This story is true. Names have been changed to protect the terminally stupid.
So I'm working swings one fine evening, perusing the streets for drunks at just south of 2 AM. I espied an intrepid motorist turn west and head up an eastbound only street. Being a fine example of police officerhood and having extraordinary powers of observation I recognized that this was unusual behavior and that it possibly required further investigation. Cutting down a parallel street I came out behind our antagonist and hit the overhead lights.
Yep, he ran. Shocking I know.
Now this street is arrow straight but ends in a T intersection. Beyond the T is a small parking lot and the shores of Lake El Estero (Literally 'Lake of Questionable Decision Making'). Mister Brilliant Motorist (aka Driver De Intoxicanto or DDI in Six parlance) speeds up and tries to flee my awesomely powerful police cruiser (complete with a speed of light Motorola) in his somewhat ratty Toyota 'Youhavegottobekiddingme' mini pickup powered by what I later learned was an elderly squirrel with a bad cough. Well, not exactly his pickup but more on that later.
Over the course of several blocks DDI manages to coax the plywood, chewing gum and blind faith constructed alleged pickup to as fast as 12 and a half miles per hour in his Bergermeister Beer (Official Motto: Horse Piss Free Since Last Week. We Swear) fueled attempt at vehicular freedom. Problem is traveling at the speed of ooze seemed to have been way too high for him to convince the rubber bands serving as the steering system on the conveyance to turn either left or right. At one point I saw him put his feet on the ground through the floorboard, looking for all the world like a drunken Fred Flintstone, in an attempt at some sort of braking maneuver but, alas, it was to no avail. Across the parking lot he went, leaving a trail of smoking tennis shoe rubber and desperation behind him before going off the bank and into the aforementioned lake.
Have I mentioned that it was a somewhat cool night? Well, it was. Not Global Warming cold but definitely on the chilly side. Plus, the water in that lake has never seen the sunny side of 50 degrees in it's entire existence being taken as it is directly from the frigid waters of the adjacent Monterey Bay (Official Motto: Happily Disappearing Swimmers Testicles Since 1764).
I pulled in behind DDIs launch point, got out and sauntered over (I stopped moseying after the Great Motorcycle Squid Slime Debacle of 1997). I managed to fish out the squirrel with a stick. I didn't detain him as I heard him muttering under his breath something about jamming 'the whole bag of peanuts' up someone's ass. I tended to infer that meant that he was unaware of the actions of his pilot and was just an innocent bystander in the whole sordid affair. Plus it sounded quite painful and I was hoping I'd get to watch.
So. You'd think that by this point our miscreant would have had the time to orient himself and doggie paddle back to shore. Or wade. I mean the depth of that lake is measured in inches, not feet. But no. He was doing his best impression of an Olympic swimmer who has never actually seen water before and has an IQ of 20 and a BA of 2.0.
Me: "So. You gonna come out?"
DDI: MFPJKLGHORBG!!
Me: "You're gonna freeze to death in there and the chances of me going in after you are about that same as you enjoying what that squirrel is going to do to you later."
DDI: TRGBDSUOFGTRW!!
Me: "Ok then."
DDI then attempted to swim away, toward the far side of the lake. And by swim I mean a kind of drunken, retarded flailing about that involved much splashing if not any actual movement through the water. Think angry 3 legged cat in a muddy bathtub full of really cold water. At some point, through his Mad Dog 20/20 obscured vision, he must have noticed the other officers positioned strategically about the periphery of the lake. Finally, after about 5 minutes of denial and synchronized hypothermia, he gave up. He stood, stumbled to the bank and flopped out gasping and shivering. He was, of course, naked. To this day I have no earthly idea where his clothes went. If my experience is any indicator there's some kind of alien clothing transporter powered by cheap booze and activated by the screaming death of brain cells. If I live to be a thousand I will never understand the public nudity proclivities of the severely inebriated. I cuffed him, cast a wary eye out for a squirrel with a paper bag and wrapped him in the yellow emergency blanket from my trunk. The one that oilynakedguyrunningdownthestreet gave me back after I dropped him off at home a few nights previously. Yeah, that blanket. Seemed only fitting somehow. Passing it on to the next drunken nudist in line as it were.
The pickup was removed by a tow truck and as the cardboard that made up the bulk of the thing seemed to have melted off in the frigid waters it was pretty much a total write off.
As I was introducing DDI to the rear seat of my car, and explaining how his troubles were in fact just beginning, I couldn't help myself. I had to ask him why. He wouldn't respond but he did drop me one nugget of interesting information. It seems DDI was a soldier stationed at the Defense Language Institute and he had 'borrowed' his roommates car for a night of merry making, revelry and unscheduled skinny dipping. His roommate who was also a soldier. A soldier who had just completed his language training in Urdu and was currently at the Army's Marksmanship Training Unit undergoing....wait for it....
Sniper School.
"He's gonna kill me" seemed to be the predominant sentiment. I could only agree.
I advised him to plead immediately, go AWOL, change his name and appearance and take up regular and heavy prayer. I never got subpoenaed for a trial so I gotta assume he took my advice. Either that or his roommate caught up to him. Or the squirrel.
I'd have chosen the roommate. That squirrel was pissed!
Six
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
18 March 2014
29 April 2013
Herbivore Whisperer?
I have a dog. I am a dog owner. For those of the more PETA oriented view I have a Canine Companion. Now, I have to admit here that I did have a choice in my canine purchasing decision making. I could have gotten one of those dogs of smaller stature and sock tasting constitution. I could have gotten a dog that specializes in snoring and slobbering on the furniture. I could have gotten one of those dogs that knows sign language and can balance your checkbook. But no. I got a Lab.
Owning a Lab is a lot like having a male child that is both hyperactive and addicted to espresso. And unctuous. I don't actually know what unctuous means and I'm toolazy busy to look it up, I just always wanted to use it in a sentence because I'm hoping it'll make me seem incommodious. Yeah. You ever notice how multifarious some people are? Me too. I hate that.
Anyway. So I have this dog, a Lab to be precise. He's a good dog in a black hole of misdirected energy kind of way. He is what is euphemistically referred to as a 'pain In The Posterior' by those folks who specialize in casual dog insults, also known as dog trainers. Is there a college for that profession and if so is there an entrance requirement that all applicants must be the type of person who insists on telling you things you already demonstrably know over and over again at approximately the speed of mange? I know they mean well but telling me my two year old Lab will act like a brain damaged Tree-Kangaroo (they actually exist) until he's two years old causes me to question your grip on sanity. Especially since I just told you he's two years old and acts like a brain damaged Tree-Kangaroo. Also, Tree-Kangaroo.
But back to my dog. He has to be walked or otherwise exercised approximately 7,000 times a day. That's an estimate of course but according to my strictly kept diary that I update religiously 'every once in a great while' it's close enough. So we go on things my wife refers to as 'Walkies'. Walkies are a lot like walks with the added benefit of carrying around a plastic bag to scoop up the odoriferous exhaust system deposits of aforementioned brain damaged Lab. Hopefully without getting any on one's fingers. But, of course, I am repeating myself. All Labs are brain damaged and I don't really have a plastic bag. Just a paper towel which works for poop picking up pretty much like you'd expect. I am also informed by my athletic and well meaning wife that Walkies are good for me as well. Something about Spleen health or something. My mind tends to wander whenever the topic turns to things not related to beer, sports or sleep. Maybe boobies but only after I've had a few beers watching Synchronized Head Injuries and a good nap. Still, another reason to resent my dog. If not for him I could spend my days ensconced happily on my barcalounger in a blissful alcohol induced haze enjoying the spectacle of dangerous, semi sports related activities being performed by someone else. But no.
