What's complicated? Life is complicated....THAT's what's complicated. We are in the "golden age" of our lives. That is the age between working, playing, traveling, and spending money without a care and the age of.....well, dying. There should be no stress in the golden age. We should experience peace, harmony, and possibly a bit of the age of Aquarius. That is not happening and it is not my fault. It's my precious Debbie's fault.
Debbie is a Type A personality with an emphasis on the A. While I see myself floating down the mellow river of life, Debbie is in the canoe with me yelling, "ROW! ROW!" She will not even discuss the possibility of my going back to work. To be honest, for the first couple of years of retirement I considered it. Debbie always says, "No, you worked too hard for too long to not enjoy your retirement now!" A seemingly loving and caring response, right? Yes the sentiment is sweet but it just isn't true. I love Debbie with all my heart and appreciate all that she has added to my life but what she means when she says the above is, "No, you are retired now and that means you are free to help me do everything on my bucket list!" This would be fine if her bucket contained anything fun....and inexpensive. Instead, her bucket is filled with restoring the lawn to its former glory, cleaning carpets, moving whole rooms of furniture, buying new furniture, and of course the most difficult of all: Clearing the backyard of all squirrels.
Debbie hates squirrels. I'm a fence rider on squirrels. They are cute and fun to watch. If they poop in my yard I don't know it. But, and this is a big but....they steal Debbie's birdseed without so much as a "Thank you very much". We've tried everything imaginable to keep them out of the bird feeders. We've bought special feeders which squirrels can't access, which is foolish because it's well known squirrels spend the winters in seminars on how to work the latest in squirrel-proof technology. We've put chili pepper in the feeders. The squirrels say, "Yummy! Tex-Mex!" We've placed the feeders in every imaginable spot and the squirrels find a way to get to them. We have greased the poles holding the hangers. The squirrels love it. Pole dancing and sliding is a squirrel's favorite pastime. Finally, I have brought out the big guns.
I don't want to kill anything, especially cute little obnoxious squirrels. However, I have no hesitation in scaring the bejeebers out of them. I bought a slingshot and half inch marbles for ammo. I scared one of them once. Now they stick out their tongues and sing, "Naa naa naa naa naaaaa naa" when I lob a marble their way. I bought a live trap. "Now we'll see who's king of this backyard" I foolishly thought to myself. I trap at least one squirrel a day...sometimes two, and drive them out to a wooded area on the other side of a major highway. They seem happy there but I swear they are finding their way back....or else, the neighborhood squirrels don't use any type of birth control. There is no end to them.
Last night I forgot and left the trap set. I've never caught a squirrel at night and I don't want to catch anything else, like maybe my neighbor's cat. When I got up this morning I remembered having left the trap set so I walked out with coffee in hand to see if maybe an early morning squirrel had wandered in. The grass under the trap was torn up. The grass around the outside of the trap was shredded and the trap itself was bent so bad it won't work again without some serious work. I have no idea what I caught but I can guarantee I will not leave that trap set at night again. I do not want to catch anything that can do that much damage.
I was telling Debbie about the trap and yard later in the morning. She decided to go see the damage. When she stepped out onto the patio she screamed, "NOOOOOO!" My first thought was "I'm going to miss good ol' Debbie". I figured for sure some evil monster was mad about getting trapped last night and was out there about to gobble her up. It turned out she saw two squirrels. One was on the ground peacefully eating bird seed while the other was on the top of the feeder holding it upside down so the seed would pour out.... and she calls them "stupid squirrels". She turned to me and with a look that would cause a chill in a marine drill instructor's gut, told me I better get rid of those stupid squirrels. I told her we should be at one with nature and just accept the fact that squirrels gotta eat too. She disagreed. I don't have a clue how to rid an entire neighborhood of squirrels. I need to go back to work....
Tuesday, May 7, 2019
Sunday, April 28, 2019
Rusty, you got some splainin to do.....
Everyone knows this but I feel the need to repeat it in order for you to understand the rest of the story...
About six years ago I was fighting off a few members of a drug cartel, down on the border, when I was shot in the left leg. The bullets shattered my femur in fourteen places and as I fell I fractured my hip. Emergency surgery was performed and brilliant doctors put my leg back together as best they could. A second surgery came about two months later when it was determined the femur wasn't healing properly. Sadly, the second surgery didn't help and I was told I would have to live with the weak leg and the constant pain......
Okay, Debbie said I had to tell the truth....Actually the above story is all true except the part about fighting drug cartels when the damage occurred. In truth....in blazing, boring truth, I fell off a three step ladder and shattered my left leg. Even though the facts aren't nearly as exciting as most handicapped men my age, the damage left me handicapped. One day when I pulled into a handicapped parking space another car pulled in beside me. Both of us struggled out of our cars while using canes for support. The other driver, about my age, looked at me and asked, "Vietnam?" I said that wasn't my case and asked if it was his. He told me he had been shot up in the jungles of Vietnam in 1968 and was left with a torn up leg. Then he asked what happened to me. It told him about the three step ladder incident. He looked at me for a moment then said, "You might want to work on that story". I thanked him for his service and sacrifice for our country and quietly walked away.
