Just Wandering

It usually happens in threes’ they say and it usually happens in threes’ frequently say I. The wife’s pay for instance… it generaly arrives habitualy by direct deposit to our account on Friday mornings. This Friday it didn’t happen as some form of glitch forced her employer to provide a hand written check….
That very evening I sat before the puter to order on line a new rifle barrel that I’ve long lusted over. I placed the order to that distant manufacturer of fine rifle barrels and offered my payment via PayPal. I was immediately rewarded with two quick emails in response. They both wished to congratulate me simultaniously on orders #1888 and #1889. And it didn’t take long to notice my PayPal acount had been hit twice for the one and only required barrel . It is with great hope this can be rectified with some degree of efficiency…but somehow I know better
Saturday morning as we made our rounds I noticed the allure of the bright green OPEN signs above the drive up of our bank.
“Lets just stop and deposit the check.” Is what I said to Mags.
And so we did just that. We signed the check and filled out the deposit slip and placed them both in the clear plastic cylinder. I pressed the button and watched as the vacum sucked both cylinder and check away at great speed and suddenly…..suddenly I found myself wait for a response longer than I ever have before. That wait was so friggin long it forced me to exit the vehicle and walk over to the bank itself where I discovered that…they aren’t open on Saturdays.
I came home to access my work schedule on line. The Big Box where I work gives internet access to our ever changing schedules and the ability to print it out. Well at that very moment the printer gasped its last living breath on earth while the money required to to replace it sat at the end of a vacum tube hopefully only until Monday

As an employee of a major “Big Box” store I get to peruse a list from which I might choose a local dentist to perform my covered dental requirements. A wonderfull benefit indeed.  I also get to witness the angst and angers of the poor retail public when they become victimised by the tool I use to help them purchase their retail  needs….the computer.

A few weeks ago I chose from a computer provided list and made an appointment with a local D.D.S. and circled his name and address as well as penning in the appropriate time and date. The evening before I listened to a voice mail reminding me of my mornings 9:45  appointment and so at precisely 9:32 a.m. I presented myself before the young receptionist of Dr. Macintosh who presented me a  frightened  stare before bleating out …..

” I don’t understand…..there is nothing in the system at all. I don’t even know who called you. We must be suffering another computer glitch.”

So, as my own customers at the “Big Box” would have done, I became firm and reminded the poor lass that I had taken a day from work and created a whole days schedule around this and that perhaps…….

“Perhaps I should find an office that might prove a little more efficient.”

Proving herself  to in fact be a model of efficiency she banished me briefly to a waiting room chair and National Geographic magazines. I admired her abilities as I overheard her skillfull  use of the telephone to convince others to come to their appointments later in order that I might get my 9:45 while simultaniously rearranging everyones expected schedule in the office of Dr. Macintosh. One and a half hours later and completely satisfied I left that office to find a new message left on my phone during my time in the chair. It was the same voice that only the night before had called to confirm what I thought was my just ended appointment.

“Hello Richard, this is Michelle at “Dr. Harpers” office. We do hope everything is all right and if you would like to reschedule your missed appointment please call us back.”                 ……. oops

The upcoming weekends planned party was likely to be of monumental proportions and Dave and I headed out early to get a jump on things. It was deep into a Thursday night that found us heading north up Route 93 to New Hampshire’s furthest reaches when a failed water pump stopped the pickup truck dead in her tracks. Luckily before the steam had subsided a young State Trooper had stopped to help and called us a wrecker and so in no time at all we found ourselves dumped in the parking lot of the closed Datsun dealership in the town of Laconia.

Fortunately that pickup was sporting a cap on the back under which sat the coolers of well iced Millers and thats where we spent the night comfortable or otherwise. Eventually, with the morning sun seemingly overly bright Dave stirred and asked..

“What time is it?”

” I think it’s about 6:30″  I said … “let’s reconoiter for breakfast.”

So we climbed out from the back of the truck and stood in the quiet parking lot to “hang a wang” while the reflected  sun glared blindingly back at us from the dealerships show room glass. As the abundant yellow rivulets flowed in search of the lowest point of the parking lot a dark and ominous cloud passed over. This dark cloud effectively erased that harsh glare from the large window to expose the numerous customers and salesmen all standing there hang jawed like only the truly stunned can stand hang jawed. Unblinking and facing our direction….each and every one.

“What time did you say it was?”      asked Dave still flowing strong….

“Gotta feeling that six was inverted.”   I replied and inverted it was as it turned out to be 9:30 a.m.
Bold as brass we zipped up and walked in to ask for the parts department with breakfast quickly forgotten. Forty five minutes later we had installed the new water pump out in the parking lot and were again heading north with breakfast still forgotten.

On this very day, July 29, forty six years ago an American aircraft carrier, the USS Forrestal, burned at sea and it would seem few remember that fact as I noticed no mention of it in the media today. But some one must remember…. with one hundred and thirty four dead and another one hundred and sixty one injured ….someone remembers. It was this tragic day that caused from then on every US sailor to be trained as a fire fighter.

