Scratched Vinyl

I lowered the needle to the record,
carefully.
Bobby Pickett’s name tumbled,
like pants in a dryer;
circling round and around,
on the plastic turntable.

“I was working in the lab late one night,”
it began.
And The Monster Mash tumbled
like bones from the speaker,
filling my bedroom with sound,
at 45 RPMs.

Then it did what it always did. ...It skipped!
“He opened,”
“He opened, He opened,” ...Smack!
“the lid and shook his fist
and said, ‘Whatever happened
to my Transylvania twist?’"

Old Screen Doors and Telephones

Gosh, I miss the soothing sound of a rotary telephone, and the way it used to take twice as long to dial SK9-9978 as it did to dial SK2-1312. And I miss saying Skyline instead of SK, and I miss saying SK instead of 75 …and if none of this makes any sense to you, you’ve probably never heard the sound of a wood screen door slamming either. What a shame. You grew up in a world of aluminum screen doors with hydraulic screen door closers. For crying out loud, you can’t even slam one of those damn things! …and don’t even get me started on TV dials, and radio knobs!!

The Kid (and the jump)

We never learned his name, but the Kid would be hard to forget.

I was ten when the Kid appeared. Summer break had just begun, and all the neighborhood boys my age were gathered at the corner of our block. The Kid coasted up on an old bicycle that instantly told us he didn’t belong in our gang, but he asked me anyway, “Can I jump?”

The Kid was taller than any of us, and skinny, but he didn't look much older than we were. None of us knew who he was, or where he came from, but that didn't stop him from riding up and asking that question, “Can I jump?”

I was standing astride my metallic gold Schwinn Stingray. My buddy Matt was making a final adjustment to the ramp we had just set up a short distance down the sidewalk. “On that bike?” I asked.

“Sure, why not?” he answered.

Matt walked back from the ramp. “It’s ready,” he said. The ramp consisted of a plywood board leaned up against an assortment of bricks and cinder blocks collected from a nearby alley.

My friends and I all rode Schwinn Stingray bicycles that summer with banana seats and ape-hanger handlebars. We reveled in the thought that we rode the coolest bikes around; except for Brad. Brad had a Huffy. We pretended not to notice, but we were all very aware that Brad had a Huffy. The Kid’s bike was different from all of ours though. It didn’t even try to look like a Stingray the way that Brad’s Huffy tried. It was a taller bike, like an adult would ride. “You can jump if you want to,” I said.

Jumping was the reason we were there. More times than I can remember we set up the makeshift ramp and took turns riding our bikes over it. We jumped high over imaginary obstacles to the dismay of elderly neighbors who peered at us through foggy windows in the fall, and over neatly trimmed hedges in the spring and summer. “Someday we’ll jump over a car,” Matt would declare.

“Two cars!” one of us would add. That’s what young boys did back in the daredevil days of Evel Knievel.

Without a word I pedaled toward the ramp to show the Kid how it was done. I quickly sped up to a pace that would launch me nearly two feet off the ground, and shoot me two yards down the sidewalk. An impressive jump by neighborhood standards.

Just before hitting the ramp I stood up on my pedals, and held tight to the handle grips. As I flew off the end of the plywood board I leaned forward just enough to keep the bike level with the ground, and braced for the landing. Then, as the imaginary crowd cheered, I slammed on the brake and did my signature half turn skid before circling back to the corner.

As I pedaled up to the gang I saw the Kid riding away. “Scared?” someone taunted.

“I wouldn’t jump that bike either!” sneered another voice.

The Kid rode across the street and up the hill to the next corner. Then he turned around and stopped. Even though the Kid was tall, his bike was too big for him. He stood there looking down at us with one foot on the ground, and his bike leaning way too far over to look comfortable. I didn’t really know what to make of him. But I do know if it hadn’t been for what he did next, that image of him up there on the hill would have faded from my memory long ago.

With a hard shove off the ground the Kid was suddenly back up on his bike, and peddling toward us. He accelerated faster and faster down the hill. As he neared the intersection his intent became clear. We scattered out of the way. Matt ran into the middle of the street and yelled, “No cars!” to let the Kid know that the coast was clear. With no curbs to watch out for in the neighborhood the Kid flew across the street and was now back on our block speeding toward the ramp.

