T’was the night before Christmas
And all throughout Fire Station 24
The firefighters were all snuggled
In their beds.
Visions of Arroz con Pollo, Carne
Mechada, Pudin de Frita and Flan
De Queso danced in their heads
While they slumbered.
Visions of presents under the tree
Also danced in their heads, but alas
Not all was well with the
Firefighters of Station 24
Snidley Martinez, the evil mayor of
The city had taken away the Christmas
Pay that belonged to the firefighters of
Station 24.
There would be no Arroz con Pollo, Carne
Mechada, Pudin de Frita and Flan
De Queso at their dinner table Christmas day
Nor any presents under the tree.
Suddenly there arose such a clatter the
Firefighters sprang from their beds to
Answer the clattering call bell and to the
Call from headquarters.
The radios crackled with the report: Elderly
Red suited man, it was reported to HQ, with sleigh
drawn by eight reindeer is on fire at
Noel Lane and Christmas Ave.
Could it be that old St. Nick needed our help!
We sprang to our trucks and headed down the
Avenue with such a great roar in search of St. Nick
And his eight reindeer.
‘There he is,” I shouted to our driver. Yes it was old
St. Nick and coming from one of the many bags of
Toys in his sleigh was black smoke. Old St. Nick
Greeted us with a Ho Ho Ho.
Before you could say “Merry Christmas” our crew
Had the bag out of the sleigh and found the offending
Article. It was a Smarttersburgers Electronic Whirleygig.
Old St. Nick was very pleased.
Old St Nick said to us, “I know of your evil Mayor,
Snidley Martinez. I use to leave him lumps of coal.
With that he tossed to our crew gift certificates to the
Columbia Restaurant.
Then in the blink of an eye old St Nick climbed up on
His sleigh and tossed a huge bag of toys to our astounded
Crew. We gazed in amazement as he then seated himself
On his sleigh.
Then in the twinkling of an eye and with a mighty shout,
“Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night”
Old St. Nick and his eight reindeer lifted off
Into the night sky.
Christmas Day came and our crew and families dined
On Arroz con Pollo, Carne Mechada, Pudin de Frita
and Flan De Queso along with Cafe con leche. Presents
never stopped coming.
There was a sad sight that day. It was our evil Mayor
Snidley Martinez while eating his Harina de Avena
At a corner table and after opening
up a present a lump of coal fell out.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Dittos, Broken Locks, Cleaners and Contradictions
We laughed at the trouble you got yourself in the time you ran short of “ dittos.”
This past week I was late for my class because I did not get to the Cannon shop in time. When I got there I realized that I didn’t have enough tugricks ($) to make the number of copies that I wanted. So I was late and short on dittos for my students. I was pretty mad at myself for not preparing better because my lesson was really exciting.
So I stormed into class and said, “Let’s get started. Open your notebooks.” I was so mad I could have spit nails. My counterpart looked at me and smiled. She would never say anything to me during the crisis, (very quiet sort of gal) but later she mentioned that she was worried about me. (I laughed and said that if you see steam coming out of my ears that just means that my engines are running on full speed.) I knew my first class was the smartest and fastest, so, I thought, “I will have them skip the dittos and copy every sentence from the board and they will do okay.”
Just as I was starting somebody poked their head in the door and said that all my students are needed at the clinic for checkups. So everything worked out all right. I had forty minutes to prepare for my next class and since I did not use the dittos for my first class I was set. What a day! I taught two of my best lessons to my next two classes. That’s a day in the life of a PC teacher.
Your mother and I howled with laughter at this.
Other news: Enkhtuya broke the lock on our training center door by jamming the key in the wrong way. It is easy for me to get flustered when work piles up and you are working toward different objectives all at once. Then this happens and we can’t enter our center because the door is locked and broken. Then someone said to me that some of the Russian teachers were coming by—any minute now—to see our center.
Well, dig me a hole and throw dirt over me! Right about now I started up a good conversation with the wall in front of me and then I ran to find some pliers, but the Russian teachers didn’t come. They have threatened to come twice before and, truthfully, God only knows why they did not come. Our door is open now, but we can’t lock the center. Fortunately, our center is inside our English classroom, the door of which we can lock. Isn’t it funny how live fits together in the oddest way.
You may remember a prior journal entry a few weeks ago about and ambitious student who broke our classroom door lock while trying to break in so he could clean. Hey look—nobody is perfect and I am counting my blessings. At least they had the grace to not break both locks at the same time. If they had done that I would have checked for my suitcase.
I laughed out loud at your moving experience. Then I had to marvel at your colorful description of life in Mongolia.
I now have a new place to rest my head. Yes, I have moved across town. My school finally sold my big old apartment to a family who can really use the extra rooms. I am now in a two-room apartment and getting along just fine. It has taken about three weeks to get everything set up. Moving is always tough no matter where you live, but moving in Mongolia is somewhere between the blind leading the blind and a traveling dog circus.
After teaching all day the movers and I loaded all my worldly goods on a pickup truck and drove across town to the new apartment. When we started to move my stuff inside the apartment I discovered that the place had not been swept or the carpet cleaned. It was too late now to say, “No, take all my stuff back. The apartment is not clean.” So they moved all my stuff in and assured me that the cleaning ladies would come “tomorrow” and help me clean. “Tomorrow” never came so I went to the school and found the intrepid leader of the cleaning ladies who happens to be the school accountant. I basically called them all liars and said that I did not have time to waste and that they were responsible for taking me away from my teaching. Within thirty minutes four cleaning ladies trooped over to my apartment and cleaned the carpets. We had a blast talking and laughing.
Such is the contradiction and sometimes the frustration of life in Mongolia. The people are lively and warm if not the most organized. I have to remind myself that Mongolia is still a “third world” country, a very ancient country whose views on life and thinking are very different from our own. This is still a place where people still take off their gloves to shake hands no matter how cold it is. Mothers still wrap their babies in swaddling clothes and the people sing. They sing at parties, in homes, on horseback, etc. Mongolian women are known for their ability to carry a tune and their ability to harmonize with one another easily. It is a most beautiful part of their culture.
This past week I was late for my class because I did not get to the Cannon shop in time. When I got there I realized that I didn’t have enough tugricks ($) to make the number of copies that I wanted. So I was late and short on dittos for my students. I was pretty mad at myself for not preparing better because my lesson was really exciting.
So I stormed into class and said, “Let’s get started. Open your notebooks.” I was so mad I could have spit nails. My counterpart looked at me and smiled. She would never say anything to me during the crisis, (very quiet sort of gal) but later she mentioned that she was worried about me. (I laughed and said that if you see steam coming out of my ears that just means that my engines are running on full speed.) I knew my first class was the smartest and fastest, so, I thought, “I will have them skip the dittos and copy every sentence from the board and they will do okay.”
Just as I was starting somebody poked their head in the door and said that all my students are needed at the clinic for checkups. So everything worked out all right. I had forty minutes to prepare for my next class and since I did not use the dittos for my first class I was set. What a day! I taught two of my best lessons to my next two classes. That’s a day in the life of a PC teacher.
Your mother and I howled with laughter at this.
Other news: Enkhtuya broke the lock on our training center door by jamming the key in the wrong way. It is easy for me to get flustered when work piles up and you are working toward different objectives all at once. Then this happens and we can’t enter our center because the door is locked and broken. Then someone said to me that some of the Russian teachers were coming by—any minute now—to see our center.
Well, dig me a hole and throw dirt over me! Right about now I started up a good conversation with the wall in front of me and then I ran to find some pliers, but the Russian teachers didn’t come. They have threatened to come twice before and, truthfully, God only knows why they did not come. Our door is open now, but we can’t lock the center. Fortunately, our center is inside our English classroom, the door of which we can lock. Isn’t it funny how live fits together in the oddest way.
You may remember a prior journal entry a few weeks ago about and ambitious student who broke our classroom door lock while trying to break in so he could clean. Hey look—nobody is perfect and I am counting my blessings. At least they had the grace to not break both locks at the same time. If they had done that I would have checked for my suitcase.
I laughed out loud at your moving experience. Then I had to marvel at your colorful description of life in Mongolia.
I now have a new place to rest my head. Yes, I have moved across town. My school finally sold my big old apartment to a family who can really use the extra rooms. I am now in a two-room apartment and getting along just fine. It has taken about three weeks to get everything set up. Moving is always tough no matter where you live, but moving in Mongolia is somewhere between the blind leading the blind and a traveling dog circus.
After teaching all day the movers and I loaded all my worldly goods on a pickup truck and drove across town to the new apartment. When we started to move my stuff inside the apartment I discovered that the place had not been swept or the carpet cleaned. It was too late now to say, “No, take all my stuff back. The apartment is not clean.” So they moved all my stuff in and assured me that the cleaning ladies would come “tomorrow” and help me clean. “Tomorrow” never came so I went to the school and found the intrepid leader of the cleaning ladies who happens to be the school accountant. I basically called them all liars and said that I did not have time to waste and that they were responsible for taking me away from my teaching. Within thirty minutes four cleaning ladies trooped over to my apartment and cleaned the carpets. We had a blast talking and laughing.
Such is the contradiction and sometimes the frustration of life in Mongolia. The people are lively and warm if not the most organized. I have to remind myself that Mongolia is still a “third world” country, a very ancient country whose views on life and thinking are very different from our own. This is still a place where people still take off their gloves to shake hands no matter how cold it is. Mothers still wrap their babies in swaddling clothes and the people sing. They sing at parties, in homes, on horseback, etc. Mongolian women are known for their ability to carry a tune and their ability to harmonize with one another easily. It is a most beautiful part of their culture.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Black Hills Gold and a Model T
Michael...Your Aunt Shirley almost didn’t get a present for her twelfth birthday.
Snowmelt and heavy rains in the month of April invariably turn our normally placid little creek into a raging muddy torrent. Here it is May 1 and the occasion is your Aunt Shirley's birthday. This is her first birthday without our dad. Our mother is determined to get out and get your Aunt Shirley a present, but the now raging creek has washed out part of the road and our little ’35 Ford Coupe will be unable to get past the washout. They put on raincoats and boots and off they go to town. The creek overflows it banks for several hundred yards, but they are able to trudge through and then it is clear sailing to town.
When they arrive in town they go straight to JP Thorpe and Company, the jeweler who originated “Black Hills Gold Jewelry.” JP Thorpe, himself, waits on them and your aunt picks out a sparkling gold ring. On the way back home they get a little bit smarter and climb up the hillside to avoid the still raging torrent.
In your Aunt Shirley’s own words here is what she told to me about that ring.
I have treasured it ever since. Once when I was hiking with my family I managed to get it caught on a stub of a branch by falling backwards while I was resting on a log. The band broke and bent badly. I took it to a jeweler to have it repaired, but he said that it would cost more than it was worth. It rested in my jewelry box for many years until I asked my husband to have it repaired for a birthday gift. I decided that since it was one of the original Black Hills gold rings it certainly was worth repairing! Now I am proudly wearing it again.
My sister was only seventeen when she married my brother-in-law.
My future brother-in-law cuts quite a figure in his starched khaki United States Air Force uniform. He has this big blue Chrysler that he drives all the way up to our house from his air base to see my sister. The Chrysler is impressive, but the sticker pasted on the bottom left hand corner of the windshield still sticks out in my mind to this day. There were two lightning bolts held together by an upraised fist and the words Strategic Air Command imprinted on the sticker.
He takes us on a tour of the air base and we leave convinced that the red menace cannot prevail against the mighty forces arrayed there. I remember that there is some discussion about the possibility of a communist being there on the air base. We hold this discussion in hushed tones.
A heavy snowfall begins on February 2, 1952, and by the evening of the wedding day of your Aunt Shirley and Uncle Gene the snow is piled high. The guests arrive at the Deadwood Episcopal Church for the ceremony clad in their heavy coats and boots.
Because of all the hubbub I spend a few moments lost in the back of the church. I am rescued just in the nick of time to see two beautiful people joined in Holy Matrimony. The snow is now at least two feet deep and getting out of the church and getting up the long road to our home, where the reception is to be held, is very difficult. Many cars get stuck in the wet snow on the way and the minister has to turn back. However, most make the journey and the young couple is off to a grand start.
Your Aunt Shirley and Uncle Gene have the coolest car ever built
My grandfather invests some money in stocks and when the stock is sold the money goes to your Aunt Shirley. She and your Uncle Gene use that money to buy a brand new 1953 Studebaker Champion. There are only 5000 Studebaker Champions built that year. It is sleek like an arrow, built low to the ground and painted crimson red. There is a powerful V8 engine under that long low hood that makes this automobile pulse with life. It also has door locks that will keep the doors from flying open in an accident. This is something the big three automakers have not begun to think about. I would have killed to have this automobile.
Seven of us pile into that little car one summer day. There is my mother, my stepfather, myself, your aunt and uncle, and my two nephews. There is not a lot of room to move or breathe.
We stop for gas on the way to Glacier National Park and your Aunt Shirley gets out to go to the bathroom. All those present pile back into the little Studebaker and off down the road we go. Several minutes pass and my nephew, Ron, starts whining about the fact his mother is not in the car. Your Uncle Gene whips the little Studebaker around and goes back for your Aunt Shirley who is now standing out by the gas pumps looking rather forlorn. She piles in and once again we are squashed, barely able to breathe or move a muscle.
It is significant that I am writing more paragraphs about your Aunt Shirley and Uncle Gene’s automobile than I am about them. What is wrong with this picture? Now, revealed for the first time the true story about the old Model T Ford that she and your Uncle Jim once owned.
My grandfather, upon his passing, left those two the grand sum of $50.00 to be divided evenly. They decide to pool that grand sum and purchase an old Model T Ford. Now this joint ownership arrangement causes a number of squabbles between those two. I can still remember, to this day, the arguments about whose day it is to drive, whose turn it is to drive and where it is going to be driven. One day your Aunt Shirley allows her boy friend to drive the old Model T and he promptly runs into another car and causes a lot of damage to that car.
The only damages to the Model T were a few scratches on the front bumper. There is a lot of hollering about who is going to pay for the damage to the other car. Your Aunt Shirley’s boyfriend didn’t have any money, so he can’t pay and your Aunt is bereft of funds, so that leaves only my mother to pay for the damages. Our mother finally has to come up with some money to pay for the damage to the other car.
