# Vivid Memories of Childhood and Beyond



## Gary O'

*Recollections*

 this became rather lengthy....

Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake. 
I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill. 
Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.

Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip. 
Ate up everything I could hand him.
Became our I.T.
Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
Interfaced quite well with our clients.
We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
I had to make the trip one more time.

Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room. 
Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.

The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the sink. 
Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
The wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal. 
Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted. Tasted horrible, but really good, cookin' with Dad, good.
The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town. 
There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some. 
'If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!'
Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm. 
Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
Eventually, I ate cake...then did the dishes.

One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-Day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... 'Your throat is this big, the pill is this big'..minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...'OK, just drink your milk'
I drained the glass between pursed lips.
The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
Nice try, parents from satan.

We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it..not much choice really. 
Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice. 
To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.

The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms. 
They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch. 
Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
Dad didn't know until he got home.
Actually, it saved him an' I a trip, as when he thought we had too many cats around, we'd toss a bunch into a gunny sack and once down the road, hurl 'em out the window of our speeding chevy.
I haven't maintained the sack-o-cats legacy, but there have been times....

The living room still had the oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into its material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
A sectional couch, we were up town.
Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
Waste basket stationed at the tail end of that couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom. 
Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
It was all almost worth it.

Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
It was Christmas, fever, pox forming. 
Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.


Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
The Geiger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either. 
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.

The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt. Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.

The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.



Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.


This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.


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## hollydolly

WoW. fantastic...thank you...I really enjoyed that Gary... 

I read it to my o/h and he said.. ''I was there. I could see it all''....


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## Meanderer

That was a little like time travel, afoot!  My thanks to ya, Gary!


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## RadishRose

Ohhh, nice Meanderer!

Gary, I remember the puddings, Paul Harvey and Patti Page (Cross Over The Bridge).
Liked your memories a lot.


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## Gary O'

Thank you for the comments, nice people

Writing, for me, has developed into a passion

I enjoy penning things of ordinary events, ordinary people

because

well

everything, everyone

is so much more than that


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## Gary O'

something I writ while still employed;

*Henry*

I feel as though I’m on the set of the last half hour of Papillion, or the movie Life.
Just said g’mornin’ to Henry for the gazillionth time.
He’s been an employee at this fine establishment since the doors opened, before even me, of which I’m regarded as the furniture. 
We are both a bit slower of foot and noticeably grayer since we first met.
We have light conversation…about gardening, the weather, our offspring.

He’s a bit short on words.
Been thru a gaggle of engineer regimes.
Been in charge of what we call the process room forever.
It’s where we encapsulate, vacuum varnish, mold, and do all the dirty work....the dirty work that takes a mad scientist to coordinate all the tanks, racks, and ovens to yield product (as our brochure says) ‘in a timely manner’.
For him, it’s a symphony, and he’s the conductor.
Patience his not his strong point.
He’s ‘hard to work with’.
Whenever an upstart engineering manager approaches him about a certain process (more like begging for an answer, so he can document the procedure in the build book), his usual reply is, ‘You’re the engineer, you tell me….ah...hahahahahaha’.

He can be seen on any given day, meticulously scraping out the last drop of epoxy in the bottom of a 5 gallon bucket….’It’s expensive’. 

About ten years ago I had to take him in to counsel.
He’d made a production worker upset, to the point of tears.
We all knew he was just being Henry, harsh words were how he communicated.

I sat with him and the production manager, and explained to him about how he represented our company, and therefore an example, blather blah, blah, blather.
I guess he took every one of my words to heart.
I guess I dressed him down, took him to his inner core, because he began to weep.
It really took me off stride, as I was just building momentum, not even getting off my final salvo.
It confirmed what I’d learned sometime before.
Gruff crusty people, folks with chips on their shoulders, that once the armor of their defense is removed, will just fall apart.
I guess he was more than motivated that day, because motivation lasts only a short time, but he has yet to come off so harsh, as he’d been so many times before.

He is not articulate in the English language.
Someone once mentioned to me that ‘Henry sure speaks funny’
‘Yeah, he speaks funny like that in seven languages.’

He was a man without a country for around twenty years.
I was one of the privileged few from our company that he’d invited to the celebration of his citizenship. 
A lot of his people were there, and they all revered him as a god.
He looked good in his uniform.
That day he became ‘Henry’, and we shared a sixpack of Private Reserve. He still mentions our little celebration, and has the Henry’s Private Reserve cap, I’d given him that day, hanging above his desk.

Henry has several distinct scars all over himself. 
Holes the size of machine gun rounds. 
Holes that remind him of the death march, of hiding under the body of the guy that became him when he took his identity papers because he’d lost his.
Holes that should have killed him more than once.
Holes that remind him of the loss of his entire family.
Holes that cause him to be even less verbal when someone inquires as to ‘what’d you do to get that?’

Holes that remind him of the price of freedom. 

He still eats his lunch with sticks, sometimes sitting on the picnic bench cross legged.
It was a year or so after I’d hired on that Henry learned it was more acceptable to sit on the toilet instead of stand on it then squat.
I was glad to see that…hated always having to wipe those freaking footprints off the lid every damn time.

Yeah, him and I are on the other side of the hill now.

But it’s still really great to say g’mornin’ to my fellow countryman every day

….it’s actually quite an honor.


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## SeaBreeze

Nice to meet Henry, thanks.


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## Lara

Gary, I've enjoyed your writing. You've go talent!


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## Meanderer

Good Morning Henry!


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## Gary O'

It does this ol’ soul’s heart good to get these nice comments.
Thank you.
(Meanderer, I’ll be PMing you with a shipping address to send me that gorgeous case of suds......so I can get it to Henry of course)

Moving along

I’ve received a cordial request to refrain from certain scenarios I’ve depicted in a humorous slant.
I’ll give it a shot to be more cognizant of offending some folks,
But
Even though admittedly fractured, my outlook on things is very much the sum of the greater content of my writing
I won’t be curbing that
Can’t
I write from vivid recall
It comes fast, so fast I can’t keep up with the keystrokes 
It’s very much like traveling a winding country road with the throttle stuck to the floorboard
There are twists, sharp turns
Only
There are no warning signs

It’s certainly not required reading
....and not for everyone

sorry


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## Meanderer

_Happy motoring!_


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## Gary O'

now, where was I...

ah yes

reading for those having difficulty in getting to sleep


*Kids of the Hill*



*We moved* 

When I was about 10, we sold the place and moved down the road a bit. 
It was at least close enough to town to be able to ride my bike to the hardware store and replenish my stock pile of BBs, and there were more kids, kids a couple three years older than me, kids that had a bit more savvy about important things, things like guns, cigarettes, and wimin.
Man we terrorized that little neighborhood. 
There was only six of us, but seems it was more like twenty at times.
Life was pretty good.
We commandeered a little lean-to shed across the gravel road from our house, and there we’d meet, sharin’ whatever we brought. Actually, I couldn’t wait to wake up every summer morning…and sometimes I didn’t.
Both folks worked, and my sister was supposed watch me, so there were long stretches of times, times we just stayed out. If I scheduled things just right, I could technically have just been company droppin’ by.
Then things got different.
I was makin’ a rare appearance at home….hunger, and noticed Mom’s car was in the drive.
Then Dad’s car pulled up.
I was fiddlin’ with some meat and bread when Dad came in the door.
He smiled, looked around, then just busted out bawlin’.
My mind did a little WTF? As I’d never seen him cry before.

Grampa had died.

Well Geez, he’d been wasting away in the nursing home for months…no surprise. But seems that was my Dad’s only link to some sorta ethereal security.
Next thing I know, a few weeks later he’s goin’ off on how this orphan kid was such a great little guy.

So here comes this kid.
Dad shows him around, then he’s gone.
Dad was like that. Not around much. It worked for me, but now this damn kid. Nice kid to boot.
A little too nice. Like the replacement kid on Lassie.
Yeah, the first kid, Jeff, was great, then they replaced him with a kid appropriately named Timmy. Then the show went south, all sappy and effed up. But, right here most of you readers are going ‘What?’
So this kid is my shadow, Dad’s fair haired boy, and I’m guessin’ I’m his guardian.
One of the things us neighborhood kids loved to do was play king of the trees.
Douglas fir trees are plentiful in NW Oregon, and huge. They can reach 300 ft in height, and these were not the exception.
Three or four of us would pick our tree and race each other to the top. Whoever would first get to the point of being able to bend the top over and touch the tip was king. The best part, however, was not being king, but just camping there in the limbs, letting the wind blow us back and forth. 
Folks woulda crapped their pants if they’d known what we were doin’.
Well, little Brady (my personal Timmy) wanted to climb.
I became a bit evil right there, and cautioned him that climbing those trees were not the same as yer everyday apple tree…but in the tone of lure and enticement.
The little guy was doin’ quite well, as doug fir limbs are rather close together…hell you could almost walk up them. Then he musta made a misstep. I heard some yelling, and some thumping sounds. Then I caught sight of him flopping from one bough to the next.
Kathumping all the way to the bottom.
Seemed like he took forever.

Thing is, there’s about 20 feet of no limbs at the bottom, and he was in no way gonna grab wunna those boards we used to start our climbs. So he landed in a little Timmy heap, on his shoulder, in the bed of fir needles.

For another evil moment I sat at my treetop, kinda hoping he’d not move, at all, ever.

But the little [censored] just got a dislocated shoulder and some bruises….and a new guardian.

Things sometimes just have a way of workin’ themselves out.



*Bart*

I was ten or eleven.
Bart was eleven or twelve…or thirteen.
Same grade, but held back a year.
He wasn’t dumb, just a tad distracted when it came to book learnin’.

And he had a stutter.

He was 6 foot 3 inches in the fifth grade.

He wasn’t one of us tree climbers, but boy could he mechanic.
His place was up at the end of the gravel road, and literally filled with junk. At least half a dozen old cars, and scads of parts all strewn throughout the front and back yard. 
It was heaven.

So, yeah, Bart didn’t do most things the rest of us did, but he was one of us.

One time we’d all ran out of BBs at the same time. So we went on the hunt for the perfect pebbles.
Once we each had about a dozen of them, we decided to play ‘who’s the man’.
This time Andy was to come up with the rite of passage.
His gem constituted in getting shot in the [censored] with a BB.
If you took it like a man, well, you were a man.
It was Bart’s turn to take it like a man, and mine to administer the pebble.
I gave my air gun a few extra pumps, and placed the roundest pebble I had in the tube.
‘OK Bart, bend over.’
Bart had these bib overalls, and they were a bit tight on him.
Up to this time, all our loose denim pants had absorbed the shots.
But when Bart bent over, his pants became quite taut, straining threads, you could bounce a quarter.
I considered the angle….
PAP!
Bart didn’t yell out, but as he turned toward me, I noticed his huge face had become rather crimson, and his eyes were on fire.
Right then I decided someone was callin’ me for supper, so I took off on the dead run.
Bart, like a bear, took after me…I could hear him right behind me, huffing and puffing, cursing me and stuttering things about my lineage……’y-y-you, g-g-g-goddamn son of a b-b-b-[censored]’, which made me laugh so damn hard I could hardly keep ahead.

Ever do something wrong, or dastardly, and break into a run, laughin’ yer [censored] off?

I headed thru the barn, around the corner, and up to the house.

Bart waited for me in our front yard til way after dark.

But the most remarkable thing I remember about Bart was his swing.

Just a simple rope hung from a beam between two huge fir trees.
We built a platform.
We swung way out over a deep ravine, and back to the platform.

Then we put our heads together and figured we’d rake in vast amounts of money by charging admission to our ‘swing of death’.
We made a huge sign.
*EXPERIENCE THE SWING OF DEATH!
TWO SWINGS FOR ONLY 25 CENTS*
Only thing is, Bart lived at the end of the road, so the only potential customer would be Mr Harlon.
It was my first lesson in business.

Anyway, we got bored with the swing of death, and decided a taller platform…..the swing of the afterlife, was needed.

Bart, since it was his place, was first.

What we hadn’t considered was the wear of the rope on the beam.
Bart did his customary salutation ‘G-G-G-Geronimo-o-o-o’, and off and away he went….only he didn’t make the return trip.
In an elongated flash of a second or two, Bart remained suspended, twirling to face me, the rope descending into a heap on his shoulders.
His open mouth and furrowed brow held the expression of bewilderment and fear. Then he twirled toward oblivion, floating down the ravine.
The last thing I saw was the little knot between his ankles still clutching the rope, while he filled the ravine with stuttering cries of anguish……sh-sh-sh-shiiiiiiiiiiit.

The blackberry patch was his salvation, sorta.

*Andy*

Andy was the neighborhood tough guy.
He didn’t brag about it, or even use it to his advantage.
But we all knew, even Bart.
Andy was the eldest of our little gang, and the strongest.
I guess he was around fourteen when I was ten, and he became my mentor.
He kinda took the place of Mickey Mantle, who had taken Joe Louis’s place, who had taken Dad’s place, even though I wasn’t really conscious of having idols. Guess every kid has one.

Andy was kinda hard to look at, and had a huge gut with a gigantic belly button that eternally hung out from under his sweatshirt. It rivaled the Skocjan caves.
Fascinating.
He even let me go spelunking into it with my finger after catching me sneaking a look. 
‘Care to explore?’ said the hand formed belly button lips.
Never found the end. 
Kinda scared me. Thought it’d eat my whole arm.
I did yield some warm lint, however.

But he had a friendly countenance about him that reminded me of a happy frog, or Brian Keith, and he loved a good joke or prank.
I remember once he squeezed the [censored] outta my dog’s paw, and my ol’ dog just sat there.
‘Go ahead, try it. Dogs have no feelings in their paws.’
So I reefed down on Tag’s paw.
That was the 2nd time my own dog bit me.
I learned a little sumpm about being playfully sadistic that day, and that you could look like you were doin’ sumpm even though it wasn’t really happnin’.
A day or so later, my sister was mysteriously bitten the same way.

Andy had the coolest bedroom, filled with stuff, and he even had his own gun cabinet…with shotguns, and a Winchester 30/30. Man I loved lookin’ at that carbine.

He’d taken a shine to me, and showed me his crystal set.
If we tuned it right, we could pick up Russia (in our imagination).
So, after picking up Russia, and listening to things like ‘Этот борщ - все, что мы собираемся есть сегодня вечером?’ for 10-15 minutes, we moved on to things like his pen collection. Two coffee cans and three cigar boxes filled with pens of all shapes and sizes. His collection was massive compared to my weeny oatmeal can half filled with dripping fountain pens.

Andy had a way about him that made you want whatever he had.
Whatever it was, he’d build it up in a way that made it superior. Not in a way like bragging, but sorta matter of fact statements.

He had this ol’ beat up BB gun. It was a veteran of many a war, and he’d painted it red.
I knew my gun was better, and Eddie’s was better, but Andy touted that piece of [censored] in such a way that made you envious.
‘Yeah, it’s got a 22 spring in it for extra distance.’
‘Really? Wow!’ 


I learned that he genrly did this right before a trade.
Eddie learned this too, and after trading, discovered the non-existence of a ’22 spring’.

I lived about 500 yards up the hill from Andy, but it didn’t stop him from stringin’ two way radio line, thru the trees, into both our bedrooms.
Every night he’d call me, and we’d talk mostly about how neat it was to have a two way radio in our bedrooms.
Chhhhhhht, ‘this is so cool’
Chhhhhhht, ‘it sure is’
Chhhhhhht, ‘whataya doi…chhhht now?’
Chhhhhhht, ‘what?’
Chhhhhhht, ‘see ya tomor……chhhhhhhhhht’

I met up with Andy several years later.
He’d slimmed down, and got all handsome on me.
He was the head mechanic at a huge food processing plant in Portland.
Still had really cool stuff in his den.
His woman was rather gaunt and all skinny.
Couldn’t find a curve on her, but yet looked rather fetching, and fit well on his Harley.

I learned not long ago that he was eaten up with cancer all thru his body.
I s’pose I should have visited him, but couldn’t. 
He was my idol, and he knew it.
He wouldn’t have wanted me to see him like that.

Chhhhhhhht, ‘See ya tomorrow Andy’


*IKE*

The Eisner’s place was at the bottom of the hill.
Ike was the runt of our little mob. Thus he did some suffering….nature’s process of natural selection.
The Eisners were a tidy bunch. Mrs Eisner kept Ike in new clothes. He always looked like he’d just stepped outta the Wards catalogue.
There was no man around the house.
Mrs Eisner was quite fetching, a bit thin, but quite fetching indeed. She kept herself up, and I gotta hand it to her, maintained things pretty darn well. Remarkably, those were the days before mandated child support.
However, they all seemed to be missing a screw to their well oiled machine.
Ike’s sisters were prime examples.
Seems like they were about 13 and 15 and had been around, having the minds of 47 year old hookers.
Ike was their experimentation lab.
Andy was practice.
I was a curiosity.
Bart was their personal ‘Lennie Small’.
Eddie stayed home.
Brad damn near lived at the Eisner’s place…Brad liked to narrate his experiences…I took notes.

Ike was pretty much our gofer.
One summer day we were just sittin’ behind Andy’s place, considering tossing Ike down the hill again, when Andy developed the brilliant idea of gathering up some junk and setting it all on the blind corner of the paved road below.

A broken bat, a rusted wagon, some leaf springs and other junk, in a wash tub, set smack dab in the road, by Ike.
‘Ike won’t get in trouble as much as we will, since they already know us (the fire cracker incident, the beehive fiasco, and a few other things that enabled us to see the inside of the police station).

First car.
The guy just stopped, took the wagon, and kicked the tub off the road.
Ike set it back out.

Second car.
An ol’ gal got out, looked up the hill, right into the brush we were hiding in and yammered in her high pitched ol’ lady voice ‘I see you boys. I’m going to turn you in. Get down here right now and clean this up.’
Then she sped off, leaving the tub in the middle of the road.

It began to dawn on us that maybe this wasn’t one of our brightest of ideas when car number three, an ol’ pickup, came whippin’ by. Only he didn’t stop. Not right away anyway. Seems the handle of the wash tub hooked onto the undercarriage of his truck, and made quite a gawdawful racket for about a hundred yards, just clangin’ and bangin’ down the road.
I think the ol’ guy thought he’d lost his differential, ‘cause he seemed quite relieved to find that ol’ tub…as he unhooked it, threw it into the truck and sped off. 
Another inventive event for us to laugh our asses off, and celebrate by tossing Ike down the hill.


One rainy fall day Bart and I were goofing around with the mud bank at the bottom of the road.
Bart had these huge, man sized high top leather boot shoes, of which he was quite proud of being able to stand in a mud puddle and not get his gargantuan feet wet.
‘See that? M-M-M-M-Mink oil.’
‘Huh.’

Andy came out and suggested we build a dam, and make a lake. Eddie, Ike, and Brad appeared.
Soon we had six shovels and two wheel barrows employed.
We learned about the dos and don’ts of dam building in short order.
A sheet of ply would be our water gate.
The lake got to be about three and a half feet deep once we built the side gates for overflow.
The red clay bank we were excavating developed a huge gap in it.
Next, the dazzling idea of flooding the road when cars came.

CAR!!!

Andy and Bart lifted the sheet of ply. There was a rush of muddy water. 
Something the dimension of a mid-sized dog went whooshing onto the road.

It was Ike!!

The car came close, r-e-a-l close to Ike’s head.
The driver didn’t see a thing, just kept goin’.
Andy and I picked up little Ike, squeezed out his shirt and cap, and commenced to shake him, scolding him for being on the wrong side of the dam at such a critical moment.
He loved the attention, smiling his happy dog Ike smile, then giggling his little Ike [censored] off.

In spite of everything we and his sisters put him through, he maintained a pretty happy heart, and kept a kind of innocence about him. 
He was beyond likable.
None of us would say it, but we all loved the little guy.
And even though he was our projectile alotta times, if anyone out of our realm gave him grief, we'd all take turns beatin' the [censored] outta that person.....no matter how big she was.

Years later, I heard he’d become a structural engineer.
I’d like to think we had an influence on him that rainy fall day.

Last I heard, he was in Honduras, improving some villages in the outback, rerouting waters of floodplains, and teaching building techniques, but that was long ago now.
His frustration was the unions wouldn’t let him get his hands dirty with anything more than a pencil. 



The lad had a remarkable resilience about him in mind and spirit. I’d like to think he’s doin’ well……hell, I may search him out on face book or something, since a lot of folk have died off, and the web is so damn handy these days….’course then I’d have to join face book….last time I did that, I learned I had more than 10,000 friends I didn’t even know. ‘sides, I’m not sure of his first name….but then, right now I’m not sure of my own first name…..


Naw, I’d rather just think my thoughts. Gettin’ tired of learnin’ how folks are ending up….but then learning of yer enemies taking a dirt nap is rather uplifting at times.








*Brad*

Brad lived down the paved road about a mile toward town, so when he appeared he made it count.
He was closer to Andy’s age, so they’d pal around quite a bit.
He was bigger than me, and always challenged me, right up to the time I lost it and beat the daylights outta him with a baseball bat. 
I remember his incredulous look of terror and surprise. He never really stopped challenging me, but his taunts had lost a ton of sincerity after that. 
Andy always got a kick out of it all, and looked on with great interest as to how things would play out between me and Brad, or me and Eddie, or me and Bart…never stepping in, but quite interested….guess alpha members of a pack like to keep score for future reference….

Brad’s mom was a nervous sort, not hard to look at, but nuthin’ memorable either, just his mom.
She too was divorced, but kept a tidy place.
Thinking about it, all the single moms in that area kept a damn tight ship. Maybe they channelled all that pent up nervousness toward dusting and mopping.
Thinking about it some more, all the households that had neat, well maintained places either was kept up by a single mom, or kept up by a married mom that might as well have been single….
On the flip side, there was the Hansens.
Seems they would get it on as regular as breakfast lunch and dinner, not counting the afternooner, and the night cap, and the morning paper……..
Bart’s mom must have been well tapped too, as she wasn’t the neatest of housekeepers…but always had a smile on her face and always hummed a happy little song.
Our place was kept up, but not as fastidious as those single moms, so I guess things were OK with mom and dad.

When Brad came around, things happened. 
Not the best things, but really fun things.

He’d joined our BB gun wars a few times, but he was one to always want something more.
One afternoon we were contemplating what we could do with Ike when Brad thought shooting at the passing cars on the road below would perk things up.

It did.

Our marksmanship was lacking, as most our shots just pinged off fenders and bumpers and the back of an occasional window, but this one time Andy’s shot rang true. Right at the back of this passenger’s gigantic ear.
It was an amazing spectacle to watch take place.
Pap
Whap!
‘AAAAAAH, MY EAR! A BEE STUNG MY GODDAMN EAR!’
He commenced fanning is skunk cabbage sized ear like it was on fire, and I gotta say it wasn’t that great of a shot, ‘cause that gentleman’s humongous ear was a huge target, flappin’ in the wind at 40 mph.

The car came to a screeching halt and he hopped out, dancin’ around batting at the side of his head.

Well, one of his gargantuan ears musta picked up on our rolling on the ground laughter, as he looked right in our direction and started cussing us up and down.
We just flipped him off and invited him up for a chat.

Within 30-40 minutes the town cruiser came barrelling up the road.
We started passing the football around in Andy’s yard, and when they pulled up, we became sincerely helpful as to ‘keep a lookout for those hooligans for sure, officer.’

Brad was a rather intense fellow. 
If he wanted something, it consumed him.
He wanted a model car of mine.
Andy watched with great interest as Brad hauled out prized possession after prized possession to trade, riding his bike back and forth from his house, a mile away.
I feigned interest, then backed off.
The lad was beside himself.
Finally I ended up with three of his model cars, two model planes and three tubes of BBs.
It taught me an early lesson in supply and demand.

The thing I remember most about Brad was he was the one that explained things to me about the opposite sex, in great graphic detail.
So, at the ripe ol’ age of 11, I had all the mechanics down, to a tee.
A couple years later in health class, I’d be the first to raise my hand and answer any question, and even offered other facts for extra credit. 
I was rather proud of that.

Funny, nobody really cared for Brad.
He could come or go, it didn’t matter.

He wasn’t dislikeable, just a bit over the top.



*Eddie*

Eddie was a year or two older than me, and seemed to have a one-up-man-ship problem with most of us.
And if we ever got the best of him, he’d just end up saying ‘What’s the point?’
He had really curly hair, and was actually pretty cool.
He was the city kid of our gang of six.
Never wore anything that looked worn, or even had any dirt on his ‘dungarees’ as his mom would say.
I remember the first time I heard her call Levi’s ‘dungarees’. It became my ammo.
‘Hey Eddie. Better not climb that tree and soil yer dungarees.’ 
Everyone chimed in…’Dungarees???!!’
Yeah, she was Mrs Cleaver incarnate.
A neat lady though, and they had wunna those places that was always kept tidy, not antiseptic tidy, but warm tidy. Made ya jus’ wanna sit in the living room and take it all in. An old cuckoo clock, drapes with silk liners, doilies on the couch and chairs, handsomely framed pictures of folks, richly colored rugs on dark stained shiny hardwood floors.
Now my mom kept a clean house, but, try as she might, just didn’t have the knack in interior decor.
If I rated our place, it was somewhere between Eddie’s place and Bart’s place. Then there was the Hansens. Only, when Mrs Hansen opened the door, it kinda took yer breath away, and in the summer could actually bring tears to yer eyes…more about the Hansens later.



As far as Eddie’s place, I always felt like I should maybe take my shoes off when I stepped inside, only my socks were well into their 2nd week of a possible three week tour, and would’ve caused his mom to scurry for the aerosol can and hose down the area I occupied. As a matter of fact, I preferred to just stay outside until Eddie got refitted with his afternoon outfit, all color coordinated and pressed.
I remember getting a glimpse of his socks. They matched his shirt! I thought, ‘dang, that’s pretty cool’, and logged it for my teen years.
He was the first to introduce Converse Chuck Taylor Allstars, and The Three Stooges, and playing army, so he had a purpose and heavily contributed to our rag tag outfit.
As a matter of fact, he was the instigator of our BB gun wars.
One time I’d accidently shot Eddie in the neck and the BB had stuck under the skin.
When his mom called him in for lunch and saw that little spot, she ‘bout came unglued. 
She called us all in, and gave us the shoot yer eye out sermon. I had the brilliant idea of explaining that we knew about the dangers of head shots, and just aimed at each other’s balls, and if Eddie hadn’t been all bent over takin’ a [censored] in the Hansen’s yard, well we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.
Eddie never got to bring out his gun after that, and his visits became limited, and timed.
Funny, a few years ago I was on a ladder starting a first course of shingles. My Lady was holding the ladder, gingerly poking me in the hind end (helping) when she noticed a bump on my calf. She commenced to fiddle with that bump and remarked that something was rolling around inside it. I handed her my knife and she cut out a rather gnarly BB.


Eddie loved playing army, and always had an invisible machine gun, making machine gun and hand grenade sounds, blowing things up, like the family sedan, or the Hansens.

Years later Andy updated me on him and a couple others.
Eddie did three hitches in nam, then came home and became an armoured car guard, then a private detective. His shiny pate had taken the place of his curls, and he developed a huge beer gut, just like the one he always kidded Andy about.
Andy had met up with him in a bar. Eddie was wearing a wrinkled suit, tie undone, lookin’ pretty darn frumpled and raggedy. 
Funny how things kinda turn on ya.
A decade or so ago I heard about his heart failure. Never made it to the funeral.

What’s the point?

Still awake?
you better make a Dr's appointment


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> _Happy motoring!_



Meanderer...you funny...and right arm


----------



## Gary O'

*First Jobs*

My very first ‘job’ was hoeing roses for an ol’ guy at the end of the mountain road up from our place.
He was a prize winning grower, lots of entries and ribbons and medals and plaques from all over and of course Portland, the City of Roses.

As a teacher, the crotchety ol’ fart was not the gracious diplomat he was when accepting an award.

‘Quit pickin’ at it like a goddamm woman, goddammit.’
‘Gimme that hook.’
He’d jerk the ‘hook’ outta my hand and commence to beat the holy krap outta those roses. 
Apparently the ones that survived became resilient and hardy....and beautiful.

The hook was not much more than a smallish three prong pitchfork bent 90°.

‘You don’t stop till it’s rainin’ like a cow peein’ on a flat rock.’

That was the work schedule.

And off he’d go in his dilapidated ’49 ford sedan.
The engine sounded like it would blow apart any minute, pistons rattling around, tappets tapping a beat, zero oil.
Only drove it a few hundred yards, just to harass us.

One of the old hands said, ‘just hoe like mad until you get over the hill, then you can take a little break’.
The old gent seemed to know what he was talkin’ about, he’d been there a long time. 
Back permanently stuck at 45°.
Kinda bugged me...cause when it was rainin’ like a cow peein’ on a flat rock, we’d all beat feet over to the walnut tree....here he’d trudge...and there he’d stand....bent.
His hands were stuck in a hoe holding position.
Not big on talkin’.

‘How long you been doin’ this?’

‘Some time now.’

‘Huh.’


It was $.60 an hour...10 hours a day.

I’d been there just a few days, and hoein’ like mad. 
The hill just a half hour of back breaking hacks away.
Once over the hill, outta view from the ol’ guy’s shack, I straightened up and leaned on my hook.
Just stared into the sun. 
Rolled a smoke.
A smoke never tasted so good.
I was just getting’ into a mind filled tryst with Sophia Loren when I heard, ‘That’s enough of that, git offa my property.’

I turned around and there he was, leanin’ on them crutches.
How in hell had he snuck up on me?
Had he crutched his way up the hill, knowing full well what I was doin’?
At first I was startled, and maybe a bit scared.
Then I got mad, and with the knowledge that several fields of hay bales were just waiting for me, I headed right for him.
His expression changed from sneering disgust to alarm.
‘Don’t worry ol’ man. I’m not gonna beatcha. 
You’ve done enough of that yerself. 
Here’s yer hook.’

So, yeah, I got fired from my first real job.



When we moved closer to town, I got an evening job at a rather posh restaurant.
The Hillvilla.
It worked well with my junior year schedule.
Work till 11pm…sleep through class..if I went.

Washing pots and pans.
My first day, I ran a sink full of water, hot and cold.
The owner, Ed Palaske, reminded me of Mr McGoo, kindly, gently turned off the cold water.
Hot water and steam came outta the tap.
‘We don’t use cold water. It’s not so sanitary.’
His hands and forearms looked like lobsters...no hair, red, much like a burn victim.
Lou, the cook, doing a great impression of Ed Asner, just leaned on the counter and grinned.
Damn, I’d never known hot water up till then.
The crab pots and pans, from making crab louie, did loosen up better.

Then I graduated to the salad bar.
Much like a bar tender.
The waitresses would come up, order, and I’d prep, sip a coke and munch on crackers.

This one waitress, guess she was in her late thirties, would tell me dirty jokes and chit chat when ordering.
She had blonde hair, all pulled back, like Kim Novak in Vertigo....rather buxom...like my dad’s Police gazette gals. 
I had fantasies about her while I was sleeping in class.

Sometimes a dignitary would call me over,
‘Hey sport, here’s a buck, get me a pack of Winstons outta the machine...keep the change.’

If a patron didn’t like their meal, one of us would get it.
Damn, it was good.

After my shift, and the upstairs was closing, I’d head downstairs and get another coke from the bar, and if lucky, I’d chat more with Kim Novak, and watch her sit there, undulating.

I think that was my best high school job.

I know it was.


----------



## Meanderer

"Im not 'fraid of work....I can lay down right aside it"!

this pic is a fave of mine...kinda reminds me of Snuffy Smith!


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## Gary O'

'Snuffy Smith'...now THAT'S a memory

Thanks, pard


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## Gary O'

*Who dost thou think thou art?*

Between oil field jobs, I worked at a private golf course.
River Oaks Country Club.
Quite the area, and a good example of how things once were.
River Oaks blvd had this huge entry gate. 
More symbolic than functional. 
It separated tiny houses outside the gate from the mansions within.
Pillared edifices with huge manicured grounds lined the boulevard, ending with the ‘club house’, pillars, fountains, white jacketed people of color opening doors, stepping, fetching. ‘Yah, suh’.

I was mowing tees one Saturday morning, and shut my equipment down to give the twosome a shot at the green on this par three.

These guys were owners of things, like NFL teams.

Before they got into their swing regimen I asked if any of them knew what time it was.

‘Is he talking to you?’

I didn’t realize that my ranking as a member of the human race did not rate higher than a third person, an entity to ignore, snub, or order to bring something.

‘They wouldn’t give me the time of day’ became a reality for me that morning.

I watched the dried up bitter old geezer twist his beef jerky torso and flail his pretzel arms, culminating in a feeble swing, sending yet another worm burner half way to the hole.
Sad, but this, among all atrocious, is what I hate most.

Yeah, there’s idiots that happen to drive, kids (18-28) that need a good spanking, and haters that in reality fear people that are not like them, and just downright mean people.

But, I so wish for the self-appointed royalty to be brought down, disrobed of their haughtiness, and abased in front of their subjects.


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## Gary O'

'nother recollection?

Oh, why not;


A Friend

I had a friend, last name of Greasser (of all the names), weighed around 360 lbs  in high school and college...just did anything that would cause a stir...a perpetual grin on his ever so ugly mug.
Longish brown hair lying flat on his forehead, somewhat matted.
Always brushing it out of his eyes.
White, almost transparent skin.
Loose, ill fitting clothes.
Shoes, warn down in odd places from the inhibited stride of a fatso.
He was around 6’ 6” and had no hind end, just blubber around his middle, tapering to essentially nothing, and walked with a slump, the backs of his hands pointed forward, arms immobile...like a friggin’ sasquatch.
Quite intelligent, however. 
I learned to never strike up a conversation with him on the subject of political science.

Nobody talked about his appearance.

We loved him.

We tried to get him to join in in a scrub game of half court.
His feet never left the ground, and although quick wristed, has hands were like anvils when it came to handling a basketball. 
Still, he got a kick out of it, and I knew he loved being included for once in something other than cerebral confabs.
Football was funny.
He just stood there, turning, like he was on a giant electric football field, vibrating nowhere.

He made Western Civ class a riot....even inspired me to crack a book....once.


Met up with him a few years after college (I’d dropped out long ago, he was degreed in several things).

But, selling LP albums out of the trunk of his ’68 Olds 98.

A real free spirit...looking back, reminds me now of Uncle Buck.



I was recently told of his fatal maladies..bunch of stuff, kidneys, liver, heart...all hooked up...hospice.

Damn he loved his gin, weed, fast garbage food, and all night parties.

I miss him right now....really miss him.

To you, Greasser, you magnificent yeti son of a bytch.


----------



## Gary O'

glad I jot things down
then put them...somewhere

found this'n

more observances

wrote over a year ago;

*Grandparents*
For the twelfth time  

250 miles north
Grabbed a Motel 6 ‘for a couple days’..... 
Two days turned into ten or eleven.
The room became a cell after day three.
But I kinda like Motel 6s
Not much chance of leaving anything behind upon check out since everthing that’s not nailed down is prolly yers.
And they have HBO
There’s still nothing actually on HBO, but the coming previews are exceptional.
Oh sure, there’s reglr cable TV.
But, the clientele is much more entertaining.
Think it may have been a tweaker convention.

For most our stay, I just thought these people had maybe one too many caffé Mochas until I was clued in as to their hobby.

Never seen so many folks in such a hurry..and forgetful.
Observed a slender young gentleman whip t’ward his car, then stop midstream, head back to his motel room, stop, feel his pockets, and turn right around, rushing to his car.

Hey, I been there.

‘Dad, they’re tweakers’

'oh'

Oh sure, there’s other types of clientele;
The couple with a mess a’ kids...and dogs, an aging SUV full a’ wadded up clothes, crumpled nacho bags, puppy vomit, foaming pop cans falling out, and poop...somewhere.
The mother with an enormous hind end, requiring its own room
seems a bit harried, wrinkled moo moo, hair pinned back into an undefinable wad. 
The father looks tired.
Very tired.

Happy times.

The out of steady work machinist, grabbing temp jobs.
The truck driver, sick to death of the thought of sleeping one more night in his cab.
The twenty-seven giggling college kids prepping for the beer consumption challenge.

And us.

But

The most entertaining is what I now know as the tweakers.
Went to the office to get more towels.
Ahead of me was a lean young lady checking in.
Seems her purse was a bit of a perplexing trial.
Thought she was gonna vibrate into the floor.

So, yeah, I’m thinking these ‘tweakers’ are nothing more than a real life version of The Walking Dead....only they’re in much more of a hurry.
New series; The Speed Walking Dead.

Anyway, the ten days were not totally misspent.
I’m not a cooing baby guy, but this kid
This kid....is ...AWESOME! 






So glad to be back at the cabin

The happy birds are waking up right now

oh, I'll slip this in (1st birthday);





aaaand, of course, play time;


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Gary O'

*Gurls*

My first real girlfriend, other than dancer number three from the Jackie Gleason Show, was Patricia. 
Fourth grade I think it was.
She had this smile, this beguiling smile, and if per chance she cast one your way, well, it turned all us guys into befuddled masses of profound stupidity.
I was no exception…and she knew it.

So every time she would come near, or I mysteriously found myself near her, I’d make sure and do something cool, like flip my fountain pen up in the air and nonchalantly catch it, writing side down. 
Unknowing that I’d just sprayed myself with a unique pattern of Sheaffer traditional blue ....Boob, James Boob.

Oh, yeah, and her eyes…flashing, batting brown eyes….and some kinda smell too..better than, say, my catcher’s mitt, or even gramma’s rhubarb pie.

That’s all I remember about her looks.
Didn’t even consider the shape of her hind end, or if she even had one for that matter.

One blessed day her parents invited my parents to dinner.
I sat across the table from her, sipping my shaken not stirred fruit punch, creating a rather distinguished looking purple mustache.

These folks had lived outta the states for a few years, and rather proudly offered up their unusual cuisine.
There, on my plate, was a heaping festering mound of curry and rice. Not the spicy curry of the orient, no, this was some sorta green slimey slices of slugguts.

