Work in progress

 

One Way Down

1980

As a child, I always had to be doing something and sadly it wasn’t always a good thing. In other words, I either found a way to get into trouble or put others in harm’s way. I didn’t intentionally put my friends in harm’s way, it just came naturally. And yes, for some morbid reason, I found it funny when shit went sideways as long as I wasn’t the one enduring the pain. Although from time-to-time, I do recall laughing at myself post injury. Do you recall that one kid in the group that couldn’t walk a straight line if they tried, and the slightest wind might knock them off course? We had one of those friends. Steven White, A.K.A. Stevie. If danger lurked, Stevie found it. Heck, he caught his house on fire while his mother was at work. At the age of 12, he decided to cook some chicken in the oven, which turned to a grease fire that he didn’t know how to control. Unfortunately, the fire consumed his mother’s mobile home within 10 to 15 minutes. Thankfully, he and his sister made it out safely. Several years later, he and his family moved away, and if I recall, Stevie went to live with his father. Stevie’s father was also a Vietnam vet, like my own, so I have a feeling his mother felt it was time for some discipline.

            Before Stevie moved away, he was often part of our crazy adventures and mischief. At times, those activities led to injuries, vandalism, pranks, and brawls. I know, we didn’t sound like good little boys, but we never meant to hurt anyone or destroy anything just to be jerks. Usually, a crazy and fun idea turned into something more than we had intended. Simply said, I guess we got in over our heads occasionally. For instance, myself, Andy, Jason, and Troy tried to flush an M-100 (firecracker) down a public toilet. Our brilliant minds (mostly me) thought it would be funny to flush the firecracker down a toilet and blow all the toilet water and whatever else might be in it, all over the bathroom. Well, we blew more than toilet water out of the toilet. We blew the whole toilet off the wall and into one-inch square pieces. The restroom floor was covered in porcelain. Thus, leaving a gaping hole in the wall. Did we intend to vandalize the bathroom amenities, no. All we wanted to do was blow a little poop out of the toilet and laugh our asses off. Do you think we were bad boys because of this mishap? Heck no, we were just having fun! I may be slightly biased. Anyhew, this is one of many experiences that didn’t go as planned, and although Stevie wasn’t part of the Percival Landing bathroom renovation project; he was involved in the tree climbing experiment. Hmm…

            As you well know, I grew up in a trailer park and Stevie lived in that park too. Whenever I decided to jump on my bike or walk to Andy’s house, Stevie sometimes joined me. Andy lived approximately a half mile up the road. To get to Andy’s house, I crossed three to four hundred yards of tall grass with a handful of evergreens, which separated Wildwood mobile home park from King Arthur’s Court, another trailer park. Let’s put it this way, King Arthur’s Court is where I practiced my 100-yard dash. Yes, I said 100-yard dash! I don’t believe the 100-meter dash became a common practice until the mid-eighties. King Arthur’s Court was not the place to hang out! Bad things happened in King Arthur’s Court. I sprinted from one side of the park to the other, hoping not to be seen. As I reached the opposite side, I came upon a thicket of evergreens that divided King Arthurs’s Court from Any’s house. The thicket spanned another three or four hundred yards. If you’ve ever been in a thicket of evergreens, it is dark and spooky. Thus, I usually brought a friend.

One Saturday morning, probably late Spring, or early Summer, Stevie and I strolled up to Andy’s house. We crossed the field behind my trailer, booked it across King Arthur’s Court, and quickly made our way through a blanket of evergreens to Andy’s. I’m not sure if I mentioned this in my other stories but Andy’s early years were spent growing up in a Skateboard Park. Remember Alvie, the skateboarding dog? Literally, Andy lived upstairs, while the company business ran out of the bottom story. Andy’s parents converted a two-story house into a home and business. To the rear of the house was the actual skateboard part, protected by a massive steal building. In Washington, it rains, and it rains a lot! Without protection from the weather, the skateboard part had no chance of surviving. Instead, Andy’s parents did quite well with their investment. I cannot tell you how much I wanted to skate in that park, but the cost of equipment and rental time didn’t fit into my parents’ budget. Oh well, I think recognizing the blessings you do have is a better means of looking at someone else’s riches. I’m sure there were things about my life that Andy wished he had, or maybe not, but I think you get what I’m putting down. Just as Stevie and I got to the edge of the thicket that opened to Andy’s yellow two story, there sat Sam’s doghouse and a large steel pipe that butted up against it. After the assembly of the skateboard park, the 20 foot by two-foot pipe served as a fun place to hide out or crawl through, so his parents left it for us to enjoy. Sometimes Joe came out to greet us and sometimes he didn’t. Sam was an old black lab with plenty of grey around his muzzle and one of the sweetest tempered dogs you ever met. As old as Sam might have been, he loved to hang out with us and follow us wherever we decided to go. Sadly, old Joe was struck by a motor vehicle not too long after Andy and I became friends, which ended his life. It is sad the way he had to leave this earth, but I cannot say he didn’t live a long and eventful life with us around. I believe he made it to the ripe old age of 14 or 15 years.

            As Stevie and I walked up the staircase to Andy’s front door, we heard Andy and Ricky arguing about the time Stevie and I were showing up. We also heard Nancy in the background telling them to get their shoes on and get outside. I think she was getting tired of the bickering, thus her patience for peace and quiet was wearing thin. KNOCK, KNOCK…

“Hang on,” said Andy.

Stevie and I stood there waiting and listening to footsteps and running around the interior of the house. It was obvious that Andy and Ricky were not ready, but Nancy quickly made her way to the front door. The lock turned, then the handle and the door opened as Nancy stood there with arms wide open. Nancy loved her boys and that meant all her boys. She always greeted us with a hug and welcomed us like we were her own. I never felt more loved than when I visited Nancy’s or Kathy’s (Troy’s mom) home. Although both mothers showed me special interest after my mother died, they would have done the same for any one of us. To this day, I still remember the player piano at Andy’s house and singing with his mother as we played the gambler. Those are memories that you never forget and cherish forever. “Thank you for the great times, Nancy. You will never be forgotten!”

“Come on in boys and give me a hug.” And Nancy smiled.

Stevie and I wasted no time running up to Nancy and embracing her wonderful hugs. And, considering a certain something of large proportion happened to be at head height, we didn’t mind a bit. Hey, we were pre-teens. Meaning, we got a hall pass!

I looked over at Andy and said, “Andy, what are we going to do?”

Before Andy answered, Ricky quickly chimed in. “Let’s go exploring or play army.”

I said, “What about the woods across from my house? I snuck over there the other day and found a pond full of tadpoles.”

Stevie added, “Wow, big ones?”

“Stevie, you wouldn’t believe the size of them. Some were as big as my hand!” I replied.

Nancy stood there watching us with her eyes wide open and her mouth slightly exposed as she lived through our excitement. I can see her face now.

“Well boys, you can’t leave before I feed you some pancakes. So, pull up a chair.” And Nancy pointed at the kitchen table.

We never argued with Nancy because we knew we’d never win. Her persistence always exhausted us because she did nothing but make us feel like a million dollars. And, with lots of hugs and kisses. Sometimes too many hugs and kisses. Definitely! Anyway, Andy snapped,
“I’m going outside, and we can figure it out then! I don’t really care what you decide but let’s get outside.” We all looked at Andy with a slight upward movement of the chin, eyes slightly squint; thinking, “WHAT CRAWLED UP YOUR BUTT AND DIED?”

Nancy was quick to smother Andy’s fire. “Andy, you need to eat, and you are grumpy when you don’t eat. Go sit down!”

“Yah, yah.” Andy replied and we all sat down at the table.

            There was nothing like Bob and Nancy’s pancakes! When Bob stepped into the kitchen to whip up some pancakes, we came running. I don’t know what he did to his pancakes, but they always came out light and fluffy and as big as a dinner plate. He always used a cast iron pan and managed to get the perfect golden-brown color on both sides of his pancakes. Bob, met you at the table with his skillet, slapped the pancake on your plate, and started cooking up another one. I made sure to dig into a nice chunk of butter and spread it quickly over the top of my pancake while it was hot. Then I swirled maple syrup from the middle of the pancake to the outer edges. I can taste that pancake right now! Wow! I’ll be back in a minute; I need to go and throw some pancakes on the stove! Haha…

Bob was Andy’s stepdad. Bob always made sure to take care of us boys when it came to food but most of the time, he kept a close eye on us and made sure to let us know he kept a close eye on us. Have you ever met a person you cannot read? Well, Bob was one of those people. It was very difficult to tell if he was serious or not. That being said, our uncertainty kept us on our toes for fear that we might do something he didn’t like. So, we didn’t waste any time eating those pancakes and getting outside!

Andy was the first one to jump up from the kitchen table. He put on his shoes, a light brown wind breaker, a beanie, and added. “I will see you guys outside. Bob, don’t take forever eating those pancakes like you eat your lunch at school!”

Andy turned around just before he opened the front door and mimicked me eating. He exaggerated slowly lifting his hand to his mouth like he was holding a fork feeding himself. So slow, it gave me anxiety watching him. He laughed and so did the rest of the guys at the table. I grumbled a bit, but Nancy made sure to tell him to knock it off and get outside. Andy was right though, I did eat like it was my last meal! I think I was too busy daydreaming. I’d go into a deep and creepy stare as though I was in a trance. Sometimes I’d be staring right at someone, and they would have to snap me out of it. There is nothing like eating with a group of people and someone across the table from you fixates their eyes on you without blinking. It kind of freaks a person out. I followed Nancy’s remark with...

“Yah Andy, go outside.”

Andy didn’t respond to my remark verbally, but the sound of the door slamming, said it all. No matter how insistent he may have been, it never helped to speed me up. At that age, I ate at one pace, and that’s that. Perhaps I wanted to enjoy my food rather than inhale like the rest. Although there were times when I had no problem shoveling food down my throat, especially cheeseburgers, tacos, or chili dogs. Then again, what teenage boy didn’t eat those foods like he wasn’t in a race!  Eventually, we all managed to finish eating, put on our shoes and jackets and head outside.

“Andy, whatcha looking at?” I asked.

Andy was standing by Sam’s doghouse with his head tilted back, looking straight up and into the trees as though he had an idea. Stevie walked up next to him and laid his hand on the roof of the doghouse and looked up and into the trees beside him.

“Andy, is there something up there?” Stevie whispered.  

Before you knew it, every one of us stook there looking into the treetops like we were waiting for the second coming of Christ. Finally, Andy spoke up after what seemed like eternity for the rest of us wondering what was going on in his adventurous brain.  

“Wouldn’t it be fun to cross from one tree to the other?”

“Not me!” Stevie replied.

Ricky said, “Come on Stevie, this will be fun.” But Stevie just stood there and stared up and into the tree.

I had tried this trick before, but the trees were only ten to twelve feet high, so I really didn’t have any concerns about falling. These trees, much higher! I’d say twenty to twenty-five feet from the base of the tree to within four or five feet of the top. Hence, bodily damage most likely would occur if one of us fell. That being said, do you think four teenage boys contemplated the possibility of broken bones and a trip to the ER? Perhaps for a split second. Then again, not!

Andy started climbing up the tree one branch at a time muttering.

“This is easy, and it will be fun. Come on guys. What else is there to do?” I’m sure Stevie could think of something else to do but peer pressure appeared to be too much for him to resist.

Andy yelled down, “Stevie, why don’t you follow me, and Bob can follow you, so you don’t get scared?” Before Stevie could answer, Ricky and I quickly spouted.

            “Like I said Stevie, this will be fun. You have nothing to worry about. Andy and Bob have done this many times and haven’t fallen yet.”

I added, “True, and the only time I did fall, I was swaying the top of the tree back and forth. The top broke but I wasn’t high enough to hurt myself. Anyway, we aren’t swinging the three back and forth, we’re crossing from one tree to the other. Easy-peasy!”

I looked at Stevie and said, “Stevie, step right up. Put your hand up there and grab that branch. Now, put your foot in my hands and I will help you to the second branch.”

Stevie, being a bit portly, needed a little help because he wasn’t quite as agile or coordinated as the rest of us. So, I put out my hands.

“I don’t know about this.” Stevie replied.

Both Ricky and Andy said, “Stevie, Stevie, Stevie.”

Nothing like a good peer pressure chant to get you fired up. Stevie stepped into my hands and reached for the branch, already grunting and making a whining sound.

I asked, “Do you have a good hold?”

Stevie replied. “Yah, I got it.”

“OK, now push up with your foot and grab the other branch with your left hand and pull yourself up.”

Stevie managed to get himself into the tree and proceed up the trunk behind Andy. As I looked up at him, I can remember his knees shaking with every step. Although I must admit, once you were in an Evergreen, the climbing was easy. The branches lined up like the steps on a ladder. One to the right and one to the left, all the way to the top. The drawback! Sap up the kazoo. Evergreens oozed sap. Do you recall Christmas Vacation where Chevy Chase cut down an enormous Christmas Tree and brought it home? That evening in bed he attempted to read a magazine and every page he touched stuck to his fingers. I still laugh at him getting irritated and shaking his hand like a crazy person trying to get the paper to loosen. This depiction is spot on! Can you imagine trying to wipe your bum and the toilet paper won’t release from your fingers? Not good! The gang always went home with black and sticky covered hands and fingers. Our moms were just thrilled because it often took weeks for the sap to completely disappear. It’s not that our moms had a problem with their boys getting dirty and sticky. It’s the fact that their boys looked neglected because they always looked dirty, and for most moms, that’s a big deal. My mom made sure I was clean and well dressed even if it was the weekend and she knew I was going to come back from climbing trees, digging holes, or fishing all day. So, even though she knew I was coming back covered in whatever disaster I ran into; I left the house without any question to whether my mother was a good mom. That was clear to everyone.

“Aww man…my mom is going to be so mad. I got sap all over my hands.” Stevie whined.

Andy piped up. “Ah, quit your whining…Stevie!”

            Stevie grumbled and kept climbing, while I followed close behind. Oh, in case you’re thinking about climbing a tree any time soon, don’t look directly at the person climbing above you. Trees lose bark, pine needles, and moss that will fall directly in your eye! That’s right, I said eye, singular, as though you have one. Why? No matter how careful you are, and no matter which eye or both eyes you try to squint or close, the one eye that is open will always get shit in it when you look up at the guy above you. Then, you’re digging the piece of crap out of your eye for the next week. Unfortunately, tree climbing is a fine are that only comes from experience.

            From below, Ricky watched us maneuver our way up the tree. Yelling up at us, he said, “I’m going to wait until one of you make it across before starting up.” Truth, I believe he was the smart one in the group and treated us like Ginny Pigs. You will soon find out his decision was a good one. As most of us know, the base of a tree branch narrows the higher up the tree you ascend. That being said, the narrower the stump of the branch, the weaker. Thus, they can break or bend much easier than the thinker branches. Now, add weight limits to those branches. Each branch, depending on the thickness of the base, will bare more or less weight. Stevie weighed considerably more than the rest of us. I guess 50 to 75 pounds. So, this decreased the weight limit the higher we climbed. Branches, ten feet from the top of the tree may hold Andy, Ricky and I but in all probability, not Stevie. Being teenage boys, this thought did not cross our mind. All we imagined in our little brains was traversing one tree to the other and looking cool while doing it. Poor Stevie!

            Andy looked down and said, “Put out your hands when Stevie crosses.”

            “Ha, ha…” Ricky replied.

            Stevie didn’t think Andy was funny at all. “I want to get down. I don’t want to do this. I’m scared. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Are you sure these branches are going to hold?” I’m sure from Stevie’s view, he had legitimate reasoning to want to go back while looking down 25 feet or so to the bottom. He was already unsure of the climb, so this didn’t help.

            While Stevie ceased to move further up the tree, he held on for dear life. I said, “Stevie, you’re better off crossing and climbing down the other tree rather than me backing down. You know how hard it was getting into the tree. Just imagine getting down! The other tree is closer to Sam’s doghouse, so you’ll be able to step down on to it.” This brings to question, why didn’t we start from the other tree. God only knows. 

            Stevie stuttered, “I want to see Andy do it first!”

            “Alright Stevie, watch carefully and you too can be one of the cool guys.” Ok, let’s take a minute with this statement. First, Andy did not mean it literally. This remark was loaded with sarcasm. We always made fun of the kids that were made out to be cool because they did something stupid or unique in some odd sort of way. For example, I can remember some kid in school that thought it would be funny to run into classroom windows like he didn’t see it coming. The classroom was full of kids at the time and everyone’s belly rolled. Naturally, the idget’s popularity soared. Sometimes the method by which people gain popularity is befuddling. “Catch me outside. How about that!” I’m not relinquishing the person that became famous and a millionaire for that saying. Look it up if you don’t know who I am talking about, and you will understand where I’m coming from. Second, Andy was simply trying to apply a little peer pressure and a little asshole along with it. Sorry, but we were young preteens. We did some cruel things to our friends. Something I’m not proud of but at least I grew up and don’t do it anymore. I’m much better at it now. No…no!

            Stevie’s eyes bulged with intensity as he stared at Andy’s first step from the tree we were in, to the tree next to us. If I were to guess, the span would be between four and five feet. In other words, a good three-quarter split should get the job done. Yes, you read that right. I said should. Anyway, you need to consider that we only stood four to five feet tall. Therefore, those individuals lacking dexterity and flexibility might have a slight dilemma. Stevie…hmm. As Andy’s foot came to rest on the branch of the other tree, I heard Stevie sigh and whisper to himself, “That doesn’t look hard.” Then, Andy grabbed an upper branch from the other tree and pulled himself over, and the other leg followed to a neighboring branch. He held on and hollered down.

            “See Stevie, just like that. There is even a mark on the branch where I put my foot. A little sticky too from the sap, so you don’t have to worry about slipping. Just make sure to grab one of the branches when you get your food across.” No real explanation from Andy as to why it was important to grab a branch. I think that was pretty obvious but then again, some of us need an explanation. “I will stay right here but on the other side, if that makes you feel better?”

            Stevie didn’t answer right away. I think he was still processing the end result. If he didn’t get his foot on that branch, what then?

            Impatiently, Andy said, “Well!”

            I had to help with this one because Stevie was still frozen to the tree. “Stevie, just think. If you do this, you can tell all your friends in school. How many of them have done this? You can do this!”

            Standing by Sam’s doghouse, Ricky awaited the greatest trapeze act of the early eighties and couldn’t’ help but add to the peer pressure. “Come on Stevie, Sam’s even watching. You can’t let the old dog down.” And they wonder why peer pressure gets so many people into trouble. Even us old farts! You’d think we’d learned our lesson by now. Unfortunately, we still fall subject to our friends trying to get us to do things we know we shouldn’t do because our bodies aren’t what they used to be. Such as, “Aww…you can have another one.” I’ll leave that story for another day.

            Suddenly, Stevie began to move in the right direction, upwards. I think all of us were in shock considering the grasp he had on that poor tree. If it were a person, I guarantee the tree would have turned blue. Stevie slowly made his way up to the spot where Andy spanned the great continental divide. I could hear Stevie under his breath repeating, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it…” Yep, just like the little engine that could. I guess the most important audience member was Sam. As soon as Stevie heard that Sam was watching, he wasted no time getting his arms and legs moving. Every one of us loved Sam and nobody wanted to disappoint that old black lab, not even Stevie.     

            Ricky saw that Andy made it across, so he gave a shout out, “Way to go, Andy. It looked really cool from down here. When is Stevie going?”

            Before Andy or I could say anything, Stevie reluctantly said, “I’m going now.”

            Looking up at Stevie, I quickly started to talk him through it. “Stevie---first, reach out and grab one of those branches in front of you.” Stevie reached out slowly but grabbed the branch in front of him with determination, and before I could say, “Now step---” Stevie stepped over to the exact branch that Andy stepped on. He resembled that of a pro. Alex Honnold would have been proud. And, for those of you unfamiliar with Alex, he free soloed El Capitan in Yosemite, CA. That happens to be a 2,900-foot climb up a vertical and sheer rock face without a rope, and he did it in less than four hours. Insane!!

            Andy showed his support by saying, “Good job Stevie! See! That was easy. You made it look even easier than I did. Now hold on and swing your other hand and foot over.” Here we are, that moment we’ve all been waiting for, and that moment where each and every one of us has been at least once in our lives. You get yourself into a predicament that you don’t know how to get out of, and you know no matter what you do, it isn’t going to be good. Stevie froze!! I hung on just below in anticipation. Andy huffed and puffed with worry. Peering up at us, Ricky paced below. Stevie didn’t budge an inch. He stood there spread eagle hanging on for dear life and letting out a high pitch squeal. Clearly, it was the sound of fear!

            I had to do something, so I started climbing my way up to Stevie while talking to him. “Stevie, I’ll be right there. Just hold on and I’ll see if I can help you get back.” As I passed by Stevie’s feet, which were level with my line of vision, I saw the branches slowly bending downward. That’s when a little light bulb turned on in my wee little brain, and I didn’t like what I saw! I had a bad feeling this wasn’t going to end well.

            Andy kept telling Stevie, “Hang on, just hang on. Bob will help you back. Or, you need to do what I said and swing your leg over.”

            Stevie: “No, I’m scared. I can’t move. I don’t know what to do. I---.”

            Me: “Stevie, don’t listen to Andy. Stay there and I will help you.”  

            From Below, Ricky yelled up at us. “What’s going on? Do I need to get Mom and Dad?”

            As fast as Speedy Gonzales, Andy spouted, “No, if you get Mom and Dad, were going to get in trouble. He can do this!”

            At this point, I was straight across from Stevie and staring directly into the eyes of absolute fear. He glared back at me trembling and squealing. The waterworks poured from his eyes and I’m pretty sure he had an accident, but considering the circumstance, we didn’t say anything. Like a bear hugging a tree, I reached around one side of the tree trunk and grabbed Stevie’s arm, “Don’t let go, just reach over and grab my other hand. You can do it, just grab my hand.”

            “Listen to Bob, Stevie! He’s got you.” Andy stated.

            As the words left Andy’s mouth, the branches under Stevie’s feet reached their breaking point; and to be honest, I’m surprised the branches lasted as long as they did. Stevie was a big boy and had no logical reason to climb a tree. Just a few buttholes for friends egging him on.  FYI, we weighed approximately 70 to 80 pounds and Stevie weighed between 130 and 140. Both branches gave way and Stevie’s feet slid inward along the downward shaft of each branch. Even though I had a hold on his arm and Andy reached over to grab the other, we could not keep him from falling. Stevie’s squealing pitch grew to heights that may have shattered a wine glass. His eyes reminded me of DEFCON stages, from normal readiness, starting at DEFCON 5, to maximum readiness, ending at DEFCON 1. I don’t believe I have ever seen whiter eyes. They could not have grown any bigger!