Okay, back to my explanation. When I was about to be released by the surgeon six years ago his last advice to me was this: 1) The femur will never heal in two places. The rod and pins in your leg and hip are not designed to carry your weight for a lifetime. If you're lucky they will last about ten years before you need additional surgery. 2) Additional surgery could cause more damage to the leg putting you into a wheel chair the rest of your life. 3) Do not put any pressure on your left leg for any reason...no running, fast walking, bike riding, standing in one spot, and on and on, or the rod will give out sooner rather than later. 4) You will always have the pain. Have a nice day! His pronouncement changed my life. Everything I loved to do was on my "don't" list. I have walked with a cane constantly, keeping the left leg from having to support me. I have been very careful getting in and out of my pickup. I avoid stairs. In fact, I avoid anything requiring me to use that leg. In other words, my left leg has been on sabbatical for the past six years and has grown fat and lazy. During a month long spring cleaning frenzy in our backyard a couple of months ago the leg began to ache more than usual. It kept me awake at night and sharp pains shot through it constantly. Even though I had been careful I was certain my time was up. My doctor (son Cody) agreed and sent me to another surgeon. I went and had all the necessary tests and x-rays done and then Debbie sat with me in his office awaiting the bad news. He came in, sat down and said those words I will never forget: "You are completely healthy! There is no need for you to ever have more surgery on this leg!" Deb and I couldn't believe it! I quizzed him with,
"but what about the rod not lasting a lifetime?"
"The rod will last forever."
"But what about the femur not healing in two places?"
"Take a look at the x-rays. The bone is completely healed."
"But what about the constant pain?"
"The pain is from the hardware in your femur and hip as well has significant scarring around the femur."
"So, can I do anything I want?"
"Anything your wife will allow you to do?"
"Can I toss my cane?"
"Not until you build up the muscles in that leg again."
"But then I can get rid of it, right?"
"Right."
"Will this pain go away after I start using the leg again?" (At this point I'm enjoying all the positive answers)
"No, the pain will always be around. When it gets bad take an Aleve or drink a beer if your wife will let you."....bummer
Now I know this hasn't been an especially interesting story but I felt a need to tell it for this reason: Everyone, and I mean everyone including strangers has been so thoughtful and helpful over the past six years. I don't want anyone thinking I was using the cane for sympathy now that I will eventually not use it. Because of surgeon #1's predictions, and a tremendous amount of pain early on I desperately needed that cane. I still need it until I can get some serious exercise on the leg. When I finally feel confident the leg is going to support me, I will hang my old cane back up on my hat rack where it will hopefully stay. I will always be grateful to it for its support and companionship. It was the cane my grandpa used for many years and now several cousins are lining up to take it from me. I'm not going to give it up. They can go to Walmart if they need a cane.
I think I'll talk Deb into some dance lessons!!
About six years ago I was fighting off a few members of a drug cartel, down on the border, when I was shot in the left leg. The bullets shattered my femur in fourteen places and as I fell I fractured my hip. Emergency surgery was performed and brilliant doctors put my leg back together as best they could. A second surgery came about two months later when it was determined the femur wasn't healing properly. Sadly, the second surgery didn't help and I was told I would have to live with the weak leg and the constant pain......
Okay, Debbie said I had to tell the truth....Actually the above story is all true except the part about fighting drug cartels when the damage occurred. In truth....in blazing, boring truth, I fell off a three step ladder and shattered my left leg. Even though the facts aren't nearly as exciting as most handicapped men my age, the damage left me handicapped. One day when I pulled into a handicapped parking space another car pulled in beside me. Both of us struggled out of our cars while using canes for support. The other driver, about my age, looked at me and asked, "Vietnam?" I said that wasn't my case and asked if it was his. He told me he had been shot up in the jungles of Vietnam in 1968 and was left with a torn up leg. Then he asked what happened to me. It told him about the three step ladder incident. He looked at me for a moment then said, "You might want to work on that story". I thanked him for his service and sacrifice for our country and quietly walked away.
Okay, back to my explanation. When I was about to be released by the surgeon six years ago his last advice to me was this: 1) The femur will never heal in two places. The rod and pins in your leg and hip are not designed to carry your weight for a lifetime. If you're lucky they will last about ten years before you need additional surgery. 2) Additional surgery could cause more damage to the leg putting you into a wheel chair the rest of your life. 3) Do not put any pressure on your left leg for any reason...no running, fast walking, bike riding, standing in one spot, and on and on, or the rod will give out sooner rather than later. 4) You will always have the pain. Have a nice day! His pronouncement changed my life. Everything I loved to do was on my "don't" list. I have walked with a cane constantly, keeping the left leg from having to support me. I have been very careful getting in and out of my pickup. I avoid stairs. In fact, I avoid anything requiring me to use that leg. In other words, my left leg has been on sabbatical for the past six years and has grown fat and lazy. During a month long spring cleaning frenzy in our backyard a couple of months ago the leg began to ache more than usual. It kept me awake at night and sharp pains shot through it constantly. Even though I had been careful I was certain my time was up. My doctor (son Cody) agreed and sent me to another surgeon. I went and had all the necessary tests and x-rays done and then Debbie sat with me in his office awaiting the bad news. He came in, sat down and said those words I will never forget: "You are completely healthy! There is no need for you to ever have more surgery on this leg!" Deb and I couldn't believe it! I quizzed him with,
"but what about the rod not lasting a lifetime?"
