"Hey! What are you doing to my trees!"
"Trimming!"
"Trimming!? You're butchering them. Those beautiful limbs! You just sheared them off!"
"Had to. Getting in the way of the wires."
"That one was two feet above the wires."
"Yeah, but the leaves on the little branches at the end were touching the wires."
"So you had to lop off the entire branch?!"
"It's just going to grow back. This way we don't hae to trim as often."
"But you aren't trimming! You're butchering!"
"Tomayto. Tomahto. We're here at the behest of SCE&G. We trim the limbs from trees interfering with the electrical supply to the community. Sometimes it requires drastic measures. It just so happens this was required since we are not able to get to all the trees monthly. There are a lot of trees in the Charleston area."
"Where are you from? These trees are our legacy as a Southern state. We left them because we have roots just like them to the past. They are hundreds of years old. They won't be able to survive if you Yahoos continue to butcher them."
"Let's get it straight we are from Ohio not Yahoo. And we don't butcher we are arborists. The only animals we kill are those that run out in front of the truck. Our mission is too important to stop so on occasion we leave kitty discs in our path, but it's never intentional."
"You moron. You're no more arborists than I'm a surgeon."
"Exactly. We are surgeons. We prefer arborist but if you must, tree surgeons."
"What kind of tree is that that you are slicing up?"
"It's a big one with big limbs interfering with the electrical lines so buzz off, gramps, and let us do our job."
"I'm calling SCE&G!"
"Do that you grumpy old man. You'll see that we are perfectly within our rights to trim according to expediency."
"Hello. Is this SCE&G?"
"Yes it is. How may I help you?"
"Some guys in a truck are butchering my trees out front."
"Oh, yeah. We have arborists out trimming the limbs back from the power lines. It's for the public's safety you know."
"No1 No! No! They aren't trimming! They are slicing and dicing! They are butchering my trees. I don't think it can carry on after the stress of such a butchering."
"First off, sir, the men out trimming are arborists. They do not butcher. They do not dismember and kill animals. Trees are plants and they are simply trimming back the limbs that threaten to snap the power lines. It's a necessary improvement to the areas tree population."
"You twit! First off these idiots are destroying not only the look of my trees but possibly killing them. The stress of so much "trimming" is like murder."
"These are plants, sir. We trim them all the time. They grow back."
"But don't you understand they are butchering..."
"How they decide to trim is out of our hands sir."
"Don't you have a written agreement that they trim to a standard?"
"Oh, no sir. We have a Gentlemen's Agreement with the company. We tell them to trim and they do as they please. We ask that they be reasonable with their cuts. That's our only requirement."
"So you are sending men out with to trim and if they destroy a tree's life with the lopping off of branches that is fine with you?"
"It is a Gentleman's a greement. We expect them to use good judgement. That is our only rquirement. That way no one is to blame. You can't balme SCE&G because it is a requirement for public safety. You can't blame the arborists because they know what we want and must make judgement calls in the field. It's win win for us."
"Not for my trees or anyone else's!"
"Sorry, sir. It's out of our hands at this point."
"Why don't you bury the damn lines? That way the trees could grow as they are meant."
"Tee Hee. you're funny sir. The cost of such an undertaking would be far too expensive. Besides one day these trees will die off and the lines won't need arborial work."
"Yes, but you are contributing to their demise."
"Oh no sir. We are only sending out men to trim."
"But..."
"Good day sir."
I walked outside. My beautiful oaks that had stood in that spot for hundreds of years with spreading limbs looked like poles with round wounds all the way up to a point five or more feet above the power lines. My eyes turned liquid much like the severe wounds of the tree's trunk turned to sap. Each pale circle where a limb once yearned for sunlight was a watery eye spilling it's sap. The truck was gone. In it's place was a flat circular cat which had once been the neighbor's.
My Mind
This is my mind
Monday, December 12, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Galloping into the sunset....
Saturday morning. 50 years ago we'd be getting our nickels and dimes together. It would be off to the Palace Theater at the lower end of King Street. My mother would pick up my friends and drive us to the front door of the Palace. We'd run to the ticket booth excited to grab our tickets.
"That'll be a dime, please," the girl in the glass cage would say. We'd shove our dimes through the small opening in the booth. She's slip us tickets off a fat roll and we'd run inside to the candy counter.
"Pop corn! Milk duds and a coke!" we'd yell. "Hurry! The show's gonna start any minute!"
"Don't wet your pants kids. You've got plenty of time."
We'd look at each other, "Wet our pants! HAHAHA, HEEHEEHEE! Wet our pants!"
Our goodies in hand we'd rush to the curtained entrance and run to the middle of the seating section. Kathump would go our seats as we sat on upturned cushioned seat and it collapsed into the down position with our rumps settling in. Kids would be streaming into their places with kathumps and giggles and high pitched whistles.
"Come on! Get the movies going! Bring on the Daltons and the Youngers!"
Our enthusiasm was overwhelming. M&M's were boucning off the screen along with flattened popcorn boxes sailing over our heads. I swear there were small tears in the screen from the corners of those boxes whistling through the air with a cachunk upon hitting the silver screen in front. Some of us would run forward and gather the collapsed boxes for future flights.
The chatter and laughter would rise to cescendo levels until the lights would begin to dim. Then a hush would fall upon the small room. As it became completely dark the screen would explode with light flicking numbers from 5, 4 , 3, 2, 1. Then bursting across the screen would gallop the riders of the Dalton Gang acompanied by music, hoots and hollers, with catcalls and whistles, the kathump, kathump of seats from bouncing bums and the ever present flat boxes sailing in all directions. Shootouts and fights, dry gulchers and bank robbers, trains with strong boxes and robbers in triangular masks threatening with 6-guns that shot thousands of rounds without a reload. It was exciting! It was good guys, white hats, and bad guys, black hats. We knew who to root for and who to hiss at the moment they came into sight.
