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Story Time
- Thread starter Gary O'
- Start date
Gary O'
Well-known member
Good stuff
That town survives solely on its own
Bigger cities are all but out of reach for the daily commute
Wonder what real estate prices are there now....
Gary O'
Well-known member
Back to story time....
Almost a Cop
When I was about four, five maybe, all I wanted to become was a cop.
Not a Dragnet, Sgt Friday cop, but one that wore the blue, the boots, the service cap, the badge, the…gun…and holster.
OH YEAAAH
Not a doubt in my mind.
Thing is, I was never around cops per se, at least not for a few years.
So all I had for ready reference was the local service station guy. The ‘almost a cop’ guy.
He had a uniform, and if I recall, had some sorta badge.
And he had a service cap. The one with the glossy bill, and high rise front.
Yeah, he was almost a cop.
I always liked stopping there.
‘Fill’er up?
‘Ethyl?’
He’d get the pump going, cranking the numbers to zero, sticking the nozzle in, flipping the lever, filling the back seat with the glorious aroma of gas fumes of which I breathed deep (couldn’t get enough).
‘Check ‘at oil?’
He lifted the hood and did….something, appearing at the driver’s door, showing Dad the dip stick, resting it in display on a really cool red rag, then tucking that rag in his back pocket. Letting half of it stick out……cool.
Sometimes he’d go to the rack of oil, grab wunna the glass bottles with a stainless steel spout, and pour in a bit of oil.
Then he’d spray the windshield with some sorta soapy liquid, wiping all that off with the magic blue towel until the grime and streaks was totally gone. All the while talking about the weather or the ‘goddamm Yankees’, or Joe Louis.
And he had BO…yeah, real big guy aroma…..wow.
Man, I wanted to be him, only I’d strap on a gun, as that was the only thing his was missing.
What a cool job!
Just doin’ that all day long.
‘Check ‘at oil?’
‘Whuddaya think about them goddamm Yankees?’
tuck
wipe
pump
….kids in the back seat, lookin’ at me in awe…wide eyes ogling my holster…and ivory gun handle….and red rag.
One day me and Dad were headin’ down the road.
Just him and me,
and he sez, ‘Whaddya wanna be when you grow up?’
‘A service station guy!’
Things kinda turned south right then.
Dads.
Go figure.
Whud he do for a living? Work in a warehouse?
Prolly jealous.
After that, I never shared my true thoughts with him….for years….decades maybe.
Heh, turns out folks rather frown on service stations guys….with guns.
But, hey, if that ever happens……..
Almost a Cop
When I was about four, five maybe, all I wanted to become was a cop.
Not a Dragnet, Sgt Friday cop, but one that wore the blue, the boots, the service cap, the badge, the…gun…and holster.
OH YEAAAH
Not a doubt in my mind.
Thing is, I was never around cops per se, at least not for a few years.
So all I had for ready reference was the local service station guy. The ‘almost a cop’ guy.
He had a uniform, and if I recall, had some sorta badge.
And he had a service cap. The one with the glossy bill, and high rise front.
Yeah, he was almost a cop.
I always liked stopping there.
‘Fill’er up?
‘Ethyl?’
He’d get the pump going, cranking the numbers to zero, sticking the nozzle in, flipping the lever, filling the back seat with the glorious aroma of gas fumes of which I breathed deep (couldn’t get enough).
‘Check ‘at oil?’
He lifted the hood and did….something, appearing at the driver’s door, showing Dad the dip stick, resting it in display on a really cool red rag, then tucking that rag in his back pocket. Letting half of it stick out……cool.
Sometimes he’d go to the rack of oil, grab wunna the glass bottles with a stainless steel spout, and pour in a bit of oil.
Then he’d spray the windshield with some sorta soapy liquid, wiping all that off with the magic blue towel until the grime and streaks was totally gone. All the while talking about the weather or the ‘goddamm Yankees’, or Joe Louis.
And he had BO…yeah, real big guy aroma…..wow.
Man, I wanted to be him, only I’d strap on a gun, as that was the only thing his was missing.
What a cool job!
Just doin’ that all day long.
‘Check ‘at oil?’
‘Whuddaya think about them goddamm Yankees?’
tuck
wipe
pump
….kids in the back seat, lookin’ at me in awe…wide eyes ogling my holster…and ivory gun handle….and red rag.
One day me and Dad were headin’ down the road.
Just him and me,
and he sez, ‘Whaddya wanna be when you grow up?’
‘A service station guy!’
Things kinda turned south right then.
Dads.
Go figure.
Whud he do for a living? Work in a warehouse?
Prolly jealous.
After that, I never shared my true thoughts with him….for years….decades maybe.
Heh, turns out folks rather frown on service stations guys….with guns.
But, hey, if that ever happens……..
Gary O'
Well-known member
Rag Ball
Before baseball, there was rag ball
Just take a rag
Tie it in knots
You've got a 'ball'
Grab a stick....a broom stick is best
You've got a 'bat'
Put most anything flat out for 'bases'
You've got a 'ball diamond'
Most any back yard will do (rag balls don't go all that far)
Grab some neighborhood kids, you've got teams
Not enough kids?
The game of 'workup' comes into play
To first and back
No kids?
Got a dog?