Patricia smiled at me.

I forked the slug slices, and moved them around my plate, mustering and encouraging my life long taste buds for fried potatoes, hamburger patties and ketchup.
I furtively went to the potatoes. 
Only they were swimming in some sorta gawd awful milk sauce...not fried, definitely not fried.
I think I had two bites, feigning nausea, gladly skipping dessert which looked much like mousse of dog vomit.

Patricia invited me up to her room (HER ROOM!!!), upstairs, legs of Patricia,leading the way...huh, Patricia has legs..nice, really really nice legs (self; wimin my age have legs too. Take note.)

And there I was, in a girl’s room. 

Puffy, fuzzy things. 
Pink things.
Lacy, frilly things.
Some sorta awning of posts and frilly cloth over her bed.
Pillows, stuffed toys, more pillows, more toys. 

So there we were.
‘Nice place ya got here’ (I almost said ‘doll face’, but somehow knew my Bogart wasn’t working any better than my Bond).

‘You are in third place on my list.’

(‘what? There’s a list?’)

‘If you kiss my locket, you’ll be at the top.’

(‘If I kiss her locket?’)
(‘what the heck is a locket?’)

She pulled a dainty gold chain from where, I’d discover years later, cleavage came from.
Her locket was a little gold heart.
I felt really really stupid.
Here I was, in a gurl’s room, with all this claustrophobic crap, and even considering kissing her locket for cryin’ out lowd. 
Get me the heck outta here!

(bat, bat, smile)

S-o-o-o-o after I kissed her locket, landing me solidly into first place, we went downstairs.

Funny thing. Next day at school, I took on a much different persona. 
My once pitter patting heart went back to a normal beat.
Her smile took on a more sneer like function.
Her batting eyes became nothing more than a possible Tourette.
Her smell took on the odor of curry.
Basically, she disgusted me, and less than 24 ago, I kissed her locket...damn. 

My first fleeting relationship.

Not for locker room lore.


----------



## Gary O'

I just watched the movie 'Shine' last night

.....reminded me of my eldest son

was hard to hold emotion thru some parts

was much harder for my Lady

but we remained

riveted

My son
Excelled in academics
Skipped grades
Won awards
Became somewhat sought after
Mensa
Artistic things hung in municipal halls
Life for him was just too slow apace
Stayed up for days at a time
He’d regurgitate all his thoughts to his mother and I 
It was a bit suffocating

Then one day he came to me in my shop
....and began crying, telling me he felt he was going crazy, 
but unable to put his feelings into words
I hugged him
Told him all kids go thru puberty and change
‘this too shall pass’ kinda thing

The next years are a blur
I guess maybe I never have wished to dwell on the events in those years

I’ll try to piece some together on my own, as I know better than to ask my lady


He ended up in prison
At 19
Advancing from a minimum security facility to OSP
And on to ‘thunderdome’
Where nobody wants to go

Tried to arrange visits
Rejected countless times
Talked to OSP counselors
‘forget your son, concentrate on your other children’ 

We got a call
OSP does not call anyone
‘You need to see your son’

The visiting area was like a staging zone for zoo critters
Steel tables, benches, cemented in
Chain link walls and doors
He was led in by guards
Shackled head to toe
Made to sit
Unseeing eyes
No recognition
Indistinguishable utterances
He stunk to high heaven
Never looked our way

On the way home I had to pull over, off the freeway
I don’t remember the last time I cried
Maybe as a small child...
But
Never wept like that in my life
And have yet too since
Bitter
Helpless
Godless 
Utter hopelessness 

A week (?) later we got another call
He was being transferred to the psych ward across the street
Where ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’ was filmed

We were told he had quit eating entirely
Weighed 90 lbs
A guard carried him across the street

We were led to the visiting area
Typical booth like situation for visitors
Only, the other side of the glass was something from a zombie movie
We got to watch him attempt to drink milk and cry

My lady had a very hard time
I went alone
Weeks of visiting later, he was released
Just like that

After 7 years of maximum security  

to us

I do not do well when cleaning up men with uncontrolled body functions

Triage 
Nut bins
Meds

It’s all a blur

Somewhere in there, when he was still cognizant, I did a bit of a fraught thing…

We talked about his options
He wanted to go camping

So

Him and I packed his meager belongings

Bought him some basic camp stuff

Drove him to the Trask river area


And dropped him off

while it began to rain

Ever do something that gave you immediate relief, knowing the end result would probably not be optimal?

The sack of cats Dad would have me toss out the window of a speeding Chevy may have had an influence

On the way back home, I tried not to think.

Still

Thoughts crept in

Maybe he’d just lie there curled in his sleeping bag 
Inert
Oblivious
Until days later large birds of prey would dine on his remains

It’s all a blur

They found him 300 miles south
Incoherent

The Tillamook women’s mental health facility asked us to take him back 'he can't stay here'

More triage

Got him hooked up with a place called Luke-Dorf

General population nut bin for semi-functional goofballs 
Then what they call the quad
Then paired up in a shared apartment
And now
On his own
On a budget

I figger the tax payer’s dollars for this are from this tax payer

During these times he’d ever so often not take his meds
Sometimes it was because they changed colors or shapes and he didn’t think they were right
Sometimes it was just because he thought he no longer needed them
Always ended with me going over there, reattaching his phone, and fishing his glasses outa the toilet.

He’s as functional now as you and me, first look.

As long as he takes his meds.

Sorry
This is jumbled time line mess
My lady can recite the events like they happened yesterday
7 or more years of them
I will not take her there


Couple things;

Underage folks do not get diagnosed in regard to mental health
No matter how batshit crazy they are
At least they didn’t then

but

Rosie O'Donnell can git outa bed to do a show
Then go back to bed
And she’s clinically nuts

I know, I know, mental illness is different than insanity
I jus’ wanted to be trite for a bit during this scattered post


----------



## Meanderer

Gary, our lives can be "joy filled", final exams, often "filled with sorrows". We have to take the whole "ball of wax", and come out the other side, whole.    You and your Lady are amazing parents!  bless you both.


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Gary, our lives can be "joy filled", final exams, often "filled with sorrows". We have to take the whole "ball of wax", and come out the other side, whole.    You and your Lady are amazing parents!  bless you both.




We all have our baggage
Doubt anyone here has escaped some sorta trauma

Thanks, pard


let's move back to a more positive slant;

*
SCHOOL*

*Year One*

We didn’t have kindergarten. Hell, we didn’t even have all eight grades in that one room school tucked deep in the Chapman hills. 
And we didn’t have a bus, or lunchroom, or gym, or indoor plumbing.
What we did have was Mr McDunn.

Looking back, he was the best grade school teacher I’d ever have.
Field trips were field trips, thru the woods behind the school house, down to the creek, buildin’ mud dams, and makin’ wood sail boats, or we’d head up streamto the beaver dam, and when the steelhead were runnin’, before I even knew of a sea run rainbow fish that would grow to enormous proportion, he’d stand straddle legged in the stream and bail out those monsters with his hands. 
Then we’d watch him cut one open, displaying the biggest fish eggs I’d ever seen.

One time, when it was snowin’ like a banshee, we took an old mop wringer and made igloos.
Yeah, we went every day, snow, ice, whatever. 
And yeah, no bus, so kids appeared at school early, and while we were waiting for teacher to arrive (from his attached living quarters) we played with these little plastic red bricks that would snap onto each other….they fascinated me. We made planes, and built forts, and skyscrapers. It was like goin’ to the beach, I could never get enough.

But school, it was work books, my own pencil, my own desk.
Desks were the old wooden ones you see in old movies, the kind that hook up in a row, had the ink well, and groove to put your very own pencil, and you had a place underneath, housed in black wrought iron, to put your work books, and the seat flipped up, and so did the person’s in front of you.
That person was Francis Keller. 
She was a tad messy, as her workbook place was eternally jammed with wadded up papers, and leaky pens, and broken things. 
And Francis herself was a bit unkempt. But she did have a fetching look about her, and she was tough as nails. S
he could beat the crap outta most kids there even though she was only in third grade. 
One rather disenchanting thing I recall about her was her habit of snorting whatever was in her throat and nose and swallowing. 
First I’d ever heard such a noise. Kinda like a reverse gargle…..and she ate paste.
Thinking about it years later, those unseemly habits may very well have become attributes………

One time during recess, nature called, and I headed to the outhouse.
It was a three holer, and it had a trough.
I grabbed the middle hole so I could peek thru the crack in the door for female invaders.
But Francis got the jump on me.
There she was. But she wasn’t there for business. 
Next thing I know she’s flippin’ her dress up and her underwear down. Standin’t here starin’ at me.
Whoa, I immediately had a flash back of me and Connie in grampa’s tool shed, and made the brilliant deduction that Connie was not deformed, as most or all girls were missing some very vital things.
Then I took care of my back side and jumped off my perch to button up and head the hell outta there, but not quick enough to skirt Mr McDunn’s shadow.
So there we all were, Mr McDunn in his aura of teacher/god like omnipotence, Francis of who magically had put herself back in the altogether, lookin’ at me like I was satan, and me, standin’ there with my bib overalls huggin’ my ankles.
I learned a couple things that day.
1) Wimin are way ahead of any mind game you may ever venture to get conned into playing.
2) It’s because they are not distracted by all the apparatus us guys have.

So, yeah, we didn’t have all the facilities of the schools in town, but my first classes in psych and anatomy were right there in the three holer. 

Over all, I learned more about social life that first year, than all the other seven grades put together. 

And now, every time I go fishin’, wading a small stream, and catch the faintscent of roiled mud and creek water wafting thru my nostrils, my mind flashes back to those first golden autumn days of school.










*School, The following years*

The local craftsmen had united and built us a real school.
Closer to town.
Two rooms.
Indoor plumbing, one for boys and one for girls.
Newer desks.
Swings.
…and a huge field.
Mr McDunn took us out to the field to explore. 
Now I’d been runnin’ thru fields all my life, so I was a tad unimpressed….until he had us kneel down and move slowly thru the weeds and thistles, identifying everything that grew or crawled.
It got so I couldn’t wait for the next discoveries.

OK, we were all a bit rowdy, but he had a presence about him that got your attention. It sorta made the teachers that followed pale in comparison….and we took advantage.
Seems every one after him ended up having some sorta nervous breakdown right in the middle of the year.

Not sure what happened to Mr McDunn, but I got drift that our folks were not impressed with his philosophy, cause he was quite direct and they were a bit protective of their little darlings.






*TheYear of Taboli*
*
*Mr Taboli arrived my third year, straight from the Philippines….or as he said, the ‘pillippeens’.
He wore a suit.
Reminded me of Desi Arnaz, hair all slicked into a pompadour with half a can of pomade.

And that accent. He didn’t have a chance.
‘OK turd grade, turn to page turdy eight.’
We slowly sacrificed that poor soul.

An event that I recall was pretty much the end of Mr Taboli. 

Francis had a little brother, Dicky. Remember, this was in the ‘50s. The term ‘dick’ had yet to have a negative connotation. Fun with dick and Jane was just that.
We called him ‘Dicky’.
The kid was just one happy little guy.
Always grinnin’ that huge grin, buck teeth spaced wide apart, gigantic mouth….but had some intellect issues.
However, happy…just glad to be included in anything we did.
Unfortunately what we did was mostly to his detriment.
Andy had this oversized gravenstein apple.
‘Hey Dicky, I bet you can’t put this whole apple in your mouth.’
Turns out he could.
It’s just that he couldn’t get it back out.
So, we’re all laughin’ our asses off, and Dicky is laughin’ and droolin’ and chokin’ some, when Mr Taboli blows the recess whistle.
We all file back inside to our desks.

Dicky’s sittin’ there with his gigantic mouth stretched to the max, buck teeth clamped on that apple, just starin’ down at page turdy eight, droolin’ all over his work book.
We’re all lookin’ straight ahead.
Then Dicky begins to get a little red and choke. 
I gotta say, he held it together pretty good, not bein’ able to swallow and all, but once he commenced gagging, it was pretty much all over.
Remarkably, Mr Taboli was pretty good with a knife. He leaped over Bart’s oversized legs hangin’ in the aisle, and proceeded to perform an applectomy right there in class.
So, he was a hero…….for a few minutes.


It was only a matter of weeks that his rosy outlook ofteaching the children of the trees would take a turn.
The event that became the clincher to his destiny was our zip guns. Little simply made ‘guns’ from clothes pins, springs and pebbles. 
Just enough zip to cause a welt. 
A well placed shot destined for a girl’s hind end…unless it was Francis….she’d take it from you and feed it to our own hind end.
Well, after all the lunchtime screaming and running, Mr Taboli rounded us up and just sat at his desk for several minutes.
Then calmly gathered up our zipguns and placed them on the floor in a little pile and commenced to jump up and down on them, screaming something in a language other than English.
Then he strolled over to his desk, sat down, put his head down, and started beating the surface of it with both fists.
Fascinating.
We didn’t have school for a couple days after that. 
The Wadsworth years would follow.




I bumped in to Dicky a decade or so later.
‘It’s Richard now’

The poor chap had been working in the woods.
If you are short on brains, the woods are not the place to work. It’s bad enough if yer quick and sharp.
Seems Dicky had run a chain saw up his hand, right between his fingers, up to his wrist.
They didn’t do much for him in the patchwork dept.
At first, seein’ him at a distance, I’d thought, geez, Dicky is a Trekie,showin’ me his Vulcan wave.

Wonder how they're all doin' now..............






*The Wadsworth Years*

Mrs Wadsworth was our teacher for a couple years…..actually 2 ½ years, as she stepped in when Mr Taboli made his infamous exit.
The white coats didn’t come to get him, but after the zip gun affair we never saw Mr Taboli again…our first conquest.

Mrs Wadsworth was different. 
She was old, and done with it all, but folks gathered around her and conned herout of retirement.
Turns out she’d run a concentration camp of grades six thru eight back in Milton-Freewater for centuries.
Quite the disciplinarian, as she could still wield a bamboo rod with the deftness of a samurai.
And those high top orthopedic oxfords that housed her rheumatoid ankles were nothin’ to mess with either.
She stood about five six, and weighed in at oh say 97 lbs, but still had apresence about her.
I got her to smile a couple times, but usually she wore this sour look, like she just got fed some horse shit, of which we tried.
She had what was sometimes referred to as denture face, some real jowls, kinda looked like Deputy Dawg’s gramma….and she used it to her advantage, lookin’down on you thru her bifocals.
Eddy P, the terror of turd grade, was putty in her gnarly hands, and even his little brother, satan of second grade, was no match.


So things were as quiet as they could be in those two years.


We all respected her, and I even admired her, and I’d like to think she got a charge outta me, as she would single me out as an example for others not to follow.
When she gave me her special attention, I’d notice her neck would commence to sorta blossom into a rather deep crimson beginning at the start of her collar and creeping up to her chin. 
This aurora was gradual, and mesmerizing.

Grammar was her specialty, and diagramming sentences on the black board was what we all did, over and over…past participles and me became friends, as we both found our little special place in the parse tree of life.

But the second room in that school held my fond attention.
Miss Dickerson taught kindergarten thru second grade.
She had a dimpled smile that would melt me into deep daydreams of her and I.
I’d sit thru history class, fanaticizing about us goin’ campin’. Her lookin’ on with admiration of me building a camp fire with nothin’ but my woodsman’sprowess, and then skinny dippin’ and then, well things got sorta grey from there, so I’d be stuck on replay, filling in more details with each re-run of my boyish manliness and her absolute womanliness, then fog, then back tocamping, swimming, fog….sometimes we’d just lay on the bank after skinny dippin’,all naked, basking in the sun, fixated on each other’s genitals…but there was always that darn fog…….




*TheMrs Nelson half year….aka The Half Nelson*

She tried to be nice.
‘You can attract more bees with honey than with vinegar.’
Killer bees

The white coats did come for her




*HighSchool (I’m still trying to forget)*
Sophomore year I had a task master of an English prof.
He wanted a poem.
So I gave him a poem.
I happened to be reading a James Bond novel in class when this poem leaped to thefore.
Only it was a bit short.
So I added my own words for length and to be able to say with a semi-seriousface that I’d written it.
He asked me to stay after class, and expounded on how profound the words to that poem were….right up to where Ian left off and I began, or as he said (since he’d never read that crap) ‘right up to here, then you seem to lose the gist’ his index finger pointing to the first word of my submission.
I told him I got in a hurry right there cause I didn’t want to be late for class………….
He seemed to buy it.










*From a slap to a pounder*

High school typing class.
I lucked out with one a them new electric ball units.
Melody sat in front of me.
Frail thing
Delicate
A bit of a snob
The quick brown fox blah blah blah….
Melody’s bra strap comes in to vision.
Home row? What home row?
Elastic not only stretches, but it also contracts…reducing bust size greatly…darn near concave.
Next thing I know I’m on the front row, saddled with a Royal pounder, wearing a smallish hand print on my left cheek.
Who really needs to type anyway……….50 years later I'm still using two very talented fingers...


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## Meanderer

Thanks for that look back, Gary!  ....then it was off to collage, I suppose?  ....after one more look back!


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## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Thanks for that look back, Gary!  ....then it was off to collage, I suppose?  ....after one more look back!



Heh, the college days were a bit too graphic for this site, but yeah (fitting 'toon there)


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## Gary O'

My mind wanders (travels) sometimes
sometimes to the edge
during those times a keyboard is employed

(forgive me)

a pre-first draft (unedited) excerpt from a morning's mental urge;



Anybody got close to near to close relatives that seem to live a cut above everone around them including you?

These are kin, that if you had the choice, you’d pick for Hitler’s cronies, their lives ending by the hand of Idi Amin’s pals. 
It’s a dream you have anyway.

These are not necessarily smug folks, as they’ve been raised to be proper with kindly remarks saved for the mentally disadvantaged (you), 
but still, 
when in conversation, you seem to come off as a curiosity, a toy that should have been discarded but kept because, well, it’s been passed down from aged family members.

These are your kinfolks that you wish weren’t. 
But there you are, at their place.
And there they are, choosing the correct fork with mindless ease, while it dawns on you that you not only have one, but both elbows on the table.
This felonious act is like discovering, while you’re waiting for the bus, you have no pants on.

Yeah, there they are, wittily chatting about current events, glancing your way, hoping you will say something so they can have a good mutual laugh, jumping on your blurted fractured words like the ravenous hyenas they are.

But you know this, so you amiably reach for your seventh dinner role, because you know the lone knife is for butter…pretty sure.

And there’s your sister, blending nicely, and even your little brother, cute little bastard, seems to be one of them, along with mom and dad, all exchanging quips and witticisms. 

So you begin to feel a tad self-conscious, and thirsty, since your fourth glass of juice has managed to cause that loaf of dinner rolls to swell to the max in your twisted up stomach.

‘Why’d the moron throw the clock out the window?’

‘Whud he say? ‘

snicker giggle giggle giggle....rising, swelling to a tidal wave of uproarious laughter

‘I dunno, Gary, why did the moron do that (snarkle)?’

The beets look pale compared to you.

Only you are smiling, laughing sappily with them.

But, on the inside you’re envisioning Himmler’s storm troopers bashing down the door, and hauling everone outside.

You are untouched, saved actually.

Later you stroll out to the gazebo where everone is flailing away, hanging upside down.
You walk slowly by these relatives of yours, stopping in front of your cousin’s bobbing head.

*‘**TO EFFING SEE THE EFFING TIME EFFING FLY!!!!**’*

Later that day, sitting in the gazebo, finally with your own thoughts, you settle your mind with the calming resolution of just writing a book.....



So, you never had relatives like that, you say?

Me neither

But it still won’t keep me from writing about them....


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## Meanderer




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## Meanderer

Morning, Gary!  I enjoy reading your "wanderings"....and don't worry about the edge...there are no edges. Always remember, where there's a quill,there's a way!


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## Meanderer




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## Gary O'

....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 likea 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.


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## SeaBreeze

Thanks for sharing your memories, very enjoyable read!


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## Meanderer

That was a real treat to read!  Thanks, Gary.  I guess it comes down to the fact that we are all made, to be so different from one another.  I guess our real job in life. is to be our self.


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## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Gary.  I guess it comes down to the fact that we are all made, to be so different from one another.  I guess our real job in life. is to be our self.




that evokes an amen, brother


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## Gary O'

*
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 latter 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 it’s 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. 

One time I peered through a cracked door to his study. He was 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.

Enough of this.

I’ve got chores to do before I sleep.

Chores to do before I sleep.


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## Gary O'

*other gurls

**Linda*

By the age of thirteen I’d mastered the art of girlfriendmanship.
The major thing about the ladies was they needed to be dazzled, swept off their feet, so to speak.
I knew this from my vast studies of Errol Flynn movies.
So, with my now astute knowledge of the opposite sex, it all came rather easy.
Take my next conquest for example.

I’ll call her ‘Linda’, mainly cause her name was (and probably still is) Linda.
I usually change the names to protect the innocent (me), but there’s nothing about Linda here that would be defamatory…pretty sure. 

She had a beguiling smile…hell, all of ‘em had those beguiling smiles, but hers kinda took on a Susan Hayward look.

And, she was cool.

Never went to the same schools, as she lived in St John’s, and I lived up in the hills twenty miles outta Portland.
But I met her at swim lessons in Portland, lessons that near drowned me as Itried so hard to get hold of that long ass bamboo pole the bitch of a swim instructor kept poking at me, pushing me away from frantically hugging the edge of the pool.
 Very frustrating for her, as several times I’d glommed onto that pole with both arms and legs, while she tried like hell to push me off the ledge and into the deep end.
 I’d just climb the pole, hand over hand, like a waterborne lemur, as she’d whisk me back and forth across the pool.
It only took a half dozen lessons to figger out that one really can’t breathe water…

Linda smiled at me, thus I was smitten.

Since we didn’t have very many ways of hooking up, meeting was rather sporadic.
The next time we met was at Pier Park in St John’s.
We strolled around,holding hands…sweaty hands…a real tell in regard to my rico suave persona.
But she kept smiling and I kept sweating.

Mostly, our relationship consisted of letters and phone calls.
Letters were a snap, cause I could take my sweet time in expounding on my devil may care, swash buckling life style, but the phone calls required some fast thinking on my feet.
In my vast knowledge of the opposite sex, knowing they needed to be dazzled, my acute imagination begat that of my own version of Walter Mitty. 

‘Hi, how are you?’

(I could just see her smiling that Susan Hayward smile) 

‘Hi, I’m OK, now that I’m able to stitch up my shoulder.’

‘What?!’

‘Oh, it’s nuthin’, just got done fightin’ a grizzly in the back yard.’

‘Oh my god! What happened?!’

‘Well, I was choppin’ wood, and he kinda got the jump on me. So I just chopped him in the neck with my axe.’

‘Are you okay???’

‘Yeah, right now I’m stitching up my shoulder while we talk.’

‘Is the bear still there?!’

‘Naw, I chased him up the hill for several miles…had to cold camp a couple days, and lost him up in the high country.’

‘Oh, so the bear fight didn’t just happen?’

‘Uh, no…..sorta.’ (sweat)

‘Well, I gotta go. Gotta tell some folks that I’ve gotta cancel the sky diving lesson for today, so see ya.’

‘Oh, are you taking lessons?’

‘No, I teach it.’

‘Oh,’

‘Yeah, so I gotta go….bye.’ (my hands now sweat faucets)

I really don’t know what ever happened that severed our relationship. 
It certainly wasn’t due to my boring life style that’s for sure.
Actually, I do remember seeing her for what was probably the last time, and somehow her smile no longer did it for me.



When I was in my midteens, I used to think back on those times and get all embarrassed. 

Then later, in my twenties, would vividly recall it all and just laugh my hind end off.


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## Meanderer

The "Coal" Date!


With one lucky break.....


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## Gary O'

moving along (these are not chronological) *


Tom Gurls*

1957
I was dropped off for the day at the Beasley farm.
I don’t recall how or why, but, since both folks worked, ever so often I’d just get dropped off for the day…..at someone’s place.
Didn’t matter if I knew them or not. 
What did matter, I guess, was that someone was watching my 7 or 8 year old idiot savant self.

The Beasleys had a farm, cows, fields, ponds, barns of hay, yards of farm animals….and three sisters.
Horrifically wild, country girl wild, sisters.

Mom chatted with Mrs Beasley as I settled in at the kitchen table.

‘Oh he’ll be fine, there’s plenty to do here.’

‘OK, bye bye.’

And she was gone.

The kitchen smelled of ham and eggs.

I was given a glass of milk, raw milk, warm raw milk, accompanied with the complimentary clumps.

‘You don’t like milk?’

‘Full.’ (ready to hork up my own breakfast)



‘Well, why don’t you go outside, the girls will be out in a minute.’

(Gurls??!!)

They aged around 10, 12, and 13 I’d say.

‘Mamma, can we play with the boy?’

I felt like Lennie Small’s imaginary rabbit.

They too had bib overalls, but no shoes, no T-shirt, just bibs.

‘Wanna play in the barn?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

Not realizing I was the prey for catching and raping, I climbed the hay bales and crawled thru the tunnels they’d made.
It was quite fun at first.
Things turned a bit when I heard the eldest say something like ‘he’s over there, get him’.

I made for the open air, and scurried toward the corn field.
Not a chance.
The eldest tackled me at about the third row.

Everything kinda gets fuzzy after that, as I was picked up and thrown down like the calf in a calf roping contest. 
My arms and legs were pinned by their knees, as all six hands eagerly explored my entire self….things even I had yet to explore.



So, being the only one present of sound mind, I immediately employed my most potent offense, which consisted of violently flopping my head from side to side.
This abated some when the eldest straddled my face.

I then went into stealth mode, lying as still as one could while being tossed up and down, probed, rubbed, and generally molested, farm girl style.

Eventually (I’d say sometime late morning) they lost interest.

Lunch.

‘Did you girls show Gary the castration shed?’ 

(!!!!!!!!!)

I don’t recall leaping up, running out the door, or the journey to the pond, but I have feint recollection of the sound of the kitchen chair hitting the floor, and the screen door slamming shut.

I played with the ducks and geese on the other side of the pond, taking swift glances behind me every few seconds, until I heard our Chevy pull up.

Farm girls, as a rule, turned into extremely fit, vivacious young ladies, and seemed to know what they wanted, and when they wanted it (now).

I avoided them like the plague, right up until about 15 or 16. Then we, shall we say, taught each other a few things.


----------



## Gary O'

*Lindsey

*
From months of bucking hay and picking berries, beans, and whatever I could get hold of, at 14 I bought a car.

My first.

’54 Chevy
$300

When you save your money in a cigar box for several months, taking it out, counting, fondling, stacking, fanning it out like a hand of gin rummy, then putting it back under the bed, w-a-a-a-a-y under, and you make a major purchase, your object of worship is gone…gone I say…just an empty cigar box with only the faint scent of cheap cigars and a hint of the smell of soft currency once soaked in the sweat of your front Levi pocket. 
There are few words to describe the emptiness.
Maybe ‘bereft’.

I’d had this same experience at 12, getting my 30-30, but $79.50 from Western Auto was not the same as giving over a summer of work in one fell swoop.

The following summer I got a job hoeing roses for a famous, prize winning rosegrower that had several acres of (you guessed it) roses at the end of a gravelroad on top of the hill we lived on. 
So, before sunup I’d make myself lunch, make coffee for the thermos and breakfast, fire up the green hornet and bomb up the hill, taking switch back after switchback…. sideways. 
Then proceed to get ahead start on a degenerative back by hoeing roses for 10 hours.
One Friday I’d gotten a call from a pretty little girl that I’d met.
Not as beautiful as my lady now, but beyond cute…really really cute, evenp retty….her smile did funny things to my heart.
So Sunday I approached dad.

‘Hey, ol’ man. I wanna go to church with this girl.’

‘Well, what’s stoppin’ ya?’

‘She lives on the other side of Portland.’

‘You want me to drive you to the other side of Portland?!’

‘Uh, no.
I’d like to drive my car.’

(Mom)
‘ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!’

‘I’d be careful.’
‘And, (the coupe de grace) can I borrow grampa’s bible?’

‘You better be careful, cause if you get in an accident, they’re comin’ after me.’

‘Thanksdadbye.’

Mom said something, rather sputtered something, but I was already bombin’ down the drive.
Can’t recall the jaunt over the St Johns Bridge or the rest of the twenty miles.

Lindsey jumped in and we headed down the country lane to a park.
On the way, she was all over me.
I gave a thought to just pull over into the ditch, but maintained my James Bond nonchalant approach and returned her kisses, French kisses, 
my first, 
in my car,
driving,
For some reason, even beyond the control of my crotch, my mind relished in the sensation of tongue wrestling with this lovely being, and not on keeping in my lane…or on the road even.
It wouldn’t have mattered much to look where I was goin’ because my eyeballs were rolled back in my head.

Then a funny thing happened.

Somewhere deep in my semi consciousness, I heard trumpets blowing.
(So this is what Brad was telling me about…)
But while trying to gather my fuzzy thoughts, I had a flash back of a song that was getting popular….Leader of the Pack had a girl yelling ‘LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT,LOOK OUT!!’, then screeching tires.
Only it was Linda yelling, and the trumpet was a car horn, and the tires were those of the car in front of us.
I just remember two old couples, dressed for church, mouths open, arms waving.

I swerved.
Our rear quarter panels met.
Hard.
A sickening crunch.

My rear view mirror revealed them just sittin’ there in the middle of the road…sideways….gettin’ smaller and smaller as I floored the little chevy.
Lindsey didn’t say much when I dropped her off, but a few days later I got a letter.
My first.

I drove into the drive and parked behind the garage.
My story was that there was black ice on a corner and I slid into the guardrail.
He bought it.

I sweated blood for weeks after that, waiting for cops to haul my dad off in hand cuffs…leaving me with mom.
It never happened, but every time I got in my car, I got a little sick to my stomach.
I told him the real story three decades later.
We both had a good laugh over it.
Together.
Not at each other, but with each other.
My first.


----------



## Gary O'

*The Up Sell
(a little story)*

So, I got lazy. 
I was tired.
The Jeep needed an oil change.
There’s a kid on the corner waving a big sign…$19.95

I can’t buy oil and filter for $19.95

I drive in.

I’m not gonna say the name of the auto lube outfit, but, boy, they come a runnin' in a jiffy.

‘Are you interested in our universal, complete, no worry, super duper, I’m gonna put it up yer hind end service package?’

‘No…I only have twenty bucks in my pocket.’

‘OK sir, just pull up into the stall.’

‘I recommend our premium, synthetic, one billion zillion mile, high viscosity lubricant.’

‘How much?’

‘It’s on special today for only $57 a quart.’

‘No…I only have twenty bucks in my pocket.’

‘Here’s what your tranny fluid looks like, I recommend a change.’ (showing me a spot on a white napkin).

‘Can I have the napkin for a minute?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Here, you can have this back now, that’s what my snot looks like.’

Moments later…

‘Here’s what your air filter looks like, I recommend a new one.’

‘You…took….my…air….filter….out?’

‘Its part of our basic package.’

‘Well, take the other part of your basic package, and put it back in….but first, blow it out from the inside.’

‘We don’t recommend that.’

‘I know.’

Moments later…

Another napkin

‘Here’s what your antifreeze looks like. I recommend you get that changed for winter, and to flush out your radia….’

‘You wanna know what my crap looks like? Keep that rag in my face…it’ll happen.’



Moments later…

‘Sir, please step into the office and we’ll get things wrapped up.’

‘Just sign here. It’s a disclaimer, waiver, loop hole, stating you really don’tgive a poop about your car.’ (last ditch effort).

‘That’ll be $19.95’

‘Can you change a hundred?’

'You said you only had twenty dollars.'

'I know....I lied....you started it.'


----------



## Meanderer

The sign out front read "Now Hiring dipsticks"!


----------



## Gary O'

*Ribs and other Bones
*
There’s nothing like a good meal for a get together,
and the good meal is a barbeque.

Being a northerner that spent some years down south, I can say those boys down there know barbeque.
Ribs, fallin off the bone.
Chikin, smoked, from wood, not wunna those fancy pellet rigs, but by an ol’ guy raised in a ‘grease house’, from a pit the size of a horse trough.
Beans, I didn’t know beans could taste like that. Odd things, strange herbs, spices, homemade sauces, a bit a fat meat, marinated for hours. They were a meal all by themselves.
Tater salad…M-M-M-M, none like it.
Sweet tea, steeped in a gallon jug in the sun.
Beer, Lone Star or Falstaff, didn’t matter, both tasted like mop water from a jukejoint, but did their job of cleansing the palate for the next bite.
Sip, rib, sip, chikin, sip, beans, sip, salad, guzzle the rest.
Made ya just fall down and scream.

Houston.
Down the street, Telephone road, was wunna those grease houses. 
An old black gent lived there with what seemed like three generations of family. 
Everbuddie's grampa, even mine for awhile.
Everyone called him Chili.
Bid overalls, white butcher’s apron, leather baseball cap was his eternal uniform.

Had a high pitched, raspy voice, and always a smirk on his ol’ mug.
More often than not, you’d find me sittin’ at his dilapidated picnic table after work, watchin’ him toil over the pit. 
Nuthin’ attractive.
Tin lean-to roof, pile of wood, ol' white fridge that made a humming sound laboring in the heat, vats and jars, brushes, large forks, 
and the huge pit with a homemade steel lid, that once he was satisfied with how things were goin’ he’d drop down and come out to talk to me…..talk about stories…old day stories…..bone chilling, horrific stories.

Naw, nuthin’ attractive….. ‘cept for the rich savory aromatic fragrance emanating from that glorious pit.
I’d sit there, sweating like a pig, drool stream gathering on the table in a puddle…

‘Chili!
WTF ol’ man!?’

‘Boy, you know it’s not ready….I’ll tell ya when it’s ready.’

It was worth the wait.


Fourth of July…or as they say down there JOOOlah, everyone barbequed. 
Po foke, rich foke, middle class foke, all had their pits goin’.
You couldn’t walk two steps without getting hit upside the head with the aroma of the gods.

One fourth, me and my lady were flat broke.
I’d come off a month long stint in Brownsville, inspecting oil field pipe, big job. 
Tuboscope laid some folks off after that, so I volunteered for some time off myself.
Took most of June, just me and my lady…nobody else.
Ran outta money…rent was paid, car was maintained, just broke….food crumbs in the fridge, empty bottles piled in the corner of the carport below…sittin’ on the couch smokin’ a partial I’d dug outta the butt can.

‘I’m goin’ back to work.’

‘It’s the fourth.’

‘Oh’

Chili and family had gone somewhere.
It was hot.
Most neighbors had headed to Galveston.

Our guts were eatin’ guts.
Hadn’t been so hungry in a long time.
A friend invited us to a company get together.
The park was filled with heavenly flavors.
Kids, old folk, parents, all had plates heaped with goodies, goodies that tempted me to follow ‘em, floating on the fragrant waves.

We strolled over to the tables.

$3.50

$3.50??!!

I had 37 cents.

One the way back to the garage apartment I swore I’d never put myself in that position again…especially on the fourth.

I think wunneezdaze we need to head back down south for a spell.

Something about the word ‘brisket’ that just sounds savory…didn’t know what it was ‘til I landed in Texas.


----------



## RadishRose

Hah, Gary you're cooler than the other side of the pillow!


----------



## Gary O'

RadishRose said:


> Hah, Gary you're cooler than the other side of the pillow!




heh
it’s sweaty work bein’ this cool

OK, truth;

folks everwhere, all walks, are the coolest
I’ve come to study ‘em
Some are a bit flamboyant (legends in their own _spare _time)
but
The everday ones, they are the best at it
Kick is…they don’t even know it!

glad ya liked the story


----------



## Gary O'

_More thoughts on 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 ladies room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him. 

There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.

He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww,hooohoo….’ .
(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 27 years to get there.

I’ll take my time.

_(penned six years ago in a sorta diary, before I’d forget)_


----------



## Gary O'

‘Again’

I’ve nursed a fondness for music
Not an obsession
But it’s there
When I was around 13 I thought the guitar was a sexy, easy thing to conquer
Mom took me to a music teacher
A teacher of the guitar 
Older Spanish fellow
Thick accent
Learned the keys, notes
High E to low E
And back
Over
And over

‘again’

He’d go eat dinner

Come back

‘again’

Years later (seemed) we proceeded on to ‘Little Brown Chug’
And there we stayed

‘again’

Dinner

‘again’

After the fingertips of my left hand developed calluses on their calluses I came to the conclusion we weren’t gonna move on to House of the Rising Sun right away, 
or in my lifetime

But, man, could I ever knock out Little Brown Jug

A few decades later, I happened onto another guitar
Ran thru a few Brown Jug riffs, then centered on It Takes a Worried Man

Found it relaxing

After several renditions, and weeks turned into months of relaxing, singing a worried song,
 one day while I was at work, the family sold my instrument to the lowest bidder
We went to dinner at the local smorgasbord that night, their treat
During dessert, they told me of their deed
I wondered how they'd come in to such extravagant funds
Heh, I was gettin’ rather weary of that song too

Anyway, other than profound lilts from the echo of the shower walls, I’ve never been given to creating a tune worthy of listening

But

I’m a good listener


----------



## Gary O'

more grandchild Thoughts

From years back, now


*spirit cries*

Little guy

Little mild guy

all slumped over in the Jeep

wee hours of the morning

taking him ‘home’

spent the night at namaw and papaw’s
got him new glasses

‘how ya doin’ professor?’ (head rub)
nod

‘mild mannered reporter’ or ‘professor’
names I’ve given our little buddy


tiny little knocks on the door......that wouldn't waken a mouse

'knock harder'

 porch light casting the shadow of a stray

tappity tap

little mild guy

running back to the jeep with his sack of clothes

mother is somewhere 

nobody answers

‘father’ is 100 miles away

will brother Jess answer the door?

will it be his step mom?

is anyone home?