The first feature would end and a hundred small feet would beat to the restrooms. When they shuffled back more popcorn and candy would be carried to the still warm seats. The lights would dim and onto the screen would flash the next countdown...5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Bang, bang The James gang and the Youngers would be galloping across the screen firing at the possee chasing them along tire rutted roads. A cloud of dust and hail of bullets sprayed across the flickering screen as the action subsided along with the hoots and whistles and the dialogue began.
"Boo! Bring on the action!" we'd shout until a gun was whipped from it's holster and lead was pumped into the poor sap with his 15 seconds of fame. Off the gunslinger would run. up into the saddle of his trusty steed and away from town in a cloud of dust. The music would rise as the sheriff would run to his nag and rip out after him. The chase was on with shots fired forward and backward. The movie raced forward to the final happy conclusion. The lights would come on with the patter of a hundred feet racing to the restrooms again.
There were several cartoons followed by the weekly serial which always ended with the hero in a terrible situation with no way out. With the shock ending we'd be told to be sure and see how our hero would escape the unescapable in next week's thrilling episode. As the lights came up every kid in the house rooted and tooted and whistled their frustration at being told the movie hour was over. We ducked as we filed up the outer aisles to the back exits avoiding those pesky sailing popcorn boxes. Sticky candy and spilled drinks stuck to our shoes catching with each step in our move to the curtained doors. Our excitement began to wind down as we opened the door to the outside world. Sunshine or rain, my mother would be waiting at the curb to pick us up. The ride home was filled with imaginary guns shooting at bad guys along the sidewalk. With each stop and farewell we'd remind each other to save our allowance for next Saturday's excursion. Twenty-five cents would do it. Fifty cents would be aiming for stomach aches. It was a small slice of heaven for a small boy.
"That'll be a dime, please," the girl in the glass cage would say. We'd shove our dimes through the small opening in the booth. She's slip us tickets off a fat roll and we'd run inside to the candy counter.
"Pop corn! Milk duds and a coke!" we'd yell. "Hurry! The show's gonna start any minute!"
"Don't wet your pants kids. You've got plenty of time."
We'd look at each other, "Wet our pants! HAHAHA, HEEHEEHEE! Wet our pants!"
Our goodies in hand we'd rush to the curtained entrance and run to the middle of the seating section. Kathump would go our seats as we sat on upturned cushioned seat and it collapsed into the down position with our rumps settling in. Kids would be streaming into their places with kathumps and giggles and high pitched whistles.
"Come on! Get the movies going! Bring on the Daltons and the Youngers!"
Our enthusiasm was overwhelming. M&M's were boucning off the screen along with flattened popcorn boxes sailing over our heads. I swear there were small tears in the screen from the corners of those boxes whistling through the air with a cachunk upon hitting the silver screen in front. Some of us would run forward and gather the collapsed boxes for future flights.
The chatter and laughter would rise to cescendo levels until the lights would begin to dim. Then a hush would fall upon the small room. As it became completely dark the screen would explode with light flicking numbers from 5, 4 , 3, 2, 1. Then bursting across the screen would gallop the riders of the Dalton Gang acompanied by music, hoots and hollers, with catcalls and whistles, the kathump, kathump of seats from bouncing bums and the ever present flat boxes sailing in all directions. Shootouts and fights, dry gulchers and bank robbers, trains with strong boxes and robbers in triangular masks threatening with 6-guns that shot thousands of rounds without a reload. It was exciting! It was good guys, white hats, and bad guys, black hats. We knew who to root for and who to hiss at the moment they came into sight.
The first feature would end and a hundred small feet would beat to the restrooms. When they shuffled back more popcorn and candy would be carried to the still warm seats. The lights would dim and onto the screen would flash the next countdown...5, 4, 3, 2, 1. Bang, bang The James gang and the Youngers would be galloping across the screen firing at the possee chasing them along tire rutted roads. A cloud of dust and hail of bullets sprayed across the flickering screen as the action subsided along with the hoots and whistles and the dialogue began.
"Boo! Bring on the action!" we'd shout until a gun was whipped from it's holster and lead was pumped into the poor sap with his 15 seconds of fame. Off the gunslinger would run. up into the saddle of his trusty steed and away from town in a cloud of dust. The music would rise as the sheriff would run to his nag and rip out after him. The chase was on with shots fired forward and backward. The movie raced forward to the final happy conclusion. The lights would come on with the patter of a hundred feet racing to the restrooms again.
There were several cartoons followed by the weekly serial which always ended with the hero in a terrible situation with no way out. With the shock ending we'd be told to be sure and see how our hero would escape the unescapable in next week's thrilling episode. As the lights came up every kid in the house rooted and tooted and whistled their frustration at being told the movie hour was over. We ducked as we filed up the outer aisles to the back exits avoiding those pesky sailing popcorn boxes. Sticky candy and spilled drinks stuck to our shoes catching with each step in our move to the curtained doors. Our excitement began to wind down as we opened the door to the outside world. Sunshine or rain, my mother would be waiting at the curb to pick us up. The ride home was filled with imaginary guns shooting at bad guys along the sidewalk. With each stop and farewell we'd remind each other to save our allowance for next Saturday's excursion. Twenty-five cents would do it. Fifty cents would be aiming for stomach aches. It was a small slice of heaven for a small boy.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Atasseling we'll go...