I thought about this and as I did I reached for my copy of the 1973 cruise book of the USS John F Kennedy, CVA 67 to find no real joy in the memories that stared back at me in the blank faces of her crew page after page. There were few faces whose names I could now remember…. or even cared to. And no mention at all of someone elses Middle East war we went to aide in …. so, I’ve just placed my 1973 Cruise book and the forty year old memories it contains where it belongs …on Ebay. I’m thinking a hundred bucks could buy enough adult beverages to forget the few names and faces in the book I do recall….

….with enough left over to toast the memorable crew of the Forrestal

We’ve all witnessed, I’m sure, that poor hapless soul at the head of the line whose credit or debit has been deemed to hold “insufficient funds”. We tend to hold a straight and sympathetic face as the poor hapless one bellows out his indignity in light of the undoubtable fact that ….

“There must be some mistake!” ………..

….and that.s exactly what I bellowed yesterday as that poor hapless soul turned out to be none other than me…..

My wife is quite certain I suffer some form of age responsible mental deficiency and expresses so at every available opportunity. It would appear I offer her many opportunities and frankly I’m truly hoping she might be correct. This past week for instance I sat in front of my puter enjoying a beer induced haze as I paid all our bills on line and each and every one of them on time as harsh financial penalties are invoked for tardiness. Unfortunately it would seem I did this two nights in a row meaning each and every bill, large and small, was paid in duplicate.

This oversight propelled me to the head of a line of straight faced and sympathetic shoppers with a cart load of food. There, accompanied by a humiliated wife mumbling something in Spanish about Alzheimers, I discovered that my checking account held nothing more than a $73.00 overdraft fee. Later on I further discovered that each and every creditor that slaps a late fee on my account exactly three seconds past midnight of the due day now needs at least four to five weeks to return the money they don’t own. No chance of late fees expressed or implied .

So…there you have it…. my belief that the wife is correct as an age induced mental deficiency is most certainly a problem… And a problem I shall gladly bear……for having no problem at all with my over indulgence of strong ales, how could I possibly ever blame that for some of my lifes little glitches?

Its sitting on my kitchen counter right now all shiny and rather new in appearance. We had spied a small roadside flea market and had quickly pulled in with the hope that just such a treasure would present itself and there it was. On the old mans table amidst endless used kitchen utensils it sat like a jewel ……… a 1970’s model # 1407 Swing – Away can opener proudly stamped “Made in USA”. Its $2.00 price tag was unarguable and we made the purchase .

Diagonally behind us lives a family of which I hold little respect and we call their back yard the scrap metal yard. Not to infer they stockpile junk, that’s not so, but because that yard is the recipient of two years worth of the non working Chinese made junk I have periodically and furiously banished from my life. Just last week I launched in their direction the third can opener in fifteen months to land in their tall grass to rust away with countless other items. Occasionally when they get the lawn cut I can hear the tink of metal as a spinning blade sends something into their neighbors new vinyl fence.

In that yard has landed along with said can openers, toilet roll holders that pin full rolls so tightly to the wall that fully one third of their bulk is desperately shredded before a usable square might roll off. Towel hooks angled to immediately permit towels to slide off and to the floor. Ornate shower curtain hooks made with a minimalist amount of metal so that they jump off to clang on the tile the moment the curtain is touched and of course the useless shower curtain rod soon followed. In all honesty I’m not quite certain where my 18 month old Price Pfister kitchen faucet was made….but that son of a bitch is over there as well.

We’ve rather quickly gone from a manufacturing nation to a nation of shoppers and I’m going to be doing more shopping at the flea market. And this morning I might take the Chinese lead and have fish for breakfast ……just to try out my new Swing – Away opener on a can of tuna.

I awoke to the memory of the beginning of the evening previous. I’m not sure if what had awakened me was the intense early morning Australian sun bullying its way through the windshield in its effort to scorch my face to the second degree. Or perhaps the seemingly loud and excruciating sound of the Kookaburras’ laughter from high in the gum trees on Des’ front lawn.

Des had in inordinate ability to abuse an adult beverage along with a profound skill of enticing others to do the same. Because of this many considered him a danger not just to himself but society in general. I must confess I myself felt nervous over my own occasional ability to keep up with him and so didn’t visit as often as he might have liked. On this particular occasion I had walked into his kitchen early that previous evening to the heartfelt greeting of his strong Australian twang …..

“ G’day Mate!  Bloody  glad yer ere….owzit goin?”

Immediately a freshly cracked cap from a bottle of Des’ favorite Irish whiskey was thrown across the room with practiced precision to land where Des believed all caps to bottles of Irish should be…the trash. We solved the woes of the world that night along with many of our own before I finally had to leave. Now in contradiction of straight logic there are times when over abuse of alcohol can actually make one a safer driver. The proof in this was the next morning when the previously described awakening found me in a vehicle exactly where I had parked it some twelve hours past, disabled by my house keys forced entry into the ignition switch.

I’m not quite certain where I found the strength to insert that key in such an unlikely place and as we removed it with a pair of vice grips Des gave me pause to ponder ….

“Cor Mate…were yer trying ta drive …or let yerself in?”

I’m betting I was trying to let myself in…..I’d be too embarrassed to admit I tried to drive in such condition.

