Living on the Edge...of Town

The Beast

2011-09-28T15:35:00.000-07:00

This was as far as I was going to go. I knew this moment would come, and that the outcome was inevitable, so it would be here, that I would be forced to make a stand.
From the deepest part of the woods, it had come. Every other creature that roams the night had fallen silent, even the dogs were strangely quiet, perhaps knowing that this was way out of their league.
It gave a low, rumbling growl, the kind you felt as well as heard. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a numbing cold and became acutely aware of every other small noise in the house. A great breathe exhaled outside as the weight of something large pressed heavily on the wall and the door.
My eyes were drawn to the top of the door where the panels were beginning to bulge and crack. The sound of enormous claws raked the woodwork as it quickly became enraged. I knew that the old door would not stop it and I braced.
Suddenly the door panels gave way as I reached for my last line of defense, holding it out in front of me, my thumb quickly pressed down. For a moment the room went dark and then…
“And now, your Local on the 8s. The temperature for your area is 62 degrees under partly cloudy skies…”

Just a Pair of Pliers

2011-09-10T13:37:00.000-07:00

Manufacturing today is all about “team” with sometimes little regard to what is practical, logical or simply the right thing to do.

Over the years, I have made several trips to a particular out of state factory to assist with mechanical problems of one kind or another. On one such occasion, having finished with the designated business at hand, I mingled around the production work areas exchanging ideas and discussing procedures.
It was then that I noticed the operators were using the same pliers as was used in our processes, but with one small difference. I had modified our pliers to make them spring return after closing, a convenient feature not available in this particular type of pliers at that time.
I mentioned this to one of the operators, who thought this might be helpful and less fatiguing in the long run. She produced an extra pair which I carried to the maintenance shop and proceeded to install the spring feature.
The maintenance people I had been working with, had retired to their perches in the shop, leaned back with feet up on the work bench, awaiting the next reactive call. Blatant, I thought, but still, none of my business.
Anyway, it was a simple task. I drilled a small hole through one handle near the hinge and halfway through the other. I inserted a small compression spring through the hole and drove a spring pin in behind it. In ten minutes I was done.
The operator liked the pliers and two other operators requested the modification. I added the spring to these and later, at the hotel, drew up instructions for the maintenance guys to follow-up with pliers on the other shifts.
Months later, on a return visit for a different mechanical problem, the operators informed me that the maintenance people had opted out of making the pliers modification. Fine, I thought, however, I was completely perplexed when they told me of their reasoning.
It seems they had formed a team of people to evaluate the conversion. They had produced parts estimates, man-hour estimates, with full color displays on charts and graphs, all meticulously prepared to convince themselves that this modification was a total waste of time and resources, unlike, of course, the time spent fabricating the detailed report itself.
Furthermore, they believed they could purchase the pliers, with this feature, cheaper than they could make the change.
Remember, this is just a pair of pliers, but of the type that wasn’t going to be found on the market with spring return, and they knew that. We had already looked and I had told them. But the issue, as far as they were concerned, was closed.
The team had spoken.
Unbound by this impediment, I reworked several more pairs of pliers before I headed for home, knowing that this team directed workforce was destined to litigate itself to a standstill.
The factory later closed for unrelated reasons.

Adventure in E.R.

2011-03-07T08:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, while working on some kind of crap from the production area in the maintenance shop, I ran into a little problem. I had just put a purely professional weld on something and was moving around the end of the table when my hand snagged on something.
You know all those little weld wires that tend to accumulate on the table from every body's little "habitual pre-test" before welding? Looks like a porcupine from hell, right?
Well, I found one. At first I figured that I just had another cut. Cuts help form calluses. My hands look like feet. So big deal, another cut.
Not this time. Sticking out of my right hand little finger was about 1/8 inch of MIG wire. "Hmmn," I thought. "This is different".
I walked back to my wood carry-around box in the production area and fished out my needle nose pliers to perform an extraction. Wouldn't budge. Then I noticed that there was a little protrusion on the opposite side of the finger, almost through the skin. Entry was just below the second knuckle on the palm side and would have come out between first and second knuckle had it passed through. I felt like ignoring this would be inconvenient at times as it would snag on most everything and generate an instant and appropriate audio response.
So, it was 1pm and I decided to take the afternoon off and visit the local hospital. After some expected show-and-tell amongst my constituents, the plant manager took me to the E.R.
I got checked in and placed in a small room with more than enough provisions to explore body cavities, deliver babies, and put eyes back in their sockets. I hoped they would stick to this one little finger.
They sent me to get a few 8 X 10 black and white glossy pictures on their gamma burst machine, interesting, but really couldn't see the pictures very well from across the hall where it looked like a railroad spike through a stick of bologna on their screen.
Went back to the little room with all of its torture devices and the babies screaming down the hall, where they told me that there was no barb on the wire and that it had not hit any bone.
The nurse came in and washed my hand and commented, "Is this as clean as you hands get?" My lips were fighting to contain a colorful metaphor, but I wanted a sucker, so I kept quiet. I’m a mechanic, I thought, not a pastry chef.
The Nurse Practocator came back in and presented me with the options. We could take the feeling out of it, (which really wasn't an issue as long as they left it the hell alone) by injecting it full of Don't-know-don't-care, which upon entry would feel like having your digit ripped off by hungry piranha... or she could just take her pliers and jerk it out. I had tried that but I figured that this was a "maybe" on the pain scale where the other was sure to peg the needle.
"Well, just pull it out," I said, "And I apologize now for what I may say in the next few minutes."
She left the room to get her toys...and back-up.
These two ladies took my hand and laid it out on the delivery table, latched on a small pair of hemostats to the wire just under the small weld stubble and before she could say...or think...
She popped out an inch long piece of straight weld wire.
"I want that", I said. "That's my souvenir". They thought this was funny but I had not thought to get a picture on some one's cell phone, so this, I thought was the best I could do. The Proctocator then offered the small hemostats along with 2 more pliers, a nice pair of tweezers, and a small specimen bottle with my wire sample inside.
I took 'em.
They said that's it and I prepared to leave. I asked for a telephone to call the plant to come back and get me...
That's where I goofed up.
"Oh wait, we have one more test for you". Again I struggle to keep the automated response system from kicking in.
I had not studied for the urine test but felt I had a good chance of passing it. They don't tell you your score, it's simply a pass or fail thing.
When they finally let me go, I made the phone call and sat outside in the much warmer 45 degree breeze and waited for deliverance. It was nearly 5 pm.
I have worked 38 years without a lost time accident. Oh well...
And you know, this was the second accident I'd had that day.
Oh yeah, I'll be back...

Moonlighting on the 23b

2010-12-18T17:28:00.000-08:00

I am off work now from my regular day job till after Christmas, so my friends think I will be kicked back taking it easy. The semi-truth of it is that I will be on call Christmas Eve and the early part of Christmas day. I know several fellows around the area who do the same, working for a certain manufacturing company, specializing in seasonal overnight deliveries. This is “off the record” work, so most of the other guys try keeping it hush-hush.
While I am a small subcontractor for the company, filling a few overflow orders in my workshop, my main function for the 24th and 25th will be any late night service calls for the primary delivery system.
Kris, owner of the company and its principle driver, is for the most part, pretty self-sufficient. However, there have been a few times in the past when the equipment just breaks down and that’s when we get called.
I’ve been getting my tools ready and a few spare parts loaded up in the 23b service vehicle, mostly team harnesses and replacement runners.
We use the second and third string reindeer for the service sleighs, and this year I again drew Rude and Nasty for the 23b. Distant relatives to a few on the main delivery team, these two, unfortunately, live up to their names. Among other little tricks, they like to step on my toes while I adjust their harnesses. That little huffing sound that reindeer make is their way of not laughing out loud. Lucky for me, I need only two of these jokers for the service sleigh.
I got a call last year, not far from Adsmore when Kris snagged some power lines and hit a small TV dish, badly bending one of his sleigh runners. The runner was a quick fix but it took me some time to straighten the dish. The boss insisted that I leave no trace of damage, work in the dark and make absolutely no noise. This was not easy with Rude trying to push me off the roof and Nasty dropping my tools down the chimney.
“Now, look here, Kringle…” I started to say, but was interrupted by a half dozen picketing members of the E.L.F Union Local #1 who were still unhappy about me making toys in my shop, as the 23b began to slip off the roof right above somebody’s new car.
I quickly pulled Rude and Nasty back from the edge just as the boss cleared the treetops with his usual “HO-HO-HO!” He always has a positive outlook while doing an impossible job.
Well, I’d had enough reindeer games for one night so I picked up a grape soda at the Ideal Store, with a couple of moon pies for Rude and Nasty, circled the courthouse once and headed for home. Aside from a near miss with a flight of geese over Cadiz Street and running over my mailbox, spilling my soda, it was an otherwise ordinary night.
Anyway, I am in hopes that this year is a little better as I hear some of the B team reindeer have undergone behavioral therapy, the E.L.F. members were satisfied after reviewing a particular Claus in their contract and I now have a cup holder on the 23b.
By the way, if anyone should find a 10-inch adjustable wrench in their fireplace, it’s mine.

For the kid in all of us,
Merry Christmas!

