. It could have been either. I’mm guessing it was the former; the latter named was the dreaded turn that sooner or later awaited us all.
In any case ‘The Hill or The Curve’ was the same place we used to visit many times during our early years before high school. I think even the first few years of high school we visited and accepted dares. It was the challenge place of heroics; to live or die by how fast we braved to travel in a down hill direction.
It’s impossible to count the times we as a large or small group of kids walked up and down the long, steep, somewhat curved and not so wide asphalt pathway. More times than not we challenged each other by two’s. Many times as a whole group we’d race to achieve first place and the minute by minute, hourly, daily, weekly or even an over all lifetime honour to be champion of Dead Man’s Hill.
Whether it was running on foot, on beat up scooters, tied or untied roller skates, bicycles with fat tires and no gears or even with our self- built, orange crate go cart designs; Dead Man’s Hill was the main challenge whenever we thought to compete for the ultimate reward of going for the gold… ‘Last one’s a rotten egg!’
I can remember so many different groups and instances while visiting the childhood spot. The exhilaration of going downhill seemed like an Olympic event. Coincidentally, as the Vancouver Winter Olympics of 2010 are taking place as this is being written, the Olympics of our day took place most times on this same hill no matter the weather, day, and time of day, week, month or year.
Sunshine, rain, sleet, hail or snow like the postman’s code of never stop, nothing really got in the way of those fun-run visits. Impossible to recall how many times each of us were champion. Everyone who participated seemed to have received the honour of being ‘Champ of the World,’ at one time or another; didn’t matter the reason or race. We constantly repeated or made up new challenges daily.
One particular trio of friends was Gary, Sal and mmyself. Gary had a huge yard where we did a lot of childhood things. His dad who was a banker supplied us like Santa Claus in July with all manner of tools and materials for whatever projects that happened to be our next most important activity. One was to build our own race car that of course was to be put to the test down Dead Man’s Hill.
To this day I wish I had photos of the thing. At this point I’ve lost touch with both pals. It’s quite possible either one of them has a photo or two but I certainly don’t. Although at the time I know we all took turns sitting in the driver’s seat while photos were being taken in more locations than one. The photo up top is a self built and year’s later version. It has the exact same kind of wheels. I built that one for Philippe, a little French five year old. He and his mom lived next door.
The year’s earlier car too was constructed entirely of plywood. The four huge wheels were acquired from the authentic Soap Box Derby (SBD) people who at the time were the local Chevrolet Dealer. One year Gary’s dad, who had helped probably more than he should have, bought the special wheels in order to have Gary be a recognised and therefore legal SBD entrant. Dads helped illegally.
I remember his car quite well. Like many SBD entries of those days the car didn’t quite appear as if a nine or ten year old had designed or built it. Granted maybe now this may be the case but back then, his and his dad’s design was an all sleek gray and white painted fiberglass car. It was so professionally done that it looked like one of those Indianapolis 500 midget racers from the thirties or forties. It had an open cockpit, smooth curves and a helmet hand painted to match the car.
The modern difference was the missing motor. Gary and his dad were allowed to enter the thing but I’mm sure he didn’t win. What he or they did with that car is not a memory. I do know for a fact that we recycled the wheels and other parts to construct our own new version built on the order of an old Model T. Ford. We copied a favourite bad guy stock car racer who cheated endlessly at a local track.
Losing the big race that year didn’t seem to bother Gary but he was kind enough to dismantle the wheels and start anew after the big, well publicized SBD race was over. The potential transportation racer built with Gary and friends occurred especially when Dead Man’s Curve was brought to our young dare attention.
Gary invited Sal and I shortly thereafter to join him on the new venture. All the supplies were waiting for us as we arrived early one sunny Saturday morning. Several full sized sheets of the same thickness of plywood was the main body.
The nails and screws however were mostly a hodge-podge of whatever opened, used vegetable cans, glass jars with no lids or plastic yoghurt containers that held any number of shapes and sizes of the things we thought may be OK to put stuff together including a few different kinds of glue. Also on Gary’s picnic table were several lengths of rope, pliers, one hammer, two rusty saws, and a spoon. The spoon of course Gary explained was for the exact placement of glue to wood.
Gary’s one and only legal SBD helmet sat on the table as an incentive to finish the project. The helmet of course could be worn just by the driver who we all voted Gary to be the first mostly because it was his backyard, his stuff, and fit his head.
Very important was Gary’s memory while working with his dad since also saved from the SBD experience were the complex mechanisms we recycled for the steering and braking systems. A big part was the steering wheel Gary (or his had or both) had dismantled from a real car that was bought and brought from a local automobile junk yard just down the street. It was larger than the car needed
Also on the table; several lengths of metal cables, eye hooks, pulleys and legal, long rod axles we were to nail in place. The axles were installed by hammering over four or five dozen nails in each board. Bending them over the axle was what would hold each rod in their correct position. It seemed even that amount may not be enough. Overkill we thought was better than being killed in case they fell off due to weight or rough, pothole roads encountered; we were very cautious.
The boards with axles and wheels were the first to be built. They determined how wide the car should be. How long didn’t seem to make any difference but we made it long enough for two guys to sit down in the car; butts planted flat.
The rear guy’s legs straddled either side of the front guy. The front guy did all the steering. His legs stuck through an opening that would normally be called a car’s firewall; extending through what also would be, if it was real, the hood of a car. That’s also where the steering shaft as well as the braking system resided.
If the foot brakes built exactly like the SBD brakes failed for any reason, then like the pro car builders we were, there was an option for the passenger guy to pull back a wooden lever, connected to a simple but hopefully effective ‘Rubber Stopper Brake to Wood and Wheel Pulley System,’ which is what we called it.
This system was devised by all three of us which took only a few days of squabbling over the drawings and materials to be used to decide what was best in order for the thing to work. This was to save our parents the heartache of what could have been a triple funeral. Yes, that’s right; it would be a triple funeral.
After the two were enclosed in the inescapable and covered cab with a not too easy to escape fast, hinged out back door, the third guy being the starter - pusher was the one most likely to live through the potential tragic experience; or again so we thought. None of us wanted to lose the other two of course especially when facing crazy and very disturbed parents might have been concerned.
Being just the starter-pusher was the one who would be the watcher and therefore will automatically be killed by the other two sets of parents for letting the whole thing happen in the first place. Then of course the parents of the only survivor was also a dread seeing as how a lifetime of servitude may be the risk.
Part of the designing of the most important steering and braking systems were conversations of our parents asking us at the potential tragic demise of the two friends and our well designed car as being, “ Didn’t you see the bus was too close? Or how could you be the starter-pusher when you saw the cement truck was that close to the street signals? What the hell were you kids thinking?”
In foresight, whether or not the lights were red, green or yellow didn’t seem to matter in these tragic scenarios; nor were the advent of stop signs. We also took into account that having no motor meant we could follow our own rules; a vehicle registration not needed; a driver’s test? Nope. It also went without saying that a legal license for the thing was never a question. After all we were just kids!
In any case, we all thought that the extra braking system would help the two riders be safer if the one well thought out system broke or became unusable in the first place. This was especially important when the three of us were thinking we’d be the only one left to face the consequences of potentially six but for sure four taller and due to the unrehearsed and tragic situation, very angry adults.
Regardless, none of us wanted to be the last one standing in the family court of death to the one who should have known better. How could you as the starter- pusher send our son’s to their death? All those questions were soon forgotten when fun took over and Dead Man’s Hill was the first real challenge. The initial problem of course was just getting us and the thing to the top of the famous hill.
We had a few miles to find out, and for you dear readers as they say in cliffhanger land;
To be continued;
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Voices From a MMoonscape
February 21, 2010
More times than I can remember, I’ve sent the poem that follows and is part of this blog to a few friends and more than a few acquaintances. Without a doubt after reading the poem you’ll realise that in many of these instances, although not all the time we shared great land and ocean distances.
The thought originally began with a stranger, a person I met about twenty years ago. The stranger’s home was in a rather remote place in Africa. At that time neither of us had cell phones, the internet or a satellite connection.
The only way to talk in a real time kind of way was through a short wave/long wave radio relay based in the city of Mombasa. Although it was tried a few times the radio connection had a lot of and too much static. There was another way.
