by Neville G. Martin
She was a good looking young lady and with a little makeup you could say she was beautiful. She played soccer, on a boys soccer team. She fished and hunted, loved life and played in the school band. There were girl scout outings and camping trips, In a way she was a tough young lady, perhaps she was a tomboy.
In Searcy Jr. High she tried out for cheerleader and settled to play trumpet in the band. Her mother had played trombone, first chair in her school band. Her father was not inclined to play musical things, except a couple of songs on the harmonica. They were both very proud of her.
Spring band competition came along and it included a trip to Little Rock in the band bus. After the competition, after the awards, there was the dark bus ride home. Boys and girls, happy, teasing, and daring in the back of the bus.
She accepted the challenge, she tasted some whisky, then they all partook of some. Some just sipped, some just tasted, and some a little more. A pint didn't go very far among those in the back of the bus.
Monday morning rumors, the Principal wanted to know. Nobody was talking. The Principal wanted to know, only the truth. Promises were made, we only want to know who was involved. Promises were made, nothing is going to happen. Promises were made, nothing will happen. So she told him , what he didn't know.
But, something did happen, promises were broken, she was removed from the school band and received a two week suspension from school just before semester finals. Some, including the boy that brought the pint, transferred to other schools. Others were connected, very connected; it pays to be related to members of the school board.
After it was all said and done, she was asked by her father, "What did you learn from this experience?" Without hesitation she replied, "I will never tell the truth again".
She is married now. She has her college degree and two daughters to raise. She is protective, very protective. A teacher or principle will rue the day that one of her daughters are not treated in an honest way.
One day when she is a Grandmother she will tell her grandchildren about her band trip and they will say, "Grandma you didn't do that did you?"
Monday, September 7, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Rat
by Neville G. Martin
This is a short story about my Grandfather Elzie B. Gregory and the time that a rather large rat ran up his pant leg.
It seems he was quietly sitting in his favorite chair, in his living room listening to the radio when the event occurred.
Grandpa didn't get excited, yell, jump, or cuss as you would expect.
He simply lite up his pipe and began to blow smoke down the inside of his bib overalls.
Grandpa puffed on the pipe and blew smoke for what seemed an hour before the rat had all of the smoke he could stand. I believe it was Prince Albert pipe tobacco.
The rat began backing down Grandpa's leg until he was below the knee, then it turned around and scurried away out through the bottom of the pant leg.
After the rat was long gone is when Grandpa began to yell, jump, dance, and cuss.
This is a short story about my Grandfather Elzie B. Gregory and the time that a rather large rat ran up his pant leg.
It seems he was quietly sitting in his favorite chair, in his living room listening to the radio when the event occurred.
Grandpa didn't get excited, yell, jump, or cuss as you would expect.
He simply lite up his pipe and began to blow smoke down the inside of his bib overalls.
Grandpa puffed on the pipe and blew smoke for what seemed an hour before the rat had all of the smoke he could stand. I believe it was Prince Albert pipe tobacco.
The rat began backing down Grandpa's leg until he was below the knee, then it turned around and scurried away out through the bottom of the pant leg.
After the rat was long gone is when Grandpa began to yell, jump, dance, and cuss.
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Swan of Magness
by Neville G. Martin
O'l fog is rollin across Magness in the early morn, like slow syrup on a hot pancake.
It won't be long before the Swan join the Canadians for a winter rest near Wilburn.
Far away from the deep snow, ice and sleet.
Started out with three as guest for the winter a decade or so ago.
Last year a lad of nine counted at least a hundred sixty three.
Takes a lot of deer corn to keep hungry Swan in vittles on Magness Lake.
Come see, some frosty morn soon, after your pancakes are consumed.
And don't forget the deer corn, as the hungry Swan are bout due for first landing.
O'l fog is rollin across Magness in the early morn, like slow syrup on a hot pancake.
It won't be long before the Swan join the Canadians for a winter rest near Wilburn.
Far away from the deep snow, ice and sleet.
Started out with three as guest for the winter a decade or so ago.
Last year a lad of nine counted at least a hundred sixty three.
Takes a lot of deer corn to keep hungry Swan in vittles on Magness Lake.
Come see, some frosty morn soon, after your pancakes are consumed.
And don't forget the deer corn, as the hungry Swan are bout due for first landing.
The Hardware Store
by Neville G. Martin
With a big smile he said, "May I help you".
"Yes, I need a can of flat black spray paint, a 3/8 inch dowel rod, 6 bolts - 1/2 inch by 3 inch, and a 10 inch file".
He proceeded to lead me through the isles where I picked out the paint, the bolts, and the dowel rod. He was back at the cash register ringing up my items. " That will be ".
"Wait a minute" I said " we didn't get the file".
"We don't carry files". "You will have to go to Staples or Office Depot for that".
I said "This is a hardware store isn't it".
"Yes it is, and we do not carry files".
I said, "you don't understand, I need a 10 inch bastard file".
"We do not carry files and I do not appreciate your language".
Not to give up easy, I asked, "Where are your axes"?
When we arrived at the axes, I said, " I need something to sharpen one of these".
He then lead me to the sharpening stones.
Next to the stones were the files. I found the drawer I needed and asked what these things were called.
He read the label and sheepishly said, "These are 10 inch bastard files".
"No kidding", I said.
With a big smile he said, "May I help you".
"Yes, I need a can of flat black spray paint, a 3/8 inch dowel rod, 6 bolts - 1/2 inch by 3 inch, and a 10 inch file".
He proceeded to lead me through the isles where I picked out the paint, the bolts, and the dowel rod. He was back at the cash register ringing up my items. " That will be ".
