It was some date in January, 1971, and I was doing what any self-respecting person would do in January in England. I was shoveling snow...lots of snow...lots and lots of snow. I had to be at work shortly, and work was several miles away...and before I could go to work, I had to find my car (a very small Triumph), which I figured might be the small white lump in front of my house. It was still snowing, quite heavily, and as I uncovered the front of my car and proceeded toward the rear, the snow was re-covering the front for me. Finally, I was able to uncover it enough to leave; just in time, because down the road, here comes a snowplow...which would have pretty much re-buried me.
I got to work, only 30 minutes late, and began the days labors. About an hour or so later, the Company Commander called me into his office. When I arrived, I noticed two other men in there with him...a civilian and a Chaplain. The civilian introduced himself as Mr. So-and-so, from the Red Cross. Seems there was a problem in my family...my mother had been traveling, and as she got off her plane at her destination, she collapsed. She was rushed to the hospital, where they discovered a massive bleeding ulcer, and apparently, a large portion of her blood in her stomach...and they discovered something else.
It was necessary (said Mr. So-and-so) for me to take an emergency leave, and go see her, as her life was apparently in some danger. So, I rushed home (as fast as the still swirling snow would let me), packed a bag, explained the circumstances to my wife, and headed back to the base, where transportaion had been arranged...seems I was pretty much going half way around the world, as my mother chose to collapse...in Hawaii. I really don't have to explain my wifes' reaction to the fact that I was going to Hawaii and she was shoveling snow now, do I?
RAF Lakenheath, England to Bayonne, New Jersey...Bayone, New Jersey to McClelland AFB, California...McClelland AFB, California to Hilo, Hawaii...snow to snow to wind to...Paradise. Didn't really notice Paradise, as I rushed to the hospital, ran up to the correct floor, asked for the room number, ran into the room...and stopped cold. Turned, walked back to the desk, asked for the room number again, was given the same number, and informed them that that couldn't be right. The person in that room had obviously died a week previously, and had somehow been mummified. Couldn't be my mother. They informed me that it was, in fact, my mother. Went back to the room. Slowly approached the bed. Peered closely. Yeeaahh, MAYBE there was a very slight resemblance...maybe.
Mummy croaked...err...spoke...requested liquid sustenance. I gave her some water and she perked right up. Surprisingly, two days later, she looked normal, and was ready to be discharged. And then, the doctor came in...Don't know if you know this, but doctors drone...usually, there's a nurse to translate, but there wasn't one that day, so the doctor just droned on and on and on..."Mrs. Hurley, blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, tumor, blah, yadda, yadda, final stages, blah, blah, blah, three months left, yadda, yadda, yad...hold up here...back up, buckeroo...what's this about three months? Seems she had colon cancer...too late to operate...could do chemo, but wouldn't work...three months left, about...wow...she was 59 years old...
She was discharged, and we went to a friends house for her recuperation, over on the Kona Coast...an absolutely beautiful place. I had 28 days left on my leave, and decided to stay for the entire time...after all, when I returned to England, I probably wouldn't see her again. We explored the island, found lava tubes and lava caves, checked to make sure there wasn't any...you know...lava left in them, and I did some spelunking...took a drive completely around the island...went to the beach...
While at the beach, she wanted to just relax in the sand...I decided to head out and check out the crystal clear water...see what I could see. So, off I went...got out there a bit, dove down...and got caught in an undercurrent. Said current, doing what currents do, pulled me under, rolled me around, twisted me up, tied me in a knot, untied me, all the while pulling me farther out to sea. Now, I'm a smoker...have been doing that for 50 years or so now...at the time, it was only about 13 years, but even so...yeah, I know...shouldn't do that, etc., etc....but I did. Smokers can't hold their breath as well as non-smokers, did you know that? So, as I'm getting swept where ever, I'm primarily trying not to drown. Finally...finally...the current release me, and I managed to get to the surface...and there I bob, taking great, hoarse, gasping breaths, my eyes, full of salt, squeezed shut as I tried to form tears to wash the salt away, my heart pounding like a blacksmiths' hammer...and I finally open my eyes and see...nothing...nothing but water...look to the left...water...look to the right...water. Apparently, during my tour through a watery grave, some one has stolen an entire island.
Now, over the intervening years, I've carefully analyzed this situation, and I've come to an obvious conclusion: at some point during my swirling, my normal, average, human intelligence had been washed out of me and swept away...you see, a person of normal, average, human intelligence would have...you know...looked behind them. I didn't do that...I just treaded water, and looked out at miles and miles of miles and miles and started thinking that maybe...if I floated and swam alternately, I could...why, look...there's a ship...maybe they can swing over and pick me up...that would be...what? I thought I heard some one call...my name...yeah, there it is again...Here I am! Are you waiting for me to come to you? There's a huge light in the sky, should I come to the light? Maybe you could help me get there? Hello...where are you? Where are...
So, during this conversation with...whoever, I actually swung around, and look! Somebody stuck an island over there! Just a couple of hundred yards away...and look...there's...yeah, Hi, Mom! Yeah, I see you...easier to swim if I don't have to stop and wave all the time, Ma...yeah, I'm coming...relax, Ma, I'll get there already...OK, so now you're not waving, you're pointing...you don't have to point at me, Ma, I know I'm out here...ooohhhh...you're pointing at the fin...
You know, certain people work way too hard...I speak, of course, of Olympic swimmers...they train hours and hours each day...they watch their diet, they work out...they don't need to do that. Just drop them in the ocean, flop a fin down behind them, and both Olympic and World Records would fall like flies in a gas chamber...I'm pretty sure I broke a few that day. I swam so hard that I was still going strong when I hit that very, very shallow water...you know...most people call it a beach. I turned my head to inhale, and got a couple of lungfuls of sand...did you know that the average adult male of, say, 23, can't actually inhale sand and reap any benefits from it? Well, you do now...Just sayin'.
Well, the month flew by...for me. My wife, who was still shoveling snow, probably didn't feel that way...I didn't actually have the courage to ask her. At the end of the month, I said a tearful good-bye to Mom...knowing it would be the last time...
The Update:
Three months...to the day... after that fateful announcement...the doctor died; massive heart attack. My mother did, sadly, succumb to colon cancer and heart failure...fifteen years later. Three doctors gave her dates with death, and she outlived all three of them.
Oh...and that intelligence I lost? I thought about it often after that...I wondered: was it swept out to sea? devoured by the shark? Or, did it eventually wash up on shore, and lay on the beach, gasping, pale pink, and pulsating slightly, waiting for some one to find it, love it, give meaning to it once again? I hope so...I, over the intervening years, have managed to cope with both its loss and it absence...and judging by the way people are today, I think maybe I'm better off without it...
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
House of Cards
So, after Daddy (Bill #3) committed several felonies, including attempted murder (three counts), assault with a deadly weapon (3 counts) and suicide, there was the small problem of what the rest of us were going to do. Part of the reason for the suicide was depression over the fact that his home-run business of lumber and construction was failing...had in fact failed, for the most part.
When the bank took over the business, they included our ranch in the deal. Mom had pretty much lost everything at this point...the only thing she had left was a house that Bill was in the process of building, on "spec" as it were...he was hoping to build it and then sell it...that being all we had left, that was where we moved...and that was where we lived for the next 8 months.
The thing about this house was, it wasn't quite finished...in fact, it was just a frame...the walls didn't actually exist as walls...there was no electricity, no gas, no water, no bathrooms...nothing but a concrete slab with some frame walls...no sheetrock, no plaster, no nothin'...this was home...
Well, we moved in, just before winter set in. Must have looked a bit strange from the highway...a frame set up with furniture, dining set in the dining room, a barbeque served as the stove, an old ice-box was the fridge...put a 40 lb. block of ice in the top, it kept food stored below from spoiling...at least not quite as fast. The bathroom was a hole dug out back...kept covered with wood, moved at regular intervals...scrap lumber placed strategically to insure privacy.