            Except for the squeal coming from Stevie, an awkward silence overcame the rest of us, and everything slowed down. Andy and I had sideline seats and Ricky stood by ready as a referee to make the call. As Stevie started to fall, he could no longer hold on to the branches due to his size and weight. Although he did his darndest to grab the branches on the way down, which I believe slowed his descent. Andy and I watched Stevie fall dead center to the two trees and with every foot he descended, a branch sprung upward as his face grew smaller. We watched him disappear into the lower canopy of the tree. Then came a thud, a grunt, and a ringing sound similar to that of a gong (remember the long pipe next to Sam’s doghouse). Before anyone could say anything, Sam came flying out of his doghouse at Mach 2, “Yipe, Yipe, Yipe---.” The poor dog had the crap scared out of him. To this day, I wonder if he may have literally left a trail behind.

            Ricky: “Touchdown!”

            And no, he didn’t really say that. Ricky stood there in awe as we yelled down to him.

            Me: “Ricky, is Stevie alright? We are coming down.”

            Andy: “Ricky, is he alright? Is anything broken? Is he breathing?”

            Ricky: “Just a second, he’s moving. I think he’s OK.”

            Stevie, slow to get up, fell approximately 20 to 25 feet. He struck Sam’s doghouse, then rolled off and hit his head on the long metal pipe next to it, and onto the ground. It was amazing he survived! And he got up on his own power. Also, Sam’s doghouse didn’t have a flat roof but an A-Frame. He’s lucky it didn’t split him in two. Andy and I dropped out of the tree to see Ricky brushing the pine needles and dirt from Stevie’s shirt and pants. He had some scratches and scrapes on his arms and face but that was about it. If he broke something, we didn’t see it. Andy and I stood there staring at Stevie in silence as he moaned. That deep guttural moan one gets when they’ve been constipated for a week. Truth be it; this was very scary. We had no idea what rest before us. Stevie could not stand straight and clinched his lower back while gritting his teeth. I could see he wasn’t doing very good, so I felt the need to break the tension. Me, being who I am, can have a strange and morbid sense of humor, and sometimes it comes in handy at just the right moment. That being said, the first words out of my mouth were, “I think you left your ass on top of Sam’s doghouse along with a turd or two.” Now think back. You cannot tell me at least once in your life you didn’t do something crazy or stupid while suffering a painful outcome, and one of your friends thought it funny to crack a joke. What happened? The same thing happened to us. No matter how much pain Stevie was in, he and the rest of us couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Tears of happiness streamed down our faces. Unfortunately, at the expense of our friend. 

            While everyone continued to laugh, Stevie kept saying, “Stoooooop, just stoooooop, it hurts to laugh. I’m really hurt guys. I want to go hoooooome...I want to go home!”

            Again, I piped up and said, “Well that’s one way to do it (‘I want to go home’), but I think you’re a little young. At least that’s what my grandmother says happens to you when you die.” And everybody started laughing even harder. I should probably correct myself. Everybody but Stevie laughed this time. Hence, my jokes weren’t funny to him anymore. 

            “That’s probably enough Bob. I need to go tell Mom and Dad what happened in case he needs to go to the Dr. Stevie; I’ll be right back.” Andy turned from Stevie and ran up the long driveway to his house. Suddenly, and out of know where, came Sam, darting out of the brush, just along the tree line down from us. He was on Andy’s heals. I think Sam was done with us for the day considering the rude awakening that transpired from Stevie landing on his house. Stevie continued to moan and take tiny steps in the direction that he and I came from on our way to Andy and Ricky’s house. Ricky held Stevie’s arm and helped guide him into the thicket of trees.

            While Andy went to get Nancy and Bob, I tried to convince Stevie to stay. “Stevie, maybe you should wait for Nancy. I’m sure she can help. Or maybe Bob can drive you home.”

            Ricky tried to back me up, but Stevie wasn’t having it. “Stevie, you should listen to Bob. Mom and Dad will be here soon and I’m sure we have some Band-Aids to stop the bleeding.”

            “I don’t want to stay. I want to go home now! I want my mom!!” The tears were still running down his cheeks, while he gritted those teeth and held on to his back. He turned his back to us and headed into the trees. Before we knew it, he was gone. Ricky and I stood alone; our eyes glued to the dense forest before us.

            “Don’t go! Stevie! My parents are going to be mad. You left your t-shirt.” Ricky figured he’d at least come back for his shirt. If I remember correctly, it was a pretty chilly day because I can still see the condensation on the pipe Stevie decided to test with his head. Anybody familiar with the State of Washington knows what I’m talking about. It seems people always associate the state of Washington as cold, wet, and rainy, which isn’t far off. Frankly, poor Stevie had a long frigid walk home. At least he had a little insulation to keep him warmer than the average person. Perhaps the numbing cold helped to ease his pain??

            “Ricky! Bob! Stevie! Mom wants you to come to the house. And she wants you to come right now.” Our heads turned quickly in the direction of the house. We could see Andy waving us towards him. You know that miserable turning of the gut when you know you’ve screwed up. Well, that’s the feeling Ricky and I had at that moment. We knew the day wasn’t going to end well and we had some serious explaining to do. First, we had to explain where Stevie was and why we let him go home, and why one of us didn’t go with him. Second, we had to call his mom. Third, we had to tell our parents what we did and what happened. Clearly, a stinky chain of events. Fortunately, we all lived to see another day. Unfortunately, Stevie suffered a lower spinal injury. I can’t tell you the specifics, but I can tell you that he had severe back problems from that day forward. I don’t believe I ever saw the poor kid walk perfectly upright again. If you ever visit the Notre Dame Cathedral, you may find him ringing the bells. “Sorry, I couldn’t help that one.”

Free and as clean as a whistle

1985

            There I stood, looking at the students cramming the halls of Capital High School like sausage in a tube…ewww. Yep, I said high school. I know I jumped ahead a bit, but this story jumped into my crazy brain and proceeded to jump again, landing on this paper. Capital High School is located in Olympia Washington, or some say, the “West Side,” of Olympia. This is where I spent four years of my teenage life. And … I spent four of those years primarily hanging out with Andy. Troy and Ricky graduated from the class of ‘88, so they were one year behind us. That’s right, I graduated from the class of ‘87. I’m now 55, and to be honest, it seems like it was only yesterday.  Time really does fly.

            “Andy! Andy!” I tried my damnedest to get Andy’s attention as he stepped into the congested traffic ways of Capital’s halls. Students walked shoulder to shoulder as they scurried in the direction of their pods. I’m sure you’re wondering what I meant by pods, so… from the air and looking down on Capital High, envision a hub with sprockets, and at the end of those sprockets are four smaller hubs. This is the architecture of Capital High. I found it quite unique in comparison to other schools. The central hub joined all the halls that led to the pods, which became very congested during classroom interchange. This time, I projected my voice, and boy could I project. “Andy!! Andy!!” He turned in my direction, looked right at me and gestured upward with his chin. I waved him towards me, and he started in my direction. He bounced from one body to the next, much like a ball striking the bumpers in pinball. Perhaps not as severe but it sure seemed like it. Kids were everywhere and going in all directions, but Andy finally emerged from the crowd.

            “Hey, what are you doing after school?”

            “I don’t know, I’ll probably go fishing.” This happened to be my favorite past time. From the age of 12 to 18, I spent most of my waking moments fishing off Troy’s dock. The dock, made of wooden planks, floated on massive Styrofoam blocks. The dock was secured by pilings every 20 feet or so. This kept you from being swept away and steadied the dock during bad weather or the wake of a passing boat. It was the perfect place to fish, especially if you didn’t have a boat. Troy and I may not have lived on an island like Andy, but we did live very close to the water. Andy lived on Steamboat Island and the road that led there was Steamboat Island Road. We lived on Gravelly Beach Loop, which veered away from Steamboat Island Road in a northeasterly direction. Gravelly Beach Loop looked much like a lasso. Imagine the spoke of a lasso attached to Steamboat Island Road and the loop opening to a bordered inlet for 2 to 3 miles, then looping back to the spoke. Our homes were no more than a hundred feet or less from the water’s edge, and we lived no more than a block from each other. The drive home lasted about 30 minutes to my front door, and I could be to Troy’s dock within 15 to 20 minutes after slipping out of my clothes and grabbing a bite to eat. The thought of going fishing sounded very appealing, even more appealing than cruising the town for babes, which was the popular thing to do on a Friday night in ‘85. 

            “Did you check the tide?” Andy asked.

            “No, you’re the one with the tide table. I thought the tide was on its way out this morning?” Those of you unfamiliar with the bay, for some reason, fishing is a thousand times better when the tide is on its way in. Perhaps, the fish are afraid of getting beached if they don’t move to deeper water. I’m not entirely sure, but I can tell from experience, it’s pretty much a waste of time fishing while the tide is on its way out, unless you’re in a boat and well away from the shore.

            Slightly agitated, Andy said, “Yes. I thought about fishing too, but I didn’t have enough time to check the drift lines.”

            “Well…I’m pretty sure it was going out because the mud looked wet, and there was a lot of driftwood and leaves.” When the tide came in, the mud usually appeared dry because it was exposed to the sun and air for several hours.

            “Hmm…you’re probably right then. By the time we get home, it should be pretty close to high tide. I think I’ll---”

            “Why don’t you meet me at Troy’s then? I’ll grab my pole and pixie and head over after I grab something to eat.”

            Andy: “If you’d let me finish, I was going to tell you to join me instead. Mom wants Ricky and I to help her unload the groceries when we get home.”

            Me: “Let me think about it. I have to take care of Pixie before I go anywhere. I need to feed her and let her outside---”

            Andy: “Is your dad at work?”

            Me: “He works swings, remember?”

            Andy: “That’s right…well…let me know if you decide to head out?”

            I had a decision to make. I didn’t want to go home and then drive all the way out to Andy’s, but I had to take care of my dog first. Also, I knew if I went home, did my chores, and drove out to the island, the tide would be going back out by the time I got there. Therefore, I concluded, this was a lose-lose situation. I decided to stay home.

            “Andy, I’m going to stay home and head down to Troy’s. Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

            Andy’s eyes looked down for a second and back at me. “I don’t think so, but I’ll check with mom and get back to you.”

            “OK, I guess I’ll wait for your call or head over anyway. If you’re busy, I can act like you didn’t know I was coming over.” This method of manipulating the parents happened often. Usually, if a friend showed up unannounced and we had chores to do, our parents felt pressured into letting us hang out because they didn’t want to be rude and send the friend home. Thus, getting out of our chores. Score!!

            “Sounds good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Andy turned and headed towards the doors to the parking lot, and I turned in the opposite direction. I still needed to grab my homework from my locker.

            SALT AIR MOBILE HOME PARK…I could see the sign to the park up the road and to the right. Troy’s driveway was only a few hundred feet from the entrance to Salt Air. I may have neglected to mention; in 1980, halfway through my 6^th grade year, my parents decided to move. And yes, we moved to another mobile home park. To this day, I have no idea why my parents chose to live in a mobile home. Between the two of them, I’m sure they made enough money to afford a real house. No offense, but mobile homes were essentially made from balsawood, wood paneling, and tin roofs. The home at Wildwood mobile home park had a tin roof, and you heard every rain drop, from the first to the last. Sometimes it can be soothing but most of the time, annoying has hell!  Also, I saw a mobile home burn to the ground in less than 10 minutes. It’s simple, most of the elements in a mobile home are, or were, highly combustible. For example, if you add a piece of tin to a fire, the fire gets very hot because the tin redirects the heat back to the fire, thus increasing the temperature. A mobile home is no different. At least my parents chose a beautiful place to live, and the roof of our newly manufactured home (same as a mobile but built after 1976) was composite. The deafening sound of a rainstorm no longer threatened the serenity of our home. Yay!  

            Making a right turn into the park, I saw a convoy of ducks crossing the road in front of me. It was a popular duck crossing and came with a sign…DUCK CROSSING. So, the majority of people slowed down and let the Mallards cross, and occasionally, a Goose or two joined them. Yes, I said the majority of people slowed down. My father was not part of the majority. I can remember walking to the bus stop and seeing dead ducks and having no idea who was running them over; until I mentioned the carnage to my dad. Vietnam did not help my father’s compassion for the loss of life, especially animals that made him angry. One day, my dad decided to go for a run, and as he reached the southernmost corner of the park, the ducks and geese were playing follow the leader, thus forming a single file line perpendicular to the roadway. He stopped in honor of the parade before him, but one goose in particular, did not like his presence. He claims the goose broke formation and headed straight for him; neck and head extended out, squawking, and flapping its winds. He also stated that he tried to shoo the goose away but that didn’t stop him. The goose grabbed my dad by the back of the leg and didn’t let go and knowing my father, he need not say anymore. To my knowledge, the goose never returned to the lineup and from that day forward, my dad’s version of DUCK CROSSING changed to DUCK CARCUSES! “Yes, my father is a serial duck and goose killer!” It’s not as bad as it sounds. I think he kept the kill ratio down to one or two a week. Thankfully, I did not develop this terrible characteristic. When the last duck crossed the road, I continued up and around the southern corner of the park until I reached space #14.

            Pulling into the driveway, I turned off the car, pulled the emergency brake, and quickly jumped out and ran to the front door. Fumbling for my house key, I heard Pixie’s claws tapping the leno as she ran up to the door barking. Animals are very accustomed to a routine, so it would not surprise me if Pixie knew that it was Friday and we’d be down by the water soon. Opening the door, Pixie jumped on my leg…tail wagging and whimpering with excitement. I let her outside to go potty while I went out to the shed and grabbed my fishing pole and tackle box. I ran with a Zebco open face reel but for the life of me, I cannot remember the pole I used. I do recall using a 20 lb. test with a two- or three-foot metal leader. You never knew when you might hook into a dogfish (small mud shark) and have it bite through your nylon line. Lures were not cheap then, and they’re not cheap now. I liked spoons, triple teasers, and buzz bombs. Because I spent a lot of my time bobber fishing for perch and catfish while visiting my grandfather in Olivehurst California, I preferred cast fishing back at home. It helped the time to pass and gave me options, rather than sitting and waiting for a fish to bite. Unless you were deep sea fishing, bottom fishing in the bay didn’t offer a wide variety of fish worth catching. Salmon and Cutthroat Trout preferred a chase, so action fishing suited them best and those were the fish I wanted to catch.

            “Pixie…Pixie…there you are! Let’s go!” Pixie followed me across the street and down a thirty-foot berm to the water’s edge. Luckily, the berm had a path because it was surrounded by ferns, blackberry brambles, and nettles. The path served as a popular short cut to Troy’s house. I’d follow the water’s edge to the east and run smack into the dock, which floated next to a boat launch just to the left of Troy’s home. The boat launch provided a dry dock for vessels spanning 50 to 60 feet in length. If you can picture a giant carriage, with two-by-two-foot beams, close to 15 foot wide, and ten deep; this supported the vessel. Furthermore, four vertical beams kept the vessel upright. The carriage moved and rolled on train wheels and rails. A massive steel cable led from the carriage to a spool, which slowly lowered the carriage into the water during high tide. The carriage served as a foundation for a boat and much like a conveyor, it offered an out of water convenience for cleaning, painting and removing barnacles from the haul. Do you remember John Ratzenberger from the T.V. series Cheers? According to my friend Troy, John Ratzenberger purchased a boat from Devlin Boatbuilders. Devlin leased a lot on Troy’s property where he designed and constructed his boats. John needed some follow-up work done on his boat, so he took advantage of the dry dock. Unfortunately, I happened to be visiting my grandparents in California at the time, but it does go to show how small this world really is!

            As Pixie and I walked up to the boat launch, I didn’t see Troy’s car in the driveway, so I continued onto the dock with Pixie close behind. Kathy and Al, Troy’s parents, treated me like family, so they never objected to me fishing on the dock, whether they were home or not. Looking at the long row of planks before me, I saw nothing but white spots! The local seagull population powder coated the planks of the dock in poopoo. Lots of poopoo! If you haven’t seen seagull poop, it isn’t the same as a little old robin or blue jay. Try multiplying that times ten! Surprisingly, I never tripped on one. Pixie and I continued walking the length of the dock, pilings knocking into the piling loops, water splashing against the underside of the Styrofoam blocks, and seagulls grunting and squawking from the air and the beach. In the distance, the roar of a speedboat caught my eye. It was not uncommon to see speedboats or water skiers enjoying the calm waters of the bay, and occasionally, a sluggish barge. Troy and I spent the majority of our summer vacations water skiing, which reminds me of an incident involving a saltwater enema. While learning to water ski, I happened to land directly on the water with my butthole, thus, cupping and forcing water into my rectum. I had no idea what had happened until I changed my drawers. It was not a pretty sight! I had multiple dingle berries hanging from the hair on my butt. Unfortunately, my friends informed me of this horrifying event before I had a clue. I know, what were they doing looking at my butt? We were teenage boys changing after an eventful day of waterskiing. No biggie. Even as embarrassing as it may have seemed, when Andy said I had poop hanging from my ass, we all laughed hysterically. To this day, my friends and I still mention the saltwater enema.

            Reaching the end of the dock, I set my tackle box down, popped the latch, and opened the lid. Pixie meandered up and down the dock doing what dogs do. She looked at her reflection in the water and barked at herself, watched the seagulls hoping along the beach, and listened intently to the splash of a fish or the barking of other dogs from afar. I had no worries about her running off. Where I was, she was also. Buzzbomb, rooster tail, triple teaser, and a spoon filled the upper row of compartments to my tackle box. Below, I had a knife, hooks, extra line, bobbers, swivels, weights, and an old bottle of bait…probably fish eggs. For some odd reason, I always had fish eggs in my tackle box, but I never caught a fish with them. Go figure! On this day, I decided to use a bullhead fillet as my bait. Bullheads resemble catfish but are much smaller. They even have barbs like catfish. The size of a bullhead is only four or five inches in length, so a filleted piece of the tail can make the perfect piece of bait. First, I had to catch a bullhead. I walked back up to the shore, turned over a rock and grabbed a sand crab. Sand crabs are no bigger than a fifty-cent piece. I ran a number four hook through the middle of the crab and proceeded back to the end of the dock where the water was deepest. With my pole in hand, I dangled the crab over the water and let it sink to the bottom. The depth of the water during high tide ranged from ten to twelve feet, just deep enough that you couldn’t see your bait or lure. It didn’t matter though because bullhead were bottom feeders…scavengers. In other words, not much to look at. It didn’t take long for a bullhead to strike, so moments after I dropped my bait to the bottom, I had a bite. Unlike salmon or cutthroat trout, which require skill and patience, bullheads swallow whatever lands in front of them. I quickly jerked the tip of the pole and reeled the fish in. Lowering the fish to the dock, I reached for my knife, and drove it through the center of the bullhead’s head, instantly ending its life. I placed my thumb inside the bullhead’s mouth, pinched the lower jaw, and cut off two two-inch fillets from the tail. Buzzbombs were heavy and came with a triple hook, so I cut my line, and threaded it through the buzzbomb before securing it to the hook. The buzzbomb was engineered to slide up and down the line, which allowed it to spin freely and create a high pitch sound in the water. At least it was advertised to do so, whether it did, or didn’t, we will never know but you could cast it a long way and use it affectively in deep water. After I hooked one of my fillets to the triple hook, I stood up and looked out across the water. If the water’s surface bubbled, appeared busy, or fish were jumping, the activity was an indication of a fish chasing another fish. No more than 20 yards out from the dock a school of fish agitated the water. Thinking to myself, “This looks like a good place to cast my lure…probably a bigger fish feeding on the little ones.” I drew back my rod, opened the bail, grabbed a couple of feet of lose slack with my left hand, and held the pole with my right. With a quick snap of my wrist, the tip of my pole came forward and I let go of the line. The trajectory perfectly arched twenty to twenty-five feet into the air and landed right in the middle of the frenzy.

            Counting to myself, “One…two…three…four…five.” I waited for the lure to sink, then I started reeling slowly with a slight jerk of the rod every four or five turns of the handle. Salmon hit fast and hard, but trout prefer to observe their prey first. I have personally watched Cutthroat Trout follow my lure or bait, swim around it, and swim away. Hence, they are not as easy to catch. You must outsmart them. For this reason, I always added a little action by jigging the lure. I am not certain of the countless times I reeled in and cast back out on that fine day, but I am sure it was dozens of times before I got a bite. It took work and patience. Changing lures, bait, reeling style, and location. Wham…! “Oh yeah! That’s a big one.” Suddenly, my rod jerked downward, and I pulled back on the pole with a quick snap to set the hook. The arc of the pole perfectly resembled that of a semicircle and tugged downward towards the water as the fish dove deeper. The drag was too tight, so I loosened it before the 25 lb. test met its match. The harder I tried to pull the tip of my rod upward, the harder the fish pulled downward. Something about this catch did not seem normal. Did I catch a dogfish? They like to dive deep but lack the energy for a fight. A flounder rarely comes off the ocean floor, and I did not let the lure hit bottom, so unlikely. A salmon or trout would have already broken the surface and tried to jump out of the water to shake the lure loose. Whatever creature fought to free itself from the buzzbomb deeply rooted in its jaw had me on the edge of my seat, and pondering what I might see.

            The line went slack…rod straight as an arrow…no action felt or seen. Either the fish snapped the line, or it was coming towards me. Flashbacks to the 1975 movie Jaws started to enter my mind. What horror lay before me?? The ocean conceals a myriad of creatures that lurk beneath the depths and for a 16-year-old boy, the imagination can run wild. Visions of a rack of teeth breaching the surface, a giant dorsal fin cutting across the water’s edge with purpose, or a creature unseen to man. It could be anything! “Ort…ort…” Gazing straight out across the water, I saw nothing. “Ort…ort…” The direction was clearer this time. The sound came from the right. I quickly snapped my head to the right and approximately 20 feet from the dock I stared right into the enormous black eyes of a small seal. I’d say close to sixty or seventy pounds. He or she fixated on my presence and bobbed with the gentle waves of the bay. Its nose flared with every inhale and exhale, and its whiskers twitched with every blink of its eyes. Reflecting, this was a Puss in Boots moment. I could not have felt any worse than I did at that moment. This poor seal had no idea what had happened and feared for its life. I was the big bad human trying to hurt this innocent creature. How will I get the lure out of its mouth? Scrutinizing myself, I felt the action of my pole as the seal turned and dove with a violent slap of the hind flippers. It was at this instance that I saw my lure dangling from its flipper. The slap of its flipper caused the hook to break free and my line to go slack again. The seal was free! I was so happy to see my hook come free and the seal swim off that I jumped for joy. I never wanted to hurt such a beautiful and peaceful creature. My heart felt relief and my soul at peace. My day was done! This was enough excitement for one day, so it was time to pack things up.

            After putting away my gear and closing the lid to my tackle box, I grabbed my pole in one hand, and my tackle box in the other. I took one more look across the bay in case the seal decided to stick around but he or she was nowhere to be found. Content and prepared to head home, I turned towards the beach and froze in place. The dock covered in ten tons of seagull poop was as clean as a whistle! I kid you not, the entire dock had magically cleaned itself while I had my back to it. All that remained of the seagull poop was an outer white ring, the meat of the excrement…to be determined. Like a light bulb coming on, where did Pixie go? She couldn’t have…and down from the gangway she came, sides bulging and a faint color of what resembled white lip stick lined the lips of her mouth. As mentioned in Pixie and My Momma’s Yarn, there was no question about Dachshunds and gluttony. Pixie was all of twelve pounds prior to our fishing experience, and probably weighed 20 pounds when we left. For the next two or three days, I contemplated corking her posterior end due to the endless flow of diarrhea and farts. A word for the wise, dogs like bird poop and it does not matter how much or how big. So, unless you want a bloated, farting, diarrhea pup, keep them away from bird poop!    