He also does the Dance of Joy whenever we get ready for one of our special outings. As soon as he sees me reaching into that box where we keep his leash he starts running around the house like a crazy person, barking and wiggling from nose to wildly gyrating tail. He quivers with whole body excitement like a politician regarding a particularly lovely pile of 'campaign contributions' in a paper bag left in his refrigerator. He grabs the collar while simultaneously trying to convince me to 'Hurry Up!' and drag me to the door. He crowds the door so I can't actually open it and let him out, apparently completely ignorant of the operation of that particular device that he's gone through at least a million times before. I'm convinced that he's convinced the whole things works by magic and if he just believes hard enough it will open in spite of having his nose pressed against it so hard that he's leaving drool smeared teeth marks in the paint. Past experience notwithstanding.
So we go Walkies and Angus...have I mentioned we named him Angus? No? Well we did. Why? For the life of me I can't remember. I think it was Biblical, that whole passage about 'Hearkening unto Angus because he has the Doritos and really needs your guacamole for the big Superbowl party next Sunday'. Maybe not.
Anyway. Angus really likes his walks around the neighborhood. At first I thought it was because he just liked to walk around smelling and pooping and peeing on the neighbor's lawn like you'd expect any brain damaged Lab to enjoy. But I have come to understand that there is a much deeper and possibly slightly unsavory element to his Walkie Joy. He can talk to the herbivores and maybe even believes himself to be one.
It started with horses. My other dogs were frightened by horses. Reasonable since they also scare me. No one in his or her right mind willfully consorts with animals that weigh as much as a Buick and can squish you with a casual arrogance usually only associated with Chicago Aldermen. To a dog they must look like Dogzilla. A gigantic and possibly nefarious dog who is also probably on steroids. I know they do to me but then I'm more than a bit of a wuss so there is that.
But not Angus. He immediately went to the fence and stuck his nose through. To my amazement (and not a little consternation) the horses quickly ambled over and exchanged a series of nose touchings and lickings with my dog that reminded me of strongly of an episode of Doctor Doolittle if Doctor Doolittle was a weird dog instead of an alleged veterinarian on who is clearly on psychotropic drugs. This went on for a few minutes until exasperated that apparently my dog has more friends than I do, I called him away and we went on with our 'fun'.
Until we got to the big open field that someone had mysteriously populated with goats of various sizes and dispositions, few of them pleasant. Again a doggy nose through the fence and again a stream of goats trading disgustingly drippy salivary messages with my dog. I have no idea what they were saying to each other and I'm not really sure I want to know. One hopes none of it was along the lines of "Hey baby, what's your sign?" or "Want to come up and see my etchings?" But the less information on that matter I have the better. A little morejealous concerned now I reigned in my recalcitrant dog and on we went. For exactly a block. Where the cows were.
Now horses I can maybe understand and accept. They're big, strong and to a certain segment of the female population symbolize strength and character. Stuff we husbands tend to display none of. Goats are Meh. The babies are kinda cute the those horns are gnarly knife like and I can so totally respect that. But cows? I was approaching their enclosure with a mixture of disgust and outright fear. "Please, oh please, Oh Please don't let those cows come over and offer bovine love to my dog" I was thinking. Surprisingly I think things like that a lot. Or maybe not so surprising to anyone who has known me longer than five minutes. In any event I was trepidatious and I don't even think that's a real word. Sometimes I invent words. That's how bad the situation was.
But no. Over they came, of both the male and female varieties, with a dancing step that told me my greatest fears were about to be realized. But they didn't stop at nose touching and slobbery communication. Oh no. They gamboled and pranced and generally made Bessie like fools of themselves. Angus was in heifer heaven. He did The Dance of Joy and would have undoubtedly gone off immediately into a life of grazing and cud chewing if I hadn't had a firm grip on his leash. After much tugging (and even a few words my mother would be aghast to learn that I both know and on occasion employ) I managed to drag my dog away from the embarrassing scene. Not without many wistful glances back and at least one attempt to convince me to return. At least that's how I'm interpreting him piddling on my leg no matter what my wife says or how hard she laughed. Really, it wasn't nearly as funny as she seemed to think. But I suppose that's what I get for marrying a philistine. Ok, it may have been a little funny but that's all.
The rest of the Walkie was thankfully uneventful. So long as you regard grasshopper chasing, random leaf pouncing and cat poop eating uneventful and I assure you that after what I experienced I was grateful for the cat poop.
What to make of all that? Well, as near as I can tell Angus either thinks he's a herd animal and in love or he's the canine Herbivore Whisperer, able to converse with all things four legged that exist by eating grass and sticks.
I'm going with the latter. At least then I can fantasize that he's simply gathering an army of evil minions to do his nefarious bidding in a quest for world domination. Considering the alternative that's almost cool. Plus, since I know him and all, maybe he'll save me to be his personal pooper scooper instead of consigning me to the Bermuda grass mines to feed his growing legions. I hate grass stains.
Then again, perhaps I should just stop drinking so much cough syrup.
Six
Owning a Lab is a lot like having a male child that is both hyperactive and addicted to espresso. And unctuous. I don't actually know what unctuous means and I'm too
Anyway. So I have this dog, a Lab to be precise. He's a good dog in a black hole of misdirected energy kind of way. He is what is euphemistically referred to as a 'pain In The Posterior' by those folks who specialize in casual dog insults, also known as dog trainers. Is there a college for that profession and if so is there an entrance requirement that all applicants must be the type of person who insists on telling you things you already demonstrably know over and over again at approximately the speed of mange? I know they mean well but telling me my two year old Lab will act like a brain damaged Tree-Kangaroo (they actually exist) until he's two years old causes me to question your grip on sanity. Especially since I just told you he's two years old and acts like a brain damaged Tree-Kangaroo. Also, Tree-Kangaroo.
But back to my dog. He has to be walked or otherwise exercised approximately 7,000 times a day. That's an estimate of course but according to my strictly kept diary that I update religiously 'every once in a great while' it's close enough. So we go on things my wife refers to as 'Walkies'. Walkies are a lot like walks with the added benefit of carrying around a plastic bag to scoop up the odoriferous exhaust system deposits of aforementioned brain damaged Lab. Hopefully without getting any on one's fingers. But, of course, I am repeating myself. All Labs are brain damaged and I don't really have a plastic bag. Just a paper towel which works for poop picking up pretty much like you'd expect. I am also informed by my athletic and well meaning wife that Walkies are good for me as well. Something about Spleen health or something. My mind tends to wander whenever the topic turns to things not related to beer, sports or sleep. Maybe boobies but only after I've had a few beers watching Synchronized Head Injuries and a good nap. Still, another reason to resent my dog. If not for him I could spend my days ensconced happily on my barcalounger in a blissful alcohol induced haze enjoying the spectacle of dangerous, semi sports related activities being performed by someone else. But no.
He also does the Dance of Joy whenever we get ready for one of our special outings. As soon as he sees me reaching into that box where we keep his leash he starts running around the house like a crazy person, barking and wiggling from nose to wildly gyrating tail. He quivers with whole body excitement like a politician regarding a particularly lovely pile of 'campaign contributions' in a paper bag left in his refrigerator. He grabs the collar while simultaneously trying to convince me to 'Hurry Up!' and drag me to the door. He crowds the door so I can't actually open it and let him out, apparently completely ignorant of the operation of that particular device that he's gone through at least a million times before. I'm convinced that he's convinced the whole things works by magic and if he just believes hard enough it will open in spite of having his nose pressed against it so hard that he's leaving drool smeared teeth marks in the paint. Past experience notwithstanding.