Yee Haw! San antone! My first Christmas away from home I spent in San Antonio by the grace of USAF. They gave me a bunk and three squares. The barracks was called OT Hold. After six weeks in boot camp I was placed in limbo to await an opening in Officer's Training School across the way at Medina Air Force Base. It was a great experience, I see it now. At the time I thought it was a waste since I was young and eager to do something with my life.
They gave me a job at a desk. I was shuffling paperwork. There were those who had joined who wanted out. Imagine that. Their files came across my desk and I stamped them then sent them along. I remember most of them being individuals who could not get along well enough with others to remain in the Air Force. Since it was during the Viet Nam era they would be subject to the draft upon release from active duty. The army was not so flexible and snapped them up with a letter from Uncle Sam saying, "Greetings." I felt sorry for them.
When the job was over for the day I'd walk back to OT Hold. I had two bunk mates. Our bunks were three high. I slept on the top bunk. I chose it. Today I'm surprised I chose it. I have heightaphobia. There was a room in which three fellow OT Holders painted cups. It was a choice position for anyone with an artistic bent. They were fairly good. I ordered a cartoon of a spirochete on a cup with "The Love Bug" printed beneath it. I was shipped out before it was finished.
The evenings would carry us away into the night life of our portion of San Antone. We'd walk to the hole in the chain link fence and step through into the land of civilians. There was a row of bars with exotic dancers on tap. We had our favorite and usually stayed there until curfew. Inside it was dark and noisy. Music and conversation over beers filled the air. The atmosphere was red from the lights and sparkled with reflections off the spinning ball of mirrors above. The sparkling ball bounced light off the smokey walls and ceiling.
Our table was always open to the exotic dancers who seemed to like us quite a bit. One in particular was a very attractive young lady with aspirations to Broadway. Perhaps because we listened to her dreams she frequented our table. Her's was a unique talent. One that I especially enjoyed because I could join in. My first introduction to audience interaction. Her gyrations were spellbinding. The entire bar would practically stand still as she committed her body to the music. She smiled at me and the beat of the music ruled her perfections. A wink from her and a tassle would spin. She would point at me and begin the second. Both would be spinning clockwise. The place was packed with riveted eyes. I would point a finger with a rotating motion counterclockwise and she would immediately correct and spin in that direction. When my eyes were communing with that movement I'd rotate my finger clockwise which was answered with tassle ripples into a clockwise motion. The coup de grace would come when my index fingers of both hands would rotate in opposite directions to one another and she would answer with a wink, a smile and tassles spinning in opposing directions. It was her crowning glory. It was the wonder of the ages. It was a drunken airman's dream. Then we would return to the mundane life of enlisted men in the barracks.
Elvis came on TV while I was in the Hold. His Comeback show. We were all in the lounge sipping beer and smoking when he walked onto the screen. He had been out of the spotlight for a while, what with the Beatles and all. He overshadowed all the British invaders that night and boosted his career into a viable entity once again. We were pie eyed by the time it was over. Another drag before crushing out the last butt of the evening and a heave ho onto the three tiered bunk and I was out until the next morning.
One of the sergeants in my office was an aspiring writer. He gave me several of his stories asking my opinion. I thought they were very good and asked why he didn't send them to one of the magazines. He gave a couple of lame excuses and let it rest. I often wonder if he did finally send one off. I'm sure he could have been published if he did. His wife was very nice too. They lived on base. She baked me a cake for my birthday. Her cake was as good as his stories.
Don't know what brought to mind those few weeks in the Hold. Back then I thought it was limbo. If I'd only known it was the journey and not the destination. But, then again, I'm not the brightest student of life.
They gave me a job at a desk. I was shuffling paperwork. There were those who had joined who wanted out. Imagine that. Their files came across my desk and I stamped them then sent them along. I remember most of them being individuals who could not get along well enough with others to remain in the Air Force. Since it was during the Viet Nam era they would be subject to the draft upon release from active duty. The army was not so flexible and snapped them up with a letter from Uncle Sam saying, "Greetings." I felt sorry for them.
When the job was over for the day I'd walk back to OT Hold. I had two bunk mates. Our bunks were three high. I slept on the top bunk. I chose it. Today I'm surprised I chose it. I have heightaphobia. There was a room in which three fellow OT Holders painted cups. It was a choice position for anyone with an artistic bent. They were fairly good. I ordered a cartoon of a spirochete on a cup with "The Love Bug" printed beneath it. I was shipped out before it was finished.
The evenings would carry us away into the night life of our portion of San Antone. We'd walk to the hole in the chain link fence and step through into the land of civilians. There was a row of bars with exotic dancers on tap. We had our favorite and usually stayed there until curfew. Inside it was dark and noisy. Music and conversation over beers filled the air. The atmosphere was red from the lights and sparkled with reflections off the spinning ball of mirrors above. The sparkling ball bounced light off the smokey walls and ceiling.
Our table was always open to the exotic dancers who seemed to like us quite a bit. One in particular was a very attractive young lady with aspirations to Broadway. Perhaps because we listened to her dreams she frequented our table. Her's was a unique talent. One that I especially enjoyed because I could join in. My first introduction to audience interaction. Her gyrations were spellbinding. The entire bar would practically stand still as she committed her body to the music. She smiled at me and the beat of the music ruled her perfections. A wink from her and a tassle would spin. She would point at me and begin the second. Both would be spinning clockwise. The place was packed with riveted eyes. I would point a finger with a rotating motion counterclockwise and she would immediately correct and spin in that direction. When my eyes were communing with that movement I'd rotate my finger clockwise which was answered with tassle ripples into a clockwise motion. The coup de grace would come when my index fingers of both hands would rotate in opposite directions to one another and she would answer with a wink, a smile and tassles spinning in opposing directions. It was her crowning glory. It was the wonder of the ages. It was a drunken airman's dream. Then we would return to the mundane life of enlisted men in the barracks.