Snowmelt and heavy rains in the month of April invariably turn our normally placid little creek into a raging muddy torrent. Here it is May 1 and the occasion is your Aunt Shirley's birthday. This is her first birthday without our dad. Our mother is determined to get out and get your Aunt Shirley a present, but the now raging creek has washed out part of the road and our little ’35 Ford Coupe will be unable to get past the washout. They put on raincoats and boots and off they go to town. The creek overflows it banks for several hundred yards, but they are able to trudge through and then it is clear sailing to town.
When they arrive in town they go straight to JP Thorpe and Company, the jeweler who originated “Black Hills Gold Jewelry.” JP Thorpe, himself, waits on them and your aunt picks out a sparkling gold ring. On the way back home they get a little bit smarter and climb up the hillside to avoid the still raging torrent.
In your Aunt Shirley’s own words here is what she told to me about that ring.
I have treasured it ever since. Once when I was hiking with my family I managed to get it caught on a stub of a branch by falling backwards while I was resting on a log. The band broke and bent badly. I took it to a jeweler to have it repaired, but he said that it would cost more than it was worth. It rested in my jewelry box for many years until I asked my husband to have it repaired for a birthday gift. I decided that since it was one of the original Black Hills gold rings it certainly was worth repairing! Now I am proudly wearing it again.
My sister was only seventeen when she married my brother-in-law.
My future brother-in-law cuts quite a figure in his starched khaki United States Air Force uniform. He has this big blue Chrysler that he drives all the way up to our house from his air base to see my sister. The Chrysler is impressive, but the sticker pasted on the bottom left hand corner of the windshield still sticks out in my mind to this day. There were two lightning bolts held together by an upraised fist and the words Strategic Air Command imprinted on the sticker.
He takes us on a tour of the air base and we leave convinced that the red menace cannot prevail against the mighty forces arrayed there. I remember that there is some discussion about the possibility of a communist being there on the air base. We hold this discussion in hushed tones.
A heavy snowfall begins on February 2, 1952, and by the evening of the wedding day of your Aunt Shirley and Uncle Gene the snow is piled high. The guests arrive at the Deadwood Episcopal Church for the ceremony clad in their heavy coats and boots.
Because of all the hubbub I spend a few moments lost in the back of the church. I am rescued just in the nick of time to see two beautiful people joined in Holy Matrimony. The snow is now at least two feet deep and getting out of the church and getting up the long road to our home, where the reception is to be held, is very difficult. Many cars get stuck in the wet snow on the way and the minister has to turn back. However, most make the journey and the young couple is off to a grand start.
Your Aunt Shirley and Uncle Gene have the coolest car ever built
My grandfather invests some money in stocks and when the stock is sold the money goes to your Aunt Shirley. She and your Uncle Gene use that money to buy a brand new 1953 Studebaker Champion. There are only 5000 Studebaker Champions built that year. It is sleek like an arrow, built low to the ground and painted crimson red. There is a powerful V8 engine under that long low hood that makes this automobile pulse with life. It also has door locks that will keep the doors from flying open in an accident. This is something the big three automakers have not begun to think about. I would have killed to have this automobile.
Seven of us pile into that little car one summer day. There is my mother, my stepfather, myself, your aunt and uncle, and my two nephews. There is not a lot of room to move or breathe.
We stop for gas on the way to Glacier National Park and your Aunt Shirley gets out to go to the bathroom. All those present pile back into the little Studebaker and off down the road we go. Several minutes pass and my nephew, Ron, starts whining about the fact his mother is not in the car. Your Uncle Gene whips the little Studebaker around and goes back for your Aunt Shirley who is now standing out by the gas pumps looking rather forlorn. She piles in and once again we are squashed, barely able to breathe or move a muscle.
It is significant that I am writing more paragraphs about your Aunt Shirley and Uncle Gene’s automobile than I am about them. What is wrong with this picture? Now, revealed for the first time the true story about the old Model T Ford that she and your Uncle Jim once owned.
My grandfather, upon his passing, left those two the grand sum of $50.00 to be divided evenly. They decide to pool that grand sum and purchase an old Model T Ford. Now this joint ownership arrangement causes a number of squabbles between those two. I can still remember, to this day, the arguments about whose day it is to drive, whose turn it is to drive and where it is going to be driven. One day your Aunt Shirley allows her boy friend to drive the old Model T and he promptly runs into another car and causes a lot of damage to that car.
The only damages to the Model T were a few scratches on the front bumper. There is a lot of hollering about who is going to pay for the damage to the other car. Your Aunt Shirley’s boyfriend didn’t have any money, so he can’t pay and your Aunt is bereft of funds, so that leaves only my mother to pay for the damages. Our mother finally has to come up with some money to pay for the damage to the other car.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Just try reading this without laughing till you cry!!!
Just try reading this without laughing till you cry!!!
>> Pocket Tazer Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife.. A guy who purchased
>> his lovely wife a pocket Tazer for their anniversary submitted this:
>>
>> Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that
>> sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was
>> looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie . What I came
>> across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse- sized tazer. The effects of
>> the tazer were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse
>> affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to
>> safety....??
>> WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought
>> The device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn
>> thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned,
>> however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal
>> surface at the same time; I'd get the blue arc of electricity darting
>> back and forth between the prongs.
>> AWESOME!!!
>> Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is
>> on the face of her microwave.
>> Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that
>> it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right?
>> There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently
>> (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking
>> that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving
>> target.. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction
>> of a second) and thought better of it.. She is such a sweet cat. But,
>> if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself
>> against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as
>> advertised. Am I wrong?
>> So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading
>> glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one
>> hand, and tazer in another. The directions said that a one-second
>> burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was
>> supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a
>> three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the
>> ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds
>> would be wasting the batteries.
>> All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5"
>> long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and
>> (loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries) thinking to myself,
>> 'no possible way!' What happened next is almost beyond description,
>> but I'll do my best.. .?
>> I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one
>> side as to say, 'don't do it dumbass,' reasoning that a one second
>> burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I
>> decided to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it. I
>> touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and .. .
>> HOLY MOTHER OF GOD . . WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . . WHAT THE HELL!!!
>> I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me
>> up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and
>> over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the
>> fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples
>> on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under
>> my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs? The cat was
>> making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture
>> frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid
>> getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.
>> Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a tazer, one
>> note of caution: there is no such thing as a one second burst when you
>> zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged
>> from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor.. A three
>> second burst would be considered conservative?
>> IT HURT LIKE HELL!!!
>> A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at
>> that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and
>> surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of
>> the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so
>> from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both nipples
>> were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with
>> Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the
>> drooling .
>> Apparently I pooped on myself, but was too numb to know for sure and
>> my sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head
>> which I believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my nuts and
>> I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return!
>> P.s... My wife, who can't stop laughing about my experience, loved the
>> gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!
>> If you think education is difficult, try being stupid !!!
>> Pocket Tazer Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife.. A guy who purchased
>> his lovely wife a pocket Tazer for their anniversary submitted this:
>>
>> Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that
>> sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was
>> looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie . What I came
>> across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse- sized tazer. The effects of
>> the tazer were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse
>> affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to
>> safety....??
>> WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought
>> The device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn
>> thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned,
>> however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal
>> surface at the same time; I'd get the blue arc of electricity darting
>> back and forth between the prongs.
>> AWESOME!!!
>> Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is
>> on the face of her microwave.
>> Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that
>> it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right?
>> There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently
>> (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking
>> that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving
>> target.. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction
>> of a second) and thought better of it.. She is such a sweet cat. But,
>> if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself
>> against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as
>> advertised. Am I wrong?
>> So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading
>> glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one
>> hand, and tazer in another. The directions said that a one-second
>> burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was
>> supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a
>> three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the
>> ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds
>> would be wasting the batteries.
>> All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5"
>> long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and
>> (loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries) thinking to myself,
>> 'no possible way!' What happened next is almost beyond description,
>> but I'll do my best.. .?
>> I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one
>> side as to say, 'don't do it dumbass,' reasoning that a one second
>> burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I
>> decided to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it. I
>> touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and .. .
>> HOLY MOTHER OF GOD . . WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . . WHAT THE HELL!!!
>> I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me
>> up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and
>> over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the
>> fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples
>> on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under
>> my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs? The cat was
>> making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture
>> frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid
>> getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.
>> Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a tazer, one
>> note of caution: there is no such thing as a one second burst when you
>> zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged
>> from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor.. A three
>> second burst would be considered conservative?
>> IT HURT LIKE HELL!!!
>> A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at
>> that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and
>> surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of
>> the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so
>> from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both nipples
>> were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with
>> Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the
>> drooling .
>> Apparently I pooped on myself, but was too numb to know for sure and
>> my sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head
>> which I believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my nuts and
>> I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return!
>> P.s... My wife, who can't stop laughing about my experience, loved the
>> gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!
>> If you think education is difficult, try being stupid !!!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
A True Ghost Story
Michael...The following true events happened in the summer of "58
At the end of Roosevelt Road and atop Mt Roosevelt, there stands a monument dedicated to the memory of our late great twenty-sixth President. I know that his likeness carved on Mt. Rushmore is a fitting tribute to his presidential accomplishments, but this monument atop Mt Roosevelt is special to me. The monument, a massive stone structure shaped like a silo stands on a square base some 16 feet by 16 feet. The round silo portion extends skyward almost 40 feet then flares out at the top just like a castle turret. You could drive your car all the way up to the monument. Ten stone stairs led up an opening that you could get through by leaning forward and ducking your head. Once inside you could see the stone stairs that circled around the interior until they reached the top. Story had it, you could see four states from the wooden platform at the top, but I never figured out which four states loomed in the distance
That summer Mother’s older sister, my Aunt Rachel and her new husband Frank Johnson, were flying into Rapid City for a visit. My mother confided to me that she did not think Johnson was his real last name because he was an Italian fellow that my Aunt Rachel had taken up with when she lived in Chicago. One day Mother received a phone call from my Aunt Rachel. She had married Frank Johnson and they were now living in Tampa. They were in the real estate business and were doing quite well. Their new real estate business was doing well enough, my aunt said, so that they could afford plane tickets to Rapid City.
Aunt Rachel was the family chronicler. She wrote about a youthful ancestor that signed on with a group of privateers. They ventured upon the high seas to sail under the American flag. Henry (first name) while cruising the West Indies fell in with a British ship and after a desperate fight captured the unlucky British vessel. Henry, in the ensuing battle, lost three fingers of his left hand by the stroke of a cutlass that was meant for his head. After that, this intrepid group of privateers met up with a British man-of-war of a very superior size and force and was in turn captured. Henry, along with his surviving shipmates spent eighteen months in an English prison. Finally, the British signed a treaty with the United States and Henry returned to his home in New York upon his release. His family, believing he had been lost in battle, greeted him joyously as one who had risen from the dead
There is a lot more in the chronicle about Henry and how he traveled west to Ohio, established settlements there, became a justice of the peace, became a surveyor, an agriculturist and a horticulturist. It all seemed to me to be somewhat anticlimactic after his adventures on the high seas. I mean what you do for an encore when you have sailed aboard what was for all practical purposes a “pirate ship” and then end up locked in an English prison for eighteen months in the year 1782 and lived to tell about it.
Mom told me some other things about Aunt Rachel. When she
lived in Chicago she was the top court stenographer. She could take court notes in shorthand faster and better than all the other court stenographers. One day while she was in the courtroom she got a psychic revelation that her fiancé, Lucky, had been killed in an accident. She ran out of the courtroom, ran to the nearest telephone, and heard the news that she already knew. After that, she took up with Frank Johnson and they left Chicago for Tampa.
I received a call from my friend, Joey who wanted to hang out with me, so I got on my bike and left Frank Johnson at the creek. He had his pants legs rolled up around his knees wading in the deepest part of the creek he could find. I waved at him as I went by, but he did not even look up. He was having too much fun.
Joey and I were hanging out down in downtown Deadwood. There were a lot of tourists in town for the festivities that preceded the big Days-of-76 parade. We were hoping to strike up a conversation with any unattached young ladies when we spotted it: a brand spanking new 1957 Mercury Montclair hardtop. If there was anything that Joey and I were experts on it was the latest model cars turned out by Detroit. We temporarily abandoned our plans for conversations with unattached young ladies and drifted across the street for a closer look at the big Mercury. It was a two-door coupe, painted red on the bottom with a white top. To complement all that there was a gold painted scoop on each side that started just short of the door and stretched back to the taillight.
Joey and I were giving the big Mercury a close-up inspection when a short round faced man came up and said, “What do you boys think? Do you like my car? Maybe you boys would like to go for a ride?” He was accompanied by a younger man who was tall and muscular looking.
“I don’t think so mister.” Joey quickly replied.
“You boys live here in town?” the shorter one of the two said.
“Joey does.” I replied. “I live outside of town.”
“Listen boys. My name is Sal and this is my friend Jimmy. We could use a couple of young men to show us around your town. We just drove in from Florida and don’t know much about the area. Could you use some extra money? I would pay you.”
I almost blurted out that my Aunt and Uncle, Rachel and Frank Johnson were staying with us were here from Florida too, but something made me stop short.
Now that Joey heard that money was involved he did a complete turn-a-round. “We could go with you mister, but we can’t leave our bikes here.”
“That’s no problem.” Sal said. He went around to back of the big Mercury and opened up the trunk and said, “Look at the size of this trunk. Jimmy and I will put your bikes in here and you can show us around.” As big as the trunk was the bikes would not quite fit in, but Jimmy produced some twine and tied the trunk lid shut and off we went.
Jimmy was doing the driving, Sal sat in the passenger seat and Joey and I were in the back when Sal turned around, pointed at Joey and myself and said, “Hey Jimmy! We’ve got a couple of live ones here to show us around, Scott and Joey. They are going to give us the grand tour.”
We headed out of Deadwood towards Lead through Central City. Central City rivaled Lead and Deadwood back in the gold rush days, but now was only a collection of boarded up businesses and non-descript homes. When we got to Lead, I volunteered the information that Lead was the site of the world’s largest gold mine and that if you wanted to you could take a tour of the mine. Jimmy spoke a complete sentence for the first time and said to Sal, “I don’t want to take no tour of no stinking mine. I just want to find Frank and get out of here.”
