Gary O'
Well-known member
Yeah, I know that one.
I'm not so fond of it either
Sriracha covers a lot of sins
-
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Story Time
- Thread starter Gary O'
- Start date
Sriracha covers a lot of sins
echo
Well-known member
Those Vietnamese red peppers are hot as hell too.
Choy Duck
Gary O'
Well-known member
My cousin...and his pedal tractor
Thing is, they had essentially nothing
Not even a whole house
Folks on my dad's side were some of the original The Grapes of Wrath folks
Only, my uncle Curty never ever quite got the hang of staying put....anywhere
We'd visit 'em about once ever six months (once we found 'em again)
They'd always be living in a house (sorta) on blocks
Always had to find a way to get up into the place
The yard was dirt
The interior walls always had blankets instead of doors
But my cousin had this pedal tractor.....and trailer
Seems he always had sumpm really cool
Had some sorta upmanship thing going
Let me sit on it.....for a few seconds
'That's enough'
Didn't even get a chance to pedal
But, man, looking back, they were poor.....poorer than poor
My uncle never really had a job
Just got stuff and sold it
Even their houses
We were invited to my cousin's family shindig a few years ago
He's on his third or fourth wife
…...and third family
lotsa kids here and there
Anyway, he built a very nice place
Out in the country a ways
Built a trout pond
Very nice, well manicured grounds
Flies to work in his helicopter
Showed it to me, in his helicopter garage
I didn't get to sit in it
I don't have a helicopter
or helicopter garage
...or a garage
still pretty much hate him
Thing is, they had essentially nothing
Not even a whole house
Folks on my dad's side were some of the original The Grapes of Wrath folks
Only, my uncle Curty never ever quite got the hang of staying put....anywhere
We'd visit 'em about once ever six months (once we found 'em again)
They'd always be living in a house (sorta) on blocks
Always had to find a way to get up into the place
The yard was dirt
The interior walls always had blankets instead of doors
But my cousin had this pedal tractor.....and trailer
Seems he always had sumpm really cool
Had some sorta upmanship thing going
Let me sit on it.....for a few seconds
'That's enough'
Didn't even get a chance to pedal
But, man, looking back, they were poor.....poorer than poor
My uncle never really had a job
Just got stuff and sold it
Even their houses
We were invited to my cousin's family shindig a few years ago
He's on his third or fourth wife
…...and third family
lotsa kids here and there
Anyway, he built a very nice place
Out in the country a ways
Built a trout pond
Very nice, well manicured grounds
Flies to work in his helicopter
Showed it to me, in his helicopter garage
I didn't get to sit in it
I don't have a helicopter
or helicopter garage
...or a garage
still pretty much hate him
echo
Well-known member
My poor deceased cousin used to beat me up for no reason when we were kids.
I finally had it with him. I went into his bedroom and he took a swing at me.
I pushed him on his bed, turned him over, pushed the bed against the wall with him hanging over the edge of his bed. Jumped on him and used both fists on his kidneys.
He never messed with me again.
My Mothers side gave him a job in the family machine shop and taught him a trade.
He then quit and joined the bikers. He got married and his wife tried to kill him, he came and lived with me.
He had nine babies that he bragged about. Somehow he got enough money to buy a huge ranch. (Grandmothers Money?)
The last time I saw him we went hunting on his place, he got lost (Altzheimers bad).
I shot my weapon so he could come to the sound.
A neighbor yelled, What are you shooting at,
I said I'm trying to kill that SOB cousin of mine.
He grinned and walked off.
I finally had it with him. I went into his bedroom and he took a swing at me.
I pushed him on his bed, turned him over, pushed the bed against the wall with him hanging over the edge of his bed. Jumped on him and used both fists on his kidneys.
He never messed with me again.
My Mothers side gave him a job in the family machine shop and taught him a trade.
He then quit and joined the bikers. He got married and his wife tried to kill him, he came and lived with me.
He had nine babies that he bragged about. Somehow he got enough money to buy a huge ranch. (Grandmothers Money?)
The last time I saw him we went hunting on his place, he got lost (Altzheimers bad).
I shot my weapon so he could come to the sound.
A neighbor yelled, What are you shooting at,
I said I'm trying to kill that SOB cousin of mine.
He grinned and walked off.
Gary O'
Well-known member
Gotta what ya gotta do
Did that
Around 10 years of age
With a Louisville Slugger
Never bothered me again
We still wish each other Happy Birthday
Gary O'
Well-known member
Gramma
Kin came from the dust bowl, Okies. The Joad family (The Grapes of Wrath) represented them well.
Gramma coulda easily played Ma Joad…if she didn’t….
She raised me.
Actually, she raised everyone in our country neighborhood.
Gramma made a home with little, but always clean.
The aroma from her kitchen was everlasting.
She could turn corn bread and hominy into a feast.
Sometimes she’d just take some left over corn bread and break it up into a bowl and pour milk and sugar on it.
Called it ‘crumbs’.
Always a pie or cobbler.
Always a huge garden.
Always tending something, or someone.
She could give you a bath with a teaspoon of water.
Ever so often, we'd head to 'Monkey' Wards in the old ‘51 Chevy.
It was her outing.
She 'wash' my face with her hanky
'Spit on this'
If I played my cards right, she'd fish a stick of double mint outa her purse and halve it with me.
I preferred a wad of Double Bubble, but that half stick wasn't that bad....purse dirt and all.
Most times we'd be picking up something like a post hole digger, or a part for a pressure cooker that she'd ordered, nothin' fancy.
After pulling a number, we’d sit in the big room downstairs of the huge multi-storied Wards store, waiting for them to pull our order.
I remember one time she fished my hand out of a spittoon of which I’d found interest in its contents.
I don’t remember ever going in with them after that.
She had a genuine warmth that accepted anyone, and a kindness that made her home yours.
Nothing gushy, just down home, grapes of wrath folk.
Plain speaking.
She had an economy with words.
Names of things and places were all 'whatchcallit'.
She called most everyone ‘kid’, except for me. She called me ‘picklepuss’.
For a while there I thought my name really was picklepuss.
She had huge, pillowy gramma arms.
When she’d raise ‘em to hang laundry, they’d kinda drape down, giving the impression of a giant flying squirrel.
Or better yet, a caped crusader…X Gramma, queen of the quilting bee.
When she'd settle you down for a nap, they'd envelope you.
No one got away.
Where do grammas get those arms, and when?
She always had ‘em as far back as I can recall.
They were very nap inducing, coupled with her high pitched nasal country tone singing you to slumber, her super powers were always too much for extended consciousness.
As sweet as she was, she could be stubborn when necessary.
We had a collie/shepherd dog named Tag.
Our family had a long history of keeping a dog outside.
It rains a lot in Oregon and a wet dog in a small house is not a good combination.
Tag was gun shy, and whenever we had a thunderstorm he’d run under the car or house, or in the house if you’d let him.
Thinking back, I think the whole family was gun shy, as we’d oftentimes run furtively out to the car to sit out the storm…something about the tires grounding the car.
One of these storms hit relatively close one evening, so we decided to get in the car and drive the mile around the corner, up the hill, to Gramma’s house.
Tag followed, running right behind the car. Maybe he’d heard about the grounding theory…..sweet dog, but his intellect was a bit skewed. Looked kinda like Lassie, but was more the antichrist of the collie world.
Arriving at Gramma’s, she greeted us by opening her screen door a few inches.
It was enough for Tag to forcefully nose his way in.
Ever try to get a dripping wet panic stricken dog out of your house? Evidently Gramma had.
In less time than you could say ‘whatchcallit’, Tag was flying back out the door, through the air and off the porch. He did a couple belly rolls and slinked under the car.
Gramma put her broom back, behind the door, at the ready, like it was her shot gun.
Work for her was recreation, rewarding, sustaining.
Our strawberries noticeably yielded more than any field around.
It may’ve been due to her putting a spade full of fertilizer under each plant.
She could pick a hundred carriers a day.
And did.
She had so many, many friends.
Friends from way back.
I think Aunt Becky, her sister of eight, was the closest.
They’d get together and mostly laugh.
All it took was a few words and they’d both be chortling.
Decades later, Dad, himself in his eighties, told me Aunt Becky enjoyed a rather torrid life, and amongst her escapades, laid a known convicted killer…..several times.
Told me not to tell anyone (I hadn’t the heart to tell him everbody that counted was long gone)
And here they were, in my mind, veritable church ladies, seemingly innocently snickering, tittering…..about…..
Gramma had a way with kids, not doting, more like a maintenance thing.
Yet, she pulled you in, kept you, hands free.
She’d give me a sly, sideways knowing look, if she caught me up to something.
All it took.
I never saw her mad.
Never heard her even raise her voice.