"Wait a minute" I said " we didn't get the file".
"We don't carry files". "You will have to go to Staples or Office Depot for that".
I said "This is a hardware store isn't it".
"Yes it is, and we do not carry files".
I said, "you don't understand, I need a 10 inch bastard file".
"We do not carry files and I do not appreciate your language".
Not to give up easy, I asked, "Where are your axes"?
When we arrived at the axes, I said, " I need something to sharpen one of these".
He then lead me to the sharpening stones.
Next to the stones were the files. I found the drawer I needed and asked what these things were called.
He read the label and sheepishly said, "These are 10 inch bastard files".
"No kidding", I said.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Second Best
by Neville G. Martin
Girl Scout cookie time will be here again before you know it.
It's the time when your neighborhood will be inundated with little Brownies knocking on your door saying " you don't want to buy any cookies, Do You?"
You will not be able to go to the mall or a Wal-Mart without being attacked by hordes of Girl Scouts shouting "these are the best" or "no, these are the best".
Put them in their place. Tell them you will buy some, but you do not want the best. Tell them you want the second best.
You will be met with strange silence and deep thought.
It will not take long, one of them will soon speak up with "these are pretty good".
That is the box you buy.
Support the Scouts, because the ACLU will not.
Girl Scout cookie time will be here again before you know it.
It's the time when your neighborhood will be inundated with little Brownies knocking on your door saying " you don't want to buy any cookies, Do You?"
You will not be able to go to the mall or a Wal-Mart without being attacked by hordes of Girl Scouts shouting "these are the best" or "no, these are the best".
Put them in their place. Tell them you will buy some, but you do not want the best. Tell them you want the second best.
You will be met with strange silence and deep thought.
It will not take long, one of them will soon speak up with "these are pretty good".
That is the box you buy.
Support the Scouts, because the ACLU will not.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Numbers Racket
I have lived in a state that does not have gambling, except for the horse track in Hot Springs, the dog track at West Memphis and shortly the lottery state wide. The horse track and dog track doesn't really count as gambling because they were already here before gambling started, whatever that means.
Gambling is gambling. You put your money down and you lose. The house wins and the State wins. Rare is the gambler that wins, that actually gets ahead and stays ahead.
The lottery has been proposed and voted down a couple of times in this state, but it was like gambling. The lottery people kept proposing until they won. They only needed to win once and they won. The losses didn't count. That one win and we have a lottery.
The lottery used to be called the numbers racket, and it was not legal. People were sent to jail for running a numbers racket. Now the numbers racket is run by the states. That makes it legal for some reason, but it is still the numbers racket.
The lottery is coming to our state later this September and perhaps it should properly be called the Arkansas Numbers Racket.
Gambling is gambling. You put your money down and you lose. The house wins and the State wins. Rare is the gambler that wins, that actually gets ahead and stays ahead.
The lottery has been proposed and voted down a couple of times in this state, but it was like gambling. The lottery people kept proposing until they won. They only needed to win once and they won. The losses didn't count. That one win and we have a lottery.
The lottery used to be called the numbers racket, and it was not legal. People were sent to jail for running a numbers racket. Now the numbers racket is run by the states. That makes it legal for some reason, but it is still the numbers racket.
The lottery is coming to our state later this September and perhaps it should properly be called the Arkansas Numbers Racket.
Friday, August 7, 2009
The Headache
All of us have had a headache or have heard the expression, "I have a headache". Someone saying " I have a headache" does not convey any real sense of severity or pain. " I have a bad headache, also doesn't adequately describe the problem. In today's language "bad" can mean "good". Headaches can be used as excuses by some, just to get out of doing things.
I have found a more accurate description of headaches can be made by utilizing colors to describe most common headaches. Warning: These should not be used by men that are color blind.
A Light Pink Headache is one in which you think you feel a headache, but can forget it if you have something to do. This type of headache does not require medication.
A Blue Headache is one in which you definitely feel it. It really does not require medication and you can still work without distraction.
A Brown Headache is one in which you feel it all the time, it can be taken care of with two aspirins. Often slows you down a little. The cause is usually mild stress at work or someone at home.
A Green Headache means you are getting or have a cold. May be used as an excuse to take a day off work. Requires medication.
A Dark Green Headache means you are in severe pain, will require medication and three days bed rest. Very severe head colds, cramps, or the flu accompanies it. You are sick.
A Black Headache means it is almost too late. Many people have not survived a black headache. May require intensive hospitalization and treatment. Usually associated with severe beatings or muggings.
I have found a more accurate description of headaches can be made by utilizing colors to describe most common headaches. Warning: These should not be used by men that are color blind.
A Light Pink Headache is one in which you think you feel a headache, but can forget it if you have something to do. This type of headache does not require medication.
A Blue Headache is one in which you definitely feel it. It really does not require medication and you can still work without distraction.
A Brown Headache is one in which you feel it all the time, it can be taken care of with two aspirins. Often slows you down a little. The cause is usually mild stress at work or someone at home.
A Green Headache means you are getting or have a cold. May be used as an excuse to take a day off work. Requires medication.
A Dark Green Headache means you are in severe pain, will require medication and three days bed rest. Very severe head colds, cramps, or the flu accompanies it. You are sick.
A Black Headache means it is almost too late. Many people have not survived a black headache. May require intensive hospitalization and treatment. Usually associated with severe beatings or muggings.
Monday, August 3, 2009
The Other Side of Nowhere
One day in November, I checked into the Dunes Motel in Valentine, Nebraska.
