Enter the Little League Years or “Who’s on First?”

Since Blue-eyes and I were erstwhile aging athletes, it was only natural that we get the offspring involved in different types of sports. This activity extended itself from the organized local school programs to things such as Little League and tennis. Having resurrected the swimming pool at the New Abode, everybody was a swimmer, even though the water was sometimes a bit chilly. Blue-eyes’ idea of the acceptable water temperature for swimming was around 85°, which our pool rarely met.

We were fortunate in that we were just a few blocks, if you can call our residential area blocks, from a relatively low-key Country Club that featured a bunch of tennis courts, an Olympic size swimming pool, and a rather large equestrian facility. Now, don’t get me wrong! This was not a fancy place and was really very oriented toward family activity. The best part, didn’t cost an arm and a leg. So, somehow, regardless of good old JJ’s attitude about country clubs, we became members. I think it was either Groucho Marx or perhaps WC Fields who said “I wouldn’t want to belong to a club that would have me as a member.”

The other neat aspect of our location was we were a very short distance from the three local Little League fields. So naturally, as the curtain climbers began to become interested in a certain level of competitive sports, we got them going on the concept of baseball. I say “concept” because my first experience with Little League was far from what my understanding and past experience of what the game of baseball was all about. I had played organized baseball until I was about 35, and thought I knew a little bit about it, but this did not prepare me for what I was about to face. But that’s another story.

The town we live in has maybe 2500 single-family residences and 10,000 horses, and could be euphemistically defined as a bedroom community, with no retail businesses of any kind. I should qualify that to say that a few years after we moved in, the Sheriff’s Department discovered a “house of ill repute.” I don’t know if that qualifies as retail or not, but I guess you could surmise that there was a certain emphasis on the term “bedroom.” I digress!

This particular Little League franchise was pretty low-key and had been around for a number of years. Because of the limited talent base, they had never really had any inter-league championships. They usually got their butts kicked and eliminated in the first round of regional tournament play. We were surrounded by large communities with multiple franchises, and one of them had nearly gone to the Little League World Series.

With such a small number of families, the league still managed to attract enough kids to form five teams per league. There were three specific leagues, starting with the Minors who were somewhere between 7 and 10 years old. I don’t think there was a lot of attention paid to the lower end of that spectrum because some of those kids were really young. So JJ Junior decided “it” wanted play organized baseball. He was a good athlete, once he made his mind up whether he was to be left-handed or right-handed. And from the time that he was very small, we used to play a lot of “wiffleball” in the backyard along with the other kids in the neighborhood.

So, we went about the process of signing up, paying the fees and during this process, when asked if I would help, made the mistake of saying “Sure, whatever I can do.” The next thing I know this “big guy,” a 6-foot-four character, is at my doorstep with a bag of equipment. I commented “What’s that for?” and he said “I need a manager for one of the teams.” I told him I really didn’t have the time, etc. etc. He said, “Well okay, it’s just interim, until I can find a permanent manager.” He told me there was a meeting at his house the following evening and gave me his address and directions. We chatted for a few minutes and it turned out that he had three sons playing in the league and was also President. Nice guy and too big to argue with. As he walked away, I got this strange feeling that I had just been had, and he was never going to find a manager.

At the meeting, we “new managers” got a Little League rulebook and some quick instructions on the basic philosophy that every kid plays at least two innings. That was a must! Failure to do this meant a forfeiture of whatever game you played, and you would no longer be suitable as a manager. Headlines in the next day’s sports page of the daily newspaper, “JJ gets fired as Little League manager.” Aha! A loophole from which I could weasel out. I guess this was the early stage of “No child left behind,” with little comprehension on my part of the interesting and delightful effects that this would have during the forthcoming season. “Gee Mom, how come I only get to play two innings?”  “Well, that’s because you’re a total klutz, Westley.” We were also informed that there would be “tryouts” for the kids the following Saturday, and that we needed to be there for the selection process. “Wow!” I thought. “This almost sounds like a draft.” I was beginning to wonder if they had “signing bonuses.”

The tryouts event was basically an evaluation and ranking of all those kids that showed up. It’s intent was to discover who had a modicum of exposure to the little things like catching, throwing and hitting. Some were seasoned players returning for more outlandish exposure by mostly incompetent coaches. There were about 75 of these pint-sized Babe Ruths, and only about 40% of them had even the slightest clue about the basics, let alone how the game was played.

After watching some of these kids for a half-hour, my candid conclusion was that most of them would visit the hospital before the season was over. A couple of them had a real good shot at accomplishing that before the season even began. As an example, during tryouts at least three kids got hit in the mouth while trying to catch the ball and ended up looking for Mom. One of the kids swung so hard at the ball, he lost the bat and nailed one of the Dads that was doing the pitching. I didn’t blame “slugger,” because this particular guy was a terrible pitcher. Couldn’t get the ball close to the plate. The kid stayed. The Dad left! I later drafted “slugger” simply because I thought he had style, and worst-case was that since most of the kids at the tryout saw this incident, he would scare the hell out of our opposition’s pitchers.

The ranking system was pretty basic; excellent, good, fair and needs work in the various basic skills. After watching these kids I came to the conclusion that they should have one more category, and that should be called “hopeless.” After the tryouts, the managers got together and had what was called a draft. Each team was allocated so many players from the top two categories to provide some degree of parity. The rest were divvied out on something of an equal lack of skill-set basis. What I didn’t know was that a couple of the other returning manager’s drafted players who had not been at the tryouts, and it turned out these kids were “ringers.” So, clearly the games began before the games began. One of the other managers kept muttering, “Just win, Baby. Just win!” I thought maybe he was in wrong sport. I ended up drafting the “big guy’s” youngest son, assuming that with two older brothers he would’ve developed some of the basic essentials. Smart move! His kid turned out to be a real good player.

Now spring training begins! Each team was given a specific day to use the fields for practice, and this of course had to start after school. The weekends were open and each team was given a two-hour time slot. The team names were not taken from animals like the Bad News Bears or the Woeful Wolverines, but were basically major-league names. My little team was the Dodgers. And as it turned out, aptly named, because you really never knew what was going to happen! One of the neat things about this league was the kids all got uniforms, not just shirts, but actual uniforms with the team name. Most of the uniforms were about three or four sizes too big, but that was okay.

Some of the dads on our team volunteered to help me with the practice days, which could be best described as absolute chaos. Practice started with the basics of breaking them up into pairs and having them play catch, which really evolved into most of the kids running after a ball in the outfield because they couldn’t catch it, let alone throw it close enough to their partner so that he could catch it. Everybody wanted to play first base, or be the pitcher or play shortstop. Nobody wanted to be catcher and I couldn’t find an outfielder to save my soul. One kid didn’t want to play anywhere; he just wanted to wear the uniform and bat. He also informed me that he wanted to be an orthodontist. I almost made him team captain.

Batting practice consisted of mainly showing the kids how to stand, how to swing and most importantly – how to get out of the way of the ball when it was headed straight for them. They all had to wear batting helmets, which were about four sizes too big and flopping over their eyes. It didn’t really matter because not many of them hit the ball anyway. I was doing the pitching, underhand, and watching them swing at just about anything, even if I rolled the ball to the home plate. I tried to explain the strike zone and the concept of watching the ball all the way to the plate. I got this message crossed however – one kid just stood there. I stopped and asked him why he let those good pitches go by. He just looked at me and said “I didn’t think I was supposed to swing.” The next pitch – he hit it a ton, took off and rounded the bases, trotting into home. All the kids cheered!

We had about four more practices before our first game started. I found a catcher, JJ Junior, who I’m sure was more than just a little unhappy with the Dodgers management. We had a couple of kids that could at least get the ball close to the plate, but I was convinced that if anybody on the opposing team hit the ball anywhere, it was likely to be a home-run in that our infield had a tough time coping with the concept of fielding a ground ball. Even if they did, it was highly unlikely that they were going to throw it anywhere near the first baseman. I figured we would get beat by 24 to 2, based on the successes of our practices.

We played our first game and I discovered that the other team was as bad as we were. The best description of this game was that if anybody did in fact make contact with the ball, they just kept running until they got to home plate, because nobody could throw the ball successfully to any base. After the first couple of innings, I moved all my outfielders in about 20 feet off the infield grass, assuming if any of the other players hit a fly ball, it was going to be a home-run anyway. I put the would-be orthodontist out in right field, where he promptly sat down and picked grass. “Slugger” actually hit the ball three times, managing to hang onto the bat. The first time though, he was so shocked, he forgot to run to first base and stood there so long – with all of us yelling “run, run!” He eventually took off to third base, assuming if he gets that bag, he would be able to come home. He was eventually tagged out by their center-fielder, five minutes later.

We would end up winning, but not because we were more skillful than our opponents, but because the “big guy’s kid,” whose name was Tom, hit the ball into the outfield with JJ Junior on first because of a walk. The kid in the outfield was so surprised, he stood there and held the ball while those two rounded the bases. I was satisfied with that because I now realized that the other teams had the same problems. At least I knew that the Dodgers would not go 0 and 25. This was just the beginning of a number of years of fond memories, some not-so-fond memories, the development of lifelong friends, three peptic ulcers, and two broken windshields.

Moral of the story – It’s not so much in winning as it is how you played the game, especially if you can’t hit, can’t catch and forget to run to first base.

Border Wars: Hawks versus Squirrels and JJ versus Squirrely Neighbor

 

So that some of this makes some sense, you may want to check out my other little story regarding the new house, called New Abode. Now, you might get the impression that this is blatant commercialism, but the last time I looked the stories were free. I’m just trying to be helpful!