Elvis came on TV while I was in the Hold. His Comeback show. We were all in the lounge sipping beer and smoking when he walked onto the screen. He had been out of the spotlight for a while, what with the Beatles and all. He overshadowed all the British invaders that night and boosted his career into a viable entity once again. We were pie eyed by the time it was over. Another drag before crushing out the last butt of the evening and a heave ho onto the three tiered bunk and I was out until the next morning.
One of the sergeants in my office was an aspiring writer. He gave me several of his stories asking my opinion. I thought they were very good and asked why he didn't send them to one of the magazines. He gave a couple of lame excuses and let it rest. I often wonder if he did finally send one off. I'm sure he could have been published if he did. His wife was very nice too. They lived on base. She baked me a cake for my birthday. Her cake was as good as his stories.
Don't know what brought to mind those few weeks in the Hold. Back then I thought it was limbo. If I'd only known it was the journey and not the destination. But, then again, I'm not the brightest student of life.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Give a little whistle...
My brain is froze. Much as in a doze. Right down to my toes. Where it goes I never knows.
This time of year often brings Clyde to mind. He was my uncle. He was all of 4 years older than me. We grew up together. I lived with my grandparents much of the time since both my folks worked. I would stay there Monday through Friday and at home on the weekends. Naturally Clyde was my hero since we spent so much time together.
Unfortuantely he passed away in 1996. I lost the equivalent of a brother that day. His birthday was in November. That is why he comes to my mind during this time of the year. He played a lot of tricks on me over the years. That was fine. Since I'm an only child he gave me the sense of what growing up with a brother would be. I write of him occasionally to remember those good times. The memories are fading these days so I have to say that to my best they are all true give or take a lie or two.
They were innocent times. We had an idyllic childhood in that we were allowed to have one. There was no interference of what is considered real life today. We had fairy tales and natural adventures in the real landscape of Riverland Terrace a small community tucked away on James Island in the eastern seaboard town of Charleston, SC.
We walked the area without fear of abduction. We would have been mystified as to the deinition of abduction. Children walked the roads picking blackberries for pies. The doors at home were never locked. The milkman delivered milk in glass bottles to the door and at some houses walked in to place those bottles in the fridge. There was no fear or anxiety over children being left alone, other than the mischief the children could conjure up.
As I said, I write of him on occasion. This is not one of them. Because my brain seems to be on hold refusing to allow the mischeif moments to surface. We never did anything horrible. We may have tipped the scales into a Dennis the Menace overture but nothing stronger.
He did have me tie a towel around my neck to see if I could fly off the garage's roof. I was too chicken to believe him. He tried to get me to slide across slimy boards criss crossing a pond on the golf course. His hint that there was an alligator in the pond kept me on dry land.
He taught me shady jokes which I was foolish enough to tell my mother. She had words with him. He taught me to cuss making sure I only did that when away from home. I learned a lot from him over the years.
He taught me to whistle like a bird. That is one thing I happily remember though it is difficult to whistle without a tune. So I don't breathe melody to the top ten of today. My tunes are of the pop variety of the 40's, 50's and 60's. When singers stopped recounting their love in song the melody took flight and has yet to return. Perhaps as the pendulum swings back music will arc back with it.
He and I were one of three who could warble whistle. His is silenced. My other uncle, Charles, rarely toots a tune. I tried to teach my kids the ins and outs of the warble but what they learned soon was lost from lack of practice. As I said, it is impossible to whistle the "music" of today. No tune, no melody with three words jammed together to a repetative chord. There is no poetry with deeper meaning. There is no substance. There is nothing to hang a whistle on.
On occasion, however, a tune from the days Clyde and I explored Riverland Terrace and the golf course pops out without my being conscious of it. It happens when I reminisce on those days. Like Andy Griffith walking to the pond with his fishing pole over his shoulder we would wander the neighborhood harmonizing. I miss him.
This time of year often brings Clyde to mind. He was my uncle. He was all of 4 years older than me. We grew up together. I lived with my grandparents much of the time since both my folks worked. I would stay there Monday through Friday and at home on the weekends. Naturally Clyde was my hero since we spent so much time together.
Unfortuantely he passed away in 1996. I lost the equivalent of a brother that day. His birthday was in November. That is why he comes to my mind during this time of the year. He played a lot of tricks on me over the years. That was fine. Since I'm an only child he gave me the sense of what growing up with a brother would be. I write of him occasionally to remember those good times. The memories are fading these days so I have to say that to my best they are all true give or take a lie or two.
They were innocent times. We had an idyllic childhood in that we were allowed to have one. There was no interference of what is considered real life today. We had fairy tales and natural adventures in the real landscape of Riverland Terrace a small community tucked away on James Island in the eastern seaboard town of Charleston, SC.
We walked the area without fear of abduction. We would have been mystified as to the deinition of abduction. Children walked the roads picking blackberries for pies. The doors at home were never locked. The milkman delivered milk in glass bottles to the door and at some houses walked in to place those bottles in the fridge. There was no fear or anxiety over children being left alone, other than the mischief the children could conjure up.
As I said, I write of him on occasion. This is not one of them. Because my brain seems to be on hold refusing to allow the mischeif moments to surface. We never did anything horrible. We may have tipped the scales into a Dennis the Menace overture but nothing stronger.
He did have me tie a towel around my neck to see if I could fly off the garage's roof. I was too chicken to believe him. He tried to get me to slide across slimy boards criss crossing a pond on the golf course. His hint that there was an alligator in the pond kept me on dry land.
He taught me shady jokes which I was foolish enough to tell my mother. She had words with him. He taught me to cuss making sure I only did that when away from home. I learned a lot from him over the years.