“Oh no!” we must have all thought at the same time. Who would run to get his parents? We didn’t even know where he lived. I always hated running to adults for help. The last time I had to do it was when Kenny jumped into the telephone pole hole.

One Friday afternoon the phone company drilled a hole for a new telephone pole, and set an orange cone next to it to warn people away during the weekend. Well by Sunday Kenny just couldn’t resist any longer. He walked up to the edge of the hole and jumped in. Three of us witnessed the event. It looked like someone jumping into a swimming pool, except there wasn’t a splash when Kenny submerged himself into the earth. There was just a thump and grunt as he instantly disappeared up to his arm pits.

The next thing we heard was our own laughter followed by Kenny’s frantic screaming. “Get my mom!” he yelled. Not wanting to face Kenny’s mom, we pulled on his arms. We couldn’t budge him. “I can’t breathe,” he cried. Tears began streaming down his now bright red face. His house was four blocks away, so I ran and pounded on the nearest door for help. After I managed to spit out the details of Kenny’s stunt to Mrs. Olsen, she went back inside and made the necessary phone calls. A policeman came. A fire truck came. Kenny’s mom came. Half the neighborhood came to watch them dig Kenny out of the hole. We called him Kenny the Cork for a long time after that.

The Kid was going way too fast. All of us knew it, but it was too late to stop him. He’ll swerve around the ramp I thought. He’d be crazy not to. But he stayed in the middle of the sidewalk peddling harder and harder as the ramp got closer. We should have all been yelling at him to stop, but we just stood there speechless. I heard his tires hit the ramp, and I saw the board flex and bounce up as the Kid went airborne.

I don’t think any of us could believe what we were seeing. Not even Matt would dare to hit the ramp at full speed, let alone with the gravity of that hill pushing behind him. Why would the Kid do something so stupid?

When I was nine I met a bunch of strange boys who were rolling a big culvert pipe down our street. They said they were headed to the park to push it off the big hill. It sounded like a cool idea, so I tagged along. Then as we all stood at the top of the hill someone came up with a second cool idea. “I’ll do it!” I quickly said. For reasons I can’t explain I had just volunteered to ride inside the tube.

Moments later there I was, inside the thing. “Ready?” they yelled.

“Ready!” I yelled back. As soon as the boys started pushing I knew I’d made a mistake, but I couldn’t take it back. My head slammed against the inside of the pipe repeatedly as I bounced and rolled like a cat in a tumble dryer all the way to the bottom. The boys stood whooping and laughing at the top of the hill. When everything finally stopped spinning, I crawled out of the tube, and threw up in the grass.

Frozen with fear, we just stood there staring slack-jawed as the Kid soared high into the air. “Lean forward!” I willed, but he didn’t lean forward. In fact he seemed to be pulling back on the handlebars. The entire gang watched in horror. Evel Knievel’s infamous Caesars Palace jump replayed in my mind. “Someday we’ll jump over a car,” a voice inside my head whispered. “Two cars!” a second voice added.

The Kid would easily fly high enough to clear two cars on this day, but he was turning upside down now. He looked like he might even do a full back flip, but he had no landing ramp. Evel Knievel always had a landing ramp, but Evel never tried to do a back flip. If holding our collective breath could have helped the Kid complete the flip and land on his wheels, then he certainly would have landed on his wheels. He would have completed the greatest stunt a kid could ever dream of pulling off. But nothing we did now could alter the chain of events that was about to occur.

At the peak of his jump the Kid abandoned the bike. Still tumbling backwards, he twisted and turned, desperately searching for the ground below. If he caught a glimpse of the ramp, it must have seemed very far away.

Nothing but concrete awaited the Kid now, like tarmac awaiting a crippled airplane descending for an emergency landing. But instead of firemen and medics, only a bunch of ten year old boys were standing by.

When the silence was finally broken there was yelling, and crying, and panic. I tried to run to the nearest adult for help, but the door flew open before I could even reach the porch. Mr. Harris bolted past me toward the Kid, with Mrs. Harris chasing behind. “Call an ambulance!” he yelled, and she ran back inside the house.