Though possessing sub normal powers of observation it’s impossible for me to not notice how different simple things have become. Work place lunch time for instance. In my past work life it would have been used as an opportunity for interaction with jokes to be heard, storytelling, or of lending a sympathetic ear to a coworker suffering life’s glitches. Now I sit and watch a roomful of people spend their lunch time with heads bowed as in silent prayer to small electronic devices as they type endless communications to other people in other work places.

“Im wrkin …wher r u ?”    will bring the important response of …..

“ OMG… me 2 …LOL…c u latr”

Those residing north of the Mason/Dixon will likely not comprehend this but here in Florida we suffer the cold as well. Why just this past week for instance had my F150 suffering the indignity of having its heater controls tampered with as we plowed our way to work through sub 40 degree temps. It’s been the same ride to work for two years now and another observation of things different came upon me on route just the other day. It was the sight of a young high school kid awaiting the school bus in the classic hunched forward texting stance. He and his peers stood shivering as their T shirts rendered them defenseless against the 39 degree temperatures. This particular young man shivered so hard he dropped his phone to the pavement mid text as I drove by. As I drive past them daily this particular observation caused a recollection.…

Six months prior I was driving past the same group of kids daily as the morning temperatures would quickly sweep past the lower 70s in an attempt to reach the already advanced humidity levels. They all stood hunched forward texting each other from beneath the hoods of their sweat shirts, not a single shiver to be seen.

When I was a kid and it was cold……the warmest kids were “cool”. And when I was a kid and it was warm ….the “coolest” kids were “hot”……now they’re all dyslexic.

Should you be a persistent reader of my posts you might have concluded that I get crabbed bi-lingually. Somehow I thought that the fact that the wife is bilingual would mean I would only get bitched at twice for each of my regularly numerous infractions. But no….somehow she has even learned to raise the bar a bit meaning one of those languages gets used twice. Mathematically this brings the bitch count to an even three…..minimum.

Yesterday was the first morning after grocery shopping day and so I tore open the fresh box of my favorite Mall Wart purchased “Uncle Sam’s” breakfast cereal. Being hurried I left the box abandoned on the counter next to the bowl needing every moment to make it to work on time and thus creating indiscretion numero uno. The wife’s a true stickler for details I’ll tell ya and so it’s everything in its proper place and everything placed properly. This is no joking matter for a man with numerous dyslexic tendencies…..

“You have time to eat but not put things away?”

That was the greeting ten hours after breakfast as I arrived home from work which of course was immediately repeated in a foreign tongue. At least it was short and sweet.

This morning the wife beat me to the cereal box and as she lifted it from the pantry cabinet the bottom opened up to create an inverted eruption of the entire contents all over the floor. I felt bad for her as I fully understood this to be a poor omen to the start of a day. I helped her sweep it all up and as we finished the cleanup I foolishly grabbed the empty box to use as a receptacle. That’s when all four of our eyes locked on the box in full understanding of what had just happened…..

“Someone” ….in two languages….possibly even more…. had originally opened the box from the bottom instead of the non- dyslexic version of the top. Do to her abnormal inability to put something away with upside down letters the wife suddenly found herself devoid of any and all blame….. meaning, I did not.

I’m sure it hasn’t ended yet. It’s likely a few days from now the wife will discover an all-natural grain hidden under the edge of the dishwasher or someplace equally discrete providing ample reason for another Spanish language lesson.

They come in various and distinct forms do adventurous men… and the truly adventurous also leave true to that form. Some of them seek fame or knowledge, others crave adrenaline or merely stories to tell. But the truly dangerous one’s seek adventure for money in order their families don’t want……

I knew him as Mono and I once saw pictures of him in Colombia taken just a few years prior to our having met so long ago. In those photos I recognized that same old familiar laid back smile under a generous mustache….. and the menace in his eye. He stood in one photo at the edge of a jungle clearing cradling in the crook of his arm what was once a U.S. Military rifle as he guarded over something obviously illicit. In another he offered the camera objects freshly robbed from ancient graves that museums worldwide would have coveted. “Mono” is slang in South America for monkey and he earned that nick name from the fact that while “working” in an area of Colombia known as “The Choco” he would hunt and eat monkeys. His explanation that when you skin a monkey the carcass looks just like a human baby has in all likelihood put me off of monkey meat for life…..

America was too tame I think for a man like Mono and he returned to his native country years ago. We’ve recently learned that no one has seen or heard from him for over eighteen months meaning it’s doubtful now that any one ever will. And so we’ll likely never hear the story of his last adventure or its outcome and that seems unimportant now. I have a picture of he and I taken at the end of a bar crawl at the end of a night at the end of some obscure town in central Colombia. And photos of us on a frozen N.H. lake where I taught he and his sons the art of pulling a trout through a hole in the ice. And I guess that’s all that’s left of a friendship of a man with little in his past that I could condone with clear conscience …….

But in spite of his past…. how do you not admire a real life Harrison Ford on his endless quest for The Temple of Doom …..?

cya Mono

My twenty five year old, hard worn Langescheidt Pocket Spanish dictionary explains quite clearly the use of the double LL in the Spanish language. It mentions that the correct pronunciation of two LL’s together in Spanish print sound no different than the English use of a J. That’s why the famous Peruvian pack animal is not known as a Llama down South….. it is instead called a Jama. I need mention all of this in hope it may help you better understand my story about wine…..