Hit the rag ball, yer dog will bring it back
......or run off with it
Then the game of chase comes into play
Yeah, back in the day
before plastic balls and bats
There was rag ball
Let a kid use his mind, he'll come up with his own toys
Boredom never existed.....ever
'Play' was something you got to do
...after chores
Before baseball, there was rag ball
Just take a rag
Tie it in knots
You've got a 'ball'
Grab a stick....a broom stick is best
You've got a 'bat'
Put most anything flat out for 'bases'
You've got a 'ball diamond'
Most any back yard will do (rag balls don't go all that far)
Grab some neighborhood kids, you've got teams
Not enough kids?
The game of 'workup' comes into play
To first and back
No kids?
Got a dog?
Hit the rag ball, yer dog will bring it back
......or run off with it
Then the game of chase comes into play
Yeah, back in the day
before plastic balls and bats
There was rag ball
Let a kid use his mind, he'll come up with his own toys
Boredom never existed.....ever
'Play' was something you got to do
...after chores
Gary O'
Well-known member
Acquaintances
Not friends
Not family
Not even people you know, really.
Just folks you know of, been introduced to, maybe work with, or even share an activity.
But not friends.
No, not friends.
Houston
Took a second job in a fab shop, bending, shearing, twisting metal.
Big place.
Lotsa noise. Lotsa work.
Night shift.
A huge gay guy a couple shears down is blowing me kisses.
I blow a couple back from boredom.
The guy next to me clues me in that he’s not kidding.
I stick a metal rod thru my legs, one end on the steel table, and smash it with a 4 lb hammer.
The gay guy winces.
I point and nod.
The guy next to me damn near cuts his hand off in the brake, doubled over with laughter.
Graveyard shift is over. So him and I go get breakfast.
A little café called The Western Grill stayed open all night.
Cheap, generous meals.
The guy calls himself Bruce Wade….too good a name to be real.
Older fella, premature grey-white hair, bent up western hat.
Turns out he’s a hustler, between ‘jobs’.
Now Bruce looks like he hasn’t done much physical labor, as his hands are soft, nails manicured, and his clothing is of a thin nature. Street shoes.
His buddy shows up and we move from the counter to a booth.
His buddy looks like a businessman in a top level exec position.
Older. Larger fella.
Receding hairline, thinning hair, business cut….not like, ‘Hey I see you got a haircut’, but trim, just off the ears. Greying at the temples.
He was quite polished, head to toe…not flashy, not gaudy, a bit understated.
He spoke well, smooth, not slimy smooth, but refined.
He seems happy.
They talk about fish. Not like you and I talk about fish.
He pulls some real estate documents out of his attaché case.
Bruce’s countenance lightens up.
Seems his gig at the metal fab shop is over.
I find out these guys are glorified flim flam men.
Conning people that want something for nothing.
It’s now an old con game, but then it was rather fresh.
Run an ad in the paper;
12 month lease for the price of 3.
Being transferred.
Must move.
Gated community.
It was common, being transferred to or from Houston in those days.
Bruce and his accomplice would get in free with a promotion, bedazzling the real property managers with false documents and a load of believable horseshit.
Then run their ad.
When folks arrived, Bruce would call the ‘manager’ (his accomplice) and here he’d come, showing the fish around the place, rec facilities, pool, club house, golf course, tennis court, convenience market, yadda yadda.
Once they got 6-8 couples to sign on and hand over their checks, they scheduled their move in….a few weeks down the line…long enough to enjoy their own stay, and line up these fish, all trying to move in at one time……..
These guys were fascinating to me.
Not because of their smooth ability to con folks, but because they could very well have been successful gents in the business community.
They got a real charge out of it all.
Last I heard, the big fella had taken a slug while in a deli, tryin’ to pilfer a chunk of corned beef, and Bruce, he was doing another stretch.
Not long after, a year or so maybe, I sat in a cheap movie house and watched The Flim Flam Man, starring George C Scott.
It made me smile, and a bit sad, so reminding me of couple acquaintances I knew of…
Not friends
Not family
Not even people you know, really.
Just folks you know of, been introduced to, maybe work with, or even share an activity.
But not friends.
No, not friends.
Houston
Took a second job in a fab shop, bending, shearing, twisting metal.
Big place.
Lotsa noise. Lotsa work.
Night shift.
A huge gay guy a couple shears down is blowing me kisses.
I blow a couple back from boredom.
The guy next to me clues me in that he’s not kidding.
I stick a metal rod thru my legs, one end on the steel table, and smash it with a 4 lb hammer.
The gay guy winces.
I point and nod.
The guy next to me damn near cuts his hand off in the brake, doubled over with laughter.
Graveyard shift is over. So him and I go get breakfast.
A little café called The Western Grill stayed open all night.
Cheap, generous meals.
The guy calls himself Bruce Wade….too good a name to be real.
Older fella, premature grey-white hair, bent up western hat.
Turns out he’s a hustler, between ‘jobs’.
Now Bruce looks like he hasn’t done much physical labor, as his hands are soft, nails manicured, and his clothing is of a thin nature. Street shoes.
His buddy shows up and we move from the counter to a booth.
His buddy looks like a businessman in a top level exec position.
Older. Larger fella.
Receding hairline, thinning hair, business cut….not like, ‘Hey I see you got a haircut’, but trim, just off the ears. Greying at the temples.
He was quite polished, head to toe…not flashy, not gaudy, a bit understated.
He spoke well, smooth, not slimy smooth, but refined.
He seems happy.
They talk about fish. Not like you and I talk about fish.
He pulls some real estate documents out of his attaché case.
Bruce’s countenance lightens up.
Seems his gig at the metal fab shop is over.
I find out these guys are glorified flim flam men.