Mr. Harris tried to comfort the Kid as he lay in a heap in the middle of the sidewalk. Jenny Harris brought her dad a towel that he used to soak up the blood from the Kid’s face, and arms, and chest. Mrs. Harris yelled from the porch that an ambulance was on the way. Moments later she came running across the yard holding a green wool army blanket. They carefully lifted the Kid off the sidewalk and set him on the blanket in the grass. Mrs. Harris took Jenny back inside the house, leaving Mr. Harris alone with the Kid.

Some of the gang fled, but most of us remained in a wide semi-circle around the scene. The circle soon filled with onlookers from nearby homes, one muttering, “This was bound to happen eventually,” and others nodding in agreement. A siren could be heard in the distance.

Some of the gang’s parents started showing up. Brad’s dad came running over from across the street. He went straight to helping Mr. Harris tend to the Kid. He knelt down and assured the Kid that everything would be okay. “You’re going to be fine,” he said, “Just try not to move.” Matt’s Mom walked up and took him home. A couple other parents did likewise.

Soon the siren’s promise of help arrived. Two men in white uniforms quickly took over the Kid’s care. They asked him some questions and thoroughly looked him over from head to toe. Next they wrapped him in gauze, one damaged section at a time until there wasn’t much left of the Kid to see. Then they carefully loaded him into the ambulance, and shut the doors.

I was standing astride my new metallic gold Schwinn Stingray when they rushed the Kid away. As he disappeared around the corner I pedaled up the hill to where his daredevil ride began. I turned around and stopped where the he had stopped. I looked down at the ramp and imagined racing toward it. I watched Mr. Harris wash the blood off the sidewalk. I watched Brad’s dad dismantle the ramp, and discard its various parts. When they were finished I coasted home.

 

As dusk approached that evening an old pickup truck drove down our street and stopped at the corner. The vehicle’s lone occupant, a tall thin man with dark hair got out and walked over to the Kid’s broken bicycle. He paused for a moment, studying the bent metal. Then he carefully loaded it into the back of the truck, climbed inside the cab, and slowly drove away. 

The Ant Farm Incident

It was during the summer of 1989 when my stepson Steven first took an interest in ant farming. Ah yes, that innocent August when hot days were as long as licorice ropes, and a six-year-old's dreams were limited only by the curb at each end of the block.

When I heard the news I remembered how I once asked for an ant farm too. I guess I didn’t play my cards right though because I ended up with a neurotic hand-me-down squirrel instead; a squirrel that bit me all summer long, and hibernated during the winter. Lousy gatherer, that’s all he was. He couldn’t farm a lick. Well I wasn’t about to let this kid’s dream be crushed like mine was, so we sat down... you know, man to man like, and we had a little chat.

“So" I said "ya want to be an ant farmer eh?”

“Umm... yes.”

“It’s a big responsibility ya know.”

“Umm... it’s only four dollars.”

“Sea Monkey’s were only four dollars, but do you remember what the food cost?”

“But ants eat crumbs, and junk.”

Well, that was good enough for me. The Acme Deluxe Ponderosa Ant Farm arrived in the mail three weeks later.

“The ant farm’s here!” I announced.

“The what?” said Steven.

“The ant farm we wanted, I mean you wanted… it came today.”

“Can I watch TV?”

“Don’t you want to put your farm together?”

“Are there ants?”

“They should be in the box. Let’s open it up.”

We spilled the contents of the Acme Deluxe Ponderosa Ant Farm out on the table and took a quick inventory. Green plastic parts, clear plastic parts, bag of sand, tube of live ants, and one instruction manual/accessories order form.

“Well it looks like it’s all here,” I said.

“Can I take the ants out?”

“No, no wait. We have to set up the farm first.”

I've never followed the directions to assemble anything in my life, and I have a drawer full of spare parts to prove it, but I thought this would be the perfect time to set a good step-fatherly example and do this thing by the book.

STEP 1. Assemble the base. See fig. 1

“Can I take the ants out?” Steven repeated.