My blood ran cold and I could scarcely believe my ears. They couldn’t be talking about Frank Johnson could they? Sal turned to Joey and me and said, “Jimmy and I are looking for our cousin, Frank Johnson. We want to talk to him about some things. He is supposed to be here on a vacation. Do you boys know anything about a Frank Johnson that just got into this town?”
“Look at that one.” Jimmy says, looking at me through the rear view mirror. “He is sweating like a pig. He knows something. I can choke it out of him as soon as I can find a good spot.” Fortunately, for Joey and me, Jimmy in his haste to find a place where he could begin choking the life out of me began to speed up as he passed into Deadwood. We flew by Art in his gray Pontiac, strategically parked to apprehend any miscreant foolish enough to speed inside the town limits. Art is the Deadwood Police Chief and he patrols our streets in his big old ‘55 gray Pontiac. Art pulled in behind us and turned on his red light. Not wanting any trouble with the local police Jimmy quickly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.
Art quickly approached the driver side of big Mercury and said to Jimmy, “You were going a little fast as you came into the city limits here. I see by your license plate you are from Florida. I just wanted to caution you to take it easy and have a safe time while you are in our town.” Then he looked in the back seat, saw Joey and me sitting there, and said to me, “What are you and Joey doing there?”
Before I could stammer out a reply Sal sputtered out, “These boys were giving us a tour of all the sights around here.”
“Well, that is really a nice thing to do. We all need to make sure our visitors have a good time so they will want to come back,” Art said in his best chamber-of-commerce voice.
“I need to get home,” were the next words to come out of my terror-stricken body.
Joey could only manage two words, “Me too.”
Sal had to get out and fold the seat forward so Joey and I could scamper out and as he stood there Joey recovered his ability to speak and accosted Sal, “What about the money you said you were going to pay us?”
“I don’t owe you boys a thing.”
Art got wind of what was going on and said still in his best chamber-of-commerce voice to Sal, “If you fellows said you would pay these boys for taking you on a tour then it might be a good idea to do that. They did take you fellows on a nice tour. That would probably be less than the twenty five dollar fine for you could get for speeding.” Sal dug out his wallet and deposited six one-dollar bills in Joey’s hand of which Joey in turn handed me three bills. Under the watchful eye of Art, Jimmy cut the twine that held the trunk lid in place and Joey and I rode off as fast as we could pedal. I glanced back one time and Art was still talking to them. He was probably grilling them about a place to vacation in Florida.
When I arrived home Aunt Rachel was lounged in a hammock stretched between the two huge pine trees fronting the driveway to our home. Frank Johnson was pushing our old rotary lawn mower over the lawn. I hopped off my bicycle, not bothering to put down the kickstand and left the front wheel spinning rapidly. I ran over to Frank Johnson and said, “There are two men in town looking for you.”
He and the mower came to an abrupt stop and he said, “What are you talking about?”
I related the whole story about the big Mercury, Sal and Jimmy, the tour, almost being choked like a chicken, and Art. Then I pulled the three one-dollar bills out my pocket as if to prove I was telling the truth. I have heard stories about people turning all colors of the rainbow when confronted with bad news and now I had reason to believe those stories were true. His complexion went from completely white to beet red and then back again at least twice and perhaps a third time. Finally, he just sagged down to the ground and said in a low voice, “This is not good.”
“What do those guys want with you?” I demanded to know.
“One thing for sure is they just don’t want to talk.”
“Are they going to try to beat you up?”
“They are going to do worse than that?”
“What do you mean worse than that? Why are they after you?”
“Did you tell them where you live?”
“I told them I lived outside of town.”
“But did you tell them where outside of town?”
“No, but all they have to do is ask around. Everybody in town knows where I live.”
About that time Aunt Rachel popped up from the hammock, looked around to see why the lawnmower had stopped, noticed that Frank Johnson and I were having a serious discussion and asked, “Frank, why are you are sitting on the ground? Are you feeling all right? Pushing that heavy old mower must have worn you out. You don‘t look good at all.”
“I’m ok honey. I’m just a little tired from trying to do too much,”
“What are you two whispering about over there? Whatever it is, it looks serious.”
“ It’s okay sweetie pie. Scott was just telling me about the Deadwood Days-of Seventy-Six parade tomorrow and I decided to rest for a bit.”
“My goodness, Frank. You are as white as that sheet hanging on that clothesline over there. You need to go in and lay down before supper. Let Scott finish the mowing.”
After supper I finished the mowing, put the mower away in the garage and turned to go in the house to get my peach cobbler when I saw Frank Johnson standing by the front door. He motioned to me to come with him and we walked around the front of the house and then over to and down the back steps that led down to Roosevelt Road. We stood there for a few minutes, both of us kicking dirt clods by the side of the road, not saying anything. Finally I asked him, “What is going on? Who are those guys?”
“Sal, Jimmy and I all work for a guy in Tampa named Santo.”
“I thought you sold real estate.”
“No, I don’t sell real estate. I work for Santo. He controls the Bolita in Tampa.”
“Bolita?”
“It’s sort of like the numbers game in Chicago only in Tampa they do it with numbered balls.”
“Are you a mob guy?”
“If you put it that way, I guess the answer is yes.”
“Does Aunt Rachel know what you do?”
“No, she has no idea. I met her after her fiancé, Lucky, died in that car accident. She never would have had anything to do with me if she knew I was a mob guy. I told her I sold real estate; actually I collected for the guys in Chicago. I wanted to make a fresh start in Tampa, go straight and make a nice life for your Aunt. I did try real estate, once we got to Tampa, but it just wasn’t working out.”
“So you got a transfer from the Chicago mob to the Tampa Mob?
“Well, it’s not quite that simple, but if you put it that way, Yeah. I came highly recommended too.”
“I had no idea you could do that. I still don’t know why Sal and Jimmy would drive all the way from up here from Tampa. What did you do to get them to drive all that way?”
Frank Johnson kicked another clod of dirt and then he said in a low voice, “ I’ve been skimming a little off the top of the collection for about a year and Sal and Santo never missed it until now.”
“Holy crap, you have been stealing from those mob guys?”
“Well, if you put it that way, yeah, you’re right.”
“How much did you take?”
“Altogether about fifty thousand.”
I stood there for a few moments while I took in the enormity of Frank Johnson’s crime and said, “Frank, these guys are going to kill you, aren’t they?” He could only manage a small nod of his head. “I mean, I heard they shoot you, then put your body in the car trunk and then take you out to the country to dump your body. Frank, we are already in the country. There is no need for them to put you in the car trunk after they shoot you.”
Frank replied, “After you went outside to finish the mowing I told your Mother and Rachel everything. Your Mother is really at me for putting you in danger. Rachel is packing our clothes up. She is mad at me too, but I think she is going to stay with me. I told your mother we need to leave tonight so she is going to drive us to Rapid City. Rachel and I will catch a late night flight to Minneapolis.”
Twilight began to set in as we turned to start back up the stairs. We heard a car coming and dived for cover. Turns out it was Mr. Burring in his 1953 Golden Dragon Kaiser racing up the road. We breathed a sigh of relief, stood up and brushed ourselves off. Then like our native bobcat stalking his prey Sal’s big Mercury crept up on us. Sal was out of the car in a flash with his pistol pointed directly at Frank Johnson’s face. “You shouldn’t have taken the money, Frank. Santo is not happy with you,” he growled. “Both of you get in the car.”
“Leave him here, Sal,” Frank Johnson gestured towards my now trembling body. “He can’t hurt you.”
There was no arguing with Sal. Jimmy came around, grabbed me by the collar and deposited me in the back seat. Sal shoved Frank Johnson roughly onto the seat next to me. Jimmy quipped as he and Sal got into the front seat, “Ain’t no local yokel cop gonna save you this time, boy. You got lucky today, but now your luck has run out.”
My mind raced to think of something to save our hides. I looked over at Frank Johnson and Sal still had his pistol pointed directly at his face. He was not going to be any help. Sal told Jimmy to drive on up the road to find a deserted spot to where he could “let us out.” We quickly passed the log cabin and the “White House.” Mr. Burring, standing out in his front yard, glanced up at the sound of spraying gravel as we went speeding toward Mt Roosevelt. He just stood there staring at us in total amazement.
As we passed Mr. Burring, in total desperation, I blurted out, “He buried the money at the monument.” This piqued Sal’s interest and the pistol swung over to my face. This was not the result I was looking for, but at least I had Sal’s attention.
“What are talking about, boy. Frank, did you bury Santo’s money at some monument.” The pistol swung back to Frank Johnson.
Frank Johnson sensing an opening took the ball and ran with it. “I buried the money at the monument.” He was clueless as to what monument he had buried the non-existent money, but to his credit he took any opening he could get.
“What monument are you talking about, Frank?”
“He buried the money at the monument at the end of this road. You just keep on this road and we’ll come to it. It’s a monument to Teddy Roosevelt,” I managed to gasp out.
The pistol swung back to me and Sal said, “You better not be lying, boy.”
A full moon shone brightly as we arrived at the monument. Jimmy stopped the big Mercury, got out, folded the front seat back, grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the back seat. To accomplish this task he planted his left foot against one of the boulders that lined the circular drive. In the moonlight, I noticed his awkward posture. I raised my left foot knee high and raked his shin all the way down to his foot with the heel of my shoe. I then launched my body into his mid-section and he tumbled backward howling in pain as he went down. I ran toward the monument and shots rang out as Sal began firing wildly in my direction.
I had no other option as, Jimmy, by that time had regained his footing and joined Sal in shooting at me. I ran up the stairs and into the monument as their bullets banged against the stonewalls. Safe for the moment I quickly realized, just like a rat in a maze, I was trapped. Maybe they would be too scared to come inside the monument after me. That hope faded away when I saw Sal and Jimmy dragging Frank Johnson with them and heading straight for the monument. There was one choice and that was up the stone steps circling up the inside wall of the monument that led to the wooden platform on top. Once on the high wooden platform I tried to make myself as small as possible. To my horror, Sal and Jimmy came slowly up the stone steps behind me pushing Frank Johnson ahead. Once inside there was some hesitation about climbing up to the top of the monument, but there was no way Jimmy was going to let me escape after what I had done to him and Sal still clung to the faint hope that the money was buried somewhere nearby.
Sal pushed Frank Johnson onto the wooden platform and then Jimmy was close behind. It was such a cozy little group; myself and Frank Johnson about to die, and Sal and Jimmy ready to be the instruments of our deaths. Sal, still clinging to hope of recovering the money began to negotiate, “Frank, if you tell me where the money is I will let the kid go.”
This enraged Jimmy. He grabbed Frank Johnson by the front of his shirt and started yelling at him that he had had enough and he had better produce the money or die. This startled Frank Johnson out of his stupor and he began to fight with Jimmy. Unnerved, Jimmy stepped back to duck the ferocious blows. Frank Johnson pummeled him with his fists, but Jimmy succeeded in ducking a particularly wild swing and as he did, Frank Johnson lost his balance and went over the side of the monument. Down, down, down he went, some forty feet below. We all froze, waiting for the sound of his body hitting the ground. There was no sound.
Back in Tampa Sal and Frank Johnson had been close friends working with Santo and his gang and it was my belief at the time that Sal wanted to spare Frank Johnson’s life. However, now that Frank Johnson was out of the way Sal harbored no compunction about killing. He grabbed me around the neck with one hand and with the other hand grabbed my seat end, lifted me up above the monument top rail and threw me as hard as he could out into the night air. The one thing I remember about that flight was that it seemed like it took an awful long time to reach terra firma.
I landed with a soft thud. To my everlasting amazement Frank Johnson was standing upright apparently unhurt by the fall. Alongside Frank, a luminescent figure dressed in a long overcoat with a monocle in one eye raised his hand and delivered these familiar lines, “Walk softly and carry a big stick, you will go far. Up San Juan Hill you Rough Riders. Remember the Maine. I feel as fit as a bull moose.” Then the apparition turned and walked straight off into the pine trees and vanished.
Pistol shots rang out overhead. As Frank and I gazed upward we glimpsed another luminescent figure in pirate garb chasing Sal and Jimmy around the top of the monument. Jimmy and Sal were shooting at the pirate to no avail. Our pirate still wielding his cutlass now chased Jimmy and Sal down the monument stairs and out into the night and remained close at their heels still whacking away at them. As the now terrified Jimmy and Sal passed us running flat out, I could plainly see that our pirate was missing three fingers on his left hand. They headed for the big Mercury and managed to get inside and start the engine all the while taking blows from the cutlass of our pirate. Spitting and spinning tires from the big Mercury formed a huge cloud of dirt and dust as Jimmy gunned the engine and headed for the exit road. Just visible in the moonlight and through all the dust and dirt our pirate had seated himself on the roof of the big Mercury, still whacking away at Jimmy and Sal with his cutlass.
Frank Johnson and I sat down on a couple of the boulders that lined the circular drive and listened as the engine noise from the big Mercury lessened, then faded into nothingness. We looked at each other and then burst out laughing. I mean we hee-hawed. It was the first time in a very long day that we had something to laugh about and we certainly enjoyed the moment. Finally, Frank Johnson said to me, “Can you believe what just happened to us? Nobody is going believe that we fell from the top of that monument and didn’t get at least some broken bones. Unless, we died and just don’t know it.
“I don’t think we died, Frank. T.R. and Henry just saved out lives.”
“What are you talking about?”
“T.R. is Teddy Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States. This monument’s dedicated to him. He loved these Black Hills. You could see his ranch from the top of the monument. He saved our lives. He really did.”
“What about the pirate? How are you going to explain that?”
“That’s easy. If you ever read any of Aunt Rachel’s family chronicles you would know about Henry. He was the one who lost three fingers on his left hand. They were cut off in a battle to take over a British ship. He and his shipmates sailed under the American flag. These self-proclaimed privateers were trying to run the British out of the West Indies. I would just call them pirates.”
We sat there for a while in silence trying to recover our and make some sense out of what had just happened when we heard a car coming up the road. Frank Johnson stood up and prepared to run. I told him it was okay. It was the familiar engine whine of Mom’s ‘52 Chevy and not the deep-throated roar of the big Mercury. We ran to meet the oncoming car. Mom braked sharply when the headlight glare picked us out of the darkness. Aunt Rachel rushed out of the passenger door and ran to see if we were all right. “Frank, I knew you were in trouble. I saw you falling when I was back at the house. Did you fall? Are you hurt?”