So we go Walkies and Angus...have I mentioned we named him Angus? No? Well we did. Why? For the life of me I can't remember. I think it was Biblical, that whole passage about 'Hearkening unto Angus because he has the Doritos and really needs your guacamole for the big Superbowl party next Sunday'. Maybe not.
Anyway. Angus really likes his walks around the neighborhood. At first I thought it was because he just liked to walk around smelling and pooping and peeing on the neighbor's lawn like you'd expect any brain damaged Lab to enjoy. But I have come to understand that there is a much deeper and possibly slightly unsavory element to his Walkie Joy. He can talk to the herbivores and maybe even believes himself to be one.
It started with horses. My other dogs were frightened by horses. Reasonable since they also scare me. No one in his or her right mind willfully consorts with animals that weigh as much as a Buick and can squish you with a casual arrogance usually only associated with Chicago Aldermen. To a dog they must look like Dogzilla. A gigantic and possibly nefarious dog who is also probably on steroids. I know they do to me but then I'm more than a bit of a wuss so there is that.
But not Angus. He immediately went to the fence and stuck his nose through. To my amazement (and not a little consternation) the horses quickly ambled over and exchanged a series of nose touchings and lickings with my dog that reminded me of strongly of an episode of Doctor Doolittle if Doctor Doolittle was a weird dog instead of an alleged veterinarian on who is clearly on psychotropic drugs. This went on for a few minutes until exasperated that apparently my dog has more friends than I do, I called him away and we went on with our 'fun'.
Until we got to the big open field that someone had mysteriously populated with goats of various sizes and dispositions, few of them pleasant. Again a doggy nose through the fence and again a stream of goats trading disgustingly drippy salivary messages with my dog. I have no idea what they were saying to each other and I'm not really sure I want to know. One hopes none of it was along the lines of "Hey baby, what's your sign?" or "Want to come up and see my etchings?" But the less information on that matter I have the better. A little more
Now horses I can maybe understand and accept. They're big, strong and to a certain segment of the female population symbolize strength and character. Stuff we husbands tend to display none of. Goats are Meh. The babies are kinda cute the those horns are gnarly knife like and I can so totally respect that. But cows? I was approaching their enclosure with a mixture of disgust and outright fear. "Please, oh please, Oh Please don't let those cows come over and offer bovine love to my dog" I was thinking. Surprisingly I think things like that a lot. Or maybe not so surprising to anyone who has known me longer than five minutes. In any event I was trepidatious and I don't even think that's a real word. Sometimes I invent words. That's how bad the situation was.
But no. Over they came, of both the male and female varieties, with a dancing step that told me my greatest fears were about to be realized. But they didn't stop at nose touching and slobbery communication. Oh no. They gamboled and pranced and generally made Bessie like fools of themselves. Angus was in heifer heaven. He did The Dance of Joy and would have undoubtedly gone off immediately into a life of grazing and cud chewing if I hadn't had a firm grip on his leash. After much tugging (and even a few words my mother would be aghast to learn that I both know and on occasion employ) I managed to drag my dog away from the embarrassing scene. Not without many wistful glances back and at least one attempt to convince me to return. At least that's how I'm interpreting him piddling on my leg no matter what my wife says or how hard she laughed. Really, it wasn't nearly as funny as she seemed to think. But I suppose that's what I get for marrying a philistine. Ok, it may have been a little funny but that's all.
The rest of the Walkie was thankfully uneventful. So long as you regard grasshopper chasing, random leaf pouncing and cat poop eating uneventful and I assure you that after what I experienced I was grateful for the cat poop.
What to make of all that? Well, as near as I can tell Angus either thinks he's a herd animal and in love or he's the canine Herbivore Whisperer, able to converse with all things four legged that exist by eating grass and sticks.
I'm going with the latter. At least then I can fantasize that he's simply gathering an army of evil minions to do his nefarious bidding in a quest for world domination. Considering the alternative that's almost cool. Plus, since I know him and all, maybe he'll save me to be his personal pooper scooper instead of consigning me to the Bermuda grass mines to feed his growing legions. I hate grass stains.
Then again, perhaps I should just stop drinking so much cough syrup.
Six
02 March 2013
Happy Birthday DO
It's the DO's birthday. Her mom and I sent flowers but I think the best way to show my appreciation and love for her is to tell an embarrassing story. Yep, I'm that dad. The story is true so help me. The names were not changed to protect the innocent. Or the guilty.
The DO was very young when I was in the Army. I think she was about 3 when I joined up and got sent to sunny Ft. Ord California. We first lived in a nearby city but when she was about 4 years old we moved into base housing. We also had a young, yellow tiger stripe cat named Rowdy. Now, the DO loved that cat but he really lived up to his name. He was a bit of a maniac, especially as a kitten. Which, at only a year old or so, he pretty much still was at the time of "The Incident". Oh not physically just maturity wise. Physically he was, well you know, a cat. Maybe 6 or 7 pounds and none of it exactly 'docile'. Semi domesticated is the term we're looking for here I think.
One evening we were sitting quietly at home when I heard a strangled mewling sound coming from the area of The DO's bedroom. It sounded like something in distress but not fatally so. More like cries of consternation or disbelief. Perhaps discombobulation. I looked over and presently there appeared my daughter walking down the hall with something grasped in her tiny hands and draped over her shoulder. She was obviously dragging something heavy (at least for a 4 year old girl) along behind her. What that something was wasn't immediately clear however as she cleared the doorway and continued toward our bedroom what she was dragging down that tiled hallway floor came into hilarious focus. Though I still have a hard time crediting it.
Stuffed firmly into the toe of a set of Lu's pantyhose was a certain yellow cat named Rowdy, in clear distress at his predicament, being dragged along behind a very cute, very small and obliviously cheerful female child. The cat was locked into a sort of stocking shaped tube of misery, clearly unable to move a muscle except for it's vocal apparatus. And that not well as the sounds it was making were more of the "Help. I really, really want to get out of here but I'm embarrassed and don't want anybody to laugh at me" type as opposed to the "Turn me loose or suffer my wrath you human fools!" variety one would expect in such a circumstance. Rowdy occupied the very tip of the stocking, taking up no more than a very small percentage of the total available space of the hosiery in question. Stuffed in like someone was trying to make sausage out of fur, nylon and feline unhappiness. His face was all scrunched up. His fur sticking out through the weave. His eyes plastered open like he was Stooge Curly pulling a bank job.
How in the world she ever got that cat into that stocking is something that was never completely cleared up. Certainly if he hadn't wanted to go in there in the first place he would have put up a fight that would have gotten the MPs called on us but we heard nary a peep until his soft, plaintive cries of unhappiness alerted us to a possible case of felonious feline detention. Still, he must have had some clue that all was not well as he went head first down that silken tube. Enough so that checking for claw and bite marks in tender 4 year old flesh was our first reaction. Besides falling to the floor and laughing ourselves insensate in hysterical paroxysms of "OMG, how did she do that?!" of course. I mean, it was funny as hell. Not that Lu or I ever admitted as much to her. The really funny part is that cat would have tore me up something fierce if I had so much as entertained such an idea even in passing. But nope, not a mark on the girl. Unwilling would have been among my first, PC word choices had anyone suggested such an attempt. You tell me how a 4 year old girl stuffs a 6 pound cat into a woman's undergarment he don't want to get stuffed into. Unexplainable. Defies explanation. But there it is.