 (great, looks like I’ve got an office buddy today...)

right now, he essentially has no one

some evenings spent alone in the apartment

waking to no one

trudging to school to have breakfast

hope he has a friend or two

little mild guy

loves science

when his mother is mentioned, he looks down

head nodding that he misses her

I can’t see his eyes, but the pain in his face is obvious

Stoic little face

his spirit cries 

‘what shall we do, professor?’

face staring at the closed door, shrugging

‘Wanna go to work with papaw?’

Quick head nod

wait...

brother opens the door

professor grabs is clothes sack 

darts inside

stolen an ol’ man’s heart, he has 

I really don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone else right now

I want to kidnap him

we need to have him at the cabin every summer day we can

little mild guy

better days;






















three years ago last summer, stayed at the cabin three weeks
thirteen then
gave me grief most the time
but
while waiting at the train station
he hugged me
'I love you so, papaw'

turns out, a crusty ol' hard ass can still soften some


----------



## Gary O'

I have come to know many an individual
Some so remarkable I just look
In awe

Quite a few have had many tough struggles in life
And have come thru
Shinning

Countless stories have been written about folks like these
Reader’s Digest used to be full of ‘em

There is one I’m focused on right now
Nuthin’ glorious, to speak of
Heh, on the surface, her life has been pretty much unspeakable from my perspective
See, her ‘****** orientation’, as is the PC phrase of today, is with the same
I’m so biased I can’t even put it in proper English

Anyway

She’s not a lesbian 
I think the street term is ‘Bull Dyke’

Born with physical defects
Hands, one arm, sorta screwed up
If that wasn’t enough, not long ago she was in a horrific auto accident
People died
She didn’t
Just got more physically screwed up
Large gal
Man features
But a female

First look
Somebody totally unlovable
By
Anyone

Yet
She has this, this attitude
That I so admire
Sardonic
Matter of fact
A fixed grimace that, if closely examined, is a reluctant smile
Brutal truths told with a shrug
An outlook on life that speaks nothing but courage

At one time I would have disgustedly prejudged 
Not would’ve considered my thinking wrong

Now?
I would be proud to introduce my friend to anyone
Except
I’m a bit over protective of her
Don’t want to see her hurt more
If we were in a bar together
Well, there’d be many a fight

Other’n that, I have no reservation about my friend
She has given me a new perspective on folks

Her story would never have made Reader’s Digest
Or prolly most Christian periodicals

But

She’s my hero

good on you, 'Sam'


----------



## Gary O'

Pushin’ 70
Don’t feel it
Even bled myself off my hypertension meds
Bought a cuff, Omron…good cuff.
Scared the shit outa myself
197/93!
Not good
Got a new doc
Asian gal
Young
Hip
Had to break her in with my philosophies on death and dying
She’s OK with it
Still
Blood tests galore
Everthing negative
Here’s where things get sometimes difficult
‘Your cholesterol is great, but due to your age group, I’d like to put you on meds to control it’
‘No’
‘OK’
Didn’t have to go thru my opinion on docs and their practice of offering drugs after a seminar on, say, cholesterol…and my thoughts on not really wanting to live much past 90, and how I’ve lived about three lives worth already…etc, etc
She suggested I get a colonoscopy 
I suggested I don’t
She said I could poop on a stick every year or get the colonoscopy ever ten years
I told her I’d shit on a stick ever day for ten years instead of that personal prison like assault 

She said ‘OK’
Heh
We have an outhouse
No need for the floatation device (napkin)
The directions said I could mail it, or bring it in.
I brought it in
Tried to give it to the receptionist
‘You have to take a number’
‘Really?!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes’
‘But there are eight people ahead of me with numbers’
‘Sorry’
‘Wait, I already have the number 2 right here in this packet’
‘Please take a number and wait your turn’
‘Really?...I mean I could have just mailed it, but thought I’d drop it off’
‘I mean, would you be the one to take care of the mail?
‘You need a stamp?’
‘No, I need a slot, or for you to take it from me when I stick my hand out..’
The folks waiting were chortling and snickering at my incredulity
An office door opened
‘Next’
‘Hey, would you just take this?’
There was an applause as she took my sample
My poop is good, by the way.
(I coulda told her)
Anyway, back on meds
Pressures are 130s/60s


----------



## Meanderer

‘Hey, would you just take this?’


----------



## Gary O'

*Falling down*

At the age of four, one falls on a regular schedule.
No big deal
Yer close to the ground anyway
Get up
Run 
Fall down
Repeat

When in yer late sixties, falling down is akin to plunging off the edge of the Grand Canyon
Seems about the same space of time to mentally adjust with several choice expletives
Once you’ve determined yer goin’ over, and have made one or more feeble attempts at grabbing (helplessly flailing) at something on the way down, like a small animal or a board with a rusty nail in it, you come to the grim reality that there’s just no stopping you, yer gonna hit.
Hard
Fleeting thoughts of childhood pets, Felecia Moorhead’s heaving cleavage, and health insurance premiums rush thru.

*The landing..style points*

I’ve never ever landed well.
Even in high school football, where you practice it, forever it seems.
Drop and roll for me was slowly crouching down and flopping over, immediately losing any location orientation.
I was a pretty good second baseman and shortstop, with good hand/eye coordination, but range...didn’t dare stretch out for the hot liner, could topple over, those were for outfielders.

The somersault has been an unattainable challenge, since early on in life, even though Connie Ekbert and her holey underwear showed me the main gist of the mechanics, 
in slow motion, 
several times...

*Types*

There’s the falling up
A couple/three months ago I stubbed my toe on a curb, going in to a Goodwill Store.
Went down
Landing on my palms
But that one didn’t count so much.
I fell kinna across, not down.

Now, coming off a curb, where the front half of the foot begins to point down, while the back half remains on the curb..heh...that one’s a beaut.
There’s a forward thrust, like some hit man from behind just pushed you into the subway rails.
That one doesn’t give you the grace period of fond childhood memories
Maybe a broken expletive 
Maybe

Then there’s the WTF one, where it seemingly takes nothing more than a pebble on the road, or twig in the forest.
This may be attributed to the gait of a vague shuffle after a day of performing feats of long gone youthful brawn in the company of younger folk half my age.

*Pain*

I used to just wince, then find my way back up
But I no longer experience pain....if...I land on my palms (scar tissue).
If I happen to go down around a crowd of people, I notice they are the ones doing the wincing and grimacing.
Now I just crawl over to an object higher than my waist, hoist myself up, 
give the concerned crowd a Nixon victory sign, 
and hobble on my way.

So far, I’m good with it all.
Figger it’s God’s way of keeping me humble.

(fell on the ice yesterday...thought I better write these thoughts down while my wrists still function)


----------



## Meanderer

Hopin' it wasn't a great fall!


----------



## Gary O'

Ever so often I meet folks of another station in life of which I’m not familiar.
Could be one of abject poverty, adversity.
Could be one of wealth, education.
A portion of these times yields a reaction of disgust.
Other times, admiration.


Last week we met up with some folks of which I was not immediately able to pigeon hole.
I suppose the word I should use is ‘understated’.
Their demeanor, one of kindness, genuine, not put on.
After several moments of getting to know each other over coffee, I found this mild mannered fellow to be of a rather noted station in life.
Yet, here we sat, like old pals, in old pants.
Thing is, we’ll probably never be ‘pals’.
No, I’m a bit too crass, rough around the edges.
I'm hoping for ‘good acquaintances’.
Heh, I noticed his eyes dull a bit after listening to me go off on wunna my snappy pattered tangents. 
I’ve seen that look before.
So I backed off a bit. Listened. Remarked here and there.
He’s into things.
Things of which I’ve touched, but not close to versed enough for mutual conversation.
One item being anything electrical.
It’s all magic to me.
Oh, I can change out an outlet, or move wiring around a bit without creating a potential fire hazard, but that’s as far as it goes.
So, the most I can expect out of this acquaintanceship is one of education....for me...and patience...on his part.
I’ll try not to be a little kid about it, but hey, I’m me. 
No need to kid my own self. 

However
It was a sweet time, a cherished event.

One not expected.

They’re the best to have.

Keep a fire


----------



## Gary O'

*‘Are ya scared?’*

My lady and I were taking our 5 and 7 year old grandsons for a walk, just up the hill, in our suburban neighborhood a few years ago.
There was a wooded glen, just off the main road. 
I noticed the youngest was looking around and every once in a while quickly behind himself, eyes bulging.
‘Are ya scared?’
‘No stupid, we’re in town.’
A lota times their conversation was like two old men, one grumpy.
Made me chuckle, as we had told them about ‘the deep dark woods’.

Another time, we took them to a park in Portland, an arboretum.
With visions of playground equipment, slides, swings, and merry-go-round, the youngest kept asking, ‘When are we going to the park?’
‘We are at the park!’
‘Where?’
‘You….are….standing on it!!’
Their conversation, killer, always.

They would spend the night, and watch scary movies till they were frozen to their chairs, couldn’t even go pee.
Not the youngest so much, but the eldest, he loved to be scared.

One time we were watching PeeWee’s Big Adventure, and when large Marge did her sudden change over to monster Marge, he shot outta his chair like he was catapulted from a gigantic spring, landing in namaw’s lap six feet away.

He loved for me to tell scary stories when we sat out on the deck on a summer night.
‘Tell me another one, papaw.’
One time I told one so scary,……with eerie glowing eyes on the TV, even when it was off, and then in the window, piercing the dark,…… that he asked me to stop. I could tell that he was torn, but his terror won out.
It’s funny how just a hint of the presence of something sinister is far scarier than a full description of some drooling, toothsome ogre monster.

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.


----------



## fmdog44

RadishRose said:


> Ohhh, nice Meanderer!
> 
> Gary, I remember the puddings, Paul Harvey and Patti Page (Cross Over The Bridge).
> Liked your memories a lot.



Paul Harvey's daily sign off was fantastic. God, what would he be saying today about America?


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> Ever so often I meet folks of another station in life of which I’m not familiar.
> Could be one of abject poverty, adversity.
> Could be one of wealth, education.
> A portion of these times yields a reaction of disgust.
> Other times, admiration.
> 
> 
> Last week we met up with some folks of which I was not immediately able to pigeon hole.
> I suppose the word I should use is ‘understated’.
> Their demeanor, one of kindness, genuine, not put on.
> After several moments of getting to know each other over coffee, I found this mild mannered fellow to be of a rather noted station in life.
> Yet, here we sat, like old pals, in old pants.
> Thing is, we’ll probably never be ‘pals’.
> No, I’m a bit too crass, rough around the edges.
> I'm hoping for ‘good acquaintances’.
> Heh, I noticed his eyes dull a bit after listening to me go off on wunna my snappy pattered tangents.
> I’ve seen that look before.
> So I backed off a bit. Listened. Remarked here and there.
> He’s into things.
> Things of which I’ve touched, but not close to versed enough for mutual conversation.
> One item being anything electrical.
> It’s all magic to me.
> Oh, I can change out an outlet, or move wiring around a bit without creating a potential fire hazard, but that’s as far as it goes.
> So, the most I can expect out of this acquaintanceship is one of education....for me...and patience...on his part.
> I’ll try not to be a little kid about it, but hey, I’m me.
> No need to kid my own self.
> 
> However
> It was a sweet time, a cherished event.
> 
> One not expected.
> 
> They’re the best to have.
> 
> Keep a fire


Old Friends

Big Ben: "Oh, flattery's the bane of Friendship:  Just look at you and me, old man!  Why I always told you the truth about yourself, however disagreeable!  It's a way I have.  and yet we've been fast friends for forty years, and I like you better than any friend I possess: indeed you're about the only friend I've got left.

Little Dick: (dreamily) "Ah, but remember that I've never told you the truth back again"!


----------



## Gary O'

*The Quiet One*

The younger grandson, of the two that seem to inhabit our place a bit more than the others, is a rather curious George kinda monkey. 
Always exploring simple things, getting deep into the mechanics of grass, bugs, baking powder, 
the science of kitty litter and Kool-Aid, canning jars and why lids seal, namaw’s underwear drawer, papaw’s banking stuff, and ancient glass floats and their relation to papaw’s hammer….anything really.

When he was around three, he was in the spare bedroom…for hours….quiet.
We were all in the family room watching some movie.
Here he comes, with a somewhat quizzical but triumphant look on his face.
None of us noticed anything right away, and I may have remarked how nice it was to have him join our ranks,
 when his mother shrieks ‘_OH….MY....GAWWWD!!!?’
_
His little mug went from a ‘look what I did’ expression of profound discovery to quizical horror as we all took turns shrieking.
Seems he’d found interest in the inner workings of his belly button, 
and had managed to get hold of the very end and pull it inside out, strutting out of the bedroom and down the hall with about three inches of inverted naval tube stickin’ out.

The lad has never been bored….nor have we.


----------



## AZ Jim

Gary,  You are a prolific writer and a good one to boot!  Why don't you bundle all your musings into a book and look for an agent or publisher?  I am a fan...


----------



## Gary O'

AZ Jim said:


> Gary,  You are a prolific writer and a good one to boot!  Why don't you bundle all your musings into a book and look for an agent or publisher?  I am a fan...


I may do that, sir Jim

Been compiling, and, on occasion, vowing to do so

Thing is, I get the most gratification in the writing itself 
and have found immediate enjoyment in places like this, where folks, like you, can possibly relate or even relay their own memories

the reward far outweighs the distant accolades from getting published
(I put a small book together a few years back, it did alright)

I've been approached about a column 
Columns are time driven
I've been time driven since the early sixties, like most here

But thank you, Jim
Your comment is more than plenty

Yessir


----------



## Gary O'

Yeah, times have certainly changed

I was raised in the hills of Vernonia Oregon
Back in the ‘50s  

Pretty much let loose to run
Not a care in the world
Ran with kids from up the hill and down the hill
Did a lot of exploring

Sometimes exploring each other
Learned alot
aaaaa……lot

Oh, and learned of the term ‘morphodite’ 
Older kids freely telling us younger ones all the intricate details
Us younger ones listening intently, logging every detail in our mindpads
Later, in science class, the correct term ‘hermaphrodite’ and a fresh new one ‘gamete’ came to be while studying plant life, filling corners of our decrepit little mind plates, 
to be included in our ritual playground recess name calling exercises  
parents were not involved
ever

Now?
Parents are well informed about what kids are doing, even throughout the freaking world
That’s the only difference I see
 Oh, and some old people think it’s the end of the world
Creating threads about it all

Little did we know...back then
So much we know now
so informed

Wunner which era is truly better for mankind


----------



## Gary O'

*Dawgs of the Hill….and More Dawgs*

Seems we all had one breed of dog at that country hillside neighborhood…….Mix.

Bart had the meanest Weimar mix I’d ever seen.
He was either growling and snarling, or chasing something or someone.
No bark, just bared teeth and a low guttural growl.
Since their place was more a junk yard than yard, well, yeah, his dog was the epitome of a junk yard dog.
Seems they didn’t ever hafta feed it.
Not a bad plan, as they didn’t have the rodent, coon, and possum population the rest of us had at times.

Eddie had this terrier mix.
It grinned.
Yeah, the damn dog would grin.
First time I saw that, I told Eddie; ‘Uh, I think yer dog has rabies.’
‘Naw, he’s just grinnin’ atcha.’
Quite unnerving.
Damn thing following us all around with that weird ass grin.
It was like Eddie had taken his model airplane glue and bonded his dog’s lips to his gums.

The Hansens didn’t have a dog, per se. 
They didn’t really require one, what with their kids keeping the turd population up by takin’ turns poopin’ in the yard an all.

Which reminds me of Charlie, a distant neighbor we had when my lady and I built our first cabin.
Back in the ‘70s we had five acres at the end of a loggin’ road, Charlie had ten acres. 
First thing we did was build an outhouse.
Charlie was ‘getting ready’ to build his.
A year later, ol’ Charlie and I was discussing outhouse building techniques, and the intellectual deficiencies of our dogs, when we both noticed his mentally challenged collie ‘Flame’ munching away on a fresh mound of turds.
‘Look at my damn dog.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘Hey, wait a minute….that’s mine!’
Seems one gets used to certain things like hangin yer hind end over a log when the urge calls.

I don’t recall that Brad or Ike had any dogs.
Cats, yeah they had cats.
So, that’s like not having your own pet at all.
I mean, I don’t remember Brad or Ike bringin’ their cat with ‘em when they came over.
Now if you had a dog, just try to leave him home when you went somewhere…….

Andy’s dog was a terrier mix.
And old.
He’d lost his hearing a century or so ago, and most of the time just moseyed around looking for a place to plop.
Andy would call him for a bike ride.
Tippy!
Tippy!
Tippeeeeeee!
Finally he would walk over, pick Tippy’s mangy ass up and set him in the little cart he’d rigged up on his bike.
He even went with us when we made our 50 mile bike journey around Sauvie Island….but that’s another story.
It was a sad day when Tippy met his maker, so to speak.

He was just moseyin’ across the road…didn’t see or hear Bart’s dad barrelling down the hill.
Andy screaming ‘TIPPEEEEEE!’
Then kathump.

Andy never got another dog, but had plenty of pets.
He had several cages of different animals. 
White rats, a couple squirrels, some pigeons, a coon, and a hawk.
They were all quite entertaining.
Dangling the rats by their tails over the hawk's cage was always good.
But mostly we just turned ‘em upside down and looked at their genitals. 
If you stretch a pigeon’s wings out, they tend to get all embarrassed…….

My dog was a Shepherd mix.
Quite gentle, but would feign defending the place.
Him and Bart’s Weimar mix got into it a couple times.
Not sure ever who won, ‘cause there was just alotta GRRRRR, AUGHERRRR, each on their hind legs, heads goin’ after each other’s necks, then they’d just stop.
Too bad people can’t be more like that.

Tag went with us on our hikes and camp outs, me, him, Andy and Tippy.
The word ‘remarkable’ never entered in to conversation about my dog. But he was a love sponge that just cherished any attention you’d give him.
I was moving toward the devious stage of boyhood, so I’d play a few mind games with him.
‘TAG! Shame on you, you stupid idiot!’ 
He’d lower his head, eyes lookin’ up at you like, ‘Oh gawd, I’ve done it again. Whatever it was, man, I’m really really sorry. Could you ever forgive me?’
Then I’d just say, ‘Here boy!’
And he’d get all happy and giddy. Tail beatin’ me to death, lickin’ my face.
Then
‘TAG! Shame on you’
It was a fun game.
But mostly his main duty in life was just to carefully lay his clumps of hind end hair all over the yard.
The other duty he maintained was taking turns lickin’ himself and my face.

He was mainly just a happy love sponge.
You wake up, he’s just so goddamn happy.
‘My master is awake!’
You go to the backyard. 
‘Hooray! We’re goin’ to the backyard!’
You chop wood.
‘Ohmygod! He’s making sticks! I’ll get to carry some!’
You stroll down the drive to get the mail.
Mail!!!! Mail Mail Mail!


Feed him, any time of day, and he’d greedily huff down a bowl of brown glop. Sometimes he’d get out of sync with breathing and snarfing, so he’d take a little break to cleanse his palate by lapping a gallon of water.
And he was thoughtful.
If you hunkered down and put yer face a few inches from his, he’d close his mouth and breathe through his side lips. I knew this because they made a little vibrating noise while exhaling and inhaling.

I’m a dog lover.
Beagles, labs, most any breed, even the hybrid wolf my son had in Alaska was a joy….but it’s playful nipping, as pups generally do, would most times leave your hand in shreds…practice I guess. 
What a tiger...loved his spirit.

But our last one was a dog-like entity from Lucifer…a Tibetan terrier.
Total block head, smart, really smart, just not put to good use.
He saved his dumps for my den. 
Take him out and he’d wait you out. 
Keep him out and he’d still save it up.
Once back in the door, he’d head straight up the stairs to my den.


One time I stepped out to get the mail and caught him in my peripheral vision headin’ up the stairs ….I stood there…he stood there….I motioned out the door…he took two stairs…then I shamed him and took him with me 
outside….then we both went back in….me to the kitchen…him to the den.
My only recourse was to feed him just dry dog food…found a brand that created little briquette turds and a bit of dust…….bought two 50 lb bags. A whisk broom and a dust pan were additions to my den….and a new, sweepable rug.

Oh, when locked out, he developed a penchant for dumpster diving, and regularly brought home the neighbor’s filled pampers…..pealed ‘em back and dined on ‘em like a baked potato…..
I hoped the neighbor would pick him off, but (as stated) he was smart.
Notice the referral is in the past tense…
Not getting a dog for a while…..I’m not fit for it until my PTSD has abated some.



We may have had a cat too.


----------



## Gary O'

Something penned six or so years ago.....

*Geriometry*

I woke up the other day and found out I was 63.
Sixty-effing-three…….
The obits contain a lot of folks that got to 63.
And when I peruse the obits, I go, ‘well shit, the ol’ bugger was 63, no wonder he died.
I mean, it’s really hard to relate…until I hear a 50 year old chatting about the good ol’ days.

Good ol’ days.

Was it back in the ‘80s when techno wizards discussed the unlimited possibilities of ‘the information highway’? 

Was it when my 13 year old genius son started creating things on his Vic 20, and phones went cordless?

Or was it back in the ‘60s?

Yeah, for me it was the ‘60s.

'Porn'?

'Smut'?

not quite yet

It was peep shows.

Sleazy old buildings down on SW 3rd, all lined up.
Garish signs with suggestive artwork and decrepit blinking lights.
Once inside, old men, 63 year old men, unshaven, unkempt, stained white shirts, matted hair, would check your ID.
My ‘ID’ was a crisp Lincoln. 
They’d waive me thru.
Once past the curtain, you had to stand there for a minute or two to let your pupils catch up with the smarmy darkness, 
and for your nostrils to adjust to the weird aroma of…well I didn’t know, but the floor was sticky.
The only light was the flittering beams coming from the booths of hastily constructed plywood that housed cheap 8mm film cameras, and a reel of naked ladies.
Naked ladies.
Moving naked ladies.
Humping naked ladies.
Spreading naked ladies.
$.25 naked ladies.
Grainy, grey and white celluloid naked ladies. 
Enough naked ladies to make a 14 year old’s heart pound out of his chest….and that was just during the eye/nose adjustment period.

One time I was in such a hurry, I didn’t wait for my eyes to adjust, and ran smack into some ol’ man’s back with my face, of which his stank didn’t get outta my nostrils til after gym class.
That was another thing. Those wooden booths had knot holes in the side panels, and some knot holes had the complementary eye ball…rather unnerving, it was.
Then there was the occasional breaking and entering into your booth.
That was more than unnerving….but it didn’t stop me from coming back.

Yeah, those were the good ol’ days.
I’m not kidding.
You had time to let your imagination germinate.
Now?
Now, no matter what your infatuation, it’s right at your fingertips.
Porn? 
I kid about porn. 
It’s a freaking bore, and that’s sad.
Not sad because porn is so rife it’s boring, but sad because all information of any freaking thing is right there…just right there…not a mile away at some library, but right there.
It’s like buying a video, because ‘that was the best movie I’ve seen in a long time’….and putting it in your DVD library….and never watching it…. ever again…..because it’s there, right there.

I suppose, once I become 73, I won't even know where 'there' is....

especially if some punk 63 yr old is reading my obit


----------



## Meanderer

The O'bitchuary


----------



## Maywalk

I enjoy your writings Gary O'. 
I have written the first 20 years down of my own life and had it printed that has made a good sum after printing costs taken out for my local Childrens Hospice. 
It takes the reader right back to when I was born in the Great Depression and through WW2 with being bombed out twice during the London Blitz and machine gunned twice. 
I did not write that until I was 74yrs of age. 
I will be 88 yrs old in May so you should be able to carry on. 
Keep up the good work.


----------



## Gary O'

Maywalk said:


> I have written the first 20 years down of my own life and had it printed that has made a good sum after printing costs taken out for my local Childrens Hospice.
> It takes the reader right back to when I was born in the Great Depression and through WW2 with being bombed out twice during the London Blitz and machine gunned twice.


That, dear Lady, has to be an incredible read.
Please tell me the title so I can buy it.

Or

If you're uncomfortable with posting the title here, due to some kind of site protocol, please send me a PM

and thank you, very very much


----------



## Seeker

It's a gift you have Gary O'......

If only I could express myself the way you do..I probably would not be so misconstrued....Rave On!!!!  :love_heart:


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> It's a gift you have Gary O'......
> 
> If only I could express myself the way you do..I probably would not be so misconstrued....Rave On!!!!  :love_heart:



being misconstrued actually helps
amongst other things beginning with mis....

in fractured seriousness, if it is a gift, then I've been abusing it for some time now

thanks, kid


----------



## Seeker

Granny cookin’ hamburgers in an ol‘ iron skillet.
Cousins singin’ songs with me.. on an old porch swing.
Most are gone and now there are three.
Brother, Sister, Cousins and me.


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> View attachment 51034
> Granny cookin’ hamburgers in an ol‘ iron skillet.
> Cousins singin’ songs with me.. on an old porch swing.
> Most are gone and now there are three.
> Brother, Sister, Cousins and me.



and everbody took photos outside, staring into the sun, no flash needed

gramma looks sweet but toughern wood pecker lips


----------



## Seeker

> gramma looks sweet but toughern wood pecker lips



She was ..even smoked a corn cob pipe...Love my granny.


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> She was ..even smoked a corn cob pipe...Love my granny.


they jus' don't make 'em like that anymore

my gramma, was my favorite, hands down, raised me.... and everbody else's kids in that country neighborhood


I gotta write


----------



## Seeker

> I gotta write



Go get it!!!!


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> Go get it!!!!



I haven't put this totally together, but....

*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 cornbread, 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. 
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 thunder storm 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.
We were eating 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.

Her last words to me were, "I just want to be where there's life".

I believe she is.


----------



## Maywalk

Gary O' said:


> That, dear Lady, has to be an incredible read.
> Please tell me the title so I can buy it.
> 
> Or
> 
> If you're uncomfortable with posting the title here, due to some kind of site protocol, please send me a PM
> 
> and thank you, very very much



You do not have to buy it Gary 0' because I had SO many folks coming to me for it from worldwide after my WW2 website was up I decided to put it on my website after it had made a good sum for the Hospice. It still is from what I gather. 
Unfortunately I had to neglect my website because my lovely hubby started with Dementia and I was nursing him for nearly 7 years before he died in 2016 BUT the website is still being used and the condensed book is on there if anyone wants to read it. It has to be remembered though that another 13/14 years will have to be added to the dates in it to bring it up to present day because it was written specially for that time. If you want me to put the website on here just let me know. 

I also wrote about my life AFTER I had the book printed and the chapters from that seem to fascinate folks with how we managed during postwar years because we were still rationed for many things right up until the 50s. 
Strangely enough we rarely saw obesity.
If you want the pointer please let me know which section to put it in.


----------



## Gary O'

Maywalk said:


> You do not have to buy it Gary 0' because I had SO many folks coming to me for it from worldwide after my WW2 website was up I decided to put it on my website after it had made a good sum for the Hospice. It still is from what I gather.
> Unfortunately I had to neglect my website because my lovely hubby started with Dementia and I was nursing him for nearly 7 years before he died in 2016 BUT the website is still being used and the condensed book is on there if anyone wants to read it. It has to be remembered though that another 13/14 years will have to be added to the dates in it to bring it up to present day because it was written specially for that time. If you want me to put the website on here just let me know.
> 
> I also wrote about my life AFTER I had the book printed and the chapters from that seem to fascinate folks with how we managed during postwar years because we were still rationed for many things right up until the 50s.
> Strangely enough we rarely saw obesity.
> If you want the pointer please let me know which section to put it in.



Reading it now
Quite the format

I began reading about you, Masie.
You, at least your writings, do get around.

I must say, here, the *Loughborough Echo *left me incredulous as I was just getting into what they were saying about you (an article from 5 years ago) when the page melted into a survey, a must do to continue, survey.... 

Anyway, if I get stuck, I’ll send you a PM

Cheers, fine Lady


----------



## Maywalk

Thanks Gary 0'
I gather that you wont want the pointer then?. I leave it with you.


----------



## Gary O'

Maywalk said:


> Thanks Gary 0'
> I gather that you wont want the pointer then?. I leave it with you.



I seem to be good without it....just clicking on the 'next page' block on the lower right

so far, so good


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> I haven't put this totally together, but....
> 
> *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….
> 
> 
> Ever so often, we'd head to 'Monkey' Wards in the old ‘51 Chevy.
> It was her outing.
> 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 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.
> 
> Her last words to me were, "I just want to be where there's life".
> 
> I believe she is.



Years back, in my first "home office" I installed a "spittoon".  It was a prop, really....even had sand in it.......


----------



## Maywalk

Not quite sure where you are looking Gary0' but if your happy I leave it with you.
Cheers.


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Years back, in my first "home office" I installed a "spittoon".  It was a prop, really....even had sand in it.......



I have a brass spittoon 
It’s not used for spit
(can’t imagine cleaning one)
I keep tubes of drawings in mine.
One set from an ancient gentleman by the name of John LaPorte 
He designed several buildings in Portland
Saw his wee little ad in the paper, under professional services.
Drawings/Blueprints, $100
Coolest ol’ dude ever.
Pushing hard on the century mark.
Modest place in Lake Oswego (not a modest neighborhood)
Quite soft spoken, attentive
Horrible coffee
He liked my quad paper drawings, and loved my floorplan.
Showed me how he needed to change a couple things in my elevation renditions and what they’d reject in my roof pitch
I agreed to let him make the changes
Two weeks later the blueprints were ready.
Sipped another cup of liquid iron ore while waiting for him to shuffle to and from his office.
We sat
I handed him 5 crisp twenties
He handed me three prints
‘Uh, John, we agreed on four prints’
‘I know, Gary, but I liked the layout so well, I kept one….and they really only require two for approval, and then there’s your copy’ (big grin)
He had me
I wanted my four copies no matter what 
But, this ol’ guy, designer of buildings in downtown Portland, liked my layout

My ego won out

The spittoon is a great conversation piece


----------



## Meanderer

Great Expectorations: Ode to the Spittoon
December 19, 2005 by Charles Partee 

"In the old days part of the masculine personality was formed by barber shops, which were an exclusively male preserve. Boys got to observe how men behaved apart from the civilizing presence of women. Getting a haircut (before you qualified for a shave) was being admitted to the non-effeminacy clubhouse as a very junior and silent member. One of the important things we learned was friendly masculine abuse. One guy would ask another, *“Is that your real face, or did your neck just vomit?”* We also learned the difference between a deliberate and accidental “spew.”

"Growing up before women’s liberation, I was not aware that some women might want to chew and spit tobacco. I went once with my mother to a beauty parlor. For some of the women it appeared to be the Last Chance Salon. The joint was filled with women and nice smells. So far as I could see, there was not a single spittoon in the place. However, the old-time barbershop had a spittoon at every chair. *A boy learned very quickly not to get between a spitter and his spittoon.* On this issue women were, so to speak, outside the main stream. The marvel of my boyhood was a gat-toothed fellow who, with considerable force and accuracy, could deliberately produce a nicotine spew through the gap in his front teeth. My life has been immeasurably enriched by watching half-chewed cigars trying to swim upstream in brass spittoons".


----------



## RadishRose

cccccccccccccc


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Great Expectorations: Ode to the Spittoon
> December 19, 2005 by Charles Partee
> 
> "In the old days part of the masculine personality was formed by barber shops, which were an exclusively male preserve. Boys got to observe how men behaved apart from the civilizing presence of women. Getting a haircut (before you qualified for a shave) was being admitted to the non-effeminacy clubhouse as a very junior and silent member. One of the important things we learned was friendly masculine abuse. One guy would ask another, *“Is that your real face, or did your neck just vomit?”* We also learned the difference between a deliberate and accidental “spew.”
> 
> "Growing up before women’s liberation, I was not aware that some women might want to chew and spit tobacco. I went once with my mother to a beauty parlor. For some of the women it appeared to be the Last Chance Salon. The joint was filled with women and nice smells. So far as I could see, there was not a single spittoon in the place. However, the old-time barbershop had a spittoon at every chair. *A boy learned very quickly not to get between a spitter and his spittoon.* On this issue women were, so to speak, outside the main stream. The marvel of my boyhood was a gat-toothed fellow who, with considerable force and accuracy, could deliberately produce a nicotine spew through the gap in his front teeth. My life has been immeasurably enriched by watching half-chewed cigars trying to swim upstream in brass spittoons".



*“Is that your real face, or did your neck just vomit?”* 

Been awhile since I heard that one

still good


----------



## Meanderer

Enjoyed your story of John LaPorte, Gary.  Was he a founding father of LaPortland?  ....or mebee President of the LaPorte Coffee Co?


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Enjoyed your story of John LaPorte, Gary.  Was he a founding father of LaPortland?  ....or mebee President of the LaPorte Coffee Co?
> View attachment 51143


HAH!
He wasn't one given to bragging, but those are strong possibilities 
(I've googled his name a few times since...there's quite a few LaPortes to chose from)


----------



## Meanderer

"The laporte family originally lived near a door or gate of particular interest, such as the gates to a fortified city or a unusually large or unique door. The name laporte is derived from the Old French words "la" and "porte," which mean "the" and "door" respectively".


----------



## Gary O'

_Penned several years ago, and eventually put in a reject file.
May one day tweak it
....or just toss

Anyway, it's a vivid memory;_


Kids today seem to be having their imagination taken away from them, and given somebody else’s.
Got a 7 year old grandson that had a PS3 plugged to his wrist. 
The lad was developing bad sleep habits. 
His eyes had a continuous peevish look.
I get up at 3:30am weekdays, and a couple times when they stayed over, I’d see a flickering grey/bright light coming from underneath the door to the spare bedroom.
Cracked the door.
There he’d be, thumbs flittering at Mach II…..glazed eyes locked on the screen.
I surgically removed the controller from his hands, unplugging the umbilical cord to the box.
He threw a little fit and fell over in a twitching heap.
PS3 has mysteriously disappeared, replaced by my football, basketball, his now repaired bike, bugs in jars, and a myriad of wood scrap projects from my shop….and the summer pool.
If continued, I’m sure I would have looked in on him one morning and he’d be in the monitor, shooting bad guys and eventually getting zapped himself….
Back in the 50’s we relied heavily on our imaginations.
The converted broom factory we lived in yielded a pile of broom sticks.
These overgrown dowels easily became horses, swords, weapons of Little John of Sherwood Forest, and the prize creation of a carbine….wire two together and nail on a slab of wood and you could start pickin’ off bad guys….sure wish we’d had access to duct tape back then….
There were a dozen or so kids in our country neighborhood, and we all played together, ‘cept that time my big sister and Dennis Blickenson  locked me in the garden shed most of one afternoon….still wonder what they were doin’……
However, generally we played with whatever was available……old tires, once flipped over a half dozen times to slosh out all the water, would roll all over tarnation and could be propelled by a piece of broom stick.
‘Course there were mud pies ‘n cakes created by our culinary experts Bessie and my sister.
Had a bite of their shiny pie once….pretty much the same experience I had when Gramma gave me a spoon of unsweetened chocolate….
One time at hilltop, we were all gathered at the flat part of the country lane (paved no less) where most the population lined their hovels…pardon…homes.  A few visitors joined us, kids everwhere, pushin’ tires, ridin’ bikes, havin’ pine cone wars, chasin’ dogs, dogs chasin’ bikes, when the action lulled.

We seemed to naturly migrate together, cause Daryl was exercisin’ his jaw with a piece of bubble gum, and unfolding the comic. We all peered over his shoulder and listened to him haltingly read the mini episode of Bazooka Joe.
You know those childhood moments that you still vividly recall?
Well, as I peered over the shoulder of one of the visiting girls I noticed something a bit horrific. She was missing most of her ear! I looked around, and noticed another visiting kid missing one of his ears.
Then I just stopped thinking about missing ears, ‘cause one of the visiting kids had dug a chunk of melted road tar out of the pavement and started chewing it….now everyone was gathered around him, then we all dug out our own chunks….nobody mentioned how awful it tasted, and we chawed on our chunks most of the afternoon…..seems road tar retains its flavor long after Bazooka gets that gawdawful saliva saturated insipid wad taste.
Thinkin’ about it all a few years later, I remember getting a glimpse of Bessie Dodge’s ear one time (or where her ear shoulda been) when her hair was pulled back, and she too was missing most of it.
Kinda thru me off, ‘cause, even though she was my sister’s best friend, I had a crush on her, even before I knew what crushes were. But the thing that came to mind was the visiting kids. I put two and two together and came to the thought that they were all visiting the Dodges, ‘cause Bessie had a bit of a handicap and they did too…..7 year olds really start coming into realization of things if PS3s aren’t around….

Right about now if you are thinking, ‘I just read this and seem to be missing the point’, well then it’s just not for you, is it.

For everyone else, parents/grandparents, unite! 

The road’s gettin’ hot!


----------



## Meanderer

...thanks, Gary, for givin' me sumthin' to chew on!


----------



## jujube

The only thing we did with tar was get it on our feet.  We never wore shoes in the summer and the county tarred the street annually.  First would come the tar truck, followed by the truck with the tiny gravel to pour on top of the new tar.

All summer long, the tar would bubble up through the gravel.  Running back and forth across the street resulted in tarry feet.  My mother had a bottle of gasoline and a rag sitting on the back steps and we would have to sit and rub the tar off with gasoline before we could come into the house or put on shoes.  For that reason, the smell of gasoline always makes me think of summer.


----------



## RadishRose

I enjoyed that story, Jujube.


----------



## fmdog44

Lik-M-Ade colored fingers


----------



## Gary O'

*Mr Codger’s Neighborhood
*
Our country neighborhood yielded a gaggle of poverty stricken families, mixed with some retired folk with tidy houses and well maintained yards.
Actually, I have several family photos of us posing in front of one of those houses, like ol’ widow Jones’ little white cottage, picket fence, close cut lawn.
 But for the most part, there were several families that had little or nothing with a yard full of cars to piece together in order to get to work.

