JJ and Bear Creek Adventures

 

The name of my blog “Up a Creek with no Paddle,” is literal, but was derived from a “dry creek” that runs down one side of our property. Blue-eyes later named it “Bear Creek.” She could’ve called “Skunk Creek,” as there was a family of these sweet smelling “beasties” living close by. No “Smokey the Bear” around here and I’ve never seen anything “butt naked” even close to the creek. (Bear versus bare, and I preferred the latter.) Shortly after moving into the new abode, I noticed that there was an easement for flood control. Say what? There was even a small fee on my annual tax bill along with other small fees for stuff I never use, don’t want and in fact don’t know what they are. Case in point, a thing called “vector abatement.” I think they’re after the creepy-crawlies.

We have a large chunk of property, and I went out to the “back 40” and found a four by four foot grate covered drain. I know this is boring as hell, but it gets interesting as we move along. This hole in the ground was the termination or starting point, depending on your prospective, and emptied into a 3 foot-pipe, heading off in the general direction of a real creek about 200 yards away. I didn’t bother to further investigate because it didn’t appear to me there was a potential water issue. My thought was it must be there for a reason, but I have to admit, it wasn’t real apparent as to what that reason could have been. Duh! To get water off the property, Dummy!

About two years later, I got the answer. We hadn’t had much rain, and had something of a dry spell. The area we live in is somewhat rolling hillsides, although our property is mostly level. Really no apparent threat of flooding. Wrong assumption! And then the rains began to fall and not just a little bit. The first day there was a lot of runoff, but most of it was being handled by the normal street drain, which appeared to be part of this flood control drain system. The rain let up a little, but the street drains got clogged with debris and were backing up. While cleaning out the debris, I noticed a lot of standing water between my house and my neighbors, but assumed it would eventually percolate into the cement-like Adobe.

That night the rain really came down in buckets, and as well as the next morning. The storm drains were clogged again and the street was flooded. There was over a foot of water pouring over the gutters and down a neighbor’s driveway into his backyard, swimming pool, as well as the garage. His wife was standing there with a broom in about a foot of water, sweeping water out a door. My thought was, “Man that will really work!”

About this time a car came roaring down the hill, doing about 35, smacked into this water, lost control and went into my other neighbor’s rose garden, took out a water faucet and smacked sideways into a walnut tree. Not real hard, but it sure didn’t help the front of the car. Just what we needed, more damn water. The lady driving tried to start the car, but of course that was not going to happen. She finally got out of the car, getting scratched up by the rose thorns, swearing and yelling at me, “Why haven’t you got a sign or flares out?” I felt like giving her half the peace symbol, but being the gentleman I am, better judgment prevailed. I think I said something like “Your mother wears combat boots.” I asked her if she was all right, she looked at me, didn’t say anything got back in her car and sat there. It could’ve been a lot worse.

Then another car came down the hill, going too fast and even though I stood there and waved frantically, it kept right on going into the water with a gigantic splash. Naturally, this killed the engine. A guy opened the door, started getting out into the water, changed his mind and sat there for a while. He was smart enough to take off his shoes and roll up his pants before attempting to wade through the now nearly two feet of water. He came over, really irritated, looked at me and said “How long has this been here?” I looked at him and said, “Maybe two years!” Then I said, “What kind of boat is that?” He didn’t think that was very funny. At the rate the water was rising, this guy was soon to be the proud owner of a BMW swimming pool. Wise-ass J.J. doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. I think I was still smarting from the comments from my new friend – still parked in the Rose Garden.

Next down the hill, came a kid driving one of these high suspension, oversized tire, pickup trucks. He at least stopped and I went over a told him how deep I thought the water was. He said he was going to try it because he saw where he could get around the “Beemer” on the left side, which was going to be even deeper. He got about half way, going too fast and eventually the water got into his fan blade causing steam to rise, and must have shorted out the ignition. That about did it for me. Here I am standing in the damn rain, soaking wet and wondering if the next person coming down the hill will be Noah, driving his ark too fast and looking every bit like Charlton Heston. I decided that with two cars and a truck stuck in that small river, what I really needed to do was get another cup of coffee. It was too early for a vodka martini. I looked over at the lady still sitting in her car; she had the window rolled down and was picking roses. The lady across the street was still trying to sweep water out of the garage. She really wasn’t making much progress.