“I fell, but I am not hurt. We had a little trouble with those guys from Tampa that I told you about. They are gone now and I don’t think they are coming back.”
“I saw you fall a long distance. Are you sure you are alright?”
“I’m ok. I must have landed in some soft dirt up there by the monument.”
About that time Mom reached us and inspected me for broken bones. Satisfied that I was a whole person we all headed back to the car. No one spoke during the ride back to the house. Frank Johnson and I were alive and that was enough.
Epilogue
I am telling this story now because all the other participants in this story have long gone to their reward.
Sal and Jimmy reportedly sped through Sturgis, South Dakota at over a hundred miles per hour. The Sturgis police gave chase, but soon lost them. Sturgis police radioed the South Dakota Highway Patrol that the 1957 red and white Mercury Montclair bearing Florida plates they chased out of town had someone in pirate garb atop the roof. The dispatcher for the Highway Patrol sent a trooper to Sturgis to see if the police there had been drinking.
Sal and Jimmy made it into Nebraska. At dawn the just across the White River on Highway 385 close to Chadron, Nebraska they sat in the big Mercury, now out of gas, still oozing blood from the many cuts on their bodies. The Nebraska State Trooper, who found them, took them to the hospital in Chadron and arranged a tow for the big Mercury.
After checking out of the hospital in Chadron about a week later, Sal drove the big Mercury all the way to Tampa. Once in Tampa he was never seen or heard from again. Jimmy found true love with a male nurse, named Paul, who attended Jimmy’s wounds. They bought a little bakeshop in downtown Chadron and Jimmy ran the business for many years. In all that time, reportedly, Jimmy never crossed the Nebraska state line into South Dakota.
Frank Johnson and Aunt Rachel settled in a city in the northwest and this time made it big in real estate. Reportedly, Santo received a suitcase full of money and called in the contract he put out on Frank Johnson’s life. Aunt Rachel opened up a psychic reader shop and raked in the cash. I never saw them again
The Forest Service closed off the road to the monument, removed the outside stairs and barricaded the opening. They did all this to prevent vandalism and to keep the drunks from going up the inside stairs and falling to their death. The bronze plaque commemorating the monument to the memory of Teddy Roosevelt pried from its mountings by vandals was replaced. It’s gone again leaving a dark empty spot. I never fail to go up there when I visit the Hills. The excitement at seeing the monument again as I walk up the path builds at each turn and I find myself running to catch the first glimpse of the monument.
As for me, by a quirk of fate, I ended up living in Tampa.
When the producers of the movie "Fargo" decided to label their film as a true story they were told that they couldn't claim their story was true if it wasn't true. They said "Nuts to that" we can claim it is true if we want to.
At the end of Roosevelt Road and atop Mt Roosevelt, there stands a monument dedicated to the memory of our late great twenty-sixth President. I know that his likeness carved on Mt. Rushmore is a fitting tribute to his presidential accomplishments, but this monument atop Mt Roosevelt is special to me. The monument, a massive stone structure shaped like a silo stands on a square base some 16 feet by 16 feet. The round silo portion extends skyward almost 40 feet then flares out at the top just like a castle turret. You could drive your car all the way up to the monument. Ten stone stairs led up an opening that you could get through by leaning forward and ducking your head. Once inside you could see the stone stairs that circled around the interior until they reached the top. Story had it, you could see four states from the wooden platform at the top, but I never figured out which four states loomed in the distance
That summer Mother’s older sister, my Aunt Rachel and her new husband Frank Johnson, were flying into Rapid City for a visit. My mother confided to me that she did not think Johnson was his real last name because he was an Italian fellow that my Aunt Rachel had taken up with when she lived in Chicago. One day Mother received a phone call from my Aunt Rachel. She had married Frank Johnson and they were now living in Tampa. They were in the real estate business and were doing quite well. Their new real estate business was doing well enough, my aunt said, so that they could afford plane tickets to Rapid City.
Aunt Rachel was the family chronicler. She wrote about a youthful ancestor that signed on with a group of privateers. They ventured upon the high seas to sail under the American flag. Henry (first name) while cruising the West Indies fell in with a British ship and after a desperate fight captured the unlucky British vessel. Henry, in the ensuing battle, lost three fingers of his left hand by the stroke of a cutlass that was meant for his head. After that, this intrepid group of privateers met up with a British man-of-war of a very superior size and force and was in turn captured. Henry, along with his surviving shipmates spent eighteen months in an English prison. Finally, the British signed a treaty with the United States and Henry returned to his home in New York upon his release. His family, believing he had been lost in battle, greeted him joyously as one who had risen from the dead
There is a lot more in the chronicle about Henry and how he traveled west to Ohio, established settlements there, became a justice of the peace, became a surveyor, an agriculturist and a horticulturist. It all seemed to me to be somewhat anticlimactic after his adventures on the high seas. I mean what you do for an encore when you have sailed aboard what was for all practical purposes a “pirate ship” and then end up locked in an English prison for eighteen months in the year 1782 and lived to tell about it.
Mom told me some other things about Aunt Rachel. When she
lived in Chicago she was the top court stenographer. She could take court notes in shorthand faster and better than all the other court stenographers. One day while she was in the courtroom she got a psychic revelation that her fiancé, Lucky, had been killed in an accident. She ran out of the courtroom, ran to the nearest telephone, and heard the news that she already knew. After that, she took up with Frank Johnson and they left Chicago for Tampa.
I received a call from my friend, Joey who wanted to hang out with me, so I got on my bike and left Frank Johnson at the creek. He had his pants legs rolled up around his knees wading in the deepest part of the creek he could find. I waved at him as I went by, but he did not even look up. He was having too much fun.
Joey and I were hanging out down in downtown Deadwood. There were a lot of tourists in town for the festivities that preceded the big Days-of-76 parade. We were hoping to strike up a conversation with any unattached young ladies when we spotted it: a brand spanking new 1957 Mercury Montclair hardtop. If there was anything that Joey and I were experts on it was the latest model cars turned out by Detroit. We temporarily abandoned our plans for conversations with unattached young ladies and drifted across the street for a closer look at the big Mercury. It was a two-door coupe, painted red on the bottom with a white top. To complement all that there was a gold painted scoop on each side that started just short of the door and stretched back to the taillight.
Joey and I were giving the big Mercury a close-up inspection when a short round faced man came up and said, “What do you boys think? Do you like my car? Maybe you boys would like to go for a ride?” He was accompanied by a younger man who was tall and muscular looking.
“I don’t think so mister.” Joey quickly replied.
“You boys live here in town?” the shorter one of the two said.
“Joey does.” I replied. “I live outside of town.”
“Listen boys. My name is Sal and this is my friend Jimmy. We could use a couple of young men to show us around your town. We just drove in from Florida and don’t know much about the area. Could you use some extra money? I would pay you.”
I almost blurted out that my Aunt and Uncle, Rachel and Frank Johnson were staying with us were here from Florida too, but something made me stop short.
Now that Joey heard that money was involved he did a complete turn-a-round. “We could go with you mister, but we can’t leave our bikes here.”
“That’s no problem.” Sal said. He went around to back of the big Mercury and opened up the trunk and said, “Look at the size of this trunk. Jimmy and I will put your bikes in here and you can show us around.” As big as the trunk was the bikes would not quite fit in, but Jimmy produced some twine and tied the trunk lid shut and off we went.
Jimmy was doing the driving, Sal sat in the passenger seat and Joey and I were in the back when Sal turned around, pointed at Joey and myself and said, “Hey Jimmy! We’ve got a couple of live ones here to show us around, Scott and Joey. They are going to give us the grand tour.”
We headed out of Deadwood towards Lead through Central City. Central City rivaled Lead and Deadwood back in the gold rush days, but now was only a collection of boarded up businesses and non-descript homes. When we got to Lead, I volunteered the information that Lead was the site of the world’s largest gold mine and that if you wanted to you could take a tour of the mine. Jimmy spoke a complete sentence for the first time and said to Sal, “I don’t want to take no tour of no stinking mine. I just want to find Frank and get out of here.”
My blood ran cold and I could scarcely believe my ears. They couldn’t be talking about Frank Johnson could they? Sal turned to Joey and me and said, “Jimmy and I are looking for our cousin, Frank Johnson. We want to talk to him about some things. He is supposed to be here on a vacation. Do you boys know anything about a Frank Johnson that just got into this town?”
“Look at that one.” Jimmy says, looking at me through the rear view mirror. “He is sweating like a pig. He knows something. I can choke it out of him as soon as I can find a good spot.” Fortunately, for Joey and me, Jimmy in his haste to find a place where he could begin choking the life out of me began to speed up as he passed into Deadwood. We flew by Art in his gray Pontiac, strategically parked to apprehend any miscreant foolish enough to speed inside the town limits. Art is the Deadwood Police Chief and he patrols our streets in his big old ‘55 gray Pontiac. Art pulled in behind us and turned on his red light. Not wanting any trouble with the local police Jimmy quickly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.
Art quickly approached the driver side of big Mercury and said to Jimmy, “You were going a little fast as you came into the city limits here. I see by your license plate you are from Florida. I just wanted to caution you to take it easy and have a safe time while you are in our town.” Then he looked in the back seat, saw Joey and me sitting there, and said to me, “What are you and Joey doing there?”
Before I could stammer out a reply Sal sputtered out, “These boys were giving us a tour of all the sights around here.”
“Well, that is really a nice thing to do. We all need to make sure our visitors have a good time so they will want to come back,” Art said in his best chamber-of-commerce voice.
“I need to get home,” were the next words to come out of my terror-stricken body.
Joey could only manage two words, “Me too.”
Sal had to get out and fold the seat forward so Joey and I could scamper out and as he stood there Joey recovered his ability to speak and accosted Sal, “What about the money you said you were going to pay us?”
“I don’t owe you boys a thing.”
Art got wind of what was going on and said still in his best chamber-of-commerce voice to Sal, “If you fellows said you would pay these boys for taking you on a tour then it might be a good idea to do that. They did take you fellows on a nice tour. That would probably be less than the twenty five dollar fine for you could get for speeding.” Sal dug out his wallet and deposited six one-dollar bills in Joey’s hand of which Joey in turn handed me three bills. Under the watchful eye of Art, Jimmy cut the twine that held the trunk lid in place and Joey and I rode off as fast as we could pedal. I glanced back one time and Art was still talking to them. He was probably grilling them about a place to vacation in Florida.
When I arrived home Aunt Rachel was lounged in a hammock stretched between the two huge pine trees fronting the driveway to our home. Frank Johnson was pushing our old rotary lawn mower over the lawn. I hopped off my bicycle, not bothering to put down the kickstand and left the front wheel spinning rapidly. I ran over to Frank Johnson and said, “There are two men in town looking for you.”
He and the mower came to an abrupt stop and he said, “What are you talking about?”
I related the whole story about the big Mercury, Sal and Jimmy, the tour, almost being choked like a chicken, and Art. Then I pulled the three one-dollar bills out my pocket as if to prove I was telling the truth. I have heard stories about people turning all colors of the rainbow when confronted with bad news and now I had reason to believe those stories were true. His complexion went from completely white to beet red and then back again at least twice and perhaps a third time. Finally, he just sagged down to the ground and said in a low voice, “This is not good.”
“What do those guys want with you?” I demanded to know.
“One thing for sure is they just don’t want to talk.”
“Are they going to try to beat you up?”
“They are going to do worse than that?”
“What do you mean worse than that? Why are they after you?”
“Did you tell them where you live?”
“I told them I lived outside of town.”
“But did you tell them where outside of town?”
“No, but all they have to do is ask around. Everybody in town knows where I live.”
About that time Aunt Rachel popped up from the hammock, looked around to see why the lawnmower had stopped, noticed that Frank Johnson and I were having a serious discussion and asked, “Frank, why are you are sitting on the ground? Are you feeling all right? Pushing that heavy old mower must have worn you out. You don‘t look good at all.”
“I’m ok honey. I’m just a little tired from trying to do too much,”
“What are you two whispering about over there? Whatever it is, it looks serious.”
“ It’s okay sweetie pie. Scott was just telling me about the Deadwood Days-of Seventy-Six parade tomorrow and I decided to rest for a bit.”
“My goodness, Frank. You are as white as that sheet hanging on that clothesline over there. You need to go in and lay down before supper. Let Scott finish the mowing.”
After supper I finished the mowing, put the mower away in the garage and turned to go in the house to get my peach cobbler when I saw Frank Johnson standing by the front door. He motioned to me to come with him and we walked around the front of the house and then over to and down the back steps that led down to Roosevelt Road. We stood there for a few minutes, both of us kicking dirt clods by the side of the road, not saying anything. Finally I asked him, “What is going on? Who are those guys?”
“Sal, Jimmy and I all work for a guy in Tampa named Santo.”
“I thought you sold real estate.”
“No, I don’t sell real estate. I work for Santo. He controls the Bolita in Tampa.”
“Bolita?”
“It’s sort of like the numbers game in Chicago only in Tampa they do it with numbered balls.”
“Are you a mob guy?”
“If you put it that way, I guess the answer is yes.”
“Does Aunt Rachel know what you do?”
“No, she has no idea. I met her after her fiancé, Lucky, died in that car accident. She never would have had anything to do with me if she knew I was a mob guy. I told her I sold real estate; actually I collected for the guys in Chicago. I wanted to make a fresh start in Tampa, go straight and make a nice life for your Aunt. I did try real estate, once we got to Tampa, but it just wasn’t working out.”
“So you got a transfer from the Chicago mob to the Tampa Mob?
“Well, it’s not quite that simple, but if you put it that way, Yeah. I came highly recommended too.”
“I had no idea you could do that. I still don’t know why Sal and Jimmy would drive all the way from up here from Tampa. What did you do to get them to drive all that way?”
Frank Johnson kicked another clod of dirt and then he said in a low voice, “ I’ve been skimming a little off the top of the collection for about a year and Sal and Santo never missed it until now.”
“Holy crap, you have been stealing from those mob guys?”
“Well, if you put it that way, yeah, you’re right.”