He taught me to whistle like a bird. That is one thing I happily remember though it is difficult to whistle without a tune. So I don't breathe melody to the top ten of today. My tunes are of the pop variety of the 40's, 50's and 60's. When singers stopped recounting their love in song the melody took flight and has yet to return. Perhaps as the pendulum swings back music will arc back with it.
He and I were one of three who could warble whistle. His is silenced. My other uncle, Charles, rarely toots a tune. I tried to teach my kids the ins and outs of the warble but what they learned soon was lost from lack of practice. As I said, it is impossible to whistle the "music" of today. No tune, no melody with three words jammed together to a repetative chord. There is no poetry with deeper meaning. There is no substance. There is nothing to hang a whistle on.
On occasion, however, a tune from the days Clyde and I explored Riverland Terrace and the golf course pops out without my being conscious of it. It happens when I reminisce on those days. Like Andy Griffith walking to the pond with his fishing pole over his shoulder we would wander the neighborhood harmonizing. I miss him.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
It's the most wonderful time of the year...
Near 9:30. Things come better around 6 in the morning. Those phantom words that hide beneath the horizon of sleep come more readily at that time of the morning.
My son and I went forth into the crowds of December shoppers yesterday. I say Decmber shoppers because I fear being gauche by saying Holiday Shoppers which is a euphemism for saying Christmas Shoppers. Oh my! I've committed the holiday sin. I mentioned the word Christmas.
Christmas is not the socially acceptable term. It could almost be Polically Incorrect.
There was a time when shopppers trundled through the stores with a happy "Merry Christmas" rolling across the tongue and into the ears of total strangers during the Christmas shopping excursion.
"Hello and Merry Christmas!" we'd say as we nodded to a fellow Christmas shopper while tugging against that person's grip on the last Cabbage Patch doll.
"My little girl wants this doll!" I'd yell, pulling with all my might.
"So does mine, (bleep)!"
"Well my girl wants it more!"
"The hell you say!"
The struggle ended with the other store patron landing on her butt and me running to the cash register.
"Back o' the line (bleep)!"
My prize safely in my iron grip I'd wander to the end of the line. It was difficult to see it at the back. The other shoppers bumped and shoved to reach the shelves hidden by those queued up.
"Will you get out of the way? I need to get to that toy."
"Hang on. Let me scrunch up to this shelf. There. Better?"
"You could have reached it for me (bleep)."
"You asked me to move."
"I thought you knew I meant you could get it for me. Where's your Christmas spirit?"
"I left it at home with the tree that fell over in the living room."
The line, serpentined amongst the aisles, inched slowly forward. I checked my watch. An hour in line wasn't bad I thought to myself. Of a sudden I felt a tug on the Cabbage Patch doll gripped beneath my arm. It was the woman with whom I'd struggled to keep it earlier. She was hiding behind the person at my back. She was tugging at it from a stooped position. I put both hands on the box and yanked forward. She tumbled over knocking down the two shoppers behind me.
"What the hell?" They shouted falling down amongst the packages dislodged from their hands. One of them had a Cabbage Patch doll which skittered along the floor to be snatched up. Another shopper had seen the commotion, run over, grabbed the box and easily jumped over the people and packages on the floor racing away.
"Hey! Come back here with that box!" screamed the woman who had that Cabbage patch gold for an hour. She left everything hopping over the people struggling to get up. There was a frenzied tossing of fallen boxes by shoppers now converged upon the accident scene.
"Nope! Nope! Nope!'
"Halleluiah! A miracle! I found one!" Another Cabbage Patch Doll was lifted above the crowd moving quickly away from the fallen.
"Come back! Manager! Manager!" The cry became a chorus.
"Alright. Alright. Calm down. What seems to be the problem?" It must have been the manager. I would love to have heard what was said but the line took a sudden rush to the front and I moved with it. More shoppers were running toward the point of confusion I had just left.
There were shouts of "There's CP dolls on the floor where the manager is! He brought some out!"
It wasn't true. The thief had been seen running with that box held above her head. She was shouting she had found one. The crowd took up the call. The store began to tilt in the direction of the manager who was yelling for help. He kept yelling we're sold out! at the top of his lungs but it did not diminish the Cabbage Patch fever of the newly formed mob. I saw one person running back with a coil of rope yelling, "Hang the son off a (bleep)!"
Luckily I had reached the register and handed the lady my card. She swiped it and I was on my way out when stopped by a harried shopper, "Where'd you get that doll?"
"Oh, this? I got it at the back of the store. I heard the manager was putting out a fresh supply." I smiled and said, "Merry Christmas."
"And Merry Christmas to you too," she said jumping into the mob moving to the rear of the store.
I heard one last "HELP!" as I hit the bar of the door leading to the parking lot. Christmas, it's the most wonderful time of the year.
My son and I went forth into the crowds of December shoppers yesterday. I say Decmber shoppers because I fear being gauche by saying Holiday Shoppers which is a euphemism for saying Christmas Shoppers. Oh my! I've committed the holiday sin. I mentioned the word Christmas.
Christmas is not the socially acceptable term. It could almost be Polically Incorrect.
There was a time when shopppers trundled through the stores with a happy "Merry Christmas" rolling across the tongue and into the ears of total strangers during the Christmas shopping excursion.
"Hello and Merry Christmas!" we'd say as we nodded to a fellow Christmas shopper while tugging against that person's grip on the last Cabbage Patch doll.
"My little girl wants this doll!" I'd yell, pulling with all my might.
"So does mine, (bleep)!"
"Well my girl wants it more!"
"The hell you say!"
The struggle ended with the other store patron landing on her butt and me running to the cash register.
"Back o' the line (bleep)!"