The Fur Trappers Association had just checked out. They had their convention in room 114 and a few of the nearby rooms. Somebody had spilled something somewhere. You could smell it. The motel owners could smell it and they want to clean it up, but don't know exactly where it is. They think it is in or near room 114, maybe.
The Fur Trappers met here for two days of discussions, demo's and a little drinking. I don't know exactly what they were demonstrating, but there is a strong lingering odor of skunk in the air. Or perhaps the women of the Fur Trappers Association have a strong attraction for "wild things perfume".
This year it is predicted to be a very cold winter and all the furry critters are expected to grow a good quality of furry coats.
I think the reason the Fur Trappers met in Valentine is they perhaps are not welcome in the big cities of Omaha, Lincoln or North Platte. After this year they are not welcome in Valentine either.
Next year they may have to meet in an RV park. At least then the smell will have a place to vent and not linger around.
Some things I noticed upon entering this territory is the short windmills, every driveway has a windsock and there was a sign on the highway that said you are entering the middle of nowhere.
For those of you that don't know (city folk), windmills are used out west to pump drinking water out of the ground to water the livestock. Livestock in this part of Nebraska generally means cows.
There are 2000 people that live in Valentine and 800,000 plus cattle. Cattle need a lot of water to drink. Windmills need a lot of wind to pump the water.
Nebraska has a lot of wind, close to the ground, it's blowing.
I guess the windsock in the driveway is to tell you when it isn't blowing, which isn't often.
Yes, Valentine Nebraska really is on the other side of the middle of nowhere.
The Fur Trappers Association had just checked out. They had their convention in room 114 and a few of the nearby rooms. Somebody had spilled something somewhere. You could smell it. The motel owners could smell it and they want to clean it up, but don't know exactly where it is. They think it is in or near room 114, maybe.
The Fur Trappers met here for two days of discussions, demo's and a little drinking. I don't know exactly what they were demonstrating, but there is a strong lingering odor of skunk in the air. Or perhaps the women of the Fur Trappers Association have a strong attraction for "wild things perfume".
This year it is predicted to be a very cold winter and all the furry critters are expected to grow a good quality of furry coats.
I think the reason the Fur Trappers met in Valentine is they perhaps are not welcome in the big cities of Omaha, Lincoln or North Platte. After this year they are not welcome in Valentine either.
Next year they may have to meet in an RV park. At least then the smell will have a place to vent and not linger around.
Some things I noticed upon entering this territory is the short windmills, every driveway has a windsock and there was a sign on the highway that said you are entering the middle of nowhere.
For those of you that don't know (city folk), windmills are used out west to pump drinking water out of the ground to water the livestock. Livestock in this part of Nebraska generally means cows.
There are 2000 people that live in Valentine and 800,000 plus cattle. Cattle need a lot of water to drink. Windmills need a lot of wind to pump the water.
Nebraska has a lot of wind, close to the ground, it's blowing.
I guess the windsock in the driveway is to tell you when it isn't blowing, which isn't often.
Yes, Valentine Nebraska really is on the other side of the middle of nowhere.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Mountaintop Memory by Neville G. Martin
It was a long hard pull getting to the top of the mountain, a two hour train ride to the little picturesque Swiss village.
Upon leaving the train I heard the announcement from the loudspeakers in German, Swiss, French and broken English.
" The seats were going to be taken out of the passenger cars. The train would be used
to haul the fresh milk to the city down in the valley. Something about the milk tram
being broken and they were going to have to use the passenger train. The train would
return for us in about five hours."
I watched the smoothness of the workers removing the seats and the beginning of the loading of the milk cans onto the now converted passenger train and I was thinking to myself, perhaps the broken tram has been broken for some time. The end of World War Two would be a good guess.
After a short walk around the little quaint Swiss village I put my camera and a newly purchased schnitzel sandwich in my backpack and headed out of the village for a mountaintop hike.
Just walking along a trail admiring the scenery, at least two miles away from any form of civilization, then it happened. Music.
Music, yes musical chimes, everywhere around me. I was surrounded and engulfed with beautiful chimes. It was like Angels were ringing bells and chimes in anticipation of a coming announcement from heaven.
Where is the music coming from? I slipped toward the far edge of the trail and looked over into the beautiful green valley below. Then, I smiled and thought this is like heaven. It is like Angels playing the ringing chimes.
The milk cows on both sides of the valley, each with her own bell with it's own sound were awakening from a mid-morning rest and they began to graze among the luscious mountain grass. With each bite of grass and with each step a bell would ring.
If God can speak through a donkey, He can surely use cows to play heavenly music.
I left that mountaintop with tears in my eyes and the sound of heaven in my heart.
Some day I will return to the mountaintop, to listen to the Angels play heavenly music; and walk with the Lord along the mountain trail to look upon the beauty He has made.
Upon leaving the train I heard the announcement from the loudspeakers in German, Swiss, French and broken English.
" The seats were going to be taken out of the passenger cars. The train would be used
to haul the fresh milk to the city down in the valley. Something about the milk tram
being broken and they were going to have to use the passenger train. The train would
return for us in about five hours."
I watched the smoothness of the workers removing the seats and the beginning of the loading of the milk cans onto the now converted passenger train and I was thinking to myself, perhaps the broken tram has been broken for some time. The end of World War Two would be a good guess.
After a short walk around the little quaint Swiss village I put my camera and a newly purchased schnitzel sandwich in my backpack and headed out of the village for a mountaintop hike.
Just walking along a trail admiring the scenery, at least two miles away from any form of civilization, then it happened. Music.