As you may recall, we moved into the new house which filled the needs of our growing family. More bedrooms, more bathrooms, more space and more problems. Not only was there work that had to be done on the interior to make life suitable and get Blue-eyes off my back, but we had to go about taming the jungle on this rather large lot. Blue-eyes had developed a rather lengthy “honey do” list. After some review and prioritizing, I could see that my weekends were shot for at least the next two years.

You might say that our new home was in an open space, because there were literally no fences between the properties on either side, with the exception of fencing that imprisoned the horses, but didn’t do much to control the horse flies. There were seven horses adjacent to the property, not including our own. This produced so much horse poop that some of these flies were as big as a small bird. If we failed to close the screen door, which was often practiced by the curtain climbers, we would be invaded by these huge flies and it was reminiscent of the scene out of a movie called “The Birds.” I was waiting for Alfred Hitchcock to show up at any moment.

We had one small fence surrounding a dead or dying lawn, but it did not enclose the property. We had a swimming pool and our insurance company mandated that the property be fenced. That made it high on the priority list. The unique view from our back patio was this rather ugly fence, and then a whole bunch of dead trees and high brush growth including – much to my chagrin – poison oak and wild blackberry bushes.

This little development had been built on what had been a walnut orchard, however most of the trees were in extremely bad shape and would eventually have to be removed. What little fruit the trees produced was being consumed by a multitude of squirrels. I’m not talking about just a “few” of these little beasts. At one point, I counted 11 squirrels in two trees munching away. It was clear that the only thing the squirrels had to do was consume walnuts and reproduce. Where did I go wrong?

This overpopulation was corrected – not by me and my trusty lever-action, Red Ryder BB gun. The local hawks initiated a slow elimination program of this squirrel heaven with a “swoop and grab” strategy, mostly executed in the morning. Breakfast is served.

I would watch this demonstration of Mother Nature in action with my morning coffee. Blue-eyes didn’t want any part of it and told me I was being “ghoulish.” My reply to that was it was not much worse than the morning news on TV. We were getting our butts kicked in Vietnam, and I found watching that was a pretty disgusting way to begin the day.

The hawks would sit patiently in a tree and wait until a squirrel hit the ground with its booty filling its cheeks, and usually the little varmints were toast. The more combat-savvy squirrels would wait until this predator would finish its dive and then take off for shelter, zigzagging like a World War II convoy. Sometimes they would wait, and two or three would scamper away at the same time. Those survivors were clever little devils. I could swear on more than one occasion I could hear the Hawks humming “Come fly with me.” The rest of this problem was resolved, for the most part, when I removed many of the trees.

The area that I wanted to enclose was about 200’ x 200’ x 150.’ That’s a lot of grape stakes and a whole bunch of holes for fence posts. I found the real meaning of terra firma was really “terribly firm.” The ground was not just adobe, but clay adobe, and during the summer, was hard as a rock. You couldn’t dig a hole without soaking the ground with water. Even though I had an auger, it was pure hell. I did discover that if things ever really got tough economically, I had a lot of adobe brick raw material and could go into the brick business. I did in fact make a small adobe wall out of our marvelous soil, however, the second time it rained it melted!

So, I began the process of digging post holes every eight feet, and approximately 18 inches deep. I know this is boring, however it will get interesting in a hurry. I’m putting holes adjacent to one of my neighbor’s property lines and as I got down about a foot or so, I noticed the hole filling with water. What the hell is this? I can’t believe that the water table would be that high, and then there was this terrible odor. I came to the conclusion that this was runoff from my neighbor’s septic tank. No wonder his small lawn was so green. This emission also provided an answer as to why that part of my property was like a bloody jungle.

I called him to show him what was happening. He was already unhappy with me because I was putting in fencing. He didn’t even offer to help install this proposed good neighbor fencing, let alone pay for any portion of it. I got even though, by placing the rough ugly side facing his property, not mine. Now he was even more PO’d because I had uncovered the fact that his septic tank was not working properly. The guy had no sense of humor. The upside of this was I didn’t have to put water into the ready-mix to plant the post. This area had so much fertilized water that the redwood posts seemed to me to begin to grow. I exaggerate, but I really expected it.

After I had dug all those holes and had secured the fence posts, my buddy came out and stated he thought the fence was on his property. I commented that I had found the property stakes and had basically put the fence better than 3 feet away from the property line. I took this friendly son of a gun (I cleaned that up), and showed him the surveyor stakes that revealed the property lines. This proved that the fence was indeed well behind that line. He didn’t say much, turned around and left.

Now, after the fact, the fence is up and I happened to go out front where one of the surveyor stakes had been driven into the ground. This is an 18 inch, metal stake. The stake was missing! Someone had dug it up. Hell, we’re talking over an acre of ground – three or four feet don’t much matter. Clearly this guy had a severe burr up his behind. I think that’s one of the last conversations we ever had. We eventually signed a non-aggressive treaty which included a clause that stated neither one of us existed.

To confirm the old saying “fruit does not fall far from the tree,” one of his sons came over about a month later and said that our dog’s barking was keeping him awake at night, and that if we did not control him he would call the Sheriff. I mentioned to this “Chip off the old block” that I was pretty sure it was not our dog, and he stated unequivocally that he knew it was “Rusty.” I looked at him and said that would be very difficult, because Rusty had been run over by a truck three weeks ago. This interesting young person just looked at me, turned around and left. I don’t think he was Chairman of the “welcome to the neighborhood” committee!

The guy on the other side was the complete opposite. He was a Naval Academy graduate and ex-pilot who had bent up some airplanes, and decided that real estate was a better place to be. So he was very happy when we moved in and began making improvements. He helped me put up fence posts and grape stakes, and watched as I consistently hit my fingers rather than the nail. He thought that was pretty hysterical, and I think I called him a “swab jockey idiot.” They had this huge Palomino horse that was slowly eating his corral, and I mentioned that I hoped he would not go after my fence. He said not to worry, they were moving him on to some other property. I got to ride this beast a number of times and I took Lucky, our horse, along just to show him what a real horse looked like. It did not improve Lucky’s disposition at all.

This was a really nice neighborhood, with the one exception duly noted. The houses were better than 100 or more feet apart and you rarely heard your neighbor. Facts are, you rarely saw your neighbor. We got to know most of the neighbors through their offspring, because we became Kids Central shortly after we moved in. When we bought our house it could’ve been classified as the ugliest house in the neighborhood. So for the most part, we received a warm welcome with our various projects. Over the years, it became a really great place to live and we all have very fond memories of the new abode.

Moral of the story – Love thy neighbor, but make sure you know where the property line is.

Can We Talk?

The wonderful world of electronics has advanced to the point where communication could soon be relegated to sign language – if we’re not already there! For sure, the concept of social networking is far superior than going to a bar and trying to meet people, but I think that still goes on, in that all you’re doing is sitting there texting. What few observations that I have of the current generation manipulating these various devices is often hilarious, however, I’m absolutely astounded at their tactile dexterity.

Sometimes I go up to a total stranger and ask some dumb question – just to screw up their texting or whatever it is they’re doing on their little social network devices. Most the time, I just get a blank stare. Very rarely do I get any kind of a verbal answer, and a majority of the time that is usually monosyllabic. I usually apologize by saying “I’m sorry, but I thought you were somebody else.” The potential problem here is if you were to ask them what time it is, they will either say “what?” or suggest that you look up that question on one of the networks, which of course, will give you the location of the most rudimentary instructions on how to build a clock.

It would seem to me that the last thing someone might want to do is sit and talk to a computer, addressing some unknown person in the never-never land of the Internet. I recently got an e-mail from one of these networking sites which said I had four friends that wanted to contact me. I knew right away this was just so much B.S., because I haven’t got four friends. Well, not that can write, anyway. It’s also like this on another site called Classmates, which say some of them are trying to find me. The only reason they’re trying to find me is more than likely that I owe them money. What’s the compounded annual rate on 10 bucks over 40 years? It’s a bunch of money, and I don’t want to know anyway.

Social networking and things like Zinga, Linked-in and Facebook, which I call “Dunga and Butt Book” to me are extremely frightening. I was very tempted to sign up, put a picture of Tom Selleck on my site and see what the hell happened. But, frankly the more I thought about it, the more I figured I would get close to 16 million inquiries. It didn’t make any sense to me unless I could convince each one of them to send me a dollar. As a second thought, I dug up the picture of Harpo Marx, thinking I would use that with the understanding that anybody who contacted me would have one hell of a sense of humor.

I do understand, however, that LinkedIn has some redeeming values relating really to professional networking. “Hey! You know where I get a job?” The others all seem to be very a successful marketing ploy to sell you something you wouldn’t think buying if you weren’t sitting there screwing around with your computer. Gee-whiz! There might be some money in this business and maybe if we were talented enough, we could take it public and make a gazillion dollars! Does that sound familiar? Yeah, and you could also hit the wall at Mach 2.

The rest of the concept, although intriguing, seems to me to be somewhat dangerous and clearly personally intrusive. I worry about what these various sites are doing with all the data that they’re collecting, and how much more potential junk e-mail we might expect to see. If you can’t talk to somebody other than texting or tweeting, then I guess this is your last resort. If you try talking, you may find a rewarding situation – far more rewarding than the social networking that you could ever possibly achieve using these impersonal electronic devices. Some people are naïve enough to think that the whole world out there thinks the same way that they do. Believe me – during my short tenure on this earth and exposure to people, you never know what the hell is in the back of their mind.