The alternative thought was that if either of us wanted to talk to the other, didn’t have access to any of the wired or wireless communication channels at the time or just couldn’t wait, then while looking up at the sky, we both knew the moon was the common sight and one that we could refer to and share as:
Voices from a MMoonscape
Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
Full moon’s smiling slow paced,
Flying, gliding with glimmering stars?
Did your eyes dream reach that festive place
And mirrored down - two gazed his face
…and did my thoughts just hear yours sounding revelry?
Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
Basking ‘neath moon’s rising
Uncompromising view?
Once more i tried
To hear your voice drift down - sounds dance
‘Fore eyes raised up to greet - our glance
I listened…
The pale round’s glistening;
Plea’s – time be silent.
Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
As moon’s smile played through night’s proud shade
Before a breaking day
Before the suns tone rise
Glowing faintly as pale skies
Lifts morning’s darkened yawn
Phased moon’s drifting byes
… and did i hear you softly whisper… tender ... " night.... "
More times than I can remember, I’ve sent the poem that follows and is part of this blog to a few friends and more than a few acquaintances. Without a doubt after reading the poem you’ll realise that in many of these instances, although not all the time we shared great land and ocean distances.
The thought originally began with a stranger, a person I met about twenty years ago. The stranger’s home was in a rather remote place in Africa. At that time neither of us had cell phones, the internet or a satellite connection.
The only way to talk in a real time kind of way was through a short wave/long wave radio relay based in the city of Mombasa. Although it was tried a few times the radio connection had a lot of and too much static. There was another way.
The alternative thought was that if either of us wanted to talk to the other, didn’t have access to any of the wired or wireless communication channels at the time or just couldn’t wait, then while looking up at the sky, we both knew the moon was the common sight and one that we could refer to and share as:
Voices from a MMoonscape
Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
Full moon’s smiling slow paced,
Flying, gliding with glimmering stars?
Did your eyes dream reach that festive place
And mirrored down - two gazed his face
…and did my thoughts just hear yours sounding revelry?
Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
Basking ‘neath moon’s rising
Uncompromising view?
Once more i tried
To hear your voice drift down - sounds dance
‘Fore eyes raised up to greet - our glance
I listened…
The pale round’s glistening;
Plea’s – time be silent.
Was i mistaken when i heard your voice
As moon’s smile played through night’s proud shade
Before a breaking day
Before the suns tone rise
Glowing faintly as pale skies
Lifts morning’s darkened yawn
Phased moon’s drifting byes
… and did i hear you softly whisper… tender ... " night.... "
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Giving Voice to Your Heart
February 20, 2010
As an artist, in the present, in the past and probably will in future; I spend an inordinate amount of time on the net; many other forms of information also while in a continual search for anything new. It’s pretty amazing more frequently than not to meet people with mmusic surprises up their sleeves.
Often it’ll turn out to be someone with a mmusical background that has nothing whatsoever to do with their current daily occupation; the reason for searching and finding them in the first place. The blog today is about one such person.
I can’t remember her name but I’mm sure with a little back tracking that fact can be remedied. There are a lot of people like her so the name is not that important really. The point is that these people exist in the peripheries of our everyday lives. Until we find them, although their circles of humanity will have heard, as strangers in an international world we’ll never know who they are.
Discovering the woman who inspired these words, I learned from the beginning that she was a lawyer. Her business practice concerned mmusic, mmusicians and all phases of contract negotiations in the mmusic field. Connecting with her son initially was how I found her. They both basically had the same vocation. He was a lawyer as well as a weekend warrior/ drummer. His mom was the CEO of the little family run business and originally a singer.
The drummer son was a member of his own copy band. They performed gigs of all kinds; mostly weddings and parties as I recall. In our connection he’s the one who told mme his mother was also an opera singer. The son directed mme to her web page. To mmy surprise there were over a dozen MP3’s on her web site including a bio of her quite extensive operatic and mmusical background.
Curiosity always takes over when discovering mmusic things. Of course this was no exception. I clicked on the first song, then the next, then the next until I heard every single song posted. All the songs were produced like any professional mmusician would, including great mmusical accompaniments. She was awesome to say the least. I couldn’t believe it but mmy ears heard the truth.
Traveling and living across the U.S. A. it always amazes mme when hearing of people finally discovered like Mrs. Boyle, I think her name is; one of the latest American Idol contestants. They’ll come out of the woodwork like ants to food; that someone would give them a chance to shine is another story; hope lives on.
It seems no matter where we look, they’re always out there with the highest quality talents never to be discovered unless and again like Ms. American Idol and the like, they’re brought to our attention by the ‘ pick a number in the hat’ lottery; wild, they are:
Giving Voice to Your Heart
We’ve felt your heart.
You lay it out there for everyone to touch.
We’ve felt your heart in your voice; it’s trust.
Your expressive, studied voice sings truth.
The one you’ve worked so hard to achieve.
The emotion your mmelodies embrace; believe.
Your voice emotes, you’re passion; the creed
While reaching higher notes of perfection,
Of truth; your voice in tones, inflections,
Pitch, scales devotion, perception; plays honesty
We’ve felt your heart.
We tear; we smile; you touch our spirit.
Before and after that special note came
It comes and goes again and again and,
Wild; Waiting for us to hold on to and then…
You know the one.
You sang it more than once.
You sang it in more than one song.
It summons us to listen more
You sing, we feel your song’s a door
To hear, to hang on longer; wish in,
Your voice, profoundly mmusic ambition.
The coloratura your truth imbues; plea’s, listen.
It’s your soul.
Do you know you’re blues?
You’ve not rocked that role but
You’re Pro; your song; deep honesty, truth.
The tone of your voice; sincerity.
We’ve felt your heart.
We’ve heard your heart.
We know your heart.
It smiles and welcomes us, all.
As an artist, in the present, in the past and probably will in future; I spend an inordinate amount of time on the net; many other forms of information also while in a continual search for anything new. It’s pretty amazing more frequently than not to meet people with mmusic surprises up their sleeves.
Often it’ll turn out to be someone with a mmusical background that has nothing whatsoever to do with their current daily occupation; the reason for searching and finding them in the first place. The blog today is about one such person.
I can’t remember her name but I’mm sure with a little back tracking that fact can be remedied. There are a lot of people like her so the name is not that important really. The point is that these people exist in the peripheries of our everyday lives. Until we find them, although their circles of humanity will have heard, as strangers in an international world we’ll never know who they are.
Discovering the woman who inspired these words, I learned from the beginning that she was a lawyer. Her business practice concerned mmusic, mmusicians and all phases of contract negotiations in the mmusic field. Connecting with her son initially was how I found her. They both basically had the same vocation. He was a lawyer as well as a weekend warrior/ drummer. His mom was the CEO of the little family run business and originally a singer.
The drummer son was a member of his own copy band. They performed gigs of all kinds; mostly weddings and parties as I recall. In our connection he’s the one who told mme his mother was also an opera singer. The son directed mme to her web page. To mmy surprise there were over a dozen MP3’s on her web site including a bio of her quite extensive operatic and mmusical background.
Curiosity always takes over when discovering mmusic things. Of course this was no exception. I clicked on the first song, then the next, then the next until I heard every single song posted. All the songs were produced like any professional mmusician would, including great mmusical accompaniments. She was awesome to say the least. I couldn’t believe it but mmy ears heard the truth.
Traveling and living across the U.S. A. it always amazes mme when hearing of people finally discovered like Mrs. Boyle, I think her name is; one of the latest American Idol contestants. They’ll come out of the woodwork like ants to food; that someone would give them a chance to shine is another story; hope lives on.
It seems no matter where we look, they’re always out there with the highest quality talents never to be discovered unless and again like Ms. American Idol and the like, they’re brought to our attention by the ‘ pick a number in the hat’ lottery; wild, they are:
Giving Voice to Your Heart
We’ve felt your heart.
You lay it out there for everyone to touch.
We’ve felt your heart in your voice; it’s trust.
Your expressive, studied voice sings truth.
The one you’ve worked so hard to achieve.
The emotion your mmelodies embrace; believe.
Your voice emotes, you’re passion; the creed
While reaching higher notes of perfection,
Of truth; your voice in tones, inflections,
Pitch, scales devotion, perception; plays honesty
We’ve felt your heart.
We tear; we smile; you touch our spirit.