Music, yes musical chimes, everywhere around me. I was surrounded and engulfed with beautiful chimes. It was like Angels were ringing bells and chimes in anticipation of a coming announcement from heaven.
Where is the music coming from? I slipped toward the far edge of the trail and looked over into the beautiful green valley below. Then, I smiled and thought this is like heaven. It is like Angels playing the ringing chimes.
The milk cows on both sides of the valley, each with her own bell with it's own sound were awakening from a mid-morning rest and they began to graze among the luscious mountain grass. With each bite of grass and with each step a bell would ring.
If God can speak through a donkey, He can surely use cows to play heavenly music.
I left that mountaintop with tears in my eyes and the sound of heaven in my heart.
Some day I will return to the mountaintop, to listen to the Angels play heavenly music; and walk with the Lord along the mountain trail to look upon the beauty He has made.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Truck Stop Living
Yes, I believe you can live at a truck stop in America.
In Bakersfield, California I stopped by a Flying J truck stop to fuel up and spend the night before making my delivery in Tulare, California the next morning.
After dinning in the resturant I took a shower and stopped by the TV room to see what was on. I knew what was on, a rerun of Law and Order. Perhaps I would luck out. Yeah, Law and Order.
In the seats in front of me was a young couple in their mid twentys sacked out and perhaps making out under a very large blanket. The male of the pair left for a few minutes to return with two large cokes and a large pizza.
I finished the Law and Order and went to my sleeper to get a good nights rest.
Early the next morning I passed the TV room on my way to breakfast and the young couple were still watching the TV and eating cold pizza.
My delivery was made in Tulare, then I made my way toward Los Angeles for another load to go to Sacramento. I stopped by the same truck stop the next day for fuel and lunch.
Guess who was still there, drinking cokes and eating a fresh pizza, taking up five seats and hugging under the big blanket.
Perhaps they moved in.
In Bakersfield, California I stopped by a Flying J truck stop to fuel up and spend the night before making my delivery in Tulare, California the next morning.
After dinning in the resturant I took a shower and stopped by the TV room to see what was on. I knew what was on, a rerun of Law and Order. Perhaps I would luck out. Yeah, Law and Order.
In the seats in front of me was a young couple in their mid twentys sacked out and perhaps making out under a very large blanket. The male of the pair left for a few minutes to return with two large cokes and a large pizza.
I finished the Law and Order and went to my sleeper to get a good nights rest.
Early the next morning I passed the TV room on my way to breakfast and the young couple were still watching the TV and eating cold pizza.
My delivery was made in Tulare, then I made my way toward Los Angeles for another load to go to Sacramento. I stopped by the same truck stop the next day for fuel and lunch.
Guess who was still there, drinking cokes and eating a fresh pizza, taking up five seats and hugging under the big blanket.
Perhaps they moved in.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Moms' Memory
When mothers begin to age they begin to forget. I remember when I was fourteen, my mother forgot my birthday and my carrot cake.
She forgot for four months, but made up for it with an extra big carrot cake.
Well, she did it again. I turned seventy last week and Mom forgot. She called four days after to let me know she was improving because it was only four days and not four months.
I'm really beginning to be concerned about her memory. This is the second time she has forgotten my birthday. the first was in 1952 and now in 2008. If this keeps up I probably will not even get a call in 2038 when I turn one hundred.
She forgot for four months, but made up for it with an extra big carrot cake.
Well, she did it again. I turned seventy last week and Mom forgot. She called four days after to let me know she was improving because it was only four days and not four months.
I'm really beginning to be concerned about her memory. This is the second time she has forgotten my birthday. the first was in 1952 and now in 2008. If this keeps up I probably will not even get a call in 2038 when I turn one hundred.
Reality
During Desert Storm an Army National Guard Col. from Myrtle Beach SC was to be promoted to Brigadier General while en route to Saudi. He, his staff and part of his unit were being transported on a C-5 Galaxy Aircraft.
The front upstairs, seats fourteen people and the rear upstairs seats seventy three people. The cargo compartment, the lower level holds up to six greyhound buses or about 400,000 pounds of cargo.
There are about 32 steps up a ladder to get to the balcony of the upper front passenger area, almost straight up. The symbol of rank of a Col. is an eagle with spread wings. The symbol of rank of a Brigadier General is one star.
Today I saw
An Eagle face reality
His task ahead
Is uncertain agony
His legs were shaking
As he took
That first long step
Into the Galaxy
His voice was quaking
As he ascended
The steps toward
The balcony
He took his seat
Shed his wings
And assumed
His star of authority
The baby Brigadier
Has passed
His first test
Of Deployment Reality
The front upstairs, seats fourteen people and the rear upstairs seats seventy three people. The cargo compartment, the lower level holds up to six greyhound buses or about 400,000 pounds of cargo.
There are about 32 steps up a ladder to get to the balcony of the upper front passenger area, almost straight up. The symbol of rank of a Col. is an eagle with spread wings. The symbol of rank of a Brigadier General is one star.
Today I saw
An Eagle face reality
His task ahead
Is uncertain agony
His legs were shaking
As he took
That first long step
Into the Galaxy
His voice was quaking
As he ascended
The steps toward
The balcony
He took his seat
Shed his wings
And assumed
His star of authority
The baby Brigadier
Has passed
His first test
Of Deployment Reality
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Month of May
It was dark and cold in the pinewoods where I grew to maturity. When the loggers came to cut the forest they took us all. They didn't even leave any remnant of a woods.
Even before I was hauled away, bulldozers began clearing and I overheard there was going to be apartments built where I once stood. The woods, my home, had been near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the home of the famous 500-mile races. I always wondered what that noise had been during the month of May.