“How much did you take?”
“Altogether about fifty thousand.”
I stood there for a few moments while I took in the enormity of Frank Johnson’s crime and said, “Frank, these guys are going to kill you, aren’t they?” He could only manage a small nod of his head. “I mean, I heard they shoot you, then put your body in the car trunk and then take you out to the country to dump your body. Frank, we are already in the country. There is no need for them to put you in the car trunk after they shoot you.”
Frank replied, “After you went outside to finish the mowing I told your Mother and Rachel everything. Your Mother is really at me for putting you in danger. Rachel is packing our clothes up. She is mad at me too, but I think she is going to stay with me. I told your mother we need to leave tonight so she is going to drive us to Rapid City. Rachel and I will catch a late night flight to Minneapolis.”
Twilight began to set in as we turned to start back up the stairs. We heard a car coming and dived for cover. Turns out it was Mr. Burring in his 1953 Golden Dragon Kaiser racing up the road. We breathed a sigh of relief, stood up and brushed ourselves off. Then like our native bobcat stalking his prey Sal’s big Mercury crept up on us. Sal was out of the car in a flash with his pistol pointed directly at Frank Johnson’s face. “You shouldn’t have taken the money, Frank. Santo is not happy with you,” he growled. “Both of you get in the car.”
“Leave him here, Sal,” Frank Johnson gestured towards my now trembling body. “He can’t hurt you.”
There was no arguing with Sal. Jimmy came around, grabbed me by the collar and deposited me in the back seat. Sal shoved Frank Johnson roughly onto the seat next to me. Jimmy quipped as he and Sal got into the front seat, “Ain’t no local yokel cop gonna save you this time, boy. You got lucky today, but now your luck has run out.”
My mind raced to think of something to save our hides. I looked over at Frank Johnson and Sal still had his pistol pointed directly at his face. He was not going to be any help. Sal told Jimmy to drive on up the road to find a deserted spot to where he could “let us out.” We quickly passed the log cabin and the “White House.” Mr. Burring, standing out in his front yard, glanced up at the sound of spraying gravel as we went speeding toward Mt Roosevelt. He just stood there staring at us in total amazement.
As we passed Mr. Burring, in total desperation, I blurted out, “He buried the money at the monument.” This piqued Sal’s interest and the pistol swung over to my face. This was not the result I was looking for, but at least I had Sal’s attention.
“What are talking about, boy. Frank, did you bury Santo’s money at some monument.” The pistol swung back to Frank Johnson.
Frank Johnson sensing an opening took the ball and ran with it. “I buried the money at the monument.” He was clueless as to what monument he had buried the non-existent money, but to his credit he took any opening he could get.
“What monument are you talking about, Frank?”
“He buried the money at the monument at the end of this road. You just keep on this road and we’ll come to it. It’s a monument to Teddy Roosevelt,” I managed to gasp out.
The pistol swung back to me and Sal said, “You better not be lying, boy.”
A full moon shone brightly as we arrived at the monument. Jimmy stopped the big Mercury, got out, folded the front seat back, grabbed my arm and yanked me out of the back seat. To accomplish this task he planted his left foot against one of the boulders that lined the circular drive. In the moonlight, I noticed his awkward posture. I raised my left foot knee high and raked his shin all the way down to his foot with the heel of my shoe. I then launched my body into his mid-section and he tumbled backward howling in pain as he went down. I ran toward the monument and shots rang out as Sal began firing wildly in my direction.
I had no other option as, Jimmy, by that time had regained his footing and joined Sal in shooting at me. I ran up the stairs and into the monument as their bullets banged against the stonewalls. Safe for the moment I quickly realized, just like a rat in a maze, I was trapped. Maybe they would be too scared to come inside the monument after me. That hope faded away when I saw Sal and Jimmy dragging Frank Johnson with them and heading straight for the monument. There was one choice and that was up the stone steps circling up the inside wall of the monument that led to the wooden platform on top. Once on the high wooden platform I tried to make myself as small as possible. To my horror, Sal and Jimmy came slowly up the stone steps behind me pushing Frank Johnson ahead. Once inside there was some hesitation about climbing up to the top of the monument, but there was no way Jimmy was going to let me escape after what I had done to him and Sal still clung to the faint hope that the money was buried somewhere nearby.
Sal pushed Frank Johnson onto the wooden platform and then Jimmy was close behind. It was such a cozy little group; myself and Frank Johnson about to die, and Sal and Jimmy ready to be the instruments of our deaths. Sal, still clinging to hope of recovering the money began to negotiate, “Frank, if you tell me where the money is I will let the kid go.”
This enraged Jimmy. He grabbed Frank Johnson by the front of his shirt and started yelling at him that he had had enough and he had better produce the money or die. This startled Frank Johnson out of his stupor and he began to fight with Jimmy. Unnerved, Jimmy stepped back to duck the ferocious blows. Frank Johnson pummeled him with his fists, but Jimmy succeeded in ducking a particularly wild swing and as he did, Frank Johnson lost his balance and went over the side of the monument. Down, down, down he went, some forty feet below. We all froze, waiting for the sound of his body hitting the ground. There was no sound.
Back in Tampa Sal and Frank Johnson had been close friends working with Santo and his gang and it was my belief at the time that Sal wanted to spare Frank Johnson’s life. However, now that Frank Johnson was out of the way Sal harbored no compunction about killing. He grabbed me around the neck with one hand and with the other hand grabbed my seat end, lifted me up above the monument top rail and threw me as hard as he could out into the night air. The one thing I remember about that flight was that it seemed like it took an awful long time to reach terra firma.
I landed with a soft thud. To my everlasting amazement Frank Johnson was standing upright apparently unhurt by the fall. Alongside Frank, a luminescent figure dressed in a long overcoat with a monocle in one eye raised his hand and delivered these familiar lines, “Walk softly and carry a big stick, you will go far. Up San Juan Hill you Rough Riders. Remember the Maine. I feel as fit as a bull moose.” Then the apparition turned and walked straight off into the pine trees and vanished.
Pistol shots rang out overhead. As Frank and I gazed upward we glimpsed another luminescent figure in pirate garb chasing Sal and Jimmy around the top of the monument. Jimmy and Sal were shooting at the pirate to no avail. Our pirate still wielding his cutlass now chased Jimmy and Sal down the monument stairs and out into the night and remained close at their heels still whacking away at them. As the now terrified Jimmy and Sal passed us running flat out, I could plainly see that our pirate was missing three fingers on his left hand. They headed for the big Mercury and managed to get inside and start the engine all the while taking blows from the cutlass of our pirate. Spitting and spinning tires from the big Mercury formed a huge cloud of dirt and dust as Jimmy gunned the engine and headed for the exit road. Just visible in the moonlight and through all the dust and dirt our pirate had seated himself on the roof of the big Mercury, still whacking away at Jimmy and Sal with his cutlass.
Frank Johnson and I sat down on a couple of the boulders that lined the circular drive and listened as the engine noise from the big Mercury lessened, then faded into nothingness. We looked at each other and then burst out laughing. I mean we hee-hawed. It was the first time in a very long day that we had something to laugh about and we certainly enjoyed the moment. Finally, Frank Johnson said to me, “Can you believe what just happened to us? Nobody is going believe that we fell from the top of that monument and didn’t get at least some broken bones. Unless, we died and just don’t know it.
“I don’t think we died, Frank. T.R. and Henry just saved out lives.”
“What are you talking about?”
“T.R. is Teddy Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States. This monument’s dedicated to him. He loved these Black Hills. You could see his ranch from the top of the monument. He saved our lives. He really did.”
“What about the pirate? How are you going to explain that?”
“That’s easy. If you ever read any of Aunt Rachel’s family chronicles you would know about Henry. He was the one who lost three fingers on his left hand. They were cut off in a battle to take over a British ship. He and his shipmates sailed under the American flag. These self-proclaimed privateers were trying to run the British out of the West Indies. I would just call them pirates.”
We sat there for a while in silence trying to recover our and make some sense out of what had just happened when we heard a car coming up the road. Frank Johnson stood up and prepared to run. I told him it was okay. It was the familiar engine whine of Mom’s ‘52 Chevy and not the deep-throated roar of the big Mercury. We ran to meet the oncoming car. Mom braked sharply when the headlight glare picked us out of the darkness. Aunt Rachel rushed out of the passenger door and ran to see if we were all right. “Frank, I knew you were in trouble. I saw you falling when I was back at the house. Did you fall? Are you hurt?”
“I fell, but I am not hurt. We had a little trouble with those guys from Tampa that I told you about. They are gone now and I don’t think they are coming back.”
“I saw you fall a long distance. Are you sure you are alright?”
“I’m ok. I must have landed in some soft dirt up there by the monument.”
About that time Mom reached us and inspected me for broken bones. Satisfied that I was a whole person we all headed back to the car. No one spoke during the ride back to the house. Frank Johnson and I were alive and that was enough.
Epilogue
I am telling this story now because all the other participants in this story have long gone to their reward.
Sal and Jimmy reportedly sped through Sturgis, South Dakota at over a hundred miles per hour. The Sturgis police gave chase, but soon lost them. Sturgis police radioed the South Dakota Highway Patrol that the 1957 red and white Mercury Montclair bearing Florida plates they chased out of town had someone in pirate garb atop the roof. The dispatcher for the Highway Patrol sent a trooper to Sturgis to see if the police there had been drinking.
Sal and Jimmy made it into Nebraska. At dawn the just across the White River on Highway 385 close to Chadron, Nebraska they sat in the big Mercury, now out of gas, still oozing blood from the many cuts on their bodies. The Nebraska State Trooper, who found them, took them to the hospital in Chadron and arranged a tow for the big Mercury.
After checking out of the hospital in Chadron about a week later, Sal drove the big Mercury all the way to Tampa. Once in Tampa he was never seen or heard from again. Jimmy found true love with a male nurse, named Paul, who attended Jimmy’s wounds. They bought a little bakeshop in downtown Chadron and Jimmy ran the business for many years. In all that time, reportedly, Jimmy never crossed the Nebraska state line into South Dakota.
Frank Johnson and Aunt Rachel settled in a city in the northwest and this time made it big in real estate. Reportedly, Santo received a suitcase full of money and called in the contract he put out on Frank Johnson’s life. Aunt Rachel opened up a psychic reader shop and raked in the cash. I never saw them again
The Forest Service closed off the road to the monument, removed the outside stairs and barricaded the opening. They did all this to prevent vandalism and to keep the drunks from going up the inside stairs and falling to their death. The bronze plaque commemorating the monument to the memory of Teddy Roosevelt pried from its mountings by vandals was replaced. It’s gone again leaving a dark empty spot. I never fail to go up there when I visit the Hills. The excitement at seeing the monument again as I walk up the path builds at each turn and I find myself running to catch the first glimpse of the monument.
As for me, by a quirk of fate, I ended up living in Tampa.
When the producers of the movie "Fargo" decided to label their film as a true story they were told that they couldn't claim their story was true if it wasn't true. They said "Nuts to that" we can claim it is true if we want to.
Monday, October 26, 2009
He's a Maniac
Michael…I managed to get my buddy some help in spite of himself.
Rob and I are reclining on the sofa in the watch room. We should be studying for the upcoming driver exam, but the Fire Chief’s Handbook and the Firefighting Tactics book remain safely in their appointed place on the shelf. It is summertime and the fall examination for driver is far away. Our brunch of softly scrambled eggs on a large piece of Cuban bread slathered with mayonnaise, topped with crisp bacon strips, raw onions, salt, pepper and a little tobasco sauce cause our eyelids to become exceedingly heavy.
A police officer walks in off the street and helps himself to the ever-present firehouse pot of coffee. Rob sits up with a start and says to me, “We should not be giving these cops free coffee.” This is an astonishing remark coming from my friend and my mind races for the reason behind it. Suddenly, I realize that Rob drives like a maniac 100% of the time. “You got a traffic ticket, didn’t you, Rob,” I inquire? There is no reply and the chase is on. He will have no peace until I find out his secret. Out the door and up the stairs we go. He tries to hide in a bathroom stall, but I am relentless in my search for truth. Finally I corner him in a downstairs broom closet and to get me to leave him alone he utters one word, “WILLFULL.” My mind reels, Rob has gotten a ticket for willful and wanton reckless driving.
It seems as though Rob has a trunk full of tools and he tried to use that as an excuse for the back end of his old Plymouth swerving wildly when going around a sharp curve. The officer that pulled him over wasn’t buying it and of course Rob has to argue long and loud which does not endear him to officer. They nearly come to blows, but thank goodness that did not happen. As a result he gets the maximum traffic ticket he can without going to jail.
Our coffee drinking officer quickly enlists to help and he calls the police officer, which wrote the ticket, to come over to our fire station. Negotiations begin and our officer ends up going to court with Rob. Reduction of the charges from willful and wanton reckless driving to careless driving is a fait accompli.
Rob and I are reclining on the sofa in the watch room. We should be studying for the upcoming driver exam, but the Fire Chief’s Handbook and the Firefighting Tactics book remain safely in their appointed place on the shelf. It is summertime and the fall examination for driver is far away. Our brunch of softly scrambled eggs on a large piece of Cuban bread slathered with mayonnaise, topped with crisp bacon strips, raw onions, salt, pepper and a little tobasco sauce cause our eyelids to become exceedingly heavy.
A police officer walks in off the street and helps himself to the ever-present firehouse pot of coffee. Rob sits up with a start and says to me, “We should not be giving these cops free coffee.” This is an astonishing remark coming from my friend and my mind races for the reason behind it. Suddenly, I realize that Rob drives like a maniac 100% of the time. “You got a traffic ticket, didn’t you, Rob,” I inquire? There is no reply and the chase is on. He will have no peace until I find out his secret. Out the door and up the stairs we go. He tries to hide in a bathroom stall, but I am relentless in my search for truth. Finally I corner him in a downstairs broom closet and to get me to leave him alone he utters one word, “WILLFULL.” My mind reels, Rob has gotten a ticket for willful and wanton reckless driving.
It seems as though Rob has a trunk full of tools and he tried to use that as an excuse for the back end of his old Plymouth swerving wildly when going around a sharp curve. The officer that pulled him over wasn’t buying it and of course Rob has to argue long and loud which does not endear him to officer. They nearly come to blows, but thank goodness that did not happen. As a result he gets the maximum traffic ticket he can without going to jail.