A Lesson From Iris

2010-12-04T16:16:00.000-08:00

My earliest recollections of Iris find her making her way down the row of school desks to find her place in the classroom. She was tall and thin in those early years of elementary school, with white-blonde poker straight hair that just touched her shoulders. I thought it odd the way she held her pencil to write, as if it has been driven through her clinched fist, as she labored to scribe her work.
Iris seemed an otherwise shy girl, speaking aloud only when schoolwork required it and never more than a few hard fought words. Her speech impediment revealed the struggles of a person fighting for the very control of every movement. With legs bracketed in hinged metal and brown leather straps, her walk was stiff, making small but noticeable balance corrections with every step.
Iris was shackled by polio.
For Iris, life on the playground was that of watching rather than playing with the others. On those rare occasions when she could participate, she gave it her best, but more often than not, found herself getting up off of the ground, brushing the grit from her bare knees. She was pretty tough in those early years, but then I guess she really had to be, because, unfortunately, kids can be cruel even when it‘s not intended.
She was in and out of school throughout the years, mostly out though, to parts unknown, only to return a year or more later.
At the end of our senior year there were three formal graduation events, one of which would pair the graduates in order of height. I was the third tallest guy in the male line-up and I could see that Iris had been situated at the other end of the girls line, having over the years been surpassed in height by nearly everyone.
At some point, it was realized that there were more girls than boys and the two lines randomly converged in a conscious attempt at a more favorable pairing.
When the shuffle had just barely settled, there, at the other end, standing alone with tears streaming down her face was Iris. It must have seemed like a cruel climax to a life long struggle to break free of her bonds and to realize the dream of being accepted by her classmates.
A hush fell over the group as the gravity of the moment quickly began to sink in, which probably seemed like a very long time for Iris, and it had been. Since the very beginning she just wanted to fit in, to be picked in kickball without being the last, to walk without being expected to run, to speak and know someone was listening because they wanted to.
At that moment, an average looking senior named Jack stepped up to her and said simply, “I’ll walk with you, Iris.”
If I learned nothing else in high school, it was that I am not the center of the Universe, that other people matter and that winning at anything is not nearly as important as simply being a part of it.
I have seen neither Iris nor Jack since school. I know Jack came out of school in good shape, as he demonstrated his firm grasp on being an adult with those few kind words.
I think often of Iris, and I’d like to think that there is a calling for everyone, and that no matter what their obstacles might be in life, there is a place of comfort and belonging for each of us.
And I hope that when it mattered the most, Iris was picked first.

Yardsale Bargains

2010-10-17T17:15:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s been a long hot summer, and there were many times when I just knew what the hog felt like when he was about to render lard. For the most, part I’ve had to work every day of it, but on a few Saturdays, when I was off, I made it a point to go to the local yard sales. This is my favorite way of stimulating the local economy.
At first, I just expected to find a few movies on DVD or some rusty hand tools that I could put back to work, but by summers end I had acquired a wide selection of treasures.
I am a woodworker, so finding a barely used Deluxe Workmate for $10 had special appeal. From the dollar menu, I found a backsaw, a hayfork bent into a potato hook, a variety of new hinges and a few clock inserts for making table top clocks.
I saved a broken vanity seat from almost certain demise for one dollar. I reassembled it, refinished it and replaced the seat covering. It is now waiting to be “adopted” at one of the Main Street antique shops.
I found book bargains like the LIFE book Century of Change, America in Pictures 1900-2000, a $60 hardback, for which I paid one dollar.
One of my favorite finds was an issue of Scribner’s Magazine, dated April 1897, which features a detailed account on ocean crossings, 15 years before Titanic, with ads for typewriters, the latest tonics and the newest rage, the bicycle. I paid all of $.25 for this, as was the original subscription price.
Of course, there are always those little things that, as one lady put it, “You just can’t live without”, like small glass bottles with cork stoppers, a carousel Christmas music box, a 1920’s forgotten photo of a group of men standing on a raft, and a few small dishes that I used to find in oatmeal when I was a kid. My wife paid a one dollar ransom for a nice set of 4 Christmas mugs that will serve up steaming hot cocoa this winter.
I expect someday to find one of my oil painting from the 1980’s and buy it back for a fraction of my original commission. I’m not so sure that would be a good thing.
Sometimes the best part of a yard sale is the people you meet, old friends you might have lost tract of, or new friends with common interests. We exchange pleasantries, ideas on backyard décor and maybe a few bits of pocket change for things they thought was worth selling and that I thought was worth buying.
“How much you got on that box of hammers?”

Radio Bye-Bye

2010-04-25T14:47:00.000-07:00

I was probably around 10 years old when my older bother and I were introduced to the then expanding world of radio communication. Our Grandfather, who operated the local John Deere dealership, was in constant communication with his mechanics when they were out on service calls via CB radio.
In those days, the CB craze had not yet caught on and it was important to maintain the correct etiquette of professionalism of the day. There was no “Rubber Duck”, no “Pig Pen”, no “Smoky” and no “Bandit”. Grandpa’s call letters were KLK6645 and that’s what he answered to, along with “base” when talking from the shop.
One Christmas, Jerry and I received a pair of walky-talkies. This was a prime example of modern technology and a real handy gadget for two boys prone to playing “army” around the neighborhood. On days when the weather was just right we could sometimes hear the local CB people with their usual numbers coded banter.
We marveled at what great fun it would be if only we could only talk to Grandpa, just up the road using our walky-talkies. All we really needed was just a little more power.
One of us, and it may never be known exactly who, decided to replace the 9-volt battery in the back of one of the radios with a significantly increased power supply. We used an old cord and plug and wired into the battery terminals and we were “go” for launch. Jerry pushed the plug into the wall receptacle under the desk in our bedroom.
The house system quickly pointed out our folly by sending a series of supernovas dancing across the floor followed by a scaled down model of a hydrogen bomb explosion rising above the radio and rolling off of the ceiling. We had not officially learned to cuss at that time, but new words were definitely forming.
The wall plug had already self-ejected and the smoke was beginning to clear when we noticed that the small fan in the room had stopped. We tried the ceiling light and then the lights in some of the other rooms and found that half of the house was down. We knew this would mean big trouble.
We quickly got the fuses replaced, got the lights back on then cleared the remaining smoke out though the bedroom window. I picked up the non-radio active remains and discovered that the radio that was just sacrificed to the Gods of 10-4 was, in fact, mine.
I don’t remember feeling particularly bad about this though, I think largely because I knew that the other radio might just as well have been vaporized too, since one walky-talky has almost no use without the other one.
Though we never did get the chance to hale Grandpa’s call letters, somewhere during that white-hot instant, the faint sound of two boys yelling is thought to have crackled the airways on a radio in a capsule named Mercury.
Of course, NASA would have called this a “glitch”.

Backyard Ups and Downs

2010-04-23T19:21:00.000-07:00

In my teens, I climbed to the tops of trees to enjoy the view and to feel the world swinging in the wind. I was aware of the presence of gravity and, of course, felt immune to it. It was a special moment to be alive.
Now, at age 55, the physics have changed. Last fall I leaned a ladder against a tall maple in my yard to cut down a hanging limb leftover from the ice storm. The distance from the ground to the top rung was twenty feet, but the view from that top rung to the ground was closer to 75 and I certainly wasn’t interested in the swaying effect.
I climbed up the ladder and stood precariously on the rung second from the top. Putting a chokehold on the tree trunk, I nervously sawed through the limb with a small handsaw. I watched the limb fall away, like Wylie Coyote, disappearing into the desert floor. When the limb bumped the bottom of the ladder, I dropped the saw and went for the double chokehold on the tree trunk. Visions of insurance policies and long-term recovery flashed through my head.
Despite my initial unwillingness to release the tree, I did eventually manage to climb down. It occurred to me that there, standing on the ground looking up, while pulling the bark from under my fingernails, was yet another special moment to be alive.
It’s springtime now and most of the significant busted limbs are down from the trees and I am concentrating on more “down to Earth” projects.
I decided to repaint an old metal yard chair, a veteran of many a back yard campfire and a dependable step-up for a guy who’s sometimes too lazy to get out a ladder.
This chair had the peelings of maybe 26 different coats of paint, the colors of which, none would be considered for this particular facelift as I decided to go with a nice bright safety yellow, something festive for my classic “Whatever‘s out there” yard décor collection.
It’s a little rough in texture, but looks good with my John Deere windmill and red painted bluebird house. And though it may someday be the finest piece on the scrap wagon, it’s safe for now and waits near the ever-extending ladder to see if I want to get dangerously up in the world or just hold on to my iced tea and simply sit down.
Well, right now, the chair sits pretty good.

Workshop Trolls

2010-01-29T11:20:00.000-08:00

My woodshop is my place of refuge. This is the place where dreams are manifested, where trees become cabinets and scraps become toys. I can also spend all day there doing nothing and at the end of the day have nothing to show for it. But I feel good about it and consider it time well wasted.
However, the older I get, the more I have to deal with a strange phenomena of misplaced tools. I don’t worry too much about an item that I might have used last month or last year, I find myself losing track of things that I am currently using on a project.
In my woodshop, a bright yellow tape measure has a bench life of about 30 minutes before it disappears within feet of me. Pencils last long enough to make about three lines for sawing.
To counter this, I try to keep a good half dozen tape measures and twice as many pencils on hand during any given wood project. When I have exhausted all of the replacements, it’s time to go in the house .
These illusive items are sometimes found later hidden between two boards or buried under the sawdust on the floor. These things and others often find themselves in my scrap bucket or even into the house, days later, covertly stashed into one of my sweatshirt pockets.
It’s almost as if there is a band of trolls hiding in the wood rack just waiting for me to turn my back so they can pull their tricks.
I suppose it could be a simple matter of forgetting but really, I pay very close attention and if I have actually forgotten anything in over fifty years, I certainly don’t remember it.
For verification, I will occasionally recall events or details with my wife, who will freely admit that we both naturally remember things differently, however, she will further point out that her version is always the correct one.
Well, I see the trolls have stashed a tape measure behind this computer. I am not letting go of the mouse.