Prank Gone Wrong!

1987

            The year I graduated from High School I had one of the best times of my life and a lot of those times were hanging out with my buddies. Unfortunately, we weren’t always doing safe, kind, or productive things. Most of the time, we were up to something mischievous. Heck, we were boys, let alone teenage boys who thought they were invincible and on top of the world. Meaning, we didn’t put much thought into our actions even at 17 and 18 years of age. We were still immature and negligent. I’m sure at one time or another, you have indulged in the joys of water ballooning a family member, friend, or some poor sole that happened to be at the end of a prank. Water balloons are safe! How can a water balloon hurt someone? If given the opportunity, four teenage boys will find a way.       

            It was the summer of ’87 and I recall waking up to a warm and sunny day after sleeping over at Andy’s house.  Andy and I just graduated high school while Ricky and Troy had one more year to go. On the floor and at the foot of Andy’s bed, I unzipped my sleeping back and crawled out. Standing up, I saw that Andy was still asleep. It was no use waking him. For one, he didn’t wake up easily. Two, if he wasn’t ready to get up, he woke up cranky, and I mean cranky. We all knew to leave him alone and let him get up on his own. Or you’d be dealing with a sourpuss all…day…long! Upstairs, I heard the sounds of dishes, pots and pans, and cabinets being opened and closed. Hmm…I wonder if that is Ricky? Ricky was an early bird like me, so it was safe to assume he was getting breakfast. Staring up at the ceiling from Andy’s bedroom, I yelled up to Ricky. “Ricky! Is that you? Are you cooking breakfast?"

            Yelling back at me from the top of the staircase, “I’m fixing some bacon and eggs and toast. Do you want some?”

            “Heck yah…I’ll be right up. Andy is still asleep though.”

            “OK, I’ll---”

            Andy, apparently not as deep in sleep as I assumed, pipped up. “I’m awake. How can anyone sleep with you two yelling back a fourth? Fix me some too, Ricky!”

            “Alright, but if you two want toast, you need to get up here and help. I’m not buttering your toast and making eggs and bacon for you.” I heard the creaking of the floors above as Ricky turned and went back to the kitchen.

            I answered for Andy and I. “We will be right up.” Andy lay in his bed grumbling but his stomach had more power than his desire to sleep in, so he managed to sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed, while rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat. I turned to Andy, “I’ll see you upstairs. Maybe you me and Ricky can think of something to do in town today. And we can drop by and get Troy also?”

            “Troy isn’t working for Rex today?” Andy replied.

            “No, I spoke to him yesterday and I guess Rex is out of town, so Troy has the day off.”

            “Cool…call him to make sure. I don’t want to drive all the way out there if he can’t hang out. Gas isn’t cheap.” Crazy thought, gas was approximately 75 cents a gallon in ’87 and we thought it was high. We made less per hour than gas costs per gallon now. I worked for Burger King and made $3.35 per hour. Believe it or not, that was minimum wage. That doesn’t even buy a gallon of gas now, which is at $4.45 a gallon for premium.

            I had already left Andy’s room in the direction of the stairs, but I still made out the muffled words of his request. “No problem, I’ll call before we leave.” The ease of whipping out a smart phone in the 1980’s did not exist. We had the rotary relic or a modern push button wireless phone. For those of you unfamiliar, both phones were landlines. We didn’t have internet, cell towers, or satellites. We actually had to remember phone numbers. We couldn’t add a contact, their information, and simply click on their name to make a call. I must admit, sometimes I miss the old days when technology didn’t run our lives. Now, you cannot get away from the phone. People can always get a hold of you, and nine chances out of ten, they know where you are and what you are doing due to an app or location setting. Yes, this can help in the event of an emergency but how many people use location devices for emergencies? I believe our lives were more at peace without mobile phones and we used our brains for research and reading rather than a question for Google. Anyway, off my Gen X kick.

            Andy finally made it upstairs and sat down at the kitchen table with Ricky and I. We all sat quietly while serving ourselves and stuffing our faces. Forks clacked against the plates, mouths opened a closed with the smacking of lips, and glasses of milk banged the tabletop. If you had closed your eyes, you may have thought you were at Denny’s listening to the line cooks throw the orders around. For some odd reason, the sounds of an active kitchen stir the hunger of the belly. Eventually, we found time to take a breath between bites to discuss our day. Setting down my glass, I glanced up at Andy and Ricky with contemplation. Both brothers had a puzzled look as they stared back at me. Then Ricky said, “What’s Bob cooking up in that giant head of his?” Andy laughed.

            “I have an idea.” This instantly drew a red flag for Andy because he had experience with my ideas in the past and they didn’t always work out for the best, so the uncertainty in the lift of his brow said everything. “Let’s have a water balloon fight.” Andy sighed, grabbed his plate, and stepped away from the table. Ricky didn’t appear to show much interest as he tilted his head towards his plate and shoveled a heap of eggs in his mouth. “Wait, I have a better idea. What if we launched water balloons at people from the Torino?”

            Andy and Ricky both flung their heads in my direction. The excitement emanated from their smiles and Andy was the first to say, “That sounds like fun, but a water balloon at forty or fifty MPH might not be so funny. You need to think about how much faster the balloon is travelling versus throwing one.” Andy, who is now an engineer, likely started calculating the momentum of the balloon in his head by figuring the mass and velocity.

            Ricky had something to say, “It’s just a water balloon and what are the chances of actually hitting someone from the car? You have to throw---”

            “Exactly! And even if the balloon hits them at 40 MPH, what’s the worst it can do. Sting a little?” I threw my hands in the air and held them up with anticipation.

            Andy, slow to agree. “Wellllll…I guess so. Do you think Troy has some balloons?” He turned his attention to the kitchen sink and continued to rinse his plate.

            “I’m pretty sure Troy has balloons. I’ll see if he can fill them before we pick him up.” Troy and I spent a lot of time together, so I got to know his parents really well. Between Kathy’s kitchen and Al’s shop, our odds of finding what we needed were quite high.

            Ricky jumped up from the table, “I’m going to get dressed. I guess we’re taking the Torino since there’s more room?”

            Andy: “Of course! We have to have a fast get away car and your Celica isn’t exactly that.”

            Ricky: “Ha…Ha. Let’s get going, it’s already ten thirty.”

            Me: “I agree, we need to get moving. I’ll call Troy.”

            Andy and Ricky cleaned the kitchen while I called Troy to see if he wanted to go on our water balloon raid. And, like I thought, Troy had everything we needed and was more than excited about our idea. We finished cleaning, got dressed, and hopped in the Torino, which Andy called, MEAN GREEN. Except for the black vinyl top, the car was as green as a blade of grass…perhaps a little lighter. I can recall Andy racing up on my tail while driving down the highway and seeing the ominous black grill and hideaway headlights of his Torino. I felt like his Torino was judging my poor Datsun B210 that had no guts, not even a gut. For instance, merging onto the highway in my 1979 Datsun scared the living crap out of me. I’d go through all four gears before merging onto the highway with my foot all the way to the floor saying, “Come on, you can do it. Come onnnnnn…come onnnnnn!” Holding onto the steering wheel with both hands, I’d rock forward in my seat as though it helped my car go faster. Why do we do this? It is absurd! But we do it anyway. I’m sure there is someone out there very familiar with what I am talking about, especially some Gen X’ers. Something to keep in mind, the majority of cars manufactured between the early 70’s and early 80’s had small economical engines due to the 1973 oil embargo. Thus, engines had minimal horsepower to get better mileage. In my opinion, Andy’s Torino happened to be the end of the muscle car era. Mean Green eventually found itself retired to an old barn on an overgrown hill of nettles and tall grass when Andy left for Washington State University in Pullman Washington. Several years later, Andy gave Mean Green to me in hopes that I’d restore the old gal to her former greatness. Unfortunately, the busyness of being a family man overcame me and I didn’t have the time or money to finish the project. I ended up selling Mean Green to some guy from Sacramento California, and that was the last I ever saw of her.

            Pulling into Troy’s driveway I could see Troy behind the front door to his house through the vertical glass window that ran parallel to the door. He must have heard us coming because he appeared to have a bag of something…presumably water balloons, in his hand. The rumble of Mean Green was quite loud, but the squeaking and creaking of the chassis was even harder to miss. Between the ball joints, shocks, and coil springs, I don’t think Andy ever found out where the noise came from. Although much like a scare, a particular hair style, or distinct walk, we were so used to hearing the squeaking and creaking that it because a part of Mean Green’s character. Before we could get out of the car, Troy had already come outside to greet us.

            Troy: “Hey, you guys sure got here fast. Did Andy break any new speed records on your way here?”

            Andy: “Not this time. I’m trying to conserve gas.”

            Me: “And tomorrow you’ll be driving 120 MPH just to see how fast you can get from Arby’s to Steamboat.” We all started rolling with laughter because this was a true statement. Andy used to time himself from Arby’s on the Westside of Olympia to Steamboat Island. Driving the speed limit took approximately 35 to 40 minutes. Andy managed to get there in 20 minutes plus or minus a couple. To this day, I still think he should have been a racecar driver. Speed never seemed to intimidate him; yet scared the crapola out us.

            Ricky: “How many balloons did you get? Looks like a big bag.”

            Troy: “I think I filled 10 balloons. I figured---”          

            Andy: “That should be enough. We don’t even know how many people are going to be out walking.”

            Me: “Yah, that will be enough.”        

            Troy: “Where do you think we will end up?”

            Andy: “I thought we’d head towards Capital High School down Mud Bay Rd and drive around the West Side. There is bound to be people---”

            Ricky: “That or downtown Olympia by the state buildings.”

            Everyone climbed into Mean Green. I jumped in the passenger seat…usually my spot in the car, and Ricky and Troy got in the back. Once seated and buckled, Troy started handing out water balloons. Troy and I had the passenger side of the car, and Andy and Ricky had the driver’s side. Even though the Torina was a two door, the front and rear windows were quite large. So, we all had enough room to reach an arm out and let loose with a stinger of a water balloon when some poor soul came within harm’s way. As we drove down Mud Bay Rd, there wasn’t much action until Mud Bay turned into Harrison Ave, which is much closer to the commercial area of the West Side.

            “Here comes somebody on the right…Bob!” Andy pointed at the wind shield and nudged me with his elbow. Troy and Ricky practically clonked heads as they leaned to the center of the car and surveyed the prey.

            Ricky also pointed and said, “Go for it…lean out now!” And the other future engineer, Troy, must have done his math before commenting.

            “You’re too late. You’ll never hit him!” Troy added.

            And at that very moment, I let go with the most beautiful curve ball you ever saw but it curved right behind my target and hit the ground with a splash. From our perspective, the silence of our anticipation slowed everything down to a crawl, even at thirty to forty MPH it was like slow motion. Funny thing, the person never saw the balloon coming. The sound of the balloon breaking as it struck the ground caused the person to turn around, but he appeared very confused by what had just happened. I don’t believe he had a clue. Laughter erupted as we looked back to see him standing with perplexity written on his face. If he only knew that he almost died by water balloon??? NOT REALLY!

            Troy: “I told you so!”

            Andy: “Nice try. If that had hit him---”

            Me: “I know, he would have never seen it coming.”

            Ricky: “Guys! Look! It’s a bicyclist!” At that instant, the dream of all targets approached us from the left side of the car. It wasn’t any ordinary bike; it was a tandem bicycle. Yes, two people for the price of one. I, Andy, and Troy started yelling at Ricky to hurry up and get his balloon ready before it was too late. Ricky quickly stuck his arm out the rear driver’s side window and leaned into it with his shoulder and body pressing against the interior of the car. Before we knew it, Ricky drew his arm back like a professional pitcher and let the ballon rip! Much like the innocent and oblivious pedestrian walking along side the road, they didn’t see it coming. This time, the outcome was beautiful! Ricky threw the most spectacular knuckle ball I have ever seen. Most of us have seen a knuckle ball and considering the way a knuckle ball moves this way and that way, you’d never expect it to hit its target. Wellllll…this one hit the best target of all. The lead rider (captain) caught a 45 to 50 MPH water ballon right to the mommy-daddy button. If the balloon hadn’t been knuckling it would have hit the handlebars or his knee. The balloon had a mind of its own; saw its destination and maneuvered around the obstacles in its way. The captain went into a speed wobble likely to cause Lance Armstrong to leave a skid mark in his drawers. While the captain desperately tried to preserve the inevitable, the rear bicyclists (stoker) legs came off the pedals. One foot hit the ground, then the other foot, and the bicycle turned hard enough to the right that the handlebars could go no further, and the bike pitched the two riders left and onto the ground. Amidst the action, I don’t believe I heard anything other than, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” from all of us, and then silence as we watched them tumble across the ground. On a personal note, this was not a proud moment. Waiting, waiting, while time stood stillllll…UP...THEY STOOD. The captain and the stoker turned in our direction and gave us the number “o1e” salute!! This is when our accolades became a proud moment and there wasn’t a dry eye in the car.  

            “Do you think they will call the cops?” My respect for the law has always been out of fear that I might get caught and put behind bars, although it seems like my concern never came early enough to obey the law; thus, avoiding the possibility.

            Andy knew how worried I got. “No. Their just pissed off and by the time they get home, we will be long gone, and won’t give a crap.”

            “Yeah, and they looked fine. Just a little scratched up and dirty.” Ricky said while still looking back.            

            “You couldn’t do that again in a million years if you tried. That was unbelievable!” Troy’s jaw dropped, while his eyes and face expressed true astonishment.

            “That was so cool! Let’s go to Priest Point Park? There aren’t as many people and cars. Also, it is probably safer. No copers.” I looked back at the guys and back at Andy waiting for an answer. “Well??” The gang decided to go get something to eat before going back out on a bombing raid, so we stopped at McDonalds where Troy worked and another friend of ours, Brian. After filling our bellies and bragging about our adventures to Brian, we headed to the park. 

            As we approached the park exit…we noticed something exciting and more challenging than throwing water ballons at people riding or walking the streets of Olympia.   

            I pointed at the overpass leading to the park, “Look! Now that’s a great spot to launch some balloons. We can nail the cars as they go by.” Ricky and Troy leaned forward, so they could look out the windshield and view the bridge.

            Andy: “What if we hit a car and the person decides to get out and come looking for us?”

            Me: “By the time they turn around and get back to the park, we will be long gone. And the park is so dark it will be easy to hide.”

            Troy: “What if they pull over and run up the embankment? They might be able to get to us before we get to the car.”

            Andy: “They still won’t catch me or Ricky, but I don’t know about you or Bob.”

            Me: “Ha…Ha…!”

            Troy: “Whatever.”

            Andy: “Bob, is Brian going to make it?”

            Me: “Not sure, but when we left McDonalds, he sounded like he wanted to join us after I told him about the bicyclists.”  

            At the time, neither one of us wanted to admit that Andy was right because of our teenage egos, so we had to find out for ourselves. There was entirely too much testosterone in the car for any of us to admit our weaknesses. Andy took the exit to the park and pulled into the closest parking lot to the bridge. We each grabbed a balloon and headed to the bridge which was well lit with streetlights. The lights helped us get a better view of the cars passing under the bridge, but it also placed a spotlight on us. Hence, we were highly visible to passersby. It’s slightly conspicuous when you see someone holding something in their hand while leaning over the rail of a bridge. Our escape route to the west meant hiding in the darkness of the unlit park or running to the east and jumping into the Torino. Andy and I went to one side of the bridge and Ricky and Troy went to the other side. This allowed us to view traffic coming from both directions. I believe the speed limit on East Bay Drive was no more than 40 to 50 MPH, so there really wasn’t a safety concern other than a driver reacting poorly and driving off the road. Of course, this never crossed our minds at the time, and thank God that did not happen. Boys will be boys! “Hey…have you guys hit any cars yet?” Brian shouted as he came running from the west side of the bridge.

            Everyone turned in his direction and I replied, “Where did you come from? We didn’t see your car.”

            “I parked down by the street. I didn’t want to get trapped in the parking lot if I needed to get away.” Brian was the brain of the bunch, so it doesn’t surprise me that he thought of the best getaway. Unfortunately, later in life he neglected to put that brain into action when faced with a difficult breakup. Brian, consumed with hate and greed over the vengeful actions of his wife, tried to hire a coworker to murder his wife. He offered to pay the coworker a large portion of the insurance settlement after her death. The coworker went to the police. The police put a wire on the coworker and busted Brian for conspiracy to commit murder. To top things off, while waiting for his trial, Brian tried to bribe an inmate to kill his coworker. All in all, Brian ended up with 30 years in prison. It is very saddening that money can cause people to do some of the most unconceivable things. In my opinion, take your losses and move on. Brian was the head auditor for the State of Washington and gave flying lessons from his personal airplane. He lost everything over greed.

            “Cool, come over here, we have an extra water balloon.” I handed the balloon to Brian, and he stood next to Andy and me. A car approached quickly from the south. Andy and I called out to Ricky and Troy to let them know a car was coming. If Andy and I missed, then Troy and Ricky had a chance to hit the car as it drove away. I started to draw my arm back as the car came closer. Andy stood still and held his balloon as though he were waiting to see how things transpired. “Andy, when do you think I should let it go? Further out or right under?”

            “I think you’re more likely to hit it as it passes under and if they don’t see you before they get to the bridge, they probably won’t see you as they go by.” Ricky and Troy waited patiently on the other side but looked in our direction.

            “Everyone ready? If I hit the car…start running! Here goes!” Just as the furthest view of the headlights reached the underside of the overpass, I threw the balloon straight down. A direct hit! The balloon exploded right on the roof of the car. I don’t know what was more exciting, the balloon disintegrating or the sound of it hitting the roof. The sound of it hitting the roof mimicked that of a hand slap except a hundred times louder. I can’t imagine what it sounded like to the occupants of the vehicle.

            “Holy shit, you hit it.” Brian yelled out.

            Ricky and Troy turned back toward their rail to see where the car went and Ricky screamed, “They’re pulling over, RUN!!”

            You didn’t have to tell me twice, so I did a stage left and ran toward the park. All I heard were footsteps close behind as everyone dispersed within the darkness of the park’s hidden tree line. For fear that the occupants of the car were out looking for the malicious teenagers that just water bombed their car, there wasn’t a whisper to be heard. I knelt in silence and listened closely to any voices that might be heard in the shadows. I had no idea where my friends were hiding. I only knew that they were hiding somewhere within the park’s perimeter. The silence eventually overcame my patience, so I stood up slowly and stepped out from the underbrush of the tree line. Standing quietly, and with what little light the moon provided, I scanned the perimeter of the park for lifeforms. Unexpectedly, and from behind, I felt a sharp pain to the back of my head and dizziness overcome me. As I bent over and touched the back of my head, someone wrapped their arms over my back from the front and pinned my arms to my sides. My right shoulder rested against their pelvis and my head slightly kinked to the left rested against their waist. I was completely immobilized. Delirious and bleeding, I had no idea what had happened.

            The stranger spoke, “You killed my brother, and I’m going to kill you!” At that instant, I knew this was a bad situation and my mind could not wrap itself around the accusation before me. Was this the driver of the vehicle we just water bombed? How could that be? It was just a water balloon. It didn’t make sense.

            “Let go of my friend! Let go of him!” Ricky shouted. You could hear the fear in his voice as it crackled while trying to catch his breath. 

            Stranger: “No, he killed my brother and I’m going to do the same to him!”

            Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone. I don’t even know you!” Brian came up on my left and Andy and Troy brought up the rear.

            Andy, Troy, Brian, and Ricky are all yelling at the stranger to let me go. The stranger kept turning me in the direction of the closest aggressor to keep me between him and them, but he was considerably outnumbered. By now I had regained my composure, so I started spouting out that I was going to kick his ass if he didn’t let me go. Truth, I was going to kick his ass no matter what he promised. This guy hit me from behind and to this day, I have no idea what he hit me with. I had a one and a half to two-inch laceration on my head. In reality, unlike the movies, bone on bone can easily lacerate the skin, so it is possible that he hit me with his knuckles. Although I still think he had a rock in his hand. Heck, he wanted to kill me. What he didn’t know is that I have a very thick skull. I have had a fence post driver land on my head, a corrugated wheelchair ramp, and been kicked and punched to the head, and stayed conscious. So, who knows!

            As everyone surrounded the stranger, his grip began to relax. Brian reached out and shoved the right shoulder of the stranger with his palm. “Let go of him, now!!” Brian shouted. Again, everyone started repeating, “Let him go!” The noise of the crowd suddenly overcame my aggressor and his grip loosened. I had just enough space to bring my right arm back and land a punch to his gut. Unknowingly, I struck a belt buckle the size of Montana and instantly felt pain emanating through my pinky finger. Although I hit his belt buckle, it was enough to convince him to release his hold on me. Without a thought in mind, I brought my right arm back and let go with a wicked hook punch. I landed it squarely on his chin. Not to brag, but Mike Tyson would have been proud. OK, I might be embellishing slightly. First, I am in no way comparing myself to the greatest boxer of all time. I got lucky! I guessed where his head was and swung for my life. I don’t know if the stranger had a glass jaw, but he started falling backwards and posturing on the way down. Before he hit the ground, Ricky tackled the stranger in the solar plexus driving him the rest of the way. Ricky began swinging rights and lefts to his abdomen, and Brian came sliding in like Pete Rose taking second base. Brian put the stranger in a headlock and threw multiple strikes to the man’s face. I stood in awe as they took him to the ground throwing a melee of punches to his body and head. I, Andy, and Troy saw that the man was not defending himself, so we began calling them off.

            “Guys, that’s enough.” Troy screamed.

            I followed with, “Enough, STOP!! STOP!! You are hurting him.”

            Andy didn’t waste any time, “We need to get the heck out of here, NOW!” He turned and started running in the direction of the parking lot. Both Ricky and Brian stopped their assault and followed. Troy and I stook there for a second watching, which felt like eternity. Staring at the stranger in fear of his condition, we prayed that he was OK. Waiting for any kind of movement, while worrying about the outcome, the suspense practically killed us. Gradually, moans and gowns came from his bloody mouth. He slowly sat up and looked around to see where we were. He found Troy and I and stared in our direction. His eyes were slightly glazed, and blood was dripping from his nose and mouth.