Our coffee drinking officer quickly enlists to help and he calls the police officer, which wrote the ticket, to come over to our fire station. Negotiations begin and our officer ends up going to court with Rob. Reduction of the charges from willful and wanton reckless driving to careless driving is a fait accompli.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Those Houses were not of Good Repute.
Michael....Any mention of Deadwood must include the infamous “cat houses” down on the lower end of town. They have been there for many years and are a relic of the rip-roaring days when the town was just a mining camp. There are three “cat houses” in our town. They are the Shasta, the Pine and the Cozy, all in a row.
My two friends and I after consuming two cans of beer among us decide we are men and we are going to partake of the activities that the “house” offers. We walk up the stairs and ring the bell. The madam comes out and looks us over and asks “How old are you boys?” It seems as though there is an age limit here. This may be a house of ill repute, but by some stretch of the imagination there are some rules that just cannot be broken. My friends can go in because they are already sixteen years old, but I readily confess to the glaring madam to being only fifteen. At this point my two friends decide that they are sticking with their underage friend and will not go in without me. Years later I sill remember just how terrified I was at that moment and how glad I was to retreat down those stairs, now completely sober, with my virtue and my money intact.
I recently received an email from my friend Richard in New Mexico detailing his eyewitness account of the closing down of the “cathouses” by the states attorney.
My wife and I decided to travel to Sioux Falls with our daughter who was two at the time. We were going to spend a few days with my folks over the Christmas holidays. We decided to leave very early in the morning and as we were going through town we were met with a whole downtown full of police and highway patrol cars. It seems that very morning (unbeknown to the local police) the state raided the town and shut down all of the “cathouses” on the strip. Upstairs, downstairs…every cathouse in town was unceremoniously being raided. People were running about in nearly every stage of dress…and undress. As I recall, they were shut down for some time after that. I honestly can’t recall if it was Christmas or Thanksgiving, but as I recall, it was at that time of year. When we returned from our vacation townspeople were still “murmuring” about the night the lights went out in our town. It wasn’t long after this that the states attorney that started all this was summarily booted out of office.
My two friends and I after consuming two cans of beer among us decide we are men and we are going to partake of the activities that the “house” offers. We walk up the stairs and ring the bell. The madam comes out and looks us over and asks “How old are you boys?” It seems as though there is an age limit here. This may be a house of ill repute, but by some stretch of the imagination there are some rules that just cannot be broken. My friends can go in because they are already sixteen years old, but I readily confess to the glaring madam to being only fifteen. At this point my two friends decide that they are sticking with their underage friend and will not go in without me. Years later I sill remember just how terrified I was at that moment and how glad I was to retreat down those stairs, now completely sober, with my virtue and my money intact.
I recently received an email from my friend Richard in New Mexico detailing his eyewitness account of the closing down of the “cathouses” by the states attorney.
My wife and I decided to travel to Sioux Falls with our daughter who was two at the time. We were going to spend a few days with my folks over the Christmas holidays. We decided to leave very early in the morning and as we were going through town we were met with a whole downtown full of police and highway patrol cars. It seems that very morning (unbeknown to the local police) the state raided the town and shut down all of the “cathouses” on the strip. Upstairs, downstairs…every cathouse in town was unceremoniously being raided. People were running about in nearly every stage of dress…and undress. As I recall, they were shut down for some time after that. I honestly can’t recall if it was Christmas or Thanksgiving, but as I recall, it was at that time of year. When we returned from our vacation townspeople were still “murmuring” about the night the lights went out in our town. It wasn’t long after this that the states attorney that started all this was summarily booted out of office.
Monday, October 12, 2009
A Gene Story
Michael...I must stop and give you an update about your Uncle Gene.
Your Uncle Gene is not in the best of health now. He has had several bouts with cancer and has had both knees replaced so he has a little trouble getting around. Then there was the time his heart stopped, but the doctors managed to get it going again. He smoked until spots were discovered on his lungs. He still eats greasy food, but quitting smoking will most likely give him some extra time here on this earth. No matter what happens to him I will always remember him as a tower of strength, resplendent in his Air Force khakis.
If you were to go to Great Falls to visit your Uncle Gene you would be taken fishing. No questions asked, the camper is already to go, his boat is hitched and if you don’t give him a hard time he will provide the sandwiches. The best time I ever had with him was when we headed out for a weeks stay at his favorite lake. We caught lake trout until our arms ached from the effort. We cooked the trout over an open fire and I ate them until I hurt. Our weeks stay ended when several other campers pulled up to the lake and your Uncle Gene said, “This place is getting really crowded.”
There are a lot of Gene “stories” out there, but the latest one came from your cousin Lorrie’s husband, John. He told about the time he was out on a lake fishing with your Uncle Gene and he was about to freeze. Now this was a rite of passage for the new son-in-law, an initiation into the clan, of sorts. Now John doesn’t drink coffee, but he just wanted something warm to keep his hands from freezing, so when your Uncle Gene got out his thermos full of coffee, just to be polite, he asked John if he wanted some. John replied that yes he would like some coffee. This caught your Uncle Gene off guard because he knew John did not drink coffee. Being as there was only one cup, that being the cap to the thermos, your Uncle Gene began to look around for another cup. He spotted a stryofoam cup lying in the bottom of the boat that had previously held earthworms to be used for bait. There was a small amount of dirt in the bottom of the cup so your Uncle Gene emptied that out of the cup and for good measure rinsed the cup out in the lake water. He then poured coffee into the cup and handed it to John.
Your Uncle Gene is not in the best of health now. He has had several bouts with cancer and has had both knees replaced so he has a little trouble getting around. Then there was the time his heart stopped, but the doctors managed to get it going again. He smoked until spots were discovered on his lungs. He still eats greasy food, but quitting smoking will most likely give him some extra time here on this earth. No matter what happens to him I will always remember him as a tower of strength, resplendent in his Air Force khakis.
If you were to go to Great Falls to visit your Uncle Gene you would be taken fishing. No questions asked, the camper is already to go, his boat is hitched and if you don’t give him a hard time he will provide the sandwiches. The best time I ever had with him was when we headed out for a weeks stay at his favorite lake. We caught lake trout until our arms ached from the effort. We cooked the trout over an open fire and I ate them until I hurt. Our weeks stay ended when several other campers pulled up to the lake and your Uncle Gene said, “This place is getting really crowded.”
There are a lot of Gene “stories” out there, but the latest one came from your cousin Lorrie’s husband, John. He told about the time he was out on a lake fishing with your Uncle Gene and he was about to freeze. Now this was a rite of passage for the new son-in-law, an initiation into the clan, of sorts. Now John doesn’t drink coffee, but he just wanted something warm to keep his hands from freezing, so when your Uncle Gene got out his thermos full of coffee, just to be polite, he asked John if he wanted some. John replied that yes he would like some coffee. This caught your Uncle Gene off guard because he knew John did not drink coffee. Being as there was only one cup, that being the cap to the thermos, your Uncle Gene began to look around for another cup. He spotted a stryofoam cup lying in the bottom of the boat that had previously held earthworms to be used for bait. There was a small amount of dirt in the bottom of the cup so your Uncle Gene emptied that out of the cup and for good measure rinsed the cup out in the lake water. He then poured coffee into the cup and handed it to John.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Life is good at Station 24
Michael...You were just a baby when I received my assignment to Station 24. I mean you could not have been more than six months old. I never did talk with you about those early years with the fire department. Now I have a lot of time on my hands to regale you with stories of those days.
When I walk into Fire Station number twenty-four to begin my new assignment I
see her—sitting there like some great hulking red bird of prey waiting to come screaming out of its lair at the slightest provocation. Two huge black tires shiny with glycerin support the cab where the driver and the captain ride. At the very rear of the truck the two rear tires sit directly below the tiller seat. Directly in back of the cab are the seats where the sidemen sit and between them is the heart of our bird of prey, the engine. Amidships is the turntable for the one hundred foot aerial ladder. The aerial operates so smoothly that rotation with a firefighter on the aerial is a safe procedure, something not possible on the other aerial ladders on the job. Below the turntable are the four outrigger jacks that support the aerial ladder extended
Mounted underneath the aerial ladder are the bangor and straight ladders. The side compartments of our truck hold our generator, lights, extension cords, thick lifeline ropes, self-contained breathing apparatus, and forcible entry tools. Sharp red handled axes mounted close to the cab are ready to wreak havoc on any obstacle that gets in the path of a determined firefighter. Her red color fades in spots and there are spots where there is an application of new red paint, because fire got too close and blistered the paint. She is truly a thing of beauty to behold.
Our fire station is very old and if you did not know that by the condition of the building you might ask what those small holes are on both sides of the doorway. You see,
these were holes used to hold the pins that attach to the fire horse harnesses. The old fire chief used to come clip clopping around to this fire station in the dead of night in his horse drawn buggy. Then the old chief would fire the night watch on the spot if he discovered the poor soul nodding off. Thank goodness our crew doesn’t have to stand a wakeful watch during the night hours. We don’t spend a whole lot of time cleaning our fire station. We can concentrate on fighting fire, cooking and sleeping. Work management has not yet come to our fire department. Later on we will move to a new station and spend all of our time cleaning the place, but life is good for now.
Our ladder truck glides swiftly into the warm spring night. The call from dispatch comes in the early morning hours. There is a large two-story home fully involved in flames. Our engine company is responding with us along with one other engine company already on the scene preparing to lay two hose lines from the closest hydrant. There is little need for the siren because of the hour. The overhead beacon light turns slowly against the darkness, seemingly as sleepy as the crew. There is a chief officer coming from downtown and the rescue car races ahead. Our engine company makes a connection at the hydrant and begins to pump the two hose lines laid down by the other engine company. We pass by our engine company and take up a position at the front of building as the smoke is now blowing to the rear of the home. There will be no ventilation work tonight. The fire is through the roof and has ventilated itself. Our crew sets the aerial up and we will pour water on it until it dies. We return to the station at dawn. All occupants of the burning home escaped the fire and there are no injured firefighters.
When I walk into Fire Station number twenty-four to begin my new assignment I
see her—sitting there like some great hulking red bird of prey waiting to come screaming out of its lair at the slightest provocation. Two huge black tires shiny with glycerin support the cab where the driver and the captain ride. At the very rear of the truck the two rear tires sit directly below the tiller seat. Directly in back of the cab are the seats where the sidemen sit and between them is the heart of our bird of prey, the engine. Amidships is the turntable for the one hundred foot aerial ladder. The aerial operates so smoothly that rotation with a firefighter on the aerial is a safe procedure, something not possible on the other aerial ladders on the job. Below the turntable are the four outrigger jacks that support the aerial ladder extended
Mounted underneath the aerial ladder are the bangor and straight ladders. The side compartments of our truck hold our generator, lights, extension cords, thick lifeline ropes, self-contained breathing apparatus, and forcible entry tools. Sharp red handled axes mounted close to the cab are ready to wreak havoc on any obstacle that gets in the path of a determined firefighter. Her red color fades in spots and there are spots where there is an application of new red paint, because fire got too close and blistered the paint. She is truly a thing of beauty to behold.
Our fire station is very old and if you did not know that by the condition of the building you might ask what those small holes are on both sides of the doorway. You see,
these were holes used to hold the pins that attach to the fire horse harnesses. The old fire chief used to come clip clopping around to this fire station in the dead of night in his horse drawn buggy. Then the old chief would fire the night watch on the spot if he discovered the poor soul nodding off. Thank goodness our crew doesn’t have to stand a wakeful watch during the night hours. We don’t spend a whole lot of time cleaning our fire station. We can concentrate on fighting fire, cooking and sleeping. Work management has not yet come to our fire department. Later on we will move to a new station and spend all of our time cleaning the place, but life is good for now.
Our ladder truck glides swiftly into the warm spring night. The call from dispatch comes in the early morning hours. There is a large two-story home fully involved in flames. Our engine company is responding with us along with one other engine company already on the scene preparing to lay two hose lines from the closest hydrant. There is little need for the siren because of the hour. The overhead beacon light turns slowly against the darkness, seemingly as sleepy as the crew. There is a chief officer coming from downtown and the rescue car races ahead. Our engine company makes a connection at the hydrant and begins to pump the two hose lines laid down by the other engine company. We pass by our engine company and take up a position at the front of building as the smoke is now blowing to the rear of the home. There will be no ventilation work tonight. The fire is through the roof and has ventilated itself. Our crew sets the aerial up and we will pour water on it until it dies. We return to the station at dawn. All occupants of the burning home escaped the fire and there are no injured firefighters.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Brother, Can You Spare That Pigeon?
There is a lively discussion going on between two groups of firefighters just outside station 24. The discussion centers on those pesky pigeons that inhabit the neighborhood.
Pigeons are landing in the middle of the street and then taking off at the last instant before being struck down by passing cars. One group of firefighters is proclaiming loudly that you can drive down the street at sixty miles an hour and still not be able to hit one of the pigeons sitting in the middle of the street. About this time, as if on cue a passing car, speeding by, strikes one of the pigeons as it attempts to flee the street. Feathers fly and the now luckless pigeon flies straight up in the air about twenty feet and then does a swan dive into a pile of dirt by the side of the road. At arrival back on terra firma he is dead as a doornail.
Pigeons are landing in the middle of the street and then taking off at the last instant before being struck down by passing cars. One group of firefighters is proclaiming loudly that you can drive down the street at sixty miles an hour and still not be able to hit one of the pigeons sitting in the middle of the street. About this time, as if on cue a passing car, speeding by, strikes one of the pigeons as it attempts to flee the street. Feathers fly and the now luckless pigeon flies straight up in the air about twenty feet and then does a swan dive into a pile of dirt by the side of the road. At arrival back on terra firma he is dead as a doornail.
There is dead silence for a moment and then the catcalls and the hooting start from the group of firefighters who, up to this moment, had little to argue about. The other group retreats into the station to get away from their jeering comrades. Their only salvation is the loud clanging of the call bell.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
A Winter Wonderland
My grandfather has his home built outside of town. He and my grandmother have lived most of their lives in town. Maybe they just tire of living in town, not that our town is all that large. I imagine that when he found this spot of land he must have concluded that there was no other place as beautiful to build a home. Weeping willow and quaking aspen trees line the left side of road that leads to his home. There is even a tree that produces plump blueberries in the summertime. There is a rich meadow with tall grass that fat deer can graze on, and then quench their thirst in the stream at the edge of the grass. All fed by a meandering stream of cold clear water that flows from a myriad of bubbling springs high in the “Hills.” On the right side of the road there is solid rock peppered with “fools gold” or iron pyrite that sparkles brightly in the sunlight.