Fortunately, this was the winter of 1951-1952...the gangs of LA, if they even existed then, hadn't penetrated the High Desert yet...the people were actually honest...and in 8 months, we lost not a single thing to theft. Mom had some blankets, there were nails lying around...hanging some blankets made for acceptable walls and gave some form of privacy. There weren't enough blankets for the house, so every day, we would have to move the walls...
At night, the blankets would be around our bedrooms...and when we got up in the morning, we would carefully climb up, remove the "walls", take them to the living - dining area, and put them up. After eating, we would take them down, and put them where ever we were going to be. Mom would go off to work, and Pete and I would stay and "guard" the house...of course, we were 3 and 5, so guarding wouldn't have actually helped if anyone wanted in...at least we couldn't lock ourselves out...
Mom worked two jobs trying to come up with the money to get the bills paid, and get us into a house that had actual...you know...house parts. She would tend to come "home", fix dinner, sit at the table with us...and fall asleep there while we ate...
The hardest part about this type of living was the wind. It tends to get rather windy in the desert, especially in the winter time. This could be a problem if you have no walls...anything "blowable" couldn't be left out...so, when we finished dressing, our pajamas had to be packed away...when we were done playing, the toys got put away or they blew away...a rather expensive way to learn to clean up after ourselves...taught at a very early age...
After eight months, my mother finally saved up enough money to put us is an actual house...but she had to sell the house we were in to do it. Someone decided to buy the place, and gave us time to find a place to move to before they took possession...And they stayed there for at least 35 years that I know of...meanwhile, we rented a house not too far away, and passed the house every day on our way to school. The house is still there...at least it was the last time I went through Apple Valley...but that's been a few years...and the house would be approaching 60 years old by now...
When the bank took over the business, they included our ranch in the deal. Mom had pretty much lost everything at this point...the only thing she had left was a house that Bill was in the process of building, on "spec" as it were...he was hoping to build it and then sell it...that being all we had left, that was where we moved...and that was where we lived for the next 8 months.
The thing about this house was, it wasn't quite finished...in fact, it was just a frame...the walls didn't actually exist as walls...there was no electricity, no gas, no water, no bathrooms...nothing but a concrete slab with some frame walls...no sheetrock, no plaster, no nothin'...this was home...
Well, we moved in, just before winter set in. Must have looked a bit strange from the highway...a frame set up with furniture, dining set in the dining room, a barbeque served as the stove, an old ice-box was the fridge...put a 40 lb. block of ice in the top, it kept food stored below from spoiling...at least not quite as fast. The bathroom was a hole dug out back...kept covered with wood, moved at regular intervals...scrap lumber placed strategically to insure privacy.
Fortunately, this was the winter of 1951-1952...the gangs of LA, if they even existed then, hadn't penetrated the High Desert yet...the people were actually honest...and in 8 months, we lost not a single thing to theft. Mom had some blankets, there were nails lying around...hanging some blankets made for acceptable walls and gave some form of privacy. There weren't enough blankets for the house, so every day, we would have to move the walls...
At night, the blankets would be around our bedrooms...and when we got up in the morning, we would carefully climb up, remove the "walls", take them to the living - dining area, and put them up. After eating, we would take them down, and put them where ever we were going to be. Mom would go off to work, and Pete and I would stay and "guard" the house...of course, we were 3 and 5, so guarding wouldn't have actually helped if anyone wanted in...at least we couldn't lock ourselves out...
Mom worked two jobs trying to come up with the money to get the bills paid, and get us into a house that had actual...you know...house parts. She would tend to come "home", fix dinner, sit at the table with us...and fall asleep there while we ate...
The hardest part about this type of living was the wind. It tends to get rather windy in the desert, especially in the winter time. This could be a problem if you have no walls...anything "blowable" couldn't be left out...so, when we finished dressing, our pajamas had to be packed away...when we were done playing, the toys got put away or they blew away...a rather expensive way to learn to clean up after ourselves...taught at a very early age...
After eight months, my mother finally saved up enough money to put us is an actual house...but she had to sell the house we were in to do it. Someone decided to buy the place, and gave us time to find a place to move to before they took possession...And they stayed there for at least 35 years that I know of...meanwhile, we rented a house not too far away, and passed the house every day on our way to school. The house is still there...at least it was the last time I went through Apple Valley...but that's been a few years...and the house would be approaching 60 years old by now...
Scaling The Heights of Fear
I have a deep fear of heights. Now, I'm not exactly unique in this area...fear of heights is the second most common fear, right after fear of spiders...but I had it pretty bad...you know, like standing on the kitchen counter to change a light bulb sent shivers up my spine...and I really didn't like feeling that way...Sooo...
I was living in Utah, which had some bearing on my decision...I was...uumm...let's just say I was between marriages and leave it at that, OK? I was sitting in my apartment one day, and I thought, "You know, Dave, (if you're going to talk to yourself, some form of address should be used, yes?) you have a fear of heights...and this fear is probably baseless, foolish and dumb." Now...that thought alone should have told me that anything resembling intelligence that I may have had swirling in the vacuum behind my sinus cavities had probably bailed out on a coffee break. But, did I stop there? Nooo..."Now, Dave, since you have this fear, you should probably do something to get rid of it." Yes, trouble looms...read on...
"You know what, Dave? You should take up Mountain Climbing." Great. Stroll up a mountain path, stopping to smell the flowers, and when you get to the top, why, all your fears are gone, right? HA! Why stop at stupid when you can push it to the limit and do stupid to the utmost extreme? No...I was going to climb sheer walls, swing under outcroppings by my fingernails only, really scare the s**t out of this unnatural fear...and cure myself completely. I was going to use ropes, and pitons and all that good stuff...I was going to learn all the knots necessary...I was going to do this up right...and so I did.
And so, finally, I was ready...and ready to go, despite the fact that my intelligence was still on a coffee break. My smarts being noticeably absent, the first thing I did was leave without telling anyone where I was going...I headed off to Southern Utah to find a peak to climb,,,and the steeper, the better...and boy, did I find one. You've seen the commercials where they have a truck parked on top of what is basically a peak that's about the size of a pin, only the "pin" is 700 feet high? Yeah...like that.
My smarts still being on what had to be the world's longest coffee break, I started climbing...and found that it was easier than I thought it would be...I mean that wall had all kinds of little knobs and holes and fissures and places to put pitons and everything. I was zippin' up that wall...came to an outcropping, swung by my fingernails around it, had a good old time...probably because I never, never, never looked down...AND...I actually made it to the top...crawled up, laid down, closed my eyes...just lay there.
Apparently, while I was laying there, my intelligence returned from its' break, looked around, and said..."WTF?" I turned over...I crawled...slooowwwly to the edge...I peered over...and down...about 400-500 feet down...for you citified folk who haven't seen a mountain lately, think 40-50 story building...I looked out over an absolutely magnificent vista of desert and mountains and beauty and...and I thought the only possible thing I could think when confronted with a view like that: "Oooohhhh, s******t! How in the f*** am I gonna to get down from here?"
I crept back from the edge, turned over on my back, closed my eyes...thought..."Well...I'll just lay here...in seven days, I'll die of dehydration...the wind and the sun will dry me out, maybe mummify me...10,000 years from now an Archeologist will find my dessicated body...and maybe think that because I'm "buried" so high, I must be a king...and I'll be famous...pity I have to wait 10,000 years for my 15 minutes of fame, but what the hell..." At this point, a slight squawk interrupted my little pity party...I opened my eyes..."Oh, look...a herd of vultures is giving me the once over...C'mon down, guys! I'm not goin anywhere..." At this point, of course, I got up and threw rocks at them...let me just say...they were 500 feet above me and about a half a mile away...throwing rocks was obviously not going to really effective...
It took me many, many hours to crawl down the wall...and I have to say that going down was more effective than any enema ever created...I didn't have to use the bathroom for a week after that little jaunt...and let me say this about my fear of heights...did you notice the first sentence of this bit o' writing? Wander back up and take a look...it is written in the present tense...yep, still get the shivers climbing up on the counter to change the lights...