One such family was the Elberts.
Four kids.
Ramshackle house.
Absolute junk throughout the yard.
I remember the one time I was invited in, thru the back door, directly into the kitchen. Mrs Elbert apologetically handed me a glass of water. 
Hey, it was great! Those colored aluminum glasses could transform ordinary water into the coldest thirst quenching nectar you’d ever want.
I glanced through the house while I waited for Daryl to find a shirt.
Things were misplaced. Daryl yarded thru a couple piles to find his prized superman T-shirt.
Meanwhile, Mrs Elbert was busy extracting coins from a piggy bank…..possibly robbing the kid’s stash, but more likely the family savings plan.
Back in those days piggy banks didn’t have a rubber plug at the bottom, just the slot on top.
There she was, butter knife in hand, coins reluctantly traveling down the blade onto the kitchen table. 
I remember noting that she was quite attractive, and equated her looks to that of Daisy Mae’s sister, the one that was always lying around with the pigs.
Mr Elbert was also a handsome guy, but a tad gruff, and not really home much.
When he was home, he was always working on cars or motorcycles. I found it all fascinating but never questioned why things were the way they were with them.
Kids tend to accept things.

What I did question was how they always had the latest toys, and some of the neatest stuff.
One time Connie came out to the street munching on an open faced peanut butter sandwich. 
This was no ordinary sandwich.
It was Wonder Bread!
And it had Skippy peanut butter all slathered on top!
What an outstanding combination!
I dropped my sister’s bike and stared.
The Skippy glistened from the midmorning sun as Connie slowly gnawed away the crust.
Now I’d eaten a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and should have held back, as this was probably Connie’s breakfast and lunch, but I had to ask.
“Can I have a bite?”
Begrudgingly a small bit of corner crust with a hint of Skippy was handed over.
It was wonderful.
My first.

We never had the luxury of ever having anything but brown bread in our house, let alone Skippy.

Another time, Daryl brought out an egg of silly putty. This wondrous glob of mysterious abilities was smushed onto the Sunday comics with the heal of his hand, right there in the dirt driveway, then carefully pulled it away, yielding the image of Dick Tracy and his wrist radio, and in color! Then, with proper tension applied, Dick turned into elastic man. Utterly fascinating, but I knew to never ask for such a thing from Dad or Mom.

One time I traded Daryl my self-made wired together double broom stick shake butted carbine for his dual holstered twin six shooters. They were amazing as the cylinders actually spun, and the handles were surprisingly quite real, and heavy, not the typical molded plastic.
Dad came home, and shortly after was on our way to the Elberts to trade back. This was a mystery for me, as, being the youngest cowboy in the neighborhood; I usually got the short end of the trade.
Thinking about ‘the trade’ years later, those could very well have been real pistols, and Daryl may have actually tapped his dad’s stash. Come to think about it, I never saw Daryl ever have them again. Actually I never saw Daryl much either…..

Don’t get me wrong. My family didn’t suffer, but we didn’t splurge on things.
Easter was a personal huge event. Not because of the candy, or the egg/finger dying event. Oh no, it was solely due to what the candy came in. For several years in succession I’d get a straw cowboy hat. OK, it was straw, but it was a cowboy hat….mine. Oh-h-h-h oh, the coup de grace of several months of giddyup, at least ‘til the first rain.

Bobby Clehm was one of my best friends. Granted Billy Dodge was my pahdnah and trail ridin’ pal, but Bobby and I went way back. He never could get into cowboy mode, however, cause his dad never let him over for more than a half hour, of which by the time the story line and plot for cowboy’n was laid out, it was time to go back.
But when I visited him, I mostly just helped with chores.
I found it fun to milk ol’ Bessie, and feed the chickens, and we did get to romp thru the woods trying to find ol’ Flossy for her turn at the stanchion.
One time I stayed for lunch. They had strange things like squash, and Brussels sprouts, with some ungodly thing called bread pudding for dessert.
All this washed down with raw (warm) milk, garnished with floating clumps.

Oh man, was I glad to get home. OK, we didn’t have Wonder bread, but we sure didn’t have some horrible thing like bread mixed in goo and washed down with their rendition of milk either.


----------



## Meanderer

Thanks for spillin' the beans....


----------



## IKE

Another good read Gary.


----------



## Gary O'

This next memory is one from my high school years and has got to be approaching some sort of moral edge.
I tend to toe that edge.
So much so, I no longer have feeling in that digit....

anyway, I won't be offended if admin/mods delete this
and hope any chance readers are not either, nor disgusted

*Can’t remember her name
*
Had a girlfriend in early high school. We didn’t really date…aaaand I didn’t really ‘have’ her.
Thing is, I was attracted to her lips.
Couldn’t take my eyes off them lips of hers. 
Full lips, largish mouth. 
Much like the blonde in the movie TO SIR WITH LOVE.
In those days, girls used a skin tone shade of lipstick.
It was like, ‘hey look, I don’t have lips’.
Didn’t matter with her. 
So we talked a lot in the halls, between classes. Actually, she talked, and I just watched her talk…not listening, just watching her lips form words, like ‘you’ and ‘who’…..so, one Friday night I actually took her out….to my car. 
We (she) talked a bit…it was like lip foreplay…for mine. 
Then, after my lips almost overdosed on mime sex, I squared her shoulders, caressed her neck, thumbs just below her ear lobes, and drew her to me, planting one on that mouth of hers.

I’ve had better kisses with fish.

I came to the realization of a couple things that night;
A) We really weren’t attracted to each other, just eager…and hungry.
B) It takes two, like a tango, to enjoy a kiss.




After that, I focused on other areas of the female anatomy….like hind ends….ones you could pull up to and eat breakfast off of…some were just happy meals…some were grand slams.

Hallway conversation?
Naw.
Matter of fact, I don’t even recall what my next few girlfriends faces even looked like, or if they had heads.


(told ya, but you kept reading...)


----------



## Seeker

You paint such colorful pictures with your words...and I'm not talkin' about the ones duplicated on silly putty.


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> You paint such colorful pictures with your words...and I'm not talkin' about the ones duplicated on silly putty.



that's what drives me, kind lady, yes ma'am 

if one can see what is in my head with what I write...mission accomplished


----------



## Seeker

I got  a “switchin’” more than once for runnin’ of to our neighbors, who were what we called dirt poor. No electricity, or running water. I’m not even sure now how many children they had, but for sure they couldn’t  keep the little ones in clothes. It was a sad day when they came and took the children away. I was especially attracted to the little girl who had the same name as my mother.

I could never write whats in my head...people would run....I tell ya.


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> I got  a “switchin’” more than once for runnin’ of to our neighbors, who were what we called dirt poor. No electricity, or running water. I’m not even sure now how many children they had, but for sure they couldn’t  keep the little ones in clothes. It was a sad day when they came and took the children away. I was especially attracted to the little girl who had the same name as my mother.



I do have a story somewhere about one such family (I'll try to find it)



Seeker said:


> I could never write whats in my head...people would run....I tell ya.



Please, give it a go
I can 'see' what you pen


----------



## Seeker

Memories of my Granny…
Her and her old corn cob pipe. Settin’ on the front porch swing , singin’.. Go tell Aunt Rhody. Me just a little thing, crying with those goslings, wonderin’ what it would feel like to have a feather bed.  Wishin’ The Old grey Goose wasn’t standing on her head.


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> Memories of my Granny…
> Her and her old corn cob pipe. Settin’ on the front porch swing , singin’.. Go tell Aunt Rhody. Me just a little thing, crying with those goslings, wonderin’ what it would feel like to have a feather bed.  Wishin’ The Old grey Goose wasn’t standing on her head.




I'm rapt.....


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> Memories of my Granny…
> Her and her old corn cob pipe. Settin’ on the front porch swing , singin’.. Go tell Aunt Rhody. Me just a little thing, crying with those goslings, wonderin’ what it would feel like to have a feather bed.  Wishin’ The Old grey Goose wasn’t standing on her head.



dbl post (got a url thing...weeeeird)


----------



## Seeker

post and delete, post and delete..I'm gettin' too deep.

(In my own head)


----------



## Seeker

Wake up in the middle of the night, needin' to go pee. Afraid to walk across the room…Tears they come, sobs are heard. Big brother, sleepin’ on the couch. To the rescue he runs..swoop me up… carry me he does. 
Wipe away the tears , calm the fears. He’s felt the wrath he knows the sorrow.


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> Wake up in the middle of the night, needin' to go pee. Afraid to walk across the room…Tears they come, sobs are heard. Big brother, sleepin’ on the couch. To the rescue he runs..swoop me up… carry me he does.
> Wipe away the tears , calm the fears. He’s felt the wrath he knows the sorrow.


Keep writing
don't edit
just let it flow
try to keep up with key strokes

here may not be the place to keep the pieces, but then again it may

your writing style is what I'd call impressionist, short brush strokes

I don't have that

but I sure like what I see
and what I see is quite clear


----------



## fmdog44

My dad's mom lived on a farm so there were mason jars full of fruits and veggies everywhere. She made her own ketchup and it was so sweet I drank it from the bottle.


----------



## Gary O'

fmdog44 said:


> My dad's mom lived on a farm so there were mason jars full of fruits and veggies everywhere. She made her own ketchup and it was so sweet I drank it from the bottle.



'Farm fresh' is so very different when living on that farm

Picking and eating right there....in the garden ...no better.....none

Pull a carrot from the soil
Devour it, along with bits of dirt...m-m-m

...and mason jars?

Even water tastes better from a mason jar


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## Meanderer

Gary, here's a video on how to make a bee hive in a mason jar....sweet!


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Gary, here's a video on how to make a bee hive in a mason jar....sweet!



Oh....I'm so on this

Thanks, EM


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> Oh....I'm so on this
> 
> Thanks, EM



Here's a followup video!


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## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Here's a followup video!



already there

again, thank you


----------



## Gary O'

*Jobs and Bosses 
*
I’ve had a ton of them.

In my early adult life it seems that jobs just popped outta the woodwork….all kinds. For awhile there I think I had a different job every other week, and I mean different.
In Houston, walking down the street was like walking through a job carnival…
’Hey, buddy, wanna put a roof on?’
Hey pal, wanna move a house?’
Hey, hanthome, wanna put it up my pooper?’…..,OK, you had to be selective.
But you could.

One could pick up a job just by going from bar to bar, of which, in my haunts, was generally the span of fifteen paces.

One time me and my buds were between jobs, and one fine morn, strolling between the Western grill and the Hello bar;

‘Hey boys, wanna work?’

He had a bobtail truck, room for all of us.
We looked at each other, shrugged, and hopped on.

A few miles down the road and we’re turning in to a steel yard…Proler Steel….where they crush junk cars and turn them into little bits of metal.
Only thing, the gate was lined with folks that had signs, *ON STRIKE *signs, and boy, were they ever happy to see us.
I’d never been a scab before, but once we bombed through the line and stopped in the yard, I officially became one.
For weeks…maybe months.

I got good at crane swamping, and the foreman, now the crane operator, was good. He could swing that spider with the precision of a ballerina, and lay it down with the weight of a feather.
My buddy, still slogging away kicking pipe at Tuboscope, would ask me what I was doin’ over there, and when I told him about the money, he became a gate ramming scab too.
However, he got assigned to the dust bin.
I’d started there.
It’s where the shakers separated the metal from the, well, dust, and whatever the furnace didn’t consume.
At the end of his first (and last) day, I saw him from across the yard, coming to punch out….hilarious. Nothing but eyeballs and teeth. 
He said, ‘thanks’ rather sardonically, and immediately went back to kicking pipe.

Well, good things have a way of coming to a halt, and once the wildcat strikers decided they were more hungry than angry, they figured their jobs weren’t so bad after all, and swapped their signs for lunch boxes.

It made life ‘interesting’ for us scabs.
By that time I’d graduated from crane swamper to ramp tender, and the regular ramp tender became the crane swamper.
Now Houston had a generous population of black folk, and caucasian (pink) Texans regarded these brothers a bit different than this Oreeeegone-ite.

I didn’t pay much mind, but found that same train of thought going the other way.
I’d found myself to be regarded as a ‘cracker’, of which I thought rather amusing.

Well, this ramp tender turned crane swamper that happened to be black, let me know what he thought of my rosy hind end, and whenever the opportunity arose, tried r-e-a-l hard to pick a fight.

‘Hey, biscuit eater, how ya like my job?’

(Biscuit eater?? Is that all he’s got?) 

‘I’ve had better.’

‘Are you gettin’ smart with me?!’

‘You make it easy.’

It was gettin’ to the place of throw down time, as the gathering regulars, ex-strikers, gave me a sense of uneasiness.

‘Oh, you’re a smart ass boy, aren’t you.’
(long moment of looking, staring intently at each other)

‘Neither, but, man, do I ever l-o-v-e biscuits.’

There wasn’t one man there, black or white, him or me, that didn’t bust out laughin’.

We became friendly acquaintances and never a challenge arose after that. 

A few more weeks of the same ol’ thing and I got bored and went back to the pipe yards.


----------



## Meanderer

Thanks for sharing your marvelous exploits, old Pal!  ....kinda reminded me of The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Marvelous Exploits of Paul Bunyan, by W. B. Laughead


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Thanks for sharing your marvelous exploits, old Pal!  ....kinda reminded me of The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Marvelous Exploits of Paul Bunyan, by W. B. Laughead



Heyyyyy, that Project Gutenberg eBook looks pretty cool

Didn't open anything up, but please tell me about it a bit

SPAM hell?

S-l-o-w downloads?

Any drawbacks?


----------



## Meanderer

It opened as a readable ebook "Paul Bunyan and the Blue Ox".   It contains many neat pictures and tales of Paul and gang.  Click on this link 
Use is free and unrestricted. It can be downloaded.


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> It opened as a readable ebook "Paul Bunyan and the Blue Ox".  The yellow box says that pictures cannot be copied online.  It contains many neat pictures and tales of Paul and gang.



Thanks
I'll get to the stories

gonna peruse that site a bit

I'm quite new at the eBook thing


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> Thanks
> I'll get to the stories
> 
> gonna peruse that site a bit
> 
> I'm quite new at the eBook thing



It can be read without a kindle.  (Sorry to throw you a curve!)


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> It can be read without a kindle.  (Sorry to throw you a curve!)



no worries


----------



## Gary O'

*Spur of the moment
*
I've worked around tightly scheduled (very talented) individuals, that when going on vacation, generate a huge itinerary of going here or there at a certain time or day, reserving accommodations, scheduling even the purchase of the tickets for the scheduled events, and scheduling alternate events in case of weather, or an act of god (or satan)............

I find it more relaxing, and even more adventuresome to just go.
Just pack a few things, and go down the road.

One time we ended up on the coast, about 9 pm. Turned out there was a major event happening, and we became part of a caravan of seekers of vacancies. We even started waving at each other while in route, feigning drag racing while at stop lights, pointing/mocking when getting the lead to the next motel entrance, and pointing back when the no vacancy sign came within sight. It turned in to a very fun happening all by itself. Kind of an unregimented rally.
Thought we'd be doing some car camping when we found an out-of-the-way place that became a favorite over the years.

Another time we decided to stay at one of those less than desirable places (like the ones we could afford when we met).
_*Auberge de Cinq et Demi *s_eemed like a nice name, so I approached the quaint little barred window that displayed hourly rates. The gentleman of Pakistani origin, asked me, in a more than perfect, sing song rendition of the English language, to fill out the little card. So I paid the $25 and signed for the 'more than four hour' stay.

The charming little room had quaint 30 watt bulbs of which both gave the place a special ambiance of 'help me find my shoes, and I'll help you find your purse' essence. 
It did have a hot tub spa. Turns out putting bubble bath in those things can become an event of its own.
The bed was....dark.
We decided to just lie on top of the covers.
It was quite hot, and since we had to turn the fan off due to the 'authentic old west atmosphere' dust storm it created, we just lay there naked as two ol' trysters should be......

The wife pointed out the mural of two manatees on the ceiling. 
I pointed out that it was a mirror.

Now who could possibly schedule that much fun on purpose?
Any others feel the same way, or am I the odd one?


----------



## Gary O'

* Amaizing Fudes*


Olathe Corn

Oh…my..…gawd

a bit later this time of year I sit down to an orgasmic feast of Olathe corn on the cob.

This corn, this sweet tricolor corn, comes from a bit west of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado.


It’s my entree.

Actually it’s my Japanese tea ceremony. 


The Presenting of;

Enormous ceremonial platter of the polymer
Knife of the butter
Sweet tea of the carafe
Butter of the bovine
Salt of the clumsy girl with the umbrella
Napkin of the middle drawer


Sit

Contemplate

Wait....

For water to boil

Contemplate noise of the stomach

Wait 



The preliminary wiping of the drool

The discussion of the ways of the Olathe festival (those bastards of the husk) while waiting

The presenting of the two ears 
(or the way of the tongs)…ears ceremoniously laid on the platter of the polymer with the tongs of the lower drawer by the submissive obedient woman of the children

The way of the butter


The rolling of the ears of the corn like the wringer of the washer until the mystery of the disappearance of the butter of the bovine occurs

The discussion of the way of more butter

The shaking of the shaker of salt ceremony follows


The way of the Royal typewriter is enacted

Considering of the way of the wolf arises when
the biting of the own finger of the hand ritual is sometimes interjected into the ceremony of the grunt of the hog

The customary sacrament of the swollen lips and tongue of the mouth of the face begins from the TOO PHUKKING HOT!! observance, enhanced by the sudden inhale and involuntary lodging of the kernel of the corn in the esophagus of the throat ritual.

The burying of the tongue and lips of the mouth in the carafe of the tea formality ensues


Followed by the inevitable way of the buttered beard of the face 

The laying on of the hands and smearing on of the butter of the bovine to the face of the laughing/pointing, now running/screaming woman of the children ritual commences


Culmination of the ceremony is the audible passage of the birth of the walrus, followed by the raising of the one leg demonstration of way of the duck.

Ending with the slumber of the warthog.


----------



## Gary O'

*Homework
*
‘Oh, your wife stays at home.’

Heh.

My wife worked eighteen to twenty hours a day, seven days a week.
We still have old movies of her, tethered to the stove and sink.

I learned of this type of career quite early in our marriage.
‘Honey, would you watch the baby? I need to go to the store.’
‘No worries, baby. Take yer time.

Toddlers have one gear…scoot.
I think our first born was around 8 months, or 18 months, or 27 years. 
Stay at home mothers keep a log of birthdays. 
Dads are too busy with pet/child recognition. 

Anyhoot, all I had to do was watch the little critter. 
What could be so hard about that?
Wife’s gone, kid is quiet, I’m just gonna ease onto the couch, open the paper and catch up on anything sports.
Seems there was a tiny shadow flitting by.
The sound of a diaper rustle, or dog crotch tongue sonata entered the fading reaches of my posterior lobe.

Next thing I know, my lady is comin’ in the door.
Easy peasy

I shoulda told her about those naps

Yeah, right


----------



## Gary O'

*Texas*

Most everyone there carries around a couple sayings;
“If you don’t like it, leave”
“You don’t mess with Texas” (this said thru semi-gritted teeth)
Both sayings end up with a mini staredown….it can intimidate a stranger…it’s meant to.

I sure wish my state would use those as mottos.
‘Course goin’ around with “You don’t mess with Texas” on yer Oregon plate would be a tad strange, but y’all get my drift.

Drove semi thru that state more than a few times…landed in Houston for a spell….took a gorgeous lady from Texas City home to Oregon. Her toes finally webbed up after a few years, but only after she came to realize that there really was only one season here…Fallsumter…..sometimes both days of sunshine are consecutive, however.
(note; I love everything about Oregon, so don’t get me wrong here)

But, Texas…huge…varied…dry some places….humid/tropical others…..mouth hangin’ open beautiful.
Most critters will ‘bitecha’……..”Oh, buddy, don’t pet that one…it’ll bitechall an y'all'll swell up”.


or


“Watchit! That turtle is a snappay turtle…here take this here green stick an rub it’s nose a bit”

SUHHHHH-NAP!

“See there? 
Snappay turtle.
They snap
That’s why they call it a snappay turtle
Aess aen aey puhee puhee wahy…. snappay
Pay attention and take note, son”

Corpus Christi is one of my favorite places on earth.
Did some roofing there after Camille. 
Boats down town, people camped on the beach.
OK, not roofing, but roofer’s helpering. 

Thought roofer’s helper was bad, but mason’s helper…those prima donna yayhoos want their mortar j-u-u-s-t right, no matter how many scaffolds up you hauled that bucket.
Trip one:“Haey bowah, too thick.
Trip two: Nope, can’t trawl this waterah goop
Trip three: Close, no ceegar…..need milkshaeke texture….you know….miiiiilkshaaaeke…old fashioned, not Mackdonnls….don’t make me come down there un show y’all. Pay attention son, hear?”
Trip four: I bring vials of water and dry mix and leave ‘em on the plank.


Rhode island Red Rooster Master mason and me become pool shootin’, beer guzzlin’, bar brawlin’ buds. 
And I become a good listener, paying attention…to things not said.

A yankee can easily get set up, and come out lookin’ like a dufus…it’s a little fun game played throughout the south…I became a super star…broke some records in the triple A (Aey) dufus league.
Got called up to the big show (dumbass) soon after. 
Still known in some parts as 'Babe Garah'....holding several dumbass records.


My buddy George and I were headed from Houston to El Paso, his home, bombin' thru towns, non-stop. His state, not mine, he narrated the terrain as my '66 SS kept us low to the ground.
Ran into a hail storm somewhere between Corpus and Del Rio. 
Everyone was stopped. 
There we sat. 
My chevy getting' beat to a pulp.
We crept around cars and got thru the storm in about 30 seconds.
The rear view mirror showed everyone still sittin' out the hail. Paralyzed. 

Day became night after staring at the sun for a couple hours. We stopped west of Del Rio to fuel up.

There was a little open air bar roadside (yeah, they just take the walls off), so we stopped.
Round tables.
Barrel chairs.
A bar.
Each table had a big wooden bowl of tortilla chips, and a tiny gourd of hot sauce.
Beer, chips, more chips and half the gourd of sauce on one chip.
OH MOMMY!
BEEEEER! 
I soon learned the word Ha-ban-er-o
They mercifully brought me a plate of tortillas.
Knowing smiles (damn Gringo).
Wrapped my tongue with a tamale til the feeling came back in my throat and uvula.

Went down the hwy about 20 miles when I saw what I thought was tiny tumble weeds blowin' across the road.
I woke my bud
"What's that 2by?"
"Tranchlas"
"What?"
"Migration...time of year"
I had to stop.
Got out, spit the rest of my uvula wrap compote/balm out and watched the spectacle.
There they trudged, across the hwy and down into a ravine, far as you could see, both ways.
Can't remember how wide the trek was, but it seemed minutes before we drove outta them.

Texas has some strange and gloriously beautiful terrain, and stranger critters.

 No wonder they love it so.


----------



## Gary O'

Other Folk

I think it important to be in touch with all walks of life, with all ages, of different peoples. It’s been an education.

In my travels thru Asia and the Americas, I’ve acquired many acquaintances that continue today.
I’ve been in session with people representing most corners of the world, at one table, and once the crust of false détente is removed,
 they are just individuals. People with families. People with concerns, of which once business is set aside, tend to open up, like a fine wine, if you’re a good listener. 

My natural demeanor is on the humble side.
When visiting factories, I’d dress down, wearing a sweater with wranglers and soft shoes.
This tactic, because I represented money, and potential for their success, would keep communication avenues more open, than if I’d worn a three piece suit….and it was comfortable, which enabled me to think more clearly when in negotiation.
In my factory visits, I tend to bring my own flavor of down home warmth, as I am somewhat of a largish huggy guy. And I find it amusing to check the reaction of a rather gruff individual after one of my close encounters.
One gentleman, gnarly, road map of a face, well dressed, stoic, cadre surrounding his perimeter, sat unmoved thru a bladder buster meeting at a mainland factory in China. 
I sought him out afterwards, and struck up conversation with him thru interpretation, culminating in a one-way hug. Nothing. 
I walked away thinking you can’t win ‘em all.

Couple days later I was touring a factory and noticed him at the other end of the main production floor. Once he noticed me, his arms stretched out as he made his way across the factory towards me.
Warm hug, long warm hug. 
His. 
Back pats. 
Big smiles. 
No words however. 
An enhanced tour commenced. A glorious meal followed.
Turns out he ran the show at that rather large golf bag factory. 
People at their machines kept their heads down as we passed.
As I and my broker got in the private car to go back to the hotel, he came rushing out and gave me another hug. 

I remember his watery eyes as he spoke his only words, halting words, directly to me that day, eye to eye.
“Preasa, come back.”

My broker chattered away at him. His face went back to stone and he walked away.
I heard later that he had a wife in half a dozen countries, so I wasn’t his main squeeze, but I’d like to think he got a glimpse of down home America, and his hug deficiency was a bit sated....and maybe America was not just about money.........


----------



## Gary O'

(this is rather crude in places, sorry)*


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 business man 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…………


----------



## Meanderer

"It made me smile, and a bit sad, so reminding me of couple acquaintances I knew of…………"


----------



## Gary O'

something I writ quite a while back
glad I did
Herb's gone now*



Herb*

I’ve had my scrapes, most have.

Other than getting mashed here and there, there was a couple times I lifted something that a forklift shoulda, and felt and heard a sickening crunching in my lower back…kinda like when a tooth is pulled the hard way. Payin’ now for sure…probably should see a doc to see how many discs are involved.

There was one time, working at Tektronix (like people actually worked there) I was leaving one of their massive cafeterias. There was these stairs that if taken normally one would get all screwed up in stride ‘cause they were each about a pace and a half. So, there I am, beboppin’ on the diagonal when my right ankle turned out, casting me into a full roll. Nothing fancy, just floppin’ over and over until I ran outta stairs. This cafeteria had huge windows, so everyone got entertained, faces plastered at the windows. I got up, raised both arms like Nixon’s farewell, and hobbled off to the car. Thing is, I haven’t been able to run since, without my ankle givin’ me fits for days….but I’ve been told that I ran like a diseased yak so not a great loss, except in regard to aerobics or emergencies…………

However, we had an old engineer, Herb, and he was the nicest cantankerous ol’ magnetics engineer I ever knew.
Back in the mid '80s, when I took on the task of joining the little company I'm at now, touted as some sorta savior by the scrawny lady that was my boss at a startup, he was one of them that spoke about me in my presence in the third person. A bit of a hurdle for me to get things changed and moving a better direction, but he turned out playful.
One day he asked if I wanted to see sumpm.
So I follow him into the men’s bathroom.
He turns the corner and commences to pull his pants down.
I immediately catch on, expecting a gaggle of paparazzi engineers recording my clandestine tryst with Herb.
But it turns out he just wanted to show me what lightning can do to a leg when it passes thru yer torso and out your foot.
NGAH!! Ol’ Herb had one good leg and a piece of bacon with a knee on it.
He commenced to explain how the docs told him he’d never walk, and in the first person to boot.
He really was cantankerous though. Every time I’d ask him how long he’d be to wrap up a quote, he’d say ‘I don’t know’, then I’d say
‘Longer than three years?’
‘No’
‘Longer than three months?’
‘No’
‘Longer than three weeks?’
‘No’
‘Longer than three days?’
‘No’
‘Three hours?’
‘I don’t know’
Note to self; somewhere between three days and three hours
Note 2; Herb is getting ready to have a difficult time.
We did manage to learn how to get along thru the years….a little give….a little take.
Another trick of his when I’d pressure him was to drop his pencil and say ‘You’re the manager, you figure it out’……ferroresonant transformer…yeah right.

He was a bit of a close talker.
Unfortunately his breath required the space of the grand canyon, teeth (both of 'em) floppin’ around in what was left of his gums.
Made it hard to keep a dry eye.
The fun times would be when an upstart engineer would shun his advice. From then on they’d be on their own…floundering. 
There he’d sit,…. watchin…. grinnin’ ……gummin’ his puddin’-in-a-cup.

Ol’ Herb is gone now. Not gone gone, but sittin’ home, top knot in a fancy ice chest near at hand. 
Post brain surgery.
Not likin’ how he’s ending up.
I check in on him from time to time. 
Like learnin’ to walk with not a whole lot more than one leg, he has accepted what’s dealt, and always ready to return an acidic reply, smilin’ that wry sarcastic smile.


----------



## Gary O'

*Does a Boy Poop in the Woods?
*
OK, let’s get this mystery solved right away, as I have age old first-hand experience.
Billy Dodge, my constant summer companion, is proof.
The word ‘bored’ never comes to the minds of country kids. Actually, the thought of boredom would not be the worst that could happen, as chores always led the way.
Yeah, being bored would be, at best, number two.

Speaking of….Billy and I were fighting off boredom one day by climbing an aging pile of stumps at the end of our strawberry field. Stump caves everywhere. What a fantastic pile! Sometimes ya just wonder how adults know exactly what you need for days and days of fanatical enjoyment. And they’re so cagey by saying ‘and don’t go near that pile of stumps!’….Yeah, good one.

Billy was poised to jump from one pointy cragged stump to another when he suddenly got a distracted far off look on his face.
“Whatssamatter Wild Bill, see a snake?”
“Naw, gotta take a dump…….NOW!”
We were between gramma’s house and mine, right between, which meant about 500 paces too far either way. 
Actually, on many occasion, being outside anywhere meant you were too far away, what with a fear of being snagged for a nap, or lunch.
So, Wild Bill was in a pickle, but nothin’ we hadn’t handled before.
This time we made an adventure out it all by itself.

“Hey, let’s watch each other take a crap.”
“Yeah!”
“You first.”
Wild Bill knew I could dump on command, so I whipped down my bib overalls and commenced. I gotta say, it was a bit unnerving, having your pahdnah, hunched down, staring, ringside, at yer sphincter, but the show must go on. Several neatly laid logs later, willow leaves doing their job (being the first green tissue since early boy), it was Billy’s turn.
He was quick, proficient, experienced from years of nap avoidance.
He deftly whipped down his drawers, and none too early I might say, as things went rather quickly. I marveled with admiration at his efficiency.
I also marveled at the consistency of his product.
Mine being classic tight knotted cylinders of which Lincoln would be proud, notches and all, but his were more of a slushy genre….never before witnessed by our vantage points.
I could not help but provide play by play commentary.
“Whoa, Billy, y’oughta see this!
It’s a poopshake!
Wow, it broke off!”
Billy managed his own vantage point by rising a bit, bending, and staring though his own legs.
“Wow.”
Wild Bill needed a whole limb of willow leaves.
We came away that day with the new knowledge of variant consistency.
We never gave it a thought as to why. That was for mothers, and much later in life, doctors.

I know, right now you’re sayin’ ‘Wait a minute, stumps aren’t the woods!’
A word of caution; if you happen to venture into the woods near a country neighborhood, and, say, you’re on a lark to forage in the foliage to pick a few trilliums, step lively my friend, step lively.
Those trilliums are necessarily growin’ all on their own…..


----------



## Gary O'

*Mr Kilson*

The old Kilson place was quite run down.
It was once a tidy little place, a couple out buildings, a barn, some acreage, a small filbert and apple orchard, and a cozy little house.
Now the orchard was all over grown, the barn needed a roof, and everything needed paint.
Us kids overheard folks talking about not seein’ the ol’ guy for awhile, so we volunteered to round up suma his chickens and fix him a meal.

He had a dozen or so bandy hens and roosters runnin’ free, so it seemed a good sport, and for a good cause.
Took us all mornin’ to snag one scrawny rooster from under the house, but hey, we’d cook it up for the ol’ coot.

Andy tried to wring that bird’s neck, but it was a bit tougher than the young hens we were used to.
Eddie ended up sawing on him with his case knife….took awhile. The ol’ bandy just laid there on the stump, lookin’ up like….’geezus man, end it’!
As we were pluckin’ we swapped stories about how our folks would wring chicken necks. It was rather horrific for me, the first time I witnessed this.
Gramma, sweet gramma, was takin’ these birds, the ones grampa I had fed for what seemed years, and was snappin’ their heads off like no tomorrow.
Hens, the ones I’d named, were zippin’ around, trying to fly, runnin’ at me, floppin’ down, then runnin’ again…only they didn’t have any friggin’ heads!
There gramma was with a pile of hen heads, goin’ after more…..didn’t know this lady that cradled me to sleep for a nap most every day of my four years was so blood thirsty.
And those dang heads, starin’ at nuthin’….it was my little nightmare of reality…..gotta eat, gotta kill to do that.
…..and watch out for gramma.

Anyhoot, we got the bird plucked and gutted. Then commenced to knock on Mr Kilson’s door. 

No answer.

We went around back and peeked in the kitchen window.
There was ol’ man Kilson in his chair, TV blastin’.
We strode thru the kitchen and into the tiny living room.

‘Hey, Mr Kilson?’
Nuthin’
'HEY!! MR KILSON!!'
Nuthin’

We got right in between the chair and the TV.
There we all were, Eddie with his bloody hands and knife.
Andy with the bloody chicken.
All of us tracking in chicken blood.
And there was Mr Kilson.
His eyes had the same look of those first chicken heads I’d seen six years before.


----------



## Meanderer

Be keerful!


----------



## NancyNGA

_From your story *Herb*_... 

 I got to watch that happen to a chicken once, at the hands of my aunt in WV, when I was a kid.  Gives meaning to the expression _"Running around like a chicken with its head cut off."_   Later she decided it was easier to tie their feet to the clothesline first. I survived it OK ( I think:zombierolleye, but prefer to skip that and go to KFC or Chic-Fil-A.


----------



## Gary O'

*The Hansens*

They lived right across the gravel road from Eddie’s place, and our place was down the hill a bit, right next to Eddie’s.
The Hansen’s abode was always a conversation piece of the neighborhood, adult and child.
They always had junk strewn throughout the yard. Not useable stuff, just filthy clothes, tin cans, beer bottles, and absolute crap.
Come to think about it, I don’t recall the garbage truck ever stopping there.
They had, oh, maybe eight or ten kids of all sizes, and if you just sat out front of yer place for the afternoon, you’d see one or two kids take a crap in the patch of weeds that sufficed for their front lawn.
Once gramma had me go over and borrow a cup of sugar.
Up till then, I had never ventured into their place, but I had snuck a peek into their open door a couple times. The inside was quite reflective of their yard….only more flies.
Mrs Hansen opened the door, and it was as if I’d just been vacuumed into a backdraft of a septic tank gone bad. The air, the purest of evergreen mountain air was sucked out of my lungs, and replaced with the raw sewage stench of a thousand diseased yaks.
Through tears I handed her the measuring cup and mustered the raspy word ‘sugar’.
Hours later I still had that smell hangin’ on me.

Our wild bunch would camp out on occasion.

One mid-summer eve, we all decided to set up our tent on the heavily treed vacant property just up from Eddie’s.
We did our usual things, pee contests, scaring each other, and eating Eddie’s stash of goodies, but Andy had the brilliant idea of terrorizing the neighborhood by peeking in some bedroom windows with the flashlight up to our faces.

The Hansen’s place loomed.

Right by Mr and Mrs Hansen’s bedroom window was a huge elderberry tree.
Eddie and Bart got just below the window, me right behind.
‘Oh Frank, you’re so warm’
It was our cue to pop our grotesquely lit heads up and go
*‘AAAAAAAAH!’*
There was a commotion of covers and feet.
We all shined our lights on Mr and Mrs Hansen.
The word ‘Stark’ comes to mind.
Bart did his usual fall outta the tree trick, and we were gone, laughing our asses off and running.
Eddie stopped.
He’d laughed so hard that he had to pee, but a car was comin’ down the hill.
I just doubled over from seein’ the silhouettes of Eddie, his winky, and pee stream in the lights of that car.

The rest of the night was just a blur, and I really can’t put into words (just yet) how these were some of the best moments of that summer, but the memory will be etched forever.
…and I’d like to think we saved Mrs Hansen’s hoohoo for at least one evening…in spite of herself.


----------



## Gary O'

*The Field*

There was a field adjacent to a stand of huge trees between my and Andy’s place.
It was a bit more than an acre of weeds, of which flourished, becoming a bit of a fire hazard in late summer, as folks tended to flick their cigs out the window in those days.

Andy talked the owner into letting us use it as our baseball field if we kept the weeds mowed…….if we kept the weeds mowed……more than an acre.
My dad, not the mechanic sort, had this push mower, a reel type. The only power was me, mowing the grass, leaving the dandelions.
But Andy, his dad had a shop, and in that shop was magical things, tools uncommon, cylinder honers, timing lights, callipers, wonderfully amazing tools, and power mowers, maybe three or four of them.
So, once a week, Andy and I would mow the field.
These were not self-propelled mowers, but they would literally eat that ‘grass’.
I think back now, and can’t imagine the energy we had, cause after mowing, we’d play baseball, then stay up most the night.

I had two mitts from my dad’s playing days.
A first baseman’s glove and a catcher’s mitt that looked like a bundt cake, just a big puff of leather and stuffing indented with a hardball sized hole in the middle.

We turned over an old trailer on its side for our backstop, and set up the bases with cow chips.

Andy could pitch. Hard. 


One time Eddie’s mom was driving home and got outta the car and started fussing at us about getting beaned, and we should throw underhand, and a whole buncha other things that sounded like ‘and another thing, blather, blah, blather blather, blah blah, I’m gonna tell your mothers, blah blah blah’, then she got back in her car and sped up the hill.

We kinda looked at each other, shrugged, and played ball.

Andy fired a hard one into Eddie.
I mean right into Eddie.
He doubled over and sorta flopped around, making gasping sounds and holding his stomach.
We stood around talkin’ about first aid, and daring each other to administer mouth to mouth, when Eddie gathered himself, got up, and said ‘Izzat all you got?’

Actually, Eddie was a pretty tough kid. But we were all tough. Yeah, things hurt, they sometimes hurt like hell, but we’d all seen Wire Paladin and Davy Crocket just shrug things off like getting nicked in the heart with a bullet or arrow. 
We'd seen Wire just wince and grunt, and get mad, so mad he'd kill, and Davy, Davy would break off that arrow that was stuck in his spleen, only he had to break it off with his teeth, cause his arms were all shot up. Later he'd dig the arrow out with his axe, to the amazement of the indians, of which were now his revered friends.
So a little ol’ hard ball knockin’ yer wind out of ya was nuthin’.