I was offloaded at a lumber mill where I was trimmed, sliced, and diced into hundreds of little blocks. I was then packaged in a little plastic bag along with four little wheels and four nails.
I sat around with nothing to do for over a year, then one day I was moved into a very bright store and placed on a shelf. Along came a little boy about ten years old wearing a blue uniform and a yellow scarf that picked me up. I heard him tell his father, "This is going to be the winner Dad, I can just feel it." The year was 1967 and I could not understand, I was just a block of wood, how could I be a winner?
Quickly I found out how winners are made. They are drilled, sawed, shaved, and sanded into little miniature racing cars. They are painted and sanded and painted again. They are weighed then drilled and filled with lead and weighed again. I had been fitted with the four little wheels and lubricated with fine graphite. I really looked like a beautiful black shinny winner.
The day of the big race came. I was placed on a long sloping track with a car on both sides of me. Suddenly the barrier dropped and down the ramp I went, 8.2 seconds flat. I had won, but that was only the first race. I had to win two more before I would really be the winner. I sure hope my graphite stays in place until this is over.
The second race was no competition. One car was just a block of wood with wheels and the other one looked like a little green bug.
The third and final race looked like it was going to be tough. I only had one to beat, a shinny silver dude that looked real fast.
We were placed on the track. The barrier dropped, down and away I went. Another 8.2 seconds and slick silver dude was nowhere in sight. It seems the glue wasn't quite dry on one of his wheels and it fell off going down the ramp. I was the grand champion of the 1967 Tulip Tree Trace pinewood derby.
For the next ten years or so I was packed away in a box with little flags only to be put on display for a table decoration during the month of May. Then I was packed away in a very dark place for a long time.
Suddenly in 2007 I was taken out of storage, had my wheels fitted with fresh graphite and I was off to a race, only I found I was the backup car to the main one. A little slick looking needle nosed red thing. Me and little needle nose were slipped on to the track for a little test run before the real races. I showed him, I left him smelling my hot graphite.
Little red needle nose was hidden away in a plastic Wal-Mart bag while I won the first two heats. Then I guess I was just getting tired or my age was catching up to me. A big blue bully beat me by just a tenth of a second. I took second in the tournament, but me and little red needle nose, were the centerpiece for the table display during the month of May.
The table decoration this year was exquisite. Just me and little red needle nose sitting among a display of flags, flowers, my trophies and surrounded by dishes and bowls of wonderful smelling food.
While the family gathered around for the blessing, a familiar hand reached into the display, picked me up and spun my wheel a couple of times. Before the prayer was finished I was carefully put back in my spot, but with a wet tear on my hood. That familiar hand belonged to the ten year old boy that molded and shaped me from a block of wood in 1967.
Even before I was hauled away, bulldozers began clearing and I overheard there was going to be apartments built where I once stood. The woods, my home, had been near the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, the home of the famous 500-mile races. I always wondered what that noise had been during the month of May.
I was offloaded at a lumber mill where I was trimmed, sliced, and diced into hundreds of little blocks. I was then packaged in a little plastic bag along with four little wheels and four nails.
I sat around with nothing to do for over a year, then one day I was moved into a very bright store and placed on a shelf. Along came a little boy about ten years old wearing a blue uniform and a yellow scarf that picked me up. I heard him tell his father, "This is going to be the winner Dad, I can just feel it." The year was 1967 and I could not understand, I was just a block of wood, how could I be a winner?
Quickly I found out how winners are made. They are drilled, sawed, shaved, and sanded into little miniature racing cars. They are painted and sanded and painted again. They are weighed then drilled and filled with lead and weighed again. I had been fitted with the four little wheels and lubricated with fine graphite. I really looked like a beautiful black shinny winner.
The day of the big race came. I was placed on a long sloping track with a car on both sides of me. Suddenly the barrier dropped and down the ramp I went, 8.2 seconds flat. I had won, but that was only the first race. I had to win two more before I would really be the winner. I sure hope my graphite stays in place until this is over.
The second race was no competition. One car was just a block of wood with wheels and the other one looked like a little green bug.
The third and final race looked like it was going to be tough. I only had one to beat, a shinny silver dude that looked real fast.
We were placed on the track. The barrier dropped, down and away I went. Another 8.2 seconds and slick silver dude was nowhere in sight. It seems the glue wasn't quite dry on one of his wheels and it fell off going down the ramp. I was the grand champion of the 1967 Tulip Tree Trace pinewood derby.
For the next ten years or so I was packed away in a box with little flags only to be put on display for a table decoration during the month of May. Then I was packed away in a very dark place for a long time.
Suddenly in 2007 I was taken out of storage, had my wheels fitted with fresh graphite and I was off to a race, only I found I was the backup car to the main one. A little slick looking needle nosed red thing. Me and little needle nose were slipped on to the track for a little test run before the real races. I showed him, I left him smelling my hot graphite.
Little red needle nose was hidden away in a plastic Wal-Mart bag while I won the first two heats. Then I guess I was just getting tired or my age was catching up to me. A big blue bully beat me by just a tenth of a second. I took second in the tournament, but me and little red needle nose, were the centerpiece for the table display during the month of May.
The table decoration this year was exquisite. Just me and little red needle nose sitting among a display of flags, flowers, my trophies and surrounded by dishes and bowls of wonderful smelling food.
While the family gathered around for the blessing, a familiar hand reached into the display, picked me up and spun my wheel a couple of times. Before the prayer was finished I was carefully put back in my spot, but with a wet tear on my hood. That familiar hand belonged to the ten year old boy that molded and shaped me from a block of wood in 1967.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Glenns' Birthday
Some years ago I was invited to a birthday party. In fact it was about sixty years ago give or take a year. Ice cream, cake, pin the tail on the donkey and bring a gift for Glenn.