For those of you who have a fear of heights, I have a suggestion...Grab a beer, flop on a nice, soft couch, grab the remote, turn on the TV, watch a documentary on The National Geographic channel...on mountains. This will, without a doubt, erase your fears...your fear of beer, of soft couches, of remotes, of The National Geographic channel. Your fear of heights? Sorry, can't help you with that one...
I was living in Utah, which had some bearing on my decision...I was...uumm...let's just say I was between marriages and leave it at that, OK? I was sitting in my apartment one day, and I thought, "You know, Dave, (if you're going to talk to yourself, some form of address should be used, yes?) you have a fear of heights...and this fear is probably baseless, foolish and dumb." Now...that thought alone should have told me that anything resembling intelligence that I may have had swirling in the vacuum behind my sinus cavities had probably bailed out on a coffee break. But, did I stop there? Nooo..."Now, Dave, since you have this fear, you should probably do something to get rid of it." Yes, trouble looms...read on...
"You know what, Dave? You should take up Mountain Climbing." Great. Stroll up a mountain path, stopping to smell the flowers, and when you get to the top, why, all your fears are gone, right? HA! Why stop at stupid when you can push it to the limit and do stupid to the utmost extreme? No...I was going to climb sheer walls, swing under outcroppings by my fingernails only, really scare the s**t out of this unnatural fear...and cure myself completely. I was going to use ropes, and pitons and all that good stuff...I was going to learn all the knots necessary...I was going to do this up right...and so I did.
And so, finally, I was ready...and ready to go, despite the fact that my intelligence was still on a coffee break. My smarts being noticeably absent, the first thing I did was leave without telling anyone where I was going...I headed off to Southern Utah to find a peak to climb,,,and the steeper, the better...and boy, did I find one. You've seen the commercials where they have a truck parked on top of what is basically a peak that's about the size of a pin, only the "pin" is 700 feet high? Yeah...like that.
My smarts still being on what had to be the world's longest coffee break, I started climbing...and found that it was easier than I thought it would be...I mean that wall had all kinds of little knobs and holes and fissures and places to put pitons and everything. I was zippin' up that wall...came to an outcropping, swung by my fingernails around it, had a good old time...probably because I never, never, never looked down...AND...I actually made it to the top...crawled up, laid down, closed my eyes...just lay there.
Apparently, while I was laying there, my intelligence returned from its' break, looked around, and said..."WTF?" I turned over...I crawled...slooowwwly to the edge...I peered over...and down...about 400-500 feet down...for you citified folk who haven't seen a mountain lately, think 40-50 story building...I looked out over an absolutely magnificent vista of desert and mountains and beauty and...and I thought the only possible thing I could think when confronted with a view like that: "Oooohhhh, s******t! How in the f*** am I gonna to get down from here?"
I crept back from the edge, turned over on my back, closed my eyes...thought..."Well...I'll just lay here...in seven days, I'll die of dehydration...the wind and the sun will dry me out, maybe mummify me...10,000 years from now an Archeologist will find my dessicated body...and maybe think that because I'm "buried" so high, I must be a king...and I'll be famous...pity I have to wait 10,000 years for my 15 minutes of fame, but what the hell..." At this point, a slight squawk interrupted my little pity party...I opened my eyes..."Oh, look...a herd of vultures is giving me the once over...C'mon down, guys! I'm not goin anywhere..." At this point, of course, I got up and threw rocks at them...let me just say...they were 500 feet above me and about a half a mile away...throwing rocks was obviously not going to really effective...
It took me many, many hours to crawl down the wall...and I have to say that going down was more effective than any enema ever created...I didn't have to use the bathroom for a week after that little jaunt...and let me say this about my fear of heights...did you notice the first sentence of this bit o' writing? Wander back up and take a look...it is written in the present tense...yep, still get the shivers climbing up on the counter to change the lights...
For those of you who have a fear of heights, I have a suggestion...Grab a beer, flop on a nice, soft couch, grab the remote, turn on the TV, watch a documentary on The National Geographic channel...on mountains. This will, without a doubt, erase your fears...your fear of beer, of soft couches, of remotes, of The National Geographic channel. Your fear of heights? Sorry, can't help you with that one...
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Slicing Time
In Dallas, he reached toward his head just as the bullet impacted...as his wife and the world watched; the fireball exploded into and out of the building, as the plane impacted...as the world watched...she ran down the dirt road, stark naked, screaming in terror, as the napalm incinerated the jungle and village behind her...and the world watched; the mountain exploded in a tower of dust, smoke and ash...and the world watched.
In newspapers and magazines, on television and computers, in books and every form of communication, the world watched...and the reason the world watched is because someone Sliced Time.
Slicing Time...taking an object sharper than the sharpest knife, sharper than the thinnest razor, slicing through time, slicing free a millisecond, preserving it for all the world to see for all time; preserving millions of moments in the course of a year; and the name for this amazing process? Photography.
Photography. Slicing Time. I first gained an interest in slicing when I was young...and I watched my father with his camera. It was a camera that he had bought in Japan during The Korean War...the cost? Two cartons of cigarettes. It was one of the most precious things I ever saw...and I had to have one; so I got one, and it sent me on a journey into viewing the world through an eyepiece and lens that has lasted to this day. It has become a form of True North to me.
I took pictures of anything and everything; blurry, out of focus, dumb pictures of bugs and windows and mountains and people...and eventually I realized that some people actually wrote books about photography...how to set the camera, how to focus, how to compose the image, how to hold the camera steady, how to...everything. It got to where I spent more time reading than I spent slicing.
Once I got into it, I got into it big time...I took hundreds of photos, mostly of nature subjects. Later, I became a photographer for the Air Force, and later still, a photographer for the Army. In the 80's, in Utah, I even became a semi-professional photographer...but with a narrow point of view; I took only nature photos...no people, and if at all possible, no man-made objects in the shot. And, for some reason, I always shot slides rather than prints.
Slicing Time. Take out a picture...and take a good look at it. It could be a photo of your child, your grandchild, a brook, a mountain, a butterfly, a bird. It could be a barn or your mom or your spouse. Realize that you are holding in your hand a slice of time, a piece of history, a part of the past. A precious slice of time that will never, ever be repeated in the same way again. It is, in fact, a one of a kind item that no one else can have (unless you give them a copy). It is a slice of time...a slice of life.
I have been slicing time for a large number of years now...and I hope to continue to slice for a very long time. Time slices are used to enhance and help illustrate my writings, inform and educate my family, or they stand alone as monuments on their own. Time slicing has become almost as big a passion to me as writing...which is saying a lot.
Slicing time...everybody's doing it, but few people realize what they are preserving...a slice of time.
In newspapers and magazines, on television and computers, in books and every form of communication, the world watched...and the reason the world watched is because someone Sliced Time.
Slicing Time...taking an object sharper than the sharpest knife, sharper than the thinnest razor, slicing through time, slicing free a millisecond, preserving it for all the world to see for all time; preserving millions of moments in the course of a year; and the name for this amazing process? Photography.
Photography. Slicing Time. I first gained an interest in slicing when I was young...and I watched my father with his camera. It was a camera that he had bought in Japan during The Korean War...the cost? Two cartons of cigarettes. It was one of the most precious things I ever saw...and I had to have one; so I got one, and it sent me on a journey into viewing the world through an eyepiece and lens that has lasted to this day. It has become a form of True North to me.
I took pictures of anything and everything; blurry, out of focus, dumb pictures of bugs and windows and mountains and people...and eventually I realized that some people actually wrote books about photography...how to set the camera, how to focus, how to compose the image, how to hold the camera steady, how to...everything. It got to where I spent more time reading than I spent slicing.
Once I got into it, I got into it big time...I took hundreds of photos, mostly of nature subjects. Later, I became a photographer for the Air Force, and later still, a photographer for the Army. In the 80's, in Utah, I even became a semi-professional photographer...but with a narrow point of view; I took only nature photos...no people, and if at all possible, no man-made objects in the shot. And, for some reason, I always shot slides rather than prints.