Big Game Hunting

2010-01-05T16:57:00.000-08:00

A lot of folks will tell you that you have to be, as Elmer Fudd would say. “Verwy, verwy cwafty”, to get a deer. Well, I feel pretty crafty if I can miss a deer in the early morning hours on my way to work. It’s not as though I’m sneaking down the road in my stealthy bright red anti-camouflaged ford pick-up truck with the radio blaring.
It could very well be that these rascals simply know when we are not packing a weapon, and taunting us is somehow a kind of game for them: sort of like hunting.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I am all for the hunter and for all of the conservation reasons behind the sport, but really, is it as much of a challenge as it could be?
Consider this: I’m standing here looking out my back door at a yard full of shallow tunnels, mini-mountain ranges and mud piles, proof positive of an alien invasion. Any one who has ever tried to destroy this cloaked enemy of civilized landscape will tell you that there are few greater challenges in the predatory arena. It is an ongoing battle of winner takes all, to thwart the efforts of that lawn-tilling varmint: the mole.
One could go to the sporting goods store and spend a ridiculous amount of money so that he could look like a bush, but this prey does not need to see us, it feels us when we move.
I could get a high powered rifle with a big scope that can see Jupiter’s moons, but the mere discharge of that personal cannon can make cell phones all over the neighborhood automatically dial the police station. And if I miss, I’ve just dug another hole.
So I set traps, and I wait. And I wait… and I wait some more.
Occasionally, I score a direct hit, and when I do, I feel like throwing my kill onto the tailgate of my truck, and having my picture made for the newspaper with my orange hat and my garden hoe in hand.
So, my brother just got an eight-point buck.
Big deal. It’s not like getting a mole.

Immortal Plastic

2009-08-30T11:52:00.000-07:00

Plastic water bottles: 700 years in a landfill.
They make it sound like a bad thing, but the “problem” could turn out to be some kind of solution. In these modern times, so many products are not really made to last and soon have to be replaced. But there are a lot of things that could benefit greatly from a slow molecular breakdown.
Take paint for instance. Maybe we should grind up these plastic bottles to a powder and add it to paint. After your painted building finally rots away, one could be left with a huge 500-year-old tarpaulin with windows. You could just rebuild your structure and just throw on the old paint like a slipcover for another 200 years!
Roof shingles made from this immortal plastic would give a whole new meaning to “Lifetime Warranty”.
And there are all kinds of wood products that the salvaged plastic bottle could replace.
“Well Sonny, they say there was a factory somewhere that made stuff out of plastic bottles that they used to just throw away.”
“Really, Grandpa?”
“Sure. See that ancient fence row? Legend has it that those fence posts were set by your Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great…”
Sound unlikely?
Well, I remember when water first hit the market in plastic bottles. On a planet that is something like two-thirds water on the surface, it seemed silly at the time to think that people would actually buy something that they could get from the tap for free. But they did.
Personally, I’m hoping for something truly profound, like perpetual lawn chair webbing so I can avoid the yearly struggle to climb out after the seat drops me on the ground.
Just imagine that.

Camping 1968

2009-06-21T08:15:00.000-07:00

We twenty-nine Scouts and two Scout leaders went to the woods for four days and three nights in the first week of January around 1968.
Our campsite was a place called Salt Peter Cave; a couple of miles walk cross-country from a back road near Piney Fork, Kentucky. The “cave” was an undercut bluff providing shelter maybe a hundred and fifty feet across the rock face to a depth of fifty to sixty feet from front to back.
This was a dry shelter with woods all around. So dry, in fact, that the ground within was six to fifteen inches of finely powdered dust and ash from the campfires of a hundred years and countless inhabitants. Small animal bones as well as teeth resembling human, might be sifted from any good scoop of dust.
Now, a good Scout could start a campfire in any weather using only one match. That good Scout also knew that extra canteens were for kerosene. The scout leaders frowned on this short cut to a quick fire, so we kept this to ourselves as best we could.
We had scattered out in groups of four or five so we could sleep close to a campfire within the group. The first night we had several campfires under the bluff, which was convenient and warm, but the increased smoke caused one Scout to have an asthma attack. We were then limited to one central fire full time and individual small fires for cooking only.
After that, the nights were near sleepless as we shivered in rolled up balls, without the benefit of a nearby fire. Completely buried in my sleeping bag, my only respite from the cold seemed to be my own breath warming my fingers.
For bedding, we laid our sleeping bags atop leaves we’d gathered earlier, which were piled, into hollows in the dust. No matter how many leaves we gathered, there was always some big pointed rock that wasn’t noticed during the day that would keep you company all night long.
In the very early morning hours many of us would gather near the main fire to warm up, listening to the splattering of the water in the pool and the chase of squirrels in the woods.
Icicles had formed on the overhang high above a shallow, partially frozen pool. Most of us immediately placed eggs and other perishables along the edge of the pool, which served as our outdoor refrigerator. A good idea, we thought. The raccoons thought so, too.
One morning it had snowed and must have warmed up somewhat to cause the icicles to fall into the pool, dispatching anything that the raccoons might have missed.
I was not, at that time, familiar with the role of cooking oil in food preparation, so scrambled eggs ultimately became egg crumbs scraped from the mess kit’s fry pan. They were tasty just the same.
Partially burnt Vienna sausage and cold pork and beans with mustard is an acquired taste. Food like this builds memory cells in the brain, for after forty years, I still vividly remember the taste, but at the time, we felt like we were eating like kings.
One of the Scouts within our group used an improvised foil reflector oven to bake biscuits, which turned out a little doughy but did not go uneaten. Some also baked potatoes or corn on the cob wrapped in foil and laid in the coals of the fire.
We learned to smear dish washing soap on the underneath side of our mess kits to make an easy job of removing the black soot after cooking.
We tended to lean more towards military type provisions rather than the traditional Scout supplies. Many a surplus WWII artifact came out of retirement in those days. Nearly every Scout had some memento of their fathers’ service during the war: a shovel, a duffle bag or a canteen. One Scout even brought a helmet. I had one of my fathers’ Army belts, along with a canteen on an ammo belt, which I got from the Army Surplus store.
My Yucca pack always looked very straight and uniformed. I was complemented on this and felt no need to mention that there was a cardboard box neatly fitted into the pack to hold its shape.
I had borrowed my father’s leather boots, not to be deterred by the fact that they were a little small and smaller still with two pair of socks. They had that military look about them that blended well with my “look”. As always, fashion before function.
But the boots soon got wet and then froze overnight. I placed them by the main fire in the morning only to see the toes curl up as they thawed. The boots became torturously small and contorted with almost no room for feet let alone any socks.
I suffered though the third day before resorting to my only backup, a pair of low top house moccasins. The moccasins had a low tolerance for the wet weather and soon gave up their very soles in protest. I ended up using my bootlaces to tie the fragmenting moccasins to my feet. These lasted long enough to make it to the last day.
By the time we were ready to go home, the dust had thoroughly infiltrated everything we had brought with us. I was obviously filthy from head to toe, but didn’t seem to care since everyone else was equally mortified.
I remember standing in the shower at home watching the streams of mud swirling down the drain. I was certainly happy to get into my warm bed that night.
I lost most of my toenails over the next few weeks, which grew back eventually. I still wonder if it was the cold or if it was the constrictive boots which caused this.
Maybe it was both.

Relativity

2009-05-25T14:36:00.000-07:00

We were having dinner with my son Michael and his girlfriend Marinda recently. It’s inevitable that at some point in women’s conversation there will be an exploratory into matters of relativity. This can be difficult for a man to follow and is sometimes better left to the experts.
I returned my attention to the noodles, the meatballs and the Parmesan Cheese. Eating spaghetti and not wearing it was as much challenge as I wanted right then, but I listened in just the same.
“Do you know (So & So)?” my wife asked Marinda.
“Is that the (So & So) who was in the paper with the 50th anniversary?”
“Oh, no. (So & So) is young, she’s (What’s his name’s) daughter from his second wife, you know the one with the pretty hair. Anyway, she married (Some guy) who is the sixth oldest of (The poor parents) who had those thirteen children. (Some guy) drove a school bus in (Elsewhere) County where he ran into (So & So) when he rear ended (The poor parents) car with a pick-up he borrowed from (What‘s his name).”
I thought to myself, “Huh?”
Marinda took it up, “Okay… I went to school with (Some guy’s) sister, (What’s her face), who’s double jointed. She married (Another guy) and they have triplets. (Some guy) and (Another guy) run their daddy’s farm where (Still another guy) works part time. (Still another guy) is brother to (Someone else) who married (What’s his name), her fourth husband. I know who you’re talking about.”
“Well, she’s the new (Doesn’t really matter).” My wife concluded as a meatball danced on my fork.
Some ladies are fluent in kinfolk connections and can make it sound like a well practiced recital. There is probably a college course that men can take to compensate for this but women were obviously born with a masters degree.
I suppose it’s all part of the complex topic of general relativity.

Ice Storm 2009

2009-02-22T14:32:00.000-08:00

Monday, January 26, 2009 gave no indication of impending bad weather, but that seems to be the way of it; the only warning we had came from the weather reports on TV. It was enough to cause me to schedule a day off for Tuesday just in case I was to have trouble getting to work. Monday evening I also gassed up the truck and bought an extra 5 gallons of kerosene for my workshop heater. This heater had been used in the house before but very rarely, and never as the primary heat source.
For years, I have kept a journal. The following excerpts are a personal record of the days of the Ice Storm of 2009.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009.
An ice storm came during the night and is still raining and freezing here at 10am. Everything has a good coating and trees are giving way and crashing down all around. I am only now beginning to hear chainsaws around the neighborhood.
The electricity has been off since around 6:30 am. I don’t expect it will be back on today. I have lit the kerosene heater and it is doing a fine job, almost too good. It is in the carport room where the temperature is around 75 degrees. The rest of the house has dropped into the 60’s, which is not too bad for a 30-degree day.