My attitude then and continues to be 90% positive, until you show me that 10% negative. Unfortunately, sometimes that occurs too late to remedy. So the concept of social networking, albeit intriguing has to be done with a thorough understanding that there are certain intrinsic dangers. It’s not clear to me that this current fad will last much longer than the CB radio (“Breaker Breaker – Rocker Babe! – watts-cher 20?”), nor will it be around in the next two or three years with its current popularity, but there is no question we will have opened up social mores which will exist with or without electronic social networking. Moderation and caution are the key elements of utilizing what is an extremely positive advance in social communication and understanding. The ability to instantly communicate has prospects of forestalling international misunderstandings, but at same time can be used, such as by terrorists, to create unconditional havoc on a worldwide basis. My attitude is that with the good of any new invention or situation, there is always the bad that must be dealt with and resolved.

The moral of the story – Keep your eyes open, your hand on your wallet or purse, your mouth shut, and try not to run into a fire hydrant or a telephone pole while you’re networking.

So Easy a Child Could Do It

Please read on, because this is probably the only semi–serious comment I’m going to make about the topic of verbal communication, but I do so to indicate that I don’t take this subject lightly. I am extremely concerned about forthcoming generations ability to verbally express themselves and capture the essence of life as it may relate to potential literary and artistic endeavors. The fear is, where’s the next generation of really outstanding writers and artists, who can compete with previous giants and maybe qualified as possible Nobel Laureates or Masters of the Classics, without life’s important method of verbal communication, called “Gee, let’s talk!”

I have to admit that I have no clue as to how some of this new electronic stuff works, including the various and sundry remote controls for my TV, my TiVo or my DVR. I have the skill set that allows me to turn this stuff on and off, change channels, record programs etc. etc. I am not one that is really interested in sitting down and reading a user’s manual the size of a small novel, which in the final analysis does not do much more than confuse the living hell out of me. However, I have been able to muddle through this morass of information and am perfectly content with my present, albeit less than average skill sets.

It is rather disconcerting however, when my grandchildren come in and have the tactile dexterity and immediate comprehension of the most complex elements of utilizing the various controllers associated with the television, telephone, computer and all other accouterments such as the DVR and TiVo. Every time they mess around with my system it takes me hours to reset this thing back to the simplistic moronic utilization that I previously enjoyed.

Alas, I am a graduate engineer with years of experience in electronics and feel totally inadequate and useless having to call a nine-year-old to find out how to do something, or should I say undo something that was generated during their last visit. We now have a rule that says “nobody adjusts anything to anything without JJ’s approval and that all this equipment should be returned to its marginally functional state as JJ has prescribed because he’s not smart enough to figure out what the hell the nine year old did.”

One of the more recent humiliating events was during a visit of this latest generation. I was attempting to make some adjustments to the “TiVo” box with very little success and my 12-year-old grandchild came in and said “What you doing Papa?” My first thought was, well this could be interesting as a learning experience for this budding genius, meaning the kid not me. Again, I explained what I was certain were in layman terms what I was trying to accomplish and even had the instruction book, an oxymoron, sitting on the table, which shows you how frustrated I was because I only use these as a last resort. Maybe that’s my problem.

The only response I got from the diminutive whiz kid was “Oh.” This prompted me to try to explain in further childlike detail what the issue was. I had set the remote control on the coffee table and this obnoxious offspring of one of my children (whom I am absolutely convinced were switched at birth with some other less cogent parents or possibly something I could blame on the milkman, if we ever had a milkman, which we didn’t) came over, picked it up and inside of a minute or maybe even less had resolved the issue. He put the remote down and picked up his iPad, or whatever, and I’m sure was texting one of his friends that “he had a total idiot for grandfather.”

Three weeks back, I went downtown and decided I needed a caffeine hit, so I went into one of the specialty coffee shops and gave them my order. I sat down next to a young mother, and I’m guessing maybe a nine- or 10-year-old little girl. She was playing on one of these electronic gadgets, and her mother was attempting to use her cell phone. I overheard this young mother make a statement that she was having trouble with her cell phone. The nine-year-old looked up and said “We may not be near cell tower.” At this point, I did in fact eavesdrop with some amazement and curiosity as to what Mom would say. She said “But I just made a call!” The nine-year-old put out her hand and asked her Mom for the phone, did something I couldn’t see and handed it back to Mom. Mom proceeded to dial, talking to whoever she contacted and I sat there thinking whatever happened to Walt Disney and “it’s a wide, wide world.”

My concern is that when somebody’s youngsters ask questions like “Hey, where do babies come from?” The recipient will say something to the effect “Why don’t you get on your iPad!” Maybe we have put dear old Dr. Spock out of business. If you don’t know who Dr. Spock was, you get my general answer – get on the web or your iPad and ask Apple.

Speaking of Apple, it used to be that an Apple was something that you took a bite out of, rather than the Apple taking a bite out of you. Apples were usually grown on a tree somewhere in the United States and not necessarily China. I guess we put “Johnny Appleseed” as well as Dr. Spock out of work – as well as a bunch of us. To enlighten you, Dr. Spock wrote a book many years ago on how to raise a child, and Johnny Appleseed is at least a 250-year-old folk tale about a guy spreading his seeds throughout the United States. Keep it clean, it was Apple seeds, anf he was trying to grow Apples. His name was not Jobs nor Woz, like in the Woz-ard of Oz. “We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Woz.”

The other aspect of this cultural and social communications revolution is by definition, jobs are something that better than 18% of Americans are looking for. Maybe we should all go to China, as that would certainly solve our federal fiscal issues. I don’t believe they have anything defined as mandates. Everything is a mandate! But I digress.

Years ago Blue-eyes had taught our kids a song by Harry Belafonte called, “Mama, look at Boo-Boo” (if you don’t know this one, hit the web for full disclosure and even less intellectual stimulation”), and I think my kids are teaching that to their kids with reference to their grandfather. I got even with all of them the next day however, when I called my lawyer and took them all out of the will, with the completely rational statement that “the whole world hates smart asses!” It’s really okay, and I’m not being mean because all they would’ve inherited would’ve been a bunch of debt anyway.

Moral of the story – Don’t teach your kids a song that they later invest in your grandchildren, and buy Dr. Spock’s book – you may have missed something!

To Tweet or not to Tweet? That is the Question.

Tweet or tweeting, in my mind and to this day, has always been something associated with birds or a cartoon character that is constantly being chase by this cat (as in feline, not like in ”hep–cat,” which really dates me). This bird character should probably file a lawsuit, because his name was “Tweety Bird!” It’s hard to believe the bird was smarter than that cat, named Nigel.

I caught a “snipe” once, which is the avian female of the Skype family and turned it in to the Humane Society, knowing that our government had recently put them on the endangered species list. For those of you that don’t know, a “snipe” is a non-existent creature. Its origin is from a practical joke done by kids and sometimes questionable adults.

The concept was to take a non-suspecting person and say “Let’s go snipe hunting, you can hold the bag.” It begins with your friends giving you a bag and saying “You stand here. We’ll go chase Snipes and they’ll run into the bag.” If you’re naïve enough, you do it, and they take off – with you assuming they’re chasing snipes. About an hour later you may realize that you’ve been had, unless you’re like me – a trusting soul who stood there for a long time. Humiliation personified! I got even, though. I told them I caught four, and we had them for dinner. They looked at me like I was really “weird.” I think that’s where the phrase “You’ve been left holding the bag” may have come from. Now, I’ll bet you’re sure glad I mentioned this!

Texting is a great tool and allows you to say things that you would not normally say to someone if they were standing in front of you. Don’t get me wrong, I think it is extremely valuable but at the same time cannot replace face-to-face verbal communication. If you’re not a good writer, texting is perhaps something you want to think about before using. But it has some tremendous advantages in speeding up certain kinds of communication.

Now, I have to admit I don’t text nor tweet because, one – my cell phone is too old; and two – so am I. Every time I try to do this my cell phone screen says “No service available you idiot!” I further thought texting was something associated with education, which I successfully avoided in college, as well as going to class. Supposedly, this was a necessary part of books.

Perhaps texting was associated with one of our larger states and was part of the rules that had to do with “cow pie” tossing contests. This part is no joke. I recently saw on the news that in Wisconsin and elsewhere, this national contest had to be postponed because of a lack of “raw material,” and that the sponsors had to dip into the reserve of dried steer droppings. Why anybody would save cow poop is beyond me, but to run out seems to be an unforgivable oversight, and complete mismanagement on the part of the contest management. I guess one of the questions that I would ask, were I running this organization, would have been “How high did you pile the BS and who in Wall Street did you send it to?”

Good Lord, if they thought about it and they ran out of BS, all they had to do was go to Washington. There has to be plenty of BS leftover and available on both sides of the so-called legislative aisle, and likely a lot more at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. I cleaned that up for you who are pure of thought and of body in order to maintain my PG-13 federal rating – which is unfortunately not available nor required on a blog entry, if you note all of the four letter words polluting some other literary blog attempts.

The First Amendment is something I advocate, however you have to keep in mind where this came from. It’s called the Constitution, which in my humble opinion, has been a little twisted lately. A fellow from ancient history, who was something of a humorist and comedian, made a comment: “When I make a joke, it’s supposed to be funny! When Congress makes a joke, it’s the law!” That was one of many utterances of a rather famous cowboy by the name of Will Rodgers during a time we were able to joke about ourselves and politics. Back then, the” tea party” was something that little girls and boys had before they became of the age where they could tweet or twitter without their parents interfering.

Now, a good thing. My curtain climbers have mandated a limit on just how much time their curtain climbers can spend manipulating their tweeting or texting, or whatever, as well as those mind-bending kids games, like crashing stolen cars, killing cops, combat robots killing off our enemies, let’s dismember the next-door neighbor and ship the remains to Venezuela or God knows what else. These games are clearly playing a less than positive role model for the users, aren’t they? But our government leads us to believe that it has really established strong controls over the content, distribution and sales. They have assured us that PG-13 really is being enforced and that is that! Just like the importation of Cuban cigars. First Amendment notwithstanding, it seems to me that the only real enforcement is at home! But I digress!