            “I’m sorry.” The stranger mumbled, then proceeded to tilt his head towards the grass. That was our queue to get the heck out of there. Troy and I did an about face and took off running. We met up with Ricky and Andy at the Torino. Brian ran down the embankment and jumped in his car, and quickly drove off. Andy put the pedal to the metal and stormed out of the park like John Force. After our excitement and adrenalin wore off, I found myself bleeding from my head, and my hand hurt like hell. Isn’t it funny how you don’t recognize the extent of your injuries in the heat of the moment? Fortunately, I was able to stop the bleeding with my tee shirt, but I probably needed stitches. And several years later, I found I chipped my pinky knuckle when I struck his belt buckle. After that eventful night, we watched the newspapers, news, and listened for any information about a man being assaulted at Priest Point Park. To be honest, we were scared to death. Thankfully, we never heard of the incident. Do you think we were justified in our actions? At the time, I’m sure we thought we were justified because of his threat to kill me. And in the dark, we had no clue if he was packing or carrying a knife. Now, after graduating from the police academy and serving as a reserve officer for six years, I’m not so sure. I believe we had an opportunity to handle it better but that is difficult to say, when someone says, “I’m going to kill you!”

Skoal Bandits

            Chewing tobacco is a nasty habit! It leaves an awful stain on the teeth, bad breath, and for those who spit and not swallow; not attractive or professional. Worst of all, it can cause lip, mouth, and throat cancer. So, why do we do it? Baseball players chew, ranch hands, and military personnel. Therefore, it looks cool! But who thinks it looks cool? You guessed it, teenage boys.

            It was the summer of 1985 and I had just completed my sophomore year. Summer meant water skiing, swimming, fishing, and adventures with friends. It also meant sleeping in until ten or eleven before rolling out of bed. Other than a friend tapping on the window to my room and calling my name, the sun managed to find the cracks in my curtains, which allowed for that annoying glare of light to land directly across my eyes. I’m sure some of you have experienced this irritation while trying to sleep the day away. Even mother nature can find a way to get you out of bed. Lying in bed and trying my damnedest not to open my eyes, I listened to a cacophony of squawking from seagulls on the water and a gentle breeze whistling through the branches of the tall evergreens standing between the trailer park and the backshore. If you’ve ever rented a cabin by the water or spent the weekend driving up the coast, there is an overwhelming inspiration to get outside and indulge in the beauty before you. While I lay there with my eyes closed, I thought about my day. I recall Troy doing work for his uncle Rex, and Andy and Ricky were visiting their dad in the Midwest. Another friend of mine that I have not mentioned in previous stories lived just up the street and directly behind the park. Glen rarely got to hang out with us due to his work horse of a father. I don’t know how many times I called or showed up to find out that Glen was chopping wood or stacking cords of wood in preparation for winter, and it seemed like he was always on restriction. I can remember him getting into trouble for mooning parents from the back of the bus while sitting in the school parking lot. To top it off, he mooned someone’s grandmother who was waiting to pick up her grandson. Rumor has it that the school staff asked how she knew it was a boy and she said, “It is pretty clear, I saw his balls.” Needless to say, he confessed to the accusation, and I think Glen spent a month on restriction and wrote 500 sentences to the grandmother apologizing for his actions. He may have received a lot of back lash from the school board and his parents, but his popularity soared to new heights with the students. Eventually, my stomach overcame my sloth like appearance, so I sprung out of bed, threw on a pair of Levis, one of my favorite worn and ragged t-shirts, a ballcap, and sneakers. Making my way to the kitchen, I sat down at the breakfast bar, picked up the landline and gave Glen a call.

            Glen: “Hello.”   

            Me: “Hey, you doing anything? Want to hang out?”

            Glen: “Yah, give me about 30 minutes and head up. I have something for us to try.”

            Me: “Try…? Try what?”

            Glen: “Have you ever tried chew?”

            Me: “No…it isn’t Copenhagen, is it?”

            Glen: “Heck no, that stuff is disgusting, and it gets all over your mouth. I have Skoal Bandits.”

            Me: “What are Skoal Bandits?”

            Glen: “Chew in a pouch, so it doesn’t get all over your mouth.”

            Me: “Hmm…I’m in. Be there in a few.”

            Glen: “Cool. See you later.”

            Me: “Alright, bye.” Thirty minute was enough time to grab a bowl of Raisin Bran, a glass of orange juice, let Pixie outside, and start a load of laundry. I didn’t waste much time getting out of the house, my dad was sleeping but he’d soon be getting ready for work. If I hung around too long, he might find something for me to do. Dads are really good at putting their kids to work, especially when they say, I’m bored. Anytime I used this excuse for sitting around or being a busy body, my parents said, well…we can find something for you to do. That was never good. When I heard those words, I found something to do, really quick!

            The quickest route to Glen’s house started at the northernmost point of the park. I traversed two lots, slipped between a barb wire fence and crossed Gravelly Beach Rd, which put me at the entrance to Glen’s driveway. Approximately fifty yards long, the gravel driveway led up a steep incline. This reminds me, I recall a particular incident where Glen tried to launch an egg from the top of his driveway and hit me just as I was leaving the entrance. The first egg missed and hit the ground next to me splattering against the gravel and getting yoke on my shoes. I turned around to see him heave another one, so I tried to catch it. As careful as I may have been to keep soft hands, I kept them too soft. For those of you who haven’t played football or watched the game, soft hands are a tip for catching the ball. The softer the hands, the more likely you will catch the ball as you give with the incoming force. It doesn’t bounce or deflect, but lands and rests in the hands of the receiver, or catcher in my case. Knowing an egg was flying at me, I happened to give too much, so the egg passed through my hands, and hit me directly in the twig and giggle berries. Not only did it hit me in the crotch, but it also didn’t break until it hit the ground. Similar to a falling tree, I gasped in agony and shock, then fell to the ground in the fetal position. Glen did what friends do, he laughed his ass off while I writhed in pain. I managed to recover after a few minutes and as painful as it was, I managed to throw in a few chuckles myself. If you can’t laugh at yourself, then how can you laugh at others? Good times!

            Strolling up to the door of Glen’s house, I lifted my hand to knock on the door but before I did, I heard the sound of an axe strike and split a log from the left side of the house. I paused, and I heard it again. Ah…he’s chopping wood. Now I know why he needed 30 min. Knowing where he was, I moseyed around the back of the house. Axe extended above his head, he followed through with a powerful downward motion, splitting the log in two like butter. Glen spent a lot of time chopping and stacking cords of wood and it showed in his stocky muscular physique. I may have spent many hours in my personal gym, but good hard labor seemed to get the best results. He and I stood 5’9”, give or take a half inch, but he outweighed me by a good fifty pounds. At 135 lbs., I was very lean and very strong for someone my height and age. I started lifting weights at the age of 12 and lifted religiously five days a week. Then, I found an interest in gymnastics. I made sure my electives included gymnastics in high school and I eventually joined a gymnastics academy. In my opinion, the rings, pommel horse, and parallel bars build strength and stamina unlike any weight. Each event works every part of the body, which is difficult to do when strength training. Take a look at male gymnasts competing in the Olympics, their shoulders and arms are defined and huge. Other than wrestling, you don’t see the proportion of muscle so equally distributed. Watching the two halves of wood drop to the ground, I asked. “Hey---”

            Glen startled and almost dropped the axe as he bent over to pick up one of the cut halves and throw it on the pile. “Damn dude, warn a guy before sneaking up on him.”

            Laughing at his reaction, I bent over and picked up the other piece and tossed it on the pile also. “What was I supposed to do. You had your back turned to me. You would have jumped anyway…puss.”

            “What! What did you call me?”

            “I’m just messing with you…puss.”

            “Remember who’s holding the axe. Butt head.”

            I don’t know why boys enjoy calling each other names other than the reaction they get out of razzing the other guy. My dad was a big kidder and I passed on the enculturation to my friends and family. It is all in fun and I was known for giving the guys shit. Placing my hands in my pockets, I snickered and smiled. Glen knew me well, but I wasn’t one to push his buttons too far. His temper was a tad bit more volatile than my own, so I knew when to back off. Glen’s dad punished him by getting out the boxing gloves and sparring a few rounds. Glen knew how to box, and he had no problem settling our beefs in his basement with the gloves on. He and I laced up on one occasion and I found out what an experienced boxer had to offer, and it wasn’t good. I decided to avoid that arrangement in the future. “Are you almost done?”

            “Yep, I only have those two logs and we can do whatever.”

            “Cool. What about the Skoal? I really want to---”

            “I have it in my back pocket. Look…” He grabbed his bottom lip with his thumb and index finger and pulled it out. “See…I already have a pouch in.”

            “Wow, I couldn’t even tell.” I leaned in to see a little white pack between his lip and gums.

            Glen reached around and snagged the can of Skoal from his pocket, popped the lid, and held it out. “Want one?”

            I reached out and hovered over the can trying to decide if one was enough. I lifted my eyes to Glen. “Is one enough? That doesn’t seem like very much.”

            “Probably not. I don’t notice anything other than the taste of wintergreen.”

            My eyes dropped back to the can and back to Glen again. “What if…we put a pack in each cheek also?” Glen stared at me for a moment.

            Unsure of himself, Glen stumbled for a second, “Three? That sounds like a lot.”

            “Yeah, but you said you’re not feeling anything, so why not? Heck, we can spit them out if we start feeling funny.”

            “I guess so. Alright. Let’s do it.” Glen placed two more packets in his mouth. One in the right cheek and one in the left.

            “My turn.” I reached in and scooped up three mesh filled packets of tobacco. I slipped one between my lower lip and gum and the other two to the inside of my lower left and right cheeks. My mouth resembled that of a Botox moment gone bad. It didn’t matter, I looked cool! “This tastes pretty good.”

            “I know. Much better than Copenhagen. It tastes like ass.” Glen shook his head with disgust.

            “It smells like ass if you ask me. Nope, no way. Let’s do something.” I turned back towards the house and walked away. Glen dropped the axe and followed.

            Bringing up the rear, Glen said, “Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?”

            “A little fifty.”

            Glen smirked. “So…it didn’t have a clutch?”

            I stopped, and turned around as he walked up to me with a grin. “What’s so funny?”

            “I thought we might take my dad’s motorcycle out back and find a trail we can ride on, but---”

            “That’s so cool. Won’t he get mad…though?” My brow lifted and my eyes fixated on his. I sounded concerned but I really wasn’t. All I wanted to do was get on the bike and ride.

            “Not if we’re careful. Butttttt…you can’t drive a clutch. A fifty doesn’t have a clutch.”

            “Maybe not, but my Datsun does. Is it similar? Do you---”

            “Yah. It’s on the handlebars instead and you shift with your foot.” Glen stepped under the car port and lifted a tarp off the outline of what appeared to be a motorcycle.

            I stood there for a moment examining a massive motorcycle. I had never been on a bike as big as this one. It likely weighed four or five times more than me and the engine seemed huge. The silver tank, chrome handlebars, and shinny pipes sent a chill of adrenaline down my spine. I thought to myself, if Glen can do it. I can do it. “Do you think you can teach me?”

            With Glen’s back to me, he kicked the kickstand back and rolled the bike to the edge of the driveway while saying, “Sure. If you can drive a stick shift, I’m sure I can teach you to drive a bike.”

            “Cool. We have to kick start this, don’t we?” I pointed at the lever just below the right side of the motor, slightly uncertain about my deduction…my face flattened.   

            Glen laughed a little and hopped on the bike. “Yah but it isn’t hard.” Stand back. I stepped back and watched. Glen put the kickstand down, stood up on the pegs, and put all his weight into thrusting the lever downward. A pop shot out the muffler as the bike squatted for second and up again.

            “Almost. Damn dude! That sounds like a big motor.” Maybe we---”

            “Hold on!” He gave it another try but with a snap to his kick. RINGGGGGG-DING-DING-DING…RINGGGGGG-DING-DING-DING…I jumped back even further. I did not expect the noise to be almost defining. Letting off the throttle, the bike came to a gentle idle. With a pop here and there the rhythm and smell of a two stroke entered my soul.

            “Awesome! I can’t wait. Sure…sounds good.” My face lit up like Christmas came early, while Glen sat back and relaxed his arms. Arms rested and hands open, he turned to look at me. I think he was trying to impress me, but I didn’t give a damn. I wanted to ride.

“Alright, show me how to use the clutch.”

            “You see this lever? This is the clutch.” He nodded at the left side of the handle bars, squeezing and releasing the lever.

            “Yes.” Still filled with excitement, I listened intently.

            “OK. You squeeze and put the bike in gear. Then, slowly release the lever and pull back on the throttle, but---”

            “Simple. This is no different than my Datsun. Just on the handle instead of the floor.” Glen didn’t look too confident in my observation but willing to let me give it a shot. So, he hopped off and held the bike steady. Swinging my leg over the bike from the right side, I settled my butt into the seat and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. I put my left food on the peg just behind the shifter and kept my right food on the ground for support.

            “Hey! Do you have a helmet? My dad told me never to ride a motorcycle without helmet.” Waiting for an answer, I checked out the gages in front of me.

            Seemingly irritated, Glen replied. “Yah but I really don’t want to go get it. I’ve got to go down to the basement and find it.”

            Me: “Hmm…I don’t know.”

            Glen: “You’ll be fine. Just stay away from the trees.”

            Me: “Exactly. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

            “Pull the lever. Push the shifter down and ease the lever back and give it gas.” Glen demonstrated the motions; not to be confused with a pantomime but darn near. I guess he looked more like he was playing air motorcycle. How’d you like that one. Air guitar…air motorcycle. Hahaha…OK, perhaps not?? I gave it a little gas as I turned the throttle towards me and let off. Then I squeezed the clutch and pushed down on the shift lever, feeling a click.

            Glen released the bike and said, “It’s in gear. Now let off slowly and---”

            “That’s what I’m doing.” As I started to move forward the bike began to die, so I turned the throttle back to bring the RPM’s up. As the R’s came up, I continued to let the clutch out, but it slipped through my grasp, causing the bike to lurch forward; thus, forcing my grip on the throttle to jerk back. Glen is yelling behind me.

            “Squeeze the clutch! Squeeze the clutch!” Unfortunately, the forward momentum of the bike didn’t let me. Remember inertia? This is that moment in science class when the teacher tried to make us understand the concept but some of us just didn’t get it. Well…I had a firsthand introduction. Throttle wide open in first gear…the bike’s momentum picked up quickly, throwing my legs in the air behind me. Legs flailing in the air, I held on for dear life as the bike began to swerve to the left and right uncontrollably. I couldn’t let off the throttle, the pull of the bike was too much. Glen continued to yell, he said, but I didn’t hear a word. My attention focused on surviving and that meant avoiding the evergreens to the left and right of the trail. Beginning to panic as I started to lose all control, I decided the best option meant ditching the bike. I knew Glen might freak out, but my life meant more to me. My decision came without much thought. I threw myself to the left of the bike, narrowly missing a small tree. The bike drove itself another fifteen feet or so, coming to a stop in front of me as the handlebars dug into the ground. As Glen came running up to me, I lay on the ground with my eyes wide open trying to figure out what the heck had just happened.

            “Holy crap dude. Are you alright? That was freaking crazy!” I’d like to say the worry in Glen’s voice and facial expressions were for me, but I believe he was more worried about the bike and what his dad was going to do, than my injuries.

            “I’m good. That was insane. I had no control. I couldn’t do anything but hang on. I’m sorry---” Glen had already walked over to the bike, so I got up and meant him at the scene. “Do you think there’s any damage?”

            Standing over the bike, Glen said, “I hope not. It’s not like I can hide it. Help me lift it up!” I helped Glen stand the bike up and put the kickstand down. We both stepped back and picked the bike over with a fine-tooth comb. At first, everything seemed tip-top, nothing broke and nothing missing. Then…

            Glen: “Holy shit dude!! My dad is going to kill me.”

            Me: “What! What do you see?”

            Glen: “Look closely.” Gen’s eyes froze in fear. I followed the direction of his eyes and realized the handlebars were bent slightly backwards from dragging the ground. I have no idea how we didn’t see it sooner but there it was, standing out like a sore thumb.

            “Oh…no! How are we going to fix that?” I thought for sure Glen was going to shed a tear, but he sucked it up.

            “We can’t fix that. Let’s get the bike back and cover it for now. I’ll figure something out.” Glen didn’t have much to say. He backed the bike up and began to walk it to the house. I followed and we both made our way to the house in complete silence. I’m sure some of you have been in a predicament where the fear of your parents’ reaction caused emotional silence as you envisioned your demise. Glen and I washed the bike, dried it, and parked it under the carport with the cover on. Our tepidity dissipated, leaving us staring at the evidence of our transgressions. At least, Glen was feeling this way. It wasn’t my dad and Glen said we could take it out. Poor Glen! Not a word spoken, Glen headed over to the madrone tree in the middle of his back yard. As a supportive friend and worried about Glen’s future, I headed in the same direction.

            “What are you going to do?” I leaned forward and spit a glob of juice from the Skoal on the ground and looked up at him. He was climbing the madrone tree.

            “Come on up. Let’s hang out here for a while. I’m surprised you still have your chew.” Glen had already made his way to the second or third branch by the time I put my hands on the tree.

            Me: “Good idea. I’m sore and tired anyway. I’d rather chill. I think my knee is bleeding…hmm. Oh…do you still have yours?”

            Glen: “No…I took mine out after you wrecked the bike.” And Glen let out a long wistful sigh. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that he was somewhat annoyed with my riding skills.

            “Did you take them out because you weren’t feeling good? Because I’m starting to feel dizzy. On the same branch, I turned around and sat next to him, one hand grasping the branch above and the other on my stomach.

            “When you crashed, are you sure you didn’t hit your head on the tree next to you?”

            “Ha…Ha…I’m sure, but I did land on my stomach pretty hard.” Still holding my stomach and gently sliding my hand forward and back again from the left side of my abdomen to my belly button; Glen took it upon himself to stand up, grab the branch directly over his head and shake the tree. “Dude! You need to stop. That’s not helping.”

            “What’s not helping? This---” And he shook the tree even harder. Leaves were falling and yellow particles of pollen filled the air. I clung to the branches leaning ever so slightly forward and spit the packets of Skoal on the ground below. I watched them fall to the ground, while thinking…this was not a good idea. The nausea came on fast as a wave filled my guts with worry. Glen stopped bouncing the branches, seeing that I damn near fell out of the tree when I leaned forward to spit out the Skoal. “I think I’m going to get sick. I’m getting down.” Wasting no time, I swiftly lowered myself down to the bottom branch and jumped to the earth below. Everything spun and stopped, then spun again…over and over…with very little pause.

            “You can’t get sick! You need to go home before my mom and dad get here.” Glen watched me as I walked to the carport and leaned up against one of the 4 X 4 posts. With my head face down, I tethered myself to the closest and most dependable form of support I found. As my face cycled through fifteen shades of green and my stomach felt like perpetual turbulence…I felt the urge to imitate my best rendition of the exorcist. By this time, Glen had made his way down the tree and to the carport. Standing next to me, he tried to get me off the concrete, but I had no energy or will to survive. Skoal had taken me away from the world around me and forced me to conform to its will.

            “Bob! You need to go now. You cannot throw up. My parents will see. Come on…let’s---” Glen snapped back as a gurgle came from my belly. I let out a deep thunderous burp and several crackle burps followed. “No, no…no! Let me get a bucket. Hold---” The word bucket did not help my situation at all. In my mind, I instantly pictured my head in the bucket and the aroma of vomit entering my nostrils. I let go of the post, grabbed my knees, and put the exorcist to shame. My head became a rain bird, starting from the left side of the carport and ending on the right. Like a projectile, I sprayed vomit six to eight feet in a perfect arc, leaving a beautiful arrangement of pastel chunks on the carport floor. Glen began to gag as the atrocious smell of vomit filled the air around us.  

            “Oh…mannnnnn! What the heck! Now I’ve got to clean this up before they get home.” I didn’t have much to say. My body felt defeated. I may have actually thought I wasn’t going to make it. The weakness, nausea, dizziness, and urge to puke stuck with me for several hours. As I turned back to let Glen know I was going home, he was unraveling the hose on the side of the house. As much as I wanted to help him clean up the mess, I didn’t have it in me. He stared at me for a moment and said, “You look really bad. I can’t believe you puked that much!” I took a second to survey my Van Gogh and broke out laughing. As bad as I felt, I couldn’t help but laugh at the crime scene. Glen did everything he could to keep from laughing, knowing that his parents might find out, but it was impossible to refrain. He laughed uncontrollably and so did I.

            “I’m going home. I need to go to bed. I hope this shit wears off soon. I feel terrible.” As I started down the driveway, holding my belly with both hands, I yelled back, “See you later.” And I continued on my way. Nothing sounded better than crawling into my bed and sleeping the awful feeling away. I just wanted it to all go away! Glen managed to clean up the carnage, but the bent handlebars were a little difficult to hide. If I remember correctly, it took several months for his dad to uncover the bike and see the bent bars. So, that was a grounding postponed. We both survived the incident but to this day, I haven’t touched a dip of chew since. The smell is enough to make me throw. Moral to the story? There isn’t one. Kids will be kids. All you can do, or we (parents) can do, is hope that you are safe, listen to our words of wisdom, and come home to us in one piece. This is a prime example of learning from our mistakes. Never again! Live and learn! You can keep your chew!   

A Daisy and a Battle

            After a few stories of eccentricity, it is now a time for sentiment between a father and a son. For each and every one of us, there is a memory between a father, mother, brother, or sister that stands out, whether in laughter, sadness, or excitement, the memory bonded and strengthened your love forever. Lightly touched upon; my father is a veteran of the Vietnam war and spent 1968 to 1969 fighting the Vietcong as a U.S. infantry soldier. If you are curious about rank or accolades, I don’t believe that is important. Every man and woman that fought for the United States is just as important as the other. They all contributed, and they all put their lives at risk. That being said, my father had a military gift of tactics and strategy. I don’t believe his mind worked like the average person, or above average for that matter. Of course, I was an only child, and he was my father, thus bias in my opinion, but I always felt like he was much…much…more, than he made out to be.

Lying there on his back, staring up the sky, enemy soldiers ran over his body. A grenade had landed in his bunker and blown him out and onto his back below the running feet of the enemy, bayonets in hand. He lay there, stunned, and in shock, praying not to feel the thrust of a bayonet through his chest, and specifically asking God, “If you let me live, I will never want anything more than happiness.” Before my father was drafted into the Army, he completed two years of college and dreamed of being a veterinarian. He carried a compassionate and caring heart and a musical gift (Piano) I never knew he had, and never had the chance to experience. The day the enemy ran over him is the day he willingly gave up his dreams; yet a larger part of him was taken away. Watching your friends fall and taking the lives of others, cannot play easy on the soul. I’m sure it eats a part of you and never gives it back. My father lacked compassion for others and carried a very morbid sense of humor. The fact is…war affects everyone differently. My stepdad (Dan), who raised me, spoke of his experiences and never had a day of counseling (that I know of), but drank regularly and smoked most of my life; recently diagnosed with alcohol induced dementia. My biological father (Ron) also served in Vietnan. At 5’6” and no more than a buck twenty-five, he became known as a tunnel rat. Tunnel rats crawled into narrow passageways underground. Armed with only a 45-caliber handgun, due to the lack of space, they shimmied their way through a maze of tunnels until confronted with enemy soldiers. Because of the trauma, he chooses not to speak of Vietnam and has had multiple stints of counseling for his PTSD. To my knowledge, he smoked in his earlier years but never indulged in alcohol. From what little time he and I have spent together, he suffered similar emotional and physical damage from the war but prefers to put the war behind him, unlike my stepdad. Recently, he was diagnosed with soft cell carcinoma from exposure to agent orange during the war. Although Ron has tried to distance himself from the memories, it appears that Vietnam will never let him go.