Before and after that special note came
It comes and goes again and again and,
Wild; Waiting for us to hold on to and then…
You know the one.
You sang it more than once.
You sang it in more than one song.
It summons us to listen more
You sing, we feel your song’s a door
To hear, to hang on longer; wish in,
Your voice, profoundly mmusic ambition.
The coloratura your truth imbues; plea’s, listen.
It’s your soul.
Do you know you’re blues?
You’ve not rocked that role but
You’re Pro; your song; deep honesty, truth.
The tone of your voice; sincerity.
We’ve felt your heart.
We’ve heard your heart.
We know your heart.
It smiles and welcomes us, all.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Children Of War
February 19,2010
Children Soldiers; maybe it’s a bizarre scenario to you too. It shouldn’t be happening no matter the circumstances. But then again I don’t and maybe you don’t live in those countries where it does happen Even in the world’s so called civilized societies we know it’s a reality occurrence in our neighborhoods as well. Petri dishes of poverty.
Child soldiers are one aspect of wars I could never validate nor agree with those who claim its justification. Perhaps we’re not close enough to the struggles of those people’s or nations to understand their necessity. But then again, from what most of us are aware, it’s not really any kind of a legitimate fighting force who enlist, train and drug children to be killers. When these army’s are short of men, children are the next to fall.
Obviously, no matter what the struggle, children shouldn’t be killing other people let alone other children who are sometimes trying to kill them. We know even in our so called civilized societies gang warfare in inner and even outer cities is a lot about children. Grammar school age kids with guns. Poverty, especially jobs and such can be attributed to rising numbers of children involved in gang activity; belonging to survive?
In any case that subject is one part of this blog entry that we’re learning more and more about. Just the other day I was in a store, not a book store, and looking through books on one of those turning racks. The book that caught mmy eye was one written by a young boy, still a child of sixteen and one who was a soldier in the country of his origin. He was living in New York City at the time but was recalling his days as a rebel soldier.
I’ve not yet finished the book but in other instances of children being left out of society we have no further to look than the recent news of the last earthquake that happened in Haiti. Many of the adult people killed have left children on the doorsteps of humanity. Opened arms or not, they’re still there with the question of what possibly can be done to help the entire lot; again left to beg, scrape or steal for food and the wont to survive.
What happens with them at this point is anybody’s guess. Some will find another home, most probably won’t. Huge earthquake disasters are catastrophes that occur too fast and are too large to help millions of distressed and starving people. To shelter, feed and heal everyone in short order, is impossible. A huge tragedy, not just for the people whose country the earthquake occurs but for the whole of humanity, earth’s family.
Like wars, no matter the ruin or country affected, children are the greater part of the abandoned in the worst of circumstances. Positively, many countries are trying to pull together to help the people of Haiti. Thankfully, a good sign for our earth’s concerned communities. Just the other day I read a sign on a hardware store where one of the local angels of good was trying to collect mmusical instruments to send to Haiti… great.
Catastrophes give us no choice of easy circumstances. Beginning at birth and especially in times of war children are always the helpless. As in many wars past and of course present wars, continuing as we speak; children are relegated to marginal or collateral damage; lost until accounted for; like being buried or hidden in mass graves some will never be found nor recovered. Name the country, you’ll find young walking wounded.
The very young as well as the very old are the last segments of society caught in the middle. Like bullets gone astray; guns pointed skyward to find its unintended mark of an innocent. In a neighborhood it may be an accident. In a war they’re always the illegitimacy of the times sucking them into the circumstance of so what; distant eyes.
How many recent photo’s let alone those in history when there were no cameras, video’s or I phones, have we seen missing or wandering children roaming the streets of despair or lost in a desperate battle of survival for food, shelter or most importantly, love? How many milk carton memories or products advertising anguish of a family’s lost child or loved one have you seen while having breakfast in your warm cocoon?
Most children come into this world as little gifts of expectancy to their parents and in turn their village or community. I don’t mean that to be as the parents just had a baby. What I mean is children are born with the anticipation of growth; to travel miles and to live some years to reach the heights of knowledge while gaining a lifetime of experiences towards and beyond adulthood; in turn to have families of their own.
In whatever amount of years it takes to be contributing members of world societies they are born into or gravitate towards, children aren’t expected to reach death until much later; hopefully after gaining the whole of a so called normal existence.
Wars and especially poverty can definitely hinder or stop that process. Many children really have no say in how or what happens to them because they are or they become:
Children of War
…in all the
World's War's
End of all the
Whirled's Words
Wrongs soar rites
Light id paths
Or
Language shadows
Children of War
Sing
Verse is anticipating
Life
Width
Chorus is precipitating
[Death]+
Children Soldiers; maybe it’s a bizarre scenario to you too. It shouldn’t be happening no matter the circumstances. But then again I don’t and maybe you don’t live in those countries where it does happen Even in the world’s so called civilized societies we know it’s a reality occurrence in our neighborhoods as well. Petri dishes of poverty.
Child soldiers are one aspect of wars I could never validate nor agree with those who claim its justification. Perhaps we’re not close enough to the struggles of those people’s or nations to understand their necessity. But then again, from what most of us are aware, it’s not really any kind of a legitimate fighting force who enlist, train and drug children to be killers. When these army’s are short of men, children are the next to fall.
Obviously, no matter what the struggle, children shouldn’t be killing other people let alone other children who are sometimes trying to kill them. We know even in our so called civilized societies gang warfare in inner and even outer cities is a lot about children. Grammar school age kids with guns. Poverty, especially jobs and such can be attributed to rising numbers of children involved in gang activity; belonging to survive?
In any case that subject is one part of this blog entry that we’re learning more and more about. Just the other day I was in a store, not a book store, and looking through books on one of those turning racks. The book that caught mmy eye was one written by a young boy, still a child of sixteen and one who was a soldier in the country of his origin. He was living in New York City at the time but was recalling his days as a rebel soldier.
I’ve not yet finished the book but in other instances of children being left out of society we have no further to look than the recent news of the last earthquake that happened in Haiti. Many of the adult people killed have left children on the doorsteps of humanity. Opened arms or not, they’re still there with the question of what possibly can be done to help the entire lot; again left to beg, scrape or steal for food and the wont to survive.
What happens with them at this point is anybody’s guess. Some will find another home, most probably won’t. Huge earthquake disasters are catastrophes that occur too fast and are too large to help millions of distressed and starving people. To shelter, feed and heal everyone in short order, is impossible. A huge tragedy, not just for the people whose country the earthquake occurs but for the whole of humanity, earth’s family.
Like wars, no matter the ruin or country affected, children are the greater part of the abandoned in the worst of circumstances. Positively, many countries are trying to pull together to help the people of Haiti. Thankfully, a good sign for our earth’s concerned communities. Just the other day I read a sign on a hardware store where one of the local angels of good was trying to collect mmusical instruments to send to Haiti… great.
Catastrophes give us no choice of easy circumstances. Beginning at birth and especially in times of war children are always the helpless. As in many wars past and of course present wars, continuing as we speak; children are relegated to marginal or collateral damage; lost until accounted for; like being buried or hidden in mass graves some will never be found nor recovered. Name the country, you’ll find young walking wounded.
The very young as well as the very old are the last segments of society caught in the middle. Like bullets gone astray; guns pointed skyward to find its unintended mark of an innocent. In a neighborhood it may be an accident. In a war they’re always the illegitimacy of the times sucking them into the circumstance of so what; distant eyes.
How many recent photo’s let alone those in history when there were no cameras, video’s or I phones, have we seen missing or wandering children roaming the streets of despair or lost in a desperate battle of survival for food, shelter or most importantly, love? How many milk carton memories or products advertising anguish of a family’s lost child or loved one have you seen while having breakfast in your warm cocoon?
Most children come into this world as little gifts of expectancy to their parents and in turn their village or community. I don’t mean that to be as the parents just had a baby. What I mean is children are born with the anticipation of growth; to travel miles and to live some years to reach the heights of knowledge while gaining a lifetime of experiences towards and beyond adulthood; in turn to have families of their own.
In whatever amount of years it takes to be contributing members of world societies they are born into or gravitate towards, children aren’t expected to reach death until much later; hopefully after gaining the whole of a so called normal existence.