“Hang on, I’m reading the instructions. Here, snap these two pieces together.”

Before getting to STEP 2. I spied a note on the side of the instruction sheet that said “HINT: Placing ants in freezer before introduction to ant farm will calm ants for easier transfer.”

“Hey, Steven it says here we should put the ants in the freezer.”

“Won’t that hurt ‘em?”

“No, no, it’ll just slow ‘em down a bit so they don’t escape when you put ‘em in the farm.”

So into the freezer went the crew of Ant Station Zebra... Future inhabitants of the Ponderosa Dunes Agricultural Community.

STEP 2. Snap feet to base. See fig. 2... and so on it went as we reviewed each instruction carefully, ate some dinner, and talked about farming... ant farming, and farming in general. Eventually it was time to pour in the sand, so in it went. Well mostly in, a little out.

“We can sweep that up later," I said, "Look, we’re almost done!”

“But where are the tunnels?”

“Oh that’s the fun part. You get to watch the ants dig the tunnels.”

STEP 9. Assemble ant farm lid. See fig. 9

“Snap, click," and the farm was ready
"Can I take the ants out now?” Steven asked.

“Sure, go get ‘em. It’s time to start farmin’."

STEP 10. To calm ants for easy transfer into their new environment place ant vial in freezer for 2 minutes. IMPORTANT: Do not leave ants in freezer longer than 5 minutes!

“Wholly shit!!” I let slip.

“What?”

“Oh nothing… Hurry up, get the ants!”

The ants poured into their new home like a teaspoon of Rice Krispies.

“When are they gonna start digging?” the new farm boss asked.

“Well they need to thaw out first” I said, wondering where I could find a replacement ant colony at this hour.

We watched, and we waited. Then we watched, and waited a little longer. It was like waiting for that first kernel of popcorn to pop, except in this case there would be no second or third, let alone any forth or fifth kernels popping. Five minutes passed, and then... very un-suddenly there was movement in the pile. A lone limping ant emerged from the heap of assorted legs, antennae, and thoraxes. It looked like it had just climbed Mt. Everest barefoot with no oxygen. In other words it was very calm. Slowly it ambled half way across the Ponderosa before stopping to rest.

“What about the rest of ‘em?” Steven inquired.

“I think we got a bad batch.”

The next hour confirmed that yes, we did indeed get a bad batch.

"Well, it's gettin' late," I said.
"They're dead huh?"
"Yeah, but maybe we can find some more outside tomorrow.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

And so we placed the ant farm up on the dresser...
right next to the dried up Sea Monkey aquarium.

“Good night.” I told Steven

“Good night.”

The 1968 Torn Shirt Incident

  
Most days I was a well-behaved kid, but those days make for boring stories, so, to keep you from nodding, off I’ll tell you about a day in the fourth grade when something in my young skull went haywire. On this day a kid named Steve, or maybe it was Bob, I don’t remember (we never really became friends) …anyway, after recess this kid went and told the teacher a big fat lie that got me into a whole lotta trouble. Well "a big fat lie” is what I called it. That was my initial defense strategy, but as it turned out I was no Perry Mason, because right after I said “big fat lie” the kid reached out and displayed two handfuls of very compelling physical evidence.

Exhibit A.) One shredded dress shirt. The prosecution would assert that prior to recess the alleged victim was wearing this “dress shirt” and that it was in a whole and un-tattered condition. Standing there in his undershirt, he handed the torn pieces to the teacher, who with me in tow, delivered them to the principal, who would later deliver them to my mother in a brown paper bag.

The pile of material was placed on top the principal’s desk: sleeves, cuffs, a collar, and a bunch of miscellaneous scraps. Sort of a make your own shirt kit. Without the advice of counsel I was forced to take the witness stand, and was soon badgered into abandoning my original defense strategy. That prosecuting teacher was really good, but then in the cross-examination I produced some compelling physical evidence of my own.