"The rod will last forever."
"But what about the femur not healing in two places?"
"Take a look at the x-rays. The bone is completely healed."
"But what about the constant pain?"
"The pain is from the hardware in your femur and hip as well has significant scarring around the femur."
"So, can I do anything I want?"
"Anything your wife will allow you to do?"
"Can I toss my cane?"
"Not until you build up the muscles in that leg again."
"But then I can get rid of it, right?"
"Right."
"Will this pain go away after I start using the leg again?" (At this point I'm enjoying all the positive answers)
"No, the pain will always be around. When it gets bad take an Aleve or drink a beer if your wife will let you."....bummer
Now I know this hasn't been an especially interesting story but I felt a need to tell it for this reason: Everyone, and I mean everyone including strangers has been so thoughtful and helpful over the past six years. I don't want anyone thinking I was using the cane for sympathy now that I will eventually not use it. Because of surgeon #1's predictions, and a tremendous amount of pain early on I desperately needed that cane. I still need it until I can get some serious exercise on the leg. When I finally feel confident the leg is going to support me, I will hang my old cane back up on my hat rack where it will hopefully stay. I will always be grateful to it for its support and companionship. It was the cane my grandpa used for many years and now several cousins are lining up to take it from me. I'm not going to give it up. They can go to Walmart if they need a cane.
I think I'll talk Deb into some dance lessons!!
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
Cold Days...
It's been two days since the temperature has been above the twenties. I don't mind a bit of cold weather but since most of my hobbies and interests are outdoors, I get kind of cranky after an hour or so of forced sitting. I was thinking about summer and feeling trapped there too because the heat has gotten so overbearing here in Texas during summer. I can't get out and do the things I enjoy because I can't handle the heat like I used to. Big ol' sissy....That leaves spring and fall to enjoy the outdoors. Spring usually lasts about a day and a half and I think we missed fall completely this past year.
When I think back on good times as a kid, those memories nearly always happened in summer. Either the summers were milder or I handled the heat better back then. I get to thinking about summertime in my mind and its kind of like: Sleepy summertime, old dogs, children, and watermelon wine....oh wait, that's Tom T Hall's thoughts on summer. I don't care for old dogs, children are okay from a distance, and I'm almost positive I wouldn't care for watermelon wine.
So, how am I going to keep myself busy here in Texas during the three or four days of winter and the eleven months of summer? I like to write but I don't always have something to say....kind of like now. I enjoy catching up on annoying little details like shoe polishing, arranging my sock drawer, culling worn out clothes from my closet...you know what I'm talking about. Sadly, I've done all of that too. I can even find things in my desk drawers now. I've cleaned my guns, watched all the movies I cared to catch up on, sat with Debbie as she continues following her never-ending British murder mystery shows, and even puttered in the kitchen. I have got to get outside soon!
Oh sure you say, "But Russell, you go to the gym three days a week!" Hello, the gym is indoors and I have to drive all the way from north Hurst to south Hurst to get there. Location is everything and that gym is located too far away. (editors note: Those of you who grew up in Hurst and now live in normal towns or cities are thinking, "But Hurst is just a little town". To this the author replies, "Balderdash!" It takes longer to get from north Hurst to south Hurst than it takes to drive from south Hurst all the way to Arlington.) Even though it's a long drive, my pickup doesn't get warm before I'm there. Same problem on the drive home. Trapped! I tell ya', I'm trapped!
I know, I know....stop complaining! I'm not complaining. I'm whining. There's a difference. I can't enjoy my wood shop because it's freezing out there. In the summertime it feels like a furnace. I wonder how the pioneers handled all this? I'll tell you how: They died young before their bodies had a chance to get as persnickety and old as mine. I wish like everything Debbie and I had buried our roots in someplace like New England. Yes, you heard me! We fell in love with New England last fall. While visiting up there, I mentioned to a store owner how I would love to live in his small and beautiful Maine town. He told me I would hate it in the winter because of the unbearable cold. I checked the temperature up there yesterday morning.....TEN DEGREES warmer in Camden, Maine than here in good old Hurst, Texas. That store owner just did not want me as a neighbor.
Okay, I'm done. The sun is shining outside now. The temperature just hit thirty. I reckon I'll go out and make sure my lawnmower is running well. I'll probably need it by the weekend.
When I think back on good times as a kid, those memories nearly always happened in summer. Either the summers were milder or I handled the heat better back then. I get to thinking about summertime in my mind and its kind of like: Sleepy summertime, old dogs, children, and watermelon wine....oh wait, that's Tom T Hall's thoughts on summer. I don't care for old dogs, children are okay from a distance, and I'm almost positive I wouldn't care for watermelon wine.
So, how am I going to keep myself busy here in Texas during the three or four days of winter and the eleven months of summer? I like to write but I don't always have something to say....kind of like now. I enjoy catching up on annoying little details like shoe polishing, arranging my sock drawer, culling worn out clothes from my closet...you know what I'm talking about. Sadly, I've done all of that too. I can even find things in my desk drawers now. I've cleaned my guns, watched all the movies I cared to catch up on, sat with Debbie as she continues following her never-ending British murder mystery shows, and even puttered in the kitchen. I have got to get outside soon!