Moral of the story – If you do catch a snipe, keep it to yourself. They’re best cooked with salt and pepper over an open Bar-B-Q!

Vacation Home – Duex

If you’ve followed any of my nonsensical meanderings by reading the “vacation home,” then this discussion by a non-literate will provide the conclusion of this erstwhile “let’s get away from it all” endeavor.

We left off with JJ and the clan being the proud owners of the vacation home that I had grown up with and decided it would really be fantastic to have our own place. The assumptions were of course, as the kids grew, they would enjoy the same experiences that I had in escaping to the great outdoors. Blue-Eyes was in love with the canyon and was willing to put in the extra effort to keep our young ones in something of a corral, because we are talking about the great outdoors and wandering off amongst the Redwood forest is not a good thing.

The first summer I spent about six weekends attempting to reduce the jungle-like conditions that surrounded the cabin, while at the same time learning how to use the chainsaw without dismembering various limbs and other body parts. Fortunately, I had an Uncle who is a part-time tree trimmer and had all the accoutrements necessary to get up a 40 or 50 feet to trim dead Redwood limbs. After some instruction I took this task on, imagining that I was in the wild – and wild as a Lumberjack working in the great Northwest. Once I had mastered the technique of planting the climbing spurs and maneuvering the safety rope with a 14 inch chainsaw dangling between my legs I decided I was ready. I scampered up the first 20 feet and began to cut away some of the dead limbs. I made sure that safety was my major prerogative by yelling “timber” as each limb went crashing the ground. I do this more for effect. There wasn’t a soul around except possibly some squirrels and few chipmunks but it seemed to me that if I was 40 feet up a tree, that was the proper lumberjack thing to do.

I finished the first tree and selected another one, and had to get up about 50 feet in order to accomplish the trimming. When I got to the point to begin trimming, my climbing spurs dislodged and I tumbled, safety rope and all down about 40 feet before stopping. Fortunately, I let go of the chainsaw – otherwise I would’ve probably come down in two or three pieces. When I was safely on the ground I began shaking like a leaf and decided that the better part of valor was to hire my uncle, because a Lumberjack I was not! I think he left off some important information, knowing I would do some dumb thing and hire him to do the work. The front of my body was one huge mass of redwood splinters and multiple rips and gouges caused by my hasty descent. In my attempts to sink a spur I had sunk one of them into my left foot, but fortunately did little damage except to my ego.

I decided that was the end of my workday and went to the cabin and did a back-flip into very dry martini, shaken but not stirred. I’m talking about the martini, not me. Blue-Eyes looked at me and said, “God you’re a mess! What happened?” I explained what had occurred, and her comment was “Next time, take a parachute.” I think secretly she was hoping I’d go back up, as I was heavily insured for things like falling out of a tree and breaking my neck. There was a specific clause in the policy that said if it was a Redwood tree and I was killed, it was basically double indemnity. Like an aging Lumberjack, I hung up my spurs.

One of the things that needed doing, for safety’s sake, was installing chicken wire all along the rickety bridge to keep the urchins from falling 60 feet into the Creek. There was a railing, but it was clearly dangerous. So, I had purchased a couple of hundred feet of chicken wire and a bunch of staples and was hanging this on the bridge. My son Junior, who was probably six or so, was out helping by being the staple handler. At first he would hold the staple and I would nail the chicken wire to the railing, but after hitting him twice on the finger, he decided to move in to the role of management. He would hold staples and show me where it needed to be attached. After a couple hours he look at me and said “Hey Dad! Would you like a beer?” It was about 10:30 in the morning, but I thought it was a good idea because I was thirsty. What a great thoughtful kid, huh!?

He ran up to the cabin and out he came with a “church key” (which really had nothing to do with a church) left over from my college days and two cans of Buckhorn beer. Cheap stuff that only cost $1.25 a six pack. Using the term “church key” really dates me. There was no pull tab on beer cans then and packaging technology had only begun to develop a self opening sardine tin. The Buckhorn tasted like “elephant you-know-what.” If you’ve never tasted “elephant you-know-what,” which I haven’t, but have heard enough about allows me to define Buckhorn as falling into that definition. That’s not actually true! It was a lite Bavarian lager, made by two little old ladies in in their bathtub in downtown Cucamonga. I bought it only because being a charitable and benevolent person, I wanted supply some financial support to the aging.

When Blue-Eyes decided to economize, the first thing that went south was my personal refreshment budget, but she kept on buying her own personalized Habana cigars, 42 ring, hand wrapped and shipped from Cuba until the feds decided to punish Castro by forbidding the importation of a halfway decent cigar. Boy! We really taught him a lesson! Freud had to be rolling in his grave because one of his more famous comments was “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Or was that Groucho Marx? I always get those two guys confused. Sorry, I digress.

JJ, Junior, opened one and handed it to me. My first thought was he assumed I was really thirsty and would drink both cans. Then he opened the second beer and proceeded to drink it. I looked at him and said “you know that’s beer.” He looked at me and said “Yeah, but it’s really rotten beer.” He didn’t mention the “elephant you-know-what,” and if he had I would’ve really been worried. Furthermore, I was concerned that the six-year-old might drink that one and go help himself to another and I had a very limited supply of dear old Buckhorn, and really wasn’t ready to share – even with a family member.

I decided this might be a good object lesson, so I didn’t say anything and went back to hitting my fingers with the hammer. About two thirds of the staples went into the Creek rather in the railing. He drank about half of the beer and set it down. About 10 minutes later he said he had to go up to the cabin. Blue-Eyes had gone into town, an oxymoron for one street with one store, four bars, two small restaurants – one with Mexican food and the other Portuguese – which is just fantastic, a gas station and a fruit stand. Some shopping center! It had three churches, but from what I understand, two of them went out of business. After about 30 minutes when Junior didn’t come back, I went up to see what was going on and found him sound asleep on the floor of his bedroom. I thought about waking him up and asking if he would like a cigar to go with the Buckhorn, but I figured Blue-Eyes would nail my ass to the wall for that kind of object lesson. Besides, as I mentioned they were her cigars. I’m assuming that was his last beer for a while, like maybe many years.

A few years after our first couple of kids were born I came home from work one night with a puppy stuffed in my jacket pocket. It was a miniature poodle that I bought from a fellow I knew at work. I put the jacket on the couch where the kids were watching Capt. Kangaroo. If that needs explaining we’re in real trouble. I went into the bedroom to change from my mandatory suit and tie. The dog had crawled out of my jacket, very fortunately, because he immediately let loose on the couch. Otherwise I would not have discovered it until the next day, when I went to get something out of that pocket. Nature at work is real ugly stuff.

We let the kids name the dog and they came up with Moose in that he would probably not get much more than 6 inches off the ground. He was white, and a great dog during the early stages of his tenure. He had one major problem. If a door was open he was out like a bat out of hell, and I suspect looking for sexual gratification. Moose had been fixed! I had tried to explain the situation to him a number of times, but I don’t think he understood. He was a runner and stupid enough not to be able to find his way back, which is reminiscent of some of my cousins. Many days I would be circling the neighborhood on my bike yelling “Moose, Moose.” Some of my neighbors thought I had lost it and one even called the cops. Oh great! On another occasion the guy came out the door stopped me and said I was a long way from where I could find any Moose’s, and besides the season didn’t start until September. I told him thanks, went home did a backflip into a martini and forgot the whole thing. The dumb dog was tagged so eventually we got a telephone call and said we’ve got your dog. They were right around the corner and Moose had spent the last two days doing you know what on their back lawn, for which I’m sure they expected to be compensated or a reward but were very disappointed. I gave the guy a firm handshake and said thanks. I almost wished that he had kept the dog so that he could run around the neighborhood making an ass of himself.

Naturally, when we went to the cabin we had to take Moose with us, and in my long list of “honey-do’s” I had to build a chicken wire fence to keep this darling dog from becoming some raccoon’s lunch. I did, but to no avail. Moose broke out of jail. For the next two days, we spent our time running down the canyon yelling “Moose, Moose” with pretty much the same results regarding the dog’s ability to recognize his name, as well as many of the residents in the canyon responding similar to my neighbors at home. At one point, one of my canyon neighbors came out with the 30/30 rifle wanting to know where the Moose was. I didn’t bother to explain because I didn’t really like the guy anyway, and was hopeful that he would sit on his front porch for the remainder of the day waiting for a quick shot. Sunday was time to go home, and we’d given up all hope. The kids spent most of the weekend running around the canyon calling for this inbred moronic running poodle. We left quite late, curtain climbers crying all way home.

I was in grad school and still working full-time in aerospace, I called in sick, went to my two classes and pointed my car toward the canyon. I spent the rest of the day running up and down the access road still saying the stupid first name and expecting to get shot at any moment. Finally, I was getting extremely tired and needed to head back. I tried one more time starting at about 2 miles down the access road calling the dumb dog and trying to be responsible, but in my heart was really hoping that he’d been eaten. Finally, at the last minute as I’m climbing back into the car to head home, this little white beast full of all kinds of junk – weeds and burrs, and stinking like a skunk – came bounding down the road, and to my unjustified delight came directly toward the car. I assumed that it finally recognized his name and came to rejoin the family. Not so! The dog was so stupid he walked up to the car, took a leak on the tire and started to walk away. I had to chase him for a couple hundred feet and finally caught him and put him in the back of the car. If it wasn’t for the kids, I would have left him there. About six months later, there was a sad ending. He went thrashing out of the front door and right into a car. We had a burial service in backyard and made little wooden marker that said “Moose RIP” but in Spanish I noted “stupido morta canino.”