Yet, she had a knack.
A knack in getting you to do things you’d never dreamt doing.
In church you could hear her high pitched Minnie Mouse voice whining out a hymn, tears in hers eyes.
She lived to be 97, out living three husbands.
A year after one of them passed, she'd go to Mode-O-Day, buy a bright flowered dress, get her hair done, put on a bit of rouge, and snag another one.
She lived with Dad and his wife in her last years.
We spelled him.
One time we left her with our preteen kids, when we’d reserved a weekend beach fling, just me and my lady.
Thinking they’d watch each other.
They did….for the most part.
One afternoon, after getting back from the beach, we settled into dinner
Nothing great, just some light entre and a tossed salad.
My lady was dishing out the salad, congratulating the boys on how things went, not noticing the looks they were giving each other.
So I said, ‘what’s up, guys?’
Turns out they found a well-used ‘napkin’ on the bathroom counter.
Grabbed the salad tongs, and, holding it at arm’s length, took it out to the garbage can.
Putting the tongs back in the utensil drawer.
She laughed a lot.
Mostly at herself.
Of anyone's passing, hers I feel the most.
As it's been said, a full life, well lived.
Kin came from the dust bowl, Okies. The Joad family (The Grapes of Wrath) represented them well.
Gramma coulda easily played Ma Joad…if she didn’t….
She raised me.
Actually, she raised everyone in our country neighborhood.
Gramma made a home with little, but always clean.
The aroma from her kitchen was everlasting.
She could turn corn bread and hominy into a feast.
Sometimes she’d just take some left over corn bread and break it up into a bowl and pour milk and sugar on it.
Called it ‘crumbs’.
Always a pie or cobbler.
Always a huge garden.
Always tending something, or someone.
She could give you a bath with a teaspoon of water.
Ever so often, we'd head to 'Monkey' Wards in the old ‘51 Chevy.
It was her outing.
She 'wash' my face with her hanky
'Spit on this'
If I played my cards right, she'd fish a stick of double mint outa her purse and halve it with me.
I preferred a wad of Double Bubble, but that half stick wasn't that bad....purse dirt and all.
Most times we'd be picking up something like a post hole digger, or a part for a pressure cooker that she'd ordered, nothin' fancy.
After pulling a number, we’d sit in the big room downstairs of the huge multi-storied Wards store, waiting for them to pull our order.
I remember one time she fished my hand out of a spittoon of which I’d found interest in its contents.
I don’t remember ever going in with them after that.
She had a genuine warmth that accepted anyone, and a kindness that made her home yours.
Nothing gushy, just down home, grapes of wrath folk.
Plain speaking.
She had an economy with words.
Names of things and places were all 'whatchcallit'.
She called most everyone ‘kid’, except for me. She called me ‘picklepuss’.
For a while there I thought my name really was picklepuss.
She had huge, pillowy gramma arms.
When she’d raise ‘em to hang laundry, they’d kinda drape down, giving the impression of a giant flying squirrel.
Or better yet, a caped crusader…X Gramma, queen of the quilting bee.
When she'd settle you down for a nap, they'd envelope you.
No one got away.
Where do grammas get those arms, and when?
She always had ‘em as far back as I can recall.
They were very nap inducing, coupled with her high pitched nasal country tone singing you to slumber, her super powers were always too much for extended consciousness.
As sweet as she was, she could be stubborn when necessary.
We had a collie/shepherd dog named Tag.
Our family had a long history of keeping a dog outside.
It rains a lot in Oregon and a wet dog in a small house is not a good combination.
Tag was gun shy, and whenever we had a thunderstorm he’d run under the car or house, or in the house if you’d let him.
Thinking back, I think the whole family was gun shy, as we’d oftentimes run furtively out to the car to sit out the storm…something about the tires grounding the car.
One of these storms hit relatively close one evening, so we decided to get in the car and drive the mile around the corner, up the hill, to Gramma’s house.
Tag followed, running right behind the car. Maybe he’d heard about the grounding theory…..sweet dog, but his intellect was a bit skewed. Looked kinda like Lassie, but was more the antichrist of the collie world.
Arriving at Gramma’s, she greeted us by opening her screen door a few inches.
It was enough for Tag to forcefully nose his way in.
Ever try to get a dripping wet panic stricken dog out of your house? Evidently Gramma had.
In less time than you could say ‘whatchcallit’, Tag was flying back out the door, through the air and off the porch. He did a couple belly rolls and slinked under the car.
Gramma put her broom back, behind the door, at the ready, like it was her shot gun.
Work for her was recreation, rewarding, sustaining.
Our strawberries noticeably yielded more than any field around.
It may’ve been due to her putting a spade full of fertilizer under each plant.
She could pick a hundred carriers a day.
And did.
She had so many, many friends.
Friends from way back.
I think Aunt Becky, her sister of eight, was the closest.
They’d get together and mostly laugh.
All it took was a few words and they’d both be chortling.
Decades later, Dad, himself in his eighties, told me Aunt Becky enjoyed a rather torrid life, and amongst her escapades, laid a known convicted killer…..several times.
Told me not to tell anyone (I hadn’t the heart to tell him everbody that counted was long gone)
And here they were, in my mind, veritable church ladies, seemingly innocently snickering, tittering…..about…..
Gramma had a way with kids, not doting, more like a maintenance thing.
Yet, she pulled you in, kept you, hands free.
She’d give me a sly, sideways knowing look, if she caught me up to something.
All it took.
I never saw her mad.
Never heard her even raise her voice.
Yet, she had a knack.
A knack in getting you to do things you’d never dreamt doing.
In church you could hear her high pitched Minnie Mouse voice whining out a hymn, tears in hers eyes.
She lived to be 97, out living three husbands.
A year after one of them passed, she'd go to Mode-O-Day, buy a bright flowered dress, get her hair done, put on a bit of rouge, and snag another one.
She lived with Dad and his wife in her last years.
We spelled him.
One time we left her with our preteen kids, when we’d reserved a weekend beach fling, just me and my lady.
Thinking they’d watch each other.
They did….for the most part.
One afternoon, after getting back from the beach, we settled into dinner
Nothing great, just some light entre and a tossed salad.
My lady was dishing out the salad, congratulating the boys on how things went, not noticing the looks they were giving each other.
So I said, ‘what’s up, guys?’
Turns out they found a well-used ‘napkin’ on the bathroom counter.
Grabbed the salad tongs, and, holding it at arm’s length, took it out to the garbage can.
Putting the tongs back in the utensil drawer.
She laughed a lot.
Mostly at herself.
Of anyone's passing, hers I feel the most.
As it's been said, a full life, well lived.
She sounds like Granny Glen. I don't have many granny stories due to moving away from the extended family in Nebraska to Michigan when I was 8. But here is one my dad told me from the depression days.
Seems back then we had a large extended family that lived in or around Plattsmouth Nebraska. On holidays they would all get together, lots of them. Aunts, uncles kids everyone including granny Glen. She was full blood Cherokee that smoked a corn cobb pipe, Married to Lon Owens, the patriarch of that side of the family. On one of these get togethers the kids must of been getting older. Granny Glen was in the kitchen area with all the other women. Granny Glen says, you better watch them girls around them boys. The moms all said Granny, there cousins. Granny said cousins got pussies too. All the moms looked at each other, then jumped up and ran outside screaming for there daughters.
Seems back then we had a large extended family that lived in or around Plattsmouth Nebraska. On holidays they would all get together, lots of them. Aunts, uncles kids everyone including granny Glen. She was full blood Cherokee that smoked a corn cobb pipe, Married to Lon Owens, the patriarch of that side of the family. On one of these get togethers the kids must of been getting older. Granny Glen was in the kitchen area with all the other women. Granny Glen says, you better watch them girls around them boys. The moms all said Granny, there cousins. Granny said cousins got pussies too. All the moms looked at each other, then jumped up and ran outside screaming for there daughters.
echo
Well-known member
My Grandmother Lizzie, ruled the roost with her corset stay. (A piece of very flexible thin metal strip that stung like a bee). She was a devoted Baptist.
Her and my Mom fought allot. I asked what they were fighting about and no body knew so I paid attention and found out and kept my mouth shut. I know where the bones are buried.
I couldn't wait to go visit her. When we did she would give me a nickle and I would go buy a fat tamale wrapped in paper with metal clamps on both ends. That was my treat.
Her and my Mom fought allot. I asked what they were fighting about and no body knew so I paid attention and found out and kept my mouth shut. I know where the bones are buried.
I couldn't wait to go visit her. When we did she would give me a nickle and I would go buy a fat tamale wrapped in paper with metal clamps on both ends. That was my treat.
echo
Well-known member
My brother Dennis Buyser (deceased) died young. He was on the USS Vance as a petty officer.