I had awakened to 4:30 am expecting to get an early start on my thirty-four mile drive to Hopkinsville. Upon hearing the sound of limbs crashing down, and knowing that the roads were thickly coated in ice, I decided to call in to confirm that I would be taking the day off as scheduled.
The “carport room” is an enclosed carport, made into a “TV” room. When the power went off we moved the heater to the kitchen where we would spend most of our time anyway.
I walked around the yard during the day surveying the damage. I stayed clear of the trees as limbs were still falling without notice. The noise was like that of a rifle shot, with the bigger the limb, the higher the caliber. This sudden crack was followed by what sounded like applause and the breaking up of long spaghetti, ending with the crash on the ground. The larger limbs made a heavy thumb, which could be felt as well as heard.

McKinney lost his utility pole when a limb came down on his wire.
A limb from the cherry tree behind the shop broke off, bending the gutter on the backside, but I don’t think it hurt the roof. The two maples and the sassafras have all dropped limbs and I think it’s not over yet.
The back yard birds are having a tough time of it, but I crumbled up some cornbread for them and they seem to be eating it without complaint.
It’s after 4 pm now and limbs have continued to fall all day. I called in to arrange to take tomorrow as a vacation day.
6:30 pm and the power came back on for about 10 minutes and then shut down again. The furnace ran for this brief time…the temperature had surprisingly only dropped to 62 degrees.
Went to bed around 9 pm…a very unrestful night.

When people talk about storm damage, they always seem to compare the sight with a war zone. This was very much the case, as I have seen tornado damage that was similar to this ice damage. It just looks like a war has raged.
Trying to sleep Tuesday night was like being under siege. I was very tense, anticipating that a branch from the big maple out front might come crashing through the ceiling at any time. I rose on many occasion, trying to locate the closest impacts, but for the light of my flashlight, the town was pitched in darkness. Only wiggling limbs on the ground gave evidence of a recent nearby fall.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009.
Woke around 1:30 am to the sound of more limbs, probably the box elder.

This small but stocky tree was about forty feet from the bedroom. I had hoped that it would hold up as it had so many times before, but an eight-inch limb finally gave way, as did many smaller ones to nearly strip the tree of any sustaining growth.

I woke again at 4:30 and finally got up at 8 am. We had gotten two inches of snow to cover up the ice.
I cooked sausage and scrambled eggs on the fire at the pit. The gas grill decided to malfunction so my plan “B” was a good backup.

The ice was so thick on the grill that the orifices were apparently clogged resulting a full force flames coming out the bottom of the grill.

We went to Hopkinsville to try to find a kerosene heater for Michael. With some hundred thousand people out of power, everything was bought up.
We went by Brazeway and arranged to be on vacation till, at most, Tuesday of next week.

The direct route down highway 91 was presumed blocked by trees so we drove up the West Kentucky Parkway then took the Pennyrile Parkway over to Hopkinsville.
Hopkinsville had faired better on the damage but were somewhat swamped with people trying to find gasoline, kerosene and groceries. Many businesses were operating by generators with very limited stocks on their shelves.
Wal-Mart was open but had been picked clean of everything of non-electrical heat, or anything that was camping related. Flashlights, batteries, blankets and such were in high demand but short supply.
On the way back we were delayed about 45 minutes on the WK by some kind of problem with two tractor-trailer rigs stopped in the middle of the road.
All utilities were down with water being the only exception. I remarked that, “At least we have water.”
By the time we got home the water pressure had dropped significantly.

Thursday, January 29, 2009.
Out of bed around 6:30. Very low water pressure. Deb filled three buckets of 5 gallons each in case the water stopped altogether.
I made a fire in the pit…and scraped her car off.
Deb went to the courthouse for jury duty…there was no court in session. When she returned, I fried sausage and eggs on the fire.

I had begun to collect icicles from the roof eaves and anything else representing clear ice. I poured them into a washtub and melted them on the fire to gather water for flushing the toilet or any other non-drinking utility water use.

I used the chainsaw a little around the house and cut some limbs off of Michael’s house.

My son Michael, an employee of the Caldwell County Road Department, had been working some 14-hour days. He had not had the time to even access his own damage. I sawed some of the limbs from an elder tree in his back yard that was resting on his house and grill. These were so covered in ice that they could not effectively be moved. This at least gave him access to his grill. He had no heat and his indoor temperature had fallen to 37 degrees.
He had been spending his nights with his girlfriend‘s family. He could have stayed with us but I’m sure that given the choice, it’s natural for a guy to choose girlfriend over parents and Marinda is a very nice girl.

We left for Cadiz to try to find some kerosene as we only had about seven gallons left. We managed to find gasoline at Cadiz but no kerosene.
We went on to Hopkinsville and stood in line for three hours for 8 gallons @ $3.99 a gallon.

Much of Cadiz was still without power with only a few businesses open. We managed to find a couple of gas stations doing business and fell in line behind another car. A lady from the other side of the pumps came up to us and asked that we let her and her husband get to the pump ahead of us as they had entered from the wrong side by mistake. We were in no hurry and obliged. We had heard reports of price gouging and rude behavior of some who were in a tight spot. I felt like we were just along for the ride and felt no need to be difficult.
I noticed that people were not only filling their vehicle’s fuel tanks but were filling a half dozen or so 3 to 5 gallons plastic containers. This, I assumed, was to fuel generators, as gasoline is too dangerous to be used for indoor heaters.
We moved on to Hopkinsville where upon coming into town, we could see that Dodge’s Store was showing signs of activity. The pumps were cordoned off from traffic but a standing line was formed at the front door, with each person carrying several fuel containers.
We parked next door at the Dollar Store and walked across carrying our two 5-gallon cans. We got in line and waited out turn.
A half hour or so passed, and we were ushered inside the store where the line snaked its way down one of the aisles. The procedure was to pay for the kerosene at the counter and then go outside to another line leading up to the pump. Kerosene is notoriously slow to pump so delaying inside meant that you could at least stay inside out of the cold a little longer.
Eventually were made it to the counter where we paid $32 for 8 gallons. One of my cans still had a little in it so I figured that 8 gallons was a good amount. They gave us a small receipt with the number 27 on it and told us that there were 22 people ahead of us at the pump. They told us that if we bring the receipt back afterwards we could get free coffee.
Waiting in line outside was probably the coldest I had been in days, but still not too bad as I had been dressing for it for several days. We had left our coats in the truck so Deb went back and got them while I held our place in line. This helped immensely but I felt bad for some of the people who were shivering in little more than sweat shirts.
Before long, the Dodge’s Store employees came out with a large platter of hot wings, which were very tasty and warming. Just after that, they brought hot coffee. This was one of those kindnesses that sadly gets swept under the rug as time goes by. This is one that I will not forget.
We finally got our turn and filled our cans. We headed home with an additional 5 days supply of heating fuel.
We decided to take the direct route down State Highway 91 back to Princeton. We had talked to several people in the kerosene line who would be making the same journey so we now believed it to be passable.
Trees were ripped apart all along the way, which seemed to get worse at the county line, the halfway point of the 34-mile trip. There were several places where the road was reduced to one lane. Nearing Princeton, we were detoured over to a county road to bypass utility work on the edge of town.

Got home around 6:30 and heated ravioli on the fire.

Friday, January 30, 2009.
Still no electricity, water or anything. Michael came by around 6 am to pick up some hot soup for lunch. A sunny day, should be around 30 degrees.

The quality of some of our freezer food was coming into question. We decided to cook as much as we could before spoiling. This cooked food could be placed on the back porch where it would refrigerate and be reheated later.
Breakfast found me frying the remnants of a smoked ham from Christmas. This made a skillet full, which I tried to peddle at the neighbors. I found that at least one house had a surplus of food and loaded me up with several boxes of crackers. I returned home with more food than I went out with.

5:00 pm-Water pressure is returning. The irony is that I have spent the day catching the gutter drips and managed to get 50+ gallons of water to flush the toilet.
Most of the ice is off of the trees as it warmed up pretty good with the sun out.
Finally got (Dad &) Linda on the cell phone. They are living in the basement and are going to hunt a generator tomorrow.
Michael got power today.

Saturday, January 30, 2009. High temperature 59.
Still no lights. Some reports say it may be another week or more for the west side of town. I hope we are considered South Princeton. We can see streetlights to the west at night.
Was around 20 degrees this morning with heavy fog, which coated what’s left of the trees.
Got a hot shower this morning. Made scrambled eggs with ham bits, green peppers, onions, red peppers and cheese. Tasty and cooked on the fire.
We moved some of the food from the freezer to Michael’s house. I filled bags with ice and put them in (our) freezer in hopes of saving the rest. Cannot eat this food faster than it ruins. We are going to take a loss.

I had long felt like not buying a generator back in the summer was a major mistake. Not standing in line in Hopkinsville or Paducah these past few days to buy one was feeling like an even bigger one.
In an effort to keep our heat bill down, the “hobby room” containing the freezer was shut off from the heat. We had kept the freezer closed in this coldest room of the house. Despite our efforts, we had conceded to the fact that we were going to lose most if not all of the food in the deep freeze.
When we learned that Michael’s power had returned, we removed the upper portions of food and repacked them into his freezer, which had a lot of empty space.
I had heard of people standing in line for bags of ice at the few stores that were open. This seemed absurd to me as ice was lying on the ground everywhere. I shoveled ice from under the maple tree, which had fallen off the day before, and bagged it in some hamburger bags. These were placed in our freezer as a last ditch effort to save the remaining food.

5:30 pm- I cut up a lot of firewood from these downed limbs. Helped clear J. B. McKinney’s front so that the power people can set a new pole. Gave some of my cut firewood to Woody. Helped the guy across the street get a limb off of the telephone cable.
Used the John Deere mower and trailer to move firewood around the yard. This was a good productive day.
The electric bucket truck came down the street today checking pole-to-house connections. I hope this is a sign that the power is forthcoming.