Slicing Time. Take out a picture...and take a good look at it. It could be a photo of your child, your grandchild, a brook, a mountain, a butterfly, a bird. It could be a barn or your mom or your spouse. Realize that you are holding in your hand a slice of time, a piece of history, a part of the past. A precious slice of time that will never, ever be repeated in the same way again. It is, in fact, a one of a kind item that no one else can have (unless you give them a copy). It is a slice of time...a slice of life.
I have been slicing time for a large number of years now...and I hope to continue to slice for a very long time. Time slices are used to enhance and help illustrate my writings, inform and educate my family, or they stand alone as monuments on their own. Time slicing has become almost as big a passion to me as writing...which is saying a lot.
Slicing time...everybody's doing it, but few people realize what they are preserving...a slice of time.
Trekkin' The Jungles of The High Desert
Very carefully, David Crockett checked the equipment being taken on this trek by himself and his two young cohorts. David was a big man, 230 pounds ranged on a 6 foot 3 inch frame...no extraneous fat anywhere. He was, of course, stuck with the obvious nickname, whether he liked it or not...yep, there was standing there a real, live Davy Crockett.
His two young friends would be carrying .22s, while he carried a 30.06...just for safety purposes, of course. After all, today they were going out to find lions. Not to shoot, of course. They had cameras for that. The only things shot with guns were bottles and cans and other things inanimate. Fortunately, both of his friends had been shooting since they were small children...they knew how and they knew how safely. But, the guns were necessary...just in case.
The equipment was loaded up, the boys were ready, all was prepared for the journey...and off they went, heading out of the sparse neighborhoods of Apple Valley and toward the remote canyons of the High Desert. Farther and farther out they ventured, eventually into a wilderness that few people had seen...the canyons where the lions lived.
He was taking these kids out on this trek so he could get to know them, because he was interested in being with their mother, Marthe. She was, at this time, seeing two men...Davy Crockett and Bill Hurley. Davy was trying to get to know her two sons, aged 9 and 11. And so, a hunting trip looking for lions...and anything else they might find.
It was reasonably late in the year...the heat of summer had dissipated, the cold of winter had not yet arrived. They parked the car where the dirt road petered out to nothing but desert, and started to hike...and soon they came into a canyon...and before they even entered the chasm, they saw the first lion. It wasn't an overly large specimen, but most mountain lions aren't. As they entered the canyon, the lion disappeared into a cave. They came into the canyon...and met a being who would forever after be known as "Sweet Lips".
"Sweet Lips" was a mule...at least three months before, he had been a mule...oh, c'mon, folks...the mule was in a lion canyon...what kind of shape did you think he'd be in? The name? Well, that was pretty much the only non-bone part left. Gee, I hope nobody recently ate...
At any rate, they came, they saw, they photographed...and photographed...and photographed. They photographed lions, they photographed "Sweet Lips" (hey, boys think that sort of thing is cool, right?), they photographed the mountains, the canyon, just about everything. And they started home...the boys and Davy had bonded quite nicely...and Davy was thinking his chances with Marthe were lookin' pretty darn good.
Unfortunately, Marthe, my mother, had lousy taste in men (with the exception of my father). She went with Bill Hurley instead of Davy Crockett, a choice that would have dire consequences. Davy was a neat guy, a fun-loving, gentle individual who loved my mother unconditionally. Bill was an abuser, a cheater, a violent individual who once threw my brother THROUGH a wall. This was before the time of child abuse laws and all that, so the matter was handled internally. While her third husband (Bill Lamb) tried his level best to shoot his entire family, her fourth husband suffered the opposite fate, as my brother stood in the front yard and I stood in the garage, both aiming guns at Mr. Hurley, who had been trying to break into the house after the breakup.
Fortunately for Bill, he realized that both of us were quite well trained in the use of those guns, and he took his leave. I have often wondered what the results would have been if she had chosen Davy Crockett instead of Bill. I would like to think we would have all been happier for a lot longer...and Pete and I might not have ended up in a Foster Home a year after the divorce. But that's another story...
His two young friends would be carrying .22s, while he carried a 30.06...just for safety purposes, of course. After all, today they were going out to find lions. Not to shoot, of course. They had cameras for that. The only things shot with guns were bottles and cans and other things inanimate. Fortunately, both of his friends had been shooting since they were small children...they knew how and they knew how safely. But, the guns were necessary...just in case.
The equipment was loaded up, the boys were ready, all was prepared for the journey...and off they went, heading out of the sparse neighborhoods of Apple Valley and toward the remote canyons of the High Desert. Farther and farther out they ventured, eventually into a wilderness that few people had seen...the canyons where the lions lived.
He was taking these kids out on this trek so he could get to know them, because he was interested in being with their mother, Marthe. She was, at this time, seeing two men...Davy Crockett and Bill Hurley. Davy was trying to get to know her two sons, aged 9 and 11. And so, a hunting trip looking for lions...and anything else they might find.
It was reasonably late in the year...the heat of summer had dissipated, the cold of winter had not yet arrived. They parked the car where the dirt road petered out to nothing but desert, and started to hike...and soon they came into a canyon...and before they even entered the chasm, they saw the first lion. It wasn't an overly large specimen, but most mountain lions aren't. As they entered the canyon, the lion disappeared into a cave. They came into the canyon...and met a being who would forever after be known as "Sweet Lips".
"Sweet Lips" was a mule...at least three months before, he had been a mule...oh, c'mon, folks...the mule was in a lion canyon...what kind of shape did you think he'd be in? The name? Well, that was pretty much the only non-bone part left. Gee, I hope nobody recently ate...
At any rate, they came, they saw, they photographed...and photographed...and photographed. They photographed lions, they photographed "Sweet Lips" (hey, boys think that sort of thing is cool, right?), they photographed the mountains, the canyon, just about everything. And they started home...the boys and Davy had bonded quite nicely...and Davy was thinking his chances with Marthe were lookin' pretty darn good.
Unfortunately, Marthe, my mother, had lousy taste in men (with the exception of my father). She went with Bill Hurley instead of Davy Crockett, a choice that would have dire consequences. Davy was a neat guy, a fun-loving, gentle individual who loved my mother unconditionally. Bill was an abuser, a cheater, a violent individual who once threw my brother THROUGH a wall. This was before the time of child abuse laws and all that, so the matter was handled internally. While her third husband (Bill Lamb) tried his level best to shoot his entire family, her fourth husband suffered the opposite fate, as my brother stood in the front yard and I stood in the garage, both aiming guns at Mr. Hurley, who had been trying to break into the house after the breakup.
Fortunately for Bill, he realized that both of us were quite well trained in the use of those guns, and he took his leave. I have often wondered what the results would have been if she had chosen Davy Crockett instead of Bill. I would like to think we would have all been happier for a lot longer...and Pete and I might not have ended up in a Foster Home a year after the divorce. But that's another story...
David of Troy
Right after I finished eighth grade, it was decided by my mother that we needed to move...to leave Apple Valley, the only place I remember living, and head to the big city, where she could hopefully find some work. So, we packed up, pulled up stakes and headed for San Diego, home of...well, home of a lot of things, actually. The trip was totally uneventful, so much so that I don't remember it at all.
We ended up in a small apartment in El Cajon, just outside of San Diego (probably a major part of it by now), and my first real impression of the place took place the first morning when I woke up. I went to the window, lifted the drapes, looked out and saw...nothing...nothing at all...just a totally gray, blank scene. It seems we were, at the time in middle of a fog bank that had rolled in during the night...something completely new and totally foreign to me. So, I dressed, ready for school (first day at St. Augustine High School0, went outside, and discovered that fog is cold...and damp.
That cold and damp threw us into the Foster Care system. The weather proved too much for my mother, who was ultimately told by her doctor to get out of San Diego, and head for the desert...you know, the area we had just moved out of. She felt that she should go to Palm Springs...always warm there...and work and live there. Aw, but then, what about the children? She actually didn't want to pull them (us) out of school, since they had just started...so, she talked to our father, and he decided to find a foster family to care for us during the school year. When school ended, then we could join our mother.