Yesterday’s tour of the MalWart aisles tossed me a surprise when the wife said something in Spanish quite unexpected….

“Don’t get beer today….get some cheap wine instead…… Get the Rooster.”

Happily I abandoned her in the ladies undies department to peruse the cheap wine rack in search of the “Rooster” only to stumble immediately upon her request.  The picture of the appropriate bird emblazoned on the label along with the correct spelling …”Rooster”…made it quite clear I had found the appropriate wine. I was quickly back to place the bottles in the cart.

“No…No… I said Rooster… Rooster”     she berated in Spanish.

And so I pointed out the ornate figure on the label along with the correct English spelling of the bird while explaining in English…..

“This IS a rooster Hon…. A friggin rooster.”

Turns out I had forgotten that the correct spelling of a California wine is exactly the same spelling of  Langenscheidts description of a Spanish rooster……….  a Gallo.

While I was diligently at work the back of my mind was elsewhere thinking about the work place dental benefits that had just kicked in. Suddenly those thoughts were intruded upon by a loud and belligerent…..

“Your competitor offers 10 % for Vets !” ……. finished by

“This will be the last time I’ll shop here!!….Ever …… that’s for sure!”

That’s what the man barked nastily when I told him his military separation papers known as the “DD 214” weren’t ample enough to provide a 10 % discount off of his purchase. This common incident at the store sent me straight back to the back of the mind in reminiscence.  As I watched the rear of his departing head storm away I stood there giving thought to the benefits offered me upon my own extremely happy departure from military life so long ago. Nowhere in the military contract did it mention anything about 10% off any future purchases in the retail world that I could recall. What it did generously offer however was several years of educational benefits and free dental for the entire first year of freedom…. .

Being extremely young upon entering the military I was also extremely young upon my happy departure from it. This meant that the wonderful benefit of a year of free dental was used to have the wisdom teeth removed. The necessary hitch hike to town in order to have the somewhat surgical procedure performed was no bother at all. What I absent mindedly hadn’t considered was the requisite hitch hike back home. The first car to stop was quick in coming and its driver cheerily bellowed out…..

“Where ya heading Buddy?”

And I tried to explain even though it was somewhat difficult with a face overdosing on Novocain. The sight of the drool and my response of …….

“Gribblet sesh Hooshkett”     ……forced his hand and the driver hastily sped off without me. And so did the next.

The man with the DD 214 sheepishly came back the next day having learned that 10% off of a product that cost 12% more isn’t that great of a deal after all. While I diligently worked his order I escaped yet again to the back of the mind and smiled broadly at the thought of how he’d look after successfully demanding a 10% discount from his dentist…..

He smiled back at my cheerful helpfulness.

I had met “Justin” at a public rifle range tucked in a little hollow on the other side of the big mountain. Justin was somewhat of a rarity in that part of Appalachia as his interest in firearms spread beyond simple game getters to serious target rifles. We got to know each other, I thought, and on occasion shared a shooting session up on the Wayah Bald Public Rifle Range. One day I mentioned to “Justin” my plan of driving down to Anniston Ala. in the morning to pick up some ammo of which I’m qualified to purchase through the Civilian Marksmanship Program.

“Way Coool……why doncha pick me up one of them fancy Kimber target rifles while you’re down there.”   he said.

His excitement over the possibility of getting one of “them fancy Kimber target rifles”  at the CMPs bargain price was evident as he ignored my explanations of how to qualify to purchase one himself. His reasoning that they’d all be sold by the time he was eligible held merit and so I agreed to pick him out a good one. And so I did the very next day…..

I stood before the rack of some forty beautiful Kimber Target Rifles previously owned by the U.S. Army. The serial number of the first rifle I grabbed was my birth date and taking that as an omen I made the purchase with every intent of ignoring the paper work I signed denying any intent of “straw” purchase. On the way home I toyed with the idea of keeping it but I had enough fancy target rifles and so the next morning I called to tell Justin he could bring the money. An unfamiliar voice that turned out to be a sister answered to inform me that…….

“Justin won’t be home fer a while….he done got throwed in jail fer beatin his wife agin.”

So Justin never received that Kimber target rifle and my record remained clear of any lawful wrongdoing though I shan’t make that claim about my conscience. I guess I’m trying to say that in light of those terrible recent events it is time we all became a little more responsible for what happens around us…… and it shouldn’t take the passing of a law.

Trying to beat the last minute Christmas shopping herd I hit the local Mall Wart bright and early this morning for just a few sundries. The location of the yogurt and milk has a purpose and I set out for the long march to the back wall of the store where they reside. This hike brought me past a display that some overly intelligent retail marketing analyst just knew might catch my eye. He was right….it was beautiful.

I had never seen the ”Guinness Winter Collection”  of Stouts and Ales before and was immediately intrigued by such names as “Guinness Generous Ale” and “Guinness Foreign Extra”.  I stopped to caress the package a moment or two before deciding that….

“I got enough beer for Christmas in the fridge.”