Everything Mom suggested, I didn't want to take or it was too expensive. I decided to wrap up a dollar bill. Don't laugh, that was when a dollar was worth a dollar. Today a dollar is probably worth fifteen cents.
I know gas was fifteen to eighteen cents a gallon. A dollar would get you at least five gallon. But, of course our great American cars only got eight miles to the gallon. That would be about forty miles on that dollar. Today's car at twenty five miles per gallon at three eighty a gallon wouldn't get us quite as far. Remember if it wasn't for the Japanese we would still be getting eight miles per gallon and sixty five thousand miles to the first engine overhaul.
Anyway back to the birthday party and that dollar. I put the dollar in an envelope, in a small box, in a slightly bigger box, in another slightly bigger box, then again in a little bigger box and then in a really big box. I wrapped it in birthday paper with a ribbon and bow.
This was the biggest box at the party. All during the games and pinning the tail on the donkey, Glenn kept looking at that box. We ate cake and ice cream and sang songs. Glenn kept his eye on that box.
Finally, Glenn got to open presents. A pair of socks, pencils for school, a yo-yo, a toy soldier; stuff like that and all American made. The big box was last. Glenn opened, and opened and opened and laughed and opened some more and everybody laughed.
He then found the envelope that said Happy Birthday on it. He opened it and found the dollar. We all laughed. Then Glenn got serious when he said "Mom, now I have enough to get that new bible I've been saving for".
Silly little story, but Glenn Kapperman became a Presbyterian Minister.
You never know what your little gifts will help accomplish.
Everything Mom suggested, I didn't want to take or it was too expensive. I decided to wrap up a dollar bill. Don't laugh, that was when a dollar was worth a dollar. Today a dollar is probably worth fifteen cents.
I know gas was fifteen to eighteen cents a gallon. A dollar would get you at least five gallon. But, of course our great American cars only got eight miles to the gallon. That would be about forty miles on that dollar. Today's car at twenty five miles per gallon at three eighty a gallon wouldn't get us quite as far. Remember if it wasn't for the Japanese we would still be getting eight miles per gallon and sixty five thousand miles to the first engine overhaul.
Anyway back to the birthday party and that dollar. I put the dollar in an envelope, in a small box, in a slightly bigger box, in another slightly bigger box, then again in a little bigger box and then in a really big box. I wrapped it in birthday paper with a ribbon and bow.
This was the biggest box at the party. All during the games and pinning the tail on the donkey, Glenn kept looking at that box. We ate cake and ice cream and sang songs. Glenn kept his eye on that box.
Finally, Glenn got to open presents. A pair of socks, pencils for school, a yo-yo, a toy soldier; stuff like that and all American made. The big box was last. Glenn opened, and opened and opened and laughed and opened some more and everybody laughed.
He then found the envelope that said Happy Birthday on it. He opened it and found the dollar. We all laughed. Then Glenn got serious when he said "Mom, now I have enough to get that new bible I've been saving for".
Silly little story, but Glenn Kapperman became a Presbyterian Minister.
You never know what your little gifts will help accomplish.
Nails
Nails are used to hold our houses together and keep the rails in place under our trains.
They are used as art. One time I saw a sculpture of an old shoe and a work glove with hundreds of nails driven into them, all twisted, bent and painted flat black. I felt I was looking at someones whole life, working hard, just trying to get ahead; only to be constantly nailed and held down.
Nails are used as twisted little puzzles to keep idle mines occupied.
They have been used for torture and to cause death. Jesus was hung on the cross with nails.
As a youngster I could not pronounce my N's. I used to say lail instead of nail. I remember the day I ran to my mother, shouting, "I can say it, I can say it. "Let me hear you " she said. For a four year old I had to think hard, but I could really say "nail".
I have used nails as a learning experience. I used to sit in the doorway between the dinning room and kitchen and pound nails into the floor. I used a large claw hammer. When I finished, the nails were bent and twisted. I pulled them out and started all over again.
This was the busy time of my day, taught me how to hammer, taught me what patience was and the lack of it. I was only three.
After the house was remodeled with new oak floors, Mom had no patience, with a three year old, with a hammer.
They are used as art. One time I saw a sculpture of an old shoe and a work glove with hundreds of nails driven into them, all twisted, bent and painted flat black. I felt I was looking at someones whole life, working hard, just trying to get ahead; only to be constantly nailed and held down.
Nails are used as twisted little puzzles to keep idle mines occupied.
They have been used for torture and to cause death. Jesus was hung on the cross with nails.
As a youngster I could not pronounce my N's. I used to say lail instead of nail. I remember the day I ran to my mother, shouting, "I can say it, I can say it. "Let me hear you " she said. For a four year old I had to think hard, but I could really say "nail".
I have used nails as a learning experience. I used to sit in the doorway between the dinning room and kitchen and pound nails into the floor. I used a large claw hammer. When I finished, the nails were bent and twisted. I pulled them out and started all over again.
This was the busy time of my day, taught me how to hammer, taught me what patience was and the lack of it. I was only three.
After the house was remodeled with new oak floors, Mom had no patience, with a three year old, with a hammer.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Just Dust in the Wind.
It was a big one, I could see it more than half a mile away. I became concerned as it slowly moved across the field toward the Interstate.
Quickly glancing to my left I could see that three had made it across all four lanes and were now resting next to a fence on the south side of the highway.
Another glance to the right and there were six or seven more moving across the field toward me.