Exhibit B.) My top button was missing. “Objection!” “Overruled!” I could hear the murmurs from the jury. I could even see ol’ Perry standing in the doorway, smiling. Convinced that their unjust case against me was falling apart, I decided to fight truth with truth! “Steve, er Bob” I explained “grabbed me on the playground, and my button popped off.” The prosecutor paced back and forth trying to regain her lawyer legs, and then came right at me. “So you decided to rip his shirt off and tear it into little pieces?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The principal’s gavel hit the desk. “Guilty an all counts!” No leniency for the missing button was even considered. Looking back on it, I probably should have gone with a Napoleon complex defense. Being the smallest kid in 4th grade you sometimes have to overcompensate to protect your playground cred.
  

Ray

  
Today while I was cutting firewood in the backyard, I began reminiscing about my job at the sawmill, over thirty years ago. The fresh Douglas fir sawdust flying from my chainsaw smelled the same today as it did back then. I began to hear the sounds of the sawmill. The pounding of logs on their way to the head-rig, the tearing of saw blades, the rip of the planer, the slapping of lumber coming off the green chain. I could feel the building shake, and I began to see their faces again. Phil, Bob, and Jay. Mark, having a laugh with Cho and Kim. Patty with her leather gloves tucked in the back pockets of those tight blue jeans. Glen and Old Throp, grading and stamping the lumber. Ken, high on speed, keeping up with the best of ‘em. And Ray.

Today I wished I could go back to that mill just one more time. Back three decades. Back to the night before Ray died. I’d sit by him at the lunch table and say “Ray, don’t come in to work tomorrow. Take your wife and kid out for a drive in that new truck you’re so proud of. And when you come back, don’t wear those steel toe boots. They’re not safe. They’re more dangerous that you could ever imagine. And from now on, don’t climb up on that machine of yours anymore when it’s running. And when boards get caught in the rollers, don’t ever try to kick them through with your foot. When boards get caught like that, turn off the machine Ray. Turn off the machine.”
 

Driving Lessons with My Father

  

When I was a kid my father drove a jet black 1965 Pontiac GTO, and I just couldn’t wait to drive it someday, but by the time I turned 15½ and was ready to get my drivers permit my father was driving a pea green 1962 Ford Falcon Station Wagon. "Deep sigh."


LESSON I

My first driving lesson (in the old Ford Falcon) began in an open field near the Tacoma City Dump back in 1974. “Slowly let out the clutch and apply the gas” dad said. “Slower, more gas.” Clunk! “Okay, let’s try again. Ease the clutch. More gas!” The car began to lurch and stop, lurch and stop. "Clutch, gas... more gas!” The car began to fight back, and violently lunged forward. Without seatbelts it was hard to stay on the seat. Squeak clunk, squeak clunk! By now the car was bucking as though I’d just planted a pair of silver spurs deep into her rear fenders. Then after what felt like at least 8 seconds, but must have been less because I didn’t hear a horn blow (or see any rodeo clowns run in front of the vehicle) the bucking gave way to rocking as the engine wheezed, coughed, and finally died.

With a pine tree air freshener swinging in circles from the rear view mirror (no doubt trying to hide the smell of fear in the air) and my outnumbered two feet stabbing at the three pedals on the floor, I heard dad say “Start it again ..start it again.” After a moment of silence I replied “I can’t find the keys." They’d been thrown from the ignition while I was busy hanging on for dear life. "What do you mean you can't find the keys?" "They’re not in the ignition" I said. More silence. After getting out of the car and searching, the keys were finally found hiding under the front seat, probably looking for an escape route. I was looking for one too.


LESSON II

A couple days later, after perfecting the art of engaging the clutch, I was now ready to hit the open road. Oh look, there goes the old Ford Falcon now, with me driving and dad navigating: “Turn left here. Go straight. Take a right at the light.” So far so good “Now take the next right.” “What?” I gulped to myself, “the next right?” The next right would take us over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, or more specifically: The Tacoma Narrows Bridge version 2.0. The first Tacoma Narrows Bridge (version 1.0) also known as Galloping Gertie collapsed and fell into Puget Sound in November of 1940. God rest little Tubby’s soul (the cocker spaniel who was the only fatality of that famously filmed event.)