My stepdad enjoyed speaking of past wars and telling stories of his experiences in Vietnam, but his favorite, by far, was WWII. He liked to talk about battleships, carriers, destroyers, and aircraft from the war, and specifically, the battles that took place. He even enjoyed talking about General Erwin Rommel and General George Patton. Two tactical military geniuses. I believe these individuals inspired my father’s passion for recreating battles from the war. Because of his passion for war, he found an outlet in military games. He loved to combine multiple military games (Carrier Strike, Axis & Allies, PanzerBlitz…etc) into one massive game. For example, he took 3’ x 4’ poster board and drew half inch squares over the entire board. Then, he drew and colored with magic markers the different countries and islands from the war, keeping as close to scale as possible. We didn’t play on one board, but two or three, which covered a good portion of the living room floor. We had land and sea battles that required days, sometimes weeks from start to finish. Most of the time, the games were used as a method of getting me off restriction. Although that meant I had to beat him, which never happened. It didn’t matter how well I rolled the dice; he always found a way to overcome and conquer (his military genius). I enjoyed the games in the beginning but after a while I found them dull and exhausting. I attribute this to the negative meaning behind the purpose of the game. I played to get off restriction, not because I wanted to play and spend time with my father. Thankfully, my father began to see my disinterest in my latter years of high school, and the games became a dusty relic of the past. I may not have been very inspired playing boardgames, but there was one thing that he and I loved to do that I will never forget and wished I had done with my kids.

At the age of five, my father introduced me to plastic models. Not the type you snap together, but the kind you glue together with Testors cement. Remembering back, I started with a model car and my father built a model ship. I learned to read the instructions, following each step, beginning with #1 and ending with #20 or #30. It all depended on the model, the skill level, and the manufacturer. Some manufactures were more detailed than others, which meant more pieces and more time to assemble. I built cars, ships, airplanes, tanks, anti-aircraft guns, frigates, jeeps, and military infantry. Today, I like to build larger scale ships from WWII, such as 1/350 or 1/200, which are much larger than the 1/600 scale from my childhood. What took me a few days to build then, takes me a year to a year and half now. My age has brought on an appreciation for my creations; thus, my meticulous behavior has developed some beautiful pieces of work. Also, the cost now versus the seventies, deserves time and effort. You could purchase a 1/600 Battleship Rodney in the ‘70’s for approximately five to ten dollars. Now, a 1/350 or 1/200 scale ship will average $200 to $400, not including paint! I have these ships in a glass case, away from cats, little hands, and dust. That being said, we had other ideas for the ships my father and I built when I was a kid. In the past, some said we were destructive, and others said it was cool! I am curious what you will think.

Sitting at the kitchen table, my father began taping off the diagonal lines that separated the black and white camouflage which covered the hull from stem to stern on the Battleship Bismark. A beautiful arrangement of camouflage extending from the hull to the superstructure. The Bismark threatened allied shipping from America to Great Britain and brought an ominous presence to the sea with eight fifteen-inch guns. The Germans believed it unsinkable due to the heavy armament and numerous watertight doors. The Germans weren’t far off. In the Bismark’s final moments, while under attack from multiple ships, which included battleships, cruisers, and aircraft, the crew had to scuttle the ship in order for it to sink. The Germans did not want to give up their technology and secrets but the only way to do so was to make sure the ship sank to the bottom of the ocean. Most ships are difficult to sink, and it isn’t unusual for a warship, cargo ship, or cruise ship to have watertight doors but there is relevance to my notation beyond the sinking of the Bismark. Prior to painting the camouflage on the hull of the Bismark, my father sectioned off one-inch compartments inside the hull of the Bismark with a piece of the box top that came with the purchase of the ship. The thickness of the cardboard closely resembled that of card stock, not thick like standard cardboard. He cut the cardboard to the width of the section of hull he was working on and trimmed it to fit the contour of the narrowing keel of the hull. After the size was appropriate and fit snug within the interior of the hull, he used scotch tape to cover the carboard, so as to protect it from water. About this time, you are trying to understand the concern for water in the hull of the ship. Are these motorized models and we are afraid of them sinking? Nope? Were we OCD, and wanted the vessel to resemble the internal structure of the real thing? Nope? After my father lined the hull with a dozen or more watertight doors, extending the length of the hull, he glued each one into place. Once the doors were dry, he filled the sink with water and checked the buoyancy of the hull. Ninety nine percent of the time the ship flipped over. In the real world, ships are balanced in the interior of the hull closest to the keel. Therefore, my father had to balance the model ships before they would float upright. Don’t quote me on this but throughout history, ships have used many methods of balancing, such as steel, water, and gravel. Well, my father used pennies. I didn’t have the patience to balance the ships we built, but he did. He spent hours placing one penny at a time in the hull of the ship. Not only did he adjust the buoyancy but the depth at which it sat in the water. He made sure to reach the water line, so it appeared as realistic as possible. He once used 72 pennies to balance a 1/600 Arizona. It had a fat hull, unlike the average battleship, and a long vertical rise from the bottom of the keel to the deck. I can remember how beautiful she looked sitting in a large mud puddle surrounded by trees and rocks.

While my father focused on the construction of his ship, I opened the instructions to mine. The Prince of Wales, an English Battleship which had many encounters during WWII rested in the box in front of me. Overwhelming at first, my eyes scanned the numerous plastic parts: guns, lifeboats, sea planes, cranes, chains, cleats, deck pieces and hull. Every piece had a place and most of those pieces needed a color of paint. The deck needed a coat of flat brown, or deck brown. The gun barrels had a touch of black just at the end, giving the impression of a hollow barrel of a gun. The sea planes, located at midships, rested on rails next to cranes, which were used for lifting out of the water or transferring to a dock. They had a wavy camouflage of flat green, light brown, and desert yellow across the biplane wings and elevators. This helped to hide the aircraft from bombers or reconnaissance. Nothing like bringing a bomber to a dog fight. The allies didn’t want the enemy to know they had fighters available to help protect the battleship from an air attack. By the way, the Prince of Wales was involved in the final battle between the Bismark and the allies, and landed three salvos before the Bismark sank to its death. Piece by piece, glue here and glue there, I painted and cut, and assembled the Prince of Wales. It represented one ship in my fleet, among many others to build and add to my arsenal. It was joined by the HMS Hood (Sank by the Bismark), HMS Ark Royal, HMS Nelson, and various other ships. I believe my fleet consisted of seven or eight ships in total. My father represented the German Navy and I the British Royal Navy. Some of the ships in his fleet: Bismark, Prinze Eugen, Tirpitz, Graff Spee, Graf Zeppelin, and others. We both had our fleets ready to go; ships camouflaged, hulls painted in brick red, black water lines, watertight doors, balanced and ready for war!

 Hatch back open, my father and I carried our ships from the house to the car, placing them in the back of the vehicle, side-by-side. Time, money, and creative influence went into the construction of these beautiful relics from the war. Sometimes it is difficult to imagine these massive hunks of steel owning the seas. How could we do what we were going to do after so much time and energy?

“Did you grab the Daisy, Bob?” My dad asked.

“Yes, I put it behind my seat. Oh! I remembered the BBs.” Looking up at him with wide eyes; emphasizing the importance of ammo.

“Good…we don’t want to run out.” Satisfied, my dad shut the hatch to our 1976 Chevy Chevette and walked around to the driver’s side, while I sat in the passenger seat. At eight years of age, this was every kid’s dream. A gun and demolition!

“I bet we’ll find some big puddles after all that rain.” Waiting for an answer as my dad backed the car out of the driveway, I inspected the gun turrets of the Prince of Wales, still in my hands.

“That’s a good thing because we have a lot of ships. We will need a pretty good size puddle for this battle---”

“Yep.”

My dad smiled and said, “Now…we need to find a good logging road we can get into without getting stuck and find the right size puddle while we are at it.”

Forestry was a big part of the Washington State economy at the time, perhaps not as much now but it served our purpose because there were many logging roads outside of town, which provided mini oceans for our battles. Access roads formed by Dozers and logging trucks created large divots in the dirt and gravel roads and a great place for the pooling of water from heavy rains. The convenience of the weekends meant no trucks or machines. People rarely worked on the weekends in the 1970s or early 1980s. The weekends were for rest and time with family. Unfortunately, times have changed. People have to work weekends, nights, and hold down two jobs, and in most households, it takes two!

“Dad! Look.” I pointed up the road a ways. There was a dirt road off to the right and muddy tire tracks signaling the entrance of large vehicles. This was a pretty firm indicator of a forestry road.

My dad turned his head slightly to the right and lifted his brow to see where I was pointing. “I think you’re right, son. We will have to check this one out.” The excitement built inside of me like a volcano waiting to erupt. My anticipation grew. Hardly containing myself, knowing the battle was about to begin, I examined the terrain ahead. Pointing to the right and then to left, and back again, I dreamt of the perfect spot. Trees lined the easement to a large clearing as we rounded a corner in the road. Many puddles and stumps filled various locations of an area the size of your local Walmart parking lot. Back then, Kmart would have served as the metaphor. This place had just been stripped and left abandoned. But we found purpose.

“Bob, this looks like the place. Take your pick.” My dad brought the car to a stop, pulled the emergency brake, and turned the key to the off position. I jumped out and ran to the nearest puddle, which resembled the Straight of Gibralter. I saw the southern most tip of Spain and the second most norther tip of Africa. The narrowing of dry ground and an opening from one body of water to the other easily represented the Atlantic Ocean and the Alboran Sea.

“This is it, Dad! This is it! See how the land comes together right there. Doesn’t it look like the Straight of Gibralter?” Standing there with my hands in my pockets and kicking the gravel around the water’s edge, my dad opened the hatch. I knew what that meant. Time to get the ships in the water and start blowing things up.

Two ships in hand, my dad walked over to the puddle and knelt down. “You have a good eye. You are right. It does mirror Spain and Europe. I can even see what looks like the boot of Italy.”

“Wow! This is going to be so cool!” I ran to the car and started carrying my ships to the water. My dad took one side of the puddle, and I took the other. The puddle probably covered a shallow ten by twelve-foot area but deep enough to submerge a ship past the tallest mast. After placing all of our ships in the puddle and gently pushing them towards the middle, we paced off twenty-five to thirty feet from the battle zone. I kicked a scuff mark in the earth and grabbed the BB gun from the car. The battle was about to begin!

My dad and I found the Daisy BB gun to be the best air rifle for our needs. All it took was one cock and one shot. At twenty-five to thirty feet, the power of the BB acted much like the real deal. Not every salvo penetrated the armor of an enemy ship. Sometimes it took several, and sometimes it took much, much more. It depended on the armor on the hull of the ship, the size of the ship, and the overall design of the ship. Something that added to the realism; the model ships were manufactured replicas, thus, the armor on the hull of the ship was thicker nearer to midships than the bow or stern. The magazine of a ship is where the gun powder or ammunition is kept, and this must be protected, or the ship can explode, and send the ship to the bottom of the ocean. The Battlecruiser HMS Hood is an example of what can happen if a salvo detonates the magazine of a ship. I believe it only took three hits from the Bismarck and the Prinz Eugen in the Battle of the Denmark Straight to sink the Hood within seconds, leaving only three survivors and taking the lives of more than 1400 sailors. I also believe this was attributed to a lack of armor amidships. The thickness of the hull from the bow to the stern ranged from a sixteenth to an eighth of an inch. My father and I took turns shooting. I’d pick the nearest ship to me and start working on a specific area of the hull. There were times the BB penetrated the skin of the ship on the first shot, but it wasn’t always below the water line, so the ship didn’t always take on water. It took work and precision. You had to have patience.

Lining up the sites, left eye closed, my right eye following the length of the barrel out to my target. I aimed for the bow of the Tirpitz. I knew the plastic was thinnest the closer you got to the front of the ship. After you have built two or three of them, you become very familiar with the build. The Tirpitz was the sister ship to the Bismarck. They were identical, except for the camouflage that covered the two ships. I squeezed the trigger and out came a shinny brass BB. I watched it arc and drop right in from of the bow. The water splashed as the BB landed, throwing a drop or two onto the deck. “Close, Bob. I’m sure you’ll get it with your next shot.” Lifting the barrel slightly higher, I squeezed another round off, but this time it hit the forward most gun turret, sending it over the opposite side of the boat and into the water.

“That was so cool! It looked like the real thing.”

“Nice shot! And you are right. That did look real. Now settle down. You only have three more shots, and then it is my turn.”

“I know. I need to get one on the bow.” I cocked the gun, lifted it to my shoulder and laid my cheek gently against the stock and slowly raised the barrel. I found the right trajectory and steadied my shot. A slight breeze sent a ripple across the water and lifted the ship just as I squeezed the trigger. Out came another BB, but this one had a course of destruction and impacted the bow of the Tirpitz just below the waterline. I heard the BB hit and go straight through the plastic and into the inner portion of the ship. This was a good hit, and I knew. “Yes! That’s exactly where I wanted it. I couldn’t have asked for a better shot.”

“Well at the rate, I may not have much of a chance. Good job, son! Two more.”

“I know. I know.” I had two more shots before it was his turn, so I knew I needed to make the next two count. This time I aimed a little further to the right of the first hole. I had a pretty good idea where the watertight doors started and how much space there was in between. I could tell the first compartment was taking on water because of the slight dip in the bow but I knew that would not sink the ship. I had to fill at least two more compartments. In order to do that, I needed to get a BB to penetrate the thicker part of the hull. This meant working on one area until the plastic succumbed to the abuse. I took aim and fired. The fourth round hit the smokestack, rocketing the black grating at the top of the stack into another ship directly behind the Tirpitz. “Dang it! That was high.”

“It’s alright. She’s already taking on water. You’re doing good. I think I saw you take a breath right when you pulled the trigger.”

“Thanks Dad.”  Last shot. I needed to make this one count. I knew how good of a shot my dad was, so that left me no room for error. I drew down on an area just right of the hole I already put in the bow but this time, I held my breath. That looks about right…squeeze…pop! Out came another BB and it struck the thicker armor plating a hair above the water line and about an inch or so to the right of my first major hit. The plastic revealed a nice crack, which weakened the ship, leaving it vulnerable to another hit. I also knew the front compartment was still filling with water, bringing the crack closer to the surface. “Yes. It cracked. Can you see it?”

“I can see it. That’s going to work out well for you. That being said, I better get to work before I have no ships.”

I chuckled. It felt good to know I might win a battle with my father. He was also good at encouraging me. Especially when he knew how hard I tried. “Well, I don’t know about that Dad. We just started.” I handed my dad the Daisy and stood quietly, waiting for his first shot. I liked to watch where he was aiming to see which one of my ships he was going to sink first. It so happened that he picked out my favorite ship of all, the Prince of Wales. I absolutely loved the uniqueness of this ship. It had a massive four barreled gun turret to the front of the ship with a double-barreled gun turret just behind and slightly above. The rear turret matched the four barreled turret to the front. These were 14-inch barrels, the actual diameter of the inner hole of the barrel. That means the salvo was also 14 inches around. If you can imagine a 9 mm bullet at 1500 MPH but 40 times larger, you’re pretty close to the size and speed of one shell from the Prince of Wales. The camouflage flowed from the bow to stern, covering the hull, guns, superstructure, and smokestacks in a shade of green, gray, white, and blue. It was a beautiful ship. POP! A blast of air came out of the muzzle! My father fired his first shot. A BB struck the rear mast breaking it off at the base and dangling it from the side of the ship. The rigging fell with it. No different than the real world. The ships were covered in steel guywires, which easily took off limbs and decapitated crew members while incurring damage during battle.

“That’s not the shot I had intended but it sure looked cool. Especially the way it’s laying there.”

“Just a little lower, Dad.” I squatted, placed my right hand on the ground and my left on my knee. This gave me a level perspective of the engagement. Focused on the targets, my father put his fingertip on his nostril and okie blew some snot a couple of feet ahead of me. “Gross! Dad.” He didn’t miss a beat and repeated the action from the other nostril, and laughed under his breath as he stood still preparing for his next shot. POP! This time he connected, and the BB broadsided the ship below the rear smokestack and right at the water line. He could not have had a better shot. The BB penetrated the hull, and the ship instantly began taking on water. The disadvantage to a midship hit increased the probability of the ship capsizing, especially if the watertight compartment next to the one currently filling with water took a similar hit. “Really! That isn’t good.”

“I thought it was really good. Ha…Ha…Ha…” Quickly raising the gun into position in hopes of mirroring the last shot, my father squeezed off another round. Unlike any other shot, this one struck just to the left of the previous shot but perfectly center to the watertight door. The plastic to the left and right of the door broke, allowing water to flow in the opposite compartment and spill more in the one already filling with water. The ship settled deeper in the water as the weight drew it down, and it tilted slightly to port. I knew what was about to happen. My worst fear. She was going to capsize. “Oh…oh! That’s something we haven’t seen before.”

Squatting, with my hands on my forehead. “True…very true. I guess the only advantage is that I won’t have a lot of parts to look for.” After a battle, we made sure to search the water and the bank for any pieces of plastic (guns, boats, planes, rigging…etc.) the BBs blew off. We took the pieces home and repaired what we could before taking the ships out again. Often, ships made it through four or five battles before they were scrapped. My dad finished his turn and passed the gun to me. It wasn’t long before the Prince of Wales flipped completely over leaving the bottom of the hull skyward. You could see the bronze propellers, shafts and rudder normally hidden below the surface, which added to the realism. Too bad the propellers weren’t still spinning. Eventually, the Tirpitz slid nose first into the depths of the puddle leaving a portion of the stern above the water. You could see the tips of the rear gun and the German flag mounted to the flagpole at the furthest point of the stern. Thinking back, this is a time when smart phones would have come in handy, preserving some great memories and pictures of the past. The battle waged on. Back and forth, we fired BB after BB. Pieces flew here and there, and ships sank one-by-one. After the battle was over, we collected the aftermath of our escapade and headed back home.

I have yet to speak with someone that has done what my dad and I did. I am hoping this story will find someone, somewhere that has done the same thing my dad and I had the chance to do together. To this day, I believe the idea originated with my father. He has never indicated otherwise. So, if you’re reading this and have experienced this unique hobby, please shoot me an email, I’d love to hear about your adventures. I hope you have enjoyed events with your parents you will never forget and hold dear to your heart because there is nothing like good memories of your childhood where you laughed and played with two of the most important people in your life.

Dirty Ears

            Boys are dirty little creatures! I can remember my mother scrubbing my fingertips with a coarse brush, frustrated at the dirt beneath my fingernails. I never failed to find a pile of dirt or a place to dig a hole when I played. I was either looking for worms or playing with my Tonka trucks. Real Tonka!! That’s right! They were made out of steel, not like the plastic ones after the 1980’s. The steel Tonka trucks held up to severe punishment and you could sit on the truck without it collapsing and falling apart. Nothing like the good old days. I may have been that boy who played in the dirt, but how about the boys that practically bathed their faces in Kool-Aid? I can recall a couple of boys that I hung out with on occasion, which looked like Bozo the Clown with a giant red ring around the outside of their mouth. Not only did they have a bright red Kool-Aid stain, but two bountiful streams of mucus running down from their noses. To top that off…add a face full of dirt. Then, the kid ran around all day looking like his face fell in a pile of bloody dung. That just sounds horrible. Lastly, there was that one boy; from head to toe, a myriad of debris littered their pores, clothes, cracks, teeth, ears, and nose. Morning, noon, or night, this boy looked the same as he did two weeks ago. Invite him to a birthday party, and you don’t recognize him. It wasn’t that his mom and dad didn’t care, mom and dad let their boy be a boy. Personally, boys have a tendency to be drawn to dirt, but I never restricted my two girls or my boy from getting dirty, and I’ll tell you why.

            I was five years old, and I was about to meet my new dad for the very first time. My mother and father had split and divorced a couple years prior. I can remember my mom leaving for several months…perhaps to find herself and hadn’t been home long before introducing me. To this day, I’m not entirely sure why she left and ditched me with my grandparents and my aunts, but I believe she had good reason, and she came back to me. During that time, I managed to integrate to the lifestyle of the women around me. I started wearing dresses, women’s shoes, and a little makeup to brighten up my cheeks. Hahaha…sorry, I had this picture of myself skipping around the house with a flower in my hand. I spent most of my time inside with the gals, watching them sew and veg out on Soap Operas. After three or four months, my mother came home to a clean and tidy little boy that preferred the indoors to the unclean world outside. Not long after my mom married my stepfather, he and I had a run in.

            It was a beautiful day outside, which is rare in most parts of Washington State. I mean it could be beautiful out and raining but when I say beautiful, that means no rain and in the mid to upper seventies. My friends from school were outside riding their bikes, kicking around the soccer ball, and playing games, such as hopscotch, hide and seek, and army. I know two or three of them knocked on my door and asked if I could come out and play, but I chose not to because I didn’t want to get dirty. Finally, my dad asked me why I didn’t want to play with my friends. I had six words for him, “I don’t want to get dirty.”

            “What do you mean…you don’t want to get dirty?” My dad just stared at me. His wheels were spinning. I looked straight at him, he scowled with astonishment. Bob…I don’t understand.” What he didn’t realize; I didn’t understand also. All I knew was that my grandma and aunt smelled nice and did things around the house all day. If I went outside, I might get dirt on my shoes or my pants and have to come back and change or shower. 

            Looking back at him trying to figure out what to say, “I…can’t get my clothes messy or dirty. That’s what grandma said.” Waiting patiently for an answer, I believed my hope was it didn’t matter, but I truly was confused.

            “Bob…let’s go outside. Get your shoes on and meet me behind the house” My dad had a plan, but I had no idea what it entailed. He grabbed his Bennie from the edge of the bar and headed down the hallway to the back door. We never used the back door, so I definitely knew he was up to something. I had no idea what, but he seemed pleasant and determined. I slipped my shoes on and met him behind the house. Rounding the corner, there he stood, and at five years, his stature appeared quite ominous. It’s not as though he were my real father. We hadn’t started living together as a family for long; thus, I still had a little stranger danger going on. “Alright. I want you to take both hands and put them over your eyes. Oh…close your mouth.” I can remember scrutinizing him. What is he going to do to me? He wants me to close my eyes. He doesn’t want me to see what he is going to do. Why? What if whatever he is going to do is going to hurt?

            “Okkkkkk…Is it going to hurt?” I stood there still as a stone, waiting for what was going to happen next.