…..and so continued on to finish the shopping list without picking up the twelve pack. While staring at fruits and green peppers however, the words “Generous Ale” persistently crossed my mind. Just about halfway through the creeping checkout line the marketing manager won out and I abandoned my coveted spot in line to yet again make the long march to the back of the store in retrieval of my very own “Guinness Winter Collection.”

Having finally reached a checkout girl I placed all the groceries up on the counter saving the best for last. The “Winter Collection” was well on its way to land upon the conveyor when suddenly the top of the package parted ways. With only two surviving Ales the topless box hit the floor to erupt into a magnificent frothy Vesuvius. This event being highlighted by a chorus of groans from all in line and a bad word from the lady behind as thick, pungent froth raced over the top of her open toe shoe.

“Would you like to go get another twelve pack Sir?”  the checkout girl was smiling sweetly and my answer ….

“Of course”   …….brought yet another chorus of groans from all behind as I sidled by to make yet again, that long march to the back of the store to return red faced with my new Winter Collection clutched closely to my chest.

Sometimes we find ourselves caught up in humiliating experiences……..

And sometimes they’re just plain worth it……

” Merry Christmas Mall Wart Shoppers ! “

For most of us our lives begin facing the world carrying the name given at birth by adoring parents.  Names that are given for their pleasing sounds, or in memory of family past or present. And sometimes for no other reason than its uniqueness.  Many of us will happily carry no other name but those given at birth our entire lives…… those of us who are fortunate that is.

Then there are men who enter the harsh rough work life of masonry construction. Here many are re-named by those who are not their adoring parents but instead blue collar humorists.  These new and often descriptive names are not given in memory of loved ones nor given for their pleasing sounds. Instead these names are often branded upon the recipient cruelly pointing out physical deformities, past acts of idiocy or odd mannerisms. We of course need not describe here the origin of the “Lefties” or the “Tex’s.”  Men like “Stump” however may be worthy of some explanation. Poor “Stump”.

“Stump” acquired the name after somehow slamming a rather delicate appendage in the door of his Corvette before passing out..….”Cabbage Patch” earned his moniker as he looked exactly like one of those hand sewn cabbage patch dolls with its head stuffed in a jar. And if a human could possibly be twin to a chocolate chip muffin…well “Muffin” certainly could.  There are countless others that shall remain unwritten here until you are old enough to read them but I must leave you with one of the last that I knew.

We were working the mountainous area of western North Carolina and one of the young guys mother ran a local breakfast diner. One morning an emergency arose and she needed him to go pick up forty dozen eggs before he went to work and so he needed to hot foot it along if he was going to make it to the job site on time. He packed all forty dozen up front in the cab of the pickup with him in order that they didn’t get bounced around too much. Well the roads of western North Carolina are mighty narrow and mighty twisty and add that to a more than quick pace and well……

The pickup flipped over on a hard right bend to bounce off its roof before landing back on all fours. Both the driver and the pickup survived the ordeal though it was a fatality for each and every egg. That’s the morning people in Bryson City learned to eat bagels for breakfast, and that’s the morning he earned his new name…….         “Egg Roll”

Well the wife’s away on her annual family visit a few borders south of here and truth be known…this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Now I’ll tell ya… I am and have always been a free man, married or otherwise.  Those marital constraints in place are there by choice and so there is little need to take advantage of the fact  my freedom has suddenly become unsupervised. My friends will often ask  …..

“Buy a lot more beer while the wife’s away Rich?”     and I quickly answer….

“No …no I don’t…..I buy the same amount”

And that is in fact truth even if I tend to withhold the small detail that there is now no one I need to “share” that same amount of beer with.  This may well be the reason for the query I fielded this morning from the woman who cuts my hair…..

“Did you get drunk last night Rich?”          and for the life of me… I couldn’t remember.

Well the fresh haircut above the headache  and I drove home to kill an hour or two before going to work and I gave the garage a quick sweep before going in to build a sandwich and swallow mega doses of Advil. While standing there munching I looked out the front window to notice the Siberian Husky that lives across the street out on my front lawn frantically attacking  something. So long as he wasn’t frapping I really didn’t give a shit but ten minutes later when he was still there I became curious and so went outside to investigate.  The son of a bitch instantly bolted across the street abandoning the shredded victim of his attentions …… my sneaker.

I had left my sneakers at the door before entering the house just as I would have had the wife been here to enforce her rules. However, in the indulgence of my unsupervised freedom I had ignored the “close the garage door to keep critters out rule” and thus allowed Striker the Husky access to his lunch of New Balance sneaker. It’s not all bad however for now with my unsupervised freedom in hand I shall be permitted the joy of completely forgetting about the ruined shoe. Those who have ever been nagged two straight days in the Spanish language will know …what a true luxury that might be.

Let freedom ring.

In aide of increased profits and efficiency some corporate mind has devised a plan you might likely encounter upon your next use of an airline. You’ll notice, as did I, that they have now installed metal racks in order to gauge the size of your carry-on luggage. Just before you make it to the ticket counter you’ll be given opportunity to check the size of your hand luggage. If it fits the small rack it travels free and if it fits the next size a fee is charged. I’m guessing the theory is that the very limited space on an aircraft can miraculously be expanded if there is added profit involved meaning this part of the concept works. The efficiency part is what’s lagging however as an unexpected consequence has reared its ugly head. The line to the ticket counter is now hindered by tourists clothing and possessions strewn all over the floor as a panicked last moment rush to rearrange the contents of luggage takes place.