I was working on a well know missle for a defense contractor at the time and after his funeral I lost all contact with his family because of working long hours. The only info I have is his wife married someone and moved out of state. Any info out there?
Add:
I won't bother them, just curious.
I was working on a well know missle for a defense contractor at the time and after his funeral I lost all contact with his family because of working long hours. The only info I have is his wife married someone and moved out of state. Any info out there?
Add:
I won't bother them, just curious.
Attachments
Last edited:
Gary O'
Well-known member
....moving along
Labor
Let's start from the beginning (or as I've been told, mine);
Mom was in a maternity ward, toiling away.
Me? I was doing all I could to stay warm, and at home.
I was quite comfy and couldn't care less about goin' anywhere.
But this indescribable force propelled me into the chute much like someone cramming dirty laundry into an overstuffed washer.
Seventeen labor filled hours later;
'Hey, ya oughta see the mutt of a baby next to ours, geeeezus, head looks like a plumb bob!'
The young mother, next to mine, is frowning and signaling with her head toward mom.
Apparently, my trip thru the eerie canal was a tad narrow, and my noggin had taken on the shape of a butternut squash.
And why do they say the mothers are in labor?
Seems the kid is doin' all the work.
Then again, everything is work, really.
My dad proved this to me all through my growing up years.
I don't think he ever played a day in his life.
We got a boat, a large one, a cabin cruiser.
Dad had worked day and night to get it.
Actually he hadn't worked to get it. He worked around the clock no matter what we needed or wanted.
The boat just happened to be the thing that seemed would be enjoyable, for the whole family.
Only every aspect about it was made into work.
Even when we were just cruising up the river, 'Gary, you stand here and watch for dead heads, you know what a dead head is dontcha? A dead head is a log that is just barely stickin' outta the water...can't see it right away, but it will tear a hole in the boat, and we'll all drown.'
'OK'
'And tighten that life jacket.'
'OK'
'Watch out for the wakes of other boats. You can get thrown out.'
'OK'
'DON'T TOUCH THAT!!'
'OK'
'Fun, huh?'
'OK'
Years later, I invited Dad to help me knock out a couple buckets of balls at the driving range. Maybe get him away from his life of toil a bit and relax.
Heh.
He swung so hard at those evasive little dimpled eggs, I thought he'd screw himself into the ground.
After watching him do several pirouettes, half the time falling down, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing under the sun he didn't work at.
Turns out, he loved work.
And he wanted me to love it too.
His frustration with me was evident when we'd go into the back yard and 'just toss the ol' ball around'.
I had better than average hand/eye coordination, and probably better than average athletic ability, so playing ball came rather easy.
I made it look easy.
No awkward moves.
A bit of flow to things.
He thought I wasn't playing hard enough.
When he caught the ball, or threw it, he'd make a little grunt.
Actually he made that little grunt just picking up the newspaper, or shaving...'See you just take little strokes, ungh, like that, ungh.'
In 'just tossing the ol' ball around', he always had a fixed, determined stare....at the ball, coupled with a grim look, like he was just sentenced to a life of breaking rocks.
I'd toss it back to him and watch his countenance tighten into a grimace as the ball sailed into his out stretched glove.
If I threw a moderately wild one, and he happened to miss it, he'd scurry back to get it like Peewee Reese was stealing home.
'OK, let's see how your fast ball is doin'.'
'Hey, nice curve, you've got a natural curve ball, boy.'
(my fast ball is goin' so slow he thinks it's a curve ball)
'One more hard one.'
Four hours of 'one more hard one' into the dark of night, three hours after Mom had advised that, 'our #&*%# dinner is getting #&*%# cold', I was given permission to carry my arm inside and plop it on the table.
It was work.
I liked to play.
But this is what I've come to determine; play is just fun work.
In my very early childhood years, I had several small toy cars and trucks.
These were mostly rubber with yellow wheels.
Several decades later, I looked up these cars. They were made by Auburn Rubber Company. I had the '56 Plymouth wagon, the '57 Ford Ranchero, the T-Bird, and the '32 deuce coupe hot rod.
I also had the red Harley, but it was larger and my early obsessions would never allow myself to incorporate it into the scheme of things.
That scheme was building towns and neighborhoods.
The whole back yard was my universe.
I did my best to make it all as realistic as possible, carving roads in the side of the hill and building tiny houses and stores out of bricks and 2x4 millends.
Using care to keep it all in scale.
Tuna cans became swimming pools.
Weeds became landscaping.
Tag, my overgrown ogre giant dog, became a pest.
The scourge of Tiny Town.
A happy, playful scourge.
Sometimes kids would come over, and bring their cars.
Only their cars were too big. They hadn't noticed.
I preferred to just play by myself.
My very own dirt erector set.
I needed nothing or anyone else.
But
The fun was in building. Once everything was built, it was over.
If I did let a kid play with me, they'd get all wrapped up in a plot of some kind, and jabber away at who everyone was, and several scenes would be discussed. None of that did anything for me.
I did, however, in my toddler years, sit in on a couple tea parties my sister and Bessie Dodge put on.
But, they too were enmeshed in setting up scenarios. It was as though they were miniature playwrights, discussing various acts and scenes.
And I, I was the best boy, or key grip, or maybe gaffer.
'OK, you were upset because Rock Hudson didn't show up, but I was happy because my handsome boyfriend, Cary Grant, was here, more tea?'
(seems I was hauled in to be the Cary Grant stand in)
The tea (tepid water), and the mud scones (mud scones) looked quite inviting, all set up on the tiny card table with frilly napkins and minute fine chinette.
After initial set up, all this became an unbearable bore. So, as interest faded, and the mud around my lips dried (yes, I actually ate the scones) I sidled away from their little playhouse setting, finding fascination with bugs and ants and a magnifying glass.
It seems, at least in the '50s, that 'play' was a bit overrated and overplayed.......I guess hyped would be the word.
TV ads would show kids eyes light up when they played with things like Tinkertoys and Lincoln Logs, or (be still my heart) Lionel trains.
They would say things like 'Gee' and Gosh' and have an eternal smile pasted on their little gleeful mugs.
So, me and sis would be layin' on the floor, elbows helping our hands prop our faces up, starin' at the grey and white ads, absorbing thoughts like, 'Huh, so that's what happy looks like.'
Parents would look on, paralyzed with guilt, unable to flip the channel, mainly because that was the only one that had decent reception, let alone have to get up and turn the knob.
Come to think about it, actual play hardly existed back then.
Anticipation
Unwrapping
Putting together (by illiterate overconfident parents that abhorred reading any printed matter)
Crying
Going to bed
That's what mostly existed.
I just liked building, fun work.
Around twelve, or maybe thirteen, we moved further out of town.
The neighborhood was spread out and six acres of woods, that bordered a few thousand acres of woods, was our back yard.
I scrounged some 2x4s and sheets of ply, along with some sheets of tin and fashioned myself a little hut. I loosely called it my cabin.
It was just a lean-to with homemade door and scavenged cot.
However, it was mine, my place.
Again, once it was built the fun was over.
Sure, I'd sleep in it sometimes, but it was cold, and damp, and leaked like a sieve.
I learned to appreciate the finer things of life, like a house, and a proper bed, and a refrigerator, and a toilet.
That work thing that my dad was so enrapt in took on a whole new admiration.
Labor
Let's start from the beginning (or as I've been told, mine);
Mom was in a maternity ward, toiling away.
Me? I was doing all I could to stay warm, and at home.
I was quite comfy and couldn't care less about goin' anywhere.
But this indescribable force propelled me into the chute much like someone cramming dirty laundry into an overstuffed washer.
Seventeen labor filled hours later;
'Hey, ya oughta see the mutt of a baby next to ours, geeeezus, head looks like a plumb bob!'
The young mother, next to mine, is frowning and signaling with her head toward mom.
Apparently, my trip thru the eerie canal was a tad narrow, and my noggin had taken on the shape of a butternut squash.
And why do they say the mothers are in labor?
Seems the kid is doin' all the work.
Then again, everything is work, really.
My dad proved this to me all through my growing up years.
I don't think he ever played a day in his life.
We got a boat, a large one, a cabin cruiser.
Dad had worked day and night to get it.
Actually he hadn't worked to get it. He worked around the clock no matter what we needed or wanted.
The boat just happened to be the thing that seemed would be enjoyable, for the whole family.
Only every aspect about it was made into work.
Even when we were just cruising up the river, 'Gary, you stand here and watch for dead heads, you know what a dead head is dontcha? A dead head is a log that is just barely stickin' outta the water...can't see it right away, but it will tear a hole in the boat, and we'll all drown.'
'OK'
'And tighten that life jacket.'
'OK'
'Watch out for the wakes of other boats. You can get thrown out.'