Conning people that want something for nothing.
It’s now an old con game, but then it was rather fresh.
Run an ad in the paper;
12 month lease for the price of 3.
Being transferred.
Must move.
Gated community.
It was common, being transferred to or from Houston in those days.
Bruce and his accomplice would get in free with a promotion, bedazzling the real property managers with false documents and a load of believable horseshit.
Then run their ad.
When folks arrived, Bruce would call the ‘manager’ (his accomplice) and here he’d come, showing the fish around the place, rec facilities, pool, club house, golf course, tennis court, convenience market, yadda yadda.
Once they got 6-8 couples to sign on and hand over their checks, they scheduled their move in….a few weeks down the line…long enough to enjoy their own stay, and line up these fish, all trying to move in at one time……..
These guys were fascinating to me.
Not because of their smooth ability to con folks, but because they could very well have been successful gents in the business community.
They got a real charge out of it all.
Last I heard, the big fella had taken a slug while in a deli, tryin’ to pilfer a chunk of corned beef, and Bruce, he was doing another stretch.
Not long after, a year or so maybe, I sat in a cheap movie house and watched The Flim Flam Man, starring George C Scott.
It made me smile, and a bit sad, so reminding me of couple acquaintances I knew of…
echo
Well-known member
A few years ago I was working in Sisters. I was driving about 90 on highway 97 and 90 is what most people drove.
I came around a corner during winter and a car was in the snow bank with kids playing outside.
I hit my breaks so I could pull them out.. Nothing happened. I hit my breaks again and the same.
I thought black ice. It took me about ten miles to slow down.
I put about 50000 miles on my truck in about four months. The next day I was on my way to Crescent City, CA. My company did pay me ten cents per mile.
I came around a corner during winter and a car was in the snow bank with kids playing outside.
I hit my breaks so I could pull them out.. Nothing happened. I hit my breaks again and the same.
I thought black ice. It took me about ten miles to slow down.
I put about 50000 miles on my truck in about four months. The next day I was on my way to Crescent City, CA. My company did pay me ten cents per mile.
Gary O'
Well-known member
Yeah, that black ice is the worst.
Don't really know it's there until it's too late
About a 9 on the pucker scale
Gary O'
Well-known member
Hwy 97 is a gauntlet
"tween the young cowboy truckers, the migrating deer, and the rest of the crazies, it's two lane hell
I've had to veer into the emergency 'lane' (thick gravel) too many times when seeing an oncoming nut in my lane
echo
Well-known member
Those were the days when it was ok to drive with a beer in your hand.
The kids went into the bars and no-one cared.
We used to use sawdust tires and drove over the Siskiyous when the road was closed due to high snow. The Indians had a million dollars each from being paid for their land (the press did not say that in later years) They reported the Indians got screwed out of their land.
The kids went into the bars and no-one cared.
We used to use sawdust tires and drove over the Siskiyous when the road was closed due to high snow. The Indians had a million dollars each from being paid for their land (the press did not say that in later years) They reported the Indians got screwed out of their land.
Gary O'
Well-known member
Gary O'
Well-known member
Yeah, the local tribe The Chiloquins, actually did get gypped
The elders made bank, not the rest
They do still get to hunt anytime, day or night
...and fish, any stream
echo
Well-known member
The Klamath Tribe did get their money and go to Kfalls and buy the bar and then party for days.
Am I boring?
My buddy Biff married a white girl and after a few kids they decided to divorce. I'm not Indian, I don't know what I am.
They went to court and went before the judge the judge said she gets custody of all their kids. He said not in Indian law, the boys stay with their father. The judge ruled in her favor. Biff went to his truck, brought his shotgun and caught her in the hall. He then took his boys and went back to the reservation.
The cops could not go on the reservation so they set up a road block. Every morning when I went to work there would be cars lined up checking cars leaving the reservation. After a while they forgot after she agreed to let him have the boys.
Gary O'
Well-known member
Some reservations are a bit loose
Some are pretty strict
The Taholah tribe, at the tip of the Washington peninsula, was pretty strict
I delivered equipment up there
Thing is, nobody worked
Drinking 24/7
Newly built homes (by the government) ...totally wrecked
Everbod laying or stumbling around
Not sure who's at fault there, but tax dollars a bit misspent
Some are pretty strict
The Taholah tribe, at the tip of the Washington peninsula, was pretty strict
I delivered equipment up there
Thing is, nobody worked
Drinking 24/7
Newly built homes (by the government) ...totally wrecked
Everbod laying or stumbling around
Not sure who's at fault there, but tax dollars a bit misspent
Gary O'
Well-known member
A guy that hauled logs for me shacked up with nothing but the local tribe babes
Heh, every time he delivered, he'd have a new woman
He did get hunting privileges, however
For me, that's playin' the edge a bit too close for comfort
.....even though my wife is Cherokee
Gary O'
Well-known member
echo
Well-known member
They were nice people.
No drinking on the kicker boats or while hunting.
I was in trouble when I got home.
No cooler full of red snapper, no cooler, clothes were torn from hiking ten miles in the rain forest at night with our Zippo lighters. They had insurance on the boats that we lost in the fog. Two got picked up in the shipping channel by a freighter from Alaska. My compass was faulty and everywhere pointed north?
They had a fishing derby from Seattle and all the boats were out.
No drinking on the kicker boats or while hunting.
I was in trouble when I got home.