It has been 50 years this month that our home burned along with all the treasures within.
Scott
Once you believe in something magical it is hard to let it go.
My sister and brother convince me that bottles of cola grow in the cold spring water that bubbles up in a meadow near our home. Being six years old and very gullible I don’t need a lot of convincing. On a visit to that meadow they point out the bottles of cola they have placed in the spring and then they tell me those bottles of cola grew in that very spring
Repeated visits to the spring however yield not one cold bottle of cola to quench my parched throat. Finally, my mother makes them stop telling me that bottles of cola grow in those bubbling cold springs of water. The news does not stop me from occasionally running off to that meadow to search for that elusive bottle of cola that grows wild in cold mountain meadow springs.
Some years later my brother will ask my nephew if he wants to go down to the creek that runs past our home and look for watermelons. They go down to that creek and sure enough there is a watermelon that my brother has placed there. Together they bring it up to the house. Years later when a story about watermelons growing in a patch is being discussed in the classroom my nephew will vigorously defend the position that watermelons grow in creeks, not in patches, much to the amusement of his classmates and the instructor.
Monday, September 14, 2009
A Monument to Teddy Roosevelt
School is out!
Finally. I can stand no more instruction this day. I am out the school door and run down to the library where I make a sharp left up Denver Avenue and then trudge past the rows of houses that line the avenue. Finally I reach the end of the pavement where Denver Avenue ends and Roosevelt Road begins. I am now free of the town. The air begins to clear and I can breathe a little easier now. I walk up a gentle slope to the first turn where on some days I feel the need to relieve myself. A great worry is that someone will drive past, but this has not happened yet. By the time I get to the second bend in the road the creek that runs past our house becomes accessible. Now is time to make life miserable for the water bugs skittering about in the creek by pelting them with gravel from the road. I make a stop at a small pasture just past the willow trees, called the Red Jacket, to pump some water from the old hand pump. The clear cold water cools my fevered brow. The winter winds have yet to begin to blow.
A monument to a great President.
The road that snakes past my home ends up at a great stone tower that is dedicated to our late president Theodore Roosevelt. I love to travel up this road. It winds around sharp steep curves, up through thick forest and then bursts out of the trees and levels out. At long last you can see far down into lush green valleys heavy with thick pine trees. From this point you may be able to glimpse sight of the great stone tower. Finally the road forks and you take the left fork to the tower.
The tower stands about 40 feet in height and sets on a massive stone base at least 7 feet high and 15 feet wide. It is cylindrical in shape and there is a narrow staircase inside the monument that winds around the outside wall. You can stop along the steep steps and peer out the openings provided. Once on top supposedly on a clear day you can see four states. It is great fun to make the long trek. My friends and I often pack our cheese and bologna sandwiches and strike out for the tower. It is a great way to spend a summer day. Our address on this road is simply, 9 Roosevelt Road.
Finally. I can stand no more instruction this day. I am out the school door and run down to the library where I make a sharp left up Denver Avenue and then trudge past the rows of houses that line the avenue. Finally I reach the end of the pavement where Denver Avenue ends and Roosevelt Road begins. I am now free of the town. The air begins to clear and I can breathe a little easier now. I walk up a gentle slope to the first turn where on some days I feel the need to relieve myself. A great worry is that someone will drive past, but this has not happened yet. By the time I get to the second bend in the road the creek that runs past our house becomes accessible. Now is time to make life miserable for the water bugs skittering about in the creek by pelting them with gravel from the road. I make a stop at a small pasture just past the willow trees, called the Red Jacket, to pump some water from the old hand pump. The clear cold water cools my fevered brow. The winter winds have yet to begin to blow.
A monument to a great President.
The road that snakes past my home ends up at a great stone tower that is dedicated to our late president Theodore Roosevelt. I love to travel up this road. It winds around sharp steep curves, up through thick forest and then bursts out of the trees and levels out. At long last you can see far down into lush green valleys heavy with thick pine trees. From this point you may be able to glimpse sight of the great stone tower. Finally the road forks and you take the left fork to the tower.
The tower stands about 40 feet in height and sets on a massive stone base at least 7 feet high and 15 feet wide. It is cylindrical in shape and there is a narrow staircase inside the monument that winds around the outside wall. You can stop along the steep steps and peer out the openings provided. Once on top supposedly on a clear day you can see four states. It is great fun to make the long trek. My friends and I often pack our cheese and bologna sandwiches and strike out for the tower. It is a great way to spend a summer day. Our address on this road is simply, 9 Roosevelt Road.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
My Grandfather's home is now my home.
There is no chill wind that can penetrate these walls. Winter winds can rage against these mighty timbers, but they cannot prevail. Inside these impenetrable walls there is only warmth and light. Three stories high and sheltered on three sides by the surrounding hills our home makes a mockery of the cold winds that attempt to steal in. The heart of this mighty fortress is in the basement. It is a huge gas furnace that comes on with a roar and then sends hot air on its way through great pipes that warm each and every room. No cold allowed here.
The attic of my mighty fortress home is a wondrous place. My brother's bedroom quarters occupy the front half of the attic. His bed is old and sags pitifully, but I would gladly give up my bedroom to sleep up here. I spend endless hours up here lying on his bed and cocking and recocking his old beat up lever action Winchester rifle. I have killed many a bear from that position. The back half of the attic is full of treasure. There is an old steamer trunk full of furs that the ladies of an earlier era draped around their necks. Some of the furs have eyes on them that make them resemble a weasel. There are porcelain chamber pots and lots of pictures of men with handlebar mustaches. The pictures of the ladies are equally strange as they are unsmiling and grim faced as if they were in some pain caused by the strange clothing they are wearing.
My grandfather has these splendid paths built through the forest on the opposite hill from where his home stands. You can walk for miles on these paths with only the company of an occasional squirrel scurrying overhead in the treetops. There are large yellow and black striped honeybees buzzing around a tiny purple and violet flower that has pushed its way up through the forest floor. There is a blue-black horsefly that swoops down on you, makes you duck your head, and then departs for more fragrant targets. Tiny brown sparrows are ever present, always chirping, always pecking at the forest floor, always fluttering about. Red-breasted robins who nest in the forest canopy, high above the forest floor, seek to pluck the plumpest worms from the earth for their nestlings dining enjoyment. Sharp-eyed hawks circle lazily overhead, ride the warm air updrafts and wait for some unlucky mouse to show himself.
The attic of my mighty fortress home is a wondrous place. My brother's bedroom quarters occupy the front half of the attic. His bed is old and sags pitifully, but I would gladly give up my bedroom to sleep up here. I spend endless hours up here lying on his bed and cocking and recocking his old beat up lever action Winchester rifle. I have killed many a bear from that position. The back half of the attic is full of treasure. There is an old steamer trunk full of furs that the ladies of an earlier era draped around their necks. Some of the furs have eyes on them that make them resemble a weasel. There are porcelain chamber pots and lots of pictures of men with handlebar mustaches. The pictures of the ladies are equally strange as they are unsmiling and grim faced as if they were in some pain caused by the strange clothing they are wearing.
My grandfather has these splendid paths built through the forest on the opposite hill from where his home stands. You can walk for miles on these paths with only the company of an occasional squirrel scurrying overhead in the treetops. There are large yellow and black striped honeybees buzzing around a tiny purple and violet flower that has pushed its way up through the forest floor. There is a blue-black horsefly that swoops down on you, makes you duck your head, and then departs for more fragrant targets. Tiny brown sparrows are ever present, always chirping, always pecking at the forest floor, always fluttering about. Red-breasted robins who nest in the forest canopy, high above the forest floor, seek to pluck the plumpest worms from the earth for their nestlings dining enjoyment. Sharp-eyed hawks circle lazily overhead, ride the warm air updrafts and wait for some unlucky mouse to show himself.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Camelot or Cantankerous
This is a cantankerous town that I am born to.
Cantankerous in the sense that this is a hard working no nonsense town inhabited by men who go deep into the earth to dig out the gold that lies therein. Lead. The very name says mining town. The name comes from the main lead of gold that lies buried deep under the town. This is the home of the largest gold mine in the world. Mining shafts run over a mile deep into the earth.
My father is a miner, one of the men who ride down into the earth to dig out the gold. You may have seen pictures of them coming out of the mine after a day of work, dirt on their faces and the carbide light bobbing up and down on their foreheads. That’s who my father is.
Cantankerous because during the winter months Canadian arctic air sweeps down over the Dakotas and puts the whole area into a deep-freeze. When the winter winds bring deep snow you may have to leave the family sedan and walk up the hill to get home. This is long before four-wheel drive, SUVS and that entire sort. One cold winter my Dad’s ’35 Ford would start, but despite his great strength he could not turn the frozen steering wheel.
Cantankerous because the folks at the Pentecostal church at the bottom of the hill don’t mind telling visitors that the main service is over and now they plan to get serious. Leave at your own peril. You have only your soul to lose.
These are the days that when you pick up the telephone to make a call an operator comes on the line and says, “Number Please.” Dial telephones are something you see in a movie.
My brother tells the story about how after being informed by my mother of my arrival some months away, and then being cautioned to say nothing immediately runs out and tells his best friend Bubby his secret.
Now these are the polio years and that dread disease struck at my brother’s friend, Bubby. After we move away to my grandfather’s house the news came that Bubby has succumbed to this dreaded disease. I still remember hearing those hushed tones that the conversation turned to on that dreadful day that we hear of his untimely death.
This must have been Camelot that I was born into. My father works in the mine and my mother stays at home to take care of my brother, my sister and me. The country is just coming out of the great depression and my father has steady work when most of the country is still out of work.
The location of our little house is about halfway up the side of the hill. White scalloped shingles adorn the sides and the sturdy roof supports green shingles. Built square and low to the ground the little house provides the necessary warmth to withstand the cold Dakota winters.
My brother tells me of the time he turned the water hose on a nest of wasps and when the little critters dried out they were mad as hell at the destruction of their home.
Then they came looking for any passerby and that happened to be me. Somehow I managed to survive my brother’s youthful exuberance during those early years.
Our family moves from the little house on the hill that summer to our grandfather’s house. We do so with the understanding that we will not be there very long because my father wants to go to Wyoming to farm with his brother. That fall my father gets very sick and the plans to move to Wyoming are put on hold.
Viewing our old home from the street with my sister and brother, during our recent vacation, we can see no signs of life. I imagine a mineworker and his or her family dwell there and they are about their work and their school.
Cantankerous in the sense that this is a hard working no nonsense town inhabited by men who go deep into the earth to dig out the gold that lies therein. Lead. The very name says mining town. The name comes from the main lead of gold that lies buried deep under the town. This is the home of the largest gold mine in the world. Mining shafts run over a mile deep into the earth.
My father is a miner, one of the men who ride down into the earth to dig out the gold. You may have seen pictures of them coming out of the mine after a day of work, dirt on their faces and the carbide light bobbing up and down on their foreheads. That’s who my father is.
Cantankerous because during the winter months Canadian arctic air sweeps down over the Dakotas and puts the whole area into a deep-freeze. When the winter winds bring deep snow you may have to leave the family sedan and walk up the hill to get home. This is long before four-wheel drive, SUVS and that entire sort. One cold winter my Dad’s ’35 Ford would start, but despite his great strength he could not turn the frozen steering wheel.
Cantankerous because the folks at the Pentecostal church at the bottom of the hill don’t mind telling visitors that the main service is over and now they plan to get serious. Leave at your own peril. You have only your soul to lose.
These are the days that when you pick up the telephone to make a call an operator comes on the line and says, “Number Please.” Dial telephones are something you see in a movie.
My brother tells the story about how after being informed by my mother of my arrival some months away, and then being cautioned to say nothing immediately runs out and tells his best friend Bubby his secret.
Now these are the polio years and that dread disease struck at my brother’s friend, Bubby. After we move away to my grandfather’s house the news came that Bubby has succumbed to this dreaded disease. I still remember hearing those hushed tones that the conversation turned to on that dreadful day that we hear of his untimely death.
This must have been Camelot that I was born into. My father works in the mine and my mother stays at home to take care of my brother, my sister and me. The country is just coming out of the great depression and my father has steady work when most of the country is still out of work.
The location of our little house is about halfway up the side of the hill. White scalloped shingles adorn the sides and the sturdy roof supports green shingles. Built square and low to the ground the little house provides the necessary warmth to withstand the cold Dakota winters.
My brother tells me of the time he turned the water hose on a nest of wasps and when the little critters dried out they were mad as hell at the destruction of their home.
Then they came looking for any passerby and that happened to be me. Somehow I managed to survive my brother’s youthful exuberance during those early years.
Our family moves from the little house on the hill that summer to our grandfather’s house. We do so with the understanding that we will not be there very long because my father wants to go to Wyoming to farm with his brother. That fall my father gets very sick and the plans to move to Wyoming are put on hold.
Viewing our old home from the street with my sister and brother, during our recent vacation, we can see no signs of life. I imagine a mineworker and his or her family dwell there and they are about their work and their school.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Arrgh!! He's a Pirate
Henry Weaver, when quite a youth and not more than eighteen years of age, fired by that ardent patriotism which so distinguished the men of that day joined a crew of privateersmen. He was among the first that ventured upon the ocean under an American flag. When cruising the West Inda seas his ship fell in with a British vessel and after a desperate fight captured the British vessel.
In the act of boarding the British vessel Henry Weaver had three fingers of his left hand cut off by the stroke of a cutlass that was aimed at his head. After the capture of the British vessel they contiued cruising in the same area for a considerable time. Unfortunately for them they came upon a British Man-of-War of very superior size and they were in turn captured. Henry Weaver along with the survivors of the crew were captured and taken to England where he was confined to a British prison for eighteen months.