Wars and especially poverty can definitely hinder or stop that process. Many children really have no say in how or what happens to them because they are or they become:
Children of War
…in all the
World's War's
End of all the
Whirled's Words
Wrongs soar rites
Light id paths
Or
Language shadows
Children of War
Sing
Verse is anticipating
Life
Width
Chorus is precipitating
[Death]+
Thursday, February 18, 2010
SPRING
February 18, 2010
Yes, I’mm dreaming; it’s still February. Here or most places in the U.S. it feels like, and we still are in the throws of snows. Perhaps where you are you may be colder than if you were sitting like one of the cubes in an ice tray. Or maybe you’re in one of the supposedly hotter climates. In any case, here is where I’mm thinking of the not so distant future when ‘Spring’ comes to mind.
Those of you who do live in the balmy climes either here in the U. S. or in other countries are probably already experiencing Mother Nature’s flower inducing blanket of blue skies and sunshine. The birds are whistling and so are you.
Although not long ago and maybe still, all the U. S. states except Hawaii were lucky enough to have the white stuff in their weather mix; southern states included. Those who deny global warming have only to look to ancient history I suppose in order to justify their mind set. Ah yes, the two sides battle it out.
It seems really strange to mme that with all the evidence put out there, including Mr. Gore’s little frightening exclamations, that there still ARE two sides of the global warming argument. I’mm reminded of the fictitious story of Superman.
These times are seemingly a parallel episode. Anyone who has seen the movie or read the books if you’ll remember the scene when good ‘ol Jor-el, Superman’s father was involved in that tribunal or court case while trying pass along the information of the on coming doom.
He was, to no avail trying to convince the powers that be that in fact their planet, the famous Krypton, was facing an imminent demise. There too although he had the floor and a pretty good argument, no one really believed him. Most of us know that outcome, don’t we? I wonder if this story will turn out the same.
I’ve decided to compete with Mr. Branson’s crew and began building a private rocket ship of mmy own. I’mm not too sure where to point the thing but our moon seems as good a place as any although I think any number of the rubber bands I’ve chosen are a little too weak to lift mmyself, mmy cat FACE along with a case and a half of Guinness.
Trying to past the gravitational pull of our at most fear, the half a case is extra when thinking I may have to drop a precious bottle at a time just to be sure to make the outer limits of space and the safe environs of who knows where besides the earth’s moon? Lord knows that place will be in the same condition in no time when earthlings decide to inhabit it in bubbles filling up with land full. ‘nuther life
Well, in any case that’s neither here nor there. I’mm still looking forward to the coming spring. The warm blue skies and the aromatic fragrances of blossoming everything’s everywhere you look brings you springs scenes or even summers shorts; wild retorts of screaming beach balls, surfers racing waves, cotton candy, sandy shores, S’more’s at a campfire enjoyed near a mountain stream? Yes…
Fortunately for us, we’ve got all that and more to look forward to in just a few short months. In the meantime, we can still dream of the days coming when we too will join warm or hot as hell as the world turns and the sun shines our way once more; well at least after:
SPRING
Isn't it grand to have a warm, calm, slow daze
Watching hurried wings soar; statue lizard plays
It's nigh's to here the birds
There singing hi; pitched tunes
It’s nice to know 'ol Jack Frost
Winter's white blessed is through soon.
To walk among the blooming trees
It's coming, spring – sea’s waving, please.
'sNice to take the time
Passed the minutes; ours
'sNice to real eye’s colours,
Fields of green; raise flowers
'sNice to feel warm breeze; is too
Watching bird's free flight-Wow! Phew!
Sun raised plays, enlightened lift
Moon’s phase-change storms; winter rift
'sNigh's to see, touch happy things
'sNice to have the snow, sleigh flings
But thanks full yes, it's becoming
SPRING!
Yes, I’mm dreaming; it’s still February. Here or most places in the U.S. it feels like, and we still are in the throws of snows. Perhaps where you are you may be colder than if you were sitting like one of the cubes in an ice tray. Or maybe you’re in one of the supposedly hotter climates. In any case, here is where I’mm thinking of the not so distant future when ‘Spring’ comes to mind.
Those of you who do live in the balmy climes either here in the U. S. or in other countries are probably already experiencing Mother Nature’s flower inducing blanket of blue skies and sunshine. The birds are whistling and so are you.
Although not long ago and maybe still, all the U. S. states except Hawaii were lucky enough to have the white stuff in their weather mix; southern states included. Those who deny global warming have only to look to ancient history I suppose in order to justify their mind set. Ah yes, the two sides battle it out.
It seems really strange to mme that with all the evidence put out there, including Mr. Gore’s little frightening exclamations, that there still ARE two sides of the global warming argument. I’mm reminded of the fictitious story of Superman.
These times are seemingly a parallel episode. Anyone who has seen the movie or read the books if you’ll remember the scene when good ‘ol Jor-el, Superman’s father was involved in that tribunal or court case while trying pass along the information of the on coming doom.
He was, to no avail trying to convince the powers that be that in fact their planet, the famous Krypton, was facing an imminent demise. There too although he had the floor and a pretty good argument, no one really believed him. Most of us know that outcome, don’t we? I wonder if this story will turn out the same.
I’ve decided to compete with Mr. Branson’s crew and began building a private rocket ship of mmy own. I’mm not too sure where to point the thing but our moon seems as good a place as any although I think any number of the rubber bands I’ve chosen are a little too weak to lift mmyself, mmy cat FACE along with a case and a half of Guinness.
Trying to past the gravitational pull of our at most fear, the half a case is extra when thinking I may have to drop a precious bottle at a time just to be sure to make the outer limits of space and the safe environs of who knows where besides the earth’s moon? Lord knows that place will be in the same condition in no time when earthlings decide to inhabit it in bubbles filling up with land full. ‘nuther life
Well, in any case that’s neither here nor there. I’mm still looking forward to the coming spring. The warm blue skies and the aromatic fragrances of blossoming everything’s everywhere you look brings you springs scenes or even summers shorts; wild retorts of screaming beach balls, surfers racing waves, cotton candy, sandy shores, S’more’s at a campfire enjoyed near a mountain stream? Yes…
Fortunately for us, we’ve got all that and more to look forward to in just a few short months. In the meantime, we can still dream of the days coming when we too will join warm or hot as hell as the world turns and the sun shines our way once more; well at least after:
SPRING
Isn't it grand to have a warm, calm, slow daze
Watching hurried wings soar; statue lizard plays
It's nigh's to here the birds
There singing hi; pitched tunes
It’s nice to know 'ol Jack Frost
Winter's white blessed is through soon.
To walk among the blooming trees
It's coming, spring – sea’s waving, please.
'sNice to take the time
Passed the minutes; ours
'sNice to real eye’s colours,
Fields of green; raise flowers
'sNice to feel warm breeze; is too
Watching bird's free flight-Wow! Phew!
Sun raised plays, enlightened lift
Moon’s phase-change storms; winter rift
'sNigh's to see, touch happy things
'sNice to have the snow, sleigh flings
But thanks full yes, it's becoming
SPRING!
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Best Small Town Library 2008
February 17, 2010
Two years ago mmy current library thanks to the people who work, have worked and are still working hard there; was voted Best Small Town Library in the nation.
‘IN THE NATION’ mmined you; not just in our little town, bigger county or even larger state, but in alllll of these contiguous United States; ‘IN THE NATION.’ That’s pretty darn good wouldn’t you agree? For those who may be playing ostrich, that’s the great donated building, remodeled, dedicated and rightfully named after its benefactor family, The McKune Library located on Main Street.
Well, that was then and this is now. I’mm hoping you’ll join mme and our fellow town’s folk in keeping that title. Not that it has to be voted on again, to be chosen best in the nation, but just knowing it can still be best in our town forever is still a good title. Our library belongs to all of us. We’re certainly proud of what we have.
There is one not so recent but just the same, a deep concern. Our school kids not having a big enough or a good enough place really, for them to meet and continue in the learning process as well as just plain ‘ol getting together to be themselves. Grand parent, parents and all us older folks were teens once so you know the drill. It’s time for them and you all know this still. Will you help them and our library?
Right now as I understand it our still Best Small Town Library is trying to raise funds to fix up part of their building; a big part really and one that they already have available for this purpose and this new proposal. It’s on the table so to speak
The space is located on the lower floor of the McKune building on Main Street. You know the place. It needs remodeling simply because it wasn’t meant for any purpose other than to store books and other things. The floor and walls are still bare cement so it’s just an interior makeover really.