'OK'
'DON'T TOUCH THAT!!'
'OK'
'Fun, huh?'
'OK'
Years later, I invited Dad to help me knock out a couple buckets of balls at the driving range. Maybe get him away from his life of toil a bit and relax.
Heh.
He swung so hard at those evasive little dimpled eggs, I thought he'd screw himself into the ground.
After watching him do several pirouettes, half the time falling down, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing under the sun he didn't work at.
Turns out, he loved work.
And he wanted me to love it too.
His frustration with me was evident when we'd go into the back yard and 'just toss the ol' ball around'.
I had better than average hand/eye coordination, and probably better than average athletic ability, so playing ball came rather easy.
I made it look easy.
No awkward moves.
A bit of flow to things.
He thought I wasn't playing hard enough.
When he caught the ball, or threw it, he'd make a little grunt.
Actually he made that little grunt just picking up the newspaper, or shaving...'See you just take little strokes, ungh, like that, ungh.'
In 'just tossing the ol' ball around', he always had a fixed, determined stare....at the ball, coupled with a grim look, like he was just sentenced to a life of breaking rocks.
I'd toss it back to him and watch his countenance tighten into a grimace as the ball sailed into his out stretched glove.
If I threw a moderately wild one, and he happened to miss it, he'd scurry back to get it like Peewee Reese was stealing home.
'OK, let's see how your fast ball is doin'.'
'Hey, nice curve, you've got a natural curve ball, boy.'
(my fast ball is goin' so slow he thinks it's a curve ball)
'One more hard one.'
Four hours of 'one more hard one' into the dark of night, three hours after Mom had advised that, 'our #&*%# dinner is getting #&*%# cold', I was given permission to carry my arm inside and plop it on the table.
It was work.
I liked to play.
But this is what I've come to determine; play is just fun work.
In my very early childhood years, I had several small toy cars and trucks.
These were mostly rubber with yellow wheels.
Several decades later, I looked up these cars. They were made by Auburn Rubber Company. I had the '56 Plymouth wagon, the '57 Ford Ranchero, the T-Bird, and the '32 deuce coupe hot rod.
I also had the red Harley, but it was larger and my early obsessions would never allow myself to incorporate it into the scheme of things.
That scheme was building towns and neighborhoods.
The whole back yard was my universe.
I did my best to make it all as realistic as possible, carving roads in the side of the hill and building tiny houses and stores out of bricks and 2x4 millends.
Using care to keep it all in scale.
Tuna cans became swimming pools.
Weeds became landscaping.
Tag, my overgrown ogre giant dog, became a pest.
The scourge of Tiny Town.
A happy, playful scourge.
Sometimes kids would come over, and bring their cars.
Only their cars were too big. They hadn't noticed.
I preferred to just play by myself.
My very own dirt erector set.
I needed nothing or anyone else.
But
The fun was in building. Once everything was built, it was over.
If I did let a kid play with me, they'd get all wrapped up in a plot of some kind, and jabber away at who everyone was, and several scenes would be discussed. None of that did anything for me.
I did, however, in my toddler years, sit in on a couple tea parties my sister and Bessie Dodge put on.
But, they too were enmeshed in setting up scenarios. It was as though they were miniature playwrights, discussing various acts and scenes.
And I, I was the best boy, or key grip, or maybe gaffer.
'OK, you were upset because Rock Hudson didn't show up, but I was happy because my handsome boyfriend, Cary Grant, was here, more tea?'
(seems I was hauled in to be the Cary Grant stand in)
The tea (tepid water), and the mud scones (mud scones) looked quite inviting, all set up on the tiny card table with frilly napkins and minute fine chinette.
After initial set up, all this became an unbearable bore. So, as interest faded, and the mud around my lips dried (yes, I actually ate the scones) I sidled away from their little playhouse setting, finding fascination with bugs and ants and a magnifying glass.
It seems, at least in the '50s, that 'play' was a bit overrated and overplayed.......I guess hyped would be the word.
TV ads would show kids eyes light up when they played with things like Tinkertoys and Lincoln Logs, or (be still my heart) Lionel trains.
They would say things like 'Gee' and Gosh' and have an eternal smile pasted on their little gleeful mugs.
So, me and sis would be layin' on the floor, elbows helping our hands prop our faces up, starin' at the grey and white ads, absorbing thoughts like, 'Huh, so that's what happy looks like.'
Parents would look on, paralyzed with guilt, unable to flip the channel, mainly because that was the only one that had decent reception, let alone have to get up and turn the knob.
Come to think about it, actual play hardly existed back then.
Anticipation
Unwrapping
Putting together (by illiterate overconfident parents that abhorred reading any printed matter)
Crying
Going to bed
That's what mostly existed.
I just liked building, fun work.
Around twelve, or maybe thirteen, we moved further out of town.
The neighborhood was spread out and six acres of woods, that bordered a few thousand acres of woods, was our back yard.
I scrounged some 2x4s and sheets of ply, along with some sheets of tin and fashioned myself a little hut. I loosely called it my cabin.
It was just a lean-to with homemade door and scavenged cot.
However, it was mine, my place.
Again, once it was built the fun was over.
Sure, I'd sleep in it sometimes, but it was cold, and damp, and leaked like a sieve.
I learned to appreciate the finer things of life, like a house, and a proper bed, and a refrigerator, and a toilet.
That work thing that my dad was so enrapt in took on a whole new admiration.
FrancSevin
Proudly Deplorable
Work, that desire to accomplish, isn't the spice of life,,, it is the reason.
Once again Gary, my compliments to your prose.
Once again Gary, my compliments to your prose.
Gary O'
Well-known member
Grampa
He was a quiet man.
Work was his vocation and recreation.
I spent a lot of time at their place in my early years, his last years.
Seems Grampa always had chores that filled his waking hours.
I was his shadow.
He wore coveralls most days, and always sported an old grey fedora.
His high cut oxfords made a shuffling sound as he walked. Parkinson’s was having its way with his system.
We’d dine on a bowl of hominy together in the country kitchen.
As the midday sun danced on the table through the window from between the limbs of the giant firs, I’d watch his massive hand struggle to keep his corn on the shaking spoon.
In between chores, and my naps, he’d sit in the old padded rocker and thumb through a photo album while I stood at his side.
‘The dapple was Molly and the grey was Dixie’, pointing to the work horse team he knew so well.
Seemed Grampa had a couple soft balls tucked in his upper shirt sleeves.
He was a compact man at five nine, but stout, bull neck, thick arms.
I knew him in his lesser years, keeping his meaning to life by doing small jobs.
Things like sharpening the hoes with rasps, feeding the chickens, gathering eggs, or lubing the tractor.
He cut down a hoe to my size, and all three of us hoed acres of strawberries.
I saw him laugh...once.
He was a proud man, brought down and humbled by an untreatable disease, but keeping his misery within.
Dad says he was hard boiled in his younger years, and short on patience. Proud.
I knew him as a much different man.
Through a cracked door to his study, you could on his hands and knees,
talking to his Lord, no longer able to just kneel.
His bible was quite worn.
Dad gave to it me a few years ago.
I leant it to him at Christmas.
I’ll get it back pretty soon.
I think of times then and times now.
What a difference in pace, in conviction, in the shear enjoyment of endurance in simple living.
I see my grandkids give me an occasional glance of admiration, but nothing like the revered awe I had of him.
He died when I was ten.
I can still hear the shuffle of his feet, but it’s mine that echo his stride now.
echo
Well-known member
My Grandfather was a real cowboy. He ran away in his early teens because his stepmother treated him like crap. He and the rest of them ran cattle from Missouri to out west in cattle drives.
He didn't drink so he saved his money and bought a 2000 acre ranch in Casper, Wyoming.
He read a book that cost 10 cents about the upcoming depression. He took his money out of the bank and bought 50 dollar gold pieces and buried them. He put my father thru college and took care of the rest of the family after the crash of 29. Him and my dad did not get along. I asked him if anyone he knew hanged anyone for cattle wrestling, he said they knew the rules. That was not true for my uncle from Texas.
The posse that was giving last rights to him asked him if had anything to say before they hung him, he talked for two days before the end. He did give early family history that they wrote on a piece of metal.
He didn't drink so he saved his money and bought a 2000 acre ranch in Casper, Wyoming.
He read a book that cost 10 cents about the upcoming depression. He took his money out of the bank and bought 50 dollar gold pieces and buried them. He put my father thru college and took care of the rest of the family after the crash of 29. Him and my dad did not get along. I asked him if anyone he knew hanged anyone for cattle wrestling, he said they knew the rules. That was not true for my uncle from Texas.