He found such a family...and we were moved in with them, like it or not. And thus, I met and got to know Walter and Sallie Troy, and their three children, Ginny, Pat and Mike. Actually, just Pat and Mike...Ginny was gone, off to college, studying at Marquette University, and we didn't meet her for awhile.
Life with Walt and Sallie was actually a wonderful experience, amazingly enough...Walt was a professional person, although I don't exactly remember the profession. Sallie was a homemaker, and a damned good one...and a fantastic cook. For us, it was almost like being at home, except that it was a more loving home than we had known in the recent past. We did all the things normal kids our age did...skateboarded all over San Diego...went to the Zoo...hung out with friends...you know, the usual stuff.
The holidays were hard without our Mom, but the Troys made us feel totally at home. The hardest part came as school was ending for the year. By then, we had grown to love the Troys, and almost didn't want to leave them...but, there was no choice; it was time to return to the parents house...except...which parent? It seems that since we were put into a foster home, my father decided that my mother was unfit (because she was ill, and needed drier air to breathe), so he sued for custody of the both of us.
By this point, my parents had been divorced for 12 years, and we had had spent the entire time with our mother, at least during the school year. In the summers, we were put on a train and sent to our father. I don't know how acrimonious the divorce was; I was only 1 at the time. But the custody battle was messy, to say the least...accusations shot back and forth between the two parents, while the kids (us) sat in the middle and wondered what in the hell was going on. Finally, it boiled down to the fact that the judge wanted to talk to us (the kids) to see where we wanted to go.
Pete was the first to go see the judge. He was in the office for about 15 minutes. When he came out, I had a chance to talk to him, and I asked him who he was going with...Then I went to see the judge. The judge was very businesslike, but knew the feelings of two boys torn between their parents. We talked for about 10 minutes, he asked me the important question, I answered it, and I left. Then we all went into court...then Pete and I broke our mothers heart. Pete was 16...I was 14. I ended up staying with my father for one school year...then he shipped me back to my mother...and we started a 15 year silence with each other, broken only once due to a death in the family. Pete stayed with my father for the rest of his life, until his death at age 20.
I kept in touch with the Troys, going to see them whenever possible. The last time I saw any of them was 1977...when I saw Sallie, Ginny and Mike. Walt had died a few years earlier, and Sallie had remarried; Ginny had married and had children...Mike was still unmarried at that time. At that time, Sallie was in her 70's and not in the best of health. I assume she is no longer with us, but I think of her often and am grateful to both of the Troys for their love and friendship.
We ended up in a small apartment in El Cajon, just outside of San Diego (probably a major part of it by now), and my first real impression of the place took place the first morning when I woke up. I went to the window, lifted the drapes, looked out and saw...nothing...nothing at all...just a totally gray, blank scene. It seems we were, at the time in middle of a fog bank that had rolled in during the night...something completely new and totally foreign to me. So, I dressed, ready for school (first day at St. Augustine High School0, went outside, and discovered that fog is cold...and damp.
That cold and damp threw us into the Foster Care system. The weather proved too much for my mother, who was ultimately told by her doctor to get out of San Diego, and head for the desert...you know, the area we had just moved out of. She felt that she should go to Palm Springs...always warm there...and work and live there. Aw, but then, what about the children? She actually didn't want to pull them (us) out of school, since they had just started...so, she talked to our father, and he decided to find a foster family to care for us during the school year. When school ended, then we could join our mother.
He found such a family...and we were moved in with them, like it or not. And thus, I met and got to know Walter and Sallie Troy, and their three children, Ginny, Pat and Mike. Actually, just Pat and Mike...Ginny was gone, off to college, studying at Marquette University, and we didn't meet her for awhile.
Life with Walt and Sallie was actually a wonderful experience, amazingly enough...Walt was a professional person, although I don't exactly remember the profession. Sallie was a homemaker, and a damned good one...and a fantastic cook. For us, it was almost like being at home, except that it was a more loving home than we had known in the recent past. We did all the things normal kids our age did...skateboarded all over San Diego...went to the Zoo...hung out with friends...you know, the usual stuff.
The holidays were hard without our Mom, but the Troys made us feel totally at home. The hardest part came as school was ending for the year. By then, we had grown to love the Troys, and almost didn't want to leave them...but, there was no choice; it was time to return to the parents house...except...which parent? It seems that since we were put into a foster home, my father decided that my mother was unfit (because she was ill, and needed drier air to breathe), so he sued for custody of the both of us.
By this point, my parents had been divorced for 12 years, and we had had spent the entire time with our mother, at least during the school year. In the summers, we were put on a train and sent to our father. I don't know how acrimonious the divorce was; I was only 1 at the time. But the custody battle was messy, to say the least...accusations shot back and forth between the two parents, while the kids (us) sat in the middle and wondered what in the hell was going on. Finally, it boiled down to the fact that the judge wanted to talk to us (the kids) to see where we wanted to go.
Pete was the first to go see the judge. He was in the office for about 15 minutes. When he came out, I had a chance to talk to him, and I asked him who he was going with...Then I went to see the judge. The judge was very businesslike, but knew the feelings of two boys torn between their parents. We talked for about 10 minutes, he asked me the important question, I answered it, and I left. Then we all went into court...then Pete and I broke our mothers heart. Pete was 16...I was 14. I ended up staying with my father for one school year...then he shipped me back to my mother...and we started a 15 year silence with each other, broken only once due to a death in the family. Pete stayed with my father for the rest of his life, until his death at age 20.
I kept in touch with the Troys, going to see them whenever possible. The last time I saw any of them was 1977...when I saw Sallie, Ginny and Mike. Walt had died a few years earlier, and Sallie had remarried; Ginny had married and had children...Mike was still unmarried at that time. At that time, Sallie was in her 70's and not in the best of health. I assume she is no longer with us, but I think of her often and am grateful to both of the Troys for their love and friendship.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Moby Shag: A Tale of The Great White Carpet
Allow me to spend a few minutes taking you back to the days of yesteryear, a time when a portion of my life was ruled by Moby Shag, The Great White Carpet. First, we must set the scene.
The era: the early, early 1960's. The place: high in the foothills of Mount Olympus, just outside of Salt Lake City, Utah. The occasion: the building of a new house by my father and step-mother.
When my parents decided to build a house, my step-mother (we'll call her Ruth) announced that she wanted the living room and dining room to have a white carpet. White. Whiter than white. Blinding white. Why she would want a white carpet with two teen-aged boys in the house is way beyond me, but there it was: Moby Shag, The Great White Carpet.
Well, we (the kids and the carpet) lived in peace and harmony for awhile, and we (the kids) were as respectful as teen-agers can be. We took off our shoes before treading into its territory, we were careful with food and drink, and everything was hunky-dory until the day of TGFF. TGFF, otherwise known as The Great Food Fight, took place on a day when the folks were gone, and my brother and I were alone with the Moby.
Before we get into the TGFF, you need to know about the parents feelings about Moby. Moby was sacred...no one messed with the Moby. In this house, there was a fireplace in the living room, but the back of the fireplace was not on an outside wall. It was in the dining room. Once, there was a fire in the chimney, and when the firefighters arrived, they were not allowed in until plastic sheeting was obtained for them to walk on. The place might burn down, but The Great White Carpet was not going to have dirty footprints on it.
I have absolutely no problem with blaming what happened entirely on my brother. I honestly don't remember how it started, but I'm sure it had to be his fault. Besides, he's been gone for 42 years, so I don't think he'll object.
TGFF took place in the kitchen, which had a tile floor, and no sign of Moby. The fight lasted for about 5 or 10 minutes, and all evidence was carefully cleaned up. We thought.
I forgot to mention the weaponry used in this battle. Sandwiches were the weapon of choice: my brother opted for peanut butter (chunky...this is important), and I went with peanut butter (creamy)...oh, and both had grape jelly on them as well. When the fight was over, and the damage repaired, I went to my friends house down the block, where I stayed for an hour or so. Pete went into his room.
It should be mentioned that at the far end of the kitchen, which we weren't thinking about, there was a door into the dining room, a place where Moby lurked quietly. Apparently, if an object (say, a sandwich) is thrown with the right speed, trajectory and angle, it will actually go through that door, and into the domain of you know who. And that, apparently, is what happened.