I believe it was some mediocre Spanish language skills which helped me gain employment at a “Big Box” in some small out of the way town in Florida. That’s why I thought it odd that not one of seven ticket agents at the Spirit Airlines counter in an international airport could communicate the concept of “the rack” to a poor hapless South American traveler ahead of us in the line. He needed to remove some items from the over stuffed bag in order for it to ride free and all the gesticulations and increased volume of the English language by the ticket agents weren’t helping .The wife kindly offered  the  information in his native tongue.

In short order it became apparent to an increasingly impatient queue of travelers that he hadn’t removed enough from the bag for it to fit as he again struggled to force it into the rack,  beads of sweat beginning to form. This is where my mediocre Spanish language skills kicked in and in hopes of helping I offered forth some advice….

“Lavantese a este…usado su pia”   ….. or roughly, use your foot, stand on it.

One hundred and fifty pounds of South American suddenly forced the bag into the rack thus offering it free travel and relief to the ever growing line of impatient travelers. Unfortunately the relief was short lived as we soon discovered the bag, having now expanded itself in the rack, was impossible to remove.

“Why did you tell him to do that ?”   barked the wife bringing some unwanted attention my way. Now some of the impatience seemed directed towards me and while trying to stare me down one of the would be passengers offered me this….

“Nice play Shakespeare…..got an encore?”

Three people were involved in the bags removal as we left and so I know not the outcome…

Couple of  weeks or so ago I gave thought to the British author Edward Bulwer-Lytonn as in the year 1839 he penned for his play  “Richelieu” some words I hold fond and dear. For act two of that barely famous play he wrote…….

True, This! —
Beneath the rule of men entirely great
The  pen is mightier than the sword. Behold
The  arch-enchanters wand! — itself nothing! —
But taking sorcery from the master-hand
To paralyze the Caesars, and to strike
The loud earth breathless! — Take away the sword —

States can be saved without it! …….

Diagonally behind us sits a house that last year became inhabited by a diversity group with seven children. Well the children disappeared in due course and I can only assume that Child Services removed them to be placed in a more responsible environment. Those fortunate children were soon replaced by seven unfortunate puppies. The house in which they resided might have sat inconspicuously but for the conspicuous fact that all the windows of the home were adorned with naught but black non see thru tarps. On occasion a window would be cracked to place a fan even though the AC was running creating a very  out of place ambience . That and the constant 15 minute cycle of traffic it was evident we had the classic grow house/meth lab combo going on. Consider me prejudice if you will….but I wanted them and the seven loud puppies gone.

Surreptitious and informative calls to the local constabulary brought no results and so  the need to force the hand erupted. The mighty quill penned a note mailed and received which in part read…..

“You be needing to be careful man. We hear that old neighbor dude be retired DEA.”

Three days after mail day they just up and moved on out. I do here confess that I do believe that there are occasions when violence truly is the answer. But I shall concede that sometimes it can be accomplished merely by the price of a stamp.

Should it be possible to describe a fish as possessing class that distinction must certainly go to the trout. Those that hunt them can’t help but note that trout live in places as wild and beautiful as they. Their lives are spent in cunning guile in prey of food and avoiding predators and to capture them with regularity is a hard earned privilege as there is so much to learn.

The rite of passage was over. The transition from spinning rod to seeking trout in moving waters solely with use of a fly rod came naturally though not with ease. Eventually the desire to cast upon those moving waters only self- tied flies in effort to bring a trout to surface creates another step to learn. Later still, comes the knowledge of what a trout eats, and when. To delicately place that self- made insect imitation upon the water’s surface and fool a trout to rise is fine reward. Eventually that was still not enough…there was yet another step to take.

I built my first fly rod in a solid week of evenings after work one early spring. Each night spent in concentration making sure that every detail was perfect. Every wrap of thread around the guides, the subtle curve of the handle made from thirteen rings of Portuguese cork, all as perfect as the exotic wood reel seat. These evenings gave me time to ponder the amount of pleasure the wife and I derived of our outings to special places seemingly known only to us and trout.

“I’d like the first trout on this rod to be a wild native.”      I said to Mag excitedly as I inspected my finished work of art.

“Let’s go fish the Ellis Stream on Saturday.”

So that was the plan, and ever so long in coming that Saturday finally arrived and found us on our way long before the sun. Two and half hours later I stood setting up the treasured new rod beneath the massive profile of Mt. Washington as the burble of the stream enticed me to hurry. Finally the moment had come and I abandoned the wife to hurriedly enter the path through the woods to the stream knowing…..just knowing that this rod was going to cast flies better than any rod I’ve ever seen. And then……

I walked the rod tip into a tree snapping it off just as the sky opened to pour down a torrent of rain as angry as I.  And in the span of twenty two seconds I was back in the truck with soaking wet clothes …and a broken work of art.

At risk of placing peoples into generalized groups I will note that differences in cultures often breed differences in even the most general of thought processes. My competitions in rifle shooting for instance have long brought from the wife’s Colombian friends and family that same tired old question…..