Recooked cheese dogs on the fire for supper. I should sleep good tonight.

We had gotten very good use from my John Deere lawn tractor. The small trailer was very handy in moving firewood around the yard and to the neighbors.
The smallest of the line, this JD would later pull the highway trailer to and from the neighbors to help clear their brush.

At 7:40 the electricity came back on. At this point we don’t know how long it will last, but we are sure glad to get it.

I waited for some time before turning the light out on the kerosene heater. It had burned non-stop since Tuesday morning and was even refueled without turning it off. This is not something that the manufacturers recommend. When I turned down the wick, I found it to be stuck, apparently melted into a fat spot, which refused to retract. Eventually it gave in but I will have to replace it before the next catastrophe.
I sat down in front of my television and decided to watch a movie on DVD. One of the movies had a setting in the ice and snow of Mt. Everest. I’d had enough of that and picked something else.
I began to feel a little uncomfortable, as I knew that some of my neighbors, though surviving with gas heat or generators, were still without power.
I turned off the television and went to bed.

But there are still plenty of people out there who still do not have all of their utilities restored. The process may seem slow but the devastation to the system is enormous and will take a lot of time to rebuild.

Meanwhile, we recover and exchange our stories, with friends and nieghbors, as we will for years to come. Everyone will have a tale to tell about the big storm of 2009 which stopped everything and changed everything we thought we knew about what happens when the lights go out.

Untitled

2008-12-31T18:06:00.000-08:00

Drew heard his dog, Chester, barking in the distance, but kept still as the wind coursed though the high grass on either side of him.
He watched intently with his chin pressed against the ground as the Union gunboat slowly glided past the sandbar. Eyeing the big guns in their portals he marveled, as it swept wide, presenting a menacing starboard broadside to the entrenched enemy.
He had found a good vantage point just above the curve in the channel where he could see the Confederate camp just down stream. Cannon had been placed on a rocky overlook with field artillery hidden some distance back from the water’s edge on the inside of the bend. He had been watching for sometime and had observed no movement in the rebel camp but he was sure that once the ironclad came into view, all of that would change…
“James Andrew!”
He jumped up from his hideout and quickly snatched the warship from the waters. He gathered the rebel soldiers as quickly as he could and bounded off through the brush.
A call of “Andrew” from his mother would bring a boy reluctantly in for supper, but “James Andrew” usually meant some form of reckoning was looking for him.
“James Andrew!” His mother called again.
“Coming!” he answered, struggling to maintain both armies as Chester, the Border collie, was now running haphazardly under foot. A rebel soldier fell by the wayside, which did not go unnoticed. Chester quickly snatched it up and streaked across the yard and up on the porch where he dropped the little man at the feet of Drews’ mother. He sat back and gazed up at her almost smiling, the way dogs do.
“You are such a tattle tail”, She said as he kept glancing back at Drew who was coming across the yard.
Drew frowned at Chester. “Traitor”, he said, as he aimed one of the cannon his way. Chester had a way of wearing a halo when things hit the fan, something that Drew could not seem to master.
“Drew, I asked you to cut down those bushes behind the shed. Did you do that before you went to the creek?”
Drew dumped the soldiers on the porch and replied, “No Ma’am,” knowing that she already knew the answer anyway.
He walked around to the garage and gathered up the axe and an old pair of loppers. The bushes had been there since before he was born and had only recently died, of old age, he assumed. He failed to see the immediate need to clean up the area but would not argue the point with his mother. He only hoped that there would be some kind of adventure in it, though the prospects looked very unlikely.
He hacked away at the bushes and before long he had gotten to a point where what little was left was thick branches down close to the ground. He went back to the garage and returned with a shovel and began digging at the base of each bush. Drew was growing tired of this chore and became frustrated at the depth of the root ball.
He stopped for a moment and stepped back as Chester sniffed the excavation. Drew could not understand why such a job couldn’t wait till a time when he actually wanted to do it. He began to think about doing other things and wondered how he could manage an escape.
“What cha doin’?”
Paul had managed to slip up on Drew unnoticed, something he enjoyed immensely, usually finding Drew talking to Chester and carrying both sides of the conversation. Another minute and he might have done just that.
“Mom wants me to dig up these bushes,” Said Drew.
Drew resumed working with his shovel as Paul stood overlooking an ever-increasing hole around the bushes.
“I just came up from the creek,” said Paul, “Thought you’d be there.”
“Was.” Drew scraped the loose dirt from the hole and stopped again. “I got captured. Got hard labor. Working on an escape.”
Paul squinted, “Digging your way out, huh?”
“Yep.”
They both grinned and grabbed the low branches of the bush and gave it a good shake. These chores always seemed to go faster when Drew’s friend Paul showed up. The end result being that they might finish sooner and vacate to a more favorable endeavor.
The digging went on for about another hour broken up by several distractions involving the finding of an old piece of chain, an iron rod and two halves of the same arrowhead.
Finally, the ground surrendered the remaining ragged stump and the two boys leaned back against the shed on either side of the hole. Drew thumped the ground with the iron rod as they discussed the possible scenario of a band of Chickasaws trying to find a lost arrow, and maybe having to finish off a wounded bear. He drew back with the rod and speared it into the hole, making a strange metal sound. Both boys stopped and looked at each other.
“Treasure!” they said almost at the same time.
Drew pulled out the rod and both boys began digging with their hands and soon cleared the soil from around the edges of what appeared to be a small metal box.
Paul stopped digging and leaned back from their find.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
“What? Smell what? I don‘t smell anything” Drew stopped, and stared at Paul in bewilderment.
“Where’s your septic tank?” Paul asked, looking at his hands.
“What are you talking about?”
“Last week Polly Tabors septic tank was pumped out and it smelled just like this.” Paul waved his hands toward Drew’s face.
Drew shook his head, “So what you’re saying is, you fell in the mess and never washed your hands?”
Paul was laughing now but then thought about it and stopped again. “Well, where is your septic tank?”
Drew studied for a moment.
"Other side of the house,” He said, “Sort of down the hill.” He pointed at the metal box, “This ain’t it.”

Work in Progress.

A Smithy

2008-12-31T16:09:00.000-08:00

Jonas slowly opened his eyes and frowned, realizing a throbbing headache. Thinking he had simply awakened from a night’s sleep, he struggled to reason why, practically at the end of his nose, there was a wiry white haired fellow gazing at him intently. Jonas firmly pushed the man back with a callused right hand against his chest.
“Not so fast, Jonas,” said the little man. “Are ye aware that ye have met with a serious injury?”
“I am aware that my skull hurts, and who the hell are you?”
“Now, we’ll have none of that, “said the little man, “There are ladies present.”
From a chair in a shadowy corner of the room rose a gaunt figure of a women dressed in black lace. The Presbyterian Lady’s Auxiliary had seen the need to send it’s most ardent busy-body, the moral harpy, Ms. Tripp.
“Oh yes, Jonas Finch,“ she said in a high raspy voice. “It’s plain to see that you are at yourself. It appears that prayer can only go so far and that you have not awakened as a new man ready to preach on Sunday. With such an abundance of heathens through out the county…”
“Ain’t they some hogs somewhere that you can torment?” Jonas muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” Ms. Tripp glared back at him.
“I said, I…I wouldn’t want to put the preacher out of work,” Jonas said a little louder.
“Well!” She said with some disgust. “I think the Lord could not have too many in His employ.” With barely a glance towards the kitchen she continued while walking toward the door. “Abigail, I am relieved to see that you are not yet a widow, and if I can be of guidance to his salvation…”
“Thank you, Ms. Tripp,” said Abigail hiding a grin behind small fingers. “I think we can manage.”
Jonas squinted hard as the screen door slammed loudly.
The little man leaned forward again and said in a quiet concerned tone, “Jonas, do ye know me?” he said, studying Jonas’ expression. “I am Doctor Eli Wilson.”
“Well, I reckon I’ve seen you”, Jonas said as he took a long breath and exhaled. “But, I don’t recall having business with you.”
“No sir, ye wouldn’t”, the Doctor smiled, as he sat back, closing his bag. “It has occurred this morning that Henry Mott’s Morgan horse placed hoof to head rendering ye insensible. Ye have slept through our business and God willing, our work is done.” He turned to take a coffee cup from the small table by the bed.
“I thank you, Mrs. Finch”, said the Doctor and he took several short sips once again studying Jonas. “Ye should not work this day and perhaps not tomorrow.”
“Think so, do you?”, said Jonas as he sat up and lowered his feet to the floor. He would afford no more notice of the Doctor’s mandates than if he had spoken from the other end of the county.
“Jonas, ye should not take this lightly,” said the Doctor. “As ye have lingered briefly at death’s door, ye should reflect that that door could yet open.”
Jonas seemed undeterred as a relatively tiny Abigail rushed forward leveling an outstretched arm and finger pointed directly at Jonas’ nose. “And where do you think you’d be going” Her Irish temper was well known to him and on any other day, a source of amusement.
“Do you not hear this man? Do you know how hard it would be for your children and for me if you fall over dead? Aye, you will wish to be kicked by another horse if you think to get up now!”
Jonas would back down from no one except for the fiery haired mother of his children. He eased his six-foot frame back onto the bed and breathed a heavy sigh as the Doctor tried to contain a laugh. “Mrs. Finch, I expect he is in good hands now and I should be calling on the Millers before nightfall. Sara is expecting her seventh child soon, they are hoping for a girl this time.”
“ I suppose there is always hope“, said Abigail, “T’would not be too much to ask, after six boys.”
The Doctor closed his bag and stepped toward the door.
“What of Mott’s horse?” Jonas asked.
“Well, the horse got the last word with ye this morning, and as ye can see, it is now late afternoon,” the Doctor chuckled. “Your apprentice, has since shod the horse, which I am sure, is no worse for wear, though I think him lucky not to break his leg on such a hard head.”
Jonas turned a hard look in the direction of the Doctor and growled under his breathe, “Be gone, Quaker.”
The Doctor smiled and turned to Abigail, “ I have left some powders there on the table if he should see fit to give in to it. I shall return before weeks end. Mrs. Finch, I thank ye for the coffee and bid ye good day.”
“Thank you, Doctor Wilson,” chimed Abigail, as the screen door slapped shut.
The solemn faces of three small children then pressed against the window screen looking in at Jonas. He reached out from the bed and thumped the screen and the little faces pulled back smiling. Jonas winked at the least one, Emmy, a tiny girl of four years. They all ran giggling off the porch and around the house.
Jonas watched the children playing in the dirt between the roots of a great oak tree. They recited pretend dialogs while moving stick people and few marbles along the dusty trails of imagination.
By evening Jonas was up and about with a stiff headache, the likes of which recalled his younger days when he acquainted himself with his Grandfather’s jug of corn whiskey. The ill effects soon dispelled any chance of a lasting partnership, much to his Grandfather’s delight.
Jonas was no stranger to pain. His hands and arms were scarred from the hot iron of the blacksmiths trade. Heavy work with wagons and horses had fashioned a solid figure of a man of twenty eight years.
The next morning, Jonas got up early as usual, having rested more than he felt like he needed. He had stoked the fire and laid iron aside to fashion into hinges. He fed the hogs then returned to the house and ate a good breakfast of bacon, eggs and biscuits.
Leaning against a front porch post, Jonas surveying the street feeling like town emperor with a biscuit in one hand and the butter spoon in the other. At the far end of the street he could see the grain mill and a heavy wagon being loaded with bags of flour. The millwright, Samuel Newsom, was walking towards him with a big smile and grain dust puffing out of his clothes.
Just then a man on a new bicycle passed Samuel ringing the warning bell on the handles. The rider passed the house ringing the bell twice more, as Jonas watched him disappear around the corner.
“Well.” he said almost out loud.
“Jonas, you got to get you one of them”, Samuel said as he trotted up the steps hardly noticed.
“What?”
“Damn bi-cy-cle, boy! I swear, somebody‘s gonna make a killing off them things before it plays out.” Samuel dropped onto the porch swing in a cloud of flour dust. “Tell me now, just what jug must a man drink from to climb onto Granny‘s spinning wheel and ride it down the road, anyway?”
“I don‘t know, but I expect he’d have to drink enough that he couldn’t walk,” said Jonas, waving the butter spoon about.
“It is a truly marvelous age”, Samuel continued, “It seems that every couple of months there’s some kind of a new contraption.”
Samuel threw his head back and rubbed his chin stubble . “Now, I believe that’s D. W. Picket’s brother, James.” he said. “You know, he ain’t no circus acrobat…does well to tie his own shoes. But I seen him the other day coming down Graves Hill just a flyin‘.”
“Well, even a rock can roll down hill,” Jonas said as he gulped down the last of the biscuit, “I’ll be impressed when I see one flyin‘ uphill.”
Despite wanting to sound like a skeptic for Samuel, Jonas could see the changes coming. He had seen steam engines and mechanized industry in his youth when his father worked in a Pennsylvania foundry. There seemed to be a machine for every job there, and he had marveled at the workings of a machine performing the skilled trade of his father, Ephraim.