Most importantly, the kids need our help. The library needs our help too! What say, are you listening? I hear the tinkling of change already. How can I say this?
I see our teens just about every day after school closes. They want to be at our Best Small Town Library. What a great place to meet, wouldn’t you say? Most of you probably don’t even frequent the library enough to recognise this but now hopefully you’ll know; perhaps after sending this to them and you, maybe others will too because of our local newspaper or the library will enter this little blurb on their web sites; how to pass their word around otherwise? It’s up to you as well.
It’s time. It’s time for all of us to grab our little piggy banks and change jars to collectively join in to help our kids have this place; a new place at our library and one to replace the old, outdated from the beginning small and inadequate place called, ‘The Teen Space.’
Its evident there’s really no space big enough for all who want to be at our Best Small Town Library. Imagine that, they need the larger environs of a library too!
Several of the librarians had expressed agreement that the original architects really had no clue in foresight as to how the kids of our town would be drawn to our library. It’s their library as well, isn’t it? They present that fact by showing up consistently no matter the weather, day or program specifically directed to and for them. Heck, even without programs going on they still visit ‘The Best’ in droves.
They frequent it daily and love to congregate for lots of reasons. The main one I’d venture to say is to learn; that’s foremost; but you can bet as school age kids, they also like to learn together; like they do in school. It’s a book of words hangout.
In addition we as residents of this town know there’s actually no other place for them to meet; that’s the sad point. They need our help. They also need to help us help them. This is another time to show our collective communities face, to smile on another segment of our society who needs and most certainly deserves it.
Whatever or however the generals of the McKune decide to begin the collecting process? One suggestion would be to have a huge fish bowl on a table and stationed just inside the lobby. Have another? Pass it on to any librarian you see.
Every time visitors or those who drop off a book or video or just plain want to help, they also can walk a few more steps and plop their pennies, change, dollars and sense of ownership where each piece of material being paid for will collect. Everyone will bare witness and see as it grows and grows. No doubt in a short time the new space will be a reality. Are there a few volunteers to stand guard?
Needless to say I’mm being facetious. Collecting large quantities of change and whatever can be stuffed in a fish bowl needs to be emptied as its being added to. A chart on the side can show the collection process; nothing new but I think if one can see a daily build up, it may encourage more of the same; that make cents?
Wouldn’t you like for our younger generation to have a special place to learn as well as to have fun, to be around their friends and especially BOOKS? Perfect! I say.
What do you say?
Pass it on…..
Two years ago mmy current library thanks to the people who work, have worked and are still working hard there; was voted Best Small Town Library in the nation.
‘IN THE NATION’ mmined you; not just in our little town, bigger county or even larger state, but in alllll of these contiguous United States; ‘IN THE NATION.’ That’s pretty darn good wouldn’t you agree? For those who may be playing ostrich, that’s the great donated building, remodeled, dedicated and rightfully named after its benefactor family, The McKune Library located on Main Street.
Well, that was then and this is now. I’mm hoping you’ll join mme and our fellow town’s folk in keeping that title. Not that it has to be voted on again, to be chosen best in the nation, but just knowing it can still be best in our town forever is still a good title. Our library belongs to all of us. We’re certainly proud of what we have.
There is one not so recent but just the same, a deep concern. Our school kids not having a big enough or a good enough place really, for them to meet and continue in the learning process as well as just plain ‘ol getting together to be themselves. Grand parent, parents and all us older folks were teens once so you know the drill. It’s time for them and you all know this still. Will you help them and our library?
Right now as I understand it our still Best Small Town Library is trying to raise funds to fix up part of their building; a big part really and one that they already have available for this purpose and this new proposal. It’s on the table so to speak
The space is located on the lower floor of the McKune building on Main Street. You know the place. It needs remodeling simply because it wasn’t meant for any purpose other than to store books and other things. The floor and walls are still bare cement so it’s just an interior makeover really.
Most importantly, the kids need our help. The library needs our help too! What say, are you listening? I hear the tinkling of change already. How can I say this?
I see our teens just about every day after school closes. They want to be at our Best Small Town Library. What a great place to meet, wouldn’t you say? Most of you probably don’t even frequent the library enough to recognise this but now hopefully you’ll know; perhaps after sending this to them and you, maybe others will too because of our local newspaper or the library will enter this little blurb on their web sites; how to pass their word around otherwise? It’s up to you as well.
It’s time. It’s time for all of us to grab our little piggy banks and change jars to collectively join in to help our kids have this place; a new place at our library and one to replace the old, outdated from the beginning small and inadequate place called, ‘The Teen Space.’
Its evident there’s really no space big enough for all who want to be at our Best Small Town Library. Imagine that, they need the larger environs of a library too!
Several of the librarians had expressed agreement that the original architects really had no clue in foresight as to how the kids of our town would be drawn to our library. It’s their library as well, isn’t it? They present that fact by showing up consistently no matter the weather, day or program specifically directed to and for them. Heck, even without programs going on they still visit ‘The Best’ in droves.
They frequent it daily and love to congregate for lots of reasons. The main one I’d venture to say is to learn; that’s foremost; but you can bet as school age kids, they also like to learn together; like they do in school. It’s a book of words hangout.
In addition we as residents of this town know there’s actually no other place for them to meet; that’s the sad point. They need our help. They also need to help us help them. This is another time to show our collective communities face, to smile on another segment of our society who needs and most certainly deserves it.
Whatever or however the generals of the McKune decide to begin the collecting process? One suggestion would be to have a huge fish bowl on a table and stationed just inside the lobby. Have another? Pass it on to any librarian you see.
Every time visitors or those who drop off a book or video or just plain want to help, they also can walk a few more steps and plop their pennies, change, dollars and sense of ownership where each piece of material being paid for will collect. Everyone will bare witness and see as it grows and grows. No doubt in a short time the new space will be a reality. Are there a few volunteers to stand guard?
Needless to say I’mm being facetious. Collecting large quantities of change and whatever can be stuffed in a fish bowl needs to be emptied as its being added to. A chart on the side can show the collection process; nothing new but I think if one can see a daily build up, it may encourage more of the same; that make cents?
Wouldn’t you like for our younger generation to have a special place to learn as well as to have fun, to be around their friends and especially BOOKS? Perfect! I say.
What do you say?
Pass it on…..
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Shoe Tree
February 16, 2010
The Shoe tree was located somewhere in Oregon, I think. I’mm not exactly sure where because I’ve only read about it in a newspaper article and at this point I’ve wracked mmy brain with no internet help whatsoever; to know a veil. If you know then pleas write the answer on a postcard, send it in an envelope along with a cashier’s check for $5 and address it to mme. I’ll look it up and tell ya later
At the time I was living about two hours south of Eugene, 100 miles north of Medford, miles west of Kirk and more than an hour east of Bandon, Oregon when a local friend brought the article to mmy immediate attention. The following poem was created due to those and these facts.
It seems a, not that very old tree tried its best to survive with the help of many branch huggers of course. Locals refused to let the town take precedent over its continued existence because no matter how ugly some thought it may be, after all whistled the crime stoppers, it was still a living thing; or so it a peered.
Over time the tree’s branches accumulated an immense amount of humanities shoo’s. The talked out walkers of every gender, type, colour, shape, age end sighs hung when flung with random a banned dumb meant, reign nor Shine.
Because of the too high graze all were rightfully left. Won; two hung when heaved by the sum of inept pitchers who’d never make the professional grade of anything this side of minor league baseball, triple A or little league for that matter.
Pop Warner league was out of the question. The simple fact being that the lowest branch was not low enough for little tikes emulating the Babe, Ty Cobb and the like. A first try for them led to a second and a third if need be four them. Two stayed if they were lucky or taller people were around to assist as throw hards.
Like the con’s of any decent leaguer’s tryouts, without their own referee’s of nothing’s to strike out for, the thrown up’s still counted repetitions in order to stick by untied strings of the chucker’s feat when finally wrapped in the grip of anything that branched out to catch them. One bye one, two, and moor were left.
The shoe tree was added two so many times that it could have passed for a new device to organise Imelda Marco’s well documented and demented patent leather, rub ‘er soul’s, pulled on while the protagonist faced the laced ped’s filed end hoarded to exploseive proportions in her dainty palace closets or boo’d waa.