No cooler full of red snapper, no cooler, clothes were torn from hiking ten miles in the rain forest at night with our Zippo lighters. They had insurance on the boats that we lost in the fog. Two got picked up in the shipping channel by a freighter from Alaska. My compass was faulty and everywhere pointed north?
They had a fishing derby from Seattle and all the boats were out.
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Gary O'
Well-known member
Dad
My first remembrance of my dad was seein’ him come home from work through the kitchen door.
Guess I was about three.
He was a giant in my eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, curly auburn hair combed straight back, kindly smile bearing witness to his good feeling of getting home.
My circle of life was complete when he arrived.
I never really ever ran up to him like a lot of kids do, as I revered his presence.
He was my god.
He was a simple man, and we lived simply.
It was all us kids needed, ever.
Oh he had dreams, big dreams, and later on a good portion were realized, but with the sacrifice of a working man.
That’s what it took.
At about 4 years of age I remember my dad explaining an appendix to me after overhearing someone talk about having theirs out.
‘Oh, it’s a little man inside you that keeps you well, and sometimes the little man will save up all that sickness and pop. Then he has to come out.’
Seemed to satisfy my curiosity and maybe any other explanation would not have done much better.
Four year olds are quite impressionable, as overhearing my sister talk about a schoolyard mishap gave me a more vivid picture than I should have created.
‘Dennis Blickenship fell off the slide today and split his head open.’
(SPLIT….HIS….HEAD….OPEN??!!)
This gave me the vision of a kid runnin’ around with two head halves, split down the middle, propped up by his shoulders.
Course Dennis Blickenship was a bully, and I felt kinda good about it, bein’ he was the one that tied me up in the tool shed all afternoon while him and my sister did whatever they did.
Still…….
What’s for Dinner?...... Gnah! Whazzat?
The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I’ll be darned if I’ll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way.
We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken….oh and ketchup…..
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for twelve or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.
“Oh, you like the pooper, aey?”
I don’t think parents really realize how they give their children a sense of comfort and well-being.
I remember long trips in the Dodge, trips that would become overnight stays.
And me and sis would be sittin’ in the back.
No seat belts. Seat belts? Those were for racecar drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I’d just sit there, not seein’ much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I’d placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip,
and the backs of my folk’s heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back.
I’d wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own,
the cow lick being as close to curly as I’d get.
But toward the end of those long drives I’d get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I’d faintly hear my parents chatting away,
voices becoming unintelligible murmurings in sync with the hum of the motor, until I was zonked, slumped over like I’d just been shot.
Their voices were quite soothing, and I looked forward to those long trips, just for that.
Not sitting by the car for days waiting for voices on a long trip, but none the less, a subconscious thought of that scene was a comfort
….quiet voices in a cloud of nothing else but stillness…all is well…… I have parents that I can willfully take for granted, without even really thinking about it.
I wasn’t the most curious child in the world.
I could very well have been in the world’s top three least curious.
Actually, the term ‘acute awareness’ might as well have been in a foreign language.
Untied shoes, zipper at half mast, jam from breakfast on my afternoon chin, all were part of my repertoire.
As mentioned, I looked upon my father as God.
I revered his very presence.
And it was intimidating.
So, just me and God are going down the road.
Mom, in her momliness, ‘Don’t forget your coat and cap!’
The morning became quite warm.
I don’t know where we’re goin’…never knew…..never asked.
The sun is beating down through the windshield.
Sweat is beginning to pour outta my cap and into my coat.
‘How ya doin’ over there?’
‘G-o-o-d.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
(THINKING????!!!)
(GOD IS ASKING ME A QUESTION!!!)
(THINK MAN, THINK!!)
(Whaddya think Adlai’s chances are?....How‘bout them Mets?...what then???!...I got nuthin’)
‘Arrre you warrrrm enough?’
(He’s got me. I’ve got this damn coat and capon, don’t I…?!)
‘Maybe you should roll down the window.’ (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)
(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son.
Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.
Things went like that with me and God….for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.
‘You’ve got a natural curve, son.’
(curve?...my damn fastball is going so slow, he thinks I’m throwing a curve ball…)
(Somethinghere about me)
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn’t until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with ‘the stares’, fixated on absolutely nothing.
But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging,
getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful existence, and center on the intangible zephyr of… existence.
I simply call it ‘The Happiness of Being’.
Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands,
then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it…really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half…and a towel.
One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still…survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old’s life passing before his eyes…three times…..my dad’s arms musta got tired,
so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion’s den.
Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the harsh jokes…me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them.
Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I’d become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match….hardly anyone is in my league….maybe satan….maybe.
I have learned to stay away from that mindset.
People are too precious.
This weekend we went to lunch with my dad and his wife.
His 90th birthday is next month.
Can’t see to adjust the remote on his hearing aids.
Food ends up on his shirt and lap.
Laughs out of context.
Can’t find his way to the restroom by himself.
Nose runs constantly, while eating.
But, he’s a happy heart.
And, his lady is 20 years younger.
Not sure if he planned it this way, but she’s his caregiver.
I owe her.
The man loves his sugar.
Ordered pecan waffles.
Extra syrup.
Extra butter.
She cut.
He spooned.
Ever last drop of pecans, butter, syrup.
Then ordered pecan pie.
With ice cream.
Ate every bite.
Well, at 90, what the hell, go for it.
The rest of us ordered normal food, with salad, soup.
When our salads and soups came, there was nothing for him yet.
He jokingly complained.
I told the waiter to bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
(half joking)
Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.
However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.
Last time he’d wandered into the lady's room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him.