I finally finished my Master’s and was in the process of changing jobs to another company in the non-defense industry. Blue-Eyes went back to school to work on her Master’s, but soon got disinterested and didn’t finish, although she did accept a part-time position working for a University vice president and provost. This was the beginning of a 30-year career which found her in a top administrative position within the University prior to her retirement.

By now our family of five had grown to a family of six, and at this point it was a good thing to have the cabin because Blue-Eyes was starting to go stark raving mad and had not had her hands out of the toilet for about eight years. This was well before the disposable diaper option, which has summarily polluted the world and created blowflies the size of a small pigeon. I expected at any point to walk into the house and find her staring and talking to a lampshade. But she was made of good stock and really never complained. In order to retain her sanity, Blue-Eyes was working part-time and was able to capture the services of a 12-year-old daughter of one of our neighbors, which in itself is another story to be told at a later date. The sitter’s name was Emmy and she was a godsend, being raised in the middle of an eight child family. No training was involved and I gave her a lavish salary of $.50 an hour and all Buckhorn she could drink. I also offered her mileage but that really didn’t amount to much because she lived right next door. JJ was the last of the big spenders!

The next spring we started our “vacation home” ritual. By now I had a system down where I wasn’t breaking my back every weekend trying to maintain the cabin, but still had a continuing list of things that needed to be repaired or replaced or liquidated. Our budget was such that I can now actually afford to buy brand-name beer, but discovered that I was so used to the taste of Buckhorn that the expensive stuff tasted like “elephant you know-what.” One weekend we found a note from the fire district indicating there were some branches of a redwood tree that were too close to the fireplace. Fortunately, they were low enough that I could reach them from the roof because as I had mentioned I had hung up by climbing spurs. So – Junior and I went to work, got the tools, got the ladder and set about trimming the branches.

I had a small hatchet and sunk it into the redwood tree started to climb the ladder, when all of a sudden a swarm of hornets hit me and Junior at the same time. This was one hell of a big nest and we had really pissed them off. Junior was covered with them. I grabbed him jumped off the roof and ran down to the creek and threw him in. He had been stung at least 30 times and I had about half that many. Fortunately, right across the creek lived a doctor and I took him over and he gave Junior an antihistamine shot because of the amount of venom that was probably invading his bloodstream. He gave me a shot also, but it was bourbon, which I appreciated a lot more than the meeting of a syringe in my derrière. Anytime I see a needle in the hands of a nurse or a doctor I usually pass out. When I got back to the cabin Blue-Eyes asked me what had happened because she saw me beating up on the kid in the creek and thought I had finally gone over the edge. I got some hornet spray and went up cleaned the nest, sealed it and finished my trimming job.

When the kids were old enough, I taught them how to recognize poison oak and other flora and fauna that could be considered dangerous or at least create a high degree of discomfort. The creek (which had a sand bar) was the perfect spot to build a fort of rocks and tree branches. They had run out of convenient raw material and went further down the Creek, dragging back some branches and small logs. I was building a sandbag barricade to prevent additional erosion caused by the winter velocity of the Creek. All of a sudden I heard a bunch of screaming and yelling, and ran down the Creek to find all four of them deep into a pod of stinging nettles. Of course I had to rush in, being the Boy Scout, and rescue them from their life threatening battle with the demons of stinging nettle. Second opportunity to get my life-saving merit badge. I was wearing shorts, no shirt and was barefoot, and after about 30 seconds was screaming for help. We all grabbed each other and ran out, jumped in the Creek, and went up to the cabin to find Blue-Eyes and four gallons of calamine lotion.

In retrospect, the canyon was a great place! However, now people were living there full-time and had lots of rules and ownership prerogatives that had not existed before. The ambiance had changed. The atmosphere too! The nonresidents were looked upon as interlopers and the quality level of the canyon’s social content went to hell in a hand-basket. We now had a number of break-ins and stolen articles and general vandalism which was extremely discouraging and had never happened before. The other thing I noticed was the younger generation was not drinking beer and playing flashlight tag, but doing hard drugs. A member of a very prominent rock ‘n roll group of the 60s and 70s bought a place called the “chalet” and it turned into an unending party hangout for his buddies. Unfortunately, this also created a bad atmosphere, as well as attracting more attention from various law enforcement organizations. I made some money off the problems by leasing my cabin to one of these organizations, but didn’t know that until I got a check.

As I mentioned in my short chronicle called the “New Abode,” our first house was just too small and we moved. The new abode required a tremendous amount of not only maintenance but remodeling. The next summer we were so involved in our primary home that we did not get to the canyon at all, and after a family discussion basically voted to sell the property. In some ways it was a sad situation when I signed the papers, because I knew that a important part of my youth was gone. But I think Thomas Wolfe said it best; “You can’t go home again,” and not much stays the same. I regretted that my kids would not have the same gratification and memories of the canyon that I did, but the facts are they have their own and are probably just as satisfied.

Moral of the story – Most things don’t stay the same and you can’t dwell on the past, but only look to the future, and never name a dog Moose, because it’s a good way to get shot.

The Vacation Home, or Do you really want to be a “Tree-Hugger”

Many people have the notion that it’s really important to have a place to go to on the weekends, to get away from the humdrum of their daily routine.  Enter the idea of a weekend retreat for the purpose of relaxation and enjoying the great outdoors.  Really good concept – however, there are a few drawbacks regarding this marvelous “let’s get away from all” routine.

A sub-six section of my family – third cousins twice removed – owned property in a remote Redwood Canyon about 12 miles from the Pacific Ocean.  The facts are the property goes back as far as 1860, maybe more, when the first lumbering operation took place in this magnificent secluded area of gigantic redwoods, which was ravaged to build the booming town of San Francisco.  After lumbering operations stopped, some enterprising individual subdivided the land into one acre plots in a rather narrow Canyon, with a medium-sized Creek, placidly running except in the winter, from the top of a 2400 foot mountain, to 100 foot waterfall and meandered through the remainder of the occupied Canyon. It was pretty fantastic in the wintertime.  Outright scary!  In the early spring, steel-head salmon used to come up the Creek all the way to the waterfalls, but not anymore.  The skill of the Army Corps of Engineers took care of that problem by redirecting the mouth of this little tributary to build a military road that went nowhere and never got built. However, the salmon may be back.  (As a political comment, clearly nothing is changed, we still spend money on roads to nowhere.)

As a kid I had fond memories of our occasional visits and what a great deal of enjoyment the surrounding area provided: fishing, crawdad catching, swimming, snipe hunting and running around in the redwood forest with an occasional trip to the ocean. I had always dreamed that someday I would have my own place in this tranquil departure from civilization. Maybe I should change the word “dream” to the word “fantasy.” As a kid you have to remember nothing is ever quite as it seems.

There were very few people living in the Canyon on a full-time basis. It was mostly weekend or summer holidays where people would come in and stay for a couple weeks, but then pack up and go back to their normal routines.  There were probably 40 or 50 “summer places” of varying size and quality.  Some of the families would move in and stay there for most of the summer, but normally leave when the weather seriously reduced outdoor activity, or when school was about to start.

This little community had what could be euphemistically called a homeowners association, another term for “you are required to work your butt off on the roads, creeks and anything that would impede the ability to get into this remote Canyon.”  Ergo – the concept of the “work weekend” which was mandatory for all homeowners. The junior grade residents were not exempt from this activity, but were normally relegated to cutting brush away from the road and cleaning out certain areas of the Creek. This is of course is an oxymoron, because we spent more time screwing around in the Creek than we did working.  I’m sure it was adult psychology being applied, keeping us from being something defined as a “pain in the ass!”

The only fun part of this was on Saturday nights when there would be a big barbecue down by the new pool near the old swimming hole and afterward we would all play what was called “flashlight tag.”  Most of the older adults had retired to do whatever it was they would do without the kids around. Based on some of the laughter coming from the various cabins, I got the impression that the adults had a game of their own, which they did not wish to share with the younger generation.  Keep in mind, this was long before sex education, females were not liberated and were not even allowed to play “stick in the mud” with the boys.  (If you don’t know what “stick in the mud” is, check out the web.  Most of our attitudes were “they are here and had to be tolerated.”   We thought chauvinism was one of King Arthur’s knights.  Needless to say, my attitude forever changed in the next few years – not by social pressure but by a non–cultural definition called puberty, which was the worst two years of my young life.

Being young and innocent, I didn’t realize that the older “youngsters” were playing a game called “Beer Can” flashlight tag, whose rules were basically boy finds girl and both disappear into the night and wait for someone to find them, while secretly hoping they didn’t.  I didn’t think much of this, one way or another because at that point, in my short little existence I wasn’t interested girls. “Duh!”

One of those evenings, while hiding, I heard this scream and then a big splash over in the area where the old natural swimming hole used to be.  Being trained as a Boy Scout, I ran over and heroically shined my regulation BSA flashlight into the creek area, totally ready to dive in, to earn my life saving merit badge, and discovered that one of the girls had fallen into the Creek.  By my best estimation and limited knowledge of anatomy, she was missing some of her clothing.  Like in most of her clothing.  She promptly told me to “turn off the damn light” and her partner mentioned something about “get expletive deleted lost!”  I do remember my first thought was this game has taken on a new twist! Over the next few years I became very interested in playing flashlight tag and discovered it was much more fun to have a girl as a partner than one of the guys or hiding alone. I was tired of hugging trees.