The posse that was giving last rights to him asked him if had anything to say before they hung him, he talked for two days before the end. He did give early family history that they wrote on a piece of metal.
echo
Well-known member
Now a war story:
I called the old man and asked him if a couple of us could take a few days off and go to Thailand and play.
He said sure and I will have my people book a flight on Air Vietnam. We reported to the flight and got aboard and the stewardess said we have to wait for our escort. (I won't tell what General).
Pretty soon a couple of phantoms buzzed the runway and it was announced to fasten our seat belts as we are taking off.
We had a fighter at the end of each wing and they were showing off on the trip.
When we got to Bangkok the fighter jets left by flying straight up.
We had a good time and troops that were heavily armed followed our every move.
When we got ready to depart the girl on the tarmac asked where our General was.
My quick though was that our General decided to stay longer. Phew
When we were boarding a beautiful tall Thai girl asked a GI babysitter if that thing was loaded pointing to his M-16. He said I don't know, and he pulled the trigger. A few rounds went up and he said yes.
People scattered and here came the Phantoms back and buzzed their runway.
She never asked our crazy American Gi's if their weapon were loaded again.
I called the old man and asked him if a couple of us could take a few days off and go to Thailand and play.
He said sure and I will have my people book a flight on Air Vietnam. We reported to the flight and got aboard and the stewardess said we have to wait for our escort. (I won't tell what General).
Pretty soon a couple of phantoms buzzed the runway and it was announced to fasten our seat belts as we are taking off.
We had a fighter at the end of each wing and they were showing off on the trip.
When we got to Bangkok the fighter jets left by flying straight up.
We had a good time and troops that were heavily armed followed our every move.
When we got ready to depart the girl on the tarmac asked where our General was.
My quick though was that our General decided to stay longer. Phew
When we were boarding a beautiful tall Thai girl asked a GI babysitter if that thing was loaded pointing to his M-16. He said I don't know, and he pulled the trigger. A few rounds went up and he said yes.
People scattered and here came the Phantoms back and buzzed their runway.
She never asked our crazy American Gi's if their weapon were loaded again.
Gary O'
Well-known member
When I was about four or five, we lived out in the country.
A sparsely populated neighborhood tucked back in the Chapman hills about twenty miles outta Scappoose.
Our place, and gramma’s place, atop the hill, was separated by five acres of strawberries carved out of a thicket of fir trees.
Ever so often I’d stay at gramma’s on a summer evening.
She made good pancakes….and the folks were going out.
One time I waited too long at home. There was just too much cowboy’n to do, and I’d lost track of time.
It was already twilight, and I had several hundred yards up the hill thru a couple clumps of trees to negotiate.
As I trudged thru the first glade of trees, I thought about eyes staring at me.
I’d seen lots of bear sign in my tiny travels, and some bobcat and cougar scat here and there. So, plenty to consider.
(Actually, years later, coming from town one evening, we pulled into the garage, and a big cat jumped down from the rafters and fled into the night. We just saw body and tail, but it was, without a doubt, a full grown cougar.)
Whistling seemed to rid the noises of the stillness in the dark regions of my petrified mind.
A generous moon lengthened shadows, turning stumps into animals of prey, licking their lips, fixated on my dashing form, like Tag would when I showed him the stick I was about to throw.
Ever so often I'd give a quick glance back, but the glaring, glowing eyes that were obviously there would mysteriously disappear.
The clearing, the path, the 300 yard dash.
Breathing came in gasps and pants…or was that the breath of the galloping cougar that was about to sink his teeth into my neck any minute, and tear my puny body to shreds.
The folks will wonder in the morning, ‘Where’s Gary?’
Then, days later, they’ll find bits of Oshkosh b’goshes, right at gramma’s door, and shreds of poop stained fruit of the looms, and the brim of my straw cowboy hat, the hat part that once housed my furrowed little noggin now several miles away in a steaming mound of mountain lion poopoo.
The clump of trees loomed ahead, separating me and gramma, good ol’ pillowy armed gramma…..even good ol’ grumpy grampa.
I heard something shriek, or was it a howl…I don’t recall my feet touching the ground over the last few yards thru their back yard thicket.
I do recall gramma, and her audible laughter, her high pitched teehee, as I hung my coat in the utility wash room of the back porch.
Apparently my countenance that morphed from bug eyed terror to smiling relief in the time space of flipping a light switch sorta tickled her.
The pancakes were extra good that next morning.
A sparsely populated neighborhood tucked back in the Chapman hills about twenty miles outta Scappoose.
Our place, and gramma’s place, atop the hill, was separated by five acres of strawberries carved out of a thicket of fir trees.
Ever so often I’d stay at gramma’s on a summer evening.
She made good pancakes….and the folks were going out.
One time I waited too long at home. There was just too much cowboy’n to do, and I’d lost track of time.
It was already twilight, and I had several hundred yards up the hill thru a couple clumps of trees to negotiate.
As I trudged thru the first glade of trees, I thought about eyes staring at me.
I’d seen lots of bear sign in my tiny travels, and some bobcat and cougar scat here and there. So, plenty to consider.
(Actually, years later, coming from town one evening, we pulled into the garage, and a big cat jumped down from the rafters and fled into the night. We just saw body and tail, but it was, without a doubt, a full grown cougar.)
Whistling seemed to rid the noises of the stillness in the dark regions of my petrified mind.
A generous moon lengthened shadows, turning stumps into animals of prey, licking their lips, fixated on my dashing form, like Tag would when I showed him the stick I was about to throw.
Ever so often I'd give a quick glance back, but the glaring, glowing eyes that were obviously there would mysteriously disappear.
The clearing, the path, the 300 yard dash.
Breathing came in gasps and pants…or was that the breath of the galloping cougar that was about to sink his teeth into my neck any minute, and tear my puny body to shreds.
The folks will wonder in the morning, ‘Where’s Gary?’
Then, days later, they’ll find bits of Oshkosh b’goshes, right at gramma’s door, and shreds of poop stained fruit of the looms, and the brim of my straw cowboy hat, the hat part that once housed my furrowed little noggin now several miles away in a steaming mound of mountain lion poopoo.
The clump of trees loomed ahead, separating me and gramma, good ol’ pillowy armed gramma…..even good ol’ grumpy grampa.
I heard something shriek, or was it a howl…I don’t recall my feet touching the ground over the last few yards thru their back yard thicket.
I do recall gramma, and her audible laughter, her high pitched teehee, as I hung my coat in the utility wash room of the back porch.
Apparently my countenance that morphed from bug eyed terror to smiling relief in the time space of flipping a light switch sorta tickled her.
The pancakes were extra good that next morning.
echo
Well-known member
My family went on vacation and left me behind to milk my step mothers goats, and do the chores.
I was tired and went to bed and got woke up by a leg hanging in my room from the window sill.
I had my 30/06 next to the bed and grabbed it and put my finger on the bullet as i was closing the bolt and wanted to be quiet.
It still made a click noise as the bullet was chambered.
The leg came back up and I fired. The next morning I went outside my window and the person was gone. I often wondered if the person had hearing problems or changed his ways. No blood just foot prints and skid marks.
I was tired and went to bed and got woke up by a leg hanging in my room from the window sill.
I had my 30/06 next to the bed and grabbed it and put my finger on the bullet as i was closing the bolt and wanted to be quiet.
It still made a click noise as the bullet was chambered.
The leg came back up and I fired. The next morning I went outside my window and the person was gone. I often wondered if the person had hearing problems or changed his ways. No blood just foot prints and skid marks.
Gary O'
Well-known member
There’s knowledge…then…..there’s knowledge
Been in many a conversation with folks of knowledge
Not talkin’ barroom confabs
Those usually lead to yelling matches and/or the introduction of mr knuckle to mr nose
No, serious discussions
Closed door conference room exec brainstorming, fix it meetings
Sometimes planned
Sometimes starting in hallways
Sometimes starting in washrooms
Sometimes after quarterly reports
Or
A fireside chat
One on one
Sipping an acceptable single malt
Maybe accompanied by a fine cigar
Those are nice
anyway
What I’ve noticed is, there’s at least two forms of knowledge
Experience
Academic
I can appreciate the academic in his quest to display what he’s been taught
But
That’s pretty much where it ends with me
No dis on him, no, it’s just that the academic usually has no way, no tool, to break down what he’s trying to convey into laymen’s terminology
It’s gotta be very frustrating for him
Then again, maybe even he doesn’t have that great of a grasp if he can’t…..