There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.
He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww,hooohoo….’ .
(Geeezus)
Do I wanna go there?
As we all rose from the table, his lady put his leather jacket on him.
She dresses him quite sporty.
Levis, plaid shirt, Nikes, black leather jacket….and syrup.
Once his coat was on, he raised both arms,
shaking like a weightlifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
Folks in adjacent booths clapped.
Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.
I’ve got several years to get there.
I’ll take my time.
(penned ten years ago in a sorta diary, before I’d forget)
My first remembrance of my dad was seein’ him come home from work through the kitchen door.
Guess I was about three.
He was a giant in my eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, curly auburn hair combed straight back, kindly smile bearing witness to his good feeling of getting home.
My circle of life was complete when he arrived.
I never really ever ran up to him like a lot of kids do, as I revered his presence.
He was my god.
He was a simple man, and we lived simply.
It was all us kids needed, ever.
Oh he had dreams, big dreams, and later on a good portion were realized, but with the sacrifice of a working man.
That’s what it took.
At about 4 years of age I remember my dad explaining an appendix to me after overhearing someone talk about having theirs out.
‘Oh, it’s a little man inside you that keeps you well, and sometimes the little man will save up all that sickness and pop. Then he has to come out.’
Seemed to satisfy my curiosity and maybe any other explanation would not have done much better.
Four year olds are quite impressionable, as overhearing my sister talk about a schoolyard mishap gave me a more vivid picture than I should have created.
‘Dennis Blickenship fell off the slide today and split his head open.’
(SPLIT….HIS….HEAD….OPEN??!!)
This gave me the vision of a kid runnin’ around with two head halves, split down the middle, propped up by his shoulders.
Course Dennis Blickenship was a bully, and I felt kinda good about it, bein’ he was the one that tied me up in the tool shed all afternoon while him and my sister did whatever they did.
Still…….
What’s for Dinner?...... Gnah! Whazzat?
The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I’ll be darned if I’ll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way.
We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken….oh and ketchup…..
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for twelve or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.
“Oh, you like the pooper, aey?”
I don’t think parents really realize how they give their children a sense of comfort and well-being.
I remember long trips in the Dodge, trips that would become overnight stays.
And me and sis would be sittin’ in the back.
No seat belts. Seat belts? Those were for racecar drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I’d just sit there, not seein’ much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I’d placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip,
and the backs of my folk’s heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back.
I’d wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own,
the cow lick being as close to curly as I’d get.
But toward the end of those long drives I’d get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I’d faintly hear my parents chatting away,
voices becoming unintelligible murmurings in sync with the hum of the motor, until I was zonked, slumped over like I’d just been shot.
Their voices were quite soothing, and I looked forward to those long trips, just for that.
Not sitting by the car for days waiting for voices on a long trip, but none the less, a subconscious thought of that scene was a comfort
….quiet voices in a cloud of nothing else but stillness…all is well…… I have parents that I can willfully take for granted, without even really thinking about it.
I wasn’t the most curious child in the world.
I could very well have been in the world’s top three least curious.
Actually, the term ‘acute awareness’ might as well have been in a foreign language.
Untied shoes, zipper at half mast, jam from breakfast on my afternoon chin, all were part of my repertoire.
As mentioned, I looked upon my father as God.
I revered his very presence.
And it was intimidating.
So, just me and God are going down the road.
Mom, in her momliness, ‘Don’t forget your coat and cap!’
The morning became quite warm.
I don’t know where we’re goin’…never knew…..never asked.
The sun is beating down through the windshield.
Sweat is beginning to pour outta my cap and into my coat.
‘How ya doin’ over there?’
‘G-o-o-d.’
‘What are you thinking about?’
(THINKING????!!!)
(GOD IS ASKING ME A QUESTION!!!)
(THINK MAN, THINK!!)
(Whaddya think Adlai’s chances are?....How‘bout them Mets?...what then???!...I got nuthin’)
‘Arrre you warrrrm enough?’
(He’s got me. I’ve got this damn coat and capon, don’t I…?!)
‘Maybe you should roll down the window.’ (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)
(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son.
Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.
Things went like that with me and God….for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.
‘You’ve got a natural curve, son.’
(curve?...my damn fastball is going so slow, he thinks I’m throwing a curve ball…)
(Somethinghere about me)
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn’t until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with ‘the stares’, fixated on absolutely nothing.
But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging,
getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful existence, and center on the intangible zephyr of… existence.
I simply call it ‘The Happiness of Being’.
Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands,
then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it…really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half…and a towel.
One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still…survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old’s life passing before his eyes…three times…..my dad’s arms musta got tired,
so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion’s den.
Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the harsh jokes…me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them.
Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I’d become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match….hardly anyone is in my league….maybe satan….maybe.
I have learned to stay away from that mindset.
People are too precious.
This weekend we went to lunch with my dad and his wife.
His 90th birthday is next month.
Can’t see to adjust the remote on his hearing aids.
Food ends up on his shirt and lap.
Laughs out of context.
Can’t find his way to the restroom by himself.
Nose runs constantly, while eating.
But, he’s a happy heart.
And, his lady is 20 years younger.
Not sure if he planned it this way, but she’s his caregiver.
I owe her.
The man loves his sugar.
Ordered pecan waffles.
Extra syrup.
Extra butter.
She cut.
He spooned.
Ever last drop of pecans, butter, syrup.
Then ordered pecan pie.
With ice cream.
Ate every bite.