Blue-eyes had been on the phone trying to get some attention from our erstwhile global town administration, but all she got was a busy signal. I finally called 911 and got through, explained what was going on, only to be told that it would be at least two hours before anyone could come out. I said, “Fine, by then this street is will look like a wrecking yard.” Great! Where is vector abatement when you really need them? Our tax dollars at work.

I went out to the corral to see how the horses were making out. They were standing in about two feet of water, watching the small river cascade down my back neighbor’s corral. I had built a nice stall and these two dummies preferred to stand in the mud and get soaking wet. I got on the top of the fence to check out the next neighbor’s yard and could see nothing but water going all the way up to their back patio. Their lawn chairs were now floating away, along with the barbeque. What a mess. They didn’t have horses, but did have chickens, all of which were squatting on top of the hen house, which was also about to float away. That proves that chickens have more brains than a horse or for that matter, J.J.

The storm drain in the corner of my property sure didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. Everything was full of debris from trees and other stuff, all headed for the wrecking yard in the front street. I assume the drain was clogged up. DUH! I would’ve needed a small power boat to get to the drain in order to clean it out, and even then with my luck, I would have been sucked into this torrent of water and become an additional piece of wreckage sitting out on the street. The only upside to all this water was I realized I wouldn’t have to “muck-out” the corral for a while. That’s horse talk referring to cleaning up the stuff that comes out of the horse’s other end.

By now the sheriff had showed up, put up a bunch of flares and told me they had closed the road at the top of the hill. There were no new automotive contributions to the river. He went over and was talking with our “Lady of the Roses,” while making notes in his little citation book. Clearly, he was pouring salt into an open wound! I wondered if he was going to say something like “Have a nice day.” At least she got a nice bouquet of roses. The guy that owned the roses was standing in his garage, with a large class of something red, and I’m sure it was just tomato juice. The rose bushes were the pride and joy of his ex-wife and I had a suspicion that he didn’t really give a damn about the damage done to the collection of florets. Mr. “Beemer” was using my phone, and I was sure he was calling Germany to order a new car. The lady with the broom had finally given up and had moved to higher ground, but she still had her broom in hand, just in case. The kid with the “high-rise” truck was sitting in its bed, smoking a cigarette or whatever, with a fishing pole. Just kidding about the fishing pole.

The rain had let up, but the water kept rising. It was now at least 3 feet deep. The Sheriff told me that the real creek was on the verge of overflowing further down the road. I asked him, “Where the hell is all the water coming from?” “From the freeway! It all drains into this here creek of yours,” gesturing toward Bear Creek. He commented that it was backed up for over three quarters of a mile and two other roads were shut down. Oh joy! It now became obvious why I was paying a flood control assessment for a system that didn’t go more than 300 yards.

A maintenance worker from the town finally showed up in a truck, looked at the situation for about 10 seconds, took out two of the things that flash, and left. It was lunch time, so I figured he went to get a hamburger and a beer. The water level began to slowly subside and “Mr. Beemer” went back to his “Bavarian sponge,” obviously waiting for a tow truck or possibly a delegation from the German Embassy. I went out back and one of our horses, Mr. Lucky, was rolling in the mud. I suggested that he wipe his feet before he went into the stall, but somehow I don’t think he was paying any attention.

The next day was Saturday, the rain had quit, the street was clear and the water had gone off in its own mind’s direction, with the exception of small lake surrounding the storm drain in the back of the property. The water was still backed up over two or three of my neighbor’s properties and not moving at all. I expected to see a small boat and water-skier at any moment. Either that, or one of the neighborhood kids yelling “Hey Dude! Surfs up.” I put on my trusty waterproof boots and went to clean out the drain to get rid of this unexpected trout farm. After about ten steps I discovered, the hard way, that the depth of the water was higher than the top of my boots. Oh joy! I poked around with a shovel for about five minutes, with very little effect, but could feel some of the debris starting to move.