While this Tacoma Narrows Bridge (version 2.0) didn’t sway in the wind like its predecessor, it was indeed very narrow (unlike it is today with its version 2.1 updates.) Back then it was a two-way four-lane death trap famous for its frequent head on collisions. However, thanks to the new Tacoma Narrows Bridge (version 3.0 built adjacent its 2.1 updated sister bridge in 2007) each bridge now transports one way traffic too and fro from Tacoma to Gig Harbor, making for a much safer crossing.

But back to 1974: “Take the next right.” “Okay” I said as I turned the wheel, and there it was jutting out of the icy waters of Puget Sound, appearing to be at least a thousand feet tall and approximately four feet wide, The Tacoma Narrows Bridge! Over a mile long, but less than a half mile away, the giant green Leviathan was coming right at us. If I were prone to hyperbole I might call it a bridge of peril in a fog of misfortune spanning a sea of cold and certain death, but I’m trying hard to stick to the facts here. Toward the bridge we went. The first sign on the approach to the bridge read “CAUTION: SEVERE SIDE WINDS AHEAD.” The next sign read “CAUTION: DO NOT CHANGE LANES ON BRIDGE,” and with the last sign my fate was sealed. “NO U TURNS!” So there I was ....the Ford Falcon was but a bullet in the chamber of a cocked gun, pointed right between the eyes of destiny. BANG!

The first thing you notice while driving on the bridge is that the lanes immediately narrow to make room for the one foot wide metal grates that separate them. These grates were designed to allow wind and rain to pass harmlessly through the bridge deck, but they also allow car tires ignore steering wheel instructions whenever they touch them. To protect human lives however the grates running down the center of the bridge had been painted yellow, and in later years even had little orange plastic tubes clipped to them. Being made of rubber and therefore subject to melting, tires naturally fear the colors of fire (mainly yellow and orange.)

Not willing to trust life and limb to my tires natural instincts, I chose to drive in the outside lane. As I was tight-roping down the concrete strip at 45mph I became uncomfortably aware of the steel pipe mounted eight to ten inches off the pavement to my imediate right, just between the road and the sidewalk (Note: the version 2.1 update replaced this pipe with a sturdy thirty inch high guardrail.) I noticed that the pipe didn’t seem high enough to nudge me back into my lane if I were to hit it. Rather it appeared to be the perfect height, if I were to strike it at the proper angle to launch the car up and over the bridge's outer handrail, and into the dark churning waters two-hundred feet below.

“Don’t touch the grate, stay away from the pipe” I repeated over and over in my mind. By the time we reached the first suspension tower I was squeezing the steering wheel so hard that the car was beginning to turn blue. “Don’t touch the grate, stay away from the pipe.” Mercifully the second tower finally passed by. We’d traveled nearly a mile on the bridge and were almost to the other side. Blood was slowly returning to my fingertips. “Take the first right turn after the bridge” dad said. Now until that moment the last thing on my mind was doing this again anytime soon, but “take the first right turn” could only mean that we were going to loop under the highway, and get right back on going the opposite direction. Couldn’t we just take the 110 mile trip around the water to get back home? What’s the big hurry?

Then I heard the instruction again. “Turn right up here.” Slowly removing my left hand from the steering wheel, I grabbed the turn signal lever and pulled up on it. Adrenalin is a funny thing. Sometimes it's very useful, but when you’re learning to drive it usually isn’t. For the next several hundred feet with the right turn signal blinking away, I was caught in an awkward predicament. I couldn’t let go of the turn signal handle to re-grab the steering wheel. Well I could have, but it would have fallen to the floor and I thought I might need it again. Seeing only one thing to do in this situation, I reached over and handed my dad the turn signal lever that I had just ripped right off the steering column of his car. I won’t quote to you what I heard next. Let’s just say it was an emphatic expression of disbelief. Apparently in all my father’s years of driving, he had never (not even once) torn off a turn signal lever, nor had he ever seen anyone else do it. Well what’s a son for if not to teach his ol' dad a new trick every now and then?

I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that we made it home safely that day, and I even got to practice using my hand signals, to warn everyone within striking distance which way I intended to turn next.