Oh sure you say, "But Russell, you go to the gym three days a week!" Hello, the gym is indoors and I have to drive all the way from north Hurst to south Hurst to get there. Location is everything and that gym is located too far away. (editors note: Those of you who grew up in Hurst and now live in normal towns or cities are thinking, "But Hurst is just a little town". To this the author replies, "Balderdash!" It takes longer to get from north Hurst to south Hurst than it takes to drive from south Hurst all the way to Arlington.) Even though it's a long drive, my pickup doesn't get warm before I'm there. Same problem on the drive home. Trapped! I tell ya', I'm trapped!
I know, I know....stop complaining! I'm not complaining. I'm whining. There's a difference. I can't enjoy my wood shop because it's freezing out there. In the summertime it feels like a furnace. I wonder how the pioneers handled all this? I'll tell you how: They died young before their bodies had a chance to get as persnickety and old as mine. I wish like everything Debbie and I had buried our roots in someplace like New England. Yes, you heard me! We fell in love with New England last fall. While visiting up there, I mentioned to a store owner how I would love to live in his small and beautiful Maine town. He told me I would hate it in the winter because of the unbearable cold. I checked the temperature up there yesterday morning.....TEN DEGREES warmer in Camden, Maine than here in good old Hurst, Texas. That store owner just did not want me as a neighbor.
Okay, I'm done. The sun is shining outside now. The temperature just hit thirty. I reckon I'll go out and make sure my lawnmower is running well. I'll probably need it by the weekend.
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Blind Date...
There were so many times growing up when I wished I could just close my eyes for a minute and when I opened them everything would be okay. It never happened of course but there were situations when I squeezed my eyes shut so tight I gave myself a headache. One of those situations came along at a Friday night football game in 1967.
When the Hurst-Euless-Bedford School District was still growing and the Castleberry School District was beginning to shrink there were a few years where Bell High School, my alma mater, was in direct football competition with Castleberry High School, where my cousin Mike graced the halls.
On one such football night, Bell was the visitor to Castleberry's Homecoming game. Mike had called earlier and asked if I wanted to stay over and go out with a couple of girls after the game. He added the teaser that "the girl I want you to meet is one of the band sweetheart nominees". Just because I'm a nice guy I agreed to sacrifice in such a way. I sat with the Bell band on the visitor's side and watched Bell beat the heck out of Castleberry during the first half. The Bell band went out on the field and did a wonderful job I must say. Then Castleberry's band come on and I have to say right here and now there is nothing worse to a visitor than watching the backs of everyone on the field during a homecoming halftime show. Well, I take it back. There is one thing worse. Watching the show without my glasses is worse. All I could see were the fuzzy backs of the people on the field. (Its hard to keep up the "doggone good-looking look" when you need glasses.)
After halftime we figured the crowd had thinned around the concession stand so we wandered down for cokes and popcorn. I ran into Mike with his band buddies. He was all excited because the girl he had fixed me up with had won band sweetheart!! I got all excited too and thought about how great it would have been if I had actually seen her on the field instead of something fuzzy wandering around out there.
When the game was over I started looking for Mike and my date. I found him easily enough because there were about forty grinning band members standing around Mike with their evil little eyes trained on me. As I walked toward Mike the crowd opened up like they were waiting for me. I should have run for Hurst as fast as I could because it was an obvious ambush I had walked into. Mike grabbed me by the arm and reminded me I had a date with the Castleberry Band Sweetheart. Then he grinned so big I got scared. Before I had that chance to bolt and run this....let's say "husky" young lady walked up and Mike introduced her. "I would LOVE for you to meet Bertha Bigacres, Band Sweetheart for 1967!" This girl was big and her looks were not typical band sweetheart quality. As I stared in amazement at Bertha and tried to formulate a reason why she would be the band sweetheart Mike explained. He told me everyone had stuffed the ballot box. Bertha laughed and bragged that she had helped. I did not doubt her for a moment.
I have to say I took it like a man. I asked Bertha where she preferred to graze and she picked a pizza hangout in River Oaks. It seems this was pre-planned too because we got a standing ovation when we walked in. Bertha knew how to put that pizza away. I think I got one slice that night but to be honest, I didn't have much of an appetite. We hung around the dark pizza place all evening with the band crowd (thank goodness) and then I offered to haul her home. When we got to her house I walked her to the door just like my dad had taught me and waited for her to unlock the door. Then she turned to me and said, "How's about a little goodnight kiss?" I ran.
note: Over the years old Bertha has grown bigger and uglier in my mind. To be honest, she was maybe a little bit overweight but not that bad. She also was not an ugly girl. Mike showed me a photo of her when I was talking to him about writing this story. She was actually very nice looking. I had imagined a total knockout to walk up for our date and Bertha was not that. AND, since she laughed and bragged about being a part of the con, I felt justified in sharing the story. I hope she never reads it but if she does I'll say this: "Bertha, you are part of my happy memories. Best wishes!"
When the Hurst-Euless-Bedford School District was still growing and the Castleberry School District was beginning to shrink there were a few years where Bell High School, my alma mater, was in direct football competition with Castleberry High School, where my cousin Mike graced the halls.