All of a sudden all hell broke loose. A three foot whirlpool of water develop and was taking leaves and branches with it, and to some extent I began to worry that J.J. was about to be the next item being sucked into the flood control tunnel of oblivion. I got out of there real quick, went to high ground and took off my water soaked boots. The lake was actually draining. The sweet smell of success. Over the next few hours or so I had to clean out more detritus’s material, but the drain continued to do its thing. One of the chickens didn’t make it. Probably couldn’t swim.

The following week I got an appointment with the city engineer, the objective being to discuss this particular flood control project area. I was informed the city had no records of this project and had no responsibilities regarding drainage from the freeway system. I asked if they had any of the plans on file as it related to the land development of this particular area, which had once been a walnut orchard. The wonderful world of technology, “All the plans are on microfilm, except most of our files going back this far are not legible, due to improper storage. You’ll have to go to the County; we weren’t even a city when this was done.”

Thus began a year-long odyssey involving five different governmental agencies with limitless layers of bureaucracy. The only worthwhile thing that came from this effort was a comment made by one of these civil servants which was “You’re up a Creek with no paddle.” There’s a lot more to this story which bears a distinct similarity to “Alice” and anthropomorphic civil servants. But I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date and will have to discuss more of this after my meeting with the Mad Hatter.

Moral of the story: The fastest way to blind some people is to put a windshield in front of them.

The Golden Horde: The Finale

 We left this fish story with our multiple cold-blooded vertebrates enjoying their new home, a hand-built pond with a 4 foot waterfall, developed with loving care, lots of money and more than a little of J.J.’s blood. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, go back and read the other episodes regarding this major contribution made to our household by our thoughtful children.

The pond was a great success. Well, maybe not great, but at least it worked! I did install some lighting as Blue-eyes had suggested. I even put in a timer so that the waterfall would commence cascading at appropriate intervals. The downside to this pond was I could no longer turn on the “1812 overture” and watch the fish go nuts. I checked around for an underwater speaker system – they actually exist – but gave up on that idea when I saw what some of the prices were. Besides that, I was having a tough time explaining to the salespeople that I was involved in a program of music appreciation for my goldfish. The local pet store was no help whatsoever, and told me they were tempted call the Pisces police.

One of the fish, which I had named “Deliverance” because of his acute dementia and possible stigmatism, must’ve thought it was a salmon because he kept trying to swim up the falls. Some of the other fish would gather around his starting point, and I suspect they were taking bets on whether he would make it or not. He didn’t, but he might’ve, if he had abandoned his banjo. He would take a running start, flap like hell, get about six inches up only to be knocked back into the water, and I could swear the spectators were giving him the Bronx cheer. He would continue this for five or six attempts and then abandoned his efforts, swim to the bottom of the pond and sulk.

As I mentioned previously, our aquanautic population had exploded expotentially and a small horde of teeny-weeny little things were cavorting, in a large mass, all over the place. They were too fast to count, but there was a bunch. I have to assume that I had more than one or two females who were sexually proactive. There was one large, pure gold beauty that I named “Jane” and I suspect that she and “Johnny Weissmuller” were having an affair. They were spending a lot of time together playing adult fish tag.

The little additions seem to be a happy lot, but what they didn’t realize was that their population was slowly diminishing. After a couple of weeks, I noticed that there were only about half of them still in existence. My assumption was that Nixon, as rotund as he was at this point, was still making his presence felt. Clearly – they eat their young. I can only assume that this is Mother Nature at her best. The offspring of the Golden horde were going to the great unknown, to visit the guppies. The only upside to that was it didn’t cost me anything. Some survived, but not many.

Blue-eyes revisited her friend with the Japanese pond that had provoked this project, and discovered that what “we really need to have was some Koi.” So, off I went to visit my friendly pet store and to buy yet more fish. Shockingly, the price of Koi per ounce was the same as gold bullion. Before I laid more bucks on the table I asked the clerk about the mixing of Koi and goldfish. I was assured that they were compatible, “Even though they may try to eat each other.” This guy’s concept of compatibility was certainly unique. My immediate thought was that this could define the essence of politicians, and that I also knew of some marriages that fell into that category. This was not the same person that sold me the original sacrificial guppies, and I asked what happened to her. The new “Pisces expert” told me that she was now the store manager, and the reason was she had set a new corporate record for selling guppies to unsuspecting goldfish owners.