Work in progress.

Ramblings

2008-10-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

Crisp, curly ribbons fall at my feet as my old jackplane slices through the years. The hard wood yields hidden rings laid down generations ago when the world was a much different place.
The night is cold with its cutting wind, but it’s been a good day in the wood shop. Work is tolerable near the kerosene heater, as a distant radio station fades in and out like the memories of childhood summer days.

Funny how cold weather makes one think about summertime and days gone by. I am reminded of those hot days of my youth along the Ohio river near Tolu, Kentucky, where a breeze over the waters was as good as a drink. The deep dust of an old roadbed padded my bare feet and puffed out clouds as I walked. My father would shoot (at) ducks on the sand bar from here. They were so far away that I could barely see them, and it seems doubtful that he ever hit one with his pistol, but we were always facinated in his trying.

This Oak, being redeemed from aged lost causes, tends to have injuries and defects in all of the wrong places. I trim small pieces of walnut to serve as Dutchmen to repair blemishes in the table top. The color contrast will do less toward hiding the problem but more for the marking of events in the life of the wood.

In the childhood days of my father, an unknown man was found near here, having drowned some days earlier. He may have been a fisherman or a hand on a riverboat. In the 1920’s and 30’s it was easy for a man to disappear if he wanted to, and just as hard to give him a name if he couldn’t tell you. Efforts made to find the next of kin were fruitless and he was buried in the edge of a cornfield along the river. No marker was provided for a soul unknown and he and his resting place were soon forgotten.

The Old Lantern

2008-09-13T16:45:00.000-07:00

When it comes to matters of the supernatural, my beliefs are limited to what I have seen, and so far I have seen nothing. However, one night in the fall of 1969 almost changed everything.
My brother, Jerry and I, and brothers David and Mike Swan, had just wrapped up another evening of guitar playing at our house, just outside of Marion. It was one of those warm nights with clouds racing past the moon, and leaves tumbling across the road like varmints in the darkness.
The old two-story house up the road had been abandoned for years. It was probably built before 1900 and was well beyond repair, and was sometimes used to store hay on the ground floor. The upstairs was a bit of a mystery, one we were eager to solve.
We headed up the road with an old miners lantern that Grandma Johnson had given me. It shined a dim but steady light in the autumn wind.
The front porch planks had given way to the weather. Seeing the exposed floor joists as an obstacle, we went around to the back of the house. The back porch was not much better, but did afford passage. The old screen door was hanging by the top hinge only and had to be lifted and set aside. Nobody wanted to be first and just as certain, nobody wanted to be last, but we all wanted to be within the light of the lantern. Together, we stepped inside.
The first room had been the kitchen with its old linoleum floor and buckling cabinets. Each step sent mice running. We made our way through three rooms and advanced to the stairway at the front of the house. The stairway, just inside the front door, went half way up the flight to a landing where the stairs turned full about and continued unseen to the second floor. Moonlight shown through a window at the landing, just beyond the range of the lantern. The shadowy fingers of a tree limb reached across the wall by the stairs. We hesitated as the wind gave movement to the specter.
Bravery can be cultivated by the company one keeps, and the more company one keeps, the braver one gets. Besides, we had a lantern, so we started up the stairs.
At that moment, the lantern flickered and dimmed. We quickly backed down the stairs as the light steadied and brightened. Panic gave way to humor as we joked about the other guy’s wild-eyed reaction, never admitting for one minute that anyone was scared. We gathered our collective nerve and marched up toward the landing.
Suddenly, the lantern went out as if snuffed by some phantom’s breath. Now, the first was last and the last was first, and whoever it was that was screaming seemed to be right on my heels. We tore through the house, crashing into obstacles that didn’t seem to be there before, but nothing short of a solid wall was going to keep us from that back door.
We burst through the screen door, shattering the one remaining hinge, and sending the door flying. Once out, I could see that everyone else was in front of me. I wasn’t about to look back to see what was behind me. We didn’t stop until we got to the front yard of our house.
Later that night I relit the lantern, which burned without waiver, as it did on many occasion since.
The old house was finally razed in the Summer of 2008, but the old lantern’s failure on the stairway will remain one of this life’s little mysteries.

Night Visitor

2008-09-07T11:28:00.000-07:00

I think it’s safe to say that most everybody is afraid of something to some degree, and it really doesn’t have to be a genuinely threatening thing or situation. It bothers us and that’s really all that matters.
Though darkness in itself may hold no demons, those other things that make us shiver and run can become many times more intense in the dead of night.
One particular night I was suddenly awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of a Weed eater passing near my head. At first I thought I might have been dreaming, but there it was again. As if tethered on a string and rotating around the room, something was making low passes above the bed. I pulled the sheet over my head and froze. Then a thud and a couple of bounces brought silence.
I hesitated briefly then threw back the covers and jumped to the center of the room. I pulled the string on the ceiling light and began scanning the room to find the invader. Searching the area of the suspected crash site, I found nothing. I flipped the sheets back from the bed to make sure that I would be sleeping alone, then pulled the light and got back into bed. Whatever it was, it was still there.
It was a warm summer night and a slight breeze came through the screened windows. But I felt the chill of fright as my hair stood on end and I tried to convince myself that nothing dangerous could have gotten in through the screens or closed door. By the time I had eliminated every entry but the chimney over the grate, the visitor was roaring around the room again. I knew at that point that it was not a bat, it was not a bird, and that I was not going to stay in that room with it.
Again, the phantom crashed, a little closer this time I thought, as it tumbled across the floor. I rolled from the bed and pulled the light back on. After a brief search, I knelt down and looked under the wrought iron bed.
There, against the back wall I saw movement. Thinking that I may have a bird after all, I pulled the foot end of the bed back from the wall and flopped across the bed to take a look.
My skin began to crawl as I watched this two and a half inch near-mechanical black army tank of a creature elbowing it’s way through the usual under-bed-debris. It stopped for a moment flipping up two panels on it’s back exposing wings big enough for FAA markings. I held my breath and thought “uh-oh.”
I became airborne about the same time as the bug. He continued zooming the room as I flew off the front porch.
A short time later when it crashed again, I crept back into the house and covered it with a coffee can but couldn’t bring myself to attempt to scoop it up. I tried to sleep but kept hearing the can being pushed across the floor. Eventually, I set my shoe on the can and tried to get some sleep.
I don’t recall what became of the night visitor in the morning though I am certain that he was somehow evicted.
It had been a long night for both of us. He had been trapped in a small round room reeking of coffee, living the nightmare that he might never get out, while I lay awake listening, desperately afraid that he would.