The best answer we ever got from her was that they were "playing". I'm guessing it was a case of cattus unwariness coupled with the natural guile and ability to talk us into most anything that small children of the female variety seem to have in abundance. Little girls can do wonders. Witness how my granddaughter can talk me into doing just about anything she asks. Or how a 4 year old stuffs a cat into a stocking meant for nothing larger than a slim and shapely calf. I guess men and cats are both kinda stupid that way. I still get the chuckles whenever I imagine just how that particular crime must have been perpetrated.
However it happened Rowdy was soon released from his silken hosiery prison none the worse for wear (except for his dignity of course) and The DO was strictly forbidden from playing "Guess what I've got in my bag" with any household resident ever again. All went on to live long, fruitful lives full of happiness and limited pantyhose imprisonments. Though I imagine Rowdy had a tough time living that little escapade down with all his Tomcat buddies.
So Happy Birthday Sweetheart. I love you very much and I wish we were there to celebrate with you. You're still the best thing that ever came into my life. Cats and stockings notwithstanding of course.
And you're welcome. Hey, I'm a Dad. It's my job!
Six aka DO's Papa
The DO was very young when I was in the Army. I think she was about 3 when I joined up and got sent to sunny Ft. Ord California. We first lived in a nearby city but when she was about 4 years old we moved into base housing. We also had a young, yellow tiger stripe cat named Rowdy. Now, the DO loved that cat but he really lived up to his name. He was a bit of a maniac, especially as a kitten. Which, at only a year old or so, he pretty much still was at the time of "The Incident". Oh not physically just maturity wise. Physically he was, well you know, a cat. Maybe 6 or 7 pounds and none of it exactly 'docile'. Semi domesticated is the term we're looking for here I think.
One evening we were sitting quietly at home when I heard a strangled mewling sound coming from the area of The DO's bedroom. It sounded like something in distress but not fatally so. More like cries of consternation or disbelief. Perhaps discombobulation. I looked over and presently there appeared my daughter walking down the hall with something grasped in her tiny hands and draped over her shoulder. She was obviously dragging something heavy (at least for a 4 year old girl) along behind her. What that something was wasn't immediately clear however as she cleared the doorway and continued toward our bedroom what she was dragging down that tiled hallway floor came into hilarious focus. Though I still have a hard time crediting it.
Stuffed firmly into the toe of a set of Lu's pantyhose was a certain yellow cat named Rowdy, in clear distress at his predicament, being dragged along behind a very cute, very small and obliviously cheerful female child. The cat was locked into a sort of stocking shaped tube of misery, clearly unable to move a muscle except for it's vocal apparatus. And that not well as the sounds it was making were more of the "Help. I really, really want to get out of here but I'm embarrassed and don't want anybody to laugh at me" type as opposed to the "Turn me loose or suffer my wrath you human fools!" variety one would expect in such a circumstance. Rowdy occupied the very tip of the stocking, taking up no more than a very small percentage of the total available space of the hosiery in question. Stuffed in like someone was trying to make sausage out of fur, nylon and feline unhappiness. His face was all scrunched up. His fur sticking out through the weave. His eyes plastered open like he was Stooge Curly pulling a bank job.
How in the world she ever got that cat into that stocking is something that was never completely cleared up. Certainly if he hadn't wanted to go in there in the first place he would have put up a fight that would have gotten the MPs called on us but we heard nary a peep until his soft, plaintive cries of unhappiness alerted us to a possible case of felonious feline detention. Still, he must have had some clue that all was not well as he went head first down that silken tube. Enough so that checking for claw and bite marks in tender 4 year old flesh was our first reaction. Besides falling to the floor and laughing ourselves insensate in hysterical paroxysms of "OMG, how did she do that?!" of course. I mean, it was funny as hell. Not that Lu or I ever admitted as much to her. The really funny part is that cat would have tore me up something fierce if I had so much as entertained such an idea even in passing. But nope, not a mark on the girl. Unwilling would have been among my first, PC word choices had anyone suggested such an attempt. You tell me how a 4 year old girl stuffs a 6 pound cat into a woman's undergarment he don't want to get stuffed into. Unexplainable. Defies explanation. But there it is.
The best answer we ever got from her was that they were "playing". I'm guessing it was a case of cattus unwariness coupled with the natural guile and ability to talk us into most anything that small children of the female variety seem to have in abundance. Little girls can do wonders. Witness how my granddaughter can talk me into doing just about anything she asks. Or how a 4 year old stuffs a cat into a stocking meant for nothing larger than a slim and shapely calf. I guess men and cats are both kinda stupid that way. I still get the chuckles whenever I imagine just how that particular crime must have been perpetrated.
However it happened Rowdy was soon released from his silken hosiery prison none the worse for wear (except for his dignity of course) and The DO was strictly forbidden from playing "Guess what I've got in my bag" with any household resident ever again. All went on to live long, fruitful lives full of happiness and limited pantyhose imprisonments. Though I imagine Rowdy had a tough time living that little escapade down with all his Tomcat buddies.
So Happy Birthday Sweetheart. I love you very much and I wish we were there to celebrate with you. You're still the best thing that ever came into my life. Cats and stockings notwithstanding of course.
And you're welcome. Hey, I'm a Dad. It's my job!
Six aka DO's Papa
01 March 2013
Another Cop Story
During my career I spent quite a few years as a Safety Nazi Traffic Cop. I heard all the excuses from "I gotta go to the bathroom, like right now!" to "What do you think of these Officer?". The best ones were those thought out well in advance. Though this one particular guy may have had motivations other than to convince the nice officer not to write him a ticket.
I was working radar speed enforcement on a local feeder. That's a street that runs through a nominal residential district but has a higher speed limit due to engineering and because it carries high transient traffic between other commercial streets. 35 mph. I clocked a Bronco doing 57, fired up the BMW and pulled the miscreant over. I advised him of the reason for the stop and requested his information. He handed over his license and was searching for registration and insurance information. I glanced at the DL and did a classic double take. The name on the license?
Buddha.
Just that, nothing else. No last name no nothing. Just Buddha. I caught him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. He was waiting for me to ask the obvious question. "Is that really your name? or something along those lines. I noticed he was a....rotund man. Caucasian but that means nothing. Maybe his latest reincarnation took him to the Western world? I knew he was waiting, anxious for the conversation even. But there's a little known fact about motor cops most people do not know. We crave the unusual, the odd and the farcical. We constantly try and outdo each other for the best story. Here I have the Spiritual leader of about a billion Buddhists and I'm going to let him go without proof of the encounter? I don't think so.
I firmly tamped down my inclination for followup questions, stifled my gleeful giggling and walked back to my bike. I could feel the astonishment and disappointment following me from the drivers seat of the Bronco. I checked with DMV. Valid DL. I filled out the cite and walked back to Mister Buddha. I presented him with the ticket and requested a signature.
During the entire encounter he never once spoke. I was expecting words of wisdom or perhaps a koan pertaining to the use of personal conveyances operated at supra-legal speeds. Even just a warning not to mess with the God of the Buddhists. Nothing. Nada. I was so disappointed. I did get to post a copy of the ticket of the Traffic bulletin board where it still hangs to this very day so there's that. Going down in Traffic Cop lore is nothing to sneer at.
Still. In the months and years after that ticket I was involved in 4 accidents on my motor at work. I hurt a hip, my back and tore my Achilles tendon. My hair started falling out. I shrank from just over 6 foot to my present 5-11. ish. I got a rash that won't go away. My dog bit me. Someone shot out the window in my truck. 3 times. My feet got larger and my penis smaller. I started growing hair in places where hair ain't supposed to grow and none of it was on my head. Unless my ears count. And my nose. My wisdom teeth grew back. As well as my tonsils and appendix. Which then all needed to be taken out again. I developed an intense fear of small, furry rodents and rotund, cherubic white guys.