A treaty of peace was executed at Paris on November 30, 1783 which acknowedged the independence of the United States. Upon ratification of this treaty Henry Weaver was released from prison and was allowed to return to America
Upon his return to home in New York his family hailed his return as one risen from the dead, as they had long since considered him lost forever. His father had passed away during his absence.
Although Henry Weaver was eligble for a government pension due to the loss of three fingers of his left hand he refused to make an application for a pension to which he was justly entitled.
In the act of boarding the British vessel Henry Weaver had three fingers of his left hand cut off by the stroke of a cutlass that was aimed at his head. After the capture of the British vessel they contiued cruising in the same area for a considerable time. Unfortunately for them they came upon a British Man-of-War of very superior size and they were in turn captured. Henry Weaver along with the survivors of the crew were captured and taken to England where he was confined to a British prison for eighteen months.
A treaty of peace was executed at Paris on November 30, 1783 which acknowedged the independence of the United States. Upon ratification of this treaty Henry Weaver was released from prison and was allowed to return to America
Upon his return to home in New York his family hailed his return as one risen from the dead, as they had long since considered him lost forever. His father had passed away during his absence.
Although Henry Weaver was eligble for a government pension due to the loss of three fingers of his left hand he refused to make an application for a pension to which he was justly entitled.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Yellow Boy
Yellow Boy was a Lakota Indian charged with the theft of a horse.
In these frontier days stealing a horse is a very serious crime. It is a crime that can get you standing on a scaffold with a rope around your neck if the wrong people are your judge and jury. My grandfather argues the case for the defense in a South Dakota court of law and the jury finds Yellow Boy, a Native American of the Oglala Lakota Nation, not guilty. The grateful Lakota people come and camp in my grandfather’s front yard. They dance a victory dance, smoke their peace pipes and then give the peace pipes to my grandfather. Was I born too late, yes. Would I have killed to be able to be there, yes.
My grandfather has his home built outside of town. He and my grandmother have lived most of their lives in town. Maybe they just tire of living in town, not that our town is all that large. I imagine that when he found this spot of land he must have concluded that there was no other place as beautiful to build a home. Weeping willow and quaking aspen trees line the left side of road that leads to his home. There is even a tree that produces plump blueberries in the summertime. There is a rich meadow with tall grass that fat deer can graze on, and then quench their thirst in the stream at the edge of the grass. All fed by a meandering stream of cold clear water that flows from a myriad of bubbling springs high in the “Hills.” On the right side of the road there is solid rock peppered with “fools gold” or iron pyrite that sparkles brightly in the sunlight.
When the building of the new home of Robert and Estelle Hayes, addressed at 9 Roosevelt Road, was completed the article in the local newspaper might have read:
Prominent Black “Hills” attorney, Robert Hayes and his wife, Estelle, will soon move to their new home on Roosevelt Road. Construction of the new home has been going on for some six months now. There were some delays due to summer rains. Construction of the Hayes home, in record time, was due to the excellent spring weather we experienced and the cold not coming until early October.
The Hayes home features an enclosed attached garage. This will allow Mr. Hayes to drive into the garage and alight from his motorcar and enter directly into his study. The house also features a large kitchen with plenty of windows to allow sunlight in. There is a formal dining room where Mr. and Mrs. Hayes will no doubt entertain many of their friends and relatives. The first floor rounds out by the living room and the large and airy porch at the front of the home.
The second floor of the Hayes home contains a master bedroom and two additional bedrooms. Located also on the second floor is a full bathroom. The third floor remains unfinished and will no doubt be used to store many of Mr. and Mrs. Hayes possessions. Because it appears that it will be some time before the electric lines are run up to Roosevelt Road the Hayes home will not have electric wiring to provide for lighting of the home. Mr. Hayes says that he will look into wiring his new home for electric lighting when the electric power company is able to connect to his home.
Mr. and Mrs. Hayes will be moving into their new home on Roosevelt Road just as soon as Mrs. Hayes returns from a trip to Chicago. While Mrs. Hayes was in Chicago she had the honor of being elected a director of the Isaac Walton League of America. Mrs. Hayes, in her position as a director, is often mentioned in newspaper articles as one of the leaders of the “feminist” movement in the Walton League.
In these frontier days stealing a horse is a very serious crime. It is a crime that can get you standing on a scaffold with a rope around your neck if the wrong people are your judge and jury. My grandfather argues the case for the defense in a South Dakota court of law and the jury finds Yellow Boy, a Native American of the Oglala Lakota Nation, not guilty. The grateful Lakota people come and camp in my grandfather’s front yard. They dance a victory dance, smoke their peace pipes and then give the peace pipes to my grandfather. Was I born too late, yes. Would I have killed to be able to be there, yes.
My grandfather has his home built outside of town. He and my grandmother have lived most of their lives in town. Maybe they just tire of living in town, not that our town is all that large. I imagine that when he found this spot of land he must have concluded that there was no other place as beautiful to build a home. Weeping willow and quaking aspen trees line the left side of road that leads to his home. There is even a tree that produces plump blueberries in the summertime. There is a rich meadow with tall grass that fat deer can graze on, and then quench their thirst in the stream at the edge of the grass. All fed by a meandering stream of cold clear water that flows from a myriad of bubbling springs high in the “Hills.” On the right side of the road there is solid rock peppered with “fools gold” or iron pyrite that sparkles brightly in the sunlight.
When the building of the new home of Robert and Estelle Hayes, addressed at 9 Roosevelt Road, was completed the article in the local newspaper might have read:
Prominent Black “Hills” attorney, Robert Hayes and his wife, Estelle, will soon move to their new home on Roosevelt Road. Construction of the new home has been going on for some six months now. There were some delays due to summer rains. Construction of the Hayes home, in record time, was due to the excellent spring weather we experienced and the cold not coming until early October.
The Hayes home features an enclosed attached garage. This will allow Mr. Hayes to drive into the garage and alight from his motorcar and enter directly into his study. The house also features a large kitchen with plenty of windows to allow sunlight in. There is a formal dining room where Mr. and Mrs. Hayes will no doubt entertain many of their friends and relatives. The first floor rounds out by the living room and the large and airy porch at the front of the home.
The second floor of the Hayes home contains a master bedroom and two additional bedrooms. Located also on the second floor is a full bathroom. The third floor remains unfinished and will no doubt be used to store many of Mr. and Mrs. Hayes possessions. Because it appears that it will be some time before the electric lines are run up to Roosevelt Road the Hayes home will not have electric wiring to provide for lighting of the home. Mr. Hayes says that he will look into wiring his new home for electric lighting when the electric power company is able to connect to his home.
Mr. and Mrs. Hayes will be moving into their new home on Roosevelt Road just as soon as Mrs. Hayes returns from a trip to Chicago. While Mrs. Hayes was in Chicago she had the honor of being elected a director of the Isaac Walton League of America. Mrs. Hayes, in her position as a director, is often mentioned in newspaper articles as one of the leaders of the “feminist” movement in the Walton League.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Abraham Clark
1725-1794
Representing New Jersey at the Continental Congress
by Ole Erekson, Engraver, c1876, Library of Congress
Born:
February 15, 1725
Birthplace:
Elizabethtown, New Jersey
Education:
Self-taught, Surveying, Law (Surveyor, Lawyer, Sheriff)
Work:
Land attorney; High Sheriff of Essex County, NJ.; Member of New Jersey Provincial Congress; Elected to the Continental Congress, 1776 ~1784.
Died:
September 15, 1794
Abraham Clark was born into the life of a farmer at what is now Elizabeth, New Jersey. His father saw an aptitude for mathematics and felt that he was too frail for the farm life and so young Abraham was tutored in mathematics and surveying. He continued his own study of the Law while working as a surveyor. He later practiced as an attorney and in this role is said to have been quite popular because of his habit of serving poor farmers in the community in cases dealing with title disputes. In succeeding years he served as the clerk of the Provincial Assembly, High Sheriff of Essex (now divided into Essex and Union) County. Elected to the Provincial Congress in 1775, he then represented New Jersey at the Second Continental Congress in 1776, where he signed the Declaration of Independence. He served in the congress through the Revolutionary War as a member of the committee of Public Safety. He retired and was unable to attend the Federal Constitutional Convention in 1787, however he is said to have been active in community politics until his death in 1794. Clark Township, New Jersey, is named in his honor.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
The first night I dreamed this.
This black limousine pulls up in front of our house and three men in saffron colored robes get out. Their dress is the same as I have seen in pictures of the Dali Lama. These men must be representatives of him. Wow, what a response I am getting to my letter. I open the door and they come in as if they knew exactly where they are. We all gather around our dining table. The saffron robed monks explain to me that the Dali Lama, in response to my letter, has sent them. They then go on to say that the letter I sent was different from the thousands of letters of support that they have received, because it floated out of the mailbag. It is at present time hovering at midpoint between ceiling and floor. They have cautiously captured it and opened it whereupon it has returned to its position suspended in mid-air. They explain to me that the sender of this letter would be the incarnation of the previous Panchen Lama. Well, okay, not a real bad job for a retired firefighter. Then I remember you had put the letter in the mailbox making you (technically) the sender. The monks then put a saffron colored robe on you and out the door you go with them. I run after you and the monks, exclaiming, "But he is Baptist." They assure me that they would not hold that against you.
I awoke with a start and got up to check to see if your head was firmly planted on your pillow. You were not there. I checked the one other place that I could count on finding you. Yes, there you were at the refrigerator with the door wide open. This time I did not holler at you to get you to close the refrigerator door.
The next night the dream continued.
Your mother and I now have an apartment in the palace in the capital city of Lhasa. We have a fantastic view of the Himalayan Mountains and it is ours for as long as we want to stay. We have the run of the palace, and the only thing required of us is that we bow when you walk by. Also we have to be careful that when we do sit together we do not sit higher than you do. I remember we had to do this when you lived at home so it is no big deal.
Batman, Superman and Arnold have combined forces to kick the entire Chinese Communist army's butts clear out of Tibet. They are cowering behind some rocks near their border, afraid that they are going to make Arnold mad again. Your mother is checking the Lhasa phone directory for the location of shopping malls. This day I will check out the Lhasa fire station where I can converse with the Tibetan firefighters about getting more gpm out of your ladder pipe nozzle and the merits of transverse hose beds.
I awoke with a start and went to look for you. I passed by the refrigerator and the door remained tightly shut. I headed for your bedroom and found you with your head firmly planted on your pillow. I closed the door softly so as not to wake you.
This black limousine pulls up in front of our house and three men in saffron colored robes get out. Their dress is the same as I have seen in pictures of the Dali Lama. These men must be representatives of him. Wow, what a response I am getting to my letter. I open the door and they come in as if they knew exactly where they are. We all gather around our dining table. The saffron robed monks explain to me that the Dali Lama, in response to my letter, has sent them. They then go on to say that the letter I sent was different from the thousands of letters of support that they have received, because it floated out of the mailbag. It is at present time hovering at midpoint between ceiling and floor. They have cautiously captured it and opened it whereupon it has returned to its position suspended in mid-air. They explain to me that the sender of this letter would be the incarnation of the previous Panchen Lama. Well, okay, not a real bad job for a retired firefighter. Then I remember you had put the letter in the mailbox making you (technically) the sender. The monks then put a saffron colored robe on you and out the door you go with them. I run after you and the monks, exclaiming, "But he is Baptist." They assure me that they would not hold that against you.
I awoke with a start and got up to check to see if your head was firmly planted on your pillow. You were not there. I checked the one other place that I could count on finding you. Yes, there you were at the refrigerator with the door wide open. This time I did not holler at you to get you to close the refrigerator door.
The next night the dream continued.
Your mother and I now have an apartment in the palace in the capital city of Lhasa. We have a fantastic view of the Himalayan Mountains and it is ours for as long as we want to stay. We have the run of the palace, and the only thing required of us is that we bow when you walk by. Also we have to be careful that when we do sit together we do not sit higher than you do. I remember we had to do this when you lived at home so it is no big deal.
Batman, Superman and Arnold have combined forces to kick the entire Chinese Communist army's butts clear out of Tibet. They are cowering behind some rocks near their border, afraid that they are going to make Arnold mad again. Your mother is checking the Lhasa phone directory for the location of shopping malls. This day I will check out the Lhasa fire station where I can converse with the Tibetan firefighters about getting more gpm out of your ladder pipe nozzle and the merits of transverse hose beds.
I awoke with a start and went to look for you. I passed by the refrigerator and the door remained tightly shut. I headed for your bedroom and found you with your head firmly planted on your pillow. I closed the door softly so as not to wake you.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Dear Michael,Getting your last email certainly lifted your mother and my spirits. I think we must have been sitting around here in some kind of funk. Sounds like you are settling in nicely with your host family and are enjoying your training. Your cold weather gear is on its way, although from your letter it seems that the stores in Ulanbaatar have plenty of cold weather items to help you prepare for the coming winter.
Your mother and I tell everyone that our son is serving in the Peace Corps in Mongolia and you will spend your time there teaching English to the Mongolian people. We are so proud of you. You are one person who is making a difference in the world.
Now that I am retired I am going to have a lot of time on my hands so I will write you a very long letter for you to read during those long Mongolian winter nights. I shall start off with the story of my grandfather and Yellow Boy, but first I have to tell you about this dream I had.Shortly before you left on your trip to Mongolia I had this weird dream about you. You should remember that I wrote to the Dali Lama to express my outrage at the savagery of the Communist Chinese government in its brutal takeover of sovereign Tibet. I explained to him in my letter that we both fled our homelands in the same year and that as a Christian my prayers go out to him and his countrymen.
Posted by Scott at 6:05 AM 1 comments
Your mother and I tell everyone that our son is serving in the Peace Corps in Mongolia and you will spend your time there teaching English to the Mongolian people. We are so proud of you. You are one person who is making a difference in the world.
Now that I am retired I am going to have a lot of time on my hands so I will write you a very long letter for you to read during those long Mongolian winter nights. I shall start off with the story of my grandfather and Yellow Boy, but first I have to tell you about this dream I had.Shortly before you left on your trip to Mongolia I had this weird dream about you. You should remember that I wrote to the Dali Lama to express my outrage at the savagery of the Communist Chinese government in its brutal takeover of sovereign Tibet. I explained to him in my letter that we both fled our homelands in the same year and that as a Christian my prayers go out to him and his countrymen.
Posted by Scott at 6:05 AM 1 comments
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