            “No. But you will get a little bit dirty.” Suddenly, I feel the cool damp earth showering my face, my arms, and my legs. My dad was throwing handful after handful of dirt all over my body, and after he was done throwing it, he started rubbing it across my arms, nose, and cheeks. He made sure I fit the “Dirt Courier Profile.” Any inactive or active law enforcement officers out there? Did you get it? Sorry, but I can’t help but laugh at myself sometimes. I can remember taking a criminal investigation course at Sacramento State University and that specific phrase regarding drug traffickers has always remained in my head. I don’t think I had a clean spot on me. At least that which was visible. “Bob! You can drop your hands now. Look at yourself. What do you see?” Again, my body remained motionless, but my eyes did not. As I slowly opened my eye lids particles of soil fell from my eyelashes. I had dirt all over me. It was a shock to the system. But a shock that felt inspiring.

            “I’m all dirty.” I tilted my head back up at him, waiting for his next move.

            “That’s correctomundo! And now…you can go play with your friends because you don’t have to worry about getting dirty anymore.” He was so sure of himself and confident about my transformation that I didn’t even blink an eye. This was the best thing I heard. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends what happened. This also set the wheels in motion for about the next seven years, meaning…it was a rare occasion that I ventured outside and didn’t come back covered in sweat, blood, and DIRT. Although I managed to play rough on my days away from school, I also made sure to be clean and tidy for school or special occasions. My dad, a former military officer, made sure I held to a standard when in public. To this day, I still hold true to that upbringing.

            Several years later…at the age of eight, I prepared myself for another weekday at Olympic View Elementary. As usual, I got myself out of bed. Let Pixie outside to leave another monument for my pooper scooping records. Jumped in the shower. Fixed myself a bowl of raison bran and headed to the bus stop. I’d meet my friend Dale at the entrance to the trailer park, and his brother Sam. While waiting for the bus, we’d talk about our adventures, getting in trouble, and who’s mom and dad was the coolest. Normal kid stuff. Somedays, we’d get into mischief on the bus; shooting spit wads at other kids or stinking out our buddies with toxic morning farts and giggling all the way to school. Generally speaking, riding the bus to and from school was a blast. You got to hang out with friends and blow off steam while doing it. To this day, I’m amazed and thankful I made it to school and back every day I rode the bus. Why? Bus drivers are probably the closest most of us will ever get to a future serial killer. Just a metaphor, just a metaphor. The number of annoying juvenile minds and attitudes of children that bus drivers have to put up with would drive the average person crazy with rage. You can get mad, but you cannot do anything. Honestly, there are some children that were born to aggravate and provoke. Not just their words but the way they look at you. I have to applaud the bus driver with their patience, fake smiles, and pallid personalities. Although we may have annoyed their every nerve, mornings and afternoons, they did it for us! Not really. They needed a paycheck too.

             Sitting behind the bus driver, I was on my way home after a long hard day. The 3^rd grade took a heavy toll on my attention span. My teachers weren’t to blame, it was allllll…me. For example, one of my teachers had a name that most children found funny in my day, and likely would find funny today. Her name was Mrs. Strong. The name was only the beginning. She also had extremely bad body odor. Now combine “Strong” and “BO” in a classroom full of 3^rd graders. You get a room full of little shits laughing and giggling at the sound of her name. And this is further inspired by little Sallie Stanton pinching her nose, tiny Timmy wafting his right butt cheek, and Jeffrey Puddles making fart sounds with his arm pit. I just happened to be the kid in the room laughing the hardest and loudest. I found most things humorous back in the day, so I was easily distracted, which my teachers tended not to appreciate. Sitting patiently while everybody got on the bus, I watched the seats fill with girls and boys from kindergarten to the sixth grade. The sixth graders always sat at the back of the bus. From there forward, the ages varied. On this particular day, I happened to sit up front. The first seat always came with an ample amount of leg space. I think this was intentional to keep children from breathing down the necks of bus drivers. If it isn’t bad enough with a bus full of twenty-five to thirty screaming banshees, imagine a couple of those banshees screaming directly in your ear. Not fun!

            Dale and his brother finally got on the bus. Dale always sat next to me. Every seat on the bus was full. Everybody was full of energy and letting every bit of it out. Behind Dale and I sat Shane and Zane, brothers. Who the heck am I kidding, these two kids never sat down. They were constantly standing and whirling around making strange sounds and calling people names. Most of the time their audience thought their antics were hilarious, so it only encouraged their behavior. I didn’t like these two. Period! End of story. They annoyed the crap out of me. I think I had a sixth sense that day things were not going to go well on the ride home.

            The doors of the bus slammed shut and Bill made his usual announcement.

            “Quiet! Quiet please! That’s enough! Quiet! I need everybody to sit in their seat and once everybody is sitting, we will leave.” Bill crossed his arms and waited. Leaning back on his haunches, his eyes slowly tilted upward. I could see straight past his hulking biker stash right into his flared hairy nostrils. Dale and I stared and pointed and did the “Muttley the dog”. We had a laughing wheeze; stifling to keep Bill from noticing. As soon as the kids settled down and sat in their seats, Bill sat down and drove away. Not more than a minute or two down the road, the bus started raving.

            “What are you doing?” I turned back and looked upward to see Shane glaring down on Dale and I. His breath smelled like sewage. It was very clear he didn’t know what a toothbrush was, and the green fuzz on his teeth supported the emanating contaminants of his hot breath upon us. I tried my best not to gag.

            “Nothing.” And I turned back around, hoping he’d go away. Dale usually had my back, but he was too busy flirting with the girl to his right. I knew I wasn’t getting rid of Shane. Once Shane picked you out of the crowd, you were his target for the entire ride home. Ignore him and he will go away. Just ignore him. What the heck! Feels like something crawling on my head. I reached up and brushed the top of my head with my fingers and the strange feeling stopped. Must have been a fly. And I felt it again. Damn fly! This time I reached up quickly and slapped the top of my head, and nothing again. And then I heard laughter. It’s Shane. I know it. Why can’t he bug someone else. I’m sitting here minding my own and he has to pester me. He’s not going to stop unless I say something. Tell him to leave you alone. Maybe he will join Zane in his antics or find another target. “Shane! Please stop! I’m tired and want to be left alone.”  My word choice didn’t help me a bit. I gave him all the ammunition he needed. He knew I was irritated, which meant that Shane could do what he did best, and that’s drive a person nuts with his endless provocations. Overall, I had a pretty easy-going attitude and generally speaking, I was kind to most individuals, unless provoked. But I had a snapping point, and all my closest friends knew it and know it to this day. Thankfully, I have learned to control it.

            “Why are you tired? I’m not. Wake up. Wake up sleepy head.” I felt his breath settling down on the back of my neck and what seemed like droplets of moisture clinging to my naked skin. My irritation grew. I’m not sleepy and I’m not sleeping. I just don’t want to talk to you. You blithering idiot!

            “Shane…I’m not asleep. I’m not in the mood to talk. Talk to Zane or something.” I didn’t even look up this time. I remained fixated on the forward progress of the bus. Please leave me alone. Pick your nose or your butt for all I care…leave me alone. Tugging…somebody had a hold of my ear.

            “Ewwwwww…look in his ear Shane.” Zane had a lot of my ear this time and wouldn’t let go.

            “Gross. He’s got dirty ears.” Shane could not have been any closer to my ear. I damn near went deaf. I don’t believe he ever said anything with an inside voice. So, not only did my ear vibrate from his ungodly decibel level but so did the rest of the bus. I jerked away from Zane and put my hands over my ears. By this time, Dale heard what was going on and told Shane and Zane to sit down and shut up. Unfortunately, this only made matters worse.

            “Leave me alone! I don’t have dirty ears! You have dirty ears!” My hands cupped my ears and fastened themselves to the sides of my head. I didn’t want anybody to see inside, and I didn’t want to hear them. As we all know, you can plug your ears and cover them, but you can still hear. Things are just muffled.

            To top things off, Shane started singing, “You got dirty ears…you got dirty ears…you got dirty ears---”

            “Shut up! I don’t have dirty ears! Leave me alone!” My blood was boiling, and I felt like my words had no meaning. It didn’t matter if I told him to stop. He found joy in pushing people until they broke. Most kids started crying and tried hiding from Shane but not me. Shane picked on the wrong kid. My frustration grew and grew. There was nothing I could do to get him to stop. And then Zane joined the sing song melody. Dale told them to leave me alone one more time and even let the bus driver know. The bus driver took a moment to engage Shane and Zane at one of the stops by asking them to quit teasing me, but it only took a few minutes for them to start harassing me again. This time Shane and Zane encouraged the other children to join in their hazing. The singing multiplied and the humiliation drove my patience to the brink of disaster. My fists clinched and the whites of my knuckles expressed my loss of control and intense emotion. I had nothing more to say. My anger had reached a level that brought me to silence. Over the years, my friends learned to read me when I got to this point. They knew that anything could happen if they kept poking at me.

            “YOU HAVE DIRTY EARS!!” This time Shane was so close to my ear that he practically put his lips on my hand. He yelled as loud as he could, knowing that I was trying to cover my ears from the resounding noise. Dale jerked away, alarmed by Shane’s booming bronchial tubes. The bus driver flinched with a slight oversteer as he turned to see Shane about to fall over the seat as he screamed in my ear. Without a thought, I spun around and wound up a Clint Eastwood Any Which Way You Can haymaker across Shane’s left cheek. I brought it from way back! The sound of my fist hitting his cheek reverberated throughout the bus. All eyes, heads and bodies faced my direction. There was silence. Shane’s eyes welled up as he held his cheek with his left hand and pointed at me with his right. He said nothing and neither did Zane. All I heard was a stereo of voices as they reacted to the right cross. Ohhhhhh…and the brothers sat down. The ride home was as peaceful as taking communion.

            Not long after my physical altercation with Shane, I arrived at my stop. The chatter soon rose to great heights as my friends yammered on about how cool it was to see me punch Shane in the face. I think everyone had been waiting for that day. Even though Shane and Zane made people laugh, they always left someone irritated and hurt by their antics. I can’t deny that it felt good to have my friends pat me on my back and let me know he had it coming. Unfortunately, my father had a different perspective.

            An hour or so after I’d come home and done my chores, I sat in my favorite bean bag chair with Pixie burrowed tightly to my side. As I watched a show on television and munched on some crackers; Pixie watched me like a hawk, waiting for me to hand her a cracker or a remnant to hit the carpet. My dad sat in his recliner, feet up, and dragging on a cigarette. Sitting there with Pixie, I kept thinking about hitting Shane and whether I might get in trouble for hitting him. The bus driver didn’t scold me like I expected, other than to sit down, turn around, and ignore him. I also believe there was a part of Bill that enjoyed the outcome that day. But rules are rules, and schools do not like it when children try to settle problems with their fists.

            Ring…ring…ring…

            “That is the principal.” This is the moment when my sixth sense told me the bus driver had to report to the principal what I did, or Shane and Zane’s parents called the school.

            “The principal? Why?” My father pulled the lever to his recliner allowing his feet to touch the floor and stood up glaring at me as he worked his way to the phone. “Hello…yes…this is he…and what was that…he did…I will make sure this doesn’t happen again, Mr. Oliver…you’re welcome, have a good evening…buy.” I sat there consumed with worry as my dad hung up the phone and looked up at me. He was waiting for me to say something. I couldn’t lie, the principal just told him everything, and I knew how bad things could get if I lied to him. “So?”

            Me: “I hit a kid on the bus today.”

            Dad: “Why?”

            Me: “He kept telling me my ears were dirty, and he wouldn’t stop.”

            Dad: “Do you think that is a good reason to hit someone?”

            Me: “No. But I asked him to stop. And I told him my ears were not dirty and to leave me alone. Even Dale told him to quit.”

            Dad: “Bob…come here.” I gently pushed Pixie to the side and got up from my bean bag chair and moseyed my way over to my father. He leaned over, took the floppy part of my ear, and pressed it against my head as he peered deep within the abyss of my audio canal. There was silence as I waited for the verdict. “Bob…your ears are dirty!” I didn’t want to believe it. “Try using a Q-tip occasionally and people won’t pick on you.”

            “OK.” Hoping that was the end of it. I tilted my head in shame. My dad released my ear and walked to one of the drawers next to the kitchen sink. He opened the drawer and pulled out a yellow college ruled notepad and pencil. Then, he sat in his chair and began to write.

            I will not hit. I hit Shane for teasing me about my dirty ears. My ears were dirty and that is no reason to hit someone. I apologize for hitting Shane. I will keep my ears clean. I will also apologize to Bill for hitting on his bus. I am sorry and will not do this again. My father put me on restriction for a week. I am not allowed to play with my friends or have any deserts. He wants to make sure I use my words instead of my hands to solve problems. Sorry Mr. Oliver.

            I had to write something very similar to this short paragraph, and I had to write it five hundred times. Clearly, my father wanted me to have time to think about what I did. The stinkiest part of the punishment, it happened on a Friday. I spent the entire weekend writing those five hundred paragraphs because my father wanted them done by Monday. I think I had a permanent indentation on my middle finger from pressing the pencil against my finger. For an eight-year-old, that was a lot of writing. I may have had a couple teasing incidents after that day but overall, it cured me. I can take teasing and laugh with the rest of them now. It doesn’t phase me a bit. As a matter of fact, I think teasing can be fun. Everybody needs a little thick skin, especially in this day and age. It seems like people have become so sensitive over the littlest of things. It is so much easier to laugh and have a good time, than to get angry and violent. I may have grown out of it, but some adults do not. My son is one of those adults. He absolutely hates to be teased. Funny thing though, he loves to tease.

 

 

Vodka, Volleyball Net, and the Attorney

            Alcohol and teenagers do not mix, especially when it comes to teenage boys. It was a beautiful Saturday in the month of July and us boys were up for a party. So, we decided to take that party to Squaxin Island. In 1986, visitors could pull up to the boat dock or beach and camp out for the night by simply placing a couple of dollars in a box with a slip of paper indicating which campsite you were taking. Today, it is a bit more regulated. Only Tribal members are allowed to set foot on the island and permits are required for friends. Truely, I understand the implicit restrictions placed upon the public, and you will too…after this story. Not that we are solely to blame, but I am pretty sure our escapades that evening in July had somewhat of an impact on the Tribal community responsible for the park.

            Bright and early on that Saturday morning in July, I flew out of bed, put my clothes on and headed down to Troy’s house. Remember, he only lived a block away, if that, by traversing the water’s edge. As long as the tide was out, I always followed the beach to Troy’s house. I came walking up from the north side of the boat ramp, which was located next to the boat launch. I could easily see into the kitchen and dining room due to the massive ten by five-foot window facing Young Cove. I knew instantly if breakfast was served. I was always welcomed and grateful for their hospitality. Yes, Troy was one of my closest friends, but they didn’t have to serve me. They were very kindhearted and hospitable people. I’m sure they had a little empathy for my situation due to the death of my mother, but they were this way with everyone that I knew.

I know I’ve mentioned my mother’s death in some of my other stories, but I never mentioned how she died. My parents divorced sometime around my 14^th birthday. My mother met a man on one of her business trips and fell in love with him. Unfortunately, my stepfather had a very incompatible work schedule that left my mother lonely and misunderstood. That being said, she divorced my stepdad and moved to Prince Rupert Canada with her new love. They married shortly after she moved away and less than two years later the two of them and a friend had a business meeting to attend across the country. They drove and along the way they encountered snow and ice crossing a mountainous pass. Their car lost control and slid sideways into an oncoming big rig. The Semi ran over the top of the car, crushing all the occupants. To my knowledge, my mother slept in the back seat, and never knew what happened. The driver had a shallow breath when EMS arrived but passed shortly after. When I heard the news from my father, I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe something like this could happen to me, but it did. It came as a shock, and I grew very cold to other stories of loss. Fortunately, I had a very good support group, and a big part of that support came from Troy and his parents. I will never forget what they did for me.  

KNOCK…KNOCK…KNOCK…I stood at the door to the kitchen watching Troy and his family moving about…serving pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Troy’s mom, Kathy, waved me in and as always, “You know you don’t have to knock, Bob. You are part of the family. Get in here and have a seat.” I wasted no time and helped myself in.

“Oh boy…peanut butter and pancakes. My favorite.” I had never put peanut butter on a pancake until I met Troy. Other than the recipe for the pancakes, which any recipe will work, probably butter milk is the best but Jiffy smooth peanut butter and warm log cabin syrup is the best combo. Give it a shot! You will not go back. I introduced this recipe to my family and everybody has embraced it with love. Troy and I practically fought over the pancakes as Kathy placed them on the table. There was always plenty, but being teenage boys, it never seemed like enough.

“Have a seat Kiddo. Troy’s already got a head start on you.” Kathy commanded; then, slapped a nice fluffy pancake on my plate and turned back towards the kitchen and grill. I grabbed the Jiff and a butter knife and dipped my knife into the jar, coming out with a giant chunk of Jiff, and lathered it on my pancake. Troy handed me the syrup, which I squeezed over the generous layer of peanut butter. Troy watched.

“Do you have anything going on today.” I motioned to Troy with a gesture of my hand, before cutting the pancake with the edge of my fork.

“I was thinking about taking the boat out for a run…up to Fry Cove or further. The water is so calm today.” Troy gazed out the kitchen window as he shoveled bite after bite of peanut butter and pancake in his mouth. The Gulls were on the pilings to the dock, ducks frolicked close to the beach, and schools of bait fish broke the surface of the water in a frenzy to get away from the predators beneath. The picture is quite serene to the eye and damn near mesmerizing.

“If you’re going to do that, why don’t we keep going and camp out at Squaxin tonight. Maybe Andy and Ricky will want to hang out also.” Troy looked at me like I had a rag stuffed in my mouth before answering. I think I had a little too much peanut butter sticking to the inside of mouth, thus obscuring my words. There’s nothing like someone trying to say something with a mouth full of food, let alone a food that sticks to everything, including the ribs.

Troy set his fork down and took a drink of his milk before saying anything. Then he turned to me with his milk mustache and said, “As long as you guys kick in for gas…I’m up for it.” Troy had a twelve-foot flat-bottom boat with an outboard 50 hp merc. This was plenty of power for us and served whatever purpose we needed, such as water skiing, fishing, or exploring the inlet.  

“Well, I just got paid by Larry for mowing the lawns, so I can pitch in a few dollars. And…I’m sure Ricky and Andy will help if they go.”  Larry owned Salt Air Mobile home park, the park my father and I lived in. I was responsible for mowing all 20 lot spaces. I usually mowed them twice a month during the spring and summer. It was a great source of extra cash, especially when I needed a little spending money besides the money I earned from Burger King. It wasn’t much, fifty dollars a month, but you must remember it was 1986. A gallon of gas cost approximately seventy-five cents. Although I had expenses, it didn’t cut into my profits much, and the lawns were very small, no bigger than three or four hundred square feet. I say that now but back then, they were HUGE! I was a teenager, and it was work, thus, the laws appeared much larger than they really were.

Troy got up from the table and headed to the sliding glass door, kitty corner to the kitchen and said, “I’m going to head down to the boat and check the fuel. I think we will need to stop at Boston Harbor and fill up before we go to Squaxin.” I quickly stuffed the last bit of my peanut butter pancake in my mouth and followed him outside.            

“I guess we will see you boys later. Let me know what’s going on before you head out. Oh…I have some cookies you can take with you.”

“Thank you, Kathy.” We will let you know. I slowly closed the glass door and gave her a great big smile, nearly squishing my nose between the frame and the door. I knew how good her cookies were and there was no forgetting them! Whether she made snicker doodles, peanut butter, or chocolate chip, they were worth dying for!

“Troy…I’m going to run up to the house and call Andy while you’re getting the boat ready---”

“OK…make sure to ask for gas money and you might want to grab your sleeping back and some clothes while you’re there.”

“Good idea. I’ll be back in a few.” I took off running. The excitement of camping on an island full of other campers, fire pits, volleyball, and barbecues got the blood pumping. I couldn’t wait for a night of fun. All I had to do was convince Andy and Ricky to come along. Usually, that wasn’t hard. All I had to say, there will probably be girls there, and they were all in. I turned back around to face Troy, “I almost forgot. Do you want me to see if I can get some alcohol?”

Troy perked up, “Sure! Maybe Andy will have something he can bring. Or, what about your dad?”

“I’ll take a look, but I think all he has is hard stuff.” I spun back around and continued running in the direction of my house, taking the shortcut. Although this time I had to run on the marram grass due to the rising tide. It can be somewhat difficult running on this type of grass with the lumps and clumps, but I had youth on my side, so I managed to maneuver through the terrain with little difficulty.

It had only been a couple of hours since Troy and I came up with the plan to crash the Squaxin Island campground when Andy and Ricky came rolling into his driveway in Mean Green (the 1970 Torino). We heard him coming down Gravelly Beach LP a good quarter mile down the road as he revved the engine, but the most memorable part was the creaking and squeaking of the shocks and coil springs as he pulled into the driveway. I can still hear the sounds of Mean Green in my head. It’s funny how certain memories stick with you over the course of your life, especially the trifle ones. Yet, the ones you expect to remember, you don’t. For example, I was a groomsman at Ricky’s wedding, and I cannot remember a damn moment of the wedding or reception. I have pictures of the event, and I still can’t remember being there. I even went so far as to ask Ricky if I had drunk too much. He doesn’t recall that being an issue. So, what does that mean? Scary! I had already grabbed my sleeping bag and a backpack full of clothes and snacks, but most importantly, a half-gallon bottle of Vodka! I borrowed it from my dad’s liquor arsenal. I didn’t think he’d notice a half gallon of Vodka missing. Who was I kidding? Anyway, I figured I’d deal with that issue later. At the time, it was all about partying, and partying hard.

Andy and Ricky came walking down to the dock, hands full of paper bags and backpacks. I ran up to the gangway to meet them and give them a hand. “What did you guys bring?” As I reached out to take a bag or two.

Andy handed me a bag and said, “We have some snacks, hamburgers, and drinks.”

“Cool. Troy and I brought some snacks also, with some hotdogs and briquettes. But we have something even better.” I turned around and yelled to Troy, “Show them what I brought!” Troy reached into the hold, located at the bow, and lifted the bottle of Vodka, resembling the Statue of Liberty and her torch. For us, it was the symbol of our freedom and enlightenment. I wish I had a picture of Troy’s shit eating grin as he stood there proud as a peacock.

Ricky quickly replied, “We are going to have some funnnnnn…tonight!”

“Yah Baby!” I started running down the dock in a hurry to get going. With every step, the dock clunked, and the water splashed against the pilings.  

Then big brother spoke up, “Ricky…you better go easy. You know how it can mess with your epilepsy.” Ricky had nothing to say, except for a sigh and a slight upward tilt of his head as his eyes rolled to the stars. Ricky found out that he was an epileptic in his sophomore year, and it happened to be at school. I believe he fell out of his desk chair and started seizing in front of a classroom full of kids. It scared the crap out his brother and I, and of course, his parents. After multiple tests and a bit of poking and prodding, he was prescribed epilepsy medicine. For the most part, it decreased a substantial number of attacks, but he was advised to avoid alcohol. Especially, too much alcohol. It might provoke a seizure. This didn’t discourage Ricky. Heck, Ricky scuba dived with us after his diagnoses. I have no idea how we survived our childhood!