I’m now the proud owner of five beautiful Koi and approximately $160 lighter. Naturally, Koi won’t eat regular fish food, and must have a special pellet which is twice the cost of a lobster at an upscale restaurant in New York City. I figured if the goldfish ate their young, they would certainly eat Koi food, even though the clerk told me they wouldn’t. My attitude was the same for the goldfish as it was for my curtain climbers. “Eat what you’re served or starve.”

My new fish family seemed to adapt real well, but it was clear that there was a new “King of the Hill.” Nixon had lost his position of power, and was forced to abdicate to one of the larger new Koi inhabitants. He was pretty upset, probably a little paranoid and wanted to call a press conference. I had to explain to him that that was not in the best interest of the continued harmony of his previous constituency, and he had to accept the fact that he was just another “small fish in a big pond.” But I digress!

Things seem to be going along swimmingly, if you will excuse my pun, with all the flora and fauna happy with their environment, with no apparent major conflicts between these two species of carp. The hoard was consuming fish food about as fast as I could throw it in there. I bought some more guppies, at a rather astronomical price, to facilitate the cannibalistic tendencies of thier aquian brethren. I stood there for a while, expecting to see absolute carnage, but nothing happened. I was extremely disappointed that I didn’t witness a feeding frenzy and told Blue- eyes, and her comment was the usual, “My mother told me you were weird!” By this time, the goldfish were so fat, they couldn’t catch the guppies. So now I have more damn fish to feed. I decided eventually the guppies would get frustrated because they were not being consumed, and slow down enough for the other fish to catch them. Evidently, this must have happened or they got really bored, and started eating each other. As a matter of more useless information, I couldn’t find the escargot that was intended to clean up the fish residue, and I came to the conclusion that I got sold some dud snails. Naturally, the warranty had expired.

Now, all is well with Lake Shasta. Not so fast! One night I woke up thirsty and went out to the kitchen to get some ice water. There was a considerable noise and rattling around in the patio. Much to my chagrin, I found two huge raccoons on a fishing expedition. One was in the pond, and the other was standing on the edge pointing out the fish. Having already had a bad experience with raccoon’s nasty disposition, I went and got a “three iron” and ventured outside to chase them away. They reluctantly, and leisurely left, giving me dirty looks and half the peace symbol as they departed. (A good thing too, a three iron is not my best club. I lean more toward a fairway wood.)

They had created absolute havoc, destroying most of the plants and had made a meal of a couple of the Koi and a few of the goldfish, one of which was poor ole deposed “Nixon.” As a solution, I considered using the low-voltage horse zapper used to protect fence boards in the corral. It gives the beastie a “harmless” shock, supposedly! I decided against it for fear that I would wake up one morning and find fried raccoons lying all over the place, and end up on the SPCA’s ten most wanted list. Clearly, the pond was not deep enough to keep the banditos from having a rather expensive dinner, using JJ’s credit card. Major design flaw!

A few days later, while contemplating this development, I walked in the back where the pond was, and low and behold an egret was standing in the pond, poking fish out and laying them on the side. I chased it away, assuming this was something of an anomaly. Two days later, ”Big-bird” was back, doing the same thing, only this time he brought a friend for lunch. I chased them away again, yelling that “Kermit the Frog” would hear about this.” By now what was left was one Koi, named “Kamikaze”, and about half the goldfish population. I had named him that because he had two black circles around his eyes which looked like pilot’s goggles. My friend “Deliverance” was still there, plucking away on his banjo. Even the fish gods protect those of us that are complete idiots.

I noticed the water level in the pond had gone down considerably and refilled it only to have it get even lower by the next day. After a few days of this routine, I decided to drain it to see what was going on and discovered dozens of little holes had been punched in by the egrets whenever they missed one of their targets. Some rips were clearly the result of the raccoon attacks. The rubber liner was now nothing more than a sieve. Back to the drawing board.