Maybe that ticket wasn't such a good idea after all.
Six
I was working radar speed enforcement on a local feeder. That's a street that runs through a nominal residential district but has a higher speed limit due to engineering and because it carries high transient traffic between other commercial streets. 35 mph. I clocked a Bronco doing 57, fired up the BMW and pulled the miscreant over. I advised him of the reason for the stop and requested his information. He handed over his license and was searching for registration and insurance information. I glanced at the DL and did a classic double take. The name on the license?
Buddha.
Just that, nothing else. No last name no nothing. Just Buddha. I caught him staring at me out of the corner of my eye. He was waiting for me to ask the obvious question. "Is that really your name? or something along those lines. I noticed he was a....rotund man. Caucasian but that means nothing. Maybe his latest reincarnation took him to the Western world? I knew he was waiting, anxious for the conversation even. But there's a little known fact about motor cops most people do not know. We crave the unusual, the odd and the farcical. We constantly try and outdo each other for the best story. Here I have the Spiritual leader of about a billion Buddhists and I'm going to let him go without proof of the encounter? I don't think so.
I firmly tamped down my inclination for followup questions, stifled my gleeful giggling and walked back to my bike. I could feel the astonishment and disappointment following me from the drivers seat of the Bronco. I checked with DMV. Valid DL. I filled out the cite and walked back to Mister Buddha. I presented him with the ticket and requested a signature.
During the entire encounter he never once spoke. I was expecting words of wisdom or perhaps a koan pertaining to the use of personal conveyances operated at supra-legal speeds. Even just a warning not to mess with the God of the Buddhists. Nothing. Nada. I was so disappointed. I did get to post a copy of the ticket of the Traffic bulletin board where it still hangs to this very day so there's that. Going down in Traffic Cop lore is nothing to sneer at.
Still. In the months and years after that ticket I was involved in 4 accidents on my motor at work. I hurt a hip, my back and tore my Achilles tendon. My hair started falling out. I shrank from just over 6 foot to my present 5-11. ish. I got a rash that won't go away. My dog bit me. Someone shot out the window in my truck. 3 times. My feet got larger and my penis smaller. I started growing hair in places where hair ain't supposed to grow and none of it was on my head. Unless my ears count. And my nose. My wisdom teeth grew back. As well as my tonsils and appendix. Which then all needed to be taken out again. I developed an intense fear of small, furry rodents and rotund, cherubic white guys.
Maybe that ticket wasn't such a good idea after all.
Six
30 January 2013
Request For Reevaluation Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bureaucracy
Well kinda. I was perusing the blogs today (you know I read all of you every day right? So write good.) and ran across a good post by DaddyBear. It was a comment there that got me thinking, always a dangerous thing. My hair is still smouldering. What hair I have. It was a very small fire. Go read the post and comments and you'll know which one I'm talking about.
I've written about using the word Fire in a theater before so my views on fatuous arguments is pretty well known. Now the ridiculous equating of licensing drivers and gun owners is being tossed around again. Man, how I wish this idiocy would just go away. Or the idiots. Either way.
First of all there's nothing in the Constitution about driving. It's considered a privilege and not a right. In most every state I know about when you're licensed to drive you also agree to provide a sample of your blood (Ouch), breath (Whew) and/or urine (Icky) when so requested by competent law enforcement authority having probable cause to take you forthwith to the hoosegow for driving while under the influence of intoxicating substances (or having reasonable suspicion to suspect you of the same). It's called Implied Consent and it's a wicked pisser (Yes, I do watch too much TV). You are subject to separate penalties for violation of that in addition to anything that might be levied on the DUI charge. Think cash and roadside trash detail here. Drivers Licenses can be suspended for a wide variety of things ranging from excessive moving violations (slow down you damn kids!) to being uninsured. Go to a DMV hearing sometime. Judicial they ain't. The hearing officer can basically take your license away for most anything they want and there's little or no appeals process. Do try to not piss off the hearing officer. They're grouchy. Do get a lawyer (though in many cases a lawyer isn't allowed. How's that due process working out for ya?) and maybe a payday load cause you're gonna need lots of both kids. All that is because a drivers license isn't considered property. You have no expectation nor property right to it. It's a privilege and the state can basically remove yours about any time they take a hankering to and they usually take a hankering basically anytime the shark is feeling peckish. Which is always. You can even lose your drivers license for being in arrears on your child support payments. Because they can, that's why.
On the other hand guns are a property right and their possession is actually enumerated in the Bill of Rights. Rights versus Privileges. See how that works? Requiring the licensing of gun owners is akin to requiring me to get a religion license before I can possess a Bible. Or a Torah. Or a Qur'an. It's an onerous and undue infringement on my right to keep and bear arms and makes such dependent on bureaucratic governmental approval or denial. Someone wants to create a DMV division of the BATFE. Please excuse me whilst I run screaming from the room at the thought. Will I have to parallel park while simultaneously clearing a malfunction on my Sig, reciting the Four Rules and playing 'Spot The Carjacker' with the proctor? What if I fail because the sun was in my eyes and the radio was tuned to that station that only plays Elton John when I only listen to AC/DC when I'm drivey/shooty and I was really thinking about that outfit Lu was wearing earlier and how much I was looking forward to getting home and convincing her to no longer be wearing it (if you know what I mean and I think you do) and my fingers were felling particularly fat and fumbly that day? Will I then have to appear before a hearing officer in DATFMV (Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Motor Vehicles) office to argue my case? What about lawyers? Does Due Process come into play? What constitutes a fair test and pass/fail scores? Who makes my local up the test? Will it be open book? Will I have to touch it? (Get your minds out of the gutter. I was talking about the gun. Perverts). Are there separate tests for rifle, pistol and shotguns? Are silencers and automatics like big rigs? Will I have to fill out a log book and keep track of rounds fired and how much sleep I've had in the last 24 hours of shooting? Who decides all this stuff?
See, here's the thing. Government does what government does. That is regulate everything under the sun and charge fees for applications, licenses and permissions for anything and everything they can sink their bureaucratic teeth into. Subject to petty tyrants bringing their bad days at home to work with them of course. How humiliating is it to find yourself on your knees begging the angry DMV clerk to please accept your paperwork instead of sending you back to Line 73 which currently stretches out the door and down the block with a wait time measured by calendar because you misspelled penis (Hint: It's the answer to question 137. What are you compensating for?)? Who wants more of that? Oh, right.