Well, at 90, what the hell, go for it.
The rest of us ordered normal food, with salad, soup.
When our salads and soups came, there was nothing for him yet.
He jokingly complained.
I told the waiter to bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
(half joking)
Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.
However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.
Last time he’d wandered into the lady's room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him.
There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.
He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww,hooohoo….’ .
(Geeezus)
Do I wanna go there?
As we all rose from the table, his lady put his leather jacket on him.
She dresses him quite sporty.
Levis, plaid shirt, Nikes, black leather jacket….and syrup.
Once his coat was on, he raised both arms,
shaking like a weightlifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
Folks in adjacent booths clapped.
Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.
I’ve got several years to get there.
I’ll take my time.
(penned ten years ago in a sorta diary, before I’d forget)
I enjoy your stories thanks for taking me back down memory lane. My Dad is 96 and so many of your stories I have lived. Thanks again.
Gary O'
Well-known member
96....WHOA!
Thank you @norscaner
Always my intent
If I can paint the words to put someone 'there'......mission accomplished
Some last penning of Dad;
A few years ago a lad from Scotland, I’d gotten to know, asked me how my Dad was doing, as I’d shared with him my Dad’s failings in what turned out to be his final year.
Maybe some of you folks can identify with what I wrote him.
In any event, I feel compelled to put it here, and probably in my next book.
For many years he was God to me, could do no wrong, I hid my wrongs from him.
Sure, as I grew, I saw his faults, but, heh, they were few.
And mine became less as I used him as a life model.
Here’s what I Emailed;
He’s a gamer, Shaun.
Days ago he was on his death bed.
Chemo and infection was taking him down…..quick.
He’s on the rebound.
To where……. I have no idea.
I visited him last weekend while he was staying at the rehab center (nursing home).
Didn’t readily recognize him.
No hair
Tiny head
Sunken eyes
Chair stickin’ half way outta the room, lookin’ out into the hall.
He looks like wunna those children with an aging disease.
He really lit up when he saw me.
I immediately felt real bad for not coming sooner.
He got up and scooted his chair back into the room, shuffling, pushing.
He invited me to sit.
There was only one extra chair
I think it had a piece of shit on it.
He had some sorta string of dried drool and blood comin’ from his lower lip, ending at his chin.
It made me sick to my stomach to look at him.
My Dad
My finicky Dad
The guy that remained well scrubbed, no matter what he did.
The guy with the weakest of stomachs.
The guy that just couldn’t eat if he thought the cook hadn’t washed his hands.
There he was……..disgusting
and so very happy to see me.
I wanted to stay and leave at the same time.
We went on a conversation loop.
He has about ten minutes of thought processing, then it starts all over again.
I grabbed his attention by saying I was thinking about going to church.
He did a feeble punch into the air, and displayed a flash of his tenacious old self, gritting his teeth and smiling with delight.
His old eyes lit up again, then welled, spilling tears as he told me how happy that made him.
Now I was disgusted with myself.
I wanted to cry along with him. I just can’t. It’s not in me.
I hadn’t lied.
I do think about it.
I think about conversation with rabid bible thumping religionaires, and know why none of it is for me.
It was a visit of diverse emotions.
The nurse’s aide came in.
He questioningly introduced me as his cousin.
Well, in twenty minutes I’d completely muddled what’s left of his blithering mind.
I gave him a slight hug and left him with the aide.
Driving home, my thoughts were fixed on him.
What he is
What he once was
What I am
What I’m going to become
I recalled him and his cousin, his brother he never had, and how they talked about their aged parents
There is no fairness
There is just fact
Inescapable inevitable fact
It made me realize my own fallibility
I really don’t want to see him again
I will though
As long as I can make him happy, whether it’s a veiled lie, or just being there, I will see him, hug him, chat with him.
He has earned that…at the very least.
He’s a withered dying old man.
Cancer will take him.
I don’t think I have the guts for this, and what’s next, deteriorating visits
What have we done to think it good to keep my hero existing in his filth with confounded thoughts for as long as medically possible……
The Aleuts know what to do
The long walk and the bonk on the bean.
It’s much more heroic……respectful.
Thanks for asking, kid.
Enjoy thy youth
Last time I saw him
He was 95
FrancSevin
Proudly Deplorable
I can't seem to get enough of your stories Gary. Even the sad ones bring a smile.
Weird I know. Well, maybe.
Keep 'em coming.
Weird I know. Well, maybe.
Keep 'em coming.
Gary O'
Well-known member
Brothers
FrancSevin
Proudly Deplorable
Yes, brothers.
My dad died after a long bout with heart disease and COPD.
He was a good man and a great dad,,, but we weren't close.
My Father-in-Law OTOH, was more of a "father" to me. And more a friend and guidance in my life.
Great guy, good buddy and a man who cared about everyone. He was always the center of attention at bars, parties and family get togethers. When he moved to Chicago, so did Crumpy and I. When he moved back to St Louis we followed soon after. He and his wife lived across the street from the house we salvaged and rebuilt.
They helped finance the project. Ann and I built most of the framing and dry walled the whole thing together. Rudy did plumbing and electrical.
Neighbors for 45 years. Rudy was my best friend for all of them. Boating, motorcycling, bar hopping, we were pals.
When his wife passed it was brutal for all of us. Ann wa special. Like Kitty on Gunsmoke, a very special kind of woman. Despite his devotion to her, his life center, he was a rock.
Athletic and vibrant, the man never quit.