The tree got to be famous because more than the population of a kindergarten class with the same amount of brain capacity of pee wheeze type individuals I’d imagine, decided it was time to really play havoc on the tall, barely spread out and barking wonder. They tried once; that didn’t work. Then once again and…
In the end, who knows who the final diss guised culprit or culprits were, but because of one too many vandalisation’s, the famous shoe tree ceased to exist in real life terms. Butt width, roots still planted firmly in the ground, it still stood still while its roots firmly planted in the ground helped.
Them, of coarse the wood bee fireperson’s rejects tried again and once again to burn it to death. Once wasn’t quite enough to undo Mother Nature’s resistance to each wring of fire. Like the Joan of Arc scandal, time and again the vandalino’s played the part of match to grill wild the lone standing tree was a stake at heart.
Now of course the town father’s or mother’s I can’t remember which but it was probably a combination of the too, said; something had to be done ‘fore fear of the town’s continuing blight. After all, the thing was beginning to stink to a higher heaven. Anyone who passed it once admired it from a distance after that.
This singular blight, they continued, might set a precedent then weed be fighting any number of blights that may frighten newcomers to alight our little burg even before they land at our welcoming door step. What shall we, doo? Yes, thought the town criers. We should and shall ax those who dare to cut it down ASAP.
The thing is dead, is no good to no one; ‘sides those feat’s need to be left to their right full owners. Whether or not anyone would claim them wasn’t the point. After all, they were shoo’s left to write:
The Shoe Tree
Before cutting threw The Shoe Tree
Well, before vandals did, burned it down
Any won could throw shoo's up their
Weathered knew, worn, tossed, lost or found
As far up as the branch is reached
One could toss dead shoes - threw the top
Who'd figured sooner than later breached,
Dissed play's of shoe less feats woods flop?
'Fore whatever reasons, weave noted
Site's soul of shoes hangin' free's stunk
Views aired, some sore at Shoe Tree's gloated
End one wonders who torched, dissed dat trunk?
Fun of most all was toss, watch ‘em
If shoes were thrown right in there place
If bye chants there pitch was bad, botched won
Twisted landings led to frowned face
Unsightly group leathered 'n unlaced
Some said should come down, too the dirt
Vandals torched loves soar 'd proudly re: placed
Mattered knot tree nor how humans hurt
Sow, morally wronged was barks wonder
Blaming flames engulfed its surround
Shoe’s smolder, lace singed, sinners ponder
The Shoe Tree, its friends lost was downed.
The Shoe tree was located somewhere in Oregon, I think. I’mm not exactly sure where because I’ve only read about it in a newspaper article and at this point I’ve wracked mmy brain with no internet help whatsoever; to know a veil. If you know then pleas write the answer on a postcard, send it in an envelope along with a cashier’s check for $5 and address it to mme. I’ll look it up and tell ya later
At the time I was living about two hours south of Eugene, 100 miles north of Medford, miles west of Kirk and more than an hour east of Bandon, Oregon when a local friend brought the article to mmy immediate attention. The following poem was created due to those and these facts.
It seems a, not that very old tree tried its best to survive with the help of many branch huggers of course. Locals refused to let the town take precedent over its continued existence because no matter how ugly some thought it may be, after all whistled the crime stoppers, it was still a living thing; or so it a peered.
Over time the tree’s branches accumulated an immense amount of humanities shoo’s. The talked out walkers of every gender, type, colour, shape, age end sighs hung when flung with random a banned dumb meant, reign nor Shine.
Because of the too high graze all were rightfully left. Won; two hung when heaved by the sum of inept pitchers who’d never make the professional grade of anything this side of minor league baseball, triple A or little league for that matter.
Pop Warner league was out of the question. The simple fact being that the lowest branch was not low enough for little tikes emulating the Babe, Ty Cobb and the like. A first try for them led to a second and a third if need be four them. Two stayed if they were lucky or taller people were around to assist as throw hards.
Like the con’s of any decent leaguer’s tryouts, without their own referee’s of nothing’s to strike out for, the thrown up’s still counted repetitions in order to stick by untied strings of the chucker’s feat when finally wrapped in the grip of anything that branched out to catch them. One bye one, two, and moor were left.
The shoe tree was added two so many times that it could have passed for a new device to organise Imelda Marco’s well documented and demented patent leather, rub ‘er soul’s, pulled on while the protagonist faced the laced ped’s filed end hoarded to exploseive proportions in her dainty palace closets or boo’d waa.
The tree got to be famous because more than the population of a kindergarten class with the same amount of brain capacity of pee wheeze type individuals I’d imagine, decided it was time to really play havoc on the tall, barely spread out and barking wonder. They tried once; that didn’t work. Then once again and…
In the end, who knows who the final diss guised culprit or culprits were, but because of one too many vandalisation’s, the famous shoe tree ceased to exist in real life terms. Butt width, roots still planted firmly in the ground, it still stood still while its roots firmly planted in the ground helped.
Them, of coarse the wood bee fireperson’s rejects tried again and once again to burn it to death. Once wasn’t quite enough to undo Mother Nature’s resistance to each wring of fire. Like the Joan of Arc scandal, time and again the vandalino’s played the part of match to grill wild the lone standing tree was a stake at heart.
Now of course the town father’s or mother’s I can’t remember which but it was probably a combination of the too, said; something had to be done ‘fore fear of the town’s continuing blight. After all, the thing was beginning to stink to a higher heaven. Anyone who passed it once admired it from a distance after that.
This singular blight, they continued, might set a precedent then weed be fighting any number of blights that may frighten newcomers to alight our little burg even before they land at our welcoming door step. What shall we, doo? Yes, thought the town criers. We should and shall ax those who dare to cut it down ASAP.
The thing is dead, is no good to no one; ‘sides those feat’s need to be left to their right full owners. Whether or not anyone would claim them wasn’t the point. After all, they were shoo’s left to write:
The Shoe Tree
Before cutting threw The Shoe Tree
Well, before vandals did, burned it down
Any won could throw shoo's up their
Weathered knew, worn, tossed, lost or found
As far up as the branch is reached
One could toss dead shoes - threw the top
Who'd figured sooner than later breached,
Dissed play's of shoe less feats woods flop?
'Fore whatever reasons, weave noted
Site's soul of shoes hangin' free's stunk
Views aired, some sore at Shoe Tree's gloated
End one wonders who torched, dissed dat trunk?
Fun of most all was toss, watch ‘em
If shoes were thrown right in there place
If bye chants there pitch was bad, botched won
Twisted landings led to frowned face
Unsightly group leathered 'n unlaced
Some said should come down, too the dirt
Vandals torched loves soar 'd proudly re: placed
Mattered knot tree nor how humans hurt
Sow, morally wronged was barks wonder
Blaming flames engulfed its surround
Shoe’s smolder, lace singed, sinners ponder
The Shoe Tree, its friends lost was downed.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The River, Two No We're
February 15, 2010
This little short story is one of a few I’ll enter in this blog, probably later rather than sooner depending on any number of whims in the MMick’s. This was writing in a class exercise; a ten minute one at that. It was also in the initial stage, a handwritten one and won I did knot; arrows were as crossed as eye’s closed.
Anyone who wreck in eye’s is the friend’s ship of this post it buoy no’s full well mmy handwriting by any stretch of the imagination is know less undecipherable than any four legged animal with pen or pencil in hoof or paw. They in fact would be better with any writing tool in each appendage and still a peer superior.
Just to let you know that when retyping this thing, yours truly had to not only exchange several pair of glasses in the most difficult process of search and diss try but a borrowed mmy crisp scope was used to distinguish periods to comma’s.
Bye the way, and also understand this, that this is not what I really like to write or even come pose any think, this way. The following is all made up stuff that is knot the norm of yours truly, meaning in fictional form. Stories from way back when or even are for that to now be stowing many thinks in this stuff is so what.
Needless to say, besides other forthcoming end treaties, I’ve got the great watcher of words ‘n wiz dome, Ms. Nancy Seligman to thank for this addition to bloggo whirled. The said Ms. Published expressed her whish of another lesson of plea’s continue with your wonder full class worked; home work dear stew dense.