Blue-eyes got on the phone to her buddy with all the Koi and discovered that we should have had Lake Shasta at least two feet deeper in order to avoid this invasion of unwanted critters. Further, her pond was built like a swimming pool, and sounded like it cost a small fortune. One of Blue-eyes’ comments was, “Gee! Do we really need the fish?” I didn’t say anything, but my thoughts went back to when the “house apes” first brought the goldfish home, and how this whole thing started. “You can’t flush them down the toilet! The kids would never forgive you. They’ve named one of them after you!” I was afraid to ask what that name was. Besides the implications of sentimental history, my ego is now on the line, and this was really a matter of principle. The decision was made! You make it a cement pond.

For a change, I uncharacteristically, did a little planning. I numbered all of the waterfall rocks to preserve our architectural marvel, starting from the bottom, and then took a bunch of pictures so we could reconstruct this thing. I got my ditch digging buddy, (not Blue-eyes, as she informed me this “was not in her job description”), and after fishing (sic.) out all the fish, putting them into their semi-leaky aquarium, began the process of excavation. I found snails and they too had multiplied. Must be something in the water that always promotes procreation. (I wonder how snails do it? Slowly I suspect.) Hey! Three feet by eight by five is a real hole, especially in rock hard adobe, and the size was reminiscent of the Panama Canal. We hit water twice – some damned pipe that I didn’t know was there. Blue–eyes said that we reminded her of an “Oliver and Hardy” movie. (In case you don’t know them, they were an old comedy team like “Cheech and Chong” but without the pot and if you don’t know those two, forget that I even mentioned it.)

During this process the Blonde bombshell discovered some pictures in a garden magazine of a patio very much like ours, with a nice two-foot brick wall and waterspouts feeding into a pond. “I think this would look really nice!” she said, while giving me her big blue-eyed, enticing smile, and handing me a chilled Vodka martini J.J.is a real push-over for a Vodka martini. Slight change of plans! Goodbye “Vernal Falls” and Hello to a bunch damn feather rock that I no longer need. Now I need bricks, mortar, Portland cement, steel mesh, white plaster, plastic plumbing, a more powerful pump, cobalt blue tile for the sides, training, a second job to pay for this stuff and renewal of my weekly visits to my analyst. (Did you know that a bull-nose brick is three times the price of a regular brick? Not really important, but I thought I’d just throw that out there, in case it should be a subject of a trivia game.)

After about three or so weekends of concentrated effort, more of J.J.’s blood, our latest contribution to outdoor living was complete, brick wall and all. “Nixon” would’ve been proud! There was now new lighting on a timer that would probably keep my raccoon buddies away. I read somewhere they don’t like bright lights. Some of the “feather rock” was replaced in the bottom of the pond to provide a degree of shelter and privacy for those fish that were still sexually active. I found the snails and they were considerably larger and in greater quantity than when I originally bought them. I didn’t know whether to put them back into the pond or eat them. (Best served with butter, garlic salt-and-pepper.) There were now three spouts delivering large quantities of water from about 2 ½ feet. Deliverance was still pursuing his swimming upstream fantasy, still carrying his banjo on his back. The rest of the goldfish quit watching because they knew he just wasn’t going to make it. The raccoons gave up on the free lunch at JJ’s Restaurant and the egret returned, only to stand on the brick wall, looking longingly at the pond and leaving rather nasty deposits on the top of the brick wall. “Big bird” must have had some serious intestinal issues. Ugh!

This whole episode happened almost 25 years ago. The kids are long since gone, but the fish are still here. Their kids have enjoyed feeding and watching the horde during their visits. I never mentioned what a pain in the “tush” they were, the goldfish, not the grand kids. (Let me think about that! Just kidding!) I’m not sure how many of the originals are still around, but I suspect more than just a few, predicated on their lifespan. Chances are most of them are second or third generation. The surviving Koi bit the dust many years ago. I think he probably drowned.