Reaching out to Troy, I handed him the bags I was carrying, and he placed them in the hold. Andy ran back up to the Torino to grab a couple more things and Ricky and I climbed into the boat. “Did you guys bring a tent?” Ricky asked.

“I grabbed one but it’s only big enough for two, so a couple of us with have to sleep in the boat.” Troy had grabbed the tent bag and slid it out for Ricky to see.

“I’ll sleep in the boat then. I don’t mind.” Ricky had a chill personality. He rarely ever got riled or obstinate. He has always had an easy-going attitude and pretty much went along with the flow of things. Andy is a different story. If he didn’t like something, he’d let everyone know and if it meant doing his own thing or going home early, that’s what he would do. If it was one in the morning and he wasn’t comfortable sleeping in his sleeping bag on a hard floor, he’d jump in his car and drive home. I thought he was crazy, but now that I’m older, I understand how important comfort is to the body. And now, at my age, sleep is very important for the body and soul, or I can be a cranky cuss.

“Alright then…Bob and I can stay in the tent, and you and Andy can sleep in the boat.” Troy slid the tent back into the hold and pushed the start button to the engine. EEEEEE…EEEEEE…PBRPBRPBRPBR…and it fired right up. Just then, Andy came running up with two sleeping bags, one in each arm.

“Ricky…you forgot the firecrackers.” Ricky put his hand out and Andy handed him a hundred pack of black cats. During the month of July, the Indian reservation opened a firecracker booth on Steamboat Island Rd, and we wasted no time buying Black Cats, M80’s and M100’s. Firecrackers on top of four soon to be inebriated teens… that spells TROUBLE!

“Oh crap! Thanks.” Ricky placed the Black Cat’s in the pouch of his hoodie.

“We are going to Parrrrrrr…ty tonight!” I had brought my fist up flexing my muscle while I gently bit the top of my bottom lip exposing my upper teeth.

Andy: “Oh yah!”

Ricky: “Bring it on!”

Then there was Troy, eyes squinted, chin slowly and subtly bobbing up and down with that shit eating grin of his. He didn’t have to say a word. He usually left that to the three of us jokers. Troy was always good at listening and enjoying the moment.

As I untied the rope around the cleat that was anchored to the dock, I directed my attention at Troy. “How long do you think it will take to get to the Island?” Troy looked down at his watch.

“Ohhh…about thirty to forty minutes.” I gave a shove off the dock and Troy pushed the accelerator forward. We began to pull away as I watched the eddies from the outboard motor swirled behind. An evening of chaos was about to begin!

Closing in on Squaxin Island and the shingle beach, Troy killed the motor and allowed the boat to coast into the shoreline. Ricky climbed over the front windshield onto the forward deck of the boat, ready to jump off and secure the mooring line to whatever obstacle presented itself reliable and immobile. Troy manned the controls while Andy and I moved closer to the rear of the boat, lifting the bow so the keel slid gently onto the beach. As the boat slid onto the beach the pebbles and gravel under the keel made a scratching sound familiar to our ears. Then Ricky made a giant leap for mankind, landing among numerous wet rocks and uneven ground; unscathed, Ricky ran over to the nearest tree, and tied the mooring line to the trunk. In Washinton, it was not uncommon to find a madrone tree in the supralittoral zone. This is the area just out of the high tide zone. It rarely gets wet. And by the way, before writing this book, I had no idea what that area was called. There’s one for your next trivia question. I couldn’t help myself and shouted, “Land Ahoy! Time to eat and party!” In only a few inches of water, I hopped out of the boat like I was whipping my legs around the pommel horse. I whirled around and started grabbing paper bags and sleeping gear from Andy. Troy started pulling gear out from the hold while Ricky found our camp site.

It was no more than a couple of minutes after Ricky went looking for a spot to camp when he shouted, “We are in luck. There is an open spot right here.” Ricky stood approximately 150 to 200 feet away, waving and pointing at a barbecue pit and a picknick table. Looking from right to left, our nearest camper was a good two to three hundred feet away from us. That was a good thing, considering how loud we might get. Especially, since we were under aged and planning to drink the night away.

“That’s great! Now get down here and help us with the stuff.” Andy waved him back to the boat. I continued to grab the rest of the food and gear from Andy, which I walked up to the beach and placed on dry ground. Troy climbed out of the boat and helped Ricky carry everything from the beach to the camp site. Andy scanned the boat over one last time, “Well, that looks like it.”

“Great. Let’s get up there and get to cooking.” I love to barbecue hamburgers and there is something extra special about throwing hamburgers on the grill when camping. For some odd reason, they always taste better, and you don’t even have to have all the goodies. I feel the same about a glass of wine. I can order a glass of wine from a restaurant, and it will taste a hundred times better than a glass of the same wine from home. Is it the place, the ambiance, what? Weird.

Not long after we inhaled the hamburgers and hotdogs and set up the tent, we busted out the Vodka. Not far off in the distance, center park, a group of people played volleyball. The cheering and trash talk kept the atmosphere lively. An occasional firecracker popped off and the smell of sulfur filled the air. The haze from Barbecue pits left an amazing aroma of hamburgers, ribs, hotdogs, and whatever else people threw on the grill. This was our utopia! I’m not sure which one of us poured the alcohol but they were quite generous. When drinking hard alcohol, it is customary to pour a half inch to an inch of liquid in the glass. This was not the case. If I was drinking a glass of water, it would be a different story, but our cups were filled about a half inch from the top. You know the red plastic cups used for beer pong, weddings, and birthday parties, that’s about the size of the cup we were using. Most of us weighed less than 140 lbs., and likely got buzzed from one beer. You can see where this is going.

As darkness consumed the evening and temperatures began to fall, the four of us crowded around a hot campfire, throwing back cup after cup of inspiration while shooting the shit about girls, weightlifting, and sports. The usual stuff that boys our age boasted or entertained. And as the minutes ticked, the alcohol saturated our veins with obnoxious laughing and cussing that even a sailor may give a thumbs up! I know the Island of leisurely campers found the four of us quite pestiferous. Ricky stood proud, holding a Black Cat in his left hand and a lighter in the other, stumbling from side to side resembling a sailor on the deck of a ship in rough water. Smiling as big as the Joker, he flipped the BIC and lit the fuse. “Hey guys! Look!” And he tossed it into the night sky.

“Look out! Where did it go??” I instantly whirled around, bent over, and covered my head and ears with both hands, trying my best to protect myself from the manifesting explosion above. Troy let out a shriek and stumbled backwards while back peddling away from the epicenter…landing on his back and spasmodically covering his face and eyes while twisting into the fetal position. Andy, Mr. Vertical Jump, flew up from the log he sat on…damn near disappearing into the night sky himself…and sprinted away in Usaine Bolt fashion, leaving no trace behind. To this day, I question Andy’s incredible departure. He was there and then he wasn’t?? Andy had speed and launching power! He easily outran the rest of us. Just an example of Andy’s athleticism, he stood 5’9” and without much work, he could grab the rim of a basketball hoop. In his eighth-grade year, Andy long-jumped eighteen feet, and some inches. He could also do back flips with little to no effort. Ricky continued to stagger from side to side, arms dangling with the sway of his body, laughing hysterically at the bodies scattering before him.

“What the hell…Ricky!” And those were the words that Andy left behind. Like I said, He was there and then he wasn’t.

“AaaHhhhh…AaaHhhhh…” I believe the high pitch of Troy’s shriek started and ended from the moment Ricky let go of the firecracker until the moment it detonated.  

BANG!!!

It sounded so loud and so close I almost peed my pants. In reality, the firecracker landed almost ten feet away from Troy and I, but the sudden explosion felt within a hair’s distance. Funny thing, the Black Cat nearly landed on Ricky’s head, and if he hadn’t staggered to the right at just the right moment, it may have. Nearly missing his head, it exploded about a foot away, and just above the ground.

“Holy crap, dude. That scared the living hell out of me.” I had dropped my hands and looked at Ricky like he had lost his mind but couldn’t help laughing at the same time. “Give a guy some warning---”

“You guy should have seen yourselves…you haven’t moved faster.” Ricky could barely breathe, hands on his stomach and red as a raspberry with elation.

Troy had sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees…staring at Ricky, he deliberately oscillated his head with discontent. There was no need to guess where Andy went.

“Ricky!! What’s the matter with you? That could have landed on any of us. Don’t pull that shit again!” We all spun our heads toward Andy’s voice as he appeared from the darkest and most concealed area of the park. Walking back, resembling that of an MMA fighter ready to enter the ring; Andy, clearly was not having it.

“Bob…let’s take this over there.” Barely standing, Ricky pointed in the direction of the valley ball net, now saturated in darkness. And without any hesitation and obviously disgruntled.

 Andy said, “Please! Go pester someone else.” Then he picked up a fairly long stick and started pushing embers around the fire. His body language said everything. Head down, no eye contact, and silence. He wasn’t much into horse play, and we knew it.

“Troy…are you coming?” I motioned to him with my Vodka cup in one hand, held slightly above my head as I waved him on with my left-hand…following Ricky into the darkness. “Ricky! Wait up. We can’t see you. Troy and I are coming.” Troy and I staggered off, trying to hold each other up, arms across shoulders like two long time drinking buddies, sauced to the hilt while leaving the local pub.

BANG!!! And a white blinding flash came from out of nowhere. The flash lit up the area near Ricky’s location and for a brief moment, we saw the volleyball net and post. Although the loud noise and flash were startling, it was far enough away that we didn’t jump out of our shoes. At this point, campers started yelling. Knock it off, go home, that’s enough, people are trying to sleep, don’t make me come out there and kick your ass. We were so drunk, we didn’t care. Heck…we were just getting started.

Troy and I came tumbling into Ricky as he clung to the volleyball post. Ricky reached into his pocket and attempted to pull out a handful of Black Cats, but his inebriated condition affected his dexterity sending a few dozen Black Cats to the ground. Troy and I conveniently fell to the ground, padding and raking the grass with our hands desperately searching for the lost explosives. Ricky stood over us, laughing and drooling, and due to his inability to stand straight and still, he mimicked that of a pole dancer. Clinging to the pole, he swung from side to side, bending the pole as far as it would allow, damn near lying on the ground. When Troy and I found what we were looking for, we began lighting firecracker after firecracker, throwing them into the darkness around us. The next thing we knew, we were covered in net. We were confused at first but quickly realized the net was no longer secure. Ricky had reached into his other pocket and pulled out a knife. Ricky cut the volleyball net.

As Troy pulled the net off his head, he looked at Ricky with befuddlement. “Dude…why did you do that?” I thought the same thing, but I had my own problem to fix, and the alcohol did not help. I felt like a fish in a net. I had my right arm through one panel, my left through another, and my shoes hung too.

“I don’t know. Come on. We can’t leave it.” Ricky started gathering the net while Troy helped me get my arms and feet untangled. At the time, I may not have believed Ricky’s answer, but now, I do. As drunk and immature as we were, I believe he really didn’t know why he cut the net down. If you have ever been intoxicated to the point of passing out or passing out and waking up the next day not knowing what happened, in most cases, you will realize you had know idea what you did or why you did it. We weren’t the type of kids to vandalize while sober, this was the alcohol taking over, and our little minds could not handle it. Hence, why it is a good idea to bring along a sober individual when indulging in the spirits of life. And hopefully, that individual will lower the boom if you get out of line.

Me: “God! Ricky…I can’t believe you cut the net down. What are we going to do with it? It’s not like we don’t have the evidence.”

Troy: “And look at the pole. You busted that too. Let’s get back to our tent.”

Me: “Sounds like a good idea. Then we can figure out what to do with it.”

Ricky: “OK…I’ve got it.” In Ricky’s arms, he carried a rolled-up nylon nightmare. There was no consistency to the tangled mess before him. The net was “TOAST!” Together, we quickly disappeared back from which we came.

“What in the hell have you guys been doing? You guys have got everybody pissed off.” Andy was legitimately concerned. Troy and I emerged first. “Where is Ric---”

“Andy…we have to hide this.” Ricky…all bound up in a netting fiasco, stood within the light of the fire, waiting for an answer. Andy shook his head in disapproval. Troy and I collapsed on the ground next to the fire, feeling nauseous, and our heads spinning. Before Andy could utter another word, Ricky answered his own question.

“I’ll find a place for it. Don’t worry. I cut it down. I’ll hide it.” At this point, Troy and I had no care in the world. We felt sick and all we wanted to do was sleep. Being young and inexperienced when it came to drinking, we had no idea how to reduce the symptoms of alcohol poisoning. I don’t recall any of us drinking sodas and the only food we ate were burgers and chips. We may have had some bread in the buns, but no water. Good old H2O is the secret to reducing the symptoms of alcohol poisoning and we had none. Andy crawled into his sleeping back next to the fire. I ended up in the tent. Do you like how I phrased that. I ended up in the tent. I do not remember getting into the tent. All I remember is waking up in the tent. Troy and Ricky slept in the boat.

As the sun rose and a gleam of light squeezed its way through the opening of the tent. I had neglected to zip the eastern door. My feet lay to the east and my head to the west. As I opened my eyes to the warmth and glare of the sun that breached my eyelids, I stared into a lake of vomit inches from my face. Somewhat submerged, yet visibly noticeable, my retainer reminded me of Crater Lake, Oregon. I sat up rapidly and noticed that I didn’t zip either door of the tent. Just outside the western door, another lake of vomit christened the earth below. I had passed out. This was a first and a last! So, I thought, and swore upon. You know…that moment when you swear that you will never drink again!! Ha…ha. Just give it time. I Only wish wisdom came from the first experience, not the second, third, fourth…etc. Unfortunately, some of us are a bit more hardheaded than others. Now I know why my father often said to me in French, “Vous etes tetu.” Simply put…you are stubborn. Sitting in the tent, trying to figure out what happened the night prior, I heard some commotion by the water. It sounded like Ricky and Troy speaking to an older gentleman. This is when my stomach began to turn and twist like a pretzel. Exhausted from the alcohol induced evening, I fixated on my retainer, sitting in the pool of vomit. I have to pick that out of there…gross. How am I going to clean it. Take it down to the water. And back in my mouth. Yuck!

“ARE YOU ONE OF THE KIDS THAT CUT DOWN MY VOLLEYBALL NET?” A tall ominous man stood outside my tent, glaring down at me, eyebrows pulsating with rage as they tried to touch; yet violently resisted. Practically exercising a demon, I question whether or not my head spun 360 degrees before resting eye-to-eye with the scariest stranger I had ever encountered. Nausea on top of nausea came with ferocity. I did everything in my power to hold down the remaining contents in my stomach.

“No. I don’t know what you are talking about. Is there anything I can do to help?” I tried to play my best game, cordially and respectfully inspiring a positive understanding of his dilemma with a slight touch of concern. It didn’t work.

“That’s funny! I just spoke with two of your buddies in the boat down there and they said you joined them in the fun, and the one named Ricky used my net as a pillow.” THE MAN had leaned in closer now, one hand on his hip and the other pointing directly at my face. I knew he had me. Think fast. He needs an answer. Don’t lie. It will only make things worse. What the heck Ricky. I thought you were going to hide it. This is--- “I am a lawyer and I plan on pressing charges for theft and vandalism.” Oh oh. Time to say something. Right now. Think! This is that moment when I decided to use my thinker and not my stinker. Something I used to tell my kids and still do.

“Sir. I am very sorry for our actions. We drank too much, and it is the first time we have ever done something like this. Please do not report us. We will do whatever it takes to fix this.” Looking up at him with the best Puss and Boots impression, THE MAN stood up and took the biggest breath and sigh I have ever seen or heard. I trembled inside with anticipation. If my dad finds out…police…jail…no…no…no! “We will pay for the net and pole.”

THE MAN: “I want the payment in two weeks, or I will take this to the author---”

Me: “Yes Sir. How much?”

THE MAN: “Fifty dollars. That will take care of it.” Back then, fifty seemed reasonable but now, it seems a bit much. I looked on Amazon and I can buy a cheap Volleyball kit for fifty to sixty dollars. I think THE MAN wanted two nets! I know Volleyball nets didn’t cost $50 in 1986. Although we did cut his net down and it wasn’t like we didn’t deserve to be punished.

Me: “We can do that, Sir. I promise to have the fifty dollars to you in two weeks.” Again, my mind whirled in all directions. A myriad of brain cells fired in my wee little brain, trying to find a way out of this, just hoping he’d leave, and this would all be over.

THE MAN: “I know you will. I want your name and address. And if you have a school I.D., I want to see it also. What school do you go to?”

Between the three of us, Ricky, Troy, and I managed to accumulate fifty dollars over the course of the next two weeks. I wrote a letter of apology to THE MAN and mailed fifty dollars in cash to his residence. THE MAN held to his word and never reported us to the local authorities. Although several months later, I heard through the grape vine at school that someone cut down a person’s Volleyball net, and that person, THE MAN, said whoever wrote the letter of apology needed some serious help with their grammar and punctuation. At the time, that hurt but he was right! I barely picked up a book in my younger years and really didn’t start engaging in writing and reading until I decided to go back to school and earn my bachelor’s degree. About the time I hit forty-five years of age, I decided to take up leisurely reading. I started with autobiographies from former Navy Seals and later moved on to fiction. I am currently reading the Tower series by Steven King. By the way, it’s a great read! I wish I had been an avid reader as a child. I truly believe reading is the best workout for the mind!!

Don’t Play with Rocks!

            It was the winter of 1980 and the temperature sat between 15 and 20 degrees. It was bitterly cold! It had been…for almost two weeks. The bay glistened as the sun rose in the east due to the sheets of ice that layered the cove. It was quite picturesque! I had never seen anything like this before. I had only lived near Steamboat Island for the past couple of months and this was my first winter on the water. One of the most spectacular sites came as the tide retracted, leaving behind massive sheets of ice resting on the muddy bottom of the bay. The rectangular mirror-like sections of ice resembled that of a disco ball, except flat, not round. Too bad I didn’t have a smart phone in 1980, I’d have plenty of pictures to admire. At least I have the memories. Besides the magnificence the bay had to offer, south of the trailer park there was a small pond, no more than thirty yards long and fifteen to twenty yards wide, which fed into the bay. It sat approximately ten to twenty feet from the entrance to Salt Air trailer park and a natural spring kept it fed year-round. Unfortunately, the freshwater spring lacked enough volume and force to maintain much life other than salamanders and frogs. So, no fishing! Although I managed to find a plan and a purpose for the pond on that…fridged…winter…morn.

            Sitting up in my bed, I pushed my curtain aside and looked out my bedroom window. A blanket of snow covered the evergreens standing side-by-side like a barricade rising into the sky. Our lawn remained hidden beneath a smooth layer of freshly fallen snow, and the driveway no longer existed, only an unbeaten path of white marshmallowy softness. Further out, I gazed at the crystallic appearance of the ice sheets spanning the length and depth of the cove. It was time to rise and shine! It was the weekend and I had nothing to do; other than get dressed, eat breakfast, and go hang out with my buddies. Making sure to dress accordingly, I grabbed a pair of long johns, top and bottom, Levi’s 501’s, a red flannel, and two pairs of socks before sliding my feet into an oversized pair of rubber boots. I think my mother found them at the Goodwill because I had at least an inch or two of space between my big toe and the tip of the boot. We didn’t have a lot of money, so the Goodwill was a popular place for my mom and I, especially when she’d bribe me to go shopping with her by offering to buy me a piece of pie. Lastly, I grabbed my beanie and a pair of my dad’s gloves from Vietnam. Although the beanie looked like a ginormous white cone mounted on top of my enormous scull, it was a beautifully crocheted gift specially made by my mom. Hence, I wore it for her! My dad’s gloves were a think hardened black leather with green stretchy wrist bands. Not exactly a winter glove, but they looked cool, and my dad wore them in the war. And at my age, it was all about looking coollllll…!

            CRUNCH…CRUNCH…I can still feel and hear the familiar sound of snow compressing beneath the sole of my black rubber boots. There I stood…gazing at the bay...taking in a deep breath of fresh cool air and pondering what my day may bring. First, I’m going to see what Troy is up to…maybe breakfast?? Or, maybe fishing and then breakfast…I’m hungry though…not sure if I can go that long. What if he is chopping wood…come back home, eat, go fishing by myself. Or…I can go exploring. Hmm… Funny…the things that can go through a kid’s head when they have too many options to choose from. CRUNCH…CRUNCH…CRUNCH…I managed not to slip as I stepped down from the third, second, and first step to the driveway. Sometimes the wooden planks became wet and icy during extreme weather, and you didn’t always know whether the planks were icy or not when covered with snow. Hence, it was wise to hold onto the railing while descending the staircase.

            Crunching along on the freshly fallen snow I heard ducks quacking back and forth by the pond, and Seagulls squawking in the direction of the bay. The closer I got to the pond the louder the ducks became. Perhaps the quacking had to do with my presence. They certainly heard me coming, since I was the only one outside crunching along in their direction. As I approached the duck crossing, there was a neat little trail of triangular webbed imprints in the snow from one side of the street to the other, which originated from the tree line that led down to the pond. Glancing down at the water’s edge, a snow-covered sheet of ice blanketed the water’s surface. Not a footprint…fallen pine needle…leaf…or a blemish of any kind disturbed the perfect layer of snowy whiteness. Hmm…I wonder if I can walk on the ice? It has been cold for some time now. The edges will be thicker than the middle. Could be dangerous? Looks like fun. I’m hungry. As interesting as the pond appeared, my stomach prevailed. I continued to the entrance of the park and hung a left at the mailboxes onto Gravelly Beach Lp. Troy’s driveway was no more than a half block away.        

            Arf! Arf! Arf! The bugle of a beagle…there was Jasper. Troy’s hounder. Loud and proud. He had to let everyone know I was there, or he would have fallen short of his duties. Although I found it hilarious Jasper stopped barking as soon as I crossed from the driveway to the carport. Not a peep. I don’t recall Jasper being a very hyper dog or really active for that matter. I think he mostly slept or tagged along behind us to see what we were doing. Great dog! And of course, he was one of the gang. “Hey Jasper. Whatcha doing buddy? You keeping the peace?” Jasper gave me a good sniff as I reached over and patted his side and added a little scratch along his backbone. His tail wagged at a thousand miles per hour and those giant brown eyes looked up at the sky while his rear leg kicked like Jackie Chan. Needless to say, he liked his back scratched. Looking down at Jasper, I caught a glimpse of someone behind the front door. Just left of the entry way there was a long narrow pane of glass from the top of the door frame to the bottom. As a teen, I peeked through the glass to see if anyone was home or if breakfast was served. I hope this doesn’t sound creepy. I sound like a peeping Tom. Oops, a peeping Bob. No…No! I was only scoping out the food! Still laughing…a PEEPING BOB…hahaha… Before I had a chance to stand up straight, the doorknob turned and the suction from the seal carried a gentle sucking sound as the door opened.     