To view the fate of the first Tacoma Narrows Bridge click the link below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vu4LPTsy_xY

The Very Brief History of My First Car

  
Reflections of power lines against a June blue sky began to bend oddly across the metallic gloss of her burgundy hood. The road ahead had suddenly become an unfocused white background lost in my peripheral vision as I watched the reflected lines bend, and re-bend. It was the maiden voyage of my 1967 Mustang, and I’d already struck an iceberg. A ripple first appeared at the far corner just above the right headlight, and it began to grow. Folding metal was coming at me like waves on the ocean. Flakes of paint instead of foam capped each breaker as they approached. It was 1977, and thus it wasn’t the Mustang’s maiden voyage, but rather my maiden voyage in a car of my very own. For fourteen glorious minutes, from the time it was insured at Allstate to the time on the police report (12:14 pm,) it was all mine, and I couldn’t wait to get it home. Graduation was just two days away, and the rearview mirror that I would soon hang my blue and gold S.H.S. Class of ’77 tassel on was now being ripped from the windshield by the side of my head. Through the broken glass a white station wagon came into focus, and then faded away.
 

Below the Sawmill

  
Towering o’er the hunchback man
Steam driven arms thrust and clank
A vault of toil, deafening, dank
The ceiling shakes a cable snakes past creosoted beams
Once tall and lean, now bent unclean of sweat and steam
The old man sweeps

A small dark room of bench and broom
From where he sweeps to earn his keep
A place I still see in my sleep
Long ago there was a crack, and a cable took as cables do
When cables snap, the shortest route from me to you
Steel breaches flesh and bone

Doctors mend what doctors can
And though he’s bent, it’s left unspoken
A lucky man he is, for he’s not altogether broken
And the leaders of the company in all their generosity
Show their binding loyalty, but nothing ever comes for free
An offer made is accepted

A wife a child and bills to pay
And so beneath the grand machine
He works to keep the basement clean
Above his head, steam pressure makes the mighty head rig lunge
Teeth of saw blades tear the air, and into timber plunge
Slabs of hemlock feed the mill

And sawdust falls between the cracks
Just as he has, to the floor below, to a life hollow
A life bent and crooked hard to swallow
Dirt blackened face and empty eyes, into the broom he leans
I walked in green, just a teen, sent below the mill to clean
When I came upon the hunchback man
  

Davenports and Naugahyde

Back when wild naugas were skinned for their colorful hides and made into davenports, and television sets had legs, we all expected to be zipping to work in flying cars by the 21st century. But today, both naugas and davenports are virtually extinct, and evolution has taken the legs from our television sets… I hear our little toes may be next! Well before that happens I have a flat tire to change (my flying car is in the shop.)

...if you're too young to remember davenports or naugahyde maybe you could give this old man a hand with that tire iron.
  

Wisdom of a Child

It was another gray morning in the Pacific Northwest, but it was a good shade of gray. It was springtime gray, and the 1968 Tacoma Junior Daffodil Parade was about to begin. A group of volunteer moms were busy preparing refreshments for the long line of leg weary little marchers that would soon be approaching the end of the parade route. I’d walked the route twice in the past two years; first as The Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz, and last year as Robin Hood from Sherwood Forest. I don’t know which made the walking more uncomfortable: silver spray-painted cardboard tube legs, or little girls green tights. Either way it didn’t matter because now that I was nine years old I was retired from the parade, and this year I would be passing out potato chips to the mostly younger kids.

The Greyhound Station parking lot that would host the after parade party was bustling with activity. A portable soda fountain donated by the local Coca Cola bottler was being set up. Four Tacoma Firemen dressed to do battle with anything flammable were at the scene with their big red fire truck, industriously transforming a stack of sawhorses and sheets of plywood into four large tables that would soon hold enough drinks and goodies for several float-loads of kids. Hundreds of mini bags of Nalley’s Potato Chips from nearby Nalley Valley were being unboxed. Bags of candy, cups, napkins, and balloons on sticks were being hauled from nearby cars. Then, little by little the sky began to do what the sky so often does around here.