A few years later, for some reason we did not go to the Canyon on a frequent basis, maybe once or twice a year to attend some big shindig.  Like most things in life, time forces different priorities and perspectives.  Although I never lost interest in those youthful events and endeavors, I didn’t seem to miss going there. Unfortunately, as I grew older, I discovered other activities and elements of life while in high school, such as girls, football, baseball and cars, but not necessarily in that order.  Plus, I usually had a job during the summer months.  After graduating from high school I made the decision that I wasn’t ready for college, meaning I didn’t have the grades, and essentially wanted a certain level of emancipation.  I ended up in the Marine Corps and didn’t see the Canyon again for at least four years.

After my military obligation was over, I went back a few times, but unfortunately things had changed or perhaps I had changed.  It was still a beautiful place, but as a young adult it did not fit my current lifestyle as an erstwhile part-time college student and full-time chaser of the females.  One of my first questions to the opposite sex was “have you ever played flashlight tag?”

Before Blue-Eyes and I were married, I took her up there a number of times and she just loved it.  We stayed with friends and I rediscovered the beauty and ambiance.  Several years after were married, with three kids and our first house with a mortgage, we began to investigate the possibility of buying into the Canyon.  We found a place whose owners had moved to a different state and hadn’t used the place for well over two years.  Although it was a tight fit monetarily, we figured if we watched ourselves it could be done.  The cabin came furnished, at least for the most part although it had the need for a couple of extra beds and household stuff, but that was easily resolved.  It was just short of a turnkey event.

So, dream come true!  Not so fast there JJ.  We bought the cabin towards the end of the fall and did get to spend some fun times setting things up and getting organized and making a list of what had to be done to corral our ambulatory two little ones.  Number three was only about six months old.  Our first house was small, two bedrooms, one bath and required very little weekend maintenance.  So, for the first few months we would spend most weekends fixing things as we wanted.  When the weather turned wet, we would go up maybe once a month or maybe even less.  Thankfully, people that live there year-round were kind enough to check on the various cabins and had a list of phone numbers if there were problems.  So, my thoughts at this point were “JJ, this is snap city, a no-brainier and you got to love it.”

The next spring was the beginning of what could be called “the worm turning.” We went up there in late February.  The weather was beautiful and we had a great time wandering and hiking up to the falls, and well beyond to what was an abandoned auxiliary airfield on top of the mountain, built during World War II. We didn’t spend much time in the Canyon until April.  I was extremely surprised at the unnaturally rapid growth of the vegetation surrounding the cabin, including multiple fallen trees, limbs, and various and sundry flora that required considerable trimming.

I did not have the knowledge or tools for this newly acquired responsibility and spent a considerable chunk of change needed rehabilitate our “get away from it all and relax” investment.  I didn’t have a clue as to what was really required and discovered a whole new world after talking with some of the other cabin owners.  Plus, I’m one of the ego, left-brain types when using most tool stuff, and subscribed to the theory that “if all else fails, read the manual.”  The only garden tools I had at home were a water hose, power lawn mower, a rake and a shovel.  And I had trouble with those!  No manuals! Blue-Eyes took control of the mower after watching me spend an hour trying to get it started, commenting “Not only are you weird, but you’re a total klutz.”  She had not played fair – she had read the manual.

So, starting in early spring we began spending most weekends in the Canyon for rest and relaxation.  Blue-Eyes’ job was to stock up the kitchen, clean up the accumulated dust, and make the perpetual “honey do” list and watch the curtain climbers.  My job was to clean up the winter debris and clear out the multitude of brush and stuff around cabin.  I also had to determine how best to discourage a family of raccoons who had taken residence under the cabin. Keep in mind, the place had been relatively unoccupied for approximately two years.  I’m sure the “diminutive bandits” were upset because someone had invaded their home.  You might ask, as others did, “Why would you want to do that?  They’re so cute and lovable!”  Well – they’re not cute and lovable when they decide to play their version of “flashlight tag” all around the patio and roof in the wee hours of the morning.

I tried a number of non-lethal things to extricate them during the few first months, with little success.  That June they just disappeared.  Mother Nature in action had prevailed.  I think they eventually found other accommodations with less noise and distractions during their sleeping hours.  Possibly the raccoons had a “let’s get away from it all” routine for the weekends.  Hell, why not!  If I were a raccoon, that would be an inviting concept.  They didn’t even leave a goodbye message nor any apologies for the multiple garbage can raids or for having supplied sleep deprivation during their tenure.  I later discovered my failure at varmint extrication was seriously and negatively augmented by the kids who were secretly – meaning “don’t tell Dad!” – feeding them leftovers and only stopped when one of the larger “cuties” became extremely aggressive and scared the living hell out of the two good Samaritans and Blue-Eyes as well.  We still got the occasional visitor, but the accommodation contest was over.  I naturally congratulated myself on my ability and skills to conquer certain elements of the great outdoors, but too late for my merit badge.

Over the next four years we did have many extremely memorable and fun weekends communing with the trees and becoming avid “tree-huggers.”  But like all things, time has a way of creating unknown circumstances and adjustments.

Watch for part two, it gets to be more fun, but not for JJ.

Moral of the story; “If it’s national Arbor Day, take a tree to lunch.”

The Saga of a Free Horse

The old adage of “if it’s too good to be true, then it isn’t,” is the basis for this next scenario. If you’ve read any of my other wanderings you’ll remember that we had a horse called Lucky. I had built a corral and a two horse stall to ensure Lucky’s comfort during the winter months, which as I mentioned before, he never used anyway.

So here’s how the story starts. I guess I never realized how much alfalfa went in one part of the horse and came out the other. Some people call it fodder, but my definition is something less delicate. I got tired of going down to the local feed store and buying two or three bales at time. There was a riding club nearby that had a bunch of horses and I got the name of an outfit that delivered the alfalfa. I learned a lot about first cut, second cut and third cut alfalfa and pricing that is absolutely useless unless you have a horse or eat alfalfa. So anyway, I contacted this supplier, and made arrangements for a ton to be delivered to my house. When I built the stall I had considered storage and was able to squeeze in a majority of the feed, which would eventually turn into plant supplements. The guy that delivered it was extremely helpful, and we got talking. He said he had a horse that was an American Saddlebred, but it had been hurt and he was going to have to render it unless he could find a good home. Rendering is not something that you want to think about, because it would mean ending up in a can of dog food which we would’ve fed to Rusty-the-dog. Rusty-the-cat, by definition, would not eat dog food.

Anyway, this horse was located about 25 miles away in small rural area. So we drove down there on a weekend to look at this potentially soon-to-be rendered animal. The poor thing had been caught up in barb-wire when it was a filly and had severely damaged one of her hind legs, and under the circumstances had stunted her growth. If you’re not aware, you measure a horse by what’s called hands and she was maybe 12 hands fully grown. The guy said if I wanted, I could have it for nothing and the next time he came up he would bring the horse and drop it off at the house. My curtain climbers thought this was greatest thing since sliced bread and I figured, “Oh, what the heck, it’s a free horse.” We had lots of room in the corral and I figured Lucky would be happy to have some company. Wrong!

Lucky had been our new-found companion for approximately a year and was fairly well-adjusted to his new home. Facts are there were horses on both sides of the corral, so he had lots of equine conversations over the fences. Every once in a while I could hear them discussing their owners and what lousy riders they were. It seemed to me that we had a very tranquil horse environment. Enter a nearly two-year-old filly!! There is a song from My Fair Lady called “Let a woman in your life” and I could swear I heard Lucky humming it one morning.

We decided to name the horse Dickens, I assumed it was after Charles. Let me rephrase that – the urchins decided to name horse Dickens. First I thought that was fairly quaint, but as time went by I realized that the horse had assumed the personality of its name which was more akin to “Little Dickens” and not in the literary sense. She was a real hellion from the very beginning.

I didn’t realize it, but horses have a hierarchy in that they have to determine who is King of the corral, or in this case Queen. We estimated that Lucky was about 13 or more, so one would assume that by default he would be the master. Dickens, being truly right brain, decided otherwise. So for a period of about three weeks you could hear them arguing in horse talk, and in fact they would chase each other all over the corral. I went out a few times with the idea that I could do some mediation, but to no avail. They chased me around the corral and continued their deep disagreement.

They would harass each other around the corral, but Lucky was extremely disadvantaged because Dickens was quite a bit faster and had much more agility. They would bite each other, kick each other in the butt, hind quarter in horse talk, and just generally disagree on everything. Rusty-the-dog thought this was great fun and would often join the chase until he got kicked, which persuaded him to stay out of it. Rusty-the-cat ignored the whole thing and would go into the stall to see if the resident mice were still alive, not that she was going to do anything about it! When it came time for feeding, we had to throw the alfalfa at two different ends of the corral in order to keep them from having a food fight. However, after about three weeks, things began to settle down. I think they declared a horse armistice and just kind of ignored each other.

The corral was made out of Douglas fir, two by sixes, and for whatever reason, Dickens thought it was more interesting to eat the corral rather than alfalfa. Lucky soon picked up on it. I could see the top string of boards was disappearing. I asked the guy down at the horse place what was going on and he said that it was called “cribbing.” At the rate these two were going, they would eat the corral in less than two weeks unless I did something about it. The guy suggested that I buy chemicals that would derail their ferocious appetite for Douglas fir. So I got this stuff, put it all over the railings and assumed the problem was cured. Not so fast! It seemed to me that they enjoyed it even more and the corral was disappearing even faster. I then found out that there was a tree called hemlock and the horses did not like the taste of this particular wood, so I replaced the half-eaten railings with this distasteful wood. This did not stop them!