Had the pleasure of working alongside an older gentleman by the name of Moshofski
Heavily degreed
And had the savvy to back it up
With a pencil, a sketch, a few words of logic
accompanied with sweeping gestures of his pencil/wand, depicting thrust, while sketching something as simple as a tiny radius
molded into the inside of a 90° corner of the leg of a golf cart design
a very simple kindly gentleman
with the ability to break down his genius for the common man
He saved our little company a quarter million dollars in fifteen minutes of his time
These types have no need to belittle, to talk down, to put the subject under a microscope
No, they just kindly, gently show what they know
Then smile
Looking up at yer face, hoping to read understanding in the furrows of yer brow
Life is enjoyable around these folks
Quite the learning experience
Been in many a conversation with folks of knowledge
Not talkin’ barroom confabs
Those usually lead to yelling matches and/or the introduction of mr knuckle to mr nose
No, serious discussions
Closed door conference room exec brainstorming, fix it meetings
Sometimes planned
Sometimes starting in hallways
Sometimes starting in washrooms
Sometimes after quarterly reports
Or
A fireside chat
One on one
Sipping an acceptable single malt
Maybe accompanied by a fine cigar
Those are nice
anyway
What I’ve noticed is, there’s at least two forms of knowledge
Experience
Academic
I can appreciate the academic in his quest to display what he’s been taught
But
That’s pretty much where it ends with me
No dis on him, no, it’s just that the academic usually has no way, no tool, to break down what he’s trying to convey into laymen’s terminology
It’s gotta be very frustrating for him
Then again, maybe even he doesn’t have that great of a grasp if he can’t…..
Had the pleasure of working alongside an older gentleman by the name of Moshofski
Heavily degreed
And had the savvy to back it up
With a pencil, a sketch, a few words of logic
accompanied with sweeping gestures of his pencil/wand, depicting thrust, while sketching something as simple as a tiny radius
molded into the inside of a 90° corner of the leg of a golf cart design
a very simple kindly gentleman
with the ability to break down his genius for the common man
He saved our little company a quarter million dollars in fifteen minutes of his time
These types have no need to belittle, to talk down, to put the subject under a microscope
No, they just kindly, gently show what they know
Then smile
Looking up at yer face, hoping to read understanding in the furrows of yer brow
Life is enjoyable around these folks
Quite the learning experience
echo
Well-known member
I feel like I'm a pain in the a$$ on this website. I write about dishonest people because that bugs me.
My company sent me (Loaned) me to a huge company in Ely, Nevada.
They said they they had trainloads of step down transformers going to the plant. The dry air machines were blowing the transformers and causing them to lose money with down time. After Their meetings and greetings, I looked into their problem. Their own people were living off this bug. I never said I would cover for anyone in my life that did not deserve it.
My findings were that the 220 volt power was being brought down to 110 volts by using an expensive transformer. The only problem was 110 volts was already there without a transformer. I watched my a$$ as I left town. My secretary said she thought that I was making my company three hundred bucks an hour, I did not make that.
My company sent me (Loaned) me to a huge company in Ely, Nevada.
They said they they had trainloads of step down transformers going to the plant. The dry air machines were blowing the transformers and causing them to lose money with down time. After Their meetings and greetings, I looked into their problem. Their own people were living off this bug. I never said I would cover for anyone in my life that did not deserve it.
My findings were that the 220 volt power was being brought down to 110 volts by using an expensive transformer. The only problem was 110 volts was already there without a transformer. I watched my a$$ as I left town. My secretary said she thought that I was making my company three hundred bucks an hour, I did not make that.
Gary O'
Well-known member
No ass pain here.
I enjoy your posts @echo
However, speaking of dishonesty, it reminds me of a story I read, and must pass it on;
An old man meets a young man who asks:
“Do you remember me?”
And the old man says "no." Then the young man tells him he was his student. And the teacher asks:
“What do you do, what do you do in life?”
The young man answers: “Well, I became a teacher.”
“Ah, how good, like me?” asks the old man.
“Well, yes. In fact, I became a teacher because you inspired me to be like you.”
The old man, curious, asks the young man at what time he decided to become a teacher. And the young man tells him the following story:
“One day, a friend of mine, also a student, came in with a nice new watch, and I decided I wanted it.
I stole it, I took it out of his pocket.
Shortly after, my friend noticed that his watch was missing and immediately complained to our teacher, who was you.
Then you addressed the class saying, "This student's watch was stolen during classes today. Whoever stole it, please return it."
I didn't give it back because I didn't want to.
You closed the door and told us all to stand up and form a circle.
You were going to search our pockets one by one until the watch was found.
However, you told us to close our eyes, because you would only look for his watch if we all had our eyes closed.
We did as instructed.
You went from pocket to pocket, and when you went through my pocket, you found the watch and took it. You kept searching everyone's pockets, and when you were done you said "Open your eyes. We have the watch."
You didn't tell on me and you never mentioned the episode. You never said who stole the watch. That day, you saved my dignity forever. It was the most shameful day of my life.
But this is also the day I decided not to become a thief, a bad person, etc. You never said anything, nor did you even scold me or take me aside to give me a moral lesson.
I received your message clearly.
Thanks to you, I understood what a real educator needs to do.
Do you remember this episode, professor?
The old professor answered, "Yes, I remember the situation with the stolen watch, which I was looking for in everyone’s pocket. I didn't remember you, because I also closed my eyes while looking."
This is the essence of teaching:
If to correct you must humiliate; you don't know how to teach "
echo
Well-known member
We had a guy at work that got a free candy bar out of our employee owned candy bar machine.
I figured out who it was by paying attention.
The machine said that only quarters can be used in this machine.
He would put a nickle in the machine, the nickle would return, and he claimed the machine owned him a candy bar.
We would give him the candy bar.
I told him to not even claim the machine owed him a candy bar anymore.
He still won.
The company showed him a new computer and asked him what it was. He said it's a TV.
The company retired him with full benefits until he reached 65, then his pension would take over until he dies
I figured out who it was by paying attention.
The machine said that only quarters can be used in this machine.
He would put a nickle in the machine, the nickle would return, and he claimed the machine owned him a candy bar.
We would give him the candy bar.
I told him to not even claim the machine owed him a candy bar anymore.
He still won.
The company showed him a new computer and asked him what it was. He said it's a TV.
The company retired him with full benefits until he reached 65, then his pension would take over until he dies
echo
Well-known member
The day my X tried to kill me.
My young son called me and ask asked if I would buy him a dog. And the dog was expensive and needed papers.
I asked him what kind of a puppy he wanted and he told me some weird name.
I asked a girl at work and she asked me the breed. I told her and she said she would slap me. That's the name I heard. (It had sh** in the name.
I found the dog he wanted and picked it up right before Christmas.
I called my kids and told them I would bring the dog next weekend and it had papers.
I heard on the news that all the passes were closed in Washington State so I called and said I will be unable to bring the dog as the passes were closed. His Mom got on the line and told me white pass was open. I said I will see you next weekend.
I headed north, drove up White Pass and when I got to the top in heavy snow there was a sign on the road that read START. I thought that was odd.
When I dropped down the other side their were skiers, sleds going down the road with me. Cars were upside down on the side of the road and I had no chance to turn around. Kids were playing on the slippery road way. I was in the middle of some winter racing event.
I dropped the dog off which barfed on me sliding around on the slick roads. I also dropped off presents for the other kids.
I told them I have to head back before the weather got worse.
I went over to the main highway and not white pass.
That tribe just sold the dog...
My young son called me and ask asked if I would buy him a dog. And the dog was expensive and needed papers.
I asked him what kind of a puppy he wanted and he told me some weird name.
I asked a girl at work and she asked me the breed. I told her and she said she would slap me. That's the name I heard. (It had sh** in the name.
I found the dog he wanted and picked it up right before Christmas.
I called my kids and told them I would bring the dog next weekend and it had papers.
I heard on the news that all the passes were closed in Washington State so I called and said I will be unable to bring the dog as the passes were closed. His Mom got on the line and told me white pass was open. I said I will see you next weekend.
I headed north, drove up White Pass and when I got to the top in heavy snow there was a sign on the road that read START. I thought that was odd.
When I dropped down the other side their were skiers, sleds going down the road with me. Cars were upside down on the side of the road and I had no chance to turn around. Kids were playing on the slippery road way. I was in the middle of some winter racing event.
I dropped the dog off which barfed on me sliding around on the slick roads. I also dropped off presents for the other kids.
I told them I have to head back before the weather got worse.
I went over to the main highway and not white pass.
That tribe just sold the dog...
Do you have any stories about Kemah?
echo
Well-known member
My Brother Denys (Dennis)
We were in our early teens and and my brother informed us that he bought his first car.
He took us outside and showed us his new car.
I said that ain't a car as it was a frame only and one tire and a wheel.
He said as soon as he sands and paints the frame he will get the rest of the parts.
I was living with my Dad at the time and next visits he scrounged and bought the parts for his new MG.
Some time later his new car was finished. The only thing wrong was the gear shift. It was about seven feet long and it really stuck out being way above his car. He loved it and I hated it. Then he welded a big metal ball on top and ruined the looks more.