Sadly, some time back, I was cleaning the pond and found a little tiny banjo floating on the surface, but no “Deliverance” to be seen. Maybe he made it up the falls after all. Years back “Johnny Weissmuller” got old, lost his ability to swing from tree to tree and “Jane” lost interest and was playing “fish tag” with someone else. But, they both subsequently have gone to fish heaven. As a constant reminder of what an idiot I am, I have feather rock scattered from one end of my property to the other.

Moral of the story: If your kids go to the fair and bring home a bag of goldfish, keep the goldfish and get rid of the kids!

J.J. and the Methuselah-ion Goldfish, or the Sequel to the Saga of the Golden Horde

Some time back, I bored you with a short story about the Golden Horde of goldfish that came into my life, thanks to an innocent attempt at being a good daddy. I’m not going to repeat what was in the first story; you’ll just have to read it, if you’ve got nothing better to do. The purpose of this resumed narrative is to alert you to the associated pitfalls and issues, so that you can avoid long-term servitude, which equates to nurturing something that is dumb as dirt and like to eat their young. In retrospect, this may not be such a bad idea. I jest!

Do you know what the average lifespan of a dumb goldfish is? Let me enlighten you! Try bloody damn forever. I looked this up in my handy fish encyclopedia, and if you get an expensive one, it’s 15 to 20 years. If it’s one of your average “off-the-shelf” goldfish, it can be over 25 to 30 years. Of course, why not? They don’t do anything except swim around in warm water, eat, poop, and fornicate. The only thing they ever say is “Glub-Glub.” You could commit murder and get less time than 30 years. I think the penalty for killing a goldfish is they take you to a large swimming pool and incarcerate your ass at the bottom in one of those “fish castles.”

So, after a short period of time, our offspring which had introduced these diminutive descendants of carp, of course, lost interest. By now I’ve got approximately 300 bucks invested in fish paraphernalia, and a new “honeydew” task called clean the fish tank, at least twice a month. You may ask why I didn’t just flush them down the toilet. I had a good reason. I had read in the paper about people in Florida flushing little baby alligators down the toilet ,and the results were some rather large alligators showing up in the sewage system. I figured considering the lifespan that I mentioned, a few years from now I’d read about some sanitation worker attacked by 6 foot goldfish that had a large black spot in the middle of its forehead. (You’ll meet him later — the fish, not the worker.) 

I could never figure out how eight or nine little fish could screw up 20 gallons water as fast as these did. Cleaning the charcoal filter was really nasty business. Smelled gross! I almost gave up drinking water when I thought about what it is fish do in it. The fun part was using this tiny little net to catch these suckers so I could drain the tank. You don’t realize how fast goldfish swim, until you try to catch one. I named a super-fast one Johnny Weissmuller — you know, the guy that played Tarzan in the movies. (I think he won four or five Olympic Gold medals for swimming — Weissmuller, not the fish.) His best line was “Me Tarzan, you Jane.” Or, “That is Boy! Run like Jane, swim like rock, smell like Cheetah!” The chimp that played Cheetah was a better actor, with real creative lines, like “Hugha-Hugha-Hugha!” But, I digress!

Eventually, I got to the point where I would sometimes, after work, with vodka martini in hand, dump in some fish food flakes, which cost about $900 a pound, and sit in what we called the sunroom and watch these fish go berserk. The stereo system was in there, so I would put on some really good classical music, such as Ray Stevens playing “Freddy Feel-good and his Funky Little Five Piece Band,” followed quickly with “Gitarzan,” which the fish seemed to prefer. One of the speakers was right next to the tank. I would turn the volume up enough to make the water ripple and you should’ve seen those fish dance. Blue-eyes would come in and ask me, “Are you tormenting those fish again?” My answer would be something like, ”Nah! Look at them! They’re all smiling.” Or, “I think those two are doing the “Lindy.” Her answer was the usual, “My mother always said you were weird.” (If you don’t know what the “Lindy” is, I suggest you Google it. God knows, it may come back!)

There was one particular fish that was bigger than the others. It had a white tail, and a big black spot on its head that reminded me of a toupee. He looked rather swarthy. I assumed it was a male because he would dominate the castle, and when it came to food, he would chase the other fish away until he got a belly full. I named him Nixon. There was another one which was