On one such football night, Bell was the visitor to Castleberry's Homecoming game. Mike had called earlier and asked if I wanted to stay over and go out with a couple of girls after the game. He added the teaser that "the girl I want you to meet is one of the band sweetheart nominees". Just because I'm a nice guy I agreed to sacrifice in such a way. I sat with the Bell band on the visitor's side and watched Bell beat the heck out of Castleberry during the first half. The Bell band went out on the field and did a wonderful job I must say. Then Castleberry's band come on and I have to say right here and now there is nothing worse to a visitor than watching the backs of everyone on the field during a homecoming halftime show. Well, I take it back. There is one thing worse. Watching the show without my glasses is worse. All I could see were the fuzzy backs of the people on the field. (Its hard to keep up the "doggone good-looking look" when you need glasses.)
After halftime we figured the crowd had thinned around the concession stand so we wandered down for cokes and popcorn. I ran into Mike with his band buddies. He was all excited because the girl he had fixed me up with had won band sweetheart!! I got all excited too and thought about how great it would have been if I had actually seen her on the field instead of something fuzzy wandering around out there.
When the game was over I started looking for Mike and my date. I found him easily enough because there were about forty grinning band members standing around Mike with their evil little eyes trained on me. As I walked toward Mike the crowd opened up like they were waiting for me. I should have run for Hurst as fast as I could because it was an obvious ambush I had walked into. Mike grabbed me by the arm and reminded me I had a date with the Castleberry Band Sweetheart. Then he grinned so big I got scared. Before I had that chance to bolt and run this....let's say "husky" young lady walked up and Mike introduced her. "I would LOVE for you to meet Bertha Bigacres, Band Sweetheart for 1967!" This girl was big and her looks were not typical band sweetheart quality. As I stared in amazement at Bertha and tried to formulate a reason why she would be the band sweetheart Mike explained. He told me everyone had stuffed the ballot box. Bertha laughed and bragged that she had helped. I did not doubt her for a moment.
I have to say I took it like a man. I asked Bertha where she preferred to graze and she picked a pizza hangout in River Oaks. It seems this was pre-planned too because we got a standing ovation when we walked in. Bertha knew how to put that pizza away. I think I got one slice that night but to be honest, I didn't have much of an appetite. We hung around the dark pizza place all evening with the band crowd (thank goodness) and then I offered to haul her home. When we got to her house I walked her to the door just like my dad had taught me and waited for her to unlock the door. Then she turned to me and said, "How's about a little goodnight kiss?" I ran.
note: Over the years old Bertha has grown bigger and uglier in my mind. To be honest, she was maybe a little bit overweight but not that bad. She also was not an ugly girl. Mike showed me a photo of her when I was talking to him about writing this story. She was actually very nice looking. I had imagined a total knockout to walk up for our date and Bertha was not that. AND, since she laughed and bragged about being a part of the con, I felt justified in sharing the story. I hope she never reads it but if she does I'll say this: "Bertha, you are part of my happy memories. Best wishes!"
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
First Day
The first year L.D. Bell High School opened in the new building was also the first year I started high school. Neither of us has aged particularly well but we're both still around. The new high school was built way, way north up on Brown Trail. It was so far out there it was hard to believe it was still in Hurst. In fact, it may not be in Hurst. It may be in Bedford but who really cares? There was also a new highway being built, which is now known as Airport Freeway. It handles about a gazillion cars every day. At the time it was a dirt road intersecting Brown Trail just south of the school. The first day at the new building was exciting for everyone. It was exciting for me because I was now in high school, I had a car to drive, and it was all new.
As I think back on the freeway construction I can't help but remember what happened to two girls, best friends, who were driving to school down Brown Trail. I can't remember the year but I remember the day vividly. They were carefree just like all of us that age. Coming down the road they failed to see a pickup truck coming down the construction road for the new freeway. They collided at the intersection. It was their last day. The annual that year was dedicated to them, which was nice, but I think they would rather have been anonymous and alive. I can't remember their names.
I've mentioned in some of my earlier stories that the memories of our youth always include warm, sunny days. The first day of high school was like that...a perfect day. The summer breeze flowed through the massive oak trees around the school and everything was wonderful..absolutely wonderful..until lunch. I'm not certain of the count but if I remember correctly there were about 400,000 students enrolled that day. We had three lunch periods, each 30 minutes long. Some brilliant administrator thought we were adults enough and could choose for ourselves which lunch period we would take. During the first period there were 400,000 students, 4500 teachers, 100 administrative staff, and one janitor, all trying to get in line for that thirty-five cent lunch. I was in that line. I was in the part of the line that began just east of the courtyard, traveled west through the courtyard to an intersecting walkway, down a hall that led to the smoking section of the building (no, I am not kidding). I patiently waited my turn until I was about to go through the double doors into the cafeteria. It was there that two morons got into a fight over who was in front of whom. The pushing started and eventually one of them got pushed into me. I got knocked out of line and when I started to get back in my place a strong hand grabbed my shoulder and dragged me back out to the courtyard. It was principal Hill. I was told there would be no cutting in line and I could go to the back and be patient like everyone else. I didn't eat lunch that day. Had the administration not come up with a solution to the lunchroom crisis I would have starved to death that year.