My prize safely in my iron grip I'd wander to the end of the line. It was difficult to see it at the back. The other shoppers bumped and shoved to reach the shelves hidden by those queued up.
"Will you get out of the way? I need to get to that toy."
"Hang on. Let me scrunch up to this shelf. There. Better?"
"You could have reached it for me (bleep)."
"You asked me to move."
"I thought you knew I meant you could get it for me. Where's your Christmas spirit?"
"I left it at home with the tree that fell over in the living room."
The line, serpentined amongst the aisles, inched slowly forward. I checked my watch. An hour in line wasn't bad I thought to myself. Of a sudden I felt a tug on the Cabbage Patch doll gripped beneath my arm. It was the woman with whom I'd struggled to keep it earlier. She was hiding behind the person at my back. She was tugging at it from a stooped position. I put both hands on the box and yanked forward. She tumbled over knocking down the two shoppers behind me.
"What the hell?" They shouted falling down amongst the packages dislodged from their hands. One of them had a Cabbage Patch doll which skittered along the floor to be snatched up. Another shopper had seen the commotion, run over, grabbed the box and easily jumped over the people and packages on the floor racing away.
"Hey! Come back here with that box!" screamed the woman who had that Cabbage patch gold for an hour. She left everything hopping over the people struggling to get up. There was a frenzied tossing of fallen boxes by shoppers now converged upon the accident scene.
"Nope! Nope! Nope!'
"Halleluiah! A miracle! I found one!" Another Cabbage Patch Doll was lifted above the crowd moving quickly away from the fallen.
"Come back! Manager! Manager!" The cry became a chorus.
"Alright. Alright. Calm down. What seems to be the problem?" It must have been the manager. I would love to have heard what was said but the line took a sudden rush to the front and I moved with it. More shoppers were running toward the point of confusion I had just left.
There were shouts of "There's CP dolls on the floor where the manager is! He brought some out!"
It wasn't true. The thief had been seen running with that box held above her head. She was shouting she had found one. The crowd took up the call. The store began to tilt in the direction of the manager who was yelling for help. He kept yelling we're sold out! at the top of his lungs but it did not diminish the Cabbage Patch fever of the newly formed mob. I saw one person running back with a coil of rope yelling, "Hang the son off a (bleep)!"
Luckily I had reached the register and handed the lady my card. She swiped it and I was on my way out when stopped by a harried shopper, "Where'd you get that doll?"
"Oh, this? I got it at the back of the store. I heard the manager was putting out a fresh supply." I smiled and said, "Merry Christmas."
"And Merry Christmas to you too," she said jumping into the mob moving to the rear of the store.
I heard one last "HELP!" as I hit the bar of the door leading to the parking lot. Christmas, it's the most wonderful time of the year.
Friday, December 2, 2011
I'd walk a mile for a Carmel
For the first time this year I saw my breath while outside with the dogs. Exhaling a plume of steam was always a thrill as a child. We'd giggle and pull out our pack o' cigs. They were in all the stores along with Snicker bars or Butternut bars. Candy cigarettes. While pretending to be grownups we would slip one out of the pack and poke it in our mouths. A heavy inhale of powdery sweet would be followed by a slow exhale producing a thick cloud of fog. It was our breath's moisture condensing in the cold outside our warm bodies. Maybe that was the reality but to us we were grownups in a make believe world and it was smoke from our cigarettes.
We all baought them. White sugar sticks with a dot of red food coloring at the tip. They came in a pack similar to the real thing. The names might be cute knockoff ssuch as Lickies for Luckies or Carmels for Camels. A child's introduction to the physical comforts of smoking. Half the addictive power of a cigarette in the adult world was the action of smoking the cancer sticks. How to hold one we learned by observation. We became familiar with the space between the first two fingers holding the candy stick. A quick flick of the thumb would rid the end of accumulating ash. Held between the forefinger and thumb hid the fake red glow as if we smoked in an open battle field. Palming a smoke kept those WWII snipers from zeroing in our our glowing ends.
We saw Germans in movies holding their cigarettes between tuhmb and forfinger facing outwards from the palm. It gave us a hint when one of our friends might be a spy in our war games. It was a tell tale move forgotten in a moment of high pressure at which point we would point our fake guns directly at him shouting, "On the ground Kraut!"
I lit one once. I sneaked a box of matches from the kitchen and ran out side behind the garage. I slipped my smokes from my top pocket. It rattled as my last two shook inside the pack. I flipped the top and removed the next to last one jabbing it into my mouth. Returning the pack to my left breast pocket I then pulled the box of matches out. Pushing the tiny drawer our revealed layer upon layer of wood sticks with a round glob of red at one end. They were safety matches that could only produce fire when scratched along the side of the box. It was a relatively new type. I had wanted the big ones with the red ends tipped by a white portion. They were the coveted strike anywhere matches. In any Western movie the cowboy had a pocket of these. After he rolled a smoke he'd pull out one of these sturdy bits of wood and pop his thumb nail across the whte portion to release a spark igniting into flame which he would bring up to his tube of tobacco. They didn't have to use their thumbs. These beauties could be struck along their fannies, shoe soles, trees, desk tops or even the five o'clock shadowed chin of the bad guy. They were the best.
I could only find the safety match which worked fine when used against the specially prepared side of the box. Anyway, I took one out and changed the phosphorus to fire and stuck it to the end of my candy cigarette. You see I was a bandit in the old west, my horse tied to the tree beside me heaving from being chased by the town's posse. My saddle bags held the cash from the bank vault. Both my trusty steed and I needed a breather. Here behind this rock on a hill I waited to bushwhack those varmints hot on my trail. While looking out for them I need a smoke and my new fangled safety matches, ones I disdained being a bad guy, "Pshaw! I don't want matches that are safe! I want the dangerous kind!" No self respecting bad guy wanted anything that was safe but in a pinch...