“How much money can you win?”

The answer of “nothing” often bringing on the mild look of disbelief tinged with a modicum of disdain. Inability to accept the concept of all that effort for no monetary gain is not an indictment of greed however. It’s simply that for some the little word … “competencia”…..  seemingly changes things from fun to work.  And who wants to work for free, right?

When our friend Jairo first came to the United States he heard of our local annual 100 mile bicycle race and being a long time cycle enthusiast he became somewhat enthused. Quite possibly due to lack of language skills some of the finer details of the race had escaped poor Jairo and he immediately went shopping for a garage sale bicycle. Now this race attracts a very serious cycling crowd and that can be attested to by the amount of money spent on slippery looking, color coordinated cycling clothes and helmets needed to pedal bicycles of value unfathomable by Jairo.   Prior to the start of the race the truly serious went through an impressive display of warm up stretches and drank specially formulated natural beverages as Jairo stood by in his cutoff jeans sipping a Coke for breakfast.

The race turned out to be a huge disappointment for many including poor Jairo who one hundred miles later came first across the finish line. This is where Jairo was to be confronted by one of those finer details of the race missed by inadequate language skills ….the prize. Now many would walk tall considering the quality of fellow competitors beaten that day but poor Jairo’s attitude was simple as he was simply pissed……

” Can’t buy groceries with a trophy.”

And I suppose there is a great deal of truth in that….

The wife and I have somewhat cliche stories to tell though I don’t know how to say that word in Spanish. Neither does she know the word cliche in English but I’ll use it here in description of the very classic immigrant stories we have to tell. As a young boy I arrived by ship to end the voyage passing the Statue of Liberty before setting foot upon that New York City dock just as millions had done before me. The wife also arrived in the United States by vessel. Unable to swim she crossed the Rio Grande on a tire tube to set foot on that river bank in Texas as millions had done before her.

The differences between the wife and I are many and seemingly endless but we live a life which would appear to be the mantra of of the Corporate World which rules over the “big box” where I once worked ….. “Diversity and Inclusion.” After all these years this is obviously something we believe in though we have learned that with out sincerity it has little chance. It must be backed by no extraneous motivation and face both directions…. or it must fail.

Looking at the map of Italy my boss of years ago, Achiles Bonaparte, came from the heel of the boot while his business partner Tony Tammaro hailed from a more refined Milan. They were Italian through and through and held great pride of that fact. They built a crew of masons to construct schools in northern Massachusetts and I’m very proud to say I was one of those men. We were the epitome of the American  melting pot, full of Italian born, American born, French Canadian with even Dominica and Israel represented. The differences between us were many and seemingly endless, but together we spent our work days under the hot sun chasing that American Dream.

One morning as we sat together sharing our coffee break and telling stories the local Mayor and other dignitaries arrived to take note of how many “foreign” licence plates were parked in that construction site parking lot in Massachusetts.

“We feel you should be hiring more local help if you are going to be doing work in this area.”…. is what the Mayor informed Achiles and continued on with…….. “We notice quite a few out of state New Hampshire licence plates here.”

…… and Achiles response was swift and with no waver as he gestured towards us all…….

“I’ma wanna you looka something you sonummabitch…….I’ma wanna you taka looka my crew….. local help ?… I’ma hire Americans you prick and thatsa good enough !”

And right there, right then , Achiles made us all feel exactly that… diverse, inclusive, American…….and proud.  And so Achiles, from one American to another…..

thank you, very much.

And so the old Hewlett Packard puked its final file to crash like the stock market of the 20s. Its seven years of files and pictures that I’ve been getting around to backing up suddenly lost forever. And so began that oh so familiar bout of endless anxieties brought on by shopping for something new. The first effort was a new Dell desk top package that we brought home with all the glee of a kid with a new toy. Hours later after endless phone discussions with technicians from Comcast , technicians from my modem manufacturer and some non English speaking   representative of Dell in Malaysia it became pointedly obvious…..no one could get this thing on line. So we carefully repacked the bitch and brought it back for the deserved refund.

The second attempt brought us to the place that promised itself to be the “Better Buy” where I asked a young man his help.

“You need to talk to one of them dudes in a blue shirt Man”   was his advice and I had to ask

“A blue shirt….like the one you’re wearing?” the color blind little twerp looked down at his apparel and mumbled something of little interest to me and I moved on to find someone else in a blue shirt with some semblance of coherence.

The resulting purchase was some super machine Asus all in one wireless package that the wife waxed eloquent over as it eliminated many ugly vines of wires hanging from the back of the desk. Unfortunately the super machine proved to be so slow and hung up so often that the following week it found itself flung upon the returns desk of the place known as the “Better Buy”. The well trained steely eyed twenty year old girl tried to stare me down while asking……

“Sir…did you check all the connections before bringing it back?”

“ No … no I didn’t. I want my money back….now.”

The third attempt included a question to a seemingly knowledgeable salesman in a blue shirt.

“Do you think the sound is better from the built in speakers of this monitor than that one?”

“Definitely Sir, in fact it’s $10.00 cheaper making it a better deal all round.”