The best part of the day for me was when that last bell rang. I had a two door, 1953 Studebaker Champion waiting for me in the parking lot. It was a beauty even though none of the four tires matched. I thought I would run to the parking lot so I could be the first one out the gate. I found myself in a reenactment of the Oklahoma land rush of the late 1800's. The race to the cars was nothing compared to the race for the gate. We had a security guard. Some poor soul thinking he could supplement his social security check by sitting in a little room "guarding" the students' cars. He stood in the middle of the gate with his hands on his hips foolishly thinking he could slow us down and keep us orderly. I still remember the wet stain appearing on those old khakis of his. I may have liked the old guy had he stayed more than a day.
Ah, the days at Bell High School went by so fast. I remember the first day as if it were yesterday. I remember the day I drove away after my last class my senior year just as clearly. I wish I could remember everything in between. There are memories....some good, some bad. There are friends long since forgotten. I've never been back to a reunion. All those fresh-faced kids are now old. We qualified for the senior citizen discount years ago. I'm glad to be old. I'm glad I got the chance. I still hurt at times when I think of those two young girls, or the guys who never came home from Vietnam. I hope their eternity has been as good as my last fifty years.
As I think back on the freeway construction I can't help but remember what happened to two girls, best friends, who were driving to school down Brown Trail. I can't remember the year but I remember the day vividly. They were carefree just like all of us that age. Coming down the road they failed to see a pickup truck coming down the construction road for the new freeway. They collided at the intersection. It was their last day. The annual that year was dedicated to them, which was nice, but I think they would rather have been anonymous and alive. I can't remember their names.
I've mentioned in some of my earlier stories that the memories of our youth always include warm, sunny days. The first day of high school was like that...a perfect day. The summer breeze flowed through the massive oak trees around the school and everything was wonderful..absolutely wonderful..until lunch. I'm not certain of the count but if I remember correctly there were about 400,000 students enrolled that day. We had three lunch periods, each 30 minutes long. Some brilliant administrator thought we were adults enough and could choose for ourselves which lunch period we would take. During the first period there were 400,000 students, 4500 teachers, 100 administrative staff, and one janitor, all trying to get in line for that thirty-five cent lunch. I was in that line. I was in the part of the line that began just east of the courtyard, traveled west through the courtyard to an intersecting walkway, down a hall that led to the smoking section of the building (no, I am not kidding). I patiently waited my turn until I was about to go through the double doors into the cafeteria. It was there that two morons got into a fight over who was in front of whom. The pushing started and eventually one of them got pushed into me. I got knocked out of line and when I started to get back in my place a strong hand grabbed my shoulder and dragged me back out to the courtyard. It was principal Hill. I was told there would be no cutting in line and I could go to the back and be patient like everyone else. I didn't eat lunch that day. Had the administration not come up with a solution to the lunchroom crisis I would have starved to death that year.
The best part of the day for me was when that last bell rang. I had a two door, 1953 Studebaker Champion waiting for me in the parking lot. It was a beauty even though none of the four tires matched. I thought I would run to the parking lot so I could be the first one out the gate. I found myself in a reenactment of the Oklahoma land rush of the late 1800's. The race to the cars was nothing compared to the race for the gate. We had a security guard. Some poor soul thinking he could supplement his social security check by sitting in a little room "guarding" the students' cars. He stood in the middle of the gate with his hands on his hips foolishly thinking he could slow us down and keep us orderly. I still remember the wet stain appearing on those old khakis of his. I may have liked the old guy had he stayed more than a day.
Ah, the days at Bell High School went by so fast. I remember the first day as if it were yesterday. I remember the day I drove away after my last class my senior year just as clearly. I wish I could remember everything in between. There are memories....some good, some bad. There are friends long since forgotten. I've never been back to a reunion. All those fresh-faced kids are now old. We qualified for the senior citizen discount years ago. I'm glad to be old. I'm glad I got the chance. I still hurt at times when I think of those two young girls, or the guys who never came home from Vietnam. I hope their eternity has been as good as my last fifty years.
Friday, December 14, 2018
Mechanical Pencils
I never was much of a math whiz. The logic seemed to escape my grasp for some reason. Oh sure, if I had applied myself I would have figured it out eventually but that would have been hard work and not nearly as much fun as blissful ignorance. Besides, as I look back on my early life I realize the odds were against me understanding math for many reasons. One reason in particular was the fact that I hated math. It had no relevance for me.
The start of each school year was exciting. The trip to Gibson's Discount Store for our school supplies was a real treat. I'm sure my parents enjoyed it as much as we did because they took such joy in tossing things out of the basket as we tossed them in. It was a great family tradition. One year in particular I wanted a Scripto mechanical pencil just like my dad's. I wasn't sure it would stay in the basket but amazingly neither mama or daddy grabbed it and put it back on the shelf. Hiding it under a package of notebook paper possibly helped. The pencil cost 29 cents as opposed to the wooden pencils which were practically free. It was a fine writing instrument let me tell you. It was kind of a turquoise blue translucent plastic. You could see the little screw thingy move as you twisted the top. It was a true marvel.