I brought the small flame to the tip of my cigarette leaning my head to the right and cupping the flame the way I had seen my dad do in the wind. Did I mention it was windy on this hill where I awaited the dreaded good guys? Well, it was windy which played havoc trying to light a cigarette that had no draw to it. My match went out. I lit another. It whipped away with the wind. I scratched another. Gone with the wind. And another. Finally the wind died enough to hit the end with the heat of the flame. It melted. White drops of goo dripped onto my pants. Not only did it drip but it shortened the stick of candy set between my lips. I continue to follow the shortening candy stick as the drops fell one by one. I kept trying to light it til I burned the tip of my nose and dropped the match with an expletive heard round the neighborhood.
The wind contributed. The self indulgent concentration contributed. I dropped the matches. The cigarette had flown far away with the shout. I raised my hands as the good guys surrounded me. Caught. In the act. My mother began fussing as she removed the box of matches from my hands. I was told repeatedly that I was not to play with matches and blah blah blah...
"Ah, ma. They were safety matches. It says they are right there on the box." Us bad guys gotta uphold an image. A confusing thought for a five year old only trying to be grown up.
We all baought them. White sugar sticks with a dot of red food coloring at the tip. They came in a pack similar to the real thing. The names might be cute knockoff ssuch as Lickies for Luckies or Carmels for Camels. A child's introduction to the physical comforts of smoking. Half the addictive power of a cigarette in the adult world was the action of smoking the cancer sticks. How to hold one we learned by observation. We became familiar with the space between the first two fingers holding the candy stick. A quick flick of the thumb would rid the end of accumulating ash. Held between the forefinger and thumb hid the fake red glow as if we smoked in an open battle field. Palming a smoke kept those WWII snipers from zeroing in our our glowing ends.
We saw Germans in movies holding their cigarettes between tuhmb and forfinger facing outwards from the palm. It gave us a hint when one of our friends might be a spy in our war games. It was a tell tale move forgotten in a moment of high pressure at which point we would point our fake guns directly at him shouting, "On the ground Kraut!"
I lit one once. I sneaked a box of matches from the kitchen and ran out side behind the garage. I slipped my smokes from my top pocket. It rattled as my last two shook inside the pack. I flipped the top and removed the next to last one jabbing it into my mouth. Returning the pack to my left breast pocket I then pulled the box of matches out. Pushing the tiny drawer our revealed layer upon layer of wood sticks with a round glob of red at one end. They were safety matches that could only produce fire when scratched along the side of the box. It was a relatively new type. I had wanted the big ones with the red ends tipped by a white portion. They were the coveted strike anywhere matches. In any Western movie the cowboy had a pocket of these. After he rolled a smoke he'd pull out one of these sturdy bits of wood and pop his thumb nail across the whte portion to release a spark igniting into flame which he would bring up to his tube of tobacco. They didn't have to use their thumbs. These beauties could be struck along their fannies, shoe soles, trees, desk tops or even the five o'clock shadowed chin of the bad guy. They were the best.
I could only find the safety match which worked fine when used against the specially prepared side of the box. Anyway, I took one out and changed the phosphorus to fire and stuck it to the end of my candy cigarette. You see I was a bandit in the old west, my horse tied to the tree beside me heaving from being chased by the town's posse. My saddle bags held the cash from the bank vault. Both my trusty steed and I needed a breather. Here behind this rock on a hill I waited to bushwhack those varmints hot on my trail. While looking out for them I need a smoke and my new fangled safety matches, ones I disdained being a bad guy, "Pshaw! I don't want matches that are safe! I want the dangerous kind!" No self respecting bad guy wanted anything that was safe but in a pinch...
I brought the small flame to the tip of my cigarette leaning my head to the right and cupping the flame the way I had seen my dad do in the wind. Did I mention it was windy on this hill where I awaited the dreaded good guys? Well, it was windy which played havoc trying to light a cigarette that had no draw to it. My match went out. I lit another. It whipped away with the wind. I scratched another. Gone with the wind. And another. Finally the wind died enough to hit the end with the heat of the flame. It melted. White drops of goo dripped onto my pants. Not only did it drip but it shortened the stick of candy set between my lips. I continue to follow the shortening candy stick as the drops fell one by one. I kept trying to light it til I burned the tip of my nose and dropped the match with an expletive heard round the neighborhood.
The wind contributed. The self indulgent concentration contributed. I dropped the matches. The cigarette had flown far away with the shout. I raised my hands as the good guys surrounded me. Caught. In the act. My mother began fussing as she removed the box of matches from my hands. I was told repeatedly that I was not to play with matches and blah blah blah...
"Ah, ma. They were safety matches. It says they are right there on the box." Us bad guys gotta uphold an image. A confusing thought for a five year old only trying to be grown up.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Ooh, look! It's white out
It's bleedin' cold outside! Out to bring in the trashcan and froze to the bone. Guess it's something to do with this getting old thing. When I was young (and stupid) I would ride to work with the windows down in this kind of cold. 65 with the wind forming ice cicles on my nose. At home I'd keep the windows open during the night with the heat off. A couple of blankets was enough. I drew the line at showering in cold water, however. Now? Heck no. I'm investing in some long johns.
Iceland was the land of ice and snow plus winds of 80 miles an hour. It was the only country which sported snow falling sideways. While I was stationed there via USAF I became acclimated. Walking between quonset huts I would wear only the GI issue raincoat which was a light nylon like material thinly coated within with rubber. That over my uniform was enough to keep me warm. Well, I wouldn't have attempted to sleep outdoors but I was comfortable enough for short jaunts. Young. Stupid. Remember?