When I returned from my friends house, I found my father standing by that door, watching his wife attempt to remove grape jelly from her beloved Moby. Pete was standing by also. Now, Pete had had some time for explanations, and while I never knew what he said, I could assume the worst, because I was entirely blamed for the incident and the mess, even though the step-mother was cleaning jelly and CHUNKY peanut butter off the carpet and walls.
Pete was totally exonerated for the affair, and I was told "Hell will freeze over before you ever set foot in my house again." All right, I was a kid, I was a rebel, I was a smart-ass...in other words, I was a typical teenager, and from my lofty perch of teen know-it-all, I politely informed my father that Hell was a small town in Northern Michigan, and it pretty much froze over every year. This did not go over well. He couldn't kick me out then; I had to finish the school year, but the same day that school let out, I was on a train to Las Vegas to live with my mother...and I never saw Moby again.
I did return to Salt Lake 2 1/2 years later, but that was for a different reason (different blog), and it was the only time in the next twenty years that my father and I spoke (actually, there were 2 short phone conversations, but they weren't pleasant enough to remember). We finally "made up", as it were, but there was never a father-son bond there as there should have been, and this I regret, and always will.
The era: the early, early 1960's. The place: high in the foothills of Mount Olympus, just outside of Salt Lake City, Utah. The occasion: the building of a new house by my father and step-mother.
When my parents decided to build a house, my step-mother (we'll call her Ruth) announced that she wanted the living room and dining room to have a white carpet. White. Whiter than white. Blinding white. Why she would want a white carpet with two teen-aged boys in the house is way beyond me, but there it was: Moby Shag, The Great White Carpet.
Well, we (the kids and the carpet) lived in peace and harmony for awhile, and we (the kids) were as respectful as teen-agers can be. We took off our shoes before treading into its territory, we were careful with food and drink, and everything was hunky-dory until the day of TGFF. TGFF, otherwise known as The Great Food Fight, took place on a day when the folks were gone, and my brother and I were alone with the Moby.
Before we get into the TGFF, you need to know about the parents feelings about Moby. Moby was sacred...no one messed with the Moby. In this house, there was a fireplace in the living room, but the back of the fireplace was not on an outside wall. It was in the dining room. Once, there was a fire in the chimney, and when the firefighters arrived, they were not allowed in until plastic sheeting was obtained for them to walk on. The place might burn down, but The Great White Carpet was not going to have dirty footprints on it.
I have absolutely no problem with blaming what happened entirely on my brother. I honestly don't remember how it started, but I'm sure it had to be his fault. Besides, he's been gone for 42 years, so I don't think he'll object.
TGFF took place in the kitchen, which had a tile floor, and no sign of Moby. The fight lasted for about 5 or 10 minutes, and all evidence was carefully cleaned up. We thought.
I forgot to mention the weaponry used in this battle. Sandwiches were the weapon of choice: my brother opted for peanut butter (chunky...this is important), and I went with peanut butter (creamy)...oh, and both had grape jelly on them as well. When the fight was over, and the damage repaired, I went to my friends house down the block, where I stayed for an hour or so. Pete went into his room.
It should be mentioned that at the far end of the kitchen, which we weren't thinking about, there was a door into the dining room, a place where Moby lurked quietly. Apparently, if an object (say, a sandwich) is thrown with the right speed, trajectory and angle, it will actually go through that door, and into the domain of you know who. And that, apparently, is what happened.
When I returned from my friends house, I found my father standing by that door, watching his wife attempt to remove grape jelly from her beloved Moby. Pete was standing by also. Now, Pete had had some time for explanations, and while I never knew what he said, I could assume the worst, because I was entirely blamed for the incident and the mess, even though the step-mother was cleaning jelly and CHUNKY peanut butter off the carpet and walls.
Pete was totally exonerated for the affair, and I was told "Hell will freeze over before you ever set foot in my house again." All right, I was a kid, I was a rebel, I was a smart-ass...in other words, I was a typical teenager, and from my lofty perch of teen know-it-all, I politely informed my father that Hell was a small town in Northern Michigan, and it pretty much froze over every year. This did not go over well. He couldn't kick me out then; I had to finish the school year, but the same day that school let out, I was on a train to Las Vegas to live with my mother...and I never saw Moby again.
I did return to Salt Lake 2 1/2 years later, but that was for a different reason (different blog), and it was the only time in the next twenty years that my father and I spoke (actually, there were 2 short phone conversations, but they weren't pleasant enough to remember). We finally "made up", as it were, but there was never a father-son bond there as there should have been, and this I regret, and always will.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Five Misses And A Hit
It was an idyllic time for us (my brother and I) that year of 1952. We lived on a ranch in the small town (town? no, not really - just a place in California called Apple Valley - population....maybe a few hundred spread out over God knows how many square miles), and life was good. Mom and Pop (Bill #2) had divorced three years earlier, and Mom was now with Mr. Lamb (Bill #3). Pete was 6 and I was 4 and life, as I said, was good - until that day in June, 1952...
As I said, we lived on a ranch, and Bill had a lumber and carpentry business that he ran from the ranch, and he seemed to be doing OK, but I guess that's only through eyes of a child...
The ranch is gone now, replaced by a few hundred tract homes, and the population of Apple Valley has increased JUST a touch since then (I think to about 100,000, but I'm not sure). The memory of that day had long been buried, although it manages to ooze up to the forefront of my thoughts occasionally, like some primordial slime, festering all that it touches.
A lazy day in June...Pete and I running and yelling, and laughing, and being kids, and not thinking about the past few weeks when the talking started. When Mommy and Daddy would talk very, very LOUDLY, and use ugly words like "Bankruptcy" and "Foreclosure", and Pete and I would cringe and slink to our room like disobedient puppies and be very, very, very quiet so we could be invisible, and no one would find us till the talking was over and life was good again...
On this particular day, the talking had started, and we had slunk, and we were waiting, and then...Mommy screamed...
And we ran out to see if Mommy was OK, and we saw Daddy, his face engorged and red, his eyes bloodshot, and a look of pure hatred washing across him, and he was moaning, and snarling, and mumbling, and gesticulating wildly all around, and he raised his hand and pointed at us, but he wasn't pointing a finger...he had a gun...
Have you ever seen the movie "To Kill A Mockingbird"? There is a scene in that movie where the Sheriff wants Atticus to shoot a rabid dog...and you see the dog running up the street toward you, and he is yelping, and snarling and flopping around...whenever I see that movie, that dog always reminds me of Bill on that particular day, in that particular place, at that particular time.
He raised the gun, and Pete screamed, and dove behind the couch, and I screamed and dove right after him, and Mommy yelped and dove through a door, and the first shot followed her through the door. The second shot clipped through the wall she was behind, and she yelped and was she OK? We didn't know, and weren't about to peek out to check.
The third shot snapped through the couch between us, hit a nail in the floor, and ricocheted off, whining like an angry hornet, to smack the wall like the clap of doom. The next shot slapped through the couch and cut through a fold in Petes shirt and thunked the wall and the one after that zipped past my forehead so close I thought I could feel the breeze of its passing and Pete was screaming and Pete was cringing and Pete was peeing and I was screaming and I was cringing and I was peeing and Mommy was yelling and over it all you could hear a soft snarling and moaning and mumbling and then there came the sixth shot.....
I am pretty sure that most of you folks out there have kids...and probably grandkids, too. Oh, I know some of you don't, but I'm pretty sure the majority of you do. And, I'm pretty sure that when your kids were small and free and happy, you probably had Family Fun Days and Lets Get Together and Do Things Together Days and had fun. BUT, I KNOW, I just know that no one on here has had a Together day where the Mommy said in a soft, sad, quiet, fragile voice..."OK, Kids, Mommy needs you to help her now...Mommy needs you to help her clean Daddys brains off the wall..."
As I said, we lived on a ranch, and Bill had a lumber and carpentry business that he ran from the ranch, and he seemed to be doing OK, but I guess that's only through eyes of a child...