On the other ham’d you may note this; Ms. Paid Author/Booker end print sis has stressed a long with any numb burr of dear wrist classed mates, mmined you all ovem wimmen if that makes scents, that in fact this crap is harder to read then if a pig in a poke had a pen and a stroke before writing such drivel ‘n dopey stuff.
“Dopey stuff?” asked I hurtedly wild being in crud duel us. Moving away from mmy sighed of the table of babble, “Aye” whisp purred all they sir ripped tsk usly. “Sheesh!” said mmoi, and then felt dead in their ayes. Oh well, better daze a wait aye guest. Pleas oh pleas Ms. Seligman, will you help mme? Plea’s was mmy knee’d down beg in position too stand up wordsmiths of everyone in class.
So then, and even now eye doo ask cure, ‘fore give nest dearly folks at large. Aye, adjust, cain’t help mmy self. ‘Sides a missed pelt word hear’s; end there? Sorry ;o)
The River, Two No We’re
“I KNOW Branson, but from what I can remember when we both picked out this thing at Cabellas, we decided it would be great for us because it appeared to have two fronts, or bows, or whatever they call that part of the boat,” said Timothy.
“It’s a Canoe, and yes Tim I realise that,” said Branson, “but if you also recall, you and I made an agreement and yes at Cabellas as well, that we’d both take turns steering the thing, and it seems to me that you’re doing more steering than oaring, or whatever THAT term is for, you know, putting that weird shaped wood thing in the water… as we try to move forward in this God forsaken river to no where.”
“That WOOD thing is called an O-A-R, an OAR dear Branny… so where ARE we by the way?” asked Tim.
“Damned if I know!” replied Branson.
As they rowed further and further down the river while switching their oars from side to side, the silence of the banks was interrupted by the sound of a distant screeching Osprey that suddenly appeared and swooped down while entering the water with a diminutive splash beside them.
It dove so fast and entered the water so smoothly that both Timothy and Branson turned to the sound and to see when it would come up and what it would be carrying. All of a sudden like an emerging submarine with full ballast allowing it to rise to the surface too fast the Osprey scooped up its lunch in a millisecond and reappeared with the violent movement of the considerable cargo of slippery silver quivering ferociously in its beak.
“That reminds me Branny, far as I can tell we’re about three days and 2 hours to food,” said Tim while rubbing his bulging, over the belt hanging and very pregnant looking stomach as it growled and churned with hunger pangs.
“…tell ya what Timmy, if you keep thinking about food instead of helping me oar this thing then we’ll never find our way back to civilization. All I can figger out is that we’re headed downstream, which is a good thing I suppose, if we’re gonna end this two day excursion which has now taken us three days plus,” said Branson with concern in his voice.
“You know Branny, I keep thinking, or feeling really, that ever since we turned into the left fork in the river, back there about a day or so ago, that we may be going the wrong way. Yes, I know we’re headed down river, downstream, but if you know anything about geography, or topography for that matter, rivers do have a tendency to break off every now and then, to form or do that capillary thing,” said Tim
“You mean… TRIButary thing, interrupted Branson… “TRIButaries is what you mean… NOT capillaries fercrysaches, where did you get your high school diploma from boyo, at, Sears?” asked Branson.
“Oh, ha, ha, ha, VERRRRRRy funny budzo... you think you’re so smart then maybe you can find our way out of this paper bag of a muddy river. I think we’re lost and waaaaaaaaay back there is where it happened,” said Tim.
“LOST!? What do you mean lost? How lost can we be if the only thing we have to do is to follow the river and the current? … And that’s what we HAVE been doing… the river or current always heads downstream… down, get it? … meaning water always finds its level, which is down, right?”… and that’s where we’re headed,” said Branson.
“Yeah down, yes, I know, yes, I know. But if you recall what I said a few minutes earlier, I think we may have taken a wrong turn, the wrong fork in the road so to speak… and that can mean that we’re in fact yes, headed DOWN stream as you so smartly put it, but then again, we may be headed some other way then where we originally intended to land up and that may be the sea!!” said Timothy. “TRIButaries do that too, don’t they?” asked Tim with indignation in his voice.
Branson just rolled his eyes then looked at Timothy with a questioning and disbelieving gaze. “Pray tell Mr. Robinson Caruso, exactly WHAT fork are you talking about that you think we wrong turned at? If you’ve been paying attention then you KNOW that we must have passed four or five forks in the river by now, and each one, at least to me, seemed like the one before it. As a matter of fact, they ALLLLLL looked the same to me. LOOK! Here comes another one straight ahead. Now what do you suggest? Do we take the left one or the right one?” asked Branson.
“Geeeeze O’man, I’m tellin’ ya Branny, this river doesn’t seem to want to quit trying to fool us. Yes, I admit that this is the first time we’ve ever been on a river cruise together before this jaunt, but doing it in a new canoe is not the fastest way to get to the end of our journey or most importantly to find our way out of what I think is a lost situation.
How the heck are we gonna tell our wives we’re OK when they realise that we’re not going to return when we said we would?” asked Timothy.
“What do you mean, ‘Tell our wives we’re OK?” asked Branson.
They both looked at each other with knowing and squinting eyes as if to say, you know that we’re both experiencing the same thought. Branson’s eyes opened wider than his mouth, Timothy raised his voice while his face got redder than a ripe tomato at harvest time and both exclaimed in unison,
“… because YOU dropped the bag with our cell phone’s in it!”
This little short story is one of a few I’ll enter in this blog, probably later rather than sooner depending on any number of whims in the MMick’s. This was writing in a class exercise; a ten minute one at that. It was also in the initial stage, a handwritten one and won I did knot; arrows were as crossed as eye’s closed.
Anyone who wreck in eye’s is the friend’s ship of this post it buoy no’s full well mmy handwriting by any stretch of the imagination is know less undecipherable than any four legged animal with pen or pencil in hoof or paw. They in fact would be better with any writing tool in each appendage and still a peer superior.
Just to let you know that when retyping this thing, yours truly had to not only exchange several pair of glasses in the most difficult process of search and diss try but a borrowed mmy crisp scope was used to distinguish periods to comma’s.
Bye the way, and also understand this, that this is not what I really like to write or even come pose any think, this way. The following is all made up stuff that is knot the norm of yours truly, meaning in fictional form. Stories from way back when or even are for that to now be stowing many thinks in this stuff is so what.
Needless to say, besides other forthcoming end treaties, I’ve got the great watcher of words ‘n wiz dome, Ms. Nancy Seligman to thank for this addition to bloggo whirled. The said Ms. Published expressed her whish of another lesson of plea’s continue with your wonder full class worked; home work dear stew dense.
On the other ham’d you may note this; Ms. Paid Author/Booker end print sis has stressed a long with any numb burr of dear wrist classed mates, mmined you all ovem wimmen if that makes scents, that in fact this crap is harder to read then if a pig in a poke had a pen and a stroke before writing such drivel ‘n dopey stuff.
“Dopey stuff?” asked I hurtedly wild being in crud duel us. Moving away from mmy sighed of the table of babble, “Aye” whisp purred all they sir ripped tsk usly. “Sheesh!” said mmoi, and then felt dead in their ayes. Oh well, better daze a wait aye guest. Pleas oh pleas Ms. Seligman, will you help mme? Plea’s was mmy knee’d down beg in position too stand up wordsmiths of everyone in class.
So then, and even now eye doo ask cure, ‘fore give nest dearly folks at large. Aye, adjust, cain’t help mmy self. ‘Sides a missed pelt word hear’s; end there? Sorry ;o)
The River, Two No We’re
“I KNOW Branson, but from what I can remember when we both picked out this thing at Cabellas, we decided it would be great for us because it appeared to have two fronts, or bows, or whatever they call that part of the boat,” said Timothy.
“It’s a Canoe, and yes Tim I realise that,” said Branson, “but if you also recall, you and I made an agreement and yes at Cabellas as well, that we’d both take turns steering the thing, and it seems to me that you’re doing more steering than oaring, or whatever THAT term is for, you know, putting that weird shaped wood thing in the water… as we try to move forward in this God forsaken river to no where.”
“That WOOD thing is called an O-A-R, an OAR dear Branny… so where ARE we by the way?” asked Tim.
“Damned if I know!” replied Branson.