            Troy stepped out, “Hey…you’re just in time. There’s pancakes and peanut butter

on the---”

            “I had a feeling. I thought I could smell them walking up the driveway.” I wasted no time kicking off my shoes before hanging a hard left towards the dining room. For some of you reading this book, you’re thinking, “Dining room.” Wellllll…I know it’s hard to believe but some of us have, and still do experience many family breakfasts, lunches, and dinners at the dining room table, unlike the current generations…millennials and gen Zer’s. Unfortunately, I believe smart phones have influenced this failing culture. Notice how I used the word, influence? It isn’t the phone; it is the users behind the phone and the inability to realize what is more important. Phones, social media, internet will be here tomorrow but family, friends, and our dearest loved ones will not. Don’t substitute! Balance. As much as I can appreciate technology, I’m very happy I grew up without them. If I had…this book would not exist. Al and Kathy wasted no time telling me to pull up a chair.  

            While stuffing our faces with peanut butter pancakes and warm log cabin syrup, Al asked, “Are you boys going to head up the hill and do some tubing?”

            I spun my head to the left, lifted my eyebrows, and stared at Troy. “That sounds like a great id---”

            Removing the glass of milk from his mouth and leaving the all too familiar milk mustache, Troy said, “I have to do some work for Rex first, but we can grab the tubes after.” Then…Troy resumed chugging his milk. To this day, I can still see his upper lip covered in a white strip of moo and two little drips clinging to the peach fuzz in the corners of his mouth. I don’t know why, but the milk mustache thing has always made me think the person isn’t all that bright if they can’t tell there’s milk dripping off their lip. Although in Troy’s case, quite the opposite. He graduated with his engineering degree from Washington State University and currently works as a head for the Washington State Department of Transportation. That’s what hard work will do for you, and he demonstrated that work ethic from the moment I met him.

            Me: “How long do you think it will take?”

            Al: “I think Rex said there was only a cord.”

            Me: “Is that a lot?”

            Troy: “Not really. Probably a couple hours.”

            Kathy: “Bob…why don’t you give us a call around ten. He’ll probably be done by then.”

            I finished my last bite and set my fork on the plate and directed my attention to Kathy. “Ok. I’m sure I can find something to do. The pond is frozen solid. I wonder how thick the ice is?”

            Kathy smiled and sternly said, “You be careful and no walking on the ice!”

            Both Troy and Al turned their heads in my direction…waiting patiently for my answer. I piped up quickly. “I won’t. I know how dangerous that can be. I’m just going to check it out.” Truth is…I had other plans. I wanted to see if I could walk on the ice. But, if I explained my theory to them, they would not have agreed. I’m sure! Don’t worry, I’ll divulge my theory, soon. Kathy had worked her way from the kitchen to the dining room and removed my plate from the table.

            “Alright then. Give me a hug before you head out.” Holding my plate to her side and leaning in with her other arm, I stood up and gave her a hug. Much like Nancy, Kathy let all her boys know she cared about them, whether they were hers or someone else’s. In other words, she was that one mom on the block, everyone knew, who mothered everyone. She loved to take care of family. Meaning, when you stepped foot into Kathy’s home, you were family. Al…like most men, went along for the ride. As long as momma was happy, everybody was happy! Now that I am a grown man, raised three children, and been married 22 years, the statement is true…happy wife…happy life!

            “Bob…I need to get to Rex’s.” Troy stood up from the table, gave his mom a hug, said a few words to his dad, and headed for the front door. I followed close behind.

            “Hang on…I will walk you to the corner.” I hastily threw on my jacket, gloves and beanie, then stepped outside to slip on my boots.

            Zoning out at the snow-covered driveway in front of me and walking to the right of Troy. I said what I was thinking, which I often didn’t have a problem doing. “It sucks that you have to chop wood on a day like today. You’d think Rex would understand and let you have a day off.” Troy may have been thinking the same thing, but you’d never know it. He never complained. When there was work to be done, it came first, and play time came second. I may not have understood his ideologies then, but I do now! Don’t get me wrong. If my father or mother had a task for me to do, I made sure to do it because I knew what would happen if I didn’t. But it wasn’t like I was out looking for work. Troy was…and is…a workhorse, and so were both of his parents. I’m not sure if it is genetics or enculturation, but he has earned every bit of his success today. Although we were not brothers biologically, yet we acted like brothers for a good portion of our late teens; if he were my little brother, I’d be extremely proud of the man he is today.

            “It won’t take long.” Short and to the point without any grievance. He heard me but he never went there. As we approached the end of the driveway, Troy headed south on Gravelly Beach Loop, and I headed north. “I’ll see you in a few.”

            Me: “Alright. I’ll give you a call around 10.”

            Troy: “Sounds good.” Rex lived approximately a mile down the road, where Gravelly beach loop started and ended. That being said, I just reminded myself of a funny story that I am not proud of, and it happens to be about my dad.  For starters, after work, my father liked to spend time at the local tavern. He enjoyed playing shuffleboard and drinking beer, and to be honest, he was quite the shuffleboard player. He’d borrow my tip money to enter tournaments, and nine out of ten times, he came home with a ham and cash, a turkey and cash, or just cash. If he borrowed $10, he paid me back $20, and I gladly shared in the spoils of turkey or ham. Not a bad exchange, if you’d ask me. As far as I was concerned, I made out like a bandit. He always paid me back, and he paid me back with interest! Now that’s a good parent. Although he probably figured if he didn’t pay me back right away, I may not let him borrow my tips. Nah…his integrity meant everything. Back to the story. Some nights, my dad had one too many, and got behind the wheel. His drive home consisted of back roads and little to no traffic at 2:30 am. Unfortunately, in the eighties, we didn’t have Uber and the fines for drinking and driving were not stiff enough to deter people; thus, he figured he could get away with it. Well…he did manage to get away with it; many, many times, but there was one time when he didn’t. As I stated, Rex’s property ran up to the shoulder of Gravelly Beach Loop, where the loop started and ended. If you turned right onto Gravelly Beach Loop, a beautifully cut lawn lay to the right. The lawn served as the front yard to one of Rex’s rentals. If a driver cut the corner a little too hard, they might end up in Rex’s front yard. Needless to say, my father cut the corner too hard! One evening, in his inebriated state, he gunned his 86’ Fiero Gt, lost control, and spun his car through Rex’s beautifully manicured lawn. Leaving deep ruts and muddy tracks from the lawn to the road, he drove home and went to sleep. The following morning my father woke to someone knocking on the front door. When he opened the door, very groggy and a little disoriented, Kathy (Troy’s mom) stood on the top step holding a license plate in her hand.

            “Hello Kathy…what brings you here?” Perplexed and recovering from the night before, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and cleared his throat.

            “Dan…I thought you might need this.” Kathy held up my dad’s license plate, patiently waiting for an answer. Right now, I’m guessing that you are wondering how Kathy knew the plate was his. Wellllll…when your Fiero is white and the license plate says, WHTHOT, it’s pretty obvious. This is one of those instances where someone has you by the balls!! There was no denying it, not that my dad would have done that, but she had him dead to rights, and he made sure to make amends. Kathy kept this little secret from me for many years. I think I found out in my early twenties, and I was very embarrassed. The nice thing about Kathy; she let things go and didn’t hold a grudge. I don’t know if I could have been so forgiving. I guess that is why she was mom, and like I have indicated, she was mom to everybody, including my father.

            Troy went his way, and I went mine. I needed to find something to do for the next couple of hours, and my curiosity was about to get the best of me. I wanted to walk across the frozen pond, but I had to be careful and figure out how to test the thickness of the ice before testing my fate. Walking closely to the tree line that circled the pond, I noticed the duck path down leading down to the water, and a streak of sun light reflected off the ice casting the most beautiful forest ray I had ever seen. It was as though the ice called out to me that day. Ok, that’s a little dreamy. All in all, the sloped path was lit up making my descent to the ice easy. I’d guess the distance from the road to the pond to be twelve to fifteen feet. Standing at what was once liquid, now screamed density! Kneeling down, I saw myself peering into the depths of the ice as my reflection inquisitively looked back at me. I tilted my head and studied the surface of the ice methodically. Much like a Jeweler’s Loupe, I inspected for cracks, thin spots, and bubbles. The ice appeared solid! The next step…literally…test the strength of the ice by placing my foot on the outer most edge, and work my way in.  

            One…two…three steps onto the ice…standing motionless listening and watching. It was quiet. No cracking or popping. Just birds and seagulls singing pleasantly in the surrounding trees and in the distance. My confidence soared but not high enough. I knew the middle is always the thinnest and my goal was the other side. Hence, I had to cross the middle of the pond to reach my destination. If I made it to the midpoint and fell through the ice, I may drown or die of hypothermia. I had to find something heavy, and heavy enough to break through the ice if I threw it from where I stood. I only had to go another seven or eight feet, so the distance wasn’t too far for me to throw a large object with a nice looping trajectory, bringing the object straight down to the ice. Stepping back and onto dry ground, I spun around and scrutinized the concealed underbrush, dead wood, and stones. Nothing matched the mass or weight of the object I had in mind. I knew there were some large rocks and chucks of concrete by the old boat launch to the trailer park. The boat launch was within thirty feet of the pipes which fed fresh water from the pond into the bay. But…that meant working my way back to the road and hanging a right straight down to the bay. I only had to walk thirty to forty feet, and the road paralleled the pond, so I never lost sight of it. On my walk, I realized the altitude from the road to the pond to be quite high, eight to ten feet, providing an excellent place to hurl a rock onto the ice. I had it figured out. If the ice can withstand the impact of a large rock from up here, I can trust the thickness of the ice to walk across. This was twelve-year-old logic and to be perfectly honest, I think it was pretty good logic. I guess we will see how that logic worked out for me. Whirling around in hopes of finding a big enough rock to test my logic, I spotted a marbled rock beneath the snow, layered in greyish green colors, slightly bigger than a bowling ball. I’d guess twenty to twenty-five pounds. It lay a foot or two off the asphalt next to a snow-covered pile of leaves and pine needles. Without missing a beat, I moseyed my way to the other side of the street, bent down and brushed the snow away, and began to lift the rock. Although it was very cold that morning and the rock was every bit of 15 degrees, my dad’s military gloves kept my hands warm, so I had a good hold on my logic…? This allowed me to press the rock over my right shoulder with my right hand and balance it with my left. Safe and secure…so I thought.

            Lying face down on the frozen asphalt, I suddenly heard a thud and felt pressure, followed by an electrical shock up my right arm and into my shoulder. It all happened so fast; my mind raced to assess the situation. My right hand felt different. Oh no!!! Did the rock hit my hand??? Turning onto my left side, I used my left hand to quickly pull the glove from my other hand. At that moment…time seemed to stand still as the glove slid past the second digit of my index finger. BLOOD…BONE…TENDONS…FLESH…UNMASKED!!! Everything inside my finger was clearly visible to the naked eye. My finger hung lymph like a pendulum by a thread. A thin piece of subcutaneous tissue secured my pulverized finger from detaching itself, and shards of bone protruded the mangled flesh like Porky Pine quill’s. A pounding in my chest rose within me and my head felt a rush of warmth and panic. My finger…it’s gone…I can’t feel it…my friends…what will they think…my parents…my mom…dad…I got to get to the house…my mind raced. Holding my left hand under my right, I stood up and started up the hill to the upper street in the direction of my home. I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Mom!! Dad!! Mom!! Dad!! Mom!! Dad!!” I didn’t stop yelling until I got to the front door of the house. Something I haven’t mentioned. I’ve been known for my singing voice since I was a child, and a musical gift I have is the ability to project my voice. In other words, I have a very powerful voice and when I want to project (yell), everybody knows it. Anyone that has experienced the martial arts, understands the power of Ki, taking the inner strength of the body and using it for strength and defense against an opponent. My ability to project came in handy while studying the art. Nothing like going around yelling at everybody. I’m sure my classmates appreciated it. Noooooo…I didn’t go around yelling at everybody. Those who have studied, understand. My point. It was a Saturday morning, and everyone was snuggled in their beds, staying warm and cozy from the fridged winter morn. Not me! I sounded the alarm that morning and every individual in Salt Air Mobile Home Park arose to, “Mom!! Dad!! Mom!! Dad!!”

            Mouth open…eyes wide and fixed…turning paler by the second, my mother stood motionless. I waited and I waited, and I waited for a…noise, a word, a shriek, or a gasp of sound to exit her body. I saw the worry, the sadness, and fear in her expression…my heart sunk. “Dan!!! Dan!!! He broke his finger off!!!” I can remember her exact words and I will never forget them. Thinking back, the use of “Broke” and “off” to describe my finger, did not bode well with my soul. Although I had seen what I had seen, I don’t believe I realized the severity of my injury until I heard my mom speak. A clammy feeling passed over me like a cool breeze and I suddenly felt faint. I was beginning to go into shock. Up to this point, I hadn’t shed a tear, but the comfort of a mom is unlike any other…sorry Dad…the flood gates opened, and I stood limp for a moment in my mother’s arms.

            “Dorthy…go find something to wrap around his hand!” Tears streaming down both sides of her face, she ran quickly to the bathroom, and then my dad placed both hands on my shoulders and looked straight into my eyes. “Bob! Bob! Look at me. Do you see me? Can you tell what I’m saying?”

Me: “Yes.”

Dad: “Ok…I want you to listen. Crying is not helping you. It will make you bleed more. I need you to calm down and stop crying. Do you understand?”

Me: “How does that help?”

Dad: “You will calm down and slow your heartbeat, which will slow down the blood to your finger.”

Me: “OK.” I have remembered those words since the age of twelve and I have used them many times with my children. No child likes to bleed, let alone most adults. I’d hope all, but there are some interesting characters in this world, so anything is possible. It worked with me, and it worked my my kids. As I slowed my downpour, I started to feel normal again.

            “Here you go Dan.” My mother handed a small towel to my dad, and he gently wrapped it around my right hand. A funny thing…the towel wasn’t gray, or blue, white, or yellow. It was red, BLOOD RED. I don’t even know where the towel come from. I had never seen it and I’d be surprised if my mom had ever seen it. Although it did camouflage the little bit of blood that dripped slowly from my index finger.

            “Nice color, Dorthy.” My dad looked up and her and over to me again.

            “It was the only one I could find. And I was in a hur…”

            “It will work. Bob…wait here. Dorthy…watch him. I’m going to slip on my shoes and grab the keys.” My mom stood close by and rubbed my shoulders and told me everything would be alright. Her words continued to soothe my mind and soul. If mom said everything was going to be alright, then everything will be alright.

            “Let’s get going. We have no idea how bad the roads are going to be, and I’m worried about the hill.” The hill was no more than a mile or two up the road and compromised most vehicles during the winter months when the road was icy or snowed over. I’d guess a 25 to 30 percent downgrade. Although there were two ways out, the hill served as the shortest route, and the most logical. Unfortunately, we did not have a four-wheel drive vehicle to get us out of the slippery confines of the hill, but a 79’ Datsun B210 hatchback with rear wheel drive. Front wheel drives were not in mass production in 1980, and trucks were not a popular item for a Washingtonian living in Olympia. In fact, trucks and SUVs were unheard of because of the seventies gas crisis. It was all about fuel mileage. Lastly, not only did the Datsun lack weight, and front wheel drive, but power too. I mentioned the lack of power earlier on in the book regarding the need for speed when merging on the highway. I always felt like I was going to get run over and blended in with the surrounding roadkill. For this very reason…subconsciously, I believe I have always had a passion for fast vehicles. The stress from worry took its toll on me. Now I drive a 2015 Mustang GT, and I have had a 65 FB Mustang GT, a 67 RS Camaro, a 69 Mustang FB. I found that I had the need for speed. This guy isn’t getting run over!!       

            My dad and I sat silently as he concentrated on the icy roads. I worried about the condition of my finger, but mostly the reaction of my friends and the other kids at school. I know bullying still exists, but it seems to have been more rampant in the ‘70s and ‘80s. I believe children are more accepting of amputations today. This is purely subjective, but I owe this observation to YouTube, TikTok, Instagram…etc. Many individuals with amputations or deformities have put themselves on social media to educate or entertain. In turn, people do not act surprised or grossed out when they see someone who is different. When I was a kid, (famous reminiscent words of a middle-aged man) the verbal and physical abuse from other children was horrifying. You seldom saw adults or children with a missing leg, a glass eye, or scars. Because of the ridicule these unique individuals spent limited time in public and more time at home. In other words, the percentage of unique individuals hasn’t changed. People are more accepting and understanding; thus, those unique individuals no longer fear the publics reaction. This is a good thing!

            At the base of the hill there was a three- or four-hundred-yard stretch of asphalt to the first corner. This was a 15-mph curve, so you didn’t accelerate until you were out of the curve and facing the straight away. So, as my dad and I made the turn, facing the hill, he did all he could to keep the wheels from spinning as he pressed the accelerator. I could hear his teeth gritting and a whisper, “Come on…come on…get some traction…come on…you can do it…” Clearly, he was worried. I could see it, feel it, and hear it in the tone and level of his voice. Getting up the hill and over the rise meant the difference between a forty-minute drive and an hour and a half. Much like the Little Engine That Could…I thought to myself. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I know I… Whoops, I can’t finish with “I know I can.” Wheels spinning, engine revving, and the car’s rear end swaying back and forth; the three-quarter mark came, and we stopped moving. For a moment, my dad looked at me and I at him, we had that “Uh…Oh…,” look. The car began to slide backwards and the “Uh…Oh’s…” became bigger. At the time, I had no idea what my dad did, but he managed to do a one eighty and swing the car around. Today…he must have pulled the emergency brake and turned the wheel to the right; thus, locking the rear tires, which swung the weight of the front end around. If you had told me this at the age of 12, I’d say, “What???”

            “Are we going to have to go the long way?” Holding my hand under the BLOOD RED towel, I waited for an answer. My concern splintered through the muscular structure of my cheeks, jaw line, and brow. The muscles in my jaw and cheeks twitched and relaxed as I pressed my teeth together and my brow tightened as I grew more worrisome and angrier. Why does there have to be snow on the ground? I hate snow! Look what has happened. Still waiting for an answer, I heard my dad take in a deep breath and sigh.

            “I’m not trying that again. We weren’t even close, and it is too dangerous. We’re going the long way.” He placed the back of his hand on my cheek and said, “Are you OK?” I gave a slight smile with lips together and a gentle nod. I knew it was going to be a long ride and there was no getting out of it. Basically…I had to grin and bear it for another hour and a half. Fortunately for me, I felt little to no pain due to the smashed nerves in my finger.     

 

           

                       

              

           

   

 

SCUBA Duba Doo

By now, you have figured out that most of my adventures and experiences with my friends weren’t the brightest of ideas. We seemed to engage in activities on the fly. Thus, not much thought was put into the event, surroundings, or possible outcome. We…just did it! That being said, the next story is probably the most dangerous decision we made, and it involved scuba gear, a ninety-foot drop, currents, an epileptic, and an idiot. Do not attempt to do the following without proper training and certification!

As I have mentioned, Andy’s early childhood involved growing up around the skateboard park. Other than skateboarding and exploring the surrounding forest, there wasn’t much to do. But there happened to be a SCUBA shop not more than a half mile up the road from Andy’s house. I’m not sure if Nancy had a premonition of living next to the water one day or she simply wanted the boys to try something new, but she signed Andy and Ricky up for SCUBA classes at the early age of eight and nine. I know…you are thinking, “Ricky has epilepsy!” He didn’t have his first epileptic attack until his sophomore or junior year in high school. Nancy never would have enrolled the boys in SCUBA classes if she Knew Ricky was an epileptic. So, both boys received their PADI certification within a few months. I’m not sure where or if they went diving before they moved to Steamboat Island, but Steamboat was the perfect place for SCUBA diving.

Steamboat Island is located between Hope Island and Arcadia point. I’m not positive and I haven’t done the research but the currents between Steamboat and Hope are quite strong and clearly visible from above the surface. I never attempted to swim the currents without a life vest or SCUBA suit. I believe these currents have eroded the sea floor north of Steamboat, which has created the steep underwater cliff, dropping ninety feet straight to the bottom. As the tide recedes the bottom of the bay gradually becomes exposed. Among the shingle and broken bits and pieces of various shells are numerous vents randomly squirting streams of salt water a foot or two into the air, and it wasn’t uncommon to get a shot up the pant leg occasionally while walking out to the point. Quite refreshing I say! Approximately twenty to thirty feet from the water’s edge, the shingle transitioned to clay. The clay served as a home to Dungeness crab, rock crab, and geoduck. Unlike the smaller vents that consumed the majority of the foreshore, resembling that of a water park with a squirt here and a squirt there, the vents were much larger. Geoduck necks sometimes lay limp or erect four to five inches above the clay table. And yes, I know the way it sounds, but it’s true, and I don’t know any other way to describe it. Anyhew…the vibration or sound of our feet slapping the watery surface frightened them…sending a massive shot of water out of their neck, shriveling up and disappearing beneath the security of the clay. Occasionally, we reached into the deep hollow layers of clay in hopes of finding a Dungeness crab. If you think we reached in blindly, you are gravely mistaken! I was already missing half of my index finger, so I had no intention of losing another one. We often found a stick to root them out and then grab them by the back of the shell or their rear legs. Similar to steamers and butter clams, we placed the crabs in a bucket of salt water before throwing them in a pot of boiling water to purge any remaining sand in their system. Although it was rare to find a crab full of sand. They’re not quite like clams, which burrow and dig their way through the sand. All in all, we enjoyed free Dungeness crab for dinner whenever the creatures presented themselves as a potential meal. Spoiled? Yes!

Nearing the edge of the clay shelf and depending on the severity of the low tide, the water’s surface dropped two to three feet below; exposing seaweed and sea cucumbers, which clung to the porous layers of rock that descended ninety feet straight to the sea floor. How did we know this? Well…I’ll get to that…soon enough. Standing next to the water and looking into the ominous secrets of the deep blue liquid ignited a curiosity that we could not resist, even if it meant risking our lives. While I’m here and remembering back, we tried something you might find interesting and fun at the same time. We used to use the M80 firecrackers as depth charges. We’d tie the M80 to a rock, light it, and throw it in the water. Not sure if I mentioned it but the fuses were coated in wax, so water did not suffocate the flame. You could light the M80 and watch it sink about 10 to 12 feet before exploding and sending a rush of bubbling water to the surface. Although we hoped to blast a fish out of the water, it never happened. Still fun though!

“Bob…I think this old suit of mine will fit you.” Andy held up his first wet suit, staring at it from top to bottom and then at me.

Stepping inside the storage shed next to the carport, I reached out and felt the insulated rubber material. “Do you think I can get into that thing? It looks awfully sm---.”

“They are supposed to be snug. That’s how it keeps you warmer than the water outside.” Holding the suit with one hand, Andy shoved his other hand through one arm of the suit. “See…my arm fits. The suit is smooth on the inside.”

Seemingly in shock, I had one word. “WOW!”