My Fishing Line

2008-09-04T18:44:00.000-07:00

Despite popular belief, fishing is not entirely about fish. Fishing is about the experience or in my case, the perceived experience. Some days I can catch about as many fish while casting in my own back yard. I can live with that, as long as I don’t lose too many lures.
State records being removed from my expectations, I took a day off and headed for the lake. In Suwanee I made a stop at one of the local bait shops to get my annual fishing license and an essential chocolate cupcake.
A drive-by census of my regular fishing spots ended me up below Kentucky Dam with the snaggers and the bucket packers. The Fish and Wildlife man was standing at the top of the steps leading down to the water so I asked him as I approached if he was checking fishing licenses. I had just invested $15 dollars for my orange card, the least he could have done was look at it.
But, “No,” he said, “I’m doing a survey on krill, I may want to talk to you when you come back up.” I said “Okay,” and continued down the steps.
“Krill?” I thought, looking at my 6 pound test line, “Isn’t that something that whales eat?”
I’d heard the name and probably seen the fish but I was among seasoned fisherman and this was not the time or the place to show your ignorance. I figured I’d look it up when I got home and then I could pretend I knew it all along.
I made my way down the long stairway to the waterline where it was more-or-less elbow-to-elbow fishing. I have a real problem with #8 treble hooks whizzing by my ear so I moved some seventy-five feet down stream from the nearest snagger and laid claim to a small group of semi-flat-topped rocks.
I flipped a brand new green and orange spinner out into the swirling waters and almost immediately the line back lashed on the real. The lure sank to the bottom as I untangled the mess. This was the death sentence for the lure as I snapped off the line.
I sat down on the least pointed rock I could find, not recently painted by water birds, and replaced the line on the real.
While everyone else fished and the wildlife man did his survey, I inventoried my tackle box, and found that all of last years’ empty bait packages were still there. The white jigs I had bought in September were now orange having rusted in the bottom of the box. They would have been handy right then, but I tied on yet another brand new spinner bait and continued casting for half an hour or so, with barely a bite.
Following a cast, I pulled up the slack and felt stiff resistance at the other end. It was heavy, I estimated probably 500 pounds of trophy limestone. I was about to select something from my list of disgruntled outbursts, when it began to swim off with my lure.
This fish showed no excitement, but had every indication of something large, as if I’d hooked a pick-up truck slowly backing out of my driveway. I held my ground as it headed back upstream toward the snaggers.
The seldom heard drag brake released a length of line making that little noise that tells everyone else, “Hey, look at this!” I glanced up to see at least a couple of other guys who had stopped fishing to watch the action. I assumed my best “American Sportsman” stance as I took in some line imagining wild surface action and slow motion camera shots. It was my show now and there would be no commercial breaks.
But the fish changed it’s mind and went deep again and straight out in front of me. Again the drag buzzed as he took the line from the reel. I felt a little like the dog who chases cars; now that I got one, what am I going to do with it?
Again, I took up the line, and again he came closer to the surface. It occurred to me at that point that the lure was only a 1/16 ounce spinner, and I marveled at the stresses that it was under…
Instantly the line went slack and then gave a slight tug. I raised the rod up quickly and reeled to maintain the hook set, when out of the water popped this four inch stripper dangling from the end of my two inch spinner bate. If ever I wanted a fish to fall off the hook, this was it. I thought about the snaggers and turned to block their view of “Nemo” as I removed the hooks and dropped the fish back into the water.
I made a couple more casts and decided to leave. The Fish and Wildlife man had already left so I was relieved that my vast knowledge of krill would not be put to the test.
I opted to forgo the stairway some hundred feet away and headed straight up the steep rip-rap. It’s always farther up than it is down so I was really out of breath when I got to the top, where a lady in the parking lot asked me, “Did you have any luck?”
“Yes ma’am, I did”, I gasped. “I got all of the way…back up here… without having a heart attack.”
“Well, that’s something!”, she laughed. “At least your not bragging about some fish that got away.” She was obviously a fisherman’s wife.
Later, sitting on the porch bench at the bait shop, I turned up a cold bottle of grape soda while out-of-town anglers fueled up their bass boats and rearranged their coolers. These guys were seriously into losing lures, I thought, as I flipped through a complimentary sport fishing guide, covertly searching for krill.

Skunk Warfare

2008-09-02T15:44:00.000-07:00

I’ve just finished doing nothing in my shop as I stand here on my back door step and hurl a flat rock to the South, where on a good day with a strong North wind, it leaves the city of Princeton and lands just over into the county. This evening’s breeze has just delivered the pungent greeting card of an old familiar acquaintance.
A month earlier I had made myself a small campfire near my workshop and was standing, admiring my outdoorsmanship at having a fire without smoke. It was dark, but not so dark that I couldn’t see the black and white visitor creeping up from behind my shop. We saw each other at about the same time, so as he broke left behind my fire, I went right to the porch of my shop. I looked back to see him standing where I had been, mesmerized in the light of my fire. He waited for a minute then disappeared under my lawnmower shed.
This had not been my only close encounter of the worst kind. We had met before on a different evening where he had also retreated underneath the shed. This, to me, established his residency, which was total unacceptable, so to quote Daffy Duck, “Of course, you know, this means war”.
I deployed the latest chemical warfare around the shed designed to voluntarily repel “Pepe Le Pew” but was disappointed to see one night that he had brought home a date. This escalated the situation beyond the realm of negotiation as I seeded the area with moth balls thinking that skunks would eat them, get sick and go away. After a few days, it was clear that sanctions were not going to get results.
I toyed with the idea of using my shop vac to inject smoke under the shed from some smoldering sawdust. In this daylight raid, I would need to plug the holes under the shed after they were smoked out. This close proximity wreaked with the possibility of a counter attack by the skunks, so the mission was scrubbed.
I’ve decided to surround the enemy in their headquarters, sealing up the gaps between building and ground, leaving a single exit hole through a small wooden box having a one-way flapper door. This way they will be locked out during the night when they go out on the town.
This is the plan anyway, lined up behind checking the rain gauge, filling the bird feeder and my favorite, semi-snoozing in the porch rocker while holding a glass of tea.
Otherwise, life’s good on the dotted line, the boundary between town and country. Standing here like emperor of all that I survey, I reason that if you have to live in a town, there’s still a lot to be said for living on the edge.

A Fish Story

2008-09-01T16:51:00.000-07:00

Waving a fly swatter about, with a cigarette dancing on her lip, Hazel waded into another tale. She was more likely to conjure up the memoirs of witches or the details of some local haunting than to just tell what happened last week. Many a tale was told to make me walk faster at night past a rustle in a cornfield or a shadow by an old house. Of course, I knew the stories were subject to some exaggeration, but I never let that slow me down.
In 1975 she was an older lady, but by no means elderly, drawing upon her days as a young girl in the late 1930’s. The conversation had apparently wandered close to one of her favorite fields of memory, and she was ready to jump the fence.
In 1937 the Ohio River left it’s banks and went window-shopping on Broadway in downtown Paducah. The Cumberland was not to be outdone. Homes and farms all along the river were swallowed up in a cold swirling ruin. High water in the bottomland was slow to go down, but eventually the floodwaters receded, and when they did, a legend rose out of the water.
A local farmer noticed that in one of many low spots where the waters had pooled, what appeared to be the roof of a brown bus was beginning to emerge. It was not uncommon to find all manner of debris washed up after a flood but this bus had a two-foot long fin sticking out of it. The farmer and his neighbor made attempts to row out to the object but were turned back as it began to churn the waters.
As the water slowly dropped, it revealed a creature some forty feet long and about eight feet across, easily the biggest catfish anyone had ever seen. It had eyes as big as a softball and black as the night. The mouth was wide enough to swallow a man and was the marvel of young boys who prodded with sticks only to see it bite them off. On one occasion a man standing by its tail was knocked flat when the fish flinched.
Word travels fast in small towns and before long people were coming from miles around to see the spectacle. The farmer, being unable thus far to work the field, found himself busy entertaining and visiting with the many onlookers. He erected long tables for the food that many of his neighbors were bringing. He basked in his newfound notoriety. People joked with him saying,” You ought to sell tickets!“ But he refused saying that he rarely had visitors and was content to enjoy it.
Eventually word reached an eastern city from which two men came offering to purchase the fish for a large sum of money. Again he refused.
As the days passed the fish slowly died, as did the novelty along with it. Soon all the visitors were gone and it was nearing time to break the field for planting. But now he had a problem. In as much as a small dead fish has a big odor, a huge dead fish is absolutely intolerable, and his neighbors let him know it. The two men from the big city were no longer interested in the purchase and furthermore refused the fish as a gift.
In the end, the farmer and his unfortunate sons had to saw up the carcass and haul the fish off in chunks.
I must have been grinning in obvious disbelief when Hazel leaned back and said.” It’s the truth!” She pointed her finger at my nose and frowned. “If you don’t believe me you can go ask…” and reeled off several names of people I knew. I think she and I both knew I wasn’t going to ask any of them to bear witness to any such fish story.
So I took it for what it was: A tall tale conjured up in the warmth of a potbelly stove. I enjoyed the yarn as well as her corn dodgers and apple turnovers.
Years later, I relayed the story to another more elderly lady, and noticed that she kept nodding as if to verify the “facts” as I told them. When I finished, she sipped her coffee and smiled knowingly.
“Well, I never did get to go see it”, she said, as she pushed up her glasses. “But I know several who did. They say it was quite a sight.”