Ike was the exception, as he was the youngest, and smallish, so Andy let up on velocity when Ike was at the plate….and (as I later found out) Andy was thumpin’ both his sisters.
Ike had two sisters, Mona and Lisa, of which were the epitome of nasty.
The whole family was, in my opinion, too skinny, but Ike’s sisters, although being skinny, were just plain nasty, lithe, sinewy, slutty, nasty. They had a way of looking at you that reeked of nasty, a look that said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, because I put those thoughts in yer head, so what say you and I see what’s inside that special shed of yours’.

Buuut, I’m getting ahead of myself here.


----------



## IKE

Gary O' said:


> *The Field*
> 
> 
> Ike had two sisters, Mona and Lisa, of which were the epitome of nasty.
> The whole family was, in my opinion, too skinny, but Ike’s sisters, although being skinny, were just plain nasty, lithe, sinewy, slutty, nasty. They had a way of looking at you that reeked of nasty, a look that said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, because I put those thoughts in yer head, so what say you and I see what’s inside that special shed of yours’.




Granted my sisters were *very popular* and both had their fair share of male suitors but they certainly weren't the floozies depicted in your story......in fact they were known throughout  the county as being sweet and fun loving little angels.


----------



## Gary O'

IKE said:


> Granted my sisters were *very popular* and both had their fair share of male suitors but they certainly weren't the floozies depicted in your story......in fact they were known throughout  the county as being sweet and fun loving little angels.
> 
> View attachment 52659



and they look like darlings

no
wrong Ike

wrote about him in the first few pages of this thread (tome)
I think the title was 'kids of the hill' or sumpm like that

This is that 'Ike'

*IKE*

 The Eisner’s place was at the bottom of the hill.
 Ike was the runt of our little mob. Thus he did some suffering….nature’s process of natural selection.
 The Eisners were a tidy bunch. Mrs Eisner kept Ike in new clothes. He always looked like he’d just stepped outta the Wards catalogue.
 There was no man around the house.
 Mrs Eisner was quite fetching, a bit thin, but quite fetching indeed. She kept herself up, and I gotta hand it to her, maintained things pretty darn well. Remarkably, those were the days before mandated child support.
 However, they all seemed to be missing a screw to their well oiled machine.
 Ike’s sisters were prime examples.
 Seems like they were about 13 and 15 and had been around, having the minds of 47 year old hookers.
 Ike was their experimentation lab.
 Andy was practice.
 I was a curiosity.
 Bart was their personal ‘Lennie Small’.
Eddie stayed home.
 Brad damn near lived at the Eisner’s place…Brad liked to narrate his experiences…I took notes.

 Ike was pretty much our gofer.
 One summer day we were just sittin’ behind Andy’s place, considering tossing Ike down the hill again, when Andy developed the brilliant idea of gathering up some junk and setting it all on the blind corner of the paved road below.

 A broken bat, a rusted wagon, some leaf springs and other junk, in a wash tub, set smack dab in the road, by Ike.
‘Ike won’t get in trouble as much as we will, since they already know us (the fire cracker incident, the beehive fiasco, and a few other things that enabled us to see the inside of the police station).

 First car.
 The guy just stopped, took the wagon, and kicked the tub off the road.
 Ike set it back out.

 Second car.
 An ol’ gal got out, looked up the hill, right into the brush we were hiding in and yammered in her high pitched ol’ lady voice ‘I see you boys. I’m going to turn you in. Get down here right now and clean this up.’
Then she sped off, leaving the tub in the middle of the road.

 It began to dawn on us that maybe this wasn’t one of our brightest of ideas when car number three, an ol’ pickup, came whippin’ by. Only he didn’t stop. Not right away anyway. Seems the handle of the wash tub hooked onto the undercarriage of his truck, and made quite a gawdawful racket for about a hundred yards, just clangin’ and bangin’ down the road.
 I think the ol’ guy thought he’d lost his differential, ‘cause he seemed quite relieved to find that ol’ tub…as he unhooked it, threw it into the truck and sped off. 
 Another inventive event for us to laugh our asses off, and celebrate by tossing Ike down the hill.


 One rainy fall day Bart and I were goofing around with the mud bank at the bottom of the road.
 Bart had these huge, man sized high top leather boot shoes, of which he was quite proud of being able to stand in a mud puddle and not get his gargantuan feet wet.
‘See that? M-M-M-M-Mink oil.’
 ‘Huh.’

Andy came out and suggested we build a dam, and make a lake. Eddie, Ike, and Brad appeared.
 Soon we had six shovels and two wheel barrows employed.
 We learned about the dos and don’ts of dam building in short order.
 A sheet of ply would be our water gate.
 The lake got to be about three and a half feet deep once we built the side gates for overflow.
 The red clay bank we were excavating developed a huge gap in it.
 Next, the dazzling idea of flooding the road when cars came.

 CAR!!!

 Andy and Bart lifted the sheet of ply. There was a rush of muddy water. 
 Something the dimension of a mid-sized dog went whooshing onto the road.

 It was Ike!!

 The car came close, r-e-a-l close to Ike’s head.
 The driver didn’t see a thing, just kept goin’.
Andy and I picked up little Ike, squeezed out his shirt and cap, and commenced to shake him, scolding him for being on the wrong side of the dam at such a critical moment.
 He loved the attention, smiling his happy dog Ike smile, then giggling his little Ike [censored] off.

 In spite of everything we and his sisters put him through, he maintained a pretty happy heart, and kept a kind of innocence about him. 
 He was beyond likable.
 None of us would say it, but we all loved the little guy.
 And even though he was our projectile alotta times, if anyone out of our realm gave him grief, we'd all take turns beatin' the [censored] outta that person.....no matter how big she was.

 Years later, I heard he’d become a structural engineer.
 I’d like to think we had an influence on him that rainy fall day.

 Last I heard, he was in Honduras, improving some villages in the outback, rerouting waters of floodplains, and teaching building techniques, but that was long ago now.
 His frustration was the unions wouldn’t let him get his hands dirty with anything more than a pencil. 



 The lad had a remarkable resilience about him in mind and spirit. I’d like to think he’s doin’ well……hell, I may search him out on face book or something, since a lot of folk have died off, and the web is so damn handy these days….’course then I’d have to join face book….last time I did that, I learned I had more than 10,000 friends I didn’t even know. ‘sides, I’m not sure of his first name….but then, right now I’m not sure of my own first name…..


Naw, I’d rather just think my thoughts. Gettin’ tired of learnin’ how folks are ending up….but then learning of yer enemies taking a dirt nap is rather uplifting at times.


----------



## Gary O'

*Knock knock, who’s there
*
Back in the day, vacuum cleaner sales were enhanced by door-to-door folk.
One time, in the ‘70s, a hoard of ‘em attacked the little cul-de-sac we lived on.
They came in droves, piling outta vans and cars like locust.
Three were at my door, at dinner time. 
But, hey, they were people tryin’ to make a livin’…..
The brains of the outfit began small conversation with me.

‘Hey, that’s a n-i-c-e ship, you build it?’

‘Uh, yeah…..please git yer vacuum nozzle away from it.’

‘Well, sir, we’re here to show you how you can be germ free with our state of the art filtered systems.’

The gentleman commenced to suck the living crap outta our couch…..really….living crap.

Then he opened his bag-o-living-crap and spread it onto some newspaper…my sports page.

I played along.

‘Wow.’

‘Do you know what that is?’ (rubbing the amorphous gooey granules between his finger and thumb)

‘No.’

‘It’s human skin.’ 

‘Really?!’

‘Yes, human skin….wanna touch it?’

‘Naw, that’s a used couch. 
Bought it from the widow of a diseased old man.’ 

Once back from washing his hands, super sales guy was back on task.

‘This attachment can remove the most stubborn stains.
I’m going to pour this ink on yer couch and….’

‘WAIT!
How ‘bout the stain under the doily of that chair?’

Man, that guy scrubbed for a good twenty minutes, and actually got most of it out, building up quite a sweat.

‘Well, sir, that is one stubborn stain. What do you think it is?’

‘Probably the blood of that dead guy, got the chair from the same place, I think he actually died right there.’

Once back from washing his hands, he was ready to wrap things up.


I felt sorry for the man.
He was quite dogged about getting this sale.
And his white shirt had rings of perspiration growing at a rapid rate outta his underarms….tie was loose…..and foam was gathering at the corners of his mouth.

The vacuum systems were $800…back when $800 was closer to what $800 should be.
And they were about $787.34 more than I could afford.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him how much I appreciated him doing my curtains, couch, carpet, and chair….but.

‘Let me think about it.’

‘Sir, we won’t be coming back this way.’

‘Good.’

‘You don’t understand. This deal is today only.’

‘Good.’

‘Perhaps I could discuss this with the lady of the house.’

‘Of course, only make it your lady of your house…about career choices…..and get the ef outta mine.’

‘Here Kemo.’

Patience.
I learned I don’t really need mucha that virtue at given times…..and Kemo, well he jus likes people.



Today, it’s telemarketing.
Sometimes, at the office, the receptionist will let one get by.

‘Gary, I’m going to send you a little gift to your home, and all you have to do is blather blather blah blah, and Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary, blather blather blah blah,'

‘Interesting’

'and Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary, blather blather blah blah,'

‘Interesting’

'and Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary, blather blather blah blah, Gary,'

‘Interesting.
Hey, can I put you on hold for just a sec?’

‘Sure Gary.’

It takes about 1.37 minutes before the little blinking light goes out. I think the record is close to 4 minutes.


----------



## IKE

Gary I can remember the Kirby door to door guy doing a demo at our house when I was a pup.

One of his big 'shocker' selling points was vacuuming the mattress and showing my parents all the shed white flaky skin......parents didn't purchase one because Kirby's were really expensive even back then but as soon as the salesman left mom drug out her trusty Electrolux and spent a couple of hours tearing the covers off all the beds and vacuuming the mattresses.


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Gary O'

*Simpler Times*

Y’know, it’s funny how sweet memories are garnered from simple things.

Years ago when the boys were small, we picked a mess of green beans. I mean a lot, three gunny bags full.

The boys had fun runnin’ up and down the rows of string beans in between pickin’ their own sack full. 
Sippin’ water in a mason jar, trudgin’ to the outhouse, eatin’ raw beans…..with a little dirt on ‘em for flavor. 
The farm had several acres of rows and rows, long rows.

Once back home, we all sat at the kitchen table, stringin’, snappin’, jabbering away at everything. 
Empty jars boilin’ in the kettle.
Shadows lengthened. 
Dinner on the back porch. 
Baths for the boys, story time, tuck in, don’t let the bed bugs bite.

Wife and I get serious with the canning process. 
Cooker steamin, rattlin’. Jars lining up. Lids poppin’.

2 AM, the pile is manageable. Thru bleary eyes we look proudly at the bounty, smiling at each other.

“I didn’t know you liked green beans so much.”

“I don’t, you?”

“No, not so much.”

The boys are 38 and 40 now, and fondly remember those days.

Nobody remembers eating the beans…….


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Gary O'

wrote this a few years back
when we lived in town
kinda miss this stuff, some


*Little things gettin’ bigger*

I have a regimen, everything in its place…always.
Move my shaving mug two inches and I’m like a milk cow without a stanchion.
Speaking of shaving mugs, yes I hit the edges of my beard with a razor…I like the feel of my lady’s soft on my cheek….but the other mug, the shaving mug, is a prize I won’t soon give up. I know folks that have these fancy foam heating devices for the feel of that barber’s shave.
Shoot, a mug, a cake of William’s soap, some hot water and a good badger bristle brush and yer downtown.
In my youth, trappings were just things in the way. Shower? Hah, just jump in the stream, then fish the day away lettin’ the sun dry yer clothes.
Now, now the shower is a sacred rite. The hand held nozzle, oh what a marvel. 

Dinner ware
I keep a substantial fork and those wide bladed butter knives on hand…and a big, thick spoon, one that can blade thru the hardest of ice cream.
Thin pancake flipper, flat cast iron skillet, large stainless bowls, knives thick, sharp, serrated.

Weekend clothes are shorts, shirt, tennies, any time of year…..actually these are now rags that I give the sign of the cross every time I toss them in the hamper….both times of the year…but sure are comfy…and that’s big.
One weekend I was putting beer cans in one of those pop can gobblers, one at a time, when a finely dressed lady just plopped her bag of cans down beside me.
‘What, time too precious to waste on recycling?’
‘No, I just thought you needed the money.’
Might be time to upgrade the uniform.

The bed stand
Articulated lamp hooked to the wall, water glass, cell phone, reading glasses, pen (for crossword). Keys, wallet, money clip, 1911 in the drawer.

Bed
Used to be where ever I fell.
Now
Pillow top mattress, down filled smushable pillow, cool side waiting to be turned, window wide open, homemade comforter, lady on the side…night night, sweet dreams…drooling a river.

Yeah, little things are big now, and so much more enjoyed.


----------



## Gary O'

penned several years ago;

I really enjoy my grandkids that fill a portion of my leisure time.
Never thought I would.
I was a bit fastidious in my early years of fatherhood, and the gooey fingers of my own little ones would drive me up the wall, 
patting and smearing the freshly windexed windows of my ’62 Impala SS…
and not just the sides, but the rear window..the one that takes a double jointed contortionist to get at the slanted crevices…
only to be filled with slobber induced graham cracker goo from an inquisitive poop factory midget.

Now? It’s been decades since I’ve given thought to the grime of the under carriage of any vehicle I have. The grommet brush and polish long retired. 
My puddle jumping Wrangler has cured me of any remaining vestiges of that section of my OCDs.
And these little beings are a happy thing for me.
Some are getting toward the hulk stage, and resist my hugs a bit, so I just put ‘em in a half nelson and twist the living crap outta ‘em.
Right now, as I type (5:30 in the morn), two are sleeping in the living room, feet hangin’ off the lazy boy, the other with his head hangin’ upside down off the couch. 











They are ten and thirteen now, and Papaw is no longer their fascination. But they are still wary, ‘cause they have no idea what’s coming next from me….mainly ‘cause I don’t either………..but somehow a spoon of cranberry sauce in the hand and a light wisp of the feather duster on the face just seems like the thing to do……


----------



## Gary O'

this became rather lengthy

Reaching back to living in town, still working;

*Techno-effing-ology
*
So, Monday my Lady calls me at work.
Now the only time she calls me at the office is when someone has died, or she’s not going to make the pie that she’s been luring me with her verbal fore play for days, or our computer died.

Our computer died.

We used to have two, but discovered one would suffice, and less cords.

But it died.

My tie to the financial world….and sports!
OK, no panic……gotta be sumpm simple.

‘No worries, baby, uh (how to put this) is the little light blinking?’

‘%#!*&%!!*&%$###!!’

‘Ah, yes, of course you’re not an idiot…I’m the idiot, now please stop worrying and get back to making that pie crust.’

I rushed home.

The screen was black.

Huh, appears my used flat panel I’d bought for $10 at a garage sale had given up the ghost…..not bad, 3 years of service.

Whipped over to wally world to get the one they had for $99.
A dewy fresh new sales kid that seemed to have run out of oxy 10 was eager to help me.

‘Just show me where the monitors are.’

‘We don’t have monitors.’

A brief panic took temporary control of my frontal lobe.
Has it happened?
Do I have to now thumb words on a fricking screen to communicate?

‘But your ad says you have them, and on sale.’

‘Oh, maybe we do.’

The lad better get to know his product, he’s only 50 years away from greeter status.

Dang, monitors are light now.
Felt like I was toting around a picture frame.
Back at the house, I yard it outta the styro.
No instructions (?)
No manual (?)
I hook it up.
Nothing.
There’s a disk.
I must admit, I had yet to insert a disk in the shoe box of a tower I’d bought a year ago.
I couldn’t find where the disk goes.
After clawing at every logical side I open a little flimsy door and start trying to jamb the disk into whatever crevice I could find.
After several minutes of hunched over grunting on all fours, cursing, sweating, flashlight in hand, my Lady pokes a button, and the disk holder slides out.
I thank her in my voice of satan sneer.
I assume the disk is now doing its thing and go look for printed matter.
Nothing.
The screen remains black.

‘Baby, where’s the box and styro?’

‘It’s in the recycle.’

‘Go…get….it…………………please.’

I go over the Styrofoam with a fine tooth forensic comb.
Nothing.
I read every word on the box.
Nothing.
I mistakenly tear open the little silica dry pack, spilling a gazzilion teeny weeny poisonous micro beads onto the kitchen floor.

‘No need to glower like that, baby, I’ll clean it up.’

The screen remains black.
Where’s the on button?!
There are four buttons on the monitor, conveniently located on the bottom of the screen frame.
I pick it up, and with my reading glasses and mag light in my mouth, notice the engraved international sign of a flashing light.
The on button.
I press it.
The screen remains black.
OK, recall.
When I bought my new tower a year ago, the instructions were;

_*Plug it in

Then the start-up message on the screen said something like;

That’s it; proceed to your porn sites.

Oh, and BTW, you better make a backup disk, because we are too chintzy to provide one.*
_
I don’t hear the familiar whirring sound I’m accustomed to hearing from the old tower when a disk was inserted, so I pick up the little shoe box and put it to my ear.
There may be a noise.
My wife is giving me a quizzical look, much like my dog used to after I’d fallen off a ladder…..very irritating.

Patience, old man, patience.
I sit back in my lazyboy.

Mental recall….mind warp back to stardate 1995;

I’m at Circuit City.
Just purchased my first PC.
$19.95….and three years commitment to AOL

‘Sir, I recommend the extra warranty.’

‘How much?’

‘$137.95’

‘AAAAHAAAAAHAHAHAAAAA…..no.’

In getting home and opening up the boxes, I find the instructions.

They go something like this;

Welcome to a whole new world!
Enclosed, you’ll find 37 CDs, and several cords with funny looking connectors.
Put all that down…NOW!
Please carefully read the following;
(Page 1 of 1859)
This is written to totally confuse the crap out of you, and, to impress, we have given it to you in 247 languages.

Or just refer to the quick/easy sheet provided.

Ah, so thaaaaat’s what that glossy spill proof fold out is.
I unfold the tablecloth size easy start up instruction sheet.

My mind flashes back to the game of twister. You know, the game where innocent unsuspecting couples get together, and dry hump each other to conquest.
We were invited to the Eilkers, and after several after dinner cordials, Ed laid out the glossy twister sheet.
And Jeri explained the rules to us couples.
However, after Ed noticed Phil had both hands on Jeri’s hind end, and his face buried deep in her heaving cleavage, he called a halt and brought out the monopoly game.
Seems their explanation of pregame warm up was not well received.

Actually, Ed had the better feeling hind end, if you ask me.

But, yeah, a glossy spill proof sheet of easy hook up.

I poured over the instruction…..actually poured…...coffee. 

Once we were hooked up, we both sat there and waited……..

BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BDDDRIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE

BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BRDDDIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE

BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BRDDDDIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE.

The getting on, as a rule, took only several days to sometimes weeks.

I’d get home from the office.
My usual greeting went from ‘Hey baby, what’s for dinner?’ to ‘Are we on?!!’

‘Yes we are, dinner is somewhere in the fridge.’

Evening consisted of sitting around the old PC, listening;
BBBBBDDDDDRRRRREEEEEE…KHHHKHHHH….REEEEOOOORRRRR…….. KHHHKHHHH
BRDDDDIIIIING….EEEEEEEEEEEE…BDRRRREEEEE.

Both of us poised to arm wrestle to our deaths for first on.

Her quest was infantile things like recipes, knitting patterns, world events, and cute puppy pictures.

Mine were more of a mature, profound nature….porn, old porn, new porn, odd porn, oh my god my mind is now so screwed up porn, and on to sports, porn, old porn, new porn, odd porn, oh my god my mind is now so screwed up porn.

Funny, when we first got it, a rather demure, frumpy lady at the office approached me and, in considering getting a PC herself, asked just one rather quiet little question….’is there porn?’ 


(back to the present)

‘snark!’ (I wake up) I’ve got a kink in my next to last toe, and my hind end is in a coma…

BUT!

The monitor has a picture!

The CD did its thing, in spite of myself.
All is well again.
Damn, that LED screen is bright.
I’m considering wearing sunglasses, cause I’ll be damned if I’m gonna poke any more buttons to find intensity adjustments.

Now? My lady has a chrome book, I still have a PC….and life around the web is our evening entertainment here at the cabin.


----------



## Meanderer

Uh, yeah......


----------



## Gary O'

other jottings of length 

written when living in town, somewhat fresh from last trip to mainland China;
*
Take my pole.....please*

The other day I was looking for a bungee to re-harness a sagging fishing rod, one of 48, that's clipped to the ceiling of my den.
I foraged thru a box in my shop, marked straps-bungees-binders, of which was beneath three other marked boxes full of assorted, 'important' stuff to organize other important stuff.

I've done it again...collecting.

Who needs 48 fishing rods?

OK, I have two level wind for salmon, four (2 level/2 spin) for steelhead, and two (spin) for trout.
The others I dust........

Are these subliminal trophies, 'accidentally' shown off with fake disdainful self-reproach when a buddy visits from Alaska?

Are they my security items?

Are they a subconscious adherence to a biblical proverb....spare the rod...?

Or am I one sick puppy, the rods symbolizing multiple choice Freudian instruments of self-flagellation?

Naw, I just like shiny things.
'Hey, look! That reel has a Super Stopper Anti-Reverse Plus Backup Anti-Reverse Pawl!
I need that!’


Upon returning from mainland China, and having witnessed utter poverty face to face, I swore I would be more aware of my first world habits. Getting home, going thru the stores, seeing hundreds of style choices for even tennis shoes; basketball, walking, hiking, running, jogging, skate boarding, posing, strutting, worshiping, and yes tennis, revolted me.

The legless man, sitting on his torso, in a dirt street of a northern Guangdong village, sewing Huarache sandals with a tiny crude manual machine, had awakened a dormant nodule of moral awareness deep within the insole of my soul.

Had I shown myself as the epitome of Burdick and Lederer's portrayal of Americans?

Am I a lower form of the 'let them eat cake' genre?

Or am I just conveniently born in the middle of a pecking order, abhorring both poles of the spectrum?

My obsessive nature dictates order, so there's an element of inborn restraint, but on the other hand, it sends me on stock pile tears, 48 bars of Irish Spring, 12 bottles of my favorite shampoo, a drawer full of socks (all the same color).....this amuses my lady....., but even though needful things, why so much?

Are these various trappings a form of enslavement?

Is the abject poverty stricken legless man, the antitheses of luxury, sewing shoes for the comfort of someone that has so very much more than he, in misery, or is he more the free one?
Moralists, thru the ages, tend to think so, and as I take a breather, and prepare for the trek down the hill, my opinion has gone from "Yeah, right" to "Why am I building another shed to store all this crap"?

In my heart of hearts, my cabin is a mild form of that same freedom.

There, the dictates of preparing necessities, like a dishpan of hot water, and a means of heating the water, and of course water, reduce and remove the time afforded to the accustomed trappings. They become simple pleasures.


So I ask myself, ‘Is your cabin a place to put more toys and house all the electro-gizmo trappings of home, or a spill-over of collections, or a refuge from their enslavement?’


I kinda apologize in bringing up a subject that has been previously beat to submission, but on the other hand, me, being a cynic, in an unfamiliar, aging retrospective empathetic mode, I take mental adventures, and am filled with awe and wonder at the resilience of the street artisans, like the little old legless cobbler in China, stitching away the day, then as the sun sets on his work shift, packing up his little machine (on a skid with a forehead harness?) and dragging it behind himself as he hand walks his way to the tin hut, simply filled with his mat and a humble means of cooking.
I so wanted to chat with him, but disregarding the warnings to never leave the hotel compound alone, I got restless when my broker/interpreter was away, and ventured into the village (w-a-a-ay off the Caucasian route, let alone tourist haunts).
So communication was a tad limited.

Was he the last link of a conglomerate chain?
Who was his broker?
What would our conversation have been?

Me:
So, Mr Huang (pronounced Fong in some provinces), do you know the name Nike?

My Broker to Mr Fong:
你知道耐克的名称吗?
Do you know the name Nike?

Mr Fong to my Broker:
嗯，你觉得，我是无知的无足混蛋，只是高兴地走出的一只手？
我讨厌游客的上帝。
当然，我听说耐克体育用品公司。
地狱的人，你认为我的公寓小屋支付？ 
(Well, what do you think, I'm an ignorant legless bastard, just happy to get a hand out?
God I hate tourists.
Of course I've heard of Nike.
Who in hell do you think paid for my 60 inch plasma set, and state of the art stereo?)

Broker to me:
No

Me to broker:
Amazing....I wonder if there is something I can do for him, a token of appreciation, maybe some little wheels, or a new torso pad?

Broker to Mr Fong:
你知道耐克的名称吗？ 
(This sorry, bleeding heart consumer wants to know if you want a new torso pad, or some little wheels no less?)

Mr Fong
告诉他是给我的礼物就是立刻离开温暖的阳光我当时正在欣赏他出现之前。
(Tell him his gift to me would be to get the hell outta the warm sun that I was enjoying before he appeared, and to go back home and buy some huaraches. ******* tourist bastards.
Oh, and leave me some Pink Floyd CDs.)

Broker to me:
No, but many thanks and have a nice day.

Me:
Incredible, a true testament to human resilience (heart bloodletting profusely).

I walk away, enlightened...........


----------



## Vinny

I can remember back until I was 4.


----------



## Meanderer

Street cobbler in Shanghai, China, in 2003.


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Street cobbler in Shanghai, China, in 2003.



Man, if that ain't exemplary


----------



## StarSong

Gary O' said:


> other jottings of length
> 
> written when living in town, somewhat fresh from last trip to mainland China;
> *
> Take my pole.....please*
> 
> The other day I was looking for a bungee to re-harness a sagging fishing rod, one of 48, that's clipped to the ceiling of my den.
> I foraged thru a box in my shop, marked straps-bungees-binders, of which was beneath three other marked boxes full of assorted, 'important' stuff to organize other important stuff.
> 
> I've done it again...collecting.
> 
> Who needs 48 fishing rods?
> 
> OK, I have two level wind for salmon, four (2 level/2 spin) for steelhead, and two (spin) for trout.
> The others I dust........
> 
> Are these subliminal trophies, 'accidentally' shown off with fake disdainful self-reproach when a buddy visits from Alaska?
> 
> Are they my security items?
> 
> Are they a subconscious adherence to a biblical proverb....spare the rod...?
> 
> Or am I one sick puppy, the rods symbolizing multiple choice Freudian instruments of self-flagellation?
> 
> Naw, I just like shiny things.
> 'Hey, look! That reel has a Super Stopper Anti-Reverse Plus Backup Anti-Reverse Pawl!
> I need that!’
> 
> 
> Upon returning from mainland China, and having witnessed utter poverty face to face, I swore I would be more aware of my first world habits. Getting home, going thru the stores, seeing hundreds of style choices for even tennis shoes; basketball, walking, hiking, running, jogging, skate boarding, posing, strutting, worshiping, and yes tennis, revolted me.
> 
> The legless man, sitting on his torso, in a dirt street of a northern Guangdong village, sewing Huarache sandals with a tiny crude manual machine, had awakened a dormant nodule of moral awareness deep within the insole of my soul.
> 
> Had I shown myself as the epitome of Burdick and Lederer's portrayal of Americans?
> 
> Am I a lower form of the 'let them eat cake' genre?
> 
> Or am I just conveniently born in the middle of a pecking order, abhorring both poles of the spectrum?
> 
> My obsessive nature dictates order, so there's an element of inborn restraint, but on the other hand, it sends me on stock pile tears, 48 bars of Irish Spring, 12 bottles of my favorite shampoo, a drawer full of socks (all the same color).....this amuses my lady....., but even though needful things, why so much?
> 
> Are these various trappings a form of enslavement?
> 
> Is the abject poverty stricken legless man, the antitheses of luxury, sewing shoes for the comfort of someone that has so very much more than he, in misery, or is he more the free one?
> Moralists, thru the ages, tend to think so, and as I take a breather, and prepare for the trek down the hill, my opinion has gone from "Yeah, right" to "Why am I building another shed to store all this crap"?
> 
> In my heart of hearts, my cabin is a mild form of that same freedom.
> 
> There, the dictates of preparing necessities, like a dishpan of hot water, and a means of heating the water, and of course water, reduce and remove the time afforded to the accustomed trappings. They become simple pleasures.
> 
> 
> So I ask myself, ‘Is your cabin a place to put more toys and house all the electro-gizmo trappings of home, or a spill-over of collections, or a refuge from their enslavement?’
> 
> 
> I kinda apologize in bringing up a subject that has been previously beat to submission, but on the other hand, me, being a cynic, in an unfamiliar, aging retrospective empathetic mode, I take mental adventures, and am filled with awe and wonder at the resilience of the street artisans, like the little old legless cobbler in China, stitching away the day, then as the sun sets on his work shift, packing up his little machine (on a skid with a forehead harness?) and dragging it behind himself as he hand walks his way to the tin hut, simply filled with his mat and a humble means of cooking.
> I so wanted to chat with him, but disregarding the warnings to never leave the hotel compound alone, I got restless when my broker/interpreter was away, and ventured into the village (w-a-a-ay off the Caucasian route, let alone tourist haunts).
> So communication was a tad limited.
> 
> Was he the last link of a conglomerate chain?
> Who was his broker?
> What would our conversation have been?
> 
> Me:
> So, Mr Huang (pronounced Fong in some provinces), do you know the name Nike?
> 
> My Broker to Mr Fong:
> 你知道耐克的名称吗?
> Do you know the name Nike?
> 
> Mr Fong to my Broker:
> 嗯，你觉得，我是无知的无足混蛋，只是高兴地走出的一只手？
> 我讨厌游客的上帝。
> 当然，我听说耐克体育用品公司。
> 地狱的人，你认为我的公寓小屋支付？
> (Well, what do you think, I'm an ignorant legless bastard, just happy to get a hand out?
> God I hate tourists.
> Of course I've heard of Nike.
> Who in hell do you think paid for my 60 inch plasma set, and state of the art stereo?)
> 
> Broker to me:
> No
> 
> Me to broker:
> Amazing....I wonder if there is something I can do for him, a token of appreciation, maybe some little wheels, or a new torso pad?
> 
> Broker to Mr Fong:
> 你知道耐克的名称吗？
> (This sorry, bleeding heart consumer wants to know if you want a new torso pad, or some little wheels no less?)
> 
> Mr Fong
> 告诉他是给我的礼物就是立刻离开温暖的阳光我当时正在欣赏他出现之前。
> (Tell him his gift to me would be to get the hell outta the warm sun that I was enjoying before he appeared, and to go back home and buy some huaraches. ******* tourist bastards.
> Oh, and leave me some Pink Floyd CDs.)
> 
> Broker to me:
> No, but many thanks and have a nice day.
> 
> Me:
> Incredible, a true testament to human resilience (heart bloodletting profusely).
> 
> I walk away, enlightened...........



My grandmother used to say, "Be careful how much stuff you collect.  Before you know it your stuff will own you."  She was ahead of her time, a minimalist extraordinaire.  Her daughter, my mother?  Not so much.  

A little over five years ago my mother went into assisted living and I began clearing items from her home.  I kept the bar soap and we have only used up 2/3 of her stash.  
Last night my daughter's family came over for dinner.  Her kids are little and get a kick out of fancy paper napkins.  My daughter looked at the napkins, cocked and eyebrow and said, "You STILL have more of Grandma's napkins???"  I told her that she may wind up with some of them in her own inheritance.  Eye roll.


----------



## Gary O'

office days
around the turn of the century

*Hot afternoon*
*I volunteered to drop off a hot package at FedX*
*Big line*
*Appeared everone in SE Portland had a hot package that’d missed the regular pick up
*
*A fresh new Mercedes convert pulls into the parking lot*
*A leggy blonde’s lithe figure flows onto the tarmac
*
*She’s carrying wunna those coolers some guys use for lunch boxes
*
*I turn, face her*
*‘Beer?’
*
*Her eyes stare thru me*
*‘Bull semen’
*
*‘With beer?’
*
*Nothing
*
*‘How much?’
*
*Not a flinch, but shakes her tendrils out, somewhat like Rita Hayworth.
*
*I begin to hate her*
*Turns out, no matter how comely, demeanor plays a role in attractiveness*

*‘One hand or two?’
*
*Now she turns, but away from me, rather quickly*

*I can see her shoulders begin a stifled tremble 

I turn back around, face the front of the line

smiling *

*win  *


----------



## Gary O'

*Asian facilities*

HK, at the turn of the century was pretty uptown, at least in Kowloon and neighboring areas…..but up the road, north of Shenzhen in Tangxia Village, Dongguan, the theme changed a bit.

While inspecting a factory there, an overpowering urge stopped me in my tracks.
Seems the dog I ate the previous night was not CDA grade A, ‘cause I was percolatin’.
I subtly grabbed my broker’s shirt with clenched fists and whispered my desires in his ear.

Apparently, doubling over and grimacing was sufficient body language, as several people pointed my way to the lavatory.
Full pedal down the long straightaway, periodically stopping, frozen, like a sow in heat, then full throttle thru the tiled ‘S’ turn and I was home free.
‘Cept there were no stalls, 
and no toilets, 
and no trough
….just a few tiled holes in the floor.
Clean though. Very clean.

It’s just there was no way I could wrap my mind around a remote possibility of a successful mission.
The prairie dogging salad shooter would definitely have ended up mostly somewhere inside my Wranglers.
My mind raced….take off the jeans and perch…then what? 
No TP
What’s with the waterfall?!
Oh, no way.
The term ‘Suck it up’ became quite tangible.

If the tongue is the most muscular organ of the body, the sphincter has to be a close second.
So, I slowly strolled out of hole haven toward my broker, as nonchalantly as possible with compressed cheeks, and subtly grabbing his shirt with clenched fists, whisper/screamed, ‘to the hotel, NOW!!’

Yeah, I’ve left many a scat in the bush, but a coed hole-in-the-floor lavatory was just a bit too much.


----------



## Gary O'

*The Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh
*
My Aunt Laura, residing in The Dalles, was rather high in rank with the Thousand Friends of Oregon at the time.
She had stories.
Matter of fact, she was a recipient of the Rajneeshee food poisoning terrorist program.
Hospitalized.
‘Almost died.’

Thing is, I genrly don’t believe all I read, or even hear, even from my Aunt.

I mean, here’s a buncha folk, w-a-a-a-y out in the Eastern Oregon desert, doin’ whatever they did, not really messing with other folk.
Sure, kids from families of old money, spoiled kids, kids with no direction,
 gathering at the feet of this phony guru, laying out their parent’s bucks, buying a fleet of Rolls Royces, Phantoms, Silver Clouds, Benzes parading thru the desert, was a bit disconcerting. 
Disconcerting to the parents that their hard earned wealth, hard earned from the sweat of their employee’s backs, was being squandered on a goofy little guy that looked like Charles Manson’s grampa.

So, the rich got pissed.
And, when people of political influence, with bulging back pockets from these rich geezers go against you, you’re pretty much screwed.

My Aunt, bless her retched soul, was somewhat of a hypochondriac, so I’m thinkin’ she imagined ingesting a lethal elixir from Ma Anand herself…even though my Aunt would never be caught dead in the eating establishments of which they were purported to have poisoned.

She was quite the character. 
Had the rare ability to talk thru her mouth and nose at the same time, 
emitting an engaging (Fran Drescher) nasal twang that always gave me the endearing feeling of a cheese grater traveling down my spine.

Funny, years later, right before she went back to the dirt we all come from, I chatted with my Aunt Laura. 
She’d just wrecked her beloved Caddy, the irreplaceable one.
So her zest for living was no longer a fire in her eye.
She was all bent over. 
Not from the accident, but from some kinda degenerative thing.

So, I put my beer on the back of her head and leaned down….
OK, OK, I just leaned down.
‘What really happened, Laura?’
‘The wealthy get their way, don’t we, Gary.’

That was enough for me.


I had no inner urgings to suppress those folks. 
I have enough of my own demons, enough enemies comin’ my way to aim at to last a lifetime.

The rich can do whatever they do. 
Don’t matter.
I’ll attend the town halls.
Initiate petitions.
Vote.

And do whatever I do, whenever.

Let Bhagwans be Bhagwans.

…now Ma Anand…..I could put a bead on that money grubbing bat.


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## RadishRose

Gary O' said:


> *The Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh
> *
> My Aunt Laura, residing in The Dalles, was rather high in rank with the Thousand Friends of Oregon at the time.
> She had stories.
> Matter of fact, she was a recipient of the Rajneeshee food poisoning terrorist program.
> Hospitalized.
> ‘Almost died.’



OMG Gary, I read about this salad bar attack back shortly after it happened,,, but wherever I read it didn't get into exact names, just that buffet style foods were poisoned so the opposition would get too sick to go out to vote. This made me nervous about buffet style eating for some time. This was a long time ago.

Your aunt was actually one of the victims? How awful!


----------



## RadishRose

[h=2]https://www.biography.com/people/bhagwan-shree-rajneesh-20900613

Crimes and Arrest[/h]As tensions between  the commune and the local government community increased, Rajneesh and  his followers soon turned to more drastic measures to achieve their  ends. including murder, wiretapping, voter fraud, arson and a mass  salmonella poisoning in 1984 that affected more than 700 people. 

After  several of his commune leaders fled to avoid prosecution for their  crimes, in 1985, police arrested Rajneesh, who was himself attempting to  flee the United States to escape charges of immigration fraud. During  his subsequent trial, Rajneesh pleaded guilty of immigration charges,  realizing that a plea bargain was the only way he'd be allowed to return  to India.