The ranch is gone now, replaced by a few hundred tract homes, and the population of Apple Valley has increased JUST a touch since then (I think to about 100,000, but I'm not sure). The memory of that day had long been buried, although it manages to ooze up to the forefront of my thoughts occasionally, like some primordial slime, festering all that it touches.
A lazy day in June...Pete and I running and yelling, and laughing, and being kids, and not thinking about the past few weeks when the talking started. When Mommy and Daddy would talk very, very LOUDLY, and use ugly words like "Bankruptcy" and "Foreclosure", and Pete and I would cringe and slink to our room like disobedient puppies and be very, very, very quiet so we could be invisible, and no one would find us till the talking was over and life was good again...
On this particular day, the talking had started, and we had slunk, and we were waiting, and then...Mommy screamed...
And we ran out to see if Mommy was OK, and we saw Daddy, his face engorged and red, his eyes bloodshot, and a look of pure hatred washing across him, and he was moaning, and snarling, and mumbling, and gesticulating wildly all around, and he raised his hand and pointed at us, but he wasn't pointing a finger...he had a gun...
Have you ever seen the movie "To Kill A Mockingbird"? There is a scene in that movie where the Sheriff wants Atticus to shoot a rabid dog...and you see the dog running up the street toward you, and he is yelping, and snarling and flopping around...whenever I see that movie, that dog always reminds me of Bill on that particular day, in that particular place, at that particular time.
He raised the gun, and Pete screamed, and dove behind the couch, and I screamed and dove right after him, and Mommy yelped and dove through a door, and the first shot followed her through the door. The second shot clipped through the wall she was behind, and she yelped and was she OK? We didn't know, and weren't about to peek out to check.
The third shot snapped through the couch between us, hit a nail in the floor, and ricocheted off, whining like an angry hornet, to smack the wall like the clap of doom. The next shot slapped through the couch and cut through a fold in Petes shirt and thunked the wall and the one after that zipped past my forehead so close I thought I could feel the breeze of its passing and Pete was screaming and Pete was cringing and Pete was peeing and I was screaming and I was cringing and I was peeing and Mommy was yelling and over it all you could hear a soft snarling and moaning and mumbling and then there came the sixth shot.....
I am pretty sure that most of you folks out there have kids...and probably grandkids, too. Oh, I know some of you don't, but I'm pretty sure the majority of you do. And, I'm pretty sure that when your kids were small and free and happy, you probably had Family Fun Days and Lets Get Together and Do Things Together Days and had fun. BUT, I KNOW, I just know that no one on here has had a Together day where the Mommy said in a soft, sad, quiet, fragile voice..."OK, Kids, Mommy needs you to help her now...Mommy needs you to help her clean Daddys brains off the wall..."
The Bill Collector
This is a little talk about my mother, who, since she's been gone for 22 years, probably won't object to my writing about her. My mother, it seems, had a small peculiarity that I didn't even realize until recently. She was married to, in order, William Sweeney, William Stone, William Lamb and William Hurley. Has anyone noticed a pattern here? Apparently, she liked the name Bill...now, Bill Sweeney I knew nothing about, because Bill Stone was my father. Bill Lamb could be entitled KILL BILL VOL. 1, and Bill Hurley could be KILL BILL VOLS. 2-7. The last three Bills will actually be the subjects of future blogs, since they are also gone. Bill #1 I never knew anything about, except that he didn't have any children, at least not with my mother.
I wonder why the name Bill held such an attraction for her. It could be, I suppose, because of her father, William Pyatt, my Grandpa, a sweet kind, gentle man who was actually a prize fighter in his youth, or so I've been told. He will also be the subject of future writings. (Apparently, I have to come up with a lot of titles that include the name Bill.)
Mom was a wonderful person, who spent a lot of time being single, and trying to raise two boys alone. I think the marriages were mainly an attempt to get some fatherly influence into our lives, since she and my father divorced when I was one year old (my big brother was three). She also, apparently, had lousy taste in men, but that is for the future too.
When she finally found someone she could be with, we were both gone from the house, and, in fact, my brother was also gone from us totally. She spent the last 20 years of her life in some kind of happiness with a man (who she never married) with the name of.....you guessed it....Roger!!
I wonder why the name Bill held such an attraction for her. It could be, I suppose, because of her father, William Pyatt, my Grandpa, a sweet kind, gentle man who was actually a prize fighter in his youth, or so I've been told. He will also be the subject of future writings. (Apparently, I have to come up with a lot of titles that include the name Bill.)
Mom was a wonderful person, who spent a lot of time being single, and trying to raise two boys alone. I think the marriages were mainly an attempt to get some fatherly influence into our lives, since she and my father divorced when I was one year old (my big brother was three). She also, apparently, had lousy taste in men, but that is for the future too.
When she finally found someone she could be with, we were both gone from the house, and, in fact, my brother was also gone from us totally. She spent the last 20 years of her life in some kind of happiness with a man (who she never married) with the name of.....you guessed it....Roger!!
Sleeping Under Runways
Once upon a time, there was a guy, just an ordinary guy, who was fulfilling his military obligation in a small foreign country called...oh, let's call it Viet Nam for lack of a better name. Of course, I could come up with a better name, but this is a family blog... One day, this guy was called into the "office", as it were, and was given an ASSIGNMENT. This little job, which was being done by several people, is the subject of this little ditty, and with your kind permission, since the guy was, in fact, me, I will now switch to the first person narrative...since it is easier. I can? Oh, thank you...
The assignment we were given involved traveling (in the back of a truck) quite a few miles from one base to another for the purposes of doing some repairs on the far end of one of the runways. Why (a question I asked myself repeatedly) base #2 (a reasonably large establishment) didn't have people of their own to do this is way beyond me, and "ours not to reason why, etc., etc.". At any rate, we made our little journey, traveling through villages and jungle, getting shot at along the way, and of course shooting back at God knows what, and eventually, arrived reasonably unscathed. We ate, we retired, we slept.
The next morning we started our task, driving out to the end of the runway to assess the situation. It was a nice clear morning, temps not too bad, humidity WAY up there, but not bad. I won't bore you with all the details of the days work, except to say it got hotter, we got sweatier, it rained (but the temperature stayed high), we got wet, it cleared up, we sweated...you get the idea. Along about late afternoon, it came time for my part in this little drama, and the reason for my going became clear. Sorry, but this needs a new paragraph.
At the end of the runway was a tunnel, and through this tunnel there ran a cable, which was attached to a net, which caught any planes that, while landing, attempted to make any unauthorized escape off the end of the runway into the jungle (the military was sort of against unauthorized escapes at that time). Part of the job was that "someone" had to take a rope through the tunnel, where it was attached to a pulley and pulled through. It was attached to a larger rope, and a larger one, and then a thin cable, and a thicker cable, etc., etc. until the main cable was pulled through.
What you have to know at this point, is that, at that time, I was not the svelte, trim 250 pounds that you see before you today. No, siree, Bob, I was 6 foot, 6 inches tall and MAYBE 150 pounds, if fully dressed with a full field pack. In other words, about the right size to squeeze through a VERY small tunnel under a runway with a rope in my teeth. The reason for this thinness, if you will, had something to do with my diet (I was never sure exactly what I was eating over there, but I do know that some of it was Very Strange...) and my proclivity for certain, shall we say, stimulants at the time. So,anyway, I took the rope, got down, slithered forward and, in the words of Ray Stevens (Ahab the Arab), "uh...into the tent (tunnel) uh he went...".
Sliding through the tunnel wasn't all that hard...Oh, sure, there was the occasional small critter body, some standing water from the recent rains, a LOT of cobwebs (some occupied), but, all in all, not too awfully bad. The fun started when I reached the other side. As I emerged triumphant from the tunnel, I looked around and,....there was no one there.
The entire crew that I was with had vanished into thin air, or so it seemed. I looked all over, and finally saw them, running and driving as if for their very lives, away from me and toward the base. Now, I HAD showered that morning, and while there was some sweat involved, it had also rained, which washed me a bit, so I couldn't understand the sudden exodus. I nervously looked around, trying to see the pack of pissed off water buffalo, or maybe the pile of angry elephants that might be heading my way, when I heard (and felt) a mighty WHUMP! nearby. I then concluded (the mind is always going) that I was in the middle of a mortar attack.