At Granny's

2008-09-01T16:40:00.000-07:00

My thoughts travel back to the late 1950’s to the little
town of Tolu, Kentucky, where my Granny, Lil Morris lived.
We were all much younger then and times were so much
simpler. Entertainment was the real world and there was
plenty of it to go around. Life in a very small town can be
dull for visiting Grandchildren, but Sunday afternoon at
Granny’s had its little rewards.
One coveted chore was collecting eggs from the hen house.
Being “first” meant a lot in those days as we raced out the
back door with a tattered basket lined with cloth. At our
young age there was something magic about finding eggs in
an otherwise empty hollow of straw.
Now, a sitting hen was a different story. Looking into the
cold emotionless eyes of a chicken, I was convinced that any
thoughts it might have about me would be pure evil. I
always passed this one by. But my older brother, Jerry
always seemed to get there first, braving dirt daubers and
cobwebs. Then right about the time that I entered the
doorway, feeling relatively safe, he would spook the hen off
the nest and I had to run for my life! It’s no wonder the
door stayed in disrepair.
Adjacent to the hen house was Granny’s washhouse.
Although she had a new washing machine in the basement,
she could still be seen running clothes through the old
wringer. The washhouse air was thick with the smell of lye
soap and mothballs. Anyone stepping onto the old porch
was sure to hear small critters inside scurrying to their
dark hideouts. Granny was always good to us, and we loved
her, but I sometimes felt, as a five-year-old might, that this
was the place where spells were cast, and I would not
venture there alone.
Granny saved everything from used Christmas wrapping paper
to rain. Granny’s back porch and cistern top were covered
with a wide array of metal pans, tubs and buckets. During a
slow steady shower, the sound of a marimba band could be
heard through the open windows of Granny’s kitchen.
When we washed up for dinner, likely as not, we used a
white enameled wash pan full of rainwater.

Sunday dinner at Granny’s would meet you at the front
door with the smell of cream style corn, chicken and
dumplings, and homemade apple pie with it’s dough lattice
sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Being a large family
we gathered chairs from throughout the house and
squeezed in around the table. The youngest one would
usually sit on a yellow metal stepstool that was Granny’s
helper, as she wasn’t very tall. At one time or another, each
of us kids had eaten from the pewter infant’s plate that my
Dad used as a child. Granny rarely cooked a large amount
of any one dish, but rather a wide variety in many small
dishes, and always lemonade or Iced tea.
Houses in the area all seemed to be linked by a maze of
deeply worn footpaths. These were the products of careful
treading as the older residents were often seen breaking
stride to keep a footfall within the bare spots.
The path leading to the post office, which was also a private
residence, meandered onto a rolling walkway of old red bricks
trimmed with moss which were cool under little bare feet. As
children we sometimes spent a week at a time with Granny and would
delight in sending a letter home, although Marion was less than
twenty miles away. Often Granny would get a letter from
an acquaintance, exchanging a recipe, a comment on the
weather or a recitation of how a stranger was somehow a
distant relative.
The old store in the two-story brick building was a favorite
of mine. It seemed more like a gathering place than a
business. My Dad would buy us an Orange Crush or a
Grape Nehi from the slide top drink box. Licorice and hard
candy were kept in glass vending jars along an
age-darkened counter. I enjoyed cavorting with the locals,
sitting on wooden pop crates stood on end. But you had
to watch your step lest you stepped where someone spat.
Summer nights always came with the dove’s song, as a thin veil
of fog would creep into nearby fields. There, an old tractor might
putter home along a fencerow amongst freshly baled hay,
leaving lightning bugs to keep an all night vigil. One could
hear a back porch conversation somewhere near bouts in
soft voices that chimed in the evening calm. An old
speckled hound, seen briefly in patches of moonlight
through great oaks, slowly would make his way to some
familiar porch.
At Granny’s, bedtime came early. I would lay awake
watching the curtain sheers perform their slow dance on
night breezes. Tucked deep into the feather bed, I slept to
the cadence of the old cuckoo clock in the living room, and
the occasional tap of night bugs on the window screen.
These are the times that are tucked away in the fruit jars of
my memories, like preserves of the moments, to taste again
and remember.

Jardo

2008-08-31T12:10:00.000-07:00

During my early to mid teens, my family lived three doors down from the Stallions family where my best friend, Bill lived. In those days I went everywhere on bicycle but occasionally I walked across the other two lawns to get to his house.
The edge of the Stallions property ran along a small ditch dotted with several locust trees. Parallel to the ditch, for much of the length of the property, was a steel wire running along the ground. At one end of the wire was the gable roofed, shingled white dog house, in the middle of a bare spot where grass dare not grow; home of the dreaded Jardo.
Jardo was a large sporting dog generally not known to be dangerous but in my mind’s eye he was a brown and white, red eyed velociraptor on a tether. A degree of nerve and timing was required to make it safely across the wire.
Sometimes Jardo’s chain was tangled around the stake preventing him from running the length of wire. After several days of relative safety, I fell into what would soon turn out to be a false sense of security.
One particular day as I jumped across the ditch I failed to survey the doghouse. I took a few steps and froze. The wire was bouncing on the ground and ringing the approach of snarling teeth. With no time to turn I was backpedaling towards the ditch with a carnivore lunging at my face. I believe that if I had had to go, I would have went right then.
I fell across the ditch into the grass on the other side just as Jardo ran out of slack in his chain.
I jumped to my feet, feeling foolish, and quickly scanned the area in hopes that no one had seen how really scared I was. Unfortunately, one of Bill’s older sisters who had been sunbathing at the edge of their carport, called out to Jardo. Jardo instantly became a tail wagging, tongue-slobbering puppy.
I was humiliated, but alive.
She assured me that it was safe but I turned and went home to get my bicycle. I looked back at Jardo as he happily trotted back down the length of the wire. Sometimes that which appears as a grin on a dogs face, actually is.

A Veil of Darkness

2008-08-31T09:10:00.000-07:00

I heard only the distant cry of coyotes as I turned the door latch, and stepped inside the house with my lantern held out before me. Shadows on the walls and ceiling danced from the light of a candle, a small beacon atop the cupboard.
I placed my lantern on the broad oak table and settled into the wooden chair. Laying open my journal, I affixed the date and began to tell of this night, as my pen scratched away like a mouse in a paper bag.
It was the eve of the Sabbath, on the 8th day of December and the village was bathed in a deep darkness. The night offered neither moon nor stars as an eerie silence filled the air. A spell had apparently come over the village, as a hush had fallen on the music and voices of the night.
The oil lamps flickered behind closed windows as neighbors huddled closely and pondered the passing of the cloak. Law keepers were hurrying to the schoolhouse where alarms had gone out and all of the night sentinels had abandoned their posts. The dying of the light had left open the door to night dwellers and mischief makers.
The tall clock in the corner of the room chimed the count of six, and then seven, as it’s pendulum lazily counted off the hours. Still, the night dragged on as I closed my journal and leaned back in my chair. I wondered what the morning would bring, and if the night chill would overtake the house.
Suddenly, the room was filled with light and the chirps and beeps of appliances resetting themselves. The voices of familiar strangers once again poured from behind glowing video screens.
Yes, power had returned to the city of Princeton, and the lantern which had kept me company now seemed woefully inadequate. I turned down the wick and blew out the flame and mused that while the lights had returned, I would soon turn them out again and go to bed.
It was an otherwise normal evening, made special by the temporary absence of more that just light, but of convenience. It was a night welcomed as “something different”, to stir the imagination, a thing that’s sometimes hard to find, even for those of us living on the edge…of town.

Hoboes and White Laundry

2008-08-31T08:42:00.000-07:00

In my preschool years of the late fifties, my family lived in a large stucco house beside the National Guard Armory in Marion, Kentucky. The street in front of our house passed the armory and came to a dead end at the foot of a railroad loading ramp.
The ramp looked to have been used years earlier when Marion was shipping spar by rail. I remember how the roadway sparkled with blue and purple. I picked up many a flashy piece believing that I had surely found a priceless jewel. I would drop them into my pocket with whatever other collectables I might be carrying, only to be lost somewhere in the laundry. I suppose that such foolishness was typical of that age, for if Mama ever found any of my lost treasures, she never let on.
A Train whistle from a mile away would bring my older brother Jerry, and I running to watch the train from the ramp. There were two sets of tracks then with at least one sidetrack under the ramp. Jerry would sometimes creep down to the sidetrack and lay a stick or a penny on the sidetrack rail. I was always relieved to see the train coming on one of the other rails for I was sure Jerry would derail the train. But the engineers never saw our sabotage and always waved as did the brakemen in the caboose, and that was a delight for this five-year-old.
Mama would always warn us to “watch for hoboes” who might be camped under or near the ramp. To me, a hobo was a cigar smoking, coal dust covered troll who would demand payment from two brothers caught standing on his ramp.
I never saw a hobo but I saw a lot of tired old men in bib overalls sometimes carrying lunch buckets. I saw sad looking men walking the ties with their coat thrown over their shoulder, not waving or even looking up. I remember older boys with fishing poles hiking to some hidden pond. They would all melt into the distant rail mirage as Mama called us home.
Like the last echoes of the steam age, a few coal-fired locomotives would pass, hissing and roaring like Mama’s pressure cooker gone mad. The noise made it seem like they were going faster than the newer trains.
With a large wicker basket and an apron pouch full of clothespins, Mama would fill the clothesline with white sheets and cloth diapers. I remember playing under billowing sheets trying to keep in the shade with my ‘57 Mercury peddle car, as the black smoke from a locomotive drifted overhead.
“I don’t know why I bother”, Mama would say, “Between the trains and you kids, I might as well not wash clothes at all.” Relatively clean diesel engines were a Godsend, but for Mama there would always be kids. Only six years later Mama passed away leaving six children, the youngest being only four months old.
These days have long gone and life is less of a wonder now, but on some days when the wind is right and a whistle sounds in the distance, I can still reach into the pockets of my memories and pull out a glittering piece of spar that Mama saved for me.