One sunny morning I was standing on my front porch looking at the new fallen snow when POW, a slusher right in the face. I looked across the street and he was standing there some 90 feet away, laughing his @ss off. He picked up another and flung it at me again. I ducked and tossed one his way. It didn't even make it to his feet. At 75 years old, the man was amazing. He could also outrun me, out bowl me, out golf me, and killed me at the pool table.
The following summer, a friend was helping me install a mailbox at my driveway. This bombshell of a babe drives up in a red Mustang convertible, wearing nothing but a string bikini. "Is Rudy home?" she asked.
"Not at the moment," I breathlessly responded. This Chic was playboy material. I could barely use my tongue to talk. Somehow, I mustered out..." He went for beer and will be back shortly."
"We're supposed to go Hot Tubbing," giggle the girl, her eyes laughing and bright. This luscious babe was easily mid-thirties or younger. A body to kill or die for. I mean I was 50 at the time and would never have attempted to approach, much less date, a girl this young, and this hot.
Rudy was at best 76.
I looked thru Rudy's garage and could see thru the open back door the Hot Tub was bubbling with steam.
Stumbling over my tongue I pointed and blurted, " just make yourself at home."
Tires squealing faster than my beating heart, she shot that Ford right into his drive and got out.
As she, and whatever there was of that bikini walked up the drive, hips gyrating, me just gawking, my buddy had just one thing to say, WAY TO GO RUDY!!!
Five minutes later Rudy got home and walked into the back. Stripped down to his briefs, he climbed in. Moments later the bikini flew to the side,
Like I said, an amazing man.
For the last 10 years of his life, I begged him to sell his house and move in with us. He spent most of his time at my place as it was. Yet, went home to an empty house every night. He was my best friend and when he finally moved in it was a relief and a pleasure.
However, within less than a year we got the bad news. Cancer,,, N Stage. And he suffered and passed much as yours did.
It was so sad to see the vibrant man, bedridden and slowly slipping away. Right there in my house.
Yes Gary, I can relate,
Brothers.
Last edited:
Gary O'
Well-known member
Something I started and never finished;
Jacob’s Lot
The familiar stench of pine sol, tobacco, and long ago spilt beer permeated my senses, as I traded a bright southern day for the dank refuge of Tony’s Bar and grill.
Marguerite, the well past middle age but still a bit fetching bar maid was deftly applying yet another coating of pine sol with her bar towel.
Old Charley, a sixteen hour fixture, sitting at the bar, half way through his day shift of diluting the mourning of the loss of his two timing woman from previous decades, turned to focus on who just walked in.
The dirge of a refrain from ‘I Walk Alone’ twanged from the juke box.
It was Charlie’s favorite song.
It was Charlie’s only song.
It was Tony’s favorite song, as Marguerite yarded out a bag of quarters every four hours or so from the gaudy chest.
Big John was jacking his jaws toward a poor soul, gettin’ too close as usual, talking loud enough to make one think he had a miniature mega phone tucked in his mouth.
And he wasn’t as big as he thought he was…just tall, and loud…I called him loud John, just to get a rise outta him.
And there was Tony, at his post, way in the back, sitting at his round table, heavy black sun glasses, thick plaid shirt, Panama hat, eternal two day beard, accounting ledger under his pudgy hands…never could tell if he was studying his ledger or staring a hole through you.
He was not animated.
The odds were in favor of a bet that he was actually deceased.
His two cronies flanked his sides…never knew their names, but the one was always quite verbal, high pitched, gravelly voiced troll of a human. An unlit cigar perpetually toyed by his lips and teeth. Racetrack bookie type.
Barmaid legend has it that Tony had hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden upstairs where he resided, and a revolver in his lap at the table, where he spent all his waking hours.
Yeah, happy hour.
I settled into a dark wooden booth.
Marguerite brought me my beer.
I tried to lose myself in thought.
Had I become one of these predictable fixtures?
If so, was that so bad?
Can I just drift through the rest of my life?
Up to now, it had all been pretty traumatic, and hectic.
Now, living hand to mouth was quite liberating.
Yeah, long range planning was non-existent, but again, a relief…….
Esmeralda came hustling in from the back. She was the self-appointed darling of a gaggle of mongrels that frequented this fine establishment.
A bit chubby in the middle, like most thirty some year old senoritas.
Did have a good smile.
Thought about one day yielding to her come on, or even Marguerite, but I heard Marguerite would cut ya if things turned sour. Loud John talked about how she was such a tiger. I didn’t feel up to tiger standard.
And Mel, as I called the smiling enchantress, would require major expense in the antibiotic department.
And there’s all that paraphernalia of a possible relationship.
People that had actually worked today started filling the joint, so I settled up with Mel and sashayed out into the sun.
A couple doors down was the Sally, or Salvation Army mission. There were rules there.
Had to be in at a certain time.
Had to check yer bag behind the counter.
Had to sit through a sermon to eat.
Had to go to bed at lights out.
Couldn’t keep your clothes on in bed, even though it was a good chance someone else would be wearing them in the morning.
Had to be out at a certain time.
But it was a step up from the under the bridge hotel.
Around the corner was the Bayou Theater….fifty cents and you can watch five old run movies…and stay out of the cold or heat when pushed out of the mission. You did have to put up with the clientele however, and a commentary throughout the show, ‘Hey that’s Robert Taylor!’…..’No shit’…..’shut the hell up!’
Then across the square was home sweet home.
The Standard Hotel.
$1.25 a night or $5 a week…a five day week.