On the gripping hand, be careful what you wish for. Let me provide an anecdotal example of why this is such a bad idea. besides the obvious "It's unconstitutional Weasel Boy" one of course. Back in the day, when I wore a blue suit and did cool stuff, I used to do traffic enforcement while riding really cool motorcycles and looking like totally bitchin' and stuff. Yeah, I know. I was as hated as Al Gore at Republican Broadcasters convention. Stay with me here for a minute, I do have a point. And no, it's not the one on top of my head. Though my head is remarkably pointy shaped. But enough of that, back to the story. Among those duties was to evaluate drivers that were suspected of...let's just say of being automotively challenged and leave it at that. There was a form to fill out which included the driver's information, my information and why they were being referred. It was called a Request For Reevaluation and could either be Emergency (Great jumpin' Jehoshaphat Margarete, you need to evaluate this guy like yesterday! I mean it! He's a menace! Hey are you listening? AAIIEE!!) and just regular (Whenever you get a free minute there Skippy). Either way the driver was supposed to be called into DMV and actually, you know, have their ability to successfully pilot a four thousand pound motor vehicle on America's highways and byways reevaluated. Hey, it's right there in the form and everything! In 24 years I wrote hundreds of them. Hundreds I tell you. It's surprising how many folks out there have issues driving a car. I mean bouncing off parked cars while careening out of control down the street and nearly running down pedestrians who were minding their own business in their back yards kind of issues with driving. Or maybe not so surprising. I mean, you've been out there. Would you trust those people with your life? I thought not. Anyway. In all those years not a one ever had their license revoked. I never even got called in to DMV for a revocation hearing. I've seen a 93 year old driver hit 14 parked cars and three trees on her way downtown to the Farmer's Market and who had not a single clue anything untoward had occurred. Kept her license. Hell, that was 15 years ago and as far as I know she still has it (and a high deductible insurance policy I'm sure). I had a UPS driver pass out behind the wheel of his Big Brown Truck for reasons unknown and run off the road leaving a path of total destruction in his wake. Yep, kept his license. There were more, oh so depressingly many more. Like the gal who failed to see it and ended up in the middle of Lake El Estero. Had no idea the lake was there in spite of living in that city her whole life. Or the guy who decided the Rec Trail was just a really narrow street and what the hell are all these pedestrians and bicyclists doing in the middle of the damn road!? I've seen trees run right out into the street and then magically teleport themselves, with the car still wrapped around the trunk, right back into the grove. No idea how that happened officer. I swear. Parked cars that suddenly appeared right in front of motorists. Pedestrians who unexpectedly dropped their cloaks on invisibility just as the driver was passing on the sidewalk. The guy...well, you get the idea. None of them ever lost their driving privilege. Nary a one. If you believe my coworkers (and why wouldn't you. They're a great bunch of folks. Why the hate? Oh yeah. That whole ticket thing. Right. My bad.) none of them ever saw a driver suspended either. We may have been wrong on occasion but not every time. My point? Oh right, I was building up to something wasn't I? It's just this. Bureaucracies tend to be capricious and make frustratingly random decisions. There's no rhyme and little reason. Decisions seem to be made by way of Magic 8 Balls, fortune cookies, Ouija Boards and Lunar cycles (Full Moon Madness FTW!!). Anyone on the gun control side who thinks those people can be depended on needs to quit smoking crabgrass. That stuff will rot your brain.
I got just the answer. How about No? That's simple and easily understood, even for those who are logic challenged. I like that word. I may even love it. Short and to the point. No. N. O. Don't be shy, say it with me. No. It just rolls off the tongue. It's satisfying with no aftertaste and none of that next day "Oh Lord, who is this and what have I done?" regret. Those who insist on Conversation, Compromise and Common Sense (The three C's of gun control) should get very used to the idea of hearing it frequently and sometimes vehemently. I am not putting my civil rights, any of them, into the hands of people who think spinning the Big Wheel 'O Hilarious Outcomes is an acceptable method of decision making.
Can I get an Amen from the back row? Thank you brothers and sisters.
Six
I've written about using the word Fire in a theater before so my views on fatuous arguments is pretty well known. Now the ridiculous equating of licensing drivers and gun owners is being tossed around again. Man, how I wish this idiocy would just go away. Or the idiots. Either way.
First of all there's nothing in the Constitution about driving. It's considered a privilege and not a right. In most every state I know about when you're licensed to drive you also agree to provide a sample of your blood (Ouch), breath (Whew) and/or urine (Icky) when so requested by competent law enforcement authority having probable cause to take you forthwith to the hoosegow for driving while under the influence of intoxicating substances (or having reasonable suspicion to suspect you of the same). It's called Implied Consent and it's a wicked pisser (Yes, I do watch too much TV). You are subject to separate penalties for violation of that in addition to anything that might be levied on the DUI charge. Think cash and roadside trash detail here. Drivers Licenses can be suspended for a wide variety of things ranging from excessive moving violations (slow down you damn kids!) to being uninsured. Go to a DMV hearing sometime. Judicial they ain't. The hearing officer can basically take your license away for most anything they want and there's little or no appeals process. Do try to not piss off the hearing officer. They're grouchy. Do get a lawyer (though in many cases a lawyer isn't allowed. How's that due process working out for ya?) and maybe a payday load cause you're gonna need lots of both kids. All that is because a drivers license isn't considered property. You have no expectation nor property right to it. It's a privilege and the state can basically remove yours about any time they take a hankering to and they usually take a hankering basically anytime the shark is feeling peckish. Which is always. You can even lose your drivers license for being in arrears on your child support payments. Because they can, that's why.
On the other hand guns are a property right and their possession is actually enumerated in the Bill of Rights. Rights versus Privileges. See how that works? Requiring the licensing of gun owners is akin to requiring me to get a religion license before I can possess a Bible. Or a Torah. Or a Qur'an. It's an onerous and undue infringement on my right to keep and bear arms and makes such dependent on bureaucratic governmental approval or denial. Someone wants to create a DMV division of the BATFE. Please excuse me whilst I run screaming from the room at the thought. Will I have to parallel park while simultaneously clearing a malfunction on my Sig, reciting the Four Rules and playing 'Spot The Carjacker' with the proctor? What if I fail because the sun was in my eyes and the radio was tuned to that station that only plays Elton John when I only listen to AC/DC when I'm drivey/shooty and I was really thinking about that outfit Lu was wearing earlier and how much I was looking forward to getting home and convincing her to no longer be wearing it (if you know what I mean and I think you do) and my fingers were felling particularly fat and fumbly that day? Will I then have to appear before a hearing officer in DATFMV (Department of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Motor Vehicles) office to argue my case? What about lawyers? Does Due Process come into play? What constitutes a fair test and pass/fail scores? Who makes my local up the test? Will it be open book? Will I have to touch it? (Get your minds out of the gutter. I was talking about the gun. Perverts). Are there separate tests for rifle, pistol and shotguns? Are silencers and automatics like big rigs? Will I have to fill out a log book and keep track of rounds fired and how much sleep I've had in the last 24 hours of shooting? Who decides all this stuff?
See, here's the thing. Government does what government does. That is regulate everything under the sun and charge fees for applications, licenses and permissions for anything and everything they can sink their bureaucratic teeth into. Subject to petty tyrants bringing their bad days at home to work with them of course. How humiliating is it to find yourself on your knees begging the angry DMV clerk to please accept your paperwork instead of sending you back to Line 73 which currently stretches out the door and down the block with a wait time measured by calendar because you misspelled penis (Hint: It's the answer to question 137. What are you compensating for?)? Who wants more of that? Oh, right.