----------



## Gary O'

RadishRose said:


> *https://www.biography.com/people/bhagwan-shree-rajneesh-20900613
> 
> Crimes and Arrest*
> 
> As tensions between  the commune and the local government community increased, Rajneesh and  his followers soon turned to more drastic measures to achieve their  ends. including murder, wiretapping, voter fraud, arson and a mass  salmonella poisoning in 1984 that affected more than 700 people.
> 
> After  several of his commune leaders fled to avoid prosecution for their  crimes, in 1985, police arrested Rajneesh, who was himself attempting to  flee the United States to escape charges of immigration fraud. During  his subsequent trial, Rajneesh pleaded guilty of immigration charges,  realizing that a plea bargain was the only way he'd be allowed to return  to India.



Yeah, they were busy


----------



## Gary O'

Late sixties
I’m around twenty
Been passing for mid-twenties for some time, thanks to my ruddy Irish completion

Met what could be the lady of my life
Together for some months
‘Some months’ never happened before
Not intended
It just happened

Got a bit claustrophobic
Didn’t actually realize it, as I wasn’t in tune with feelings
I’d been thru wimin and wimin had been thru me at a rather short/fast rate

Needed to be free…er
Told her I was taking some time off, going on a trip with some guys
‘It’s an annual thing’

She didn’t say much 
She probably felt the same way I did

Packed a few things
Grabbed my buddy, George, and off we went

Gonna hit the Pacific coast, about 1200 miles west
Time to drive….breathe

My heart was sinking, but my mind fought back
We were done
She won’t be there whenever I get back

Found a beach
There were around 12 of us
Met some ladies
Built a huge bonfire

Ate like pigs
Drank like preteens
Swam in the ocean
Cranked up the tunes

I’d done this a few times before, and had a great time
Not this time

Grabbed George
Headed home

We normally took turns driving
I drove all the way
Straightened some curves

The only thing this trip did for me was show me who I needed, wanted more than anything

Got back into Houston
Dropped George off

Drove into the gravel drive of the garage apartment on Munger her and I both loved 
It sat nicely nestled under the huge pecan trees
We’d lay under them, on the random edged lawn after dark, discovering chiggers 

When I got off work, grime from head to toe, hard hat hair do, dried sweat, grease, and just plain filthy, I couldn’t even get outa the truck….here she’d come, 
running, cutoff jeans, my shirt, tied at the waist, no shoes
…..and throw herself into my grubby arms

These thoughts crowded my mind as I threw my bag of clothes over my shoulder and trudged up the garage apartment stairs

I so missed her
My heart literally ached
Wonder where she is….
….who she’s with

Half way up the stairs a heavenly aroma enveloped me
Shrimp gumbo
I opened the door

My lady, my gorgeous, comely, lovely lady ran into my arms

That was almost fifty years ago

Thru the various events of those years, that harden couples…..nothing’s changed


----------



## Gary O'

some fractured writing bits I didn't throw away

not sure when I wrote this, but it was a very early morning, or late evening

Guess I saved it due to thoughts on Dad

there's some foul words I imagine will be censored (I hope)



*WORK (a temporary title)*

2:30 

‘Do you wanna be a yardbird? 
Izzat whatcha wanna be, a yardbird?’

It’s the mid sixties.
I’m 16 ish.
Minimum wage is $1.25 hr
I’m making $2.75
My dad is making $3.97, only he has all those bills.
Two seventy five an hour.
That’s $110 a week! Me!
My weekly check sez _*EIGHTYSEVEN AND FIFTY ONE HUNDREDTHS DOLLARS*_.
Mine.
I could buy a lifetime supply of Playboys….fresh playboys.
Or a room fulla cartons of Winstons.
Or, shit, any ******* thing I wanted.
I could get my own apartment.
Heh, I will get my own apartment.
I love working at the camp trailer factory.
I could just not quit when the summer was over, and live rather happily ever after.
I make those ol’ men look silly, it’s fun…..and I get paid for it (!)

‘Do you hear me??!’
‘Yeah, Dad, I hear ya.’
My mind yelled back, (‘Yeah, I *******’ hear ya, old man.’) 
And at the same time my mind told him he was jealous.
The other part of my mind said, (‘he’s yer dad, he cares, but he just doesn't understand.’)

For years I’d hear him go on about education, or as he’d say ‘edyuhcayshun’.
‘Ya gotta have a college degree to get anywhere…ANYWHERE!.’
Them big yellow crooked teeth, close up, in my face.
‘I’ve got an eighth grade edyuhcayshun. That’s nuthin’…nuthin.
If ya have a college degree, you can be anything, a doctor even.'
The word ‘doctor’ was said with reverence and awe.
'Whatcha wanna be, son?’
(He’s got a piece of corn stuck in the back row of his lower fronts)
‘A dentist.’
So, for years after that, my dad would tell folks, ‘My son is studying for dental school.’
Seemed to work for me. 
Kept him off my back.
But here we are, a set back. Me and my big mouth.
In the back reaches of foggy mental process I did consider what he went thru to keep his job. 
The nights on the phone with his peers, pouring over a 20 page math problem, trig?, calculus? quantum physics?, agonizing hours after work, in school. 
A refresher course for some. 
Hell for dad.
For decades he’d typed THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVER THE LAZY DOG when testing a teletype machine in that gargantuan teletype repair plant over on Halsey.
He was proud of his accomplishments.
And scared.

So here we were.
His motivational mode was one of ridicule and belittlement.
Basically, he was yelling at hisself.
By the time he was done I wondered how in the **** I was able to activate enough of the meager brain tissue I had to accomplish putting one foot in front of the other, and how I was able to wipe my own hind end was something in the realm of the eighth wonder of the world.

‘Yeah, Dad, I hear ya.’

(‘I’ve got to get the phuk outta here.’) 






Thoughts on dad, death and dying excerpt 

4:57

*The End
*
Dad’s on his way out.
The guy that helped to explain death to this toddler (‘He’s dead.’) is gonna experience it himself, pretty soon now.
OK, so he wasn’t much with words, but sometimes the look on his face spoke volumes.

One time, years ago now (think I was 9), he’d come home from work. In those days he rode the bus. 
He’d just talked with this lady that he’d been riding with for months. Right after they said their daily g’byes, a bus hit her, splattering her remains all over the street.
Dad had a terrible look fixed to his face.
He couldn’t eat.
‘arm here, leg there’
He kept reliving it, over and over.
‘I’d just talked to her’
Mom seemed a bit cold about it, like the lady was a possible affair of Dad’s.
I imagine her mind went places like ‘he probably talked to her more than he talks to me’.
‘yer not gonna eat?’
‘can’t’
‘fine’


Him and I visited grampa when he was wasting away in the nursing home.
The place wreaked of pee….old man pee….old woman pee (shudder). 
The facility was remarkably clean, but I guess all that pee had permeated the walls.
You sorta got used to it…sorta.
Hours after we left I’d still get an occasional whiff of old person pee.
There grampa was, in the railed hospital bed, sunken toothless mouth open, hardly breathin’.
I don’t know how Dad did it.
He’d stop there every day after work, and ‘visit’ his dad, bringing me on the weekends.
Dad would get right in his ear… ‘DAD, DO YOU REMEMBER GARY?’
Grampa may have moved an eye lid.
I noticed he still had muscular arms, 
his neck still thick as a bull’s. 
Everything else was dissipated, atrophied, large hands curled up like he was writing something.
He stayed that way for months it seemed.



My dad is bald now.
Third of six weeks of chemo. 
A real salvo.
He can’t keep food down…or up.
It’s a crap shoot.
No, really. 
He shits with the regularity of exhalation.
Peeing out his ass, basically.
It’s a hell of a gamble too.
Waste away while the cancer gnaws at yer guts, or attack and see who/what wins.
It’ll be down to the wire….at 90.
His wife just called.
He’s back in the hospital.
Getting pumped with electrolytes…….and chemo. 
He loves life so.
I can see him lingering like grampa.
Wonder if I’ll visit his bedside daily, like he did for his dad.
I feel I should.
He’s been a really good dad.
A nice man.
A simple man.
Hard worker
Determined
He’s always presented a rosy outlook, somewhat like a salesman.
Without knowing it, I’ve kinda studied him.
We’ve never really had any heart to heart talks.
I don’t think I’ve missed anything.
We’ve had talks, it’s just that he’s always been the one doing the talking.
He’s always been concerned that I haven’t displayed much thought or action toward religion……or rather Christianity.

And here’s been the puzzle for me;

He’s scared as hell about dying.
Now I’ve heard too many times about atheists and agnostics becoming converted on their deathbeds.
But, until now, never considered a Christian being scared about meeting their maker……….what do they convert to?
OK. I really don’t care to argue with anyone about an epic, well thought out theory designed to keep mankind from annihilating each other. 
And I don’t think I could disprove the validity.
Sometimes I think, OK, I’m a ‘sinner’ (duh), and if I say the magic words, I can sneak into a side gate and have a tiny mansion on the outskirts of a gambler’s Las Vegas.
Then I think, ‘I don’t want a mansion, I hate mansions, and I certainly don’t want to cavort around with a crown on my head.’
Then I think, geezus, to make this work, I’m gonna hafta ask for forgiveness like ever ten seconds until I die.’

Then I think, ‘there I go again, being selfish. And the thought police already know this about me.’

Then I think, ‘that…is the last bowl I’m ever gonna do..…ever……..damn, outta nachos.’


----------



## Gary O'

I don't know where else to put this
but need to share

 My daughter…is back

The real one

The clean one

The fun one

The loving one

The no longer dying, killing herself one

A few months ago, thought sure I'd outlive her, let alone her seein' next Christmas



Thousands of my lady’s prayers answered

I quit praying long ago
….except ones for her hasty exit from this world 

Meth is so all powerful
The recovery rate is alarmingly low

She used to explain it like ‘imagine an orgasm that lasts for a very long time’
And stayed sober just long enough to find a way to get high again 

Used to look like a scary tiny faced Halloween moppet
Now, back to rather pretty (gets it from her mom)





I forgot how much I liked her

She’s got a good guy now

Didn’t think I could be happier

Turns out I can

Thank you, Lord

You da man


----------



## SeaBreeze

So glad that your daughter is with a good guy now and doing so well, I'm sure you and your wife are relieved and thankful.  She's a lovely young lady, I wish her a future of love and happiness.


----------



## IKE

Very pretty young lady Gary and I know that you're proud of her.

Not even counting what it does to people mentally I've seen before and after pics of people that have been on meth for awhile and it really messes up their outward appearance over time.....let's hope that she's really made her mind up to stay 'clean'.

I'll keep my.......


----------



## Gary O'

IKE said:


> Very pretty young lady Gary and I know that you're proud of her.
> 
> Not even counting what it does to people mentally I've seen before and after pics of people that have been on meth for awhile and it really messes up their outward appearance over time.....let's hope that she's really made her mind up to stay 'clean'.
> 
> I'll keep my.......
> 
> View attachment 57833



Thanks, pard


----------



## Gary O'

SeaBreeze said:


> So *glad that your daughter is with a good guy now *and doing so well, I'm sure you and your wife are relieved and thankful.  She's a lovely young lady, I wish her a future of love and happiness.


That..... is huge

I could have easily offed the goofball she was with.....without a hint of remorse

Thanks, SB


----------



## jujube

Gary, I wish you would write a book. I'd buy it, two copies even and give the other copy to someone I really liked for christmas.


----------



## Gary O'

jujube said:


> Gary, I wish you would write a book. I'd buy it, two copies even and give the other copy to someone I really liked for christmas.



I just hooked up with an editor.
She's been in the editing/publishing biz for most her working life.
She's been coaxing me for a couple years now.

This winter

Thanks, J


----------



## RadishRose

Gary, I am speechless. God bless your girl, may she stay sober and safe. She's lovely.


----------



## Gary O'

RadishRose said:


> Gary, I am speechless. God bless your girl, may she stay sober and safe. She's lovely.



Thank you so much, RR


----------



## Pappy

[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*Sounds I remember as a child.....*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*When I lived on Gold St. In Norwich, I remember the milk man and the sound his horse and wagon made on the street surface. The milk man never had to touch the reins as the horse knew the route by heart and would stop at each house that had delivery.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the O and W steam engine sounds that made. Wired, noisy but beautiful sounds to a young mans ears. The steel wheels spinning on the track trying to get traction. The release of air from the breaks. The eerie whistle in the middle of the night. The crashing sound when two cars were coupled together. *[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the noise the rain made on our metal roof at the old house on West Hill. Mom always said it put her to sleep, but it keep me awake most nights. Maybe because I slept upstairs and was closer to the roof.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember, during WW 2, the sirens blowing and everyone had to close their curtains and shut off most lights. This was in case of an air raid although I can't imagine any enemy bombing Norwich, NY.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the sound of Grandpa shoveling coal down cellar to feed the furnace. And the noise when coal was delivered to the house and sent down a metal ramp to the coal bin. The delivery man would keep it moist to keep the dust down.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the beautiful sounds of nature as I would hike through the woods. Birds singing, *[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*crows cawing, the farmers machinery running in the distance and if you sat still, you could hear chimp monks and squirrels rushing through the leaves.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the great motor sound that playing cards made when hooked on bike frame and rubbed on the spokes. The more cards the better the noise.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the great sounds of the farm. Each individual noise from cows, chickens, goats and ducks. Our dogs barking whenever a strange car drove into the driveway.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]


----------



## Gary O'

Pappy said:


> *Sounds I remember as a child.....*



love it


----------



## RadishRose

Thanks Pappy, I enjoyed your memories.  :love_heart:


----------



## StarSong

Gary, I hope your daughter remains on her current path.  Addiction is a horror story, may it remain in your family's past tense.


----------



## Gary O'

StarSong said:


> Gary, I hope your daughter remains on her current path.  Addiction is a horror story, may it remain in your family's past tense.



This is no fluke.

We have been thru many of her bipolar episodes…many….years of it.

The no burn ban was lifted here in the woods, just now today.
So we spent the evening around the campfire.
Discussing, life, people, god, til way after dark

Her head is very much on her shoulders

Her guy is a very deep thinker, only talks when he has something to say
And it’s always simple, but profound logic

They love each other…heart to heart.
That’s big

But what’s bigger is her head…it’s screwed on…tight.

Never seen her quite like this.

Two months ago I couldn’t stand to be around her.

Now, even after five day’s visit here at the cabin, I’ll be sad to see her leave.

I love her so

For the longest time, I thought I didn’t

Just worried about her mom.



can't see to type now


----------



## Pappy

Continuation of last thread....


[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the pumping sound our old water pump made while pumping water from the well house.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the crackling and popping sound certain wood made in the old stone fireplace in the living room.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the steady clacking on the wheels of the train I would take to Utica to visit my Dad. The noise the steam whistle made as we approached each small station on the way.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*At a difficult time in my life, I remember the strange noises my grandpa would make when he came home drunk. It was very scary at the time but as time went on, he stopped drinking and turned into one sweet guy. I love you grandpa. RIP*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the frogs singing in harmony when we stayed at camp at Plymouth Reservoir. The bass frogs would start and then the tenors chimed in and later the peepers started their two cent worth. The hoot, hoot of the old owl always added to the fiasco. I would lie there and try to identify each sound.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the sound when you opened a glass bottle of soda on the openers that screwed to the wall. Pop, sizz and a big gulp. I wonder how many people today know what a church key is?*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the sound of kicking the can made under the street lights on Gold St. We boys would play this game many a night until our moms would call us in.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot][/FONT]
[/FONT]
[FONT=&quot][FONT=&quot]*I remember the moans and groans in the movies us kids made when the cowboy hero kissed his gal. We did not want to see that mushy stuff. After all, he was our champion along with his horse. I remember the giggling us boys made at the Abbott and Costello movies or Ma and Pa Kettle.*[/FONT][/FONT]
[FONT=&quot]*
*[/FONT]


----------



## Gary O'

Pappy said:


> Continuation of last thread....
> 
> *I remember the moans and groans in the movies us kids made when the cowboy hero kissed his gal. We did not want to see that mushy stuff. After all, he was our champion along with his horse.  *



..but if he kissed his horse, well, that was OK, and sorta expected


Great stuff, Pappy, great stuff


----------



## jujube

Smells...….

My dad smoked Cherry Blend in his pipe.  I will occasionally go into a tobacco store (when I can find one, that is...) and ask to sniff the Cherry Blend.

My mom had a bottle of Blue Grass perfume.  She made it last for years.  If I was very, very good, I would get a touch of it behind my ear.  Divine.

My grandmas' houses always had the whiff of mothballs, because their closets always had mothballs in them.  Even though it's not a traditionally "pleasant" odor, it's pleasant to me because going to their houses was always an adventure.  

The smell of tidal mud flats......fishy and strong.  Once again, not a traditional pleasing aroma, but it meant we were nearing the beach in Virginia and that meant a day of fun.  It was always a contest who could smell the tidal flats first.

Pine>Christmas. Pumpkin>Halloween and Thanksgiving. Cinnamon>my mother's rolls.  Coppertone>yay! We're going to the pool!


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## gordoncarnegie47

I've really enjoyed your writing, thank you.


----------



## Gary O'

Geeeez, been awhile


another recollection of life in town
*
Let there be Light
*
So my last project of the first day of my week off  was to fix my ladies’ night lamp.
Like mine, its wunna them articulated ones, affixed to the wall, somewhat upper end, kinda quaint, old fashioned shades.
The little darling grandchildren were runnin’ thru the house, with a ball, a hard ball, and a bat, a hard bat.
Let yer imagination run as wild as they were. Nuff said.
I’m not one to scream at, and/or chase pint sized Tasmanian devils.
I just lie in wait.
And when one shoots by, I grab ‘em, squeeze ‘em, hug ‘em, and pick ‘em up by their pants and throw ‘em out the back door….then I do the same thing with their parents.
Well, the switch on the lamp was demolished.
Nice swing.

There’s no fixing lamp switches these days…..maybe if I were a brain surgeon, and had a good micro laser, and teeny weeny hands, and nerves of tungsten……maybe.
So I yank out what’s left of the switch, pull the cord outta the articulated brass tubing and bomb down to Home Dopey.
Found an assembly. Not quite the same animal, but I’ll make it fit.
The cord I so brilliantly pulled outta the tube, the double jointed tube, is not cooperating upon re-entry, no matter how much gentle verbal coaxing.
Coercive prose like….’TAKE IT BITCH!!’ wasn’t having much of an effect, except on the neighbor.


‘It’s OK, Helen, you can put the hose away, she’s fine…really….nice azaleas ya got there, miracle grow?’

Upon realizing that my nimble toe-like fingers could not think on their own, I reached for the short handled sledge hammer….and pounded the shit outta the work bench…..it's good to strength test yer work bench every so often....this one's well tested.

Well, the lamp is all back together, and my lady can again read while I fidget with the crossword.

However, I heard a little thump thump under the shop while stumbling around in there…it wasn’t me.
Now, just now, standing on my deck, 9:45 at night,  a pole cat is comin’ outta my squash plants in the raised bed on the side of my shop.
Bold little devil.
Rather unnerving.
I haven’t been spooked trudgin’ around in the dark for 50 some years, but now, now I know I have company, bad company.
I can well imagine standing out in the garden, waterin’ the rhubarb, and turn around and there’s a striped critter with its hind end up in the air.
My live traps are down at the cabin.
I’ve strapped a flashlight to the business end of the garden hose, set it on jet, and will be on vigil ‘til dawn...or 10:15 …whichever comes first.

Full report in the morning.


----------



## Gary O'

I post this every yuletide season on a few sites of which I belong

New members have expressed their appreciation, and old ones too

Just a remembrance of seasons past;

_*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.


*_


----------



## Gary O'

*My favoritest place to go when growing up

*
*The beach*


Sand

Glorious sand

Dry sand

Wet sand

Any sand

Folks would always get a motel right on the beach

Wake up

Run to the sand

Dig

Make tunnels

Decrepit leaning ‘castles’

Bury things

Bury myself

Bury my folks

Bury my little brother…heh heh

Run to the surf to clean off

Find things

Weird shells

Seaweed whips

A half dead crab

A broken beer bottle

A large sturdy looking balloon
Tough to blow up
Mom’s shriek told me it wasn’t a large sturdy looking balloon

Anyway

Never seemed to get enough time to get everthing accomplished when at the beach

‘Time to go’ was always waaay tooooo early

So

When I grew older, I went to the beach

And buried things….all my concerns, worries, anxieties, apprehensions

Right there

*At the beach

*

later in life, things changed a bit



Oh, I still went to the beach

but

priorities, I guess


----------



## Gary O'

I cleaned my shop today

Gotta do that about ever week or so

Came across a book in my roll top desk






It was Mom’s

got a kick out her crib notes











I have faint recollection of Mom and me havin’ a good time early on
My little brother got most her affection
And rightfully so
He grew up thru the angry separation era
I was already gone, moved out in my early teens
I did have a good upbringing, back when Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, was able to tend us kids

But

Not long after that, things went south
I, I went further south, on a freight train

Think she never really forgave me
Don’t think I would’ve either

I sorta came back when Dad sorta came back
Not sure why I did

Anyway,  three or four decades later, Mom and I found sumpm in common

Crosswords

The NY Times bein’ the one of our choice

I’d get a call every Thursday 
She’d be stumped
A lot of times I could help
Felt real good about that
A closeness…..of sorts

She never let go of her ill feelings
Visited her in the hospital in her last days
She woke up, stared at me, and gave me a ‘what the hell are you doin’ here?


….I couldn't help her


didn’t have an answer, or even a clue

I think it was a Thursday


----------



## oldman

Was Henry a Buddhist?


----------



## Gary O'

oldman said:


> Was Henry a Buddhist?



Not to my knowledge


----------



## Gary O'

wrong thread...sheesh
I gotta watch where I put things


----------



## Gary O'

*Influence
*
I learned a couple things about influence, early on

High school Western Civ class

I begin to yawn

Can’t stop

I’m in the front row (Prof Healy liked me up close)
Not long after, everyone is yawning

Healy, rather proud of his stoic persona, developed a look of consternation, zeroing in on me 
It’s hard to grin while yawning, but I managed it

Found the same with upchucking 

Stayed home from school once because I really was sick for once
Couldn’t keep anything down
Violent heaves, even the dry ones

Heh, after tossing one of content on the hallway carpet (trying to get to the can) my little brother began to barf, right beside me

I was rather proud of that

It’s hard to laugh while vomiting, but I managed it


----------



## Seeker

My BIG brother..missin' him............


----------



## Gary O'

Way it is, ain't it

I'm now missing my big (little 4'11") sister
Gone too soon

I did a stand up at her funeral

Big big funeral
3000 or so folks
it's rather easy to make sad folks laugh
the place roared

She'd of loved that


----------



## Seeker

Gary O' said:


> I did a stand up at her funeral



I wish I had of had the guts for that one......Prolly would have been taken out in a straight jacket...


----------



## Gary O'

Seeker said:


> I wish I had of had the guts for that one......Prolly would have been taken out in a straight jacket...



Well, my brother and I bombed at our dad's funeral

'Course, everbody there was over 90 and couldn't hear their own butts fart


----------



## Seeker

Gary O' said:


> Well, my brother and I bombed at our dad's funeral
> 
> 'Course, everbody there was over 90 and couldn't hear their own butts fart




I can always count on you for a good laugh... :hatlaugh:​


----------



## Gary O'

written seven years ago....


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 reality, 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 just bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
(half joking)

Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.

However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.

Last time he’d wandered into the ladies room.
It may not have been a mistake.
He’s always been a ladies man.
So I took him. 

There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.

He does a lot of crying.
Over happy things.
‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww, hooohoo….’ .
(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 weight lifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
Folks in adjacent booths clapped.

Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.

I’ve got 27 years to get there.

I’ll take my time.


----------



## oldman

Gary——-My wife has a PhD and taught English Lierature at a major university here in the East. She has been reading some of your posts (she never posts) and asked me if you were ever published? I told her that I had no idea, but that I would ask?


----------



## Gary O'

oldman said:


> Gary——-My wife has a PhD and taught English Lierature at a major university here in the East. She has been reading some of your posts (she never posts) and asked me if you were ever published? I told her that I had no idea, but that I would ask?



Poor thing, English lit prof...reading my fractured rendition of that language
Yes, I'm a word butcher

A couple books

One should be burned

The other, tiny one, did OK

Working on another

Marketing a book...that's the tough one


----------



## MeAgain

Living in the country and running through the woods ,building tree huts and playing with my first goat ,Nita. 
  Going to train station to pick up our 3 baby donkeys aka Mexican Burro Mama ordered from Sears Roebuck Catalog.


----------



## Sassycakes

My Cousins  birthday was on Halloween and every year all of my cousins would get together and go Trick or Treating together and then go to his house for his Birthday Party. I still can't remember what my Mom had me and my older sister dressed as, but I remember the wonderful times we had..


----------



## Keesha

Gary O' said:


> written seven years ago....
> 
> 
> 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 reality, 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 just bring him a bowl of sugar cubes.
> (half joking)
> 
> Once done with his pie, he was ready for the trip to the restroom.
> He had several napkins piled up, all containing copious amounts of syrup and pecan bits.
> 
> However, several syrup soaked pecans found their way onto his shirt and pants.
> Once he got stood up, his lady took a spoon and scraped off the majority.
> 
> Last time he’d wandered into the ladies room.
> It may not have been a mistake.
> He’s always been a ladies man.
> So I took him.
> 
> There was my dad, tottering in front of me, no longer the brisk pace of a man with a place to go.
> Klingon napkins velcro’d to the seat of his levis and elbow.
> A bit confused, but an eternal smiley good front, grinning and nodding at waitresses while in full mosey.
> 
> He does a lot of crying.
> Over happy things.
> ‘That was the best pie I ever had', lips quivering, 'boooohooo, awww, hooohoo….’ .
> (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 weight lifter hitting the max….’Ninety!!’
> Folks in adjacent booths clapped.
> 
> Maybe 90 won’t be so bad.
> 
> I’ve got 27 years to get there.
> 
> I’ll take my time.


I so admire your raw honesty. 
Nothing you write is pretentiously sugar coated .
Ok, not many things ... lol nthego:


----------



## moosehead

Hey Gary, GREAT stories!!! It is fun to write tales that bring back memories of times past. Keeps the old brain working too...


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> Poor thing, English lit prof...reading my fractured rendition of that language
> Yes, I'm a word butcher
> 
> A couple books
> 
> One should be burned
> 
> The other, tiny one, did OK
> 
> Working on another
> 
> Marketing a book...that's the tough one


----------



## Gary O'

moosehead said:


> Hey Gary, GREAT stories!!! It is fun to write tales that bring back memories of times past. Keeps the old brain working too...



I know you know that one, moose

Love yer stories...BIG TIME


----------



## Gary O'

MeAgain said:


> Living in the country and running through the woods ,building tree huts



Nothing like it.....nothing

It would be mandatory for every child, if I were king


----------



## Keesha

Gary O' said:


> Nothing like it.....nothing
> 
> It would be mandatory for every child, if I were king


:laugh: You always make me laugh.


----------



## Aneeda72

Wonderful read.  I loved every word of it.


----------



## Rainee

Great read Gary O loved it and the story of your dear dad how wonderful to still be able to go places with him
Bless Him.. and thanks for sharing this delightful post..


----------



## Meanderer

Gary, your stories are timeless!  Thanks!


----------



## Gary O'

thanks, guys 
glad you enjoyed the reads
I have this thing about writing
drives me nuts sometimes




Rainee said:


> Great read Gary O loved it and the story of your dear dad how wonderful to still be able to go places with him
> Bless Him.. and thanks for sharing this delightful post..



Rainee, my dad passed a few years back

wrote about his last days somewhere in this thread

and thank you

being with him in his last days were more than precious


----------



## oldman

Gary O' said:


> Poor thing, English lit prof...reading my fractured rendition of that language
> Yes, I'm a word butcher
> 
> A couple books
> 
> One should be burned
> 
> The other, tiny one, did OK
> 
> Working on another
> 
> Marketing a book...that's the tough one




My wife has had three books published, one on the best sellers list, but nothing anyone on this board would be interested in. I find them b-o-r-i-n-g. Of course, I'm not brave enough to tell her that. The real fun is when we go out with another couple from the University that the other lady also teaches English Lit. That's always a fun evening (sarcastically). It's like sitting in a dentist chair for six hours while he drills on the same tooth into the root and nerves.


----------



## Gary O'

oldman said:


> The real fun is when we go out with another couple from the University that the other lady also teaches English Lit. That's always a fun evening (sarcastically). It's like sitting in a dentist chair for six hours while he drills on the same tooth into the root and nerves.



Too funny

I sometimes send my friends a few prose when they complain about insomnia

Musta worked

Never a complaint after that


----------



## Gary O'

Back in the ‘50s it seems all mothers were obsessed with hydrotherapy.

I’d guarantee all families had at least one rubber bottle and syringe connected by a three foot rubber umbilical cord.

Mothers tended to keep them at the ready, anxious to employ their new found apparatus, with the thought of saving their offspring from some horrible bowel obstruction brought on by an over dose of Wonder Bread….’builds yer colon clog twelve ways’.

These devices were the ultimate home remedy for a myriad of ailments; headaches, peakedness, haven’t pooped for days syndrome, neuritis, neuralgia, lying, and left my report card at school tendency, to mention a few. 
Not sure how fathers escaped this (if they did) but a lad of three or four didn’t have a chance.

Running in for a quick drink of water, from ridin’ herd all mornin’, mother in the shadows of the ice box….waitin’…….

“You’re all sweaty, do you feel OK?”

“Sure ma, just washin’ down trail dust.”

Trick question, “When’s the last time you went poopoo?”

(‘Poopoo?’)

(‘When?’)

(‘Think man, think!!!’)

I got nothin’.

Before I could cop a plea for extenuation of due process, I found myself astride the green ducky,
 bowels involuntarily discharging the gallon of water that was administered with a syringe designed for King Kong, and with undue haste.

I must say, these sessions did instill the ability to retain total recall.
After just a few of these sittings, my memory became quite acute.

“When did you go poopoo?” ……“At 11:37 AM, why?”

Trigger finger, toying with quick draw holster under apron, now relaxes.

Mothers had a way of ensuring your well-being, no matter how bad it made you feel.
Grandmothers were no exception.

When Gramma would pile us in the ol’ Chevy and head to Monkey Wards, she’d give me the once-over. Out would come her hanky.
“Spit on this.”

Then she’d commence to wash my face, beginning with my ears, no less.

On the other hand, Dads and granddads had a way of shaming you into doin’ it yourself, and you had to provide your own tools.

“Look in the rear view mirror. Izzat how you started out this morning? Fix it.”

No matter if you used the garden hose, the rabbit hutch water, or your dog’s slobber, you got ‘er done, in acceleration mode…..you could get left.

One time Connie Elbert and I ended up in the tool shed at Gramma’s place.
Not sure who’s idea it was, but seems we both had our pants down with mutual consent…then we just couldn’t figure what next…ending up with the brilliant idea of touching butts.
 Not sure how things woulda went from there, ‘cause grampa’s footsteps came within ear shot right while our hind ends were curiously united.

“Hey, what’s going on in there?”

Quick time scurry thru the other door…bib overall anklets deftly inhibiting large strides.

Yeah, fathers/grandfathers had a way of getting yourself together without layin’ a hand on you.

They cast a very large shadow.


----------



## Gary O'

As usual, I rose before ol’ sol this morn

Stood on the porch

Sipping java

Sol took its sweet time

Grabbed a chair

It’s probably my favorite time of day

Light, ever so gradually but insistently pushing the darkness to the nether side

Thoughts drifted

Recalled a hot car I drove a bit
A souped up E type ’68 Jag
As if a 12 banger engine with three SU carbs wasn’t enough

‘Borrowed’ it from a loudmouth taking up space in my favorite watering hole

He kept bragging about his vocation;
Hustling wealthy gay guys
Ex-cons pursue the laziest, most absurd careers 

Anyway, after a bit of a credibility challenge, he handed me the keys to ‘take it for a spin’

No room for him, as my buddy George needed to occupy the passenger seat

Got it on the freeway to Lake Houston

Opened it up a bit

Cruised thru the gentle turns at around 120-140 mph

Came up beside a ‘vette

We passed each other a couple times

Things became competitive 

At around 150 or more, I noticed his lady visibly ragging on him

Away he went

Outa sight

In my rear view mirror




Pegged the speedo at 160

It kept accelerating 

Floated over a rise in the inside lane 

Not very far ahead was a stalled car

…and a lady standing behind it, franticly waving her arms

The steering on the Jag was quite responsive 

Twitch twitch of the wheel and we were around them

Things happen rather fast at that rate of speed

George, while putting on his harness, asked somewhat adamantly if I was ‘gonna slow this thing down’

I did, while putting on my own harness

I could smell the heat of hot oil coming off the engine as I eased it down to 120, then 100, then 80

I could also smell the distinct aroma of what seemed more than a fart

I didn’t question George, but he needed to ‘get home’ straight away


Took the Jag back to the bar

The engine making that ticking noise as it sat there, cooling down the wrong way

Found out the hustler had put a contract on me, as I’d taken a bit too long

Heh, $100

Dum bass

My bar

My friends

They’d have done if for $50



Anyway 

The reason this all came to mind was watching the sun ever so slowly rise





















While I sat there, rather impatiently





….traveling at 1000 miles per hour


----------



## Ken N Tx




----------



## Gary O'

Ken N Tx said:


> View attachment 65664



Since beer bottle stubbies were a penny
the 50s I think


----------



## Kris148

I could not compete with the above posts so will post a simple story of my youth and early adulthood.

My upbringing is rather different to most of you. You see from the age of not quite 7 I stopped having a normal childhood when I was sent to a draconian Mason- run boarding school in outer Sydney after the death of my father.. a Mason.. My father was suddenly gone and now I too was without my mother. Hard for a child to comprehend. the only member of my family still with me was my older brother. But alas he soon left for the senior school and we only saw each other on family visits.

The only social event we had was the fortnitely movie. Boy did I look forward to this.. probably why I have became somewhat of a film nut. When television finally came to the school we were permitted one hour week days and two hours weekend viewing. There was nothing excessive at this school.. except punishment. After 10 forgettable years my mother finally removed me from this institution to complete my education in a normal school. 

I was not allowed to go to uni so found myself selling photographic gear for the first few years of my working life.

I decided I wanted to become a professional photographer so saved for an expensive camera and began covering family occasions. I was doing a nite photographic course when my camera was stolen and my dream was shattered. I then meandered thru several sales positions for the next decade or so before I decided I wanted better. I had always had an interest in dramatics so found myself involved with several amateur and semi professional companies. But alas my big break never came and I was forced to look elsewhere for a living. People told me I had the perfect voice for announcing. So after some voice tuition I started out on a new career path. I found work in promotions as an announcer for a well respected Sydney department store. I had found my niche. After several years of that I went solo and I made a rather rewarding career from it.


----------



## Gary O'

Kris148 said:


> I...... will post a simple story of my youth and growing years.



Nicely done, Kris


...and welcome


----------



## Kris148

Thank you kindly Gary O'. My post is chicken feed compared to your anecdotes.. more like a novelette.


----------



## Gary O'

Kris148 said:


> Thank you kindly Gary O'. My post is chicken feed compared to your anecdotes.. more like a novelette.


I wouldn't be so hard on myself if I were you.

I enjoyed every word

Read it twice
The second time was as good as the first


----------



## Gary O'

During our move, I came across a buncha stuff
Memorabilia?
I guess

Wunna the prizes, however, sent me back 67 years or so

Had this pedal car (paron the bubble globe);


Helluva thing to outgrow sumpm you love

Started having trouble fitting in it at around the age of five...or nine (not 12....probably)

anyway

The remarkable thing was I found an exact tiny replica in a junk shop




Just as remarkable, all the mechanical was identical, steering, pedaling mechanisms, everything




It now sits on my roll top desk


----------



## Meanderer

Gary, that little car holds a lot of memories!  ....not to mention the "new car" smell!


----------



## Ken N Tx




----------



## Gary O'




----------



## Ken N Tx




----------



## Gary O'

I kid about things
Like 'the middle child' syndrome




Heh, I was the middle child

But, geez, back in our day, there was no middle child, no baby of the family, no nuthin'
You were just another kid
Happy to be...anywhere
Happy to be seen, and not heard
Happier to not be seen
Happy to take care of or torment the hell outa each other
None 'a this freaking focus
Toys, any, were prized
Not thrown down to go to the next one

I do think those were better days
Simpler
Yet more profound

I honestly don't know how parents do it now

Too much stuff
Too much analysis 

Gimme an old bald tire and a broken broom stick, and I'm goin' somewhere with it...not seen...not heard


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> I kid about things
> Like 'the middle child' syndrome
> 
> View attachment 76053
> 
> 
> Heh, I was the middle child
> 
> But, geez, back in our day, there was no middle child, no baby of the family, no nuthin'
> You were just another kid
> Happy to be...anywhere
> Happy to be seen, and not heard
> Happier to not be seen
> Happy to take care of or torment the hell outa each other
> None 'a this freaking focus
> Toys, any, were prized
> Not thrown down to go to the next one
> 
> I do think those were better days
> Simpler
> Yet more profound
> 
> I honestly don't know how parents do it now
> 
> Too much stuff
> Too much analysis
> 
> Gimme an old bald tire and a broken broom stick, and I'm goin' somewhere with it...not seen...not heard



I agree!


----------



## Gary O'

*YEAH!*
THAT'S what I'm talkin' about!


----------



## norman

Gary, you have a way with words.


----------



## Gary O'

norman said:


> Gary, you have a way with words.



Norman, thank you
Words carry me
Sometimes I get carried away
...away into somewhere deep in this skull of mine

I'm adding to my book today
Not goin' nowhere
Still in my bed shorts...at 2pm something
Haven't even showered yet today
Words come, and they come fast
Both fingers, goin' like mad

Wife'll say something
I'll grunt, not hearing what, just a distraction

But

I'll stop to eat...sometimes

This place is a very pleasant distraction
sometimes a catalyst
I do like that

Glad some folks like what I write

Again, thank you


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> I agree!