It turned dark, and it began to rain. Then it began to pour. Anything that couldn’t be shielded by umbrellas was put inside the Coca Cola booth, or thrown under the plywood tables. People ducked under awnings, or back into their cars. I sat under one of the plywood tables, and watched as the undaunted firemen surveyed the scene and discussed how much tarp and rope they would need to set up a makeshift cover for the refreshment area. As they continued pointing and calculating the downpour turned back into rain which slowed to a drizzle before becoming a sprinkle, and then it stopped.

The darkened sky returned to springtime gray which eventually gave way to blue and the umbrellas began to fold. Soda pop began to fill the paper cups. Boxes were pulled from under the tables, and then everything came to a halt. The tables that were supposed to hold all the drinks, and treats, were covered with puddles of water. The moms all looked to the firemen for help. The four quickly began wiping off the tables with their hands. They splashed at the puddles, and used up all the napkins they could find in a futile effort to dry the tables. Two of the firemen left to go get a squeegee and some towels from their truck.

With the front of the parade fast approaching, and my potato chips still not at their place on the table, I walked up to the two remaining firemen. I looked up at the bigger one who seemed to be in charge and said “Excuse me mister, wouldn’t it be easier just to turn the wood over so the dry side is on top?” I can still hear the moms laughing, and I can still see the two red faced firemen flipping the sheets of plywood over, dry side to the sky, as the other two firemen returned with their unneeded towels and squeegee in hand. With everyone’s help the dry tabletops were soon filled with enough food and drinks to serve every last soggy little kid. I even managed to pilfer a couple extra chip bags for myself... barbecue flavored.

  

1969

  
Of all the years I can remember that end in nine, I think 1969 was my favorite. All of the other nines have been less stellar. Yes, there have been a couple good sevens, and maybe even a nice two or two. But for a really good nine you have to give it to the standard bearer of the sixties, 1969.

So, who was the guy that stayed in the Apollo 11 capsule circling the moon for three days while Neil Armstrong, and Buzz Aldrin got to go play in the lunar dust? If you said Timothy Leary you’re only half right.

Now whenever someone tells me something was “really good” I like to say: “Was it Neil Armstrong good? Buzz Aldrin good? or just Michael Collins good?” And when they say “Michael Collins?” I just say “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” and pretend to lose interest.
  

What Kind of Kid Was I?

What kind of little kid was I? Well one thing for sure, I was no Thomas Edison edition.

As a kid, my record player was my prize possession. When I wasn’t playing records on it, I used it as a pottery wheel. That’s what the 78rpm setting was for… 33rpm was for albums, 45rpm was for singles, and 78rpm was for pottery. Amazingly, all the water running off the clay never did short out that old record player. They don't make 'em like that anymore! When I eventually got a new one though, it didn’t have a 78rpm setting. All the lousy thing could do was play records!

On a related tangent; I had a toy car once that ran on batteries and went about 5 miles per hour. I figured that if I cut off the end of an extension cord and hooked the bare wires to where the batteries go, I could make the car go much faster. Everything was going as planned until I plugged the business end of the extension cord into the wall. Instead of going from zero to sixty in four feet, the car exploded in a puff of smoke, and the light bulb in the ceiling above my head blew up. The old fuse box on the back porch prevented further detonations by plunging the house into total darkness.

Having successfully not been electrocuted twice already, I eventually turned 10 and watched Neil Armstrong land on the moon. Those were good times.

Am I Mentally Nuts?

  
Am I nuts? I certainly hope so. Anything less is just memorization. My wife and kids would laugh at the question, and all nod yes. I tell them it’s just the creativity leaking out. Not the financially rewarding kind of creativity that has become so popular these days, but the other kind. The kind they call “nuts.” I grew up on Dr. Seuss, and National Geographic, and found them both equally compelling, so when it was time to raise my own kids I decided to raise them on 50% nonsense, and 50% facts. Later I found that facts are harder to remember than nonsense so it ended up being more like 60/40. I was constantly changing the words of their stories, and the lyrics of their songs to keep them fresh and interesting, and to avoid copywrite infringements. The kids have long since grown up and moved away, but the wife for some reason has stayed. Some would say she’s the one who’s nuts.