It was a converted warehouse of a thousand partitioned ‘rooms’, 6 x 4 rooms.
The cots had some sort of linen and thin blanket. Not sure what color anything was, because they all had their very own 20 watt light strung to the middle, hanging from god knows where.
It was enough to scatter a few hundred exoskeletal friends. I remember my first night, thought I had a brown comforter.
The end of each hall had a wash tub with sometimes warm water, along with a toilet,
usually flushable…sometimes clogged…but always caressing a brown flaky crust.
But hey, you could stash your belongings.
I pulled my duffel bag from under my cot and tossed myself atop.
Staring at the ghost of a ceiling, I let my mind drift through the past.
Jacob’s Lot
The familiar stench of pine sol, tobacco, and long ago spilt beer permeated my senses, as I traded a bright southern day for the dank refuge of Tony’s Bar and grill.
Marguerite, the well past middle age but still a bit fetching bar maid was deftly applying yet another coating of pine sol with her bar towel.
Old Charley, a sixteen hour fixture, sitting at the bar, half way through his day shift of diluting the mourning of the loss of his two timing woman from previous decades, turned to focus on who just walked in.
The dirge of a refrain from ‘I Walk Alone’ twanged from the juke box.
It was Charlie’s favorite song.
It was Charlie’s only song.
It was Tony’s favorite song, as Marguerite yarded out a bag of quarters every four hours or so from the gaudy chest.
Big John was jacking his jaws toward a poor soul, gettin’ too close as usual, talking loud enough to make one think he had a miniature mega phone tucked in his mouth.
And he wasn’t as big as he thought he was…just tall, and loud…I called him loud John, just to get a rise outta him.
And there was Tony, at his post, way in the back, sitting at his round table, heavy black sun glasses, thick plaid shirt, Panama hat, eternal two day beard, accounting ledger under his pudgy hands…never could tell if he was studying his ledger or staring a hole through you.
He was not animated.
The odds were in favor of a bet that he was actually deceased.
His two cronies flanked his sides…never knew their names, but the one was always quite verbal, high pitched, gravelly voiced troll of a human. An unlit cigar perpetually toyed by his lips and teeth. Racetrack bookie type.
Barmaid legend has it that Tony had hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden upstairs where he resided, and a revolver in his lap at the table, where he spent all his waking hours.
Yeah, happy hour.
I settled into a dark wooden booth.
Marguerite brought me my beer.
I tried to lose myself in thought.
Had I become one of these predictable fixtures?
If so, was that so bad?
Can I just drift through the rest of my life?
Up to now, it had all been pretty traumatic, and hectic.
Now, living hand to mouth was quite liberating.
Yeah, long range planning was non-existent, but again, a relief…….
Esmeralda came hustling in from the back. She was the self-appointed darling of a gaggle of mongrels that frequented this fine establishment.
A bit chubby in the middle, like most thirty some year old senoritas.
Did have a good smile.
Thought about one day yielding to her come on, or even Marguerite, but I heard Marguerite would cut ya if things turned sour. Loud John talked about how she was such a tiger. I didn’t feel up to tiger standard.
And Mel, as I called the smiling enchantress, would require major expense in the antibiotic department.
And there’s all that paraphernalia of a possible relationship.
People that had actually worked today started filling the joint, so I settled up with Mel and sashayed out into the sun.
A couple doors down was the Sally, or Salvation Army mission. There were rules there.
Had to be in at a certain time.
Had to check yer bag behind the counter.
Had to sit through a sermon to eat.
Had to go to bed at lights out.
Couldn’t keep your clothes on in bed, even though it was a good chance someone else would be wearing them in the morning.
Had to be out at a certain time.
But it was a step up from the under the bridge hotel.
Around the corner was the Bayou Theater….fifty cents and you can watch five old run movies…and stay out of the cold or heat when pushed out of the mission. You did have to put up with the clientele however, and a commentary throughout the show, ‘Hey that’s Robert Taylor!’…..’No shit’…..’shut the hell up!’
Then across the square was home sweet home.
The Standard Hotel.
$1.25 a night or $5 a week…a five day week.
It was a converted warehouse of a thousand partitioned ‘rooms’, 6 x 4 rooms.
The cots had some sort of linen and thin blanket. Not sure what color anything was, because they all had their very own 20 watt light strung to the middle, hanging from god knows where.
It was enough to scatter a few hundred exoskeletal friends. I remember my first night, thought I had a brown comforter.
The end of each hall had a wash tub with sometimes warm water, along with a toilet,
usually flushable…sometimes clogged…but always caressing a brown flaky crust.
But hey, you could stash your belongings.
I pulled my duffel bag from under my cot and tossed myself atop.
Staring at the ghost of a ceiling, I let my mind drift through the past.
echo
Well-known member
Me and my buddies went hunting in the Trinity. We felt something was wrong and finally found out that a bear was stalking us.
I told my buddy Delbert to duck into some buck brush and waste it if it did not have cubs. And... we would come back when we hear a gun shot.
We heard a gun shot and the bear was dead. We field dressed it and when we got home we skinned it. It freaked us out as the thing looked like a human hanging on our meat hook.. The meat was not that great but it beats no meat.
I told my buddy Delbert to duck into some buck brush and waste it if it did not have cubs. And... we would come back when we hear a gun shot.
We heard a gun shot and the bear was dead. We field dressed it and when we got home we skinned it. It freaked us out as the thing looked like a human hanging on our meat hook.. The meat was not that great but it beats no meat.