 Meanie...yer an inspiration


----------



## Gary O'

*My Southern Exposure*

I was raised around wood stoves and fireplaces. The natural gas stoves down south were a bit of a mystery to me.
Had a buddy George that I tried to kill a few times, just before I met my bride.
He was a long tall Texan, cowboy hat, boots and all.
Six foot five and about six inches across.
I called him 'Two By' (the hat and boots didn't help).
Face’d make an onion cry.

We shared a flat in Houston just off Telephone road, where we hung our hats. He was a truck driver, and I an oil field pipe inspector, of which jobs were plenty 'cause people were getting killed all the time.

One cold morn', when we both were home at the same time, I commenced to build a fire.
This little stove had a worn metal placard on it that read 'ARNIN', and a bunch of tiny words with a picture of a flame.
I cranked up ol' ARNIN, struck several matches, and called on Two By's help.
He jerked the matches away from me, folded his string of a body, and turned the pilot knob, holding it in, looking at me like, 'you yankee idiot'.
He hunched down, putting his face close to the pilot tube, and put the lit match over it.
*WHOOOOSH!*
You could actually see the force of the explosion as it immediately blew through and past his scraggly bearded mug.
It was like a cartoon, side burns, beard singed to black nubs, eyebrows, nose hairs gone, hairless outstretched arm still holding the extinguished match.
He eventually looked back at me, face smoking, like 'why are you trying to kill me, you won the war'.

The other time was when I poisoned him.

He had pneumonia from jumping in and out of his air-conditioned cab.
So there he lay on the couch, hacking his lungs up into a beer can, looking skinnier than what was normal for even him.
I felt sorry.
"Hey, how 'bout a bacon sandwich?"
'Yeah, toast the bread", cough, hork, groan.

The bacon in the fridge looked a bit ancient (coulda' been new cheese), but I scraped off the green stuff and fried it up, and even added tomato slices to my creation (coulda' been a red bell pepper).
I watched as he commenced to wolf it down between coughs. While hacking, he’d look at my culinary masterpiece, quizzically peeling back the bread and examining the contents, then after relishing the last crumb, laid back down.

I cleaned the kitchen, doing the dishes with my hand cleaner and tidying up. My work was done here.

I heard him stir a bit. Then he gave out a little suppressed choke/cough and immediately launched his lunch, blowing chips all over his lap.

Never before had I ever heard anything like the groan coming from what seemed his lower intestines.

Writhing on the floor in your own chewings is not becoming for anyone.

Two weeks later he was outta the hospital and driving again.

Thank god I met up with my lady shortly after, and her cookin' took over.

BLT anyone?


----------



## Gary O'

Took a trip up to the cabin today
A little more winter tighten up, and getting the snow blower for town.
Grabbed some winter clothes from the sea container.
Foraged around in there amongst the thousand boxes of yarn and cook books.
Came across an old album mom put together
Think that was damn nice of her
Fun leafing thru

Funny, pics of me in my single digit years cause flood of memories
Quite vivid
Like I was just there.... yesterday

I remember bathing in the kitchen sink
...at 7 months for cryin' out loud



I remember sitting on my uncle's chevy
Thinking I was going home with 'em (their little joke) I was buying into it...big time




I easily remember my first best buddy, Billy
We rode the back yard range together


I remember grade school of course
That's me, with my arms folded
Mrs Wadsworth in the upper right corner...I wrote early on in this thread about her
It was a two room school
This was the upper grades room






Later in life was the usual...wife, 3 or 4 (or 6 or 8)  kids
I remember them

....Except number 12

I don't recall when it was I went from names to numbers, but, hey, photos don't lie


----------



## Meanderer

Quite a treasure, you found!


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> Quite a treasure, you found!


Yessir

I'm gonna post a few more in a bit
A real rush of memories

Hey, I was by no means the favorite, so that special album was, well, special


----------



## Meanderer

In post #1, Gary said:
"My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either. 
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff. "

Here tis'


----------



## Gary O'

After all the posts/threads about black Friday, I'm compelled to post a little shopping story from years ago;

*Shopping*


My lady, in yule mode, cranks out knitted and crocheted slippers for everyone on the same limb of the family tree. Sometimes a full blown afghan or two come to being.
They’ve been great, money saving gifts.
I, for the most part, every year, swear off buying anybody anything…it’s a humbug….then, some invisible ‘Christmas Present’ angel from hades baps me on the head around 7:30 pm, Christmas eve, and I grab a bat and my ol’ football helmet and venture thru the malls.

There have been times that I’ve had an epiphany and made the grandkids things, things of wood, forts, chests, ‘things they’ll treasure’ (my elfin mind tells me). So, for 2-3 weeks before that blessed day, every evening after work, I’d be seen in my shop, sawing, joining, planing, staining, finishing, smashing my elfin thumbs, cursing, swearing, waving my elfin arms……yeah, epiphanies….everybody should have one a them %@#&*$ epiphanies

Other times, years ago, my bride and I would find ourselves waiting for stores to open at 4 am.
It couldn’t be helped.
The glisten in her eyes from anticipation of early morning adventures swayed me to wake in the dead of night on black Friday eve, tiptoe past slumbering chickens, and sit in the mall parking lot, staring at the line of crazed humanity already encircling the electronics store like it was Jericho.
One time she joined the horde, unsuccessfully coaxing me to follow.


There I sat, flashlight and crossword in hand, hair askew, bedbeard looking like I was in a crosswind…..stomach chatting with me.
Two minutes to 4, I rubbed the fog off the side window.
The crazies were jostling for position.
I lost sight of the wife somewhere around the corner of the building.
I slap on my fishing cap and begrudgingly leave the refuge of the Buick.
The doors open.
The guy with the keys gets carried away with the mob. Only thing you can see of him is his flailing arms.
I stroll in with the first 50 shoppers that will get the TV special, getting a glimpse of the wife swimming past, heading to the TV dept….only the specials were all up front. The guy with the keys and foot prints on his shirt, points me the way.
Half hour later, here she comes, TV in cart.
I, TV in trunk, am on the 2nd crossword.
We’re not done…there’s a mere 27 other stores that have free snow globes, free coffee, and free donuts…….the frenzy has only begun.
So we secure her TVs, and make our way upstream, pointing to the trunk as we stroll back inside, making sure the parking lot thieves can know where at least two of the 50 TVs can still be had.
Two hours later, with globes clutched by jittering caffeine induced hands, the furrowed brows on my powdered sugar countenance lets the wife know I’m a couple clicks past jolly…and we go home….blessed home…..





Now, shopping for people at the mall has been great entertainment for my lady and I.
We just sit on a bench, munching on popcorn, and watch mothers drag their screaming little darlings along.....and their husbands (but less screaming...some).
We once set by one of those quarter horses (put a quarter in the slot), and noted the parent's varied techniques in skirting quarter out-put;

1st dad: DON'T TOUCH IT!!! Tazing his precious antiseptic germ distribution unit with his Neosporin gun.

2nd dad: sets his kid on and fakes putting a coin in, then shakes the crap outta the machine, making periodic wheenying noises.....

3rd dad: points the opposite direction, noting wonderful toy stores around the corner, while briskly whisking his kid by the horsey.


Its great fun.


…aaaand it's quite thrifty.


----------



## RadishRose

This was really funny, the best. I actually laughed out loud at "staring at the line of crazed humanity already encircling the electronics store like it was Jericho"- and not just in "my elfin mind". Thanks, Gary!


----------



## peppermint

Meanderer said:


> Thanks for that look back, Gary!  ....then it was off to collage, I suppose?  ....after one more look back!


LOL !


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## treeguy64

Janet and I used to do the Black Friday thing, her for the sales, me for the people watching. Now, in Austin, and I suspect elsewhere, Black Friday sales start a few weeks before Thanksgiving, so the fun of crawling out of bed at 4 AM, on that traditional Friday, is gone. Janet actually got all of her deals on this past Wednesday.


----------



## Gary O'

treeguy64 said:


> Janet and I used to do the Black Friday thing, her for the sales, *me for the people watching*



'Tis the season...the best, oh, and back to school.
Those are the very best mall shopper watching seasons


----------



## Gary O'

*Remembering childhood toilets*

Early on, in my childhood tenure, I recall one thing rather vividly 

Our toilet

Seems Mom wielded the enema apparatus somewhat unsparingly
And, from zero to three, the other thing that came into play, directly after being bent and filled with Mr Squirty, was *The Duck* 


But, over and above that, thinking about our facilities, Mom wasn't the most astute at maintaining the white bowl

Matter of fact, I thought the brown ring was pretty much how toilets came from the factory

It wasn't until we bought the big house, ten years later, that the toilet brush came into prominence
And, boy howdy, did we all ever get schooled on frequency of employing that little tool 
That's when the upstairs became some sorta museum
Just missing the gold ropes that'd guide us along, room to room, while viewing

Downstairs, things were pretty much doing business as usual

...and that's where my brother and I spent our inside time

I enjoyed making him use the brush

he's lucky I didn't use his head


----------



## Ken N Tx

@Gary O' 
.


----------



## Sassycakes

*Reading all these posts brought back a memory to me. When I was about 6yrs old my brother got drafted into the Army. Luckily his base was in Maryland,Pa. My Dad would drive all of us down to the base right after work on a Friday. We would stay until early Monday morning and me and my sister were just in time for school. My Brother had a small apartment on base that was made where the Stables used to be. Sometimes my Aunt and Uncle and their son Jimmy would come too.*

*My cousin Jimmy was a funny boy. We would walk down the road and there was a phonebooth. Jimmy would pick up the phone and say "Operator ,give me 222 and another one. " Then he would hang up and we would start running back to the camp. We were all scared to death that we would get in trouble !After all these years I still remember it like it was only yesterday*.


----------



## peppermint




----------



## peppermint

peppermint said:


> View attachment 84618


----------



## peppermint

My sister in law's Bridal Shower and Mom and Me...They just had their 40th Anniversary in October....


----------



## Pappy

A vivid memory for me was helping grandpa with his goats. Pictured is Rags, a long haired goat, then Josephine, a white gentle goat and Bach Button, a miserable old, horny male that hated my guts.

In the background is the goat and milking pen. Button was kept in a separate barn. I don’t know how many times he knocked the siding off the barn and came after me unless he was looking for something else. Horny jerk.


----------



## oldman

Pappy said:


> A vivid memory for me was helping grandpa with his goats. Pictured is Rags, a long haired goat, then Josephine, a white gentle goat and Bach Button, a miserable old, horny male that hated my guts.
> 
> In the background is the goat and milking pen. Button was kept in a separate barn. I don’t know how many times he knocked the siding off the barn and came after me unless he was looking for something else. Horny jerk.


Pappy——Did you ever milk a goat? I did once. It took me awhile to catch onto it.


----------



## Pappy

oldman said:


> Pappy——Did you ever milk a goat? I did once. It took me awhile to catch onto it.



Many times. Hated drinking it though.


----------



## Meanderer

My favorite picture with my Brother (on bike)  I am second from left.  I remember the row of reflectors that he bolted to his front fender!  Do they even make those anymore?


----------



## Gary O'

No longer old
I think *ancient* is the term now

My grandson...doesn't seem that long ago



Can not believe he's in the Army, in jump school, pre-ranger air assault 



of course tats are involved




and now his boy...my great-grandson...at three months....still squeezable


----------



## RadishRose

Ooooh, I want that baby!


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Gary O'

*Last New Year’s office party before retirement*

At a huge lodge

Fancy

My lady and I didn’t really wanna go

But we did

‘We’ll jus’ nurse a drink, mingle, disappear’

Stayed

Too long

Music

Dancing

The QA manager, tall blonde, a real BEE EYE TEE CEE AEYTCH at the office

Turns out she’s quite the party girl

Cut in on the dance floor

Put her tongue in my ear

Whispered ‘I love you’

‘I love you too’ (pat pat)

‘No…no…..I’m_* IN *_love with you’

Put her hand on my hind end



*GET…ME…..TH’ HELL OUTTA HERE!!!!*


----------



## street

WOW!  A lot of what has been mentioned memories have  also been memories to me also.  LOL
My memories are riding horse for hours and hours and enjoying the outdoors.  Fishing, playing BB, playing with friends and no worriers in the world.  I remember doing in old drug store and having a drink from the fountain machines they had.  WOW!  So much I wish I could have back now.  I loved the days gone bye!!


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Loreen

Coming to this thread I do have memories of my childhood, but the majority of them are not good. I will not get into it and all I will say is my parents were not the most ideal set  of parents. I am just happy that my older sister had the smarts and know how to petition for custody of me when she was old enough and it was granted. Even though things were very difficult for us my sister worked really hard and that is where the positive memories began for me when I was 16 years old.


----------



## Gary O'

Loreen said:


> Even though things were very difficult for us my sister worked really hard and that is where *the positive memories began for me when I was 16 years old.*



Sounds like a good place to start


----------



## Loreen

Gary O' said:


> Sounds like a good place to start


It certainly was a great place to start, especially after what my sister and I went through with our parents growing up.


----------



## Gary O'

Yeah, the tough memories do not go away, but recalling the good ones, that bring a smile, or a nod, those are beyond value


----------



## Loreen

Gary O' said:


> Yeah, the tough memories do not go away, but recalling the good ones, that bring a smile, or a nod, those are beyond value


The good ones growing up came from what my older sister and I made the best of together. I cannot recall any positive memories that my parents gave us at all.


----------



## Gary O'

Loreen said:


> The good ones growing up came from what my older sister and I made the best of together


That's the ones for this thread.
We've all got too many of the others.


----------



## Loreen

Gary O' said:


> That's the ones for this thread.
> We've all got too many of the others.


I do remember my sister and I would sit in our room and play princesses. We would pretend we lived in a castle and had a big feast and pretty gowns.


----------



## Gary O'

written  a decade or so ago

*Naps*

How terribly underrated.
Fought ‘em from 3 to ‘bout 60.
Now I wake up and start lookin’ forward to the morning nap.

When three, folks would nab me and toss me on the bed most afternoons.
During solitary confinement I found fascination with ceiling stains, bugs on the wall, boogers on the wall (from countless previous incarcerations), and the wispy sheer curtains, taunting me with flavors from the other side of the open window.
Eventually gramma would pardon me.
Free at last, free at last!

Next 50 some years, work/play ‘round the clock.
Sleeping was for suckers, could miss out on some fun.
Driving jobs, oil field, work 80-100 hours a week, then play, hard.
Sometimes just go back to work.
Bar maids got used to preparing me breakfast for my graveyard shift.
The third day gets tricky, however.
Seems you must dream whether you sleep or not.
Giddiness turns to grumpassiness, then you finally drop somewhere.
Waking up at the steering wheel seems to immediately raise several questions….the brief panic subsides.
Never new about REM, but drool, I hear, is a strong indicator you were there, especially when waking up with your face feeling like a glazed donut.


Now, now the nap, this sacred rite, beckons.
At work, this pathetic office job of 8-12 hours, requires a nap at around 12:30 or 1, sometimes even at 10a.
Closed door, feet on desk, ‘snork’, I’m up, refreshed. Can’t wait to get home, finish.

Sometimes I like napping in an uncomfortable position just to wake back up so I can drift off again.

One time I fell asleep with my arms behind my head.
Woke up to the phone ringing.
In reaching for it, my arm just flopped down to my side.
Thought I’d had a stroke while napping, both arms paralyzed. Panic.
During the struggle to pick up the phone with my mouth, they started coming too.

I also have dreams, wonderful dreams, dreams of fishing.
You know, the ones.
You want to go back to sleep to get back in it, but can’t.
Well, mine is recurring, same ones over and over………..

Sleepy now.

Hope I remember the bait this time.


----------



## Sassycakes

*One of my favorite memories were summer vacations. Every year we went to the shore for 2 weeks. Family and friends were always there. We would go on so many rides on the boardwalk. Roller coasters,and The wild mouse etc. My favorite though was "The Tunnel of Love."*


----------



## Gary O'

I posted this in a now defunct forum of mostly twentysomethings, a sprinkling of thirtysomethings, and some fortysomething leaders.
It was a bit of advise on what's to come, in a forum moderator's 50th birthday thread

Maybe some of us geezers can relate;

*Here and Now*

So, here I am, on the wrong side of sixty, weird things growing, wiry hairs, warts, splotches, odd indefinable patches, moles the size of moles, and that’s just on my hind end.

I’ve got good hearing, but only in one ear. 
It's why we have two of most everything. 

Vision is going south. Reading glasses are strategically laid throughout the house, cars, tackle boxes, and shop.
It’s not a serious issue just yet, but need to demonstrate more patience when trying to get the neighbor’s hibachi to fetch.

I make little noises when I commence to get outta my lay z boy.
I notice that those same noises will emanate from my wretched larynx when I commence to sit in said lazy boy.
Speaking of larynxes, I find that throat clearing takes several tries…like starting an ol’ model T.

I have partial recall, and even that is a struggle.

I can put on 157 lbs in 13 minutes, just from sniffing a bran muffin.

 After sixty, while you slumber, a pubic hair can grow the length of 3 feet…on the pointy part of your ear lobe.

Things grow, and things that were already there will up and move

‘Doc, take a look at whatever that is on my left knee.’
‘Gary, that’s just your right testicle.’
‘BTW, when’s the last time I ran my finger up your pooper?’

When in your 60s you must learn the difference between the words _*colostomy*_ and *colonoscopy*…it’s important when checking in.

Of a morning, you’ll look in the bathroom mirror, and find a goblin looking back.
So just comb back your ear hair and greet the day.

Self-keeping becomes secondary.
‘Honey, there’s a puffed wheat in your moustache.’
‘Oh…..so?’
‘We had puffed wheat two weeks ago.’
‘And your point, dear?’

By sixty your underwear from high school has finally given up the ghost, so you retire the little strands of elastic, 
but consider the frugal acquisition of 12 headbands.

You discover your new fresh (actually brilliant white) briefs are quite the contrast to the occasional poop stain
…of which is no longer so occasional……poop cake can become a concern.

Oh, and you discover you no longer have a hind end.
It has gingerly crept up and nestled onto your lower back, leaving you with just a six inch line and a tuft of hair.

The fire in your eyes is now just pain recognition.
Speaking of fire, get wunna those birthday candles that doesn’t blow out.

It’ll help you keep the fire.


----------



## Sassycakes

*I remembered something today that I had forgotten all about. Growing up I lived in the City and in the summertime we would get wet under the fireplug. When I was about 13yrs old I didn't feel like going outside. So I went upstairs and soaked in the tub and then went in my bedroom to get dressed. All of a sudden my bedroom door opened and the boy that lived across the street from me was standing there. I was so embarrassed and didn't know why he was there. He had knocked on our front door and when my Mother answered it he told her he wanted me to go outside and play under the fireplug. She knew I didn't want to but told him to go upstairs to my room and talk me into going out. After all these years I still remember how I felt that day. 13 yrs old and a 14yr old boy saw me naked. He wasn't embarrassed at all and shortly after that he asked me out and we dated for 2yrs. Luckily for me he never saw me naked again.*


----------



## Gary O'

Sassycakes said:


> I remembered something today that I had forgotten all about


Thanks for bumping this thread, Sassy

Been awhile since I'd posted anything here

*Country*

Vernonia was the epitome of a logging town in its day. 
Still quite a bit of it going on, but they just haul out mostly what we call 'pecker poles' (third growth). 
The wonderful stream, Rock Creek, runs thru Vernonia from Keasey dam sight, ten or so miles up the road. 
It's full of native cut throat trout...pink meat, as they dine on the crawdads. 
They have the fight of a steel head, tail walk, jump, dive, and slam your bait or fly with vigor. 
Love walkin' that stream, just for the beauty of it. 
The aromas of the creek, frog water and reeds, driven by the mountain breeze thru the firs and alders, sends me back to that little school and our home in the Chapman hills.
A family had quite a logging outfit in Vernonia, and up until a few years ago, I'd stop in to ask the old man for permission to fish his part of the stream.
He was just concerned with the salmon spawning beds, but once we swapped fishing lies, we became good acquaintances. 
Wonderful man. 
Did himself in when he fell into a diabetic depression. 
Sad.

When the boys were 10 and 12, I took them and three of their friends up to my secret fishing hole, just 5 miles out of Vernonia. 
Took 'em up the logging road and thru the willow and brush, back down to an 'inaccessible' part of the stream.

On the way they moaned about needing an ATV. 
I mentioned that if they would be a bit quiet that they might see something. 
Moments later we heard what seemed like a freight train comin' thru the brush. 
It was a rather large herd of elk. 
Once they put their faces back together, we made our way to the stream. 
Didn't catch many fish, but those memories remain etched in their mind.

Ran into one of them years later. 
His face lit up when recalling our adventure. 
Did this ol' soul some good. 
My youngest son is a commercial fisherman. 
Yeah, Bristol bay, King crab, and now Dungeness. I may have had a hand in his choice of vocations...........

By the way, if any of you guys happen thru Oregon and onto hwy 26 on the way to the coast,
take hwy 47 at Staley's and enjoy the drive to Vernonia. 

A better one is thru Jewel, scope out the elk at the reserve, and truck on thru to Astoria. 
Lots of thick old growth and switch backs. 
End up climbing the Astor column (if you dare).
Take your camera.................


----------



## Meanderer

"Last One In's a Rotten Egg!"  Thirsty Central Utah Elk Herd Races into Beaver Pond for a drink of water. Excellent audio of elk sounds. Watch to the end for a surprise ending...


----------



## Gary O'

Wrote this a couple decades ago;



Y’know, this ol’ orb is getting’ mighty small for this ol’ coot.
15 yrs ago I was feeding specs into a fax machine, hoping;
1) It wouldn’t wrinkle up
2) The people in England could read it
3) They would actually receive it
4) I poked in the number right

It typically burned three to four days to get a hint of resolution.
Today I electronically communicate with every corner of this globe every day, and now feel it routine.
Minutes ago a gentleman from Texas set me straight on something I forwarded (somewhat tongue in cheek).
It’s amazing.
Anyone can google anything……tons of info…some wrong…some so right you don’t have to think about it….reason, horse sense, common thinking ability is a must these days.
Yeah, back in the day you could get killed without it. Now, lots of people can get hurt, and just as quick, following skewed advice.

A couple times I let myself get in to Email debates….political, religious.
I thought it’d be fun, as I fancy myself a pretty good arguer. 
However, they both ended up with threats to my relatives, accusations of my lineage, and pointed query’s as to my exact location, ‘cause they had a yen to do terrible things to my body, and send odd things down my neck

……..but.....she cooled off after awhile.

I shoulda known before hand, ‘cause CB conversations used to go that way when haulin’ dry vans across the lower 48…but then it was just to kill the boredom.

There was that one time this LTL guy got all ugly and wanted to meet up. 
Guess he didn’t realize I was right behind his rig, and I eventually sat on the café stool right next to him.


Why is it that skinny little guys feel they have to yell so loud on a two-way anyhow?

So, I’ve learned to keep debates to face time. 


It’s just as fun.


----------



## Gary O'

My favorite place, when growing up, was the beach

Couldn't get enough
Always 'time to go' was waaay too early

Swore I wouldn't do that to our kids
When we took them to the coast, we always got a motel right on the beach

and stayed.....and stayed.....and stayed more

Had to

Couldn't not

Our little guys loved it as much or more than even I


----------



## Meanderer

HA, HA!  "Life's a Beach"!


----------



## Ken N Tx




----------



## peppermint

My brother sent this picture to me....We had a family person die this week and the Cousins are getting out all their old pictures....   (I can't believe that I had a hat like that)   Little brother in middle, big brother on his side...
My big brother died in 2001....


----------



## RadishRose

peppermint said:


> My brother sent this picture to me....We had a family person die this week and the Cousins are getting out all their old pictures....   (I can't believe that I had a hat like that)   Little brother in middle, big brother on his side...
> My big brother died in 2001....View attachment 108189


You're so pretty. Sorry for your losses, P.


----------



## fmdog44

Gary O' said:


> I just watched the movie 'Shine' last night
> 
> .....reminded me of my eldest son
> 
> was hard to hold emotion thru some parts
> 
> was much harder for my Lady
> 
> but we remained
> 
> riveted
> 
> My son
> Excelled in academics
> Skipped grades
> Won awards
> Became somewhat sought after
> Mensa
> Artistic things hung in municipal halls
> Life for him was just too slow apace
> Stayed up for days at a time
> He’d regurgitate all his thoughts to his mother and I
> It was a bit suffocating
> 
> Then one day he came to me in my shop
> ....and began crying, telling me he felt he was going crazy,
> but unable to put his feelings into words
> I hugged him
> Told him all kids go thru puberty and change
> ‘this too shall pass’ kinda thing
> 
> The next years are a blur
> I guess maybe I never have wished to dwell on the events in those years
> 
> I’ll try to piece some together on my own, as I know better than to ask my lady
> 
> 
> He ended up in prison
> At 19
> Advancing from a minimum security facility to OSP
> And on to ‘thunderdome’
> Where nobody wants to go
> 
> Tried to arrange visits
> Rejected countless times
> Talked to OSP counselors
> ‘forget your son, concentrate on your other children’
> 
> We got a call
> OSP does not call anyone
> ‘You need to see your son’
> 
> The visiting area was like a staging zone for zoo critters
> Steel tables, benches, cemented in
> Chain link walls and doors
> He was led in by guards
> Shackled head to toe
> Made to sit
> Unseeing eyes
> No recognition
> Indistinguishable utterances
> He stunk to high heaven
> Never looked our way
> 
> On the way home I had to pull over, off the freeway
> I don’t remember the last time I cried
> Maybe as a small child...
> But
> Never wept like that in my life
> And have yet too since
> Bitter
> Helpless
> Godless
> Utter hopelessness
> 
> A week (?) later we got another call
> He was being transferred to the psych ward across the street
> Where ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’ was filmed
> 
> We were told he had quit eating entirely
> Weighed 90 lbs
> A guard carried him across the street
> 
> We were led to the visiting area
> Typical booth like situation for visitors
> Only, the other side of the glass was something from a zombie movie
> We got to watch him attempt to drink milk and cry
> 
> My lady had a very hard time
> I went alone
> Weeks of visiting later, he was released
> Just like that
> 
> After 7 years of maximum security
> 
> to us
> 
> I do not do well when cleaning up men with uncontrolled body functions
> 
> Triage
> Nut bins
> Meds
> 
> It’s all a blur
> 
> Somewhere in there, when he was still cognizant, I did a bit of a fraught thing…
> 
> We talked about his options
> He wanted to go camping
> 
> So
> 
> Him and I packed his meager belongings
> 
> Bought him some basic camp stuff
> 
> Drove him to the Trask river area
> 
> 
> And dropped him off
> 
> while it began to rain
> 
> Ever do something that gave you immediate relief, knowing the end result would probably not be optimal?
> 
> The sack of cats Dad would have me toss out the window of a speeding Chevy may have had an influence
> 
> On the way back home, I tried not to think.
> 
> Still
> 
> Thoughts crept in
> 
> Maybe he’d just lie there curled in his sleeping bag
> Inert
> Oblivious
> Until days later large birds of prey would dine on his remains
> 
> It’s all a blur
> 
> They found him 300 miles south
> Incoherent
> 
> The Tillamook women’s mental health facility asked us to take him back 'he can't stay here'
> 
> More triage
> 
> Got him hooked up with a place called Luke-Dorf
> 
> General population nut bin for semi-functional goofballs
> Then what they call the quad
> Then paired up in a shared apartment
> And now
> On his own
> On a budget
> 
> I figger the tax payer’s dollars for this are from this tax payer
> 
> During these times he’d ever so often not take his meds
> Sometimes it was because they changed colors or shapes and he didn’t think they were right
> Sometimes it was just because he thought he no longer needed them
> Always ended with me going over there, reattaching his phone, and fishing his glasses outa the toilet.
> 
> He’s as functional now as you and me, first look.
> 
> As long as he takes his meds.
> 
> Sorry
> This is jumbled time line mess
> My lady can recite the events like they happened yesterday
> 7 or more years of them
> I will not take her there
> 
> 
> Couple things;
> 
> Underage folks do not get diagnosed in regard to mental health
> No matter how batshit crazy they are
> At least they didn’t then
> 
> but
> 
> Rosie O'Donnell can git outa bed to do a show
> Then go back to bed
> And she’s clinically nuts
> 
> I know, I know, mental illness is different than insanity
> I jus’ wanted to be trite for a bit during this scattered post


There really should be a rule against  100,000,000 words posts


----------



## Gary O'

fmdog44 said:


> There really should be a rule against 100,000,000 words posts


There is
But it's for the reader
It's called* Move On*
None of my stuff is required reading


----------



## Ken N Tx

Gary O' said:


> There is
> But it's for the reader
> It's called* Move On*
> None of my stuff is required reading


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> There is
> But it's for the reader
> It's called* Move On*
> None of my stuff is required reading


----------



## Gary O'

fmdog44 said:


> There really should be a rule against 100,000,000 words posts





Hey! I jus' found another 100 million words!

The pedal car thread reminded me of 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

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 don't have a helicopter
or helicopter garage
...or a garage

still pretty much hate him


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Meanderer

@Gary O'   Is this your Cousin's pedal tractor?


----------



## Gary O'

Meanderer said:


> @Gary O' Is this your Cousin's pedal tractor?


*YES!!*


----------



## Ken N Tx

fmdog44 said:


> There really should be a rule against  100,000,000 words posts


Scroll on!!!


----------



## peppermint

RadishRose said:


> You're so pretty. Sorry for your losses, P.


Thank you....My Mom made me wear those clothes....I was 6 years older then my little brother....
I really was a Tom Boy!!!   I never liked dresses.....I still don't like dresses...Only if I have to go to a party.....


----------



## Been There

Thanks everyone for posting your stories. I found them to be wonderfully fascinating. I never really had a childhood. My mom and dad were killed in an auto accident when I was 3. (Killed by a drunk driver.) My grandparents tried to raise me, but grandpa died suddenly of a heart attack less than 2 years later. Grandma said he died of a broken heart. He went into deep depression when my mom died. The court was going to remove me, but grandma convinced the judge to give her a chance and she did a great job, but I never had that man in my young life to mentor me and we lived out in the country on a small farm. Grandma had to hire someone to help do the work after grandpa died. I started helping on the farm when I was about 8. No complaints. I loved it. 

I never married or even had a long term relationship with a female. Never had time with serving my country both as an Officer and a Civilian. I flew many sorties in 3 different conflicts. With the life that I led, I don’t think any woman would have been happy just going along for the ride, or the wife of a Marine pilot. It was a great life for me, but not for a wife, even if she had her own career.


----------



## RadishRose

Thanks for sharing your background, Ben.

How did you get to fly fighter jets? Do you apply, or do they just choose you? I can't think of anything more exciting!


----------



## Been There

RadishRose said:


> Thanks for sharing your background, Ben.
> 
> How did you get to fly fighter jets? Do you apply, or do they just choose you? I can't think of anything more exciting!


It's a process Rose. I received a free ride to the Naval Academy and there I applied for the ROTC program and was selected to go through the challenges of that program, including serving some time and classes at Quantico. From there, I applied for Marine flight training and was fortunate to be the last man selected during that particular candidate qualification period. 
 . 
You have to make a 10-year commitment and have a lot (and I mean a lot) of fortitude. They really put their pilots through the grind by testing their resolve almost daily. I was asked over and over again, "Are you sure that you want to be a pilot?" After I graduated, I went on to Miramar (Topgun) in San Diego.  My first day there, I watched as the Naval pilots went through their daily exercises. I was excited, yet nervous as all get out.


----------



## RadishRose

Been There said:


> It's a process Rose. I received a free ride to the Naval Academy and there I applied for the ROTC program and was selected to go through the challenges of that program, including serving some time and classes at Quantico. From there, I applied for Marine flight training and was fortunate to be the last man selected during that particular candidate qualification period.
> .
> You have to make a 10-year commitment and have a lot (and I mean a lot) of fortitude. They really put their pilots through the grind by testing their resolve almost daily. I was asked over and over again, "Are you sure that you want to be a pilot?" After I graduated, I went on to Miramar (Topgun) in San Diego.  My first day there, I watched as the Naval pilots went through their daily exercises. I was excited, yet nervous as all get out.


It sure is a process I see!

I want to be zapped by a Magic Wand- bingo, now you're ready- and just "take off"
. 10 year commitment, wow. Thanks for the info!


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## JaniceM

Meanderer said:


>


That's what I'm afraid of


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Been There

RadishRose said:


> It sure is a process I see!
> 
> I want to be zapped by a Magic Wand- bingo, now you're ready- and just "take off"
> . 10 year commitment, wow. Thanks for the info!


You should try flying at Mach 1.5 and doing barrel rolls. Or, landing on an aircraft carrier in fog so thick that you can’t even see the ship. Or better yet, flying sorties to fire your laser guided missiles while they are firing surface to air missiles (SAM) at you.


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## RadishRose

Been There said:


> You should try flying at Mach 1.5 and doing barrel rolls. Or, landing on an aircraft carrier in fog so thick that you can’t even see the ship. Or better yet, flying sorties to fire your laser guided missiles while they are firing surface to air missiles (SAM) at you.


I should (have) Too late now.  Maybe in a fog I'd get lucky and land on a carrier in a Harrier, hahaha. 

Sorties, I dunno.


----------



## RadishRose

Meanderer said:


> View attachment 109040


Oh, Meanderer, I love this! Yes, I had plenty, but they were just balsa wood


----------



## JaniceM

Here's an early one:

Nobody bothered to inform me that we were packing up and going to an Aunt/Uncle's home out-of-state.  I was a little suspicious when I saw guys loading my tricycle onto their moving van.  As one of my older siblings had cats, I asked my mother 'What about the cats?'  She replied we wouldn't be able to take the cats in the station wagon, so they were sending the cats to a place she called the "SPCA."  Confused, I asked her what that meant.  She replied it's rare for the 'SPCA' to be able to find new homes for pets, so the cats would probably be killed when they arrived there.  

Looking back:  who in their right mind would say something like that to a child who was not yet 4 years old?


----------



## Sassycakes

*It's funny I saw this thread again today. My friend since I was in 1st grade called me today and we were talking about the past. Me and my friends would go to the local dances every Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. When I was 15yrs old I met my husband and we started dating. He would come to the Saturday night dances because they were in his High School. I stopped going to the other dances.  He didn't like to do the fast dances so I was allowed to dance them with his friends, but the slow dances were just for me and him. One night at the dance he got made at his friend while I as dancing he Pony with him. He said the boy was too close to me. So then he decided we would fast dance together. My friend also reminded me I got a boy at the dance to take her to our Sophomore  Hop and I got another boy to ask my other friend to the hop. Oh the memories she brought back to me.*


----------



## Gary O'

*Dawgs*

I have some fond thoughts of our beagle, Joey.
Gotta say, he was my dog, even though he was meant for the boys.
Yeah, he was my deer dog.
Man, he could flush ‘em out.
The only thing is, I could never get him to run ‘em to me.
Oh, he could run ‘em by me.
On the dead run, hopping, leaping galloping.
So, we mostly just got our exercise. All three of us.

We had this neighbor lady, my wife’s friend.
Smug.
She was the neighborhood pre-google era self-proclaimed font of all info ever known.
Had that all knowing, smirky smug smile when you argued with her, even when she was obviously in over her head.

I may have actually hated her.

She was a churchy.
Always pressing my lady to ‘come, enjoy the wonderfulness of salvation’.
Almost ruined things for us.
But I actually came to enjoy the aspect of church.
You see, we agreed to send the boys with her family every Sunday morning.
Faithfully.
We’d get up, make sure they were ready to be picked up.
Wave bye bye.
Look at each other.
Close the curtains.
And…well…..you know.
Ya gotta just work things to yer advantage sometimes.

Yeah, that lady irritated the hell outta me.

There was that one time, however, that I most enjoyed.

She was in our front yard, all hunkered down, lettin’ Joey lick her face.
Man, he was goin’ at it, didn’t miss a spot.

‘Uh, that dog has some peculiar habits, you might reconsider him licking yer face.’

‘Oh, dogs have the cleanest of mouths, and he loves me.’

(OK, I won’t mention him just now gobbling up his own vomit from over indulging in yer compost pile, then crapping and dining on that).
‘Yeah, he really likes you, boy. You sure have a way with animals.’

‘ I was raised on a farm.’

‘Yes, I can see that. Surely can.’

Joey was probably the smartest dog I ever had.
Not bring me my slippers smart, but he had a logic about him.

I’ve never really had a dumb dog.
Just some that didn’t seem to have much of a plan.


----------



## Gary O'

Gary O' said:


> *Remembering childhood toilets*
> 
> Early on, in my childhood tenure, I recall one thing rather vividly
> 
> Our toilet
> 
> Seems Mom wielded the enema apparatus somewhat unsparingly
> And, from zero to three, the other thing that came into play, directly after being bent and filled with Mr Squirty, was *The Duck*



Just got some vivid recall;


We were dosed with cod liver oil.
Kinda developed a taste for it.

However, never quite got used to ‘the syringe’.
Mom was a bit of a quick draw in regard to the enema.

Hydrotherapy was the rage in the ‘50s

‘Heyyyyy, you look tired.’
WHIKTEEESH....THUK....SPLOIT
‘AAAAAHHHHH!!!!’
Yer on the hopper, holdin’ on for dear life to the green ducky’s head
while yer pooper is involuntarily spewing a gallon of water and hidden bits of last week’s hominy with horrific force.

‘You look rather peaked…when’s the last time you went poopoo?’
‘uh’
WHIKTEEESH....THUK....SPLOIT
‘AAAAAHHHHH!!!!’


We all learned to think on our feet at an early age;

‘Sayyyy, have you gone………’
’Yup, 11:46 AM, biiiiig poopoo, lots an lotsa big poopoo,
yessir, many turds, 
huge ones, trophies, worthy of mounting, shoulda sent ‘em to the Smithsonian’

‘Well, OKaaaay……hmmmm’


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## JaniceM

My parents had a refrigerator that lasted for decades and always worked fine.  

I did this quite often:  whichever family member was present at the time, I'd ask the person to lift me up because I was too short to reach the freezer door.  I'd then touch each letter of its brand name, and say each letter.. and after doing that with each letter, I'd say "it spells GENERAL ELECTRIC!"  