I was married during that time and my, then, wife was able to accompany me compliments of the US gubmint. She was a tiny lady back then and the heavy winds picked her up one day. I had her hand in mine and my other hand held tight to a flag pole just in reach. She waved like a flag cracking in the wind. If I hadn't caught her at that moment she would have sailed up up and away. It was one of times in life when the action of a split second can have major impact on a life. I caught her. What if I hadn't?
We drove into Reykjavik one day. It was a simple trip to buy Christmas presents. We had a small white VW which was perfect for Icelandic roads. Both of them. While in Reykjavik the sky grew grey and a light snow began to fall.
"Time to start back," I said.
"One more shop," she said.
"OK," I said.
When we came out of the store fat juicy flakes smacked us in the face. My shoes sank into the layer of snow that had accumulated.
"Hurry. Let's get back," I yelled as we slipped and slid on the sidewalk running for the car.
We threw our packages in the back and hopped in. My snow chains were at the house. I wasn't worried though. My tires had studs. No problem. That is until we came to a stop at the top of the hill. If only that car had not come to a complete stop it wouldn't have happened. The houses on either side began to move in the opposite direction. I hit the brake harder. Those houses began to fly past. In the wrong direction! Then came the sliding sound from the locked wheels. When I looked back the person in the car framed by my back window was yelling in silence while frantically reversing his car. He beat me to the bottom of the hill and avoided hitting the car at the intersection. My car slid to a halt just beyond the intersection. I got out and apologized. I think his answer in Icelandic was not a flattering one.
Back into the car and up the hill with no stops. A turn and a few yards took us onto the long stretch to Keflavik. Snow coated the windshield while the wipers struggled to clear it.
"Keep going. Don't stop," the little woman shouted. I gave her my look of thanks.
On I drove. The snow piled higher and higher. The sky lost its deep grey color as the snow slapped the car in the whistling wind. When we arrived in Keflavik our VW was plowing through the two foot accumulation. We stopped. The snow slapped the car and sticking. Opening the doors we stepped into a whiteout. There was so much coming from the sky the only thing to be seen was nothing, only the white of heavy heavy snow. We stumbled to the house. We brushed the heavy snow coat to the floor. There was enough to build a small snowman inside from that fallout.
After a hot cup of cocoa laced with rum we turned on the radio. It was then we discovered our peril on the roads.
"All traffic has been stopped. It is too dangerous to be on the roads so please stay indoors. Do not go out for the next 10 hours." The radio station on the base was warning all dependents to remain inside not to venture out into this storm. All of those living off base scheduled for duty were ordered to stay home. I did. With no regrets, I might add.
Iceland was the land of ice and snow plus winds of 80 miles an hour. It was the only country which sported snow falling sideways. While I was stationed there via USAF I became acclimated. Walking between quonset huts I would wear only the GI issue raincoat which was a light nylon like material thinly coated within with rubber. That over my uniform was enough to keep me warm. Well, I wouldn't have attempted to sleep outdoors but I was comfortable enough for short jaunts. Young. Stupid. Remember?
I was married during that time and my, then, wife was able to accompany me compliments of the US gubmint. She was a tiny lady back then and the heavy winds picked her up one day. I had her hand in mine and my other hand held tight to a flag pole just in reach. She waved like a flag cracking in the wind. If I hadn't caught her at that moment she would have sailed up up and away. It was one of times in life when the action of a split second can have major impact on a life. I caught her. What if I hadn't?
We drove into Reykjavik one day. It was a simple trip to buy Christmas presents. We had a small white VW which was perfect for Icelandic roads. Both of them. While in Reykjavik the sky grew grey and a light snow began to fall.
"Time to start back," I said.
"One more shop," she said.
"OK," I said.
When we came out of the store fat juicy flakes smacked us in the face. My shoes sank into the layer of snow that had accumulated.
"Hurry. Let's get back," I yelled as we slipped and slid on the sidewalk running for the car.
We threw our packages in the back and hopped in. My snow chains were at the house. I wasn't worried though. My tires had studs. No problem. That is until we came to a stop at the top of the hill. If only that car had not come to a complete stop it wouldn't have happened. The houses on either side began to move in the opposite direction. I hit the brake harder. Those houses began to fly past. In the wrong direction! Then came the sliding sound from the locked wheels. When I looked back the person in the car framed by my back window was yelling in silence while frantically reversing his car. He beat me to the bottom of the hill and avoided hitting the car at the intersection. My car slid to a halt just beyond the intersection. I got out and apologized. I think his answer in Icelandic was not a flattering one.
Back into the car and up the hill with no stops. A turn and a few yards took us onto the long stretch to Keflavik. Snow coated the windshield while the wipers struggled to clear it.
"Keep going. Don't stop," the little woman shouted. I gave her my look of thanks.
On I drove. The snow piled higher and higher. The sky lost its deep grey color as the snow slapped the car in the whistling wind. When we arrived in Keflavik our VW was plowing through the two foot accumulation. We stopped. The snow slapped the car and sticking. Opening the doors we stepped into a whiteout. There was so much coming from the sky the only thing to be seen was nothing, only the white of heavy heavy snow. We stumbled to the house. We brushed the heavy snow coat to the floor. There was enough to build a small snowman inside from that fallout.
After a hot cup of cocoa laced with rum we turned on the radio. It was then we discovered our peril on the roads.
"All traffic has been stopped. It is too dangerous to be on the roads so please stay indoors. Do not go out for the next 10 hours." The radio station on the base was warning all dependents to remain inside not to venture out into this storm. All of those living off base scheduled for duty were ordered to stay home. I did. With no regrets, I might add.
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