On the gripping hand, be careful what you wish for. Let me provide an anecdotal example of why this is such a bad idea. besides the obvious "It's unconstitutional Weasel Boy" one of course. Back in the day, when I wore a blue suit and did cool stuff, I used to do traffic enforcement while riding really cool motorcycles and looking like totally bitchin' and stuff. Yeah, I know. I was as hated as Al Gore at Republican Broadcasters convention. Stay with me here for a minute, I do have a point. And no, it's not the one on top of my head. Though my head is remarkably pointy shaped. But enough of that, back to the story. Among those duties was to evaluate drivers that were suspected of...let's just say of being automotively challenged and leave it at that. There was a form to fill out which included the driver's information, my information and why they were being referred. It was called a Request For Reevaluation and could either be Emergency (Great jumpin' Jehoshaphat Margarete, you need to evaluate this guy like yesterday! I mean it! He's a menace! Hey are you listening? AAIIEE!!) and just regular (Whenever you get a free minute there Skippy). Either way the driver was supposed to be called into DMV and actually, you know, have their ability to successfully pilot a four thousand pound motor vehicle on America's highways and byways reevaluated. Hey, it's right there in the form and everything! In 24 years I wrote hundreds of them. Hundreds I tell you. It's surprising how many folks out there have issues driving a car. I mean bouncing off parked cars while careening out of control down the street and nearly running down pedestrians who were minding their own business in their back yards kind of issues with driving. Or maybe not so surprising. I mean, you've been out there. Would you trust those people with your life? I thought not. Anyway. In all those years not a one ever had their license revoked. I never even got called in to DMV for a revocation hearing. I've seen a 93 year old driver hit 14 parked cars and three trees on her way downtown to the Farmer's Market and who had not a single clue anything untoward had occurred. Kept her license. Hell, that was 15 years ago and as far as I know she still has it (and a high deductible insurance policy I'm sure). I had a UPS driver pass out behind the wheel of his Big Brown Truck for reasons unknown and run off the road leaving a path of total destruction in his wake. Yep, kept his license. There were more, oh so depressingly many more. Like the gal who failed to see it and ended up in the middle of Lake El Estero. Had no idea the lake was there in spite of living in that city her whole life. Or the guy who decided the Rec Trail was just a really narrow street and what the hell are all these pedestrians and bicyclists doing in the middle of the damn road!? I've seen trees run right out into the street and then magically teleport themselves, with the car still wrapped around the trunk, right back into the grove. No idea how that happened officer. I swear. Parked cars that suddenly appeared right in front of motorists. Pedestrians who unexpectedly dropped their cloaks on invisibility just as the driver was passing on the sidewalk. The guy...well, you get the idea. None of them ever lost their driving privilege. Nary a one. If you believe my coworkers (and why wouldn't you. They're a great bunch of folks. Why the hate? Oh yeah. That whole ticket thing. Right. My bad.) none of them ever saw a driver suspended either. We may have been wrong on occasion but not every time. My point? Oh right, I was building up to something wasn't I? It's just this. Bureaucracies tend to be capricious and make frustratingly random decisions. There's no rhyme and little reason. Decisions seem to be made by way of Magic 8 Balls, fortune cookies, Ouija Boards and Lunar cycles (Full Moon Madness FTW!!). Anyone on the gun control side who thinks those people can be depended on needs to quit smoking crabgrass. That stuff will rot your brain.
I got just the answer. How about No? That's simple and easily understood, even for those who are logic challenged. I like that word. I may even love it. Short and to the point. No. N. O. Don't be shy, say it with me. No. It just rolls off the tongue. It's satisfying with no aftertaste and none of that next day "Oh Lord, who is this and what have I done?" regret. Those who insist on Conversation, Compromise and Common Sense (The three C's of gun control) should get very used to the idea of hearing it frequently and sometimes vehemently. I am not putting my civil rights, any of them, into the hands of people who think spinning the Big Wheel 'O Hilarious Outcomes is an acceptable method of decision making.
Can I get an Amen from the back row? Thank you brothers and sisters.
Six
15 January 2013
My Garage Memories
Brigid is a wordsmith without peer as anyone who has ever read her knows. I read her blog every day. Her recent post on Garage Memories really struck a chord with me, especially since I'm currently elbow deep in a remodel. The way she talks about her father brought up my own memories of the man who was the most important influence in who I am and the man I became. That man was my Grandfather. My mother's father.
I never really had a father. My male biological DNA donator essentially abandoned his wife and three sons when I was young enough that I have no independent memory of him. When I grew into adulthood he denied me a second time when I reached out to him so his influence on me is primarily negative. My step father was a horribly abusive man who did the world a favor when he voluntarily left it. Another negative male role model. Fortunately I was blessed with a grandfather who was everything an impressionable young boy could want. Especially one who badly needed a positive male role model in his life.
My grandfather taught me what a man was and what he needed to know. He was masculine, smart and honest. He did whatever he needed to do to get the job done and see to his family even when that meant taking his daughter and her three lost boys into a house he was still in the act of building. Where baths consisted of a large galvanized steel tub and buckets of water heated over a wood burning stove. He never complained or allowed the inconveniences we surely imposed on him to color how he treated us or how he went about his business. He was a farmer, a son and grandson of farmers, who actually homesteaded in Wyoming before going on to a career as an electronics inspector with Hughes Aircraft in southern California. He could inspect packages going to the moon then go home and build a sand rail from scrap iron and an old VW engine while simultaneously putting in an addition to his house.
He could build or fix anything (and I mean anything) and did his best to pass along those skills to us boys. All I know of such I learned from him though at the time I scarcely appreciated the value of those lessons. I think such comes naturally to us as we age. As children we're more interested in playing and whatever the diversion du jour is. Nuggets of gold cast before swine. It's only as we get to the age where we're now both engaged in such activities and faced with sons and grandsons of our own to influence that we appreciate their value and lean on the knowledge gained through pain and the singular application of will.
Grandpa never preached he just taught. By every word and action. Even after retirement he got up every day and worked at something. Fixing, improving, modifying. I learned so much from that man including the value of hard work and the idea that real men never quit. Never give up. Never stop moving forward. There is no task beyond the strong arms of a good man. Grandpa was a scrounger, one who never one threw away anything he thought someone might be able to find a use for one day. A trait I learned well and that chagrins Lu sometimes. I learned at the feet of a master.
Grandpa was a Mormon, a true believer. He never drank and I never heard him swear but once and Brigid's post brought that memory crashing back on me like a tidal wave.
As his spiritual child what he loved I loved. One of those loves was all things mechanical, especially cars. Grandpa loved his cars and trucks, the more broke down the better. He seldom bought new, in fact I am aware of only only new vehicle purchase he ever made. When he was young the Model T was still a viable means of transportation and though he went to his grave loving the Dodge brand (he was a stubborn man) he had a string of Model Ts and other old cars that he and his brother drove, fixed and modified. Nothing made him happier than to be in his shop, tools in hand and the guts of something with an internal combustion engine displayed before him. Didn't matter what it was either. Car, truck, tractor no difference. If it was broken he could fix it with a smile on his face and a satisfaction radiating off him like steam from a kettle.
We boys went through a wide variety of vehicles, none of them new and most much closer to junk than reliable transportation. But what we could always depend on was the magical touch, limitless skill and encyclopedic knowledge of my Grandfather. One evening I was ensconced in the bowels of his shop, a cinderblock and concrete structure I helped him build from a bare lot. I was elbow deep in the engine compartment of my 1963 Chevrolet Impala SS.
An aside. Man, how I wish I still had that car. It was a wreck when I bought and fixed it up but ended it's life at the end of a tow truck hook after I abandoned it in Sarge and MIL's apartment parking lot when Lu and I started down the military road. We all make mistakes and errors of judgement and that is hardly the worst of mine yet it stings still. But that is another story for another day.
On this evening I was contemplating the vagaries of a recently purchased, though very used, aluminum high rise intake manifold. 17 years old and more concerned with what I drove than just about anything else except maybe girls but bitchin' cars make that easier so win win. Go fast parts makes the car go cooler don't you know. Anyway. The installation was straightforward enough but there was a problem. One I wasn't sure how to resolve. See, that intake depended on valve covers that had openings both to put in oil and vent the crankcase. The problem was my covers had no such feature and neither did the intake. No way to put oil into an engine that used about a quart a week and no way to bleed off dangerous crankcase pressures that would eventually start pushing things like gaskets out from places where I really wanted them to stay. I could have purchased another set but for two things. First I had precisely no money (the intake was obtained through trade) and absolutely no patience to wait until I could procure a set of suitable covers. I mean, I was 17 years old. Enter my Grandfather.