As I'd just turned 4 yrs old, it could've been what inspired my older brother to play little word games with me, read children's poems and stories to me, etc.


----------



## Gary O'

The new thread;
*At the age of 60 - I find myself reflecting on Life..*

Made me look back a bit

50 or so years ago

Had this girlfriend 
Carmen
South of the border, gal
Not really a girlfriend girlfriend 
Guess more of a mutual shack up
She was in her mid 30s
Me passing for early 20s

Thing is, her being a barmaid, well, she_ 'had to' _flirt with customers
She did it so well, so naturally

Now, if I'd so much as look a few degrees in the vicinity of a fair maiden, well, she'd threaten me with the abrupt removal of Larry
'Larry' being what I affectionately called Mr Johnson (or, my other name for him....Mr Happy)

Anyway, I slaked my thirst at the little bar, Tony's, just south of the bridge that separated North Main from regular Main,
in old town Houston, just off the square.

One fine evening, I asked Carmen up (I lived in the hotel above Tony's)
We usually got after it in short order
Only, this time it wasn't happening

_'I have something'

'For me?'

'No, you don't want this
...it's a sickness
the bad one'_

That's the last time I saw her

....wait
that wasn't the last time
The last time was right before her and my other squeeze met each other in the hotel elevator

Hey, I didn't know much, but, after Zeke, the cool old elevator guy, told me what just occurred
Well, I vacated
With just what I had on
and
Larry

Those were some times

This guy I worked with, pretty nice guy, somewhat obviously gay, sat with me in the bar
Said he was sick
Horrible sounding voice
......and had these sores
Bought him a beer

Not sure, but don't think anyone knew of aids at that time
He died in his hotel bed just days after

Funny what one recalls when reflecting.....

I'd told my wife of Carmen many years ago
and again, maybe a year ago, as we were sharing stories of our old flames

Told her_ 'Carmen would be in her 90s right now'

'Nighties?'_

Had to laugh at that one

Hey, this reflecting thing ain't bad


----------



## Gary O'

I've posted a lot of stories on this thread of mine

Hope this ain't a repeat.....


*Trains, Docks and Cranes…Oh My!*


I was in line to do some swampin’ for that gigantamous crane they had over at Hughes Tool in Houston. 
The line moved pretty fast, as swampers seemed to opt for the early retirement option (from earth) about once a month. 
Got to about 7th in line then Camille happened…kinda why I’m typin’ away in the here and now.

After Camille, freight trains became a fascination

Buddy Hans and I decided to hop a train ‘cause our dads did it.


I was told some yard bosses would even tell you the schedule, and some would run you off…to jail.


Hans was a slow talkin’ Scandinavian from the Dakotas. 

Asked him once where Scandia was. 
Couple days later he parted his lips, making a smacking noise, and said in his up and down syllable way
 “Up near Dane and Norwege der….yuh”…..poppin’ me on the shoulder.


Man, couldn’t match those pops… his hands were like catcher’s mitts.


Trains were leavin’ the yard.


The yard boss had run us off twice, takin’ our water jug the second time…watchin’ us leave the yard.


We hid outside the fence until dark.


A gondola was creeping east on the outside track.


Easy pickins.


High fives…..ass slappin’ glee….we’re headin’ somewhere.


The train slowed.


stopped


Went backwards


Forwards again…. High fives…..ass slappin’


Slowed, stopped


Went backwards


Forwards again…. High fives…..arm poppin’


Slowed, stopped


Went backwards


Forwards again…. Head nods


Slowed, stopped


Went backwards


Quiet


Minutes later I peered over the edge


Our gondola was uncoupled on a spur about 5 miles from the yard.


We eventually found success, but learned a couple things.


Boxcar doors lock…from the outside


Gondolas are quite dirty, thus once you get to your stop, you have become the same.


Hot shots haulin’ fruit across the country don’t stop much.


When exiting a box car during a slowdown thru town, first learn the roll feature wide receivers use.


No matter how callused your hands are, landing at 15-20 mph can turn your palms into protective wrist flaps if you don’t know the above mentioned.


It’s best to hop on a boxcar when it’s at a complete stop if you have the gait of a diseased buffalo.


The term ‘Hobo’ just seems a kinda friendly portrayal of an old gent with red abandana tied on a stick..spinnin’ stories and singin’ hobo songs.


They generly turn on you moments after you grab their out stretched hand to board.


Give strong consideration to putting all yer clothes in a hanky on a stick, and board naked
…hobos generly leave you alone then…and/or it (at the very least) saves a lot of scuffle and time.


When a train is goin’ east and the one on the next track is goin’ west, and you’re in between, sit down young man, sit down!


All things considered, get a car, walk, hitch hike, swim, crawl. 
Genoa Nebraska just sounds romantic…..they do like their oranges however.


Got a call from Hans a year or so after.


Hey der, tink dat gondola ever left da spur?


Loved that galoot.


----------



## Gary O'

Met a couple kids from our new neighborhood
ages of 9 and 11
One had a pretty fancy dart gun
*'We're huntin' birds an' squirrels'*
My mind went right to when I was their age

Told 'em a few stories

Good to see town kids doing something besides video games


----------



## StarSong

Oh @Gary, your story brings me back.  

I was about 7 and it was a rainy Saturday; my bestie and I were hanging around her house. Her mother started hinting that it was time for me to go, but I mostly ignored her. Finally she went into the bathroom and came out with a horrible looking thing with long tubes. She said, "Saturday afternoon is enema time in this house. Unless you want one, I suggest you leave now." I had no idea what an enema was, but was pretty clear I didn't want any part of whatever she was holding so I skedaddled. Probably ran all the way home. 

Got home and asked my mother about them and had to press her for an explanation. Mom was a genteel woman who wore white gloves to the grocery store and avoided conversations about distasteful subjects, but there was no prettying up the reality of enemas. How to wrap my mind around what she was saying - the very idea that people would voluntarily do this to their bodies???? Oh my.

I stayed away from the Willis house for the rest of the weekend.  Caught my friend at recess on Monday and asked her if it was true about the enemas.  She went bright red and slowly said.  Yes.  Every. Saturday.  

I don't have to tell you that on future Saturdays I avoided their house like the plague except for birthday parties, and even then I didn't linger. On other visits here, I'd sometimes see that horrible device hanging from the tub faucet. It gave me shivers like no horror movie could. 

I never looked at her mother the same. Truth be told, when they moved to Texas a few years later I was more relieved than sad.


----------



## Gary O'

StarSong said:


> your story brings me back.


Wish I could give that a love and a laugh

Every Saturday?!

Sheesh!


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> Wish I could give that a love and a laugh
> 
> Every Saturday?!
> 
> Sheesh!


Double Sheesh!


----------



## Gary O'

Saw this

Reminded me of Gramma's kitchen

There was this can of Hershey's unsweetened cocoa powder
Asked Gramma if I could have some

She gave me the big spoon

My reaction was pretty much like this little guy's


----------



## Meanderer

Gary O' said:


> Saw this
> 
> Reminded me of Gramma's kitchen
> 
> There was this can of Hershey's unsweetened cocoa powder
> Asked Gramma if I could have some
> 
> She gave me the big spoon
> 
> My reaction was pretty much like this little guy's


THAT was a rea-a-l Cocoa PUFF!


----------



## RadishRose

StarSong said:


> Oh @Gary, your story brings me back.
> 
> I was about 7 and it was a rainy Saturday; my bestie and I were hanging around her house. Her mother started hinting that it was time for me to go, but I mostly ignored her. Finally she went into the bathroom and came out with a horrible looking thing with long tubes. She said, "Saturday afternoon is enema time in this house. Unless you want one, I suggest you leave now." I had no idea what an enema was, but was pretty clear I didn't want any part of whatever she was holding so I skedaddled. Probably ran all the way home.
> 
> Got home and asked my mother about them and had to press her for an explanation. Mom was a genteel woman who wore white gloves to the grocery store and avoided conversations about distasteful subjects, but there was no prettying up the reality of enemas. How to wrap my mind around what she was saying - the very idea that people would voluntarily do this to their bodies???? Oh my.
> 
> I stayed away from the Willis house for the rest of the weekend.  Caught my friend at recess on Monday and asked her if it was true about the enemas.  She went bright red and slowly said.  Yes.  Every. Saturday.
> 
> I don't have to tell you that on future Saturdays I avoided their house like the plague except for birthday parties, and even then I didn't linger. On other visits here, I'd sometimes see that horrible device hanging from the tub faucet. It gave me shivers like no horror movie could.
> 
> I never looked at her mother the same. Truth be told, when they moved to Texas a few years later I was more relieved than sad.


Something very wrong in that house.


----------



## StarSong

RadishRose said:


> Something very wrong in that house.


Tell me about it.  It creeped me out then and it creeps me out now!


----------



## StarSong

StarSong said:


> Tell me about it.  It creeped me out then and it creeps me out now!
> 
> p.s.  They had five kids and one bathroom.  Must have been some fun, 'eh?


----------



## Pinky

It reminds me of the made for t.v. movie "Sybil". The mother would give her enemas that caused internal scarring.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sybil_(1976_film)


----------



## Gary O'

My poor lady has to have a molar pulled
She's in some considerable agony

I know that one

A couple/three decades ago, I had a toothache
Major
Couldn't sleep
When awake, I had to pace

One late night I couldn't stand it anymore
A friend, a poor one, told me about an Asian dentist in a seamy part of Portland, just off Sandy Blvd 
Cheap
They stayed open 24/7
Around 11:30 pm I called 'em

Dr Pham

'Forty dolla'

I drove in
Back alley
Poor lighting 
The assistant put her ungloved hands in my mouth
The dentist's associate told me 'Forty dolla...NOW!'
The dentist brushed him aside and proceeded 
No x-ray, no Novocain, no nothin'

'Done'
I paid the associate (big fella)

Dentist's parting words;

'No suck'

'What?'

'No suck....24 owah'

So, relatively pain free...and.....I didn't suck.....for 24 hours



My lady's cleaning and extraction will be $1300


----------



## peramangkelder

Pinky said:


> It reminds me of the made for t.v. movie "Sybil". The mother would give her enemas that caused internal scarring.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sybil_(1976_film)


@Pinky I remember 'Sybil'


----------



## Meanderer

1300 dolla.....MUCH suck!


----------



## Lakeland living

Think I will just send mine out to be cleaned...


----------



## Sassycakes

I was thinking about the past today. I had an older brother who was drafted duuring the Korean war. He had just gotten home from his honeymoon. I was 5yrs old a the time He was stationed a few hours from where we lived. Every friday after my Dad got home from work we would drive to the base so my Dad could give my brother money to help him. They eventually turned the Horse Stables into apartments. They only had one bedroom. My brother and his wife would sleep in the bedroom. So my Mom and Dad would sleep on cots in the living room and me and my sister would sleep in sleeping  bags on the cold floor.


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Gary O'

Thanks for the bump, Jim


Not sure if I posted this little story or not

But

Here it is (again?)

*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……..


----------



## Meanderer

Gary, your post made me think of Mayberry's Deputy and two Service Station guys.  They were interchangable!  They all seemed dangerous with guns!


----------



## Kathleen’s Place

Gary O' said:


> *Recollections*
> 
> this became rather lengthy....
> 
> Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake.
> I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill.
> Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.
> 
> Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip.
> Ate up everything I could hand him.
> Became our I.T.
> Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
> Interfaced quite well with our clients.
> We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
> Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
> I had to make the trip one more time.
> 
> Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
> We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room.
> Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
> Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.
> 
> The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the sink.
> Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
> The wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal.
> Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted. Tasted horrible, but really good, cookin' with Dad, good.
> The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town.
> There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some.
> 'If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!'
> Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm.
> Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
> Eventually, I ate cake...then did the dishes.
> 
> One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-Day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... 'Your throat is this big, the pill is this big'..minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...'OK, just drink your milk'
> I drained the glass between pursed lips.
> The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
> Nice try, parents from satan.
> 
> We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
> Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it..not much choice really.
> Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice.
> To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.
> 
> The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms.
> They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
> We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
> Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch.
> Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
> Dad didn't know until he got home.
> Actually, it saved him an' I a trip, as when he thought we had too many cats around, we'd toss a bunch into a gunny sack and once down the road, hurl 'em out the window of our speeding chevy.
> I haven't maintained the sack-o-cats legacy, but there have been times....
> 
> The living room still had the oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
> A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into its material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
> A sectional couch, we were up town.
> Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
> Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
> Waste basket stationed at the tail end of that couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom.
> Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
> Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
> Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
> When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
> It was all almost worth it.
> 
> Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
> It was Christmas, fever, pox forming.
> Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.
> 
> 
> Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
> Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
> The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
> The Geiger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
> Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
> There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
> My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
> After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
> Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either.
> Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
> Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.
> 
> The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt. Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
> Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.
> 
> The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
> Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.
> 
> 
> 
> Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.
> 
> 
> This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.


What an enjoyable read, Gary


----------



## Kathleen’s Place

Gary O' said:


> Thanks for the bump, Jim
> 
> 
> Not sure if I posted this little story or not
> 
> But
> 
> Here it is (again?)
> 
> *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.
> 
> View attachment 150451
> 
> 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.
> 
> View attachment 150452
> 
> 
> 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……..


Cute! . You are quite the storyteller.  Hope you are keeping these for future generations


----------



## Gary O'

Kathleen’s Place said:


> What an enjoyable read, Gary


Well, fine lady, if you ever have trouble sleeping, I suggest a scroll thru this thread


----------



## Kathleen’s Place

Sassycakes said:


> I was thinking about the past today. I had an older brother who was drafted duuring the Korean war. He had just gotten home from his honeymoon. I was 5yrs old a the time He was stationed a few hours from where we lived. Every friday after my Dad got home from work we would drive to the base so my Dad could give my brother money to help him. They eventually turned the Horse Stables into apartments. They only had one bedroom. My brother and his wife would sleep in the bedroom. So my Mom and Dad would sleep on cots in the living room and me and my sister would sleep in sleeping  bags on the cold floor.


Ah, but he served his country so he deserved it. Hope he survived.  When my older brother went off to boot camp, my mother cried for weeks.  We baked continually and weekly sent this big military type trunk (probably Dad’s from WWII) full of chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and everything else he enjoyed. He survived, as did the trunk, and when my older sister went off to college, we again mourned, baked, and sent weekly to her college dorm. She graduated and the trunk came home. Finally it was my turn to leave. The green trunk never made an appearance and there were no tears as I stepped onto the train. I did get a lot of hugs and a nice goodbye wave  however


----------



## Meanderer

Gary said:
To this day, "I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice".

I have always wanted to come up with a recipe for "Pineapple upside-down beans"!  This is the closest  I've found:
Baked Beans with Pineapple​


----------



## Gary O'

There was a recent thread I commented in
Can't find it now

Anyway, I'd commented how much I love *Irish Spring* bar soap
(the original scent)

I've known it was a scent from childhood

Just now recalled where

*It was Grampa!*

Doubt there was *'Irish Spring' *soap back then
But he used something that had that scent

May even be why I like it



It reminds me of him



Gary O' said:


> *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 latter 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 it’s 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.
> 
> One time I peered through a cracked door to his study. He was 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.


----------



## Meanderer

_Gary said:  
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._




Thank you Gary for your wonderful story.  

My grandpap died when I was 4.  Following recent stomach surgery, he just dropped over on the street. He was 59.  Most of what I know of him, I learned later from stories and photos.   His name was John.  He was born on Ground hog Day 1888, which was the second official celebration of Groundhog Day!  He was a Teamster, and drove wagons pulled by horses.  He loved horses!  I had his wallet, and it had a dues book, where stamps were added, when dues were paid.  The cover had a picture of two horses, whose names were Thunder and Lightning!  I have passed his wallet along to a grandson.


----------



## Gary O'

*'I've got yer nose'*

Remember that one?

When Dad did that to me, it was a bit of a shock at first
Then I thought about it
Didn't realize my nose looked so much like Dad's thumb

Anyway, the (India?) boy in the 3rd or 4th vid is quite precious


----------



## StarSong

Kind of a cruel game to play with toddlers when you think about it.  It's the ultimate vulnerability... your parents can steal your body parts at will, and you have to resort to begging to get them back.  

Agree about the adorable little boy who's 3rd or 4th on the video.


----------



## Gary O'

StarSong said:


> Kind of a cruel game to play with toddlers when you think about it. It's the ultimate vulnerability... your parents can steal your body parts at will, and you have to resort to begging to get them back.


Yeah, Dad was a bit sadistic like that
Back then, it seemed the norm

I rather liked being not heard......or seen


----------



## StarSong

I also learned early that flying under the radar wasn't a bad thing.


----------



## Gary O'

StarSong said:


> I also learned early that flying under the radar wasn't a bad thing.


Yup

I, too, learned early on, very early, you work with what you've been given, good and bad

I left home early
It was best for everyone


----------



## Gary O'

*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


----------



## StarSong

Gary O' said:


> *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


We never had enough "big kids" (AKA 8 years old and up) to field a baseball team, never mind two teams.  Our solution?  The little ones got three chances to hit a pitched ball, then we'd put the ball on home plate and the team in the field backed up to the outfield, pitcher included.  Catcher wasn't permitted to field a ball hit this way.

The little kid would take his/her best whack at the ball (they wanted it to go far!), then ran like hell.

Anyone on base was allowed to advance only as many bases as the little kid touched before the fielding team either tagged him out or stopped play by getting the ball to the catcher (who by then had moved to the pitcher's mound).

Since most in our group learned how to play starting with "ball on the plate" there was no shame for little kids to be doing it, more kids got to play, and it was the perfect way to learn the game. Win-win-win

The kids in my family and our neighbors devised numerous games that worked despite some kids not having bicycles, gloves, other equipment or even a lot of athletic ability.  We learned early on that the worst kind of player was a poor sport, whether that meant a sore loser, a crybaby or a crowing winner.  They were taunted and even worse, sent home.  Home being chore-land, most kids didn't have to learn good sportsmanship lessons more than once.  

I bemoan adult intervention into children's sports.  Left on their own, children sort out fair, imaginative rules that work well for their playspace, their players' ages and skills, their equipment (anyone with a glove shared with the opposing team, no questions asked), and so forth. Unevenly skilled teams get re-chosen immediately.


----------



## Gary O'

StarSong said:


> I bemoan adult intervention into children's sports. Left on their own, children sort out fair, imaginative rules that work well


Got that so right, sister


----------



## peramangkelder

Gary O' said:


> *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


@Gary O' you know my 2nd huz and I were only talking about this recently that we never had a plethora of toys
I used to love going to my paternal grandparents and there were a few kid things there that Grampa had made
A toy pedal car and a double sided swing with wooden seat (had to watch the splinters though) my sister and I used
Wooden horses made with wooden head and broom handle to ride our hapless steeds
Most of the time we just enjoyed ourselves making up things as we went along with Grampa's stuff
Grampa never threw anything out so there was always something we could make into a game
Sometimes I would just watch Grampa make something in his shed and he would always let me have a go
Stood me in good stead for later in life when I became 'Mrs.Fixit'


----------



## Gary O'

peramangkelder said:


> there were a few kid things there that Grampa had made
> A toy pedal car


Whoa!
And I thought I was doin' good making a 'Car' out of a cardboard box.
That *was* fun though.
Had a hood for the engine, a trunk lid, doors that swung open, and a steering wheel (of sorts) They played in it for hours/days 



peramangkelder said:


> I used to love going to my paternal grandparents


Love every word of that post


----------



## Gary O'

Well now

*Mother's Day*

I've got some fond memories, early on
Back when I was 8 or 10
School had us all making things for mother with paper and glue
She'd fawn over them, and put them away

Years passed
Things got a little rough around the house
I didn't hang there much
Left home at 16

Seems Mom never forgave me for that

Many mother's days of the ol' shrug off
Some pretty good gifts
'Put it over there'

Visited her in the hospital in what was almost her death bed
'What are* you* doing here?!'
Felt like the grim reaper
Almost said 'waiting'

She died suddenly a few months later

I was the main speaker at her funeral
Laid out some pretty nice words, as she'd been thru decades of hell and back

Days later, my fair haired fat little brother and I went thru her stuff
Keepsake stuff for me
A wooden box
All the things I ever made in grade school, neatly contained

She was close mouthed with her emotions
A few years before her death, I hugged her
There was no hugging.....ever
Heh, she brushed it off
But
I could tell it got to her

Wish I woulda done more of that


----------



## Gary O'

My very favorite time, as a kid, wasn't Christmas, or birthdays, or Halloween, or Easter

It was goin' to the beach

Sand
Wet sand
Dry sand
Water, washing sand over yer feet

Waves
Weird sea life in the shallows
Waves, bigger'n me...pushing me back to shore
Covering me with salty bubbles 

But, what really stood out were the aromas

Salt air
Cold or warm, still gets my blood running

But
The best, most prevalent aroma
was the smell of the beach cottages we rented
A certain musky, musty fragrance permeated those old cottages

Decades later, after renting old houses, 
and their bouquet sending me to my favorite times,
I discovered it was the smell of mold I so enjoyed
Then I learned about black mold

Still.......it puts me at the beach

If my lady goes before me, I'm headin' to the beach


Hope to find an old cottage


----------



## peramangkelder

I love the seawater but I hate the sand because it gets in everything


----------



## Meanderer

Life's a Beach


----------



## Gary O'

peramangkelder said:


> I love the seawater but I hate the sand because it gets in everything


I love that feature

Weeks later.....tiny keepsakes


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Gary O'

Missing my little guy right now

Sometimes I think it'd be pretty cool to know the future
Bet I'd have been more attentive back then


----------



## Gary O'

*You're too little*

My big sister ran with the neighbor kids
They did.....everything

I hung by, watched

I remember them sharing a bottle of Nesbitt's Orange soda 

Hot out

Man, that looked good goin' down



*'You're too little'*


Then there was the wax lips, teeth, and mustaches

They even chewed on 'em, made 'em change shapes

*'You're too little'*

I think I was around four

Seems I was 'too little' for everything that was in demand

Swore, when I grew bigger, I'd have me some orange soda and wax lips, teeth, and mustaches 

Never happened

(sigh)

I might just get me some wax teeth tomorrow
This partial is nice.....but not as fun I bet


----------



## peramangkelder

We used to buy these when I was a kid and I think they are still available


Lolly teeth....tasted nice too


----------



## Meanderer




----------



## Gary O'

*Entrées at our place
In the '50s

Meat*

Hamburger
Hotdogs
Roast beef
Fried chikin

That was pretty much it...when we could afford it
(beans were waaaay too regular for dinner)

However

Liver and onions was slipped into the rotation, unannounced

Never took to it

'Eat it!......it'll give you iron!'

Something about eating an organ

Why not spleen and onions?
or
Pancreas and onions?


----------



## peramangkelder

I remember Liver & Onions and Tripe in White Sauce with mixed emotions
As Mum's alcoholism worsened so did these recipes 
I reckon the last lot she made we could have soled our shoes 
I have NEVER made these since I married


----------



## peramangkelder

I remember Mum would eat lambs tongue and pigs trotters
I know she was a child of the Depression but


----------



## StarSong

peramangkelder said:


> I remember Mum would eat lambs tongue and pigs trotters
> I know she was a child of the Depression but


Ewwwwww.....


----------



## Paco Dennis

This memory will always stay with me. We were throwing rocks at each other from about 50 yrds and I hit a boy on top of his head. It broke his skull and he had to have like 50 stitches. My punishment was to wait till my Dad got home. He was a steel worker. Then he entered my room with a belt, and told me to "drop 'em". THAT was the worse spanking I ever got, but it worked...I never threw a rock at another human being.


----------



## Aunt Marg

Gary O' said:


> Missing my little guy right now
> 
> Sometimes I think it'd be pretty cool to know the future
> Bet I'd have been more attentive back then
> 
> View attachment 165717


Sending a warm hug your way today, Gary-O.


----------



## Paco Dennis

When my 6th Birthday rolled around there was no party planned. My Mother wanted me to take a nap after lunch, but I didn't want to. She kept insisting that I just lay down and rest. So I did and fell asleep for about an hour and she came and woke me up saying she didn't want me ruining my night's sleep. We both walked in to the kitchen and then....SURPRISE!!!! filled the room from several of my friends. Balloons were hanging everywhere and a HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner was on display. I remember that moment very clearly.


----------



## Gary O'

Y'know, back in the day...before videos 
there just wasn't much exposure 

*House of the rising sun* has been one of my very favorite songs for a very long time

I had some personal ties to those lyrics
and the music made it all come alive

However, 
just recently, I saw the vid of The Animals singing that song
back in the mid '60s
Didn't realize how pubescent Eric Burdon was
Kinda took away something
I mean he sounded like a guy in his 30s or 40s
He looked like he was 15 back then, when he sang it 








Heh

I just now found a vid of him trying to sing that song
Must be around 80 or so

Whoa

Couldn't finish the vid
(I may have thrown up in my mouth)

There are times when one should just hang it up

This is wunna those times;


----------



## MarciKS

I don't know about you but I'm thankful I don't look 15 anymore. LOL


----------



## Meanderer

The Animals | Eric Burdon on Story of The House Of The Rising Sun​


----------



## Sassycakes

I remember summer vacations every year when a lot of family was there. Aunts Uncles and cousins. I also remember becoming an Aunt when I was 7yrs old. How I enjoyed teaching my nephew to read and write. Those were the days.


----------



## Gary O'

*Eighth Graders *

The kings of elementary school

They could do most anything

Seventh graders seemed to just bide their time
Sixth grade and under were fodder, hoping to live

Seemed forever to reach eighth grade
Seemed gurls matured much quicker

By sixth grade, gurls looked more like wimin
Guys didn't begin to look any kinda cool 'til seventh grade

There were exceptions

My neighbor buddy, Bart, was huge
He was man size by sixth grade
Guess that might be why the eighth graders didn't pick on us

Brady had this cool blonde hair
He wore it in a DA (half flattop, half grown out)
Culminating into a ducktail
Fifth grader
Smart mouthed little turd
Always hanging around me
He never seemed to tire of trying to fight me
He was too easy to beat on, but there were times I enjoyed it


But eighth graders simply ruled

It was that way for me for seven years
Riiiight up until I became an eighth grader

I really don't know what changed
But, I mostly concentrated on the upcoming freshman year
Freshmen got beat to a pulp on a regular basis
That's what the previous eighth graders told us

Being in eighth grade was pretty cool, however
Nobody to fear
Not even teachers
and......if you didn't shoot yer mouth off, you could escape, back of the gym, and smoke
or
make out

I had my make out fantasies
But had to settle practicing on gurls in my grade

Guess that's what grade school was mostly about

Trying a few things,
but,
mostly

waiting

(Heh, I just proof read this....had to fix *eight* to *eighth*)


----------



## Paco Dennis

S'mores







Loved finding the right branch to put the marshmallow on, roasting the marshmallow with great care and blowing out the flame when it caught fire, squeezing it between the graham crackers and chocolate, blowing on it to cool it down fast, and having the patience to have it melt the chocolate was very difficult.


----------



## Sassycakes

*I remember in the 1980's getting tickets for my parents to see Dean Martin perform live. My Mom loved Dean. I also bought her flowers to give Dean. When she got to where he was performing she gave the Usher the flowers for Dean but the usher said she had to give them to Dean. So when Dean came on stage the usher walked her up to give Dean the flowers. After she gave them to her he kissed her on the lips. When she got back to her seat and told my Dad to kiss her so that the only 2 men she had ever loved their kisses would be on her lips. Now every time I listen to Dean sing I think of that night.*


----------



## Mitch86

I have six Amazon Echo Shows which I have set to show all my pictures of all my dead relatives and let me reminisce to the good old days.


----------



## Gary O'

Gary O' said:


> The pedal car thread reminded me of 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
> 
> 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 don't have a helicopter
> or helicopter garage
> ...or a garage
> 
> still pretty much hate him


Heh, just chatted with my cousin
He totally remembered the peddle tractor scene

We had some laughs

shared those times 

 I no longer hate him......probably


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## Lakeland living

I had one of the cars, bright red, was all dinged up when it arrived... I helped put more on...
No idea what happened to that car.


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## Gary O'

Lakeland living said:


> had one of the cars, bright red, was all dinged up when it arrived... I helped put more on...
> No idea what happened to that car.


Y'know, when my boys got old enough to peddle, I found one in a thrift shop.
Had to refurb it to make it functional, but they had a ball with it.
Beat the cardboard box 'car' I'd made them.
But that box was pretty cool.
Cut out 'doors', and even made a 'hood' and 'trunk' outa smaller boxes.
They had to pretend with the steering wheel, but, hey, pretending was what it's all about.
Stick horses are in that genre


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## Meanderer

Gary, I found this vid of a 1955 T-Bird Junior by the PowerCar Co.

"This is a video of a 1955 T-Bird Junior.  This chassis is completely original and un-restored.  The car had been sitting in the basement of the original owner since the late 60's.  The body is being cleaned and polished so the test drive with a new 6 Volt golf cart battery was undertaken with the chassis only. ".


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## Sassycakes

I remember like it was yesterday when I was 7yrs old my older brother had a son. That was when I got the name "Auntie Barbara will do it." Which meant I had to take care of the baby.


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## Sassycakes

I was just listening to music and it brought back memories of the first house me and my Hubby bought after he got out of the Navy. One of our neighbors was a Disc Jockey and every year we had an outside party and he would play the songs. During the party, he would play a song with all the women's names in it. Like  Eleanore Rigby, Diana, Mary Lou, etc. He would always play this for me.


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## palides2021

I remember when I was twelve, I had to take the bus and at that time, I didn't have to pay because of my age. But the bus driver, when he saw how tall I was, didn't believe I was twelve. No matter how much I pleaded. I didn't have an ID on me, so I ended up paying. How tall was I? I had reached 5'7" and a picture of me next to my mom showed me towering over her petite frame. I got the genes from my dad. He was tall. My one sister was taller than me, 5'9"  Now, I've been shrinking the past five years or so and have lost half an inch.


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## David777

Rather clearly have always been able to recall the time at maybe age 2 or 3 crawling underneath some furniture in our home and upon seeing a 2 slit 110 vac electrical wall outlet even though I knew it was supposedly dangerous probably from what my mother had warned me, with my bare hand, stuck something metal like a hairpin or whatever into it.  My brain thankfully has left a very enduring memory... 

I do even recall wondering why I did smething stupid Mom had warned me about.


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## Gary O'

*Two ol' guys*

Oregon City is a quaint, working man's town.
A lot of it is on the hill, sprawled from the bottom to the hilltop

Everyone knew of the two ol' guys

They looked much like these guys;



Their uniforms were plaid shirts, baggy pants, and baseball caps

Fixtures of the sidewalk and the park bench

They'd slowly trudge from hilltop to the lower part of the hill, and into the library

if you were in the library, and if they got close to you, you'd become overcome by their aroma

Mostly, they sat outside, on the park bench by the library
.....all day

Then
late afternoon, plod back up the hill
Took about two hours

Hardly anyone actually knew these guys, but some were privileged to enter their home

In it was a TV, two chairs

One chair was almost on the TV
The other chair was turned toward the other chair

The TV volume was maxed

There they'd sit

One asking the other what they heard
The other asking what the other saw

They were brothers

Wonder what their thanksgivings and Christmases were like......


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## Meanderer

Weight of a Fish




First: 'Ow much did that Bass weigh you caught on Wednesday? 
Second, guardedly: Same as it weighed when I told you before, it ain't shrunk.


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## Ken N Tx

I did 18....


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## Gary O'

Ken N Tx said:


> I did 18....


Me too

Did we win, or place?


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## StarSong

19/20 for me.  Didn't wear hand-sewn clothing.


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## Pinky

15 for moi ..


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## Gary O'

This time of year, sends me back
Not all that far
Few years ago, we got real weary of the gift exchange
Adults really shouldn't do that

My wife's sister loves to load people up with things bought...special
Things to carefully place certain places
Like.....a huge bear....for our yard
This was when we lived at the cabin
Tried to let her know we have those.....live ones

Anyway, we all knocked off the exchange

One; we couldn't compete
The other, our tastes were rather polar 

I'm of the opinion she doesn't have a lick of taste

She switches out her rooms like we change the laundry 

Twenty or thirty some years ago, we got caught up in a mode of decor
Bought 'sets' of things
Living room sets
Bedroom sets

After a few months, we got rather sick of looking at the stuff

Got things that were comfy
Screw looks

Turns out, good ol' stuff has a warmth
Can't replicate that with new

Back to my SIL;

Both her living areas look like hotel lobbies
Doesn't matter, nobody can sit on that stuff anyway

......except her cats

So glad we cut that part of Christmas out
​


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## Sassycakes

*Growing up in the City I loved when trucks would drive past with rides for kids in them. This is my favorite.
 *


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## Capt Lightning

Only 7, but then I lived in the UK.


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## Gary O'

I remember reading the book *1984*



Not a big sci-fi fan, but that book fascinated me

Orwell painted quite the picture

Heh, read it in 1964, smuggled it into Western Civ class (kept me awake)

Thought, man, that'll never happen, and if it does, that'll be 20 years from now
And who cares, I'll be 35

1984 is working on 40 years back

Thought getting old would take longer


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## horseless carriage

Can you recognise the two small schoolboys circled? One of them has a birthday today, the other is a knight of the realm.


----------



## horseless carriage

In the group photo above you can see, circled on the left: Sir Michael Jagger, as he will become known as. His fellow alumni is also his fellow band member and one man hell raiser: Keith Richards.


----------



## hollydolly

horseless carriage said:


> In the group photo above you can see, circled on the left: Sir Michael Jagger, as he will become known as. His fellow alumni is also his fellow band member and one man hell raiser: Keith Richards.


Mick never really changed did he... just got a whole load of wrinkles......you know, the stones despite their wild hell raising reputation, which they deservedly have, are the nicest , most genuine people you could hope to meet...


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## horseless carriage

All that hell raising was nothing more than a stage managed publicity act. The substance abuse often started when the band's management induced it. And not just The Rolling Stones. Most of the 60's groups, as the bands were called, back then, wore matching stage outfits, often a smart looking suit with collar & tie. That wasn't for The Rolling Stones, they revelled in their appearance, more so when newspapers fed their readers with descriptions like anarchists.


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## Gary O'

I've been reviewing my writings, jots

Came across this one

(Gawd, I love that woman)

_My lady comes from a violent family, and when she gets angry, people scurry away….that’s one reason I have a wood shop.

Thing is, guns are for levelheaded people, male or female.
I don’t trust her with a handgun.
She doesn’t trust herself with a handgun.
‘I don’t need one.’
…and she doesn’t.

She took out a carload of teenagers with a garbage can lid at 20 yards (meters)…used it like a Frisbee.
And, shortly after I met her, she stabbed a guy that was gettin’ too friendly with a Bic pen.
I kinda got my own little bizzarro MacGyver.

Matter of fact, hangin’ around her, I _don’t even need a handgun.


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## Gary O'

Gary O' said:


> I've been reviewing my writings, jots
> 
> Came across this one


Another;


*Thanksgiving 2012*





We ate.


Whew, tired now.

OK, the highlight.
After stuffing myself with stuffing, we settled into a rousing game of head bobbing scrabble.
I say ‘head bobbing’ because we don’t use a timer, so some people….I won’t mention names, but let’s just say I’ve known her for 43 years, and she still sports around a magnificent hind end…some people take a fortnight or two to lay down the word ‘MAY’…..and after a bit of wine and turkey and gravy, my head tends to bob, even though firmly propped up by my hands, elbows on the dining table.

One of the grandpuppies, he’s thirteen now, still likes to chew on things…dangerous things, just to still get a rise outta Namaw.
Heh, he excused himself and proceeded to the restroom.
I heard some coughing.
Not the normal cold like coughing, but more like gagging, and kacking.
I told my lady my concerns, but we played on, which consisted of my head plopping onto the table while she fretted over the letters AAZQTXP…
So, our darling teen hulk finally emerged from the bathroom, and a bit sheepishly sat back at his place at the table…..and laid out a rather moist letter K.
Apparently, he was wallering the tile around the inside of his mouth and got it lodged in his throat but managed to proceed nonchalantly to the can and hork it up into the tub.....along with other less distinguishable bits and pieces, but I could tell he’d dined mostly on green olives and cranberry sauce.

Now it’s our special K.


----------



## Blessed

Gary O' said:


> Another;
> 
> 
> *Thanksgiving 2012*
> I have a dog sweater that belonged to my most special pup.  It  says "Been There, Chewed That" There was not anything he would go after.  He would even pick pocket the purses of ladies that came over. Steal wallets, makeup bags, glass cases.  He was a handful!!
> 
> 
> 
> 
> We ate.
> 
> 
> Whew, tired now.
> 
> OK, the highlight.
> After stuffing myself with stuffing, we settled into a rousing game of head bobbing scrabble.
> I say ‘head bobbing’ because we don’t use a timer, so some people….I won’t mention names, but let’s just say I’ve known her for 43 years, and she still sports around a magnificent hind end…some people take a fortnight or two to lay down the word ‘MAY’…..and after a bit of wine and turkey and gravy, my head tends to bob, even though firmly propped up by my hands, elbows on the dining table.
> 
> One of the grandpuppies, he’s thirteen now, still likes to chew on things…dangerous things, just to still get a rise outta Namaw.
> Heh, he excused himself and proceeded to the restroom.
> I heard some coughing.
> Not the normal cold like coughing, but more like gagging, and kacking.
> I told my lady my concerns, but we played on, which consisted of my head plopping onto the table while she fretted over the letters AAZQTXP…
> So, our darling teen hulk finally emerged from the bathroom, and a bit sheepishly sat back at his place at the table…..and laid out a rather moist letter K.
> Apparently, he was wallering the tile around the inside of his mouth and got it lodged in his throat but managed to proceed nonchalantly to the can and hork it up into the tub.....along with other less distinguishable bits and pieces, but I could tell he’d dined mostly on green olives and cranberry sauce.
> 
> Now it’s our special K.


----------