This Scripto pencil was my reason for not doing so well in math class that year. You see, I used a pen for all my classes except math. In math I got to use my new Scripto. I sat in class day after day slowly twisting the top and watching the little screw thingy move up and down, up and down. It was so interesting how the lead would slowly come out and out....and out until I turned the top the other direction. The lead would slowly twist back into the pencil. It was simply amazing. I found I could twist the top enough times that the lead would appear to stand out away from the pencil with no support and then it would still go back in with no effort. How could this possibly be?
Throughout the year the math teacher would attempt to ask me frivolous questions about the topic of the day. Most of those questions went unanswered because they had no relevance to the operation of my Scripto. I did not do well in math that year.
I did manage to graduate from high school on time even though I still had no concept of math. I figured that was okay since I was out of there and college had to be much easier. I lost my Scripto sometime along the way and had to go back to using plain old wooden pencils. Oh sure, the wooden pencils tasted better when chewed but they didn't hold a candle to my beloved mechanical pencil. Plain old pencils were boring. There was no mystery about wooden pencils.....unless you hadn't already figured out how they got the lead inside the wood so neatly.
The start of each school year was exciting. The trip to Gibson's Discount Store for our school supplies was a real treat. I'm sure my parents enjoyed it as much as we did because they took such joy in tossing things out of the basket as we tossed them in. It was a great family tradition. One year in particular I wanted a Scripto mechanical pencil just like my dad's. I wasn't sure it would stay in the basket but amazingly neither mama or daddy grabbed it and put it back on the shelf. Hiding it under a package of notebook paper possibly helped. The pencil cost 29 cents as opposed to the wooden pencils which were practically free. It was a fine writing instrument let me tell you. It was kind of a turquoise blue translucent plastic. You could see the little screw thingy move as you twisted the top. It was a true marvel.
This Scripto pencil was my reason for not doing so well in math class that year. You see, I used a pen for all my classes except math. In math I got to use my new Scripto. I sat in class day after day slowly twisting the top and watching the little screw thingy move up and down, up and down. It was so interesting how the lead would slowly come out and out....and out until I turned the top the other direction. The lead would slowly twist back into the pencil. It was simply amazing. I found I could twist the top enough times that the lead would appear to stand out away from the pencil with no support and then it would still go back in with no effort. How could this possibly be?
Throughout the year the math teacher would attempt to ask me frivolous questions about the topic of the day. Most of those questions went unanswered because they had no relevance to the operation of my Scripto. I did not do well in math that year.
I did manage to graduate from high school on time even though I still had no concept of math. I figured that was okay since I was out of there and college had to be much easier. I lost my Scripto sometime along the way and had to go back to using plain old wooden pencils. Oh sure, the wooden pencils tasted better when chewed but they didn't hold a candle to my beloved mechanical pencil. Plain old pencils were boring. There was no mystery about wooden pencils.....unless you hadn't already figured out how they got the lead inside the wood so neatly.
Thursday, December 6, 2018
Crosstimber
We came back from a year in New Mexico feeling pretty rich. My dad felt it necessary to quit Convair rather than face a transfer to California where all the crazy people lived. He decided the best thing to do was to bring the family back to Hurst where folks were normal...even if it cost him his job....which it did. So, there we were, five kids, a mama, and a daddy who didn't have a job.
I spent a lot of time in my adult life trying to figure out how someone with five kids to feed could willfully walk away from a good paying job with eighteen years seniority without having something better lined up. It had to be a difficult decision to make. There were two in junior high, two in grade school, and one little prima donna who had yet to face the discomforts of formal education. However, the decision having been made, we traveled back to Hurst thinking life would be good.
Because we were kids and sheltered from reality, we thought we were embarking on another adventure when we were told the house on Elm Street was still leased out with another six months on the contract and we would have to rent a house some place. We found a mansion, approximately 1600 square feet, to rent on Crosstimber Court in the rich part of town. It was massive let me tell you. It had a beautiful lawn on a private cul-de-sac and neighbors were just as snooty as they could be....it was great! I know those neighbors were tickled for us to move into their quiet neighborhood. Five extra kids on bicycles always improve a neighborhood.
After moving into the house on Crosstimber daddy got busy trying to find work. He tried the Lennox plant and couldn't get on there. He tried to go back to Convair but of course he couldn't get a job there either. Finally, he gave up and went over to Bell Helicopter. He felt a bit odd applying for a job where they manufactured little things resembling grasshoppers. He had worked for many years at "the bomber plant" for crying out loud. He needed a job though despite his aching pride. As it worked out Bell hired him and he started to work at $2.00 an hour. This was in 1962 and I swear that sounded like a lot of money to me. I didn't know for many years just how big a pay cut he had taken to insure we didn't have to grow up around crazy people. That year of 1962 had significance though if you are a student of U.S. history. There was an ugly situation on the horizon called "the Vietnam War". This war used helicopters....lots and lots of helicopters. Bell Helicopter wound up being a great move on dad's part. Just like his ancestors before him, he stumbled into success despite his best efforts.
I truly feel life turns out the best for everyone. Oh, I guess it didn't appear so great for all those poor guys receiving draft notices but that's another story....and a dark story I will probably never tell. Daddy got a great job with lots of overtime, we got to live in a really nice house in a snooty neighborhood, we had a set of woods with a creek running through it just across the street, AND the biggest reward for this move was I was just around the corner from Bertha Leghorn (name changed to protect me). Ah, Bertha Leghorn. I had fallen in love with her in the sixth grade before we were transferred. She was beautiful, she was a cheerleader, she was popular, and as I learned in junior high school, she was not particularly bright. I did not care. I was not particularly bright either.