He came down after dinner and inquired as to my predicament. I explained the problem and he said. "No problem." That was his usual and expected response to tricky issues. He took the intake and after studying it and the engine block pronounced that the way to fix the issue was to drill a large hole in the intake where we could install an oil filler tube with a filter cap that he had 'laying around'. He set up the drill press and made some marks. Then he did something he'd never done in my presence before. As he positioned the intake on the press and the machine began to whir he turned to me and with a positively wicked grin on his face he said
"Well, you ready to fuck it up?"
My Mormon, straight as an arrow Grandfather. I was shocked he even knew that word. I was flabbergasted. My mouth must have hit my knees because he started laughing and proceeded to drill that intake as straight and true as if it had been done at the factory. All with me simply staring at him and not helping a bit. My mind awhirl, wondering just who this man was, standing there in my Grandfather's skin. He was about 80 at the time. We finished the installation together and never spoke of it again. But I remembered.
As I grew up I understood that it was another lesson though you'd be hard pressed to have ever gotten him to admit as much. But that memory and the truths I brought away from it has followed me all the days of my adult life.
Words are just words.
It's not so much what a man says as what he does that's important.
A laugh before action can be a wonderfully calming thing.
Every once in a while a man just has to cuss and that's Ok.
I have since been fortunate to have been influenced by another honorable and much loved male father figure in my father in law, Sarge. Between those two men they have managed to wash away the stain the first two left on my soul. They have convinced me that the good men outweigh the evil, by influence if not sheer numbers. A hard target is so much more satisfying to aim for.
My Grandfather. Gone now these many years but his lessons never forgotten. Thanks Grandpa. I never said that often enough.
Six
I never really had a father. My male biological DNA donator essentially abandoned his wife and three sons when I was young enough that I have no independent memory of him. When I grew into adulthood he denied me a second time when I reached out to him so his influence on me is primarily negative. My step father was a horribly abusive man who did the world a favor when he voluntarily left it. Another negative male role model. Fortunately I was blessed with a grandfather who was everything an impressionable young boy could want. Especially one who badly needed a positive male role model in his life.
My grandfather taught me what a man was and what he needed to know. He was masculine, smart and honest. He did whatever he needed to do to get the job done and see to his family even when that meant taking his daughter and her three lost boys into a house he was still in the act of building. Where baths consisted of a large galvanized steel tub and buckets of water heated over a wood burning stove. He never complained or allowed the inconveniences we surely imposed on him to color how he treated us or how he went about his business. He was a farmer, a son and grandson of farmers, who actually homesteaded in Wyoming before going on to a career as an electronics inspector with Hughes Aircraft in southern California. He could inspect packages going to the moon then go home and build a sand rail from scrap iron and an old VW engine while simultaneously putting in an addition to his house.
He could build or fix anything (and I mean anything) and did his best to pass along those skills to us boys. All I know of such I learned from him though at the time I scarcely appreciated the value of those lessons. I think such comes naturally to us as we age. As children we're more interested in playing and whatever the diversion du jour is. Nuggets of gold cast before swine. It's only as we get to the age where we're now both engaged in such activities and faced with sons and grandsons of our own to influence that we appreciate their value and lean on the knowledge gained through pain and the singular application of will.
Grandpa never preached he just taught. By every word and action. Even after retirement he got up every day and worked at something. Fixing, improving, modifying. I learned so much from that man including the value of hard work and the idea that real men never quit. Never give up. Never stop moving forward. There is no task beyond the strong arms of a good man. Grandpa was a scrounger, one who never one threw away anything he thought someone might be able to find a use for one day. A trait I learned well and that chagrins Lu sometimes. I learned at the feet of a master.
Grandpa was a Mormon, a true believer. He never drank and I never heard him swear but once and Brigid's post brought that memory crashing back on me like a tidal wave.
As his spiritual child what he loved I loved. One of those loves was all things mechanical, especially cars. Grandpa loved his cars and trucks, the more broke down the better. He seldom bought new, in fact I am aware of only only new vehicle purchase he ever made. When he was young the Model T was still a viable means of transportation and though he went to his grave loving the Dodge brand (he was a stubborn man) he had a string of Model Ts and other old cars that he and his brother drove, fixed and modified. Nothing made him happier than to be in his shop, tools in hand and the guts of something with an internal combustion engine displayed before him. Didn't matter what it was either. Car, truck, tractor no difference. If it was broken he could fix it with a smile on his face and a satisfaction radiating off him like steam from a kettle.
We boys went through a wide variety of vehicles, none of them new and most much closer to junk than reliable transportation. But what we could always depend on was the magical touch, limitless skill and encyclopedic knowledge of my Grandfather. One evening I was ensconced in the bowels of his shop, a cinderblock and concrete structure I helped him build from a bare lot. I was elbow deep in the engine compartment of my 1963 Chevrolet Impala SS.
An aside. Man, how I wish I still had that car. It was a wreck when I bought and fixed it up but ended it's life at the end of a tow truck hook after I abandoned it in Sarge and MIL's apartment parking lot when Lu and I started down the military road. We all make mistakes and errors of judgement and that is hardly the worst of mine yet it stings still. But that is another story for another day.
On this evening I was contemplating the vagaries of a recently purchased, though very used, aluminum high rise intake manifold. 17 years old and more concerned with what I drove than just about anything else except maybe girls but bitchin' cars make that easier so win win. Go fast parts makes the car go cooler don't you know. Anyway. The installation was straightforward enough but there was a problem. One I wasn't sure how to resolve. See, that intake depended on valve covers that had openings both to put in oil and vent the crankcase. The problem was my covers had no such feature and neither did the intake. No way to put oil into an engine that used about a quart a week and no way to bleed off dangerous crankcase pressures that would eventually start pushing things like gaskets out from places where I really wanted them to stay. I could have purchased another set but for two things. First I had precisely no money (the intake was obtained through trade) and absolutely no patience to wait until I could procure a set of suitable covers. I mean, I was 17 years old. Enter my Grandfather.
He came down after dinner and inquired as to my predicament. I explained the problem and he said. "No problem." That was his usual and expected response to tricky issues. He took the intake and after studying it and the engine block pronounced that the way to fix the issue was to drill a large hole in the intake where we could install an oil filler tube with a filter cap that he had 'laying around'. He set up the drill press and made some marks. Then he did something he'd never done in my presence before. As he positioned the intake on the press and the machine began to whir he turned to me and with a positively wicked grin on his face he said
"Well, you ready to fuck it up?"
My Mormon, straight as an arrow Grandfather. I was shocked he even knew that word. I was flabbergasted. My mouth must have hit my knees because he started laughing and proceeded to drill that intake as straight and true as if it had been done at the factory. All with me simply staring at him and not helping a bit. My mind awhirl, wondering just who this man was, standing there in my Grandfather's skin. He was about 80 at the time. We finished the installation together and never spoke of it again. But I remembered.
As I grew up I understood that it was another lesson though you'd be hard pressed to have ever gotten him to admit as much. But that memory and the truths I brought away from it has followed me all the days of my adult life.
Words are just words.
It's not so much what a man says as what he does that's important.
A laugh before action can be a wonderfully calming thing.
Every once in a while a man just has to cuss and that's Ok.
I have since been fortunate to have been influenced by another honorable and much loved male father figure in my father in law, Sarge. Between those two men they have managed to wash away the stain the first two left on my soul. They have convinced me that the good men outweigh the evil, by influence if not sheer numbers. A hard target is so much more satisfying to aim for.
My Grandfather. Gone now these many years but his lessons never forgotten. Thanks Grandpa. I never said that often enough.
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