I got another suggestion of painting the rails with creosote, but realized that if the horses were stupid enough to keep eating the wood, the creosote would likely kill them. I thought about that alternative for a little while, but finally dismissed it as an inhumane although economically feasible solution. I got further input that said what I needed to buy was called a “zapper.” You mounted a wire all around the fence, hooked it up to this electrical device and it would send a harmless shock to the “cribbers” if they touched it. This worked wonderfully on the top rail, however was absolutely useless when they started eating the second rail. About this time, I was rethinking the creosote solution. After about a month of continuous chewing, they suddenly quit. However, by then they’d eaten half of the second rail, but at least they stopped.

One morning I heard what I thought was a renewal of their ongoing squabble and went out to the corral to see what the hell was going on now. For some reason Lucky had decided to jump the fence between our corral and the neighbors. The problem is he didn’t quite make it. He was in what is classically and politically called the mug-whomp position. His mug was in the neighbors corral and his whomp was still where it belonged. He was stuck between the two corrals with his hind legs off the ground and no way to get any leverage. Of course Dickens saw this as a real opportunity and was biting him on his butt. She must have come from the school that dictated “don’t get mad get even.” My neighbor lady, who is a real horse person (mostly the rear-end) was out there and was very upset that I had allowed my horse to frighten her mares. I came to the conclusion that the only solution was to knock down the rail and get Lucky back into his own corral.

Once I got the board down, Lucky took off after one of the other horses with the intent that was clearly motivated by lust. My horsey neighbor lady went nuts because my mangy horse was trying to impregnate one of her mares. I told her it was her horse’s fault, I had seen the whole thing and that the little brown mare had been giving Lucky the “come hither” look! I further explained that it was something of a moot point because lucky was like a eunuch. I don’t think she believed me! I could’ve said “here, look” but decided that was too indelicate.

I finally got Lucky back in the corral, walked up to him, patted him on the head, rubbed him down a little bit and looked at him and said “well, there’s life in the old boy yet, but I think you forgot you can’t do that anymore!” He turned his head and looked longingly at the little brown mare as she was standing there swishing her tail with the “I didn’t do anything” look on her face.

During this period, I was working with Dickens in an attempt to get her “saddle broke” so the kids could at least enjoy a ride. She and I were on good terms and I thought I had made real progress. I had her halter-trained, and had even put a saddle on her back a few times without getting killed. She didn’t really mind it all. So one weekend I decided it was time to try to ride her. I put the halter on and decided not to use the saddle, but to just try slowly getting on the horse. First I lay across her back so she could feel the weight and she was fine. So I slung my leg over and got on Dickens. Big-time mistake!

She was good for about 15 feet then she took off like a bat out of hell — bucking, kicking and turning until finally I came flying off her back straight into the air and came down with my arm tucked in the wrong place. Lucky came over to check me out, which is more than the urchins did. The gang was standing there watching this event with some degree of awe at the stupidity of their father. Dickens took off to the far end of the corral and had no interest whatsoever in coming back to see if I was all right. She was still kicking her heels, showing her teeth with ears straight back. I gathered my dignity, limped away and decided that I would wait to take the halter off.

I went into the house but didn’t realize that I had cut my head and was bleeding. Blue-eyes said “what happened to you?” I said something to the effect that Dickens and I had had a disagreement and that Dickens won. What I didn’t realize at that point was that I had broken my arm and cracked two ribs, which was a small price to pay for absolute insanity. In the final analysis I couldn’t really blame Dickens because the facts are I was probably too heavy for her. At that time I weighed about 185 pounds and she was pretty small.

After some family discussion it was decided to have Dickens put into a special education class for recalcitrant horses. I took her down the road to the horsey place and talked to the guy that ran it, described the problem and he agreed to do some training. This of course was not pro-bono and I was somewhat surprised that a horse trainer can make the same amount of money per hour as a brain surgeon. We had about four or five sessions and then he announced that Dickens was going to be a very difficult horse and would require an experienced rider even after she was trained. His conclusion was that she had been traumatized by her early injury and that this would probably never improve. Great, I thought! Now we’ve got a horse that nobody will be able to ride.

All was not lost however. This trainer said he knew of a fellow that might take the horse off my hands. He had a big corral about a half-mile away and that most of the people who rented from him were very experienced riders. Okay — this is a great solution. I went down and talked to the guy. He came up to the house looked at Dickens and said that he would take the horse off my hands for 200 bucks. I thought at that point I was actually going get some money back but I was sadly mistaken. I was to give him the 200 bucks. I thought about this for about 30 microseconds and agreed. What passed through my mind was cribbing, the price of alfalfa, horse health vet bills, broken bones and multiple contusions. I did extract the promise that Dickens would not be turned into dog food.

Dickens’ new home was actually on my way to work, and every once in a while I would see her in this large pasture. She looked about the same. I have to assume that she got trained well enough for an experienced rider. I was a little worried about Lucky losing his roommate, however it seemed as though he and the little brown mare next door had established a platonic relationship. That’s more than I can say for the mare’s owner and I. To this day I contend that the little mare had a suggestive walk.

Lucky stayed with us for many years and I used to ride him on the weekends. He was a real good horse — because he had a rider that wasn’t! Finally, he was no longer able to retain weight and was eating less and less. We called the vet and he basically said there was nothing that could be done. The decision was made to put him down, which was indeed a very sad day. We estimated that Lucky was probably close to 28 years old, which is about the max to expect for horse. By then the gang had grown, and our needs for equestrian recreation were gone. After a while I quit looking to see if I could spot Dickens, but I’m sure she was happy and stayed with her new-found friends for many years, likely breaking someone else’s arm or whatever.

The moral of the story is “beware of a Trojan bearing a gift horse.”

The New Abode

 “Mi casa, su casa” in Spanish literally means “my house, your house.”  “It seems to me that your part needs fixing up!” This is what Blue-eyes said to me shortly after we moved in.

In some earlier commentary I mentioned that we had moved to a larger house. It was not without a certain degree of pain and anguish that this was accomplished. On the positive side I was less than 10 minutes from work. On the negative side I was less than 10 minutes from home! This meant I was spending some lunch hours running home to make certain household adjustments that were being dictated by my blue-eyed señora.

Don’t get me wrong! She could handle about 90% of the minor little things that happen when you move into a new home. But not problems like the “garage door will only open halfway and if you want dinner tonight, you best come and fix it because I have to go to the store!” The only perplexing problem here was her assuming I had any concept of how to fix a 17 foot garage door. Her trust in my skill set was admirable, but often misplaced. In this particular instance I came home, fixed the garage door so she could go do her shopping and unfortunately discovered when I got home later that we couldn’t close it. Whoops!

That night I got out my trusty toolkit and was trying to figure out what could go wrong when one of the older members of our gang look at me and said “dad, what’s that little metal thingie up there?” I thought to myself, “You’re a10 a year-old, Gimme a break.” So as not to cause any permanent damage to the self-confidence of this budding genius, I looked at this particular little metal thingy, pushed it up and the damn door came down.

One thing you have to understand is that this house was not quite complete! The guy that had built it fell off the roof and hurt his head. He was not a carpenter, nor contractor but a physicist. Think about that one for a minute.  Anyway, there were a multitude of issues and tasks that my skill set, being an erstwhile dyslexic engineer fit right into. Such as the installation of a toilet in one of the extra bathrooms where the plumber, who must’ve been drinking or smoking something, left the flange that the toilet was to sit on short by at least 2 inches.

That proved to be an interesting dilemma and was only solved by going down to the plumbing store and explaining what the heck was going on. An arm and a leg later, I came out with a 2 inch extension and was able to set this contraption and install a marvelous pink commode, which by the way I refused to use. Did you know that there are at least five different types of connecting fittings for water to a toilet? If you don’t believe me, check it out.

Everything worked fine once I was finished, except for one minor problem. One of the gang used it for an inaugural whiz.  Success?  Not quite yet. It would not shut itself off! I finally figured out that this large copper ball thingy had to be set at a certain point to close the shut off valve. I shared this newfound knowledge with my engineering team the next day, and they all thought I was nuts! I didn’t mention the garage door incident for obvious reasons. They already had serious doubts about working for a dyslexic and ambidextrous engineering manager, let alone one that could be outsmarted by a 10-year-old.

We had a swimming pool with new house — huge sucker. The only problem is it was empty, like no water. Well, a little bit of water that had turned a serious green and had a bunch of funny things swimming around. The first task was to eliminate our non-invited pool guests and see if the equipment would work. This was serious business because being well-versed in swimming pool maintenance and the associated equipment, like pump, filter and how to make the water flow, I undertook the rehabilitation of this cemented hole in the ground. I got some cleaning stuff and clean the entire 20’ x 40′ cavity and figured out how to make the pump and the filter work. I figured I needed to rinse all the chemicals out, sprayed everything down and with a portable pump got the monster dry. It was nice and clean and white, and ready for some sparkling water!

After a weekend of this I felt we were ready to fill this new recreational device and start to have lots of fun, as it was still warm out. I came home from work one afternoon and there were my gang and six of the local bomb-throwers skateboarding in this empty cavity, screaming up the sides, careening down the deep end and halfway up only to turn around and come back down. I went berserk! There were skateboard wheel marks all over my nice clean white bottom. Let me rephrase that — the pool bottom not my bottom, but beyond that I figured if one of them fell and broke something, other than the pool, I was likely to get my bottom sued! At that point I did a backflip into a vodka martini.

After a little discussion, which included many threats, I succeeded in convincing the troops that this was not “a good thing.” I was very happy when all it took was a little bit of water, some cleaning powder and scrub brush to get the marks off the pool, which I made the skateboard urchins do. I decided then and there to fill the pool before they established a statewide tournament to determine who could break their neck in JJ’s cemented hole.