Like the super Asus the week before the monitor found itself transported back across town to be flung upon the returns desk. The return to the store was because the sound was definitely not better than the other monitor costing $10.00 more. Having no internal speakers…… it had no sound at all……

   ” Somethings wrong  Rich !! …… somethings wrong !! “
 The tone of my wifes voice had me quickly up off the chair with that ball in the pit of my stomach. There was no doubt something was indeed wrong from the first word and it was only reinforced by her repeated and anxious call to …. 
   “Hurry something is wrong !”     She was referring to a nearby neighbor, a single mother, who was frantically calling out the name of her child as she paraded up and down the street.
  ” He’s gone…Oh my God he’s gone!  I can’t find him…Please…I can’t find him!”
 She screamed his name  again and again and with that horrible gnawing feeling we began searching the neighboring yards while the police were on the way.
  ” Rich go look across the  street…they have a pool!”  and the wifes inferance instantly brought back ugly moments long ago when I pulled a child , unconcious and black lipped, from a swimming pool. I’m ashamed to say I stood there wasting a long precious moment before rushing across the street in order to find the pool  thankfully empty .
  Numerous police on and off duty arrived by patrol car and bicycles as a helicopter arrived to hover back and forth across the neighborhood in search of a missing child. The situation became more intense with each passing minute, the searching more frantic and the mothers calls more anguished until we finally learned the outcome.
  I later thought of the resources involved in this mammoth effort to reunite a mother and child and came to conclude that nothing could be worth the price or effort more. How  we take for granted this place that has the wealth to afford police and helicopters sent into  action on the spur of the moment to aide but only one of us in need. There are those that would diminish those resources with the arguement of the necessity of austerity…but it wouldn’t be me.
  Turns out the kid was in school…just like he is every week day.  And so it would seem the cause of all this was nothing more than a mother’s confused awakening from an alcohol or pill induced slumber  to the belief that it was the weekend. She was taken away in an ambulance and I’ll likely never ask her why….. but we’ve seen it many times…and I know why.  And my wife was right……
     Something’s wrong …….

Some time early in my life the tone arm must have dropped with force driving the record needle deep into my vinyl back and thus creating an endless repeat of aggravations. My stories, though varied, seemingly tend to share a similar theme to the ones previous for I am a vinyl 45 rpm with a scratch …..I am the proverbial broken record. Thats what I was thinking as I headed home today from what most would deem a very simple task.
Way back in history when I purchased my first car the attached tires could be topped up with air at any gas station , any where, anytime . Just drive up to the American made “air pump”, crank the handle to the appropriate psi and wait for the bell to stop dinging ….no charge, thank you very much. I’ts not the present $1.00 charge that bothers me now so much as the hassle of finding an “air pump” thats operable as was proven again today.
The first place I stopped to top up the right front had removed its pump altogether thus beginning my all over town search for air. Second stop confronted me with the familiar Out of Order sign we’ve all grown familiar with taped to its face. Stop three set the tone of the day by glibbly accepting my money before permitting its defective Chinese nozzle to allow more air to escape the tire than it was capable of putting back in. I soft tired it over to stop four to take note that someone had removed the little lever to operate the nozzle…..
Stop five was bliss….I even threw an extra buck and vacumed the vehicle while I thought about buying a Chinese compressor in order that I might be able to suffer any future aggravations from the comfort of my own home.
So for now the air I breathe might still be free…but for how long if I must depend on the Chinese to put it in my tires ….

It being the fourth time back to the “Kingdom of Tires” tire sales chain within two thousand miles to fix a glitch I was border line snapping.

“Listen….your guys have balanced my tires three times and I’m still bump the friggin bump down the road. I think it’s time to swap them out. And might I remind you of the original installation when I had white lettering showing on only one side of the truck?”

Recognizing obvious aggravation when he sees it the apologetic manager quickly ditched out to the shop to loudly bellow…

“When was the last time we calibrated the balancer?”

Turns out that as it was something no one knew how to do it wasn’t on the list of chores to be performed with any regularity. All of this was what was on my mind fifty thousand miles later when the need for tires again reared it’s ugly head and so I headed down to a different branch of the “Kingdom of Tires”.

I tend to experience a great deal of déjà vu in my life and so there I was yet again heading down to the tire place early one Saturday morning with one of my tires keeping beat with the Oldies station on the radio. I pulled into the parking lot at opening time as did another F150 and we had a little race to see who might be first in line. Fortunately it was I that placed first as that meant I was first to hear…

“Sir…your vehicle is ready and I’m sure you’ll find no issues. Here are your keys.”

Five steps into the parking lot and I saw it there standing out proud as a pair of dogs testicles. So I turned right around and went back into confront Mr. No Issues who stood there looking in askance.

“I want to talk to you about the Michelin on the drivers side of my vehicle.”

“ Is there a problem with it Sir?”

“Yes… Michelins are like potato chips ….ya can’t have just one.”

“ Sorry Sir, I’m not following your train …what exactly is the problem?”

“The train , as I see it, is that the other three are B.F Goodrich …the Michelin belongs to someone else.”

“I’ll claim it.” said the other customer without looking up from the Sports Illustrated and I joined him to continue the article I hadn’t finished ….