As they rowed further and further down the river while switching their oars from side to side, the silence of the banks was interrupted by the sound of a distant screeching Osprey that suddenly appeared and swooped down while entering the water with a diminutive splash beside them.
It dove so fast and entered the water so smoothly that both Timothy and Branson turned to the sound and to see when it would come up and what it would be carrying. All of a sudden like an emerging submarine with full ballast allowing it to rise to the surface too fast the Osprey scooped up its lunch in a millisecond and reappeared with the violent movement of the considerable cargo of slippery silver quivering ferociously in its beak.
“That reminds me Branny, far as I can tell we’re about three days and 2 hours to food,” said Tim while rubbing his bulging, over the belt hanging and very pregnant looking stomach as it growled and churned with hunger pangs.
“…tell ya what Timmy, if you keep thinking about food instead of helping me oar this thing then we’ll never find our way back to civilization. All I can figger out is that we’re headed downstream, which is a good thing I suppose, if we’re gonna end this two day excursion which has now taken us three days plus,” said Branson with concern in his voice.
“You know Branny, I keep thinking, or feeling really, that ever since we turned into the left fork in the river, back there about a day or so ago, that we may be going the wrong way. Yes, I know we’re headed down river, downstream, but if you know anything about geography, or topography for that matter, rivers do have a tendency to break off every now and then, to form or do that capillary thing,” said Tim
“You mean… TRIButary thing, interrupted Branson… “TRIButaries is what you mean… NOT capillaries fercrysaches, where did you get your high school diploma from boyo, at, Sears?” asked Branson.
“Oh, ha, ha, ha, VERRRRRRy funny budzo... you think you’re so smart then maybe you can find our way out of this paper bag of a muddy river. I think we’re lost and waaaaaaaaay back there is where it happened,” said Tim.
“LOST!? What do you mean lost? How lost can we be if the only thing we have to do is to follow the river and the current? … And that’s what we HAVE been doing… the river or current always heads downstream… down, get it? … meaning water always finds its level, which is down, right?”… and that’s where we’re headed,” said Branson.
“Yeah down, yes, I know, yes, I know. But if you recall what I said a few minutes earlier, I think we may have taken a wrong turn, the wrong fork in the road so to speak… and that can mean that we’re in fact yes, headed DOWN stream as you so smartly put it, but then again, we may be headed some other way then where we originally intended to land up and that may be the sea!!” said Timothy. “TRIButaries do that too, don’t they?” asked Tim with indignation in his voice.
Branson just rolled his eyes then looked at Timothy with a questioning and disbelieving gaze. “Pray tell Mr. Robinson Caruso, exactly WHAT fork are you talking about that you think we wrong turned at? If you’ve been paying attention then you KNOW that we must have passed four or five forks in the river by now, and each one, at least to me, seemed like the one before it. As a matter of fact, they ALLLLLL looked the same to me. LOOK! Here comes another one straight ahead. Now what do you suggest? Do we take the left one or the right one?” asked Branson.
“Geeeeze O’man, I’m tellin’ ya Branny, this river doesn’t seem to want to quit trying to fool us. Yes, I admit that this is the first time we’ve ever been on a river cruise together before this jaunt, but doing it in a new canoe is not the fastest way to get to the end of our journey or most importantly to find our way out of what I think is a lost situation.
How the heck are we gonna tell our wives we’re OK when they realise that we’re not going to return when we said we would?” asked Timothy.
“What do you mean, ‘Tell our wives we’re OK?” asked Branson.
They both looked at each other with knowing and squinting eyes as if to say, you know that we’re both experiencing the same thought. Branson’s eyes opened wider than his mouth, Timothy raised his voice while his face got redder than a ripe tomato at harvest time and both exclaimed in unison,
“… because YOU dropped the bag with our cell phone’s in it!”
Sunday, February 14, 2010
I Remember - The Sky is Blue
February 14, 2010
Today, being a celebrated day for love and friendship, I thought to share a few words composed not long ago. They’re two poems actually. This blog is mostly composed of these two poems then the rest of the preambles were of blogs past and probably future one’s will be.
I Remember and The Sky is Blue are two poems like a few really, that because of their subject matter, and the time in which they were both written, were pretty easy as well as most difficult to think about during their composition. Many of you who like to write words most likely have had this experience.
It was at a difficult time especially to compose The Sky Is Blue. The person it concerns had passed days earlier. I had arrived at mmy sister and her husband’s house the same day that poem was written. A part of our little family was assembling for the funeral of our mmom. Needless to say unlike today a few years later, it was a somber gathering.
The Sky Is Blue poem began as memories of a childhood, traveling through the short years to adulthood. That day especially, I felt the need to put down on paper some of the things that mom and her life, her short existence had brought to mmind. Like most of us our moms were pretty special people; the one who brought us into this life to begin with; the one who gave us life.
I can think of a few well known examples of some who may have had the opposite kind of a relationship with their mom but the fact still remains that without that person, their person wouldn’t exist. Some of you out there may or did have difficult times with your mom but regardless, it was she who was the most important part of your beginning to breathe process. Just celebrating that little part of us; that in itself is worth celebrating.
Like most of you, of course these poems have brought both happiness and sadness to this blogger. Suffice it to say because of the time passed, the happiness has taken over. The sadness comes and goes when the wont of a mother’s voice, her touch or even her view is made more clear.
When we remember the multiplicity of feelings we can have with a person though a shared lifetime, especially when considering days like today; today is another day to celebrate happiness because:
I Remember
I remember her hands, so warm to the touch.
I remember her smile, her laughter ‘n such.
I remember us walking to stores not so close.
I remember our hand in hand Sunday’s to Post.
I remember her morning sounds stirred us for school.
I remember her coaching us, “…try golden rules.”
I remember her asking, “…you fighting again boys?”
I remember her yelling, “ …you two stop that noise! ”
I remember her roar from above, “The phone’s ringing!”
I remember her listening to the radio, singing.
I remember her worry, “ Will you be gone very long? ”
I remember her law, “…home when lights first come on.”
I remember her kisses, the Shine in her eye.
I remember her tears, long embraces, goodbye’s.
I remember her talking,”... so long’s, “on the phone.
I remember her silence most times we’re alone.
I remember her singing when singing meant glad.
I remember her soup spoons wild swingin’ when mad.
I remember her stompin’ the floor, “Ends drum beats!”
I remember her calling, “Come up! Time to eat! ”
I remember her baking, warm tastes from the oven.
I remember her hot bread and butter was lovin’.
I remember her pies, cakes, cookies - sweet treats.
I remember her croquet’s, mmy favourite meat.
I remember her soups, short food stretched the week.
I remember her special tastes, pinched her left cheek.
I remember her saved recipes, preparing our meals.
I remember her band-aids on scratches and heal’s.
I remember her spoonfuls of medicine were wiser.
I remember her treatment for colds, ”...Vaporizer. “
I remember her sponging mmy back; hot bath’s - tub.
I remember her saying, “ ...get the Vicks Vapo-Rub. “
I remember her charges, she took care of many.
I remember her sacrifice, so we would have plenty.
I remember her washing each baby in the sink.
I remember her colour of choice was pure pink.
I remember her ‘ Happy ’, each parakeet she named.
I remember her gladness, finally driving in rain.
I remember the first time I rode in her car.
I remember mme thinking, “She’s come really far.”
I remember her gifts of sewing our new clothes.
I remember her huggin’ when we almost froze.
I remember her Afghans, each one specially made.
I remember her feeling, her warmth wouldn’t fade.
I remember her voice most times whispered near.
I remember her love in, “Goodnight,” oh so clear
The Sky Is Blue
Holding our hand – kind nest, warms touch
Seen’s in our hearts - dear’s loved - loves hush
Tucked in pure night - soft spoke - kin words
Songs on pillows – pink’s flight - her birds
Walking new whirled’s – each sighed hangs on
Heaven’s at home – clouds drift, bygone
Gone won’t forget – lasting lifts wings
Summer, fall’s change - winter think’s springs
Two as one live, five as won grew
Colours pique’d love, reach of one hue
Dark shades, too bright – light leads two ‘fore
Love conquers all – journey’s amore
Family’s tree speech – birthed leaves begin
Roots whole’d to earth – reach new life’s grin
Deep is loves well - only love’s true
She coloured skies
The Sky Is Blue
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