During the short time we lived on Crosstimber I rode past Bertha Leghorn's house probably a million, no make that a billion times. I kept thinking she might eventually come outside to see how great I looked on my bicycle. She never came outside....ever. I finally decided the reason she never came out when I rode by was because she was intimidated by my good looks and athletic ability on a bike. It never occurred to me she would be hiding inside because that creepy stalker was riding by again. I was so consumed by Bertha Leghorn and the bicycle trips I had to make around the corner it took me way too long to notice the girl on the other side of our back fence. Valerie Whohadapool (name changed to protect me again). Yes, Valerie was a very pretty girl living behind us. As I may have mentioned in this and other stories, I was not real bright. We were getting close to having our house back on Elm Street when Valerie yelled at me one day from over the fence asking why I had never come over to swim with her. I hated to tell her I had no idea she existed. I climbed up on that fence, took a look, and realized just how stupid I really was. Here it was, early fall and Valerie had been out swimming all summer...alone...just her, while all I was doing was riding that cotton-picking bicycle around and around hoping to be seen by Bertha Leghorn. Stupid, stupid, stupid...what more can I say?!
Before I ever had the time to convince Valerie Whohadapool to fall in love with me we moved back into our house on Elm Street. I'm sure the neighbors missed us when we moved. I do know they had a block party after we were gone...probably a form of grief recovery.
I spent a lot of time in my adult life trying to figure out how someone with five kids to feed could willfully walk away from a good paying job with eighteen years seniority without having something better lined up. It had to be a difficult decision to make. There were two in junior high, two in grade school, and one little prima donna who had yet to face the discomforts of formal education. However, the decision having been made, we traveled back to Hurst thinking life would be good.
Because we were kids and sheltered from reality, we thought we were embarking on another adventure when we were told the house on Elm Street was still leased out with another six months on the contract and we would have to rent a house some place. We found a mansion, approximately 1600 square feet, to rent on Crosstimber Court in the rich part of town. It was massive let me tell you. It had a beautiful lawn on a private cul-de-sac and neighbors were just as snooty as they could be....it was great! I know those neighbors were tickled for us to move into their quiet neighborhood. Five extra kids on bicycles always improve a neighborhood.
After moving into the house on Crosstimber daddy got busy trying to find work. He tried the Lennox plant and couldn't get on there. He tried to go back to Convair but of course he couldn't get a job there either. Finally, he gave up and went over to Bell Helicopter. He felt a bit odd applying for a job where they manufactured little things resembling grasshoppers. He had worked for many years at "the bomber plant" for crying out loud. He needed a job though despite his aching pride. As it worked out Bell hired him and he started to work at $2.00 an hour. This was in 1962 and I swear that sounded like a lot of money to me. I didn't know for many years just how big a pay cut he had taken to insure we didn't have to grow up around crazy people. That year of 1962 had significance though if you are a student of U.S. history. There was an ugly situation on the horizon called "the Vietnam War". This war used helicopters....lots and lots of helicopters. Bell Helicopter wound up being a great move on dad's part. Just like his ancestors before him, he stumbled into success despite his best efforts.
I truly feel life turns out the best for everyone. Oh, I guess it didn't appear so great for all those poor guys receiving draft notices but that's another story....and a dark story I will probably never tell. Daddy got a great job with lots of overtime, we got to live in a really nice house in a snooty neighborhood, we had a set of woods with a creek running through it just across the street, AND the biggest reward for this move was I was just around the corner from Bertha Leghorn (name changed to protect me). Ah, Bertha Leghorn. I had fallen in love with her in the sixth grade before we were transferred. She was beautiful, she was a cheerleader, she was popular, and as I learned in junior high school, she was not particularly bright. I did not care. I was not particularly bright either.
During the short time we lived on Crosstimber I rode past Bertha Leghorn's house probably a million, no make that a billion times. I kept thinking she might eventually come outside to see how great I looked on my bicycle. She never came outside....ever. I finally decided the reason she never came out when I rode by was because she was intimidated by my good looks and athletic ability on a bike. It never occurred to me she would be hiding inside because that creepy stalker was riding by again. I was so consumed by Bertha Leghorn and the bicycle trips I had to make around the corner it took me way too long to notice the girl on the other side of our back fence. Valerie Whohadapool (name changed to protect me again). Yes, Valerie was a very pretty girl living behind us. As I may have mentioned in this and other stories, I was not real bright. We were getting close to having our house back on Elm Street when Valerie yelled at me one day from over the fence asking why I had never come over to swim with her. I hated to tell her I had no idea she existed. I climbed up on that fence, took a look, and realized just how stupid I really was. Here it was, early fall and Valerie had been out swimming all summer...alone...just her, while all I was doing was riding that cotton-picking bicycle around and around hoping to be seen by Bertha Leghorn. Stupid, stupid, stupid...what more can I say?!
Before I ever had the time to convince Valerie Whohadapool to fall in love with me we moved back into our house on Elm Street. I'm sure the neighbors missed us when we moved. I do know they had a block party after we were gone...probably a form of grief recovery.
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