Now, I was three hundred feet away and it was still moving closer to the edge of the Interstate. An eighteen wheeler started to pass on my left just as it began to cross just ahead of us. The wind from the big truck spun it around and it stayed in my lane.
No place to go . I hit it at sixty miles an hour.
A puff of dust and I felt the impact and crunch under my tires as I passed over it.
It's been a good year for Texas Tumbleweeds.
Quickly glancing to my left I could see that three had made it across all four lanes and were now resting next to a fence on the south side of the highway.
Another glance to the right and there were six or seven more moving across the field toward me.
Now, I was three hundred feet away and it was still moving closer to the edge of the Interstate. An eighteen wheeler started to pass on my left just as it began to cross just ahead of us. The wind from the big truck spun it around and it stayed in my lane.
No place to go . I hit it at sixty miles an hour.
A puff of dust and I felt the impact and crunch under my tires as I passed over it.
It's been a good year for Texas Tumbleweeds.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The Poison Blackberries
On a Saturday during the early summer blackberry season; Dad, Mom and four of us kids went blackberry picking. It was an unusually good year. We ended up with about five gallon before noon. Upon returning to the house we all had baths to get rid of the chiggers. We got chiggers anyway.
Dad put put the berries in the creamery; a little shed attached to the back of the house where they could be washed and made ready for pies and jelly. The shed had really been a creamery years before when the farm had dairy cattle.
In the meantime, Dad received a phone call to get a client out of jail and had to leave on business. While he was gone one of my sisters stuck herself in the top of the foot with a frog gig.
Upon Dad's return, It was off to the hospital for a tetanus shot for her. In all of this confusion the blackberries had been forgotten, that is until Tuesday afternoon.
Upon realizing he had forgotten about the berries, Dad was very upset and yelling. Mom was upset and crying and us kids were just staying out of the way. Dad finally calmed down and realized the berries were ruined. They had begun to rot and mold; and they smelled real bad.
The buckets of berries were scattered on the far side of the garden near the barn yard. The family went about the business of living and doing our farm chores until late Wednesday afternoon. That is when it was discovered our seven geese had eaten the rotten blackberries and had died.
Dad was really mad now. The dead geese had been in the hot sun all day and we could not even butcher them. Mom, in her effort to salvage something from the situation began to pick the down feathers for pillow stuffing. I pulled some of the wing feathers to make me an Indian headband. After the geese had been plucked, we threw them in a farm wagon and hauled them to our trash dump on the backside of the farm. Dad was still very upset with himself.
On Thursday morning, at daybreak, we were all startled awake by a very loud commotion on the side porch. The dogs were barking and the peacocks yelling in addition to all of the noise on the porch.
When we opened the door, there stood seven of the maddest, half-drunk, naked geese ever encountered.
Dad put put the berries in the creamery; a little shed attached to the back of the house where they could be washed and made ready for pies and jelly. The shed had really been a creamery years before when the farm had dairy cattle.
In the meantime, Dad received a phone call to get a client out of jail and had to leave on business. While he was gone one of my sisters stuck herself in the top of the foot with a frog gig.
Upon Dad's return, It was off to the hospital for a tetanus shot for her. In all of this confusion the blackberries had been forgotten, that is until Tuesday afternoon.
Upon realizing he had forgotten about the berries, Dad was very upset and yelling. Mom was upset and crying and us kids were just staying out of the way. Dad finally calmed down and realized the berries were ruined. They had begun to rot and mold; and they smelled real bad.
The buckets of berries were scattered on the far side of the garden near the barn yard. The family went about the business of living and doing our farm chores until late Wednesday afternoon. That is when it was discovered our seven geese had eaten the rotten blackberries and had died.
Dad was really mad now. The dead geese had been in the hot sun all day and we could not even butcher them. Mom, in her effort to salvage something from the situation began to pick the down feathers for pillow stuffing. I pulled some of the wing feathers to make me an Indian headband. After the geese had been plucked, we threw them in a farm wagon and hauled them to our trash dump on the backside of the farm. Dad was still very upset with himself.
On Thursday morning, at daybreak, we were all startled awake by a very loud commotion on the side porch. The dogs were barking and the peacocks yelling in addition to all of the noise on the porch.
When we opened the door, there stood seven of the maddest, half-drunk, naked geese ever encountered.
The Ditch
As both a military veteran and curious American, I hailed a cab on a dreary day in Washington D.C., to see the much talked about Vietnam War Memorial, which was still under construction.
Soon the cab driver pulled to the curb, collected the fare, and pointed to an empty open field said "It's over there! Just walk into the field and you'll find it". In the drizzle and chill, I began trekking across the field. I was still puzzled until it came into view. But, that's not a wall, that's a ditch in a field with a wall built into the side of the ditch.
The Vietnam Memorial was being built in remembrance to those who lost their lives in that war. The design of this memorial with the names engraved high overhead is very emotional and tearful. There is a ramp going down in the ditch with only a few names on the wall. With each step into the ditch, more names. Then you are at the bottom of the ditch among roll after roll of names. You are caught in a quagmire of tears and emotion.
As you make your way across the names to the upward ramp, the heaviness begins to lift. When you are finally out, you look back at the anguish you just walked through and realize the wall in not just a symbol of great honor, but also a symbol of the dishonor to the Politicians that dug the ditch and took our nation through that quagmire.
We lost honor as a nation, but gained military leadership as to how not to conduct war in the future.