Now, obviously, my first thought was "RRRUUUNNN!!!". But then, the old analytical brain kicked in, and I thought...well I could follow everyone else, thereby becoming a moving target in their little shooting gallery, or I could...Say!! There's a runway right next to me...12 solid inches of concrete over a tunnel that I can fit in, and what the hell am I doing standing here thinking about it? So...in the immortal words of Ray Stevens (Ahab the Arab)...well, check it out, three paragraphs up.
OK...I'm not sure how many of you have had the pleasurable opportunity to spend the night under a runway in a small South East Asian jungle country (and I'm sure a lot of you have), but for those few of you that haven't, let me point out one of the main perks in participating in such an adventure. When you are under there, and it's dark...FULL dark because the base is under blackout conditions...well, you don't have to worry about loneliness because you are most definitely NOT alone.
You ever notice how, during a war, everyone seems worried about how the humans are faring, but no one really seems to give much thought to how the really, really small critters and crawlers are doing? Well, apparently, they get scared too, and at that time, they go looking for a place to hide, and look...isn't that the Lincoln Tunnel over there...we can hide in there, and everything will be hunky dory. I felt like a part of a massive parade ground under there, and boy! were the troops massing to march that night! They ranged from the very, very tiny, who would run up the mountain (me), stop to graze a little bit, run some more, graze some more, etc., to the very, very large and very, very long who slithered up and over. One such fellow, apparently exhausted by the climb, stopped to take a nap before beginning the decent. I even managed to become an anchor point for one of my eight-legged friends, who wanted to build a web to catch some of the lunch meat running by. I really kept wishing some VC type would wander by and toss a bottle of whiskey in the tunnel for me.
Comes the dawn...thank the Lord!! Finally I emerged from my little tomb, covered with hundreds of muddy little footprints, a few welts, some bite marks and a slither track or two, and headed off toward my barracks, dreaming of hot showers, cold beer and lots of sleep. Unfortunately, THAT wasn't going to happen, because the portion of the barracks where my bunk was no longer existed. Just a hole in the wall, and a lot of shredded plastic and metal. Had I been in that bed, I would also be shredded metal and plastic, which would totally piss off my kids, because they hadn't been born yet, and, in that case, never would have been.
So, that is my little ditty about Sleeping Under Runways...and as for the stimulants mentioned, well...I arrived In Country clean (but not sober), and left the region clean (but not sober), which involved a hotel room in Bangkok, Thailand, a lot of booze, and as Mr. Harvey says all the time..."The Rest of The Story...."
The assignment we were given involved traveling (in the back of a truck) quite a few miles from one base to another for the purposes of doing some repairs on the far end of one of the runways. Why (a question I asked myself repeatedly) base #2 (a reasonably large establishment) didn't have people of their own to do this is way beyond me, and "ours not to reason why, etc., etc.". At any rate, we made our little journey, traveling through villages and jungle, getting shot at along the way, and of course shooting back at God knows what, and eventually, arrived reasonably unscathed. We ate, we retired, we slept.
The next morning we started our task, driving out to the end of the runway to assess the situation. It was a nice clear morning, temps not too bad, humidity WAY up there, but not bad. I won't bore you with all the details of the days work, except to say it got hotter, we got sweatier, it rained (but the temperature stayed high), we got wet, it cleared up, we sweated...you get the idea. Along about late afternoon, it came time for my part in this little drama, and the reason for my going became clear. Sorry, but this needs a new paragraph.
At the end of the runway was a tunnel, and through this tunnel there ran a cable, which was attached to a net, which caught any planes that, while landing, attempted to make any unauthorized escape off the end of the runway into the jungle (the military was sort of against unauthorized escapes at that time). Part of the job was that "someone" had to take a rope through the tunnel, where it was attached to a pulley and pulled through. It was attached to a larger rope, and a larger one, and then a thin cable, and a thicker cable, etc., etc. until the main cable was pulled through.
What you have to know at this point, is that, at that time, I was not the svelte, trim 250 pounds that you see before you today. No, siree, Bob, I was 6 foot, 6 inches tall and MAYBE 150 pounds, if fully dressed with a full field pack. In other words, about the right size to squeeze through a VERY small tunnel under a runway with a rope in my teeth. The reason for this thinness, if you will, had something to do with my diet (I was never sure exactly what I was eating over there, but I do know that some of it was Very Strange...) and my proclivity for certain, shall we say, stimulants at the time. So,anyway, I took the rope, got down, slithered forward and, in the words of Ray Stevens (Ahab the Arab), "uh...into the tent (tunnel) uh he went...".
Sliding through the tunnel wasn't all that hard...Oh, sure, there was the occasional small critter body, some standing water from the recent rains, a LOT of cobwebs (some occupied), but, all in all, not too awfully bad. The fun started when I reached the other side. As I emerged triumphant from the tunnel, I looked around and,....there was no one there.
The entire crew that I was with had vanished into thin air, or so it seemed. I looked all over, and finally saw them, running and driving as if for their very lives, away from me and toward the base. Now, I HAD showered that morning, and while there was some sweat involved, it had also rained, which washed me a bit, so I couldn't understand the sudden exodus. I nervously looked around, trying to see the pack of pissed off water buffalo, or maybe the pile of angry elephants that might be heading my way, when I heard (and felt) a mighty WHUMP! nearby. I then concluded (the mind is always going) that I was in the middle of a mortar attack.
Now, obviously, my first thought was "RRRUUUNNN!!!". But then, the old analytical brain kicked in, and I thought...well I could follow everyone else, thereby becoming a moving target in their little shooting gallery, or I could...Say!! There's a runway right next to me...12 solid inches of concrete over a tunnel that I can fit in, and what the hell am I doing standing here thinking about it? So...in the immortal words of Ray Stevens (Ahab the Arab)...well, check it out, three paragraphs up.
OK...I'm not sure how many of you have had the pleasurable opportunity to spend the night under a runway in a small South East Asian jungle country (and I'm sure a lot of you have), but for those few of you that haven't, let me point out one of the main perks in participating in such an adventure. When you are under there, and it's dark...FULL dark because the base is under blackout conditions...well, you don't have to worry about loneliness because you are most definitely NOT alone.
You ever notice how, during a war, everyone seems worried about how the humans are faring, but no one really seems to give much thought to how the really, really small critters and crawlers are doing? Well, apparently, they get scared too, and at that time, they go looking for a place to hide, and look...isn't that the Lincoln Tunnel over there...we can hide in there, and everything will be hunky dory. I felt like a part of a massive parade ground under there, and boy! were the troops massing to march that night! They ranged from the very, very tiny, who would run up the mountain (me), stop to graze a little bit, run some more, graze some more, etc., to the very, very large and very, very long who slithered up and over. One such fellow, apparently exhausted by the climb, stopped to take a nap before beginning the decent. I even managed to become an anchor point for one of my eight-legged friends, who wanted to build a web to catch some of the lunch meat running by. I really kept wishing some VC type would wander by and toss a bottle of whiskey in the tunnel for me.
Comes the dawn...thank the Lord!! Finally I emerged from my little tomb, covered with hundreds of muddy little footprints, a few welts, some bite marks and a slither track or two, and headed off toward my barracks, dreaming of hot showers, cold beer and lots of sleep. Unfortunately, THAT wasn't going to happen, because the portion of the barracks where my bunk was no longer existed. Just a hole in the wall, and a lot of shredded plastic and metal. Had I been in that bed, I would also be shredded metal and plastic, which would totally piss off my kids, because they hadn't been born yet, and, in that case, never would have been.
So, that is my little ditty about Sleeping Under Runways...and as for the stimulants mentioned, well...I arrived In Country clean (but not sober), and left the region clean (but not sober), which involved a hotel room in Bangkok, Thailand, a lot of booze, and as Mr. Harvey says all the time..."The Rest of The Story...."
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