He drove it on the country roads and no-one cared that he was too young for a license.
Mom and I came home and got behind him driving his new sports car. We had a hair pin curve on the dirt road and mom said he is going a little fast to make it around the corner. I said naw as those MG's do well in corners.
He rolled his car and as soon as the dust settled his new car had no scratches or dents. And it came down on it's wheels. Mom about lost it. We looked at the ball on top of his gear shift and it had a few scuff marks. We didn't make fun of his gear shift after that.
We were in our early teens and and my brother informed us that he bought his first car.
He took us outside and showed us his new car.
I said that ain't a car as it was a frame only and one tire and a wheel.
He said as soon as he sands and paints the frame he will get the rest of the parts.
I was living with my Dad at the time and next visits he scrounged and bought the parts for his new MG.
Some time later his new car was finished. The only thing wrong was the gear shift. It was about seven feet long and it really stuck out being way above his car. He loved it and I hated it. Then he welded a big metal ball on top and ruined the looks more.
He drove it on the country roads and no-one cared that he was too young for a license.
Mom and I came home and got behind him driving his new sports car. We had a hair pin curve on the dirt road and mom said he is going a little fast to make it around the corner. I said naw as those MG's do well in corners.
He rolled his car and as soon as the dust settled his new car had no scratches or dents. And it came down on it's wheels. Mom about lost it. We looked at the ball on top of his gear shift and it had a few scuff marks. We didn't make fun of his gear shift after that.
Gary O'
Well-known member
Not sure it was much of a place back in the '70s
Now, Galveston?
Good times there
Padre Island?
Too good
I think of the towns/cities I visited down there, Corpus Christi was the best of the best.
Cleaned up some places down there after a hurricane
Boats were loose and all over downtown
We slept on the beach
Good times
Gary O'
Well-known member
Lived there for about 4 years - loved it
When I was in high school, we went to Galveston every time someone had the money for gas
.
echo
Well-known member
I loved Fort Jones, Ca.
They had a precious fort there in the olden days.
They kept soldiers there to protect the fort as the Klamath and other tribes hated it.
One night the Indians got drunk and attacked the fort. The army guards ran off and the Indians burned it down.
They never rebuilt the fort. Nothing was done to the Indians.
www.bing.com
They had a precious fort there in the olden days.
They kept soldiers there to protect the fort as the Klamath and other tribes hated it.
One night the Indians got drunk and attacked the fort. The army guards ran off and the Indians burned it down.
They never rebuilt the fort. Nothing was done to the Indians.
fort jones california - Search Videos
Last edited:
Gary O'
Well-known member
'tis the season
MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS PAST
I know you guys have 'em
Here's some of mine;
(this one is my first Christmas memory)
Christmas 1954
I knew what was coming….really, for once I knew.
The tree, the lights, the bubbling ones, the tinsel, the snow outside, the oil stove warming everyone (that stood smack dab on the stove), the windows adorned with Christmas icing, and….the presents.
I just took it all in, quietly, unassuming, sizing things up.
(‘Hmm, so this happens, say, every year…huh’)
I never said much for, oh, about twenty some years, and at four didn’t say anything, ever.
I cast a rather small shadow, and more than a few times got left at places.
Not on purpose, but I just wasn’t much of a bother to anyone…to the point of, to some extent, non-existence.
Mom forgot me at the Montgomery Wards store once.
Huge multi-storied store…fascinating.
She eventually came back and got me even though I wasn’t quite done window shopping.
I wonder how far out of the store she got, or did she get halfway home, or even home and realize, sitting the table, that, hey, the tiny person that normally occupies the booster seat is not here.
I really enjoyed the anonymity.
It gave me time to take in all I could, and remain in my own thoughts.
Kids were pretty much trained to be out of sight when folks came over.
Ever once in a while someone would ask,
‘And what’s your name young man?’
‘Dad, it’s me, Gary.’
My sis would take my hand and guide me over to the tree, pointing out each and every glittery thing.
It was a no shit moment, but knew it made her feel good, so let it happen.
The day came.
I should say the day before came, as we traditionally opened gifts on Christmas eve.
Gramma and Grampa came down the hill to participate.
I’d say it was around 6pm, as it was dark out and everybody had already eaten.
My sis played santy, handing gifts to Gramma and Grampa.
I was busy watching while trying to crack the walnuts and Brazil nuts from my stocking.
I couldn’t help but observe the fake happiness and surprise from everyone as they opened their gifts…everyone but Grampa. He was rather gruff, and had a habit of saying exactly what he thought.
‘I already have a tie.’
I loved him.
Didn’t even give much thought to that emotion back then, but now I know I loved him.
It came to be my turn to open my gifts.
Not a big trick, as my stuff was in a large sack.
It was a sack full of toys…..cars, trucks, a harmonica, and some little bags of hard candy.
The thing is, the toys were all kinda beat up, trucks with missing wheels, and everything was a bit scuffed, dented and rusty in places.
It didn’t bother me a whit. I loved it all.
But I remember the look on my Dad’s face as he watched me haul them outta the bag.
He was ashamed.
I felt like saying something comforting…but didn’t.
My feelings of making the situation even harder on him by saying ‘it’s OK’ won out.
Every Christmas after that was huge.
Funny, not haha funny, but oddly strange, my thoughts on his mental processes.
For years I rather pitied him for toiling to get us what he thought was what we wanted.
Him, the bread winner, the toy winner, the house, food and warmth provider.
How he fell head first into the American dream…the freaking nightmare.
But in my early years of fatherhood I came to understand.
He was from an era that dictated those things….’things’.
Christmas 1972
We were a tad impoverished.
Poverty stricken was a status I was striving for.
We managed a few meager toys from the five and dime, and wrapped them in newspaper, placing them under the tree limb from the neighbor’s backyard that had miraculously blown down from one of their giant firs.
We watched the boys unwrap their tinsel strength early China bobbles.
They lasted almost long enough to get ‘em outta the newspaper, disintegrating in their little ink stained hands.
However, as my lady wiped last Wednesday’s headlines from their fingers so they could drink their mug of hot cinnamon tea and suck one their tiny candy canes, I whipped out to the truck to bring in the toy of toys…the one that would give back.
My eldest named the little puppy from the pound, Felix.
Felix the dog…hey, it was original.
Only he was too young to pronounce the name Felix, so it came out ‘juwix’.
The thing is, a few moments after cleaning up the vomit and diarrhea from the truck seat, floorboard and doors, and myself, it dawned on me that Felix may not have been the best of finds.
The next morning my eldest seemed to have lost track of him, so we both went looking.
‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’
I got a kick out of his determination in locating his new little buddy, trudging around the yard, big cheeks housed upon his tiny neck earnestly calling out with his baby Elmer Fudd like voice…‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’.
Unfortunately we found Juwix.
He was under a gap in the wood pile…rather stiff.
So, as my Dad, twenty some years before, I vowed to provide a better Christmas for the years to come.
Not lavish ones, but ones that bore a couple substantial gifts for each of my little beings.
Christmas now?
Keep yer tie money.
Sometime last century
Some time ago, several years now, we were bringing our grand kids to our house for Christmas.
I was in a mood.
This mood was driven by the fact that I wanted Christmas to ourselves, on the coast, hiding, eating decadent things, watching the tides from our bed, hanging the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, frolicking, sleeping like overfed dogs.
But, n-o-o-o-o, here we were, hauling these two trunk monkeys to our place.
And only ‘cause their gramma (namaw) didn’t want them to have a miserable Christmas.
Now, now their drunken father could swill beer and drive, and maybe (be still my heart) smack into a telephone pole, killing only hisself.
And their mother (our daughter) could freely run around with her despicable friends to parties, doing mile long lines of coke, and whatever I don’t care to know.
There they were, in the back seat, smacking each other over the head with The Pokey Little Puppy and Tootles.
We passed an entertainment park.
'ENCHANTED F-O-O-R-R-REST!!!'
‘We had the best time there!’
‘Good rememories.’
A rush of memories came to me too.
The Alice in wonderland path.
Keeping up with them.
Wheezing.
Panting.
They did enjoy themselves though.
Getting lost in the funhouse.
Screaming hysterically midway in the rabbit hole.
Getting cotton candy everywhere.
Buuuut once their namaw calmed me down and cleaned me up, I was good to go.
We were almost home.
The little one, we call him ‘Mayo’, still had a smile on his face as his older brother patted him on his head, wiping his sneeze goo filled hand in his brother’s hair.
As we pulled into the drive, the monkeys, dead asleep, slumped over in their seatbelts like they’d been shot, stirred, jumped up and fought each other to be first in the house, first at the tree, first into the stockings hanging by the tree, giving me a rush of 'rememories' too.