The question today is, Have we learned our lesson? Some forty years have passed, we are now engaged in another war, a different war. This enemy does not wear a uniform or belong to any country and he wants to kill us. This enemy kills by remote control. He kills himself and his innocent own just to create carnage. He kills just to kill. This enemy comes from the past to keep us from the future.
Much of our warrior force fighting this war are from close to home. The Reserve and National Guard. When someone dies or is wounded, it is not just a soldier or marine from someplace else. It is your National Guard neighbor, Your reservist brother or your son.
The parasitic politicians that rose this nation against this enemy, that voted for this war, are now digging the ditch. They are looking for a way out while they have given themselves a pay raise. A pay raise and digging is more important than supporting, funding and winning. Political advantage is more important to them than victory.
Without victory this war just may last another year, five years, ten or even twenty years. To fight and come home with victory is our only option. Our politicians are copying what did not work forty years ago. They are digging a memorial to defeat.
We as Americans all are soldiers in this war. We are the Aunts, Uncles, Brothers, Fathers and Mothers of the Soldiers, Marines, Guardsmen and Reservist; the warriors fighting this war are us.
Recently, I witnessed a man stand in front of a church congregation to make an announcement. With a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat he proudly announced that his eldest son, who had recently graduated from High School, Just enlisted in the Marine Corp. This announcement was met with an immediate long applause.
The Memorial for this war will come. Let us pray that it is not another ditch in a field. Let us build a Memorial that we can look up to and proudly salute. Let us build a Memorial from Victory and not ditch digging.
Soon the cab driver pulled to the curb, collected the fare, and pointed to an empty open field said "It's over there! Just walk into the field and you'll find it". In the drizzle and chill, I began trekking across the field. I was still puzzled until it came into view. But, that's not a wall, that's a ditch in a field with a wall built into the side of the ditch.
The Vietnam Memorial was being built in remembrance to those who lost their lives in that war. The design of this memorial with the names engraved high overhead is very emotional and tearful. There is a ramp going down in the ditch with only a few names on the wall. With each step into the ditch, more names. Then you are at the bottom of the ditch among roll after roll of names. You are caught in a quagmire of tears and emotion.
As you make your way across the names to the upward ramp, the heaviness begins to lift. When you are finally out, you look back at the anguish you just walked through and realize the wall in not just a symbol of great honor, but also a symbol of the dishonor to the Politicians that dug the ditch and took our nation through that quagmire.
We lost honor as a nation, but gained military leadership as to how not to conduct war in the future.
The question today is, Have we learned our lesson? Some forty years have passed, we are now engaged in another war, a different war. This enemy does not wear a uniform or belong to any country and he wants to kill us. This enemy kills by remote control. He kills himself and his innocent own just to create carnage. He kills just to kill. This enemy comes from the past to keep us from the future.
Much of our warrior force fighting this war are from close to home. The Reserve and National Guard. When someone dies or is wounded, it is not just a soldier or marine from someplace else. It is your National Guard neighbor, Your reservist brother or your son.
The parasitic politicians that rose this nation against this enemy, that voted for this war, are now digging the ditch. They are looking for a way out while they have given themselves a pay raise. A pay raise and digging is more important than supporting, funding and winning. Political advantage is more important to them than victory.
Without victory this war just may last another year, five years, ten or even twenty years. To fight and come home with victory is our only option. Our politicians are copying what did not work forty years ago. They are digging a memorial to defeat.
We as Americans all are soldiers in this war. We are the Aunts, Uncles, Brothers, Fathers and Mothers of the Soldiers, Marines, Guardsmen and Reservist; the warriors fighting this war are us.
Recently, I witnessed a man stand in front of a church congregation to make an announcement. With a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat he proudly announced that his eldest son, who had recently graduated from High School, Just enlisted in the Marine Corp. This announcement was met with an immediate long applause.
The Memorial for this war will come. Let us pray that it is not another ditch in a field. Let us build a Memorial that we can look up to and proudly salute. Let us build a Memorial from Victory and not ditch digging.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Conversations
Have you ever listened to three or four people talking?
It's really quite interesting.
Everybody talks, everybody has something to say.
Like, "My Doctor has me on this medicine that makes me want to sleep all of the time".
Or, "I've been really busy, just don't have time for anything anymore".
And everyone departs, knowing they had a warm friendly conversation with someone and everyone said something.
But, nobody was listening, nobody but me.
It's really quite interesting.
Everybody talks, everybody has something to say.
Like, "My Doctor has me on this medicine that makes me want to sleep all of the time".
Or, "I've been really busy, just don't have time for anything anymore".
And everyone departs, knowing they had a warm friendly conversation with someone and everyone said something.
But, nobody was listening, nobody but me.
The Three
The three ignored me until I stopped the car and got out. They quickly turned to face me, side by side with suspicion in their stares.
To my surprise they looked alike standing in the wind. Their hair was falling down between their eyes. Even the hair on the back of their necks was dancing to the windy gusts.
The three seemed proud in spite of the situation they found themselves. They could be sisters or perhaps a mother and two daughters.
I was strongly attracted by their beauty and thought a picture was in order. As my camera came into their view, the three turned and swiftly moved away, never to even glance back. It was as if I had violated what little pride that remained.
These wild horses of Oregon are truly a different breed.
To my surprise they looked alike standing in the wind. Their hair was falling down between their eyes. Even the hair on the back of their necks was dancing to the windy gusts.
The three seemed proud in spite of the situation they found themselves. They could be sisters or perhaps a mother and two daughters.
I was strongly attracted by their beauty and thought a picture was in order. As my camera came into their view, the three turned and swiftly moved away, never to even glance back. It was as if I had violated what little pride that remained.
These wild horses of Oregon are truly a different breed.
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