Do you have any idea how long it takes to fill a swimming pool with a garden hose, let alone how much costs? I got out my slide rule, and input in the dimensions: length, width and depth, and came up with a figure of approximately 32,000 gallons of water. My reference to a slide rule is a clear indication of my age, and for those few that don’t know what it was, then I suggest you look it up. This was an engineering tool used prior to the silly thing called a handheld calculator. I still have three of them saved somewhere because I figured at some point they would have antique value. But I digress.

Before it was over I was seriously thinking about renting it out as a skateboard arena, but once again was outvoted. After a couple of days there was enough water for the gang to go in and get wet, only to discover that the water was extremely cold. Heating the pool now became a priority, and after a little investigation as to the costs. We had a budget, but like our federal government it was completely ignored based on what our family termed as mandates. Does that remind you of anything?

We believed in democracy in our family and everybody had a vote. The differentiation was each of the kids had one vote, I had five and Blue-eyes had 22. Some democracy!  As an example of family cooperation we tried to decide on priorities, but no votes were extended to the horse named Lucky, the dog named Rusty and my cat, also named Rusty. The animals’ voting record was considered suspect in that you could sway their vote with a little piece of meat. That’s somewhat consistent with the pork belly system currently popular in Washington.

One of the issues that surfaced which required a family congressional subcommittee was the carpeting throughout the hall and in the bedrooms. Nobody liked it, so we decided collectively, meaning Blue-eyes decided on that as a priority. We developed the caucus system to allow each representative to make a choice as to coloring and type. This went to committee, was passed and executed. Carpet samples were brought for review and a decision was made similar to that of Henry Ford and the model A! “Any color they want as long as it’s black.”  The color wasn’t black but you get the inference. So the next decision was what colors to paint the rooms, and in her wisdom she allowed the kids to pick the color scheme as long as it matched the carpeting which was selected through the aforementioned democratic process.

We had the carpeting ripped out and began the process of painting each of the bedrooms and this was indeed a family event. The kids lost interest after I painted them once or twice instead of a wall, and Blue-eyes suggested that I really wasn’t interested in painting — I was keener on tormenting our offspring. I suddenly became the proud owner of three vertical Navaho White enamel stripes on my back. Fortunately it was water-based paint.

The gang got even by developing a game where they took my golf balls, which I wasn’t using anyway, and a putter to see who could get closest to the end of the bare wood 60-foot hall without touching the end wall. It was really very clever. They would mark each spot where the ball stopped with their initials in chalk. It was a good idea, looked like fun and I joined them figuring with my skill set I was sure win. I didn’t! They cheated. What I hadn’t counted on was they had been practicing and knew the idiosyncrasies of the hall and I was destined to command last place. Good thing I didn’t bet money on it.

Blue-eyes wasn’t working at this point, so she finished painting the rooms, as well as the hall. She was a damn good painter and I offered to get her a sideline, which she promptly told me what I could do with — which I cannot repeat here.  I renewed the mandate and associated cost of the new pool heater, but to no avail.  The carpets came and everybody was happy, except we noticed that one room, which was the wrong shade of pink, did not quite match the color scheme. We lived with it for a while and eventually made some changes, much to the chagrin of the occupant of the pink room.

The new house also had a basement that was approximately 60’ x 30’ and fully cemented, with radiant heating. My plan, from the get-go, was to develop this into a huge family room for winter time activities and entertainment. There was only one minor problem. Even though it was built with tons of concrete, it had developed cracks and unfortunately was sitting below the ground level of the water table, mostly in the winter. Hydronics is not one of my skill sets. This was an adventure unto itself, which I will address in a later blog because of my frustration in trusting the construction wisdom and acumen of a physicist.

Moral of the story is “sometimes physics is something you take for constipation!”

School Daze

If you were paying attention to any of my other meanderings you’re aware that blue-eyes and I had a number of kids, had outgrown our first house and had moved into a somewhat rural area. The various schools that the “curtain climbers” attended were a considerable distance from where we lived. So every morning it was our, meaning blue eyes, dubious task to get the offspring packed up and ready to board the Yellow Dragon that took them to their institutions of learning. One of our dogs, Rusty – not to be confused with our cat “Rusty” – would chase after the bus. My job was to chase after Rusty!

It got to a point of routine and eventually after the third designated stop for the bus, Rusty the dog would be sitting on the curb waiting for me to pick him up. After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that Rusty was smarter than I was. When I would come home with the dog, Rusty-the-cat would come over and say “you have been out chasing dogs again, haven’t you?” I would usually retort “Yeah! True, but at least I can catch gophers!” I think the cat was getting revenge because I named him after the dog. I would also remind the cat, “You’re a damn stray, I didn’t ask you to join this crew!” Rusty-the-cat would look at me, lick his paws and I could I tell he was thinking, “Hey! I’d have thought twice if I had known you were so creative that the best you could come up with was to name me after the dumb dog, Dip!” Clearly, the cat had learned the Dip part from blue-eyes. Rusty the dog would usually stay clear of these conversations simply because he was scared spit-less of Rusty-the-cat.

The school district we lived in was in a different town, somewhat snobbish, and their obvious attitude about us “rural” folks was less than sanguine, but they didn’t refuse the revenues generated by the tax base of our little city. They had actually built one school in our little town, but much to our chagrin it was on the list of closures, which was not overly surprising. The only surprising thing is the district leased it to a private charter school which turned out to be a huge success and reduced this forward-thinking school district’s student count, and affected both state and federal money. The only bad thing was the district retained the money from the lease and raised our taxes. Our government in action!

Often our wondrous, bright eyed, crew would miss the bus, and I was usually the designated driver. For awhile we had a network of phone numbers for our neighbors whose offspring were classmates, and if necessary would divvy up the responsibilities of “missed buses” or “bus no-shows,” which I was convinced was intentional, and the district’s method of getting even with us rural folks. As an example, if there was a bus breakdown, we were the last on the priority list. At one point, I offered my services to the district as a mechanic to help with the maintenance, but they told us it was a union issue and I couldn’t do it. It’s just as well, because I knew absolutely nothing about buses, other than they are normally painted yellow.

After a while, I abdicated membership in the “network” because I began to suspect, correctly, that we had a number of members who like to sleep in and knew we would be driving, because their kids began to show up at our front door without the phone ringing. I solved that problem by writing a note, and pinning it on their jackets, stating that we had contracted Typhus fever! When I got home one night, blue-eyes said “Guess what, Dip? That was my name when I knew I was in trouble. “I got a visit from the county health department!” “You’re really weird! You know that?” “Keep that up and we’ll have to move to another state!”

Parent’s day was usually absolute chaos.The teachers all seemed to schedule this unwholesome event at the same time, and we had a lot of trouble balancing the schedule for different useless meetings about how our offspring were handling their educational experiences. There was one teacher in grade school that unfortunately three of my kids suffered through. My private name for her was BrunHilda. She had clearly graduated from the school of Wilhelm the Great, and was just a tad pedantic. My meetings with her regarding our perfect children were a little bit better than a proctological exam, but not much!

Now, don’t get me wrong! This was an excellent school district and our kids were good students, for the most part, and excelled in most activities. This was enforced by their demonstrative father, sensitized by blue-eyes, however, reinforced by her superior intellect. Facts are, this was all an inherited trait from their mother, and thank God they were not aware of my trials and tribulations. If you’ve been following my rambling antics, you know I was kicked out of kindergarten, but the only personal redeeming value here is I was 13 years old. Just joking!

By this time, blue-eyes was working full-time and we developed a method for sharing school responsibilities for the kids, which as was 80/20, with her getting the 80 and J.J. the 20. This unique division came about because of as I had suggested, my lack of “sensitivity.” I was concerned about my ability to provide the positive reinforcements necessary for our kids at that age. That’s the “clever” rationale I used, so I thought. I was somewhat dismayed when she agreed wholeheartedly, stating that “anyone who would write a note to other parents telling them our family had Typhus is good candidate to be institutionalized!” I had thought this through before hitting her with the “sensitivity” part, figuring I was really ahead of the game — only to discover that I had been outsmarted once again. As Belafonte says in one of his songs “That’s right, the woman is smart-ahh.” (If you don’t know who Belafonte is, you’re wasting your time reading this stuff!)

Actually, the kids enjoyed school and required very little oversight when it came to homework and grades. It was their friends used to scare the hell out of me! You couldn’t call them wild, just free-spirited! The law would’ve called it something else. If you’ve got kids, you know that as they get bigger, so do the problems. Blue-eyes and I handle this with our usual acumen, meaning blue-eyes handled it, and I was kept in the dark. I’m sure had I known some of the antics my sweet dear urchins were involved in, they would still be on restriction and it would probably have lasted until they were 37.

I would hear about some of the stuff they had pulled from other people, or one of their more astute buddies would let certain information surface assuming that I knew all about it. To keep myself in the loop, I had developed a network of spies, and to keep them loyal to me, I threatened devious methods of retribution or dark, bewitching spells that would stunt their growth, after attempting to convince them I was a Warlock. It did not work! I made the mistake of telling them that “Rusty-the-cat” was my medium! One of the more knowledgeable refrigerator raiders, commented “cats for that purpose have to be black.” I looked him in the eye and said “I’ll paint the damn thing Black!” Rusty-the-cat heard that comment, and took off like a bat out of hell yelling,”This guy is really bonkers.”

Facts are, the kids had a secret society which consisted of a blood oath not to let any of the parents know what the hell was really going on – especially J.J. – because they all figured he was some kind of flake!

Moral of this story is “if you can’t beat them join them.”