We played table games as namaw cooked, wrestled in the living room until we knocked off some yuletide dainties, and shot pellet guns in the back yard.
Little did I know that that Christmas was gonna be one of the best times ever for them…….and for this old humbug too.
Written Early Century
'tis the season
Heh heh.
I haven’t bought a single gift this year.
I may escape it altogether.
Maybe once one gets a certain age, they are excluded from the high expectations dept. (it’s a hope)
My lady and I did shop.
I just don’t know what’s ‘in’ in the clothing dept.
There’s $150 jeans that are worn out and seems like intentionally cut.
There’s faded ones, ones like the iron was left on ‘em when the phone rang.
There’s skinny ones, slim ones, low cut ones, studded ones, ones with odd belts and some sorta strings and hangy things…….
My mind exploded when my lady showed me the ones on sale that our 14 yr old grand might accept…..
‘Might accept?!!’
If I’m layin’ down $120 for the slim/torn ones, I better see the little turkey proudly wearin’ ‘em while he’s on the corner with his ‘will work for Pringles’ sign.
So, now, now I’m resolved that we are in the stocking stuffer only era, where grand folks should be.
Little bastards better like their harmonicas.
MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS PAST
I know you guys have 'em
Here's some of mine;
(this one is my first Christmas memory)
Christmas 1954
I knew what was coming….really, for once I knew.
The tree, the lights, the bubbling ones, the tinsel, the snow outside, the oil stove warming everyone (that stood smack dab on the stove), the windows adorned with Christmas icing, and….the presents.
I just took it all in, quietly, unassuming, sizing things up.
(‘Hmm, so this happens, say, every year…huh’)
I never said much for, oh, about twenty some years, and at four didn’t say anything, ever.
I cast a rather small shadow, and more than a few times got left at places.
Not on purpose, but I just wasn’t much of a bother to anyone…to the point of, to some extent, non-existence.
Mom forgot me at the Montgomery Wards store once.
Huge multi-storied store…fascinating.
She eventually came back and got me even though I wasn’t quite done window shopping.
I wonder how far out of the store she got, or did she get halfway home, or even home and realize, sitting the table, that, hey, the tiny person that normally occupies the booster seat is not here.
I really enjoyed the anonymity.
It gave me time to take in all I could, and remain in my own thoughts.
Kids were pretty much trained to be out of sight when folks came over.
Ever once in a while someone would ask,
‘And what’s your name young man?’
‘Dad, it’s me, Gary.’
My sis would take my hand and guide me over to the tree, pointing out each and every glittery thing.
It was a no shit moment, but knew it made her feel good, so let it happen.
The day came.
I should say the day before came, as we traditionally opened gifts on Christmas eve.
Gramma and Grampa came down the hill to participate.
I’d say it was around 6pm, as it was dark out and everybody had already eaten.
My sis played santy, handing gifts to Gramma and Grampa.
I was busy watching while trying to crack the walnuts and Brazil nuts from my stocking.
I couldn’t help but observe the fake happiness and surprise from everyone as they opened their gifts…everyone but Grampa. He was rather gruff, and had a habit of saying exactly what he thought.
‘I already have a tie.’
I loved him.
Didn’t even give much thought to that emotion back then, but now I know I loved him.
It came to be my turn to open my gifts.
Not a big trick, as my stuff was in a large sack.
It was a sack full of toys…..cars, trucks, a harmonica, and some little bags of hard candy.
The thing is, the toys were all kinda beat up, trucks with missing wheels, and everything was a bit scuffed, dented and rusty in places.
It didn’t bother me a whit. I loved it all.
But I remember the look on my Dad’s face as he watched me haul them outta the bag.
He was ashamed.
I felt like saying something comforting…but didn’t.
My feelings of making the situation even harder on him by saying ‘it’s OK’ won out.
Every Christmas after that was huge.
Funny, not haha funny, but oddly strange, my thoughts on his mental processes.
For years I rather pitied him for toiling to get us what he thought was what we wanted.
Him, the bread winner, the toy winner, the house, food and warmth provider.
How he fell head first into the American dream…the freaking nightmare.
But in my early years of fatherhood I came to understand.
He was from an era that dictated those things….’things’.
Christmas 1972
We were a tad impoverished.
Poverty stricken was a status I was striving for.
We managed a few meager toys from the five and dime, and wrapped them in newspaper, placing them under the tree limb from the neighbor’s backyard that had miraculously blown down from one of their giant firs.
We watched the boys unwrap their tinsel strength early China bobbles.
They lasted almost long enough to get ‘em outta the newspaper, disintegrating in their little ink stained hands.
However, as my lady wiped last Wednesday’s headlines from their fingers so they could drink their mug of hot cinnamon tea and suck one their tiny candy canes, I whipped out to the truck to bring in the toy of toys…the one that would give back.
My eldest named the little puppy from the pound, Felix.
Felix the dog…hey, it was original.
Only he was too young to pronounce the name Felix, so it came out ‘juwix’.
The thing is, a few moments after cleaning up the vomit and diarrhea from the truck seat, floorboard and doors, and myself, it dawned on me that Felix may not have been the best of finds.
The next morning my eldest seemed to have lost track of him, so we both went looking.
‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’
I got a kick out of his determination in locating his new little buddy, trudging around the yard, big cheeks housed upon his tiny neck earnestly calling out with his baby Elmer Fudd like voice…‘Juwix….Juuuuwix…heeeere Juwix’.
Unfortunately we found Juwix.
He was under a gap in the wood pile…rather stiff.
So, as my Dad, twenty some years before, I vowed to provide a better Christmas for the years to come.
Not lavish ones, but ones that bore a couple substantial gifts for each of my little beings.
Christmas now?
Keep yer tie money.
Sometime last century
Some time ago, several years now, we were bringing our grand kids to our house for Christmas.
I was in a mood.
This mood was driven by the fact that I wanted Christmas to ourselves, on the coast, hiding, eating decadent things, watching the tides from our bed, hanging the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door, frolicking, sleeping like overfed dogs.
But, n-o-o-o-o, here we were, hauling these two trunk monkeys to our place.
And only ‘cause their gramma (namaw) didn’t want them to have a miserable Christmas.
Now, now their drunken father could swill beer and drive, and maybe (be still my heart) smack into a telephone pole, killing only hisself.
And their mother (our daughter) could freely run around with her despicable friends to parties, doing mile long lines of coke, and whatever I don’t care to know.
There they were, in the back seat, smacking each other over the head with The Pokey Little Puppy and Tootles.
We passed an entertainment park.
'ENCHANTED F-O-O-R-R-REST!!!'
‘We had the best time there!’
‘Good rememories.’
A rush of memories came to me too.
The Alice in wonderland path.
Keeping up with them.
Wheezing.
Panting.
They did enjoy themselves though.
Getting lost in the funhouse.
Screaming hysterically midway in the rabbit hole.
Getting cotton candy everywhere.
Buuuut once their namaw calmed me down and cleaned me up, I was good to go.
We were almost home.
The little one, we call him ‘Mayo’, still had a smile on his face as his older brother patted him on his head, wiping his sneeze goo filled hand in his brother’s hair.
As we pulled into the drive, the monkeys, dead asleep, slumped over in their seatbelts like they’d been shot, stirred, jumped up and fought each other to be first in the house, first at the tree, first into the stockings hanging by the tree, giving me a rush of 'rememories' too.
We played table games as namaw cooked, wrestled in the living room until we knocked off some yuletide dainties, and shot pellet guns in the back yard.
Little did I know that that Christmas was gonna be one of the best times ever for them…….and for this old humbug too.
Written Early Century
'tis the season
Heh heh.
I haven’t bought a single gift this year.
I may escape it altogether.
Maybe once one gets a certain age, they are excluded from the high expectations dept. (it’s a hope)
My lady and I did shop.
I just don’t know what’s ‘in’ in the clothing dept.
There’s $150 jeans that are worn out and seems like intentionally cut.
There’s faded ones, ones like the iron was left on ‘em when the phone rang.
There’s skinny ones, slim ones, low cut ones, studded ones, ones with odd belts and some sorta strings and hangy things…….
My mind exploded when my lady showed me the ones on sale that our 14 yr old grand might accept…..
‘Might accept?!!’
If I’m layin’ down $120 for the slim/torn ones, I better see the little turkey proudly wearin’ ‘em while he’s on the corner with his ‘will work for Pringles’ sign.
So, now, now I’m resolved that we are in the stocking stuffer only era, where grand folks should be.
Little bastards better like their harmonicas.
Last edited:
FrancSevin
Proudly Deplorable
Gary, You ain't exactly Santa Claus, more like a grumpy grampa,,,;
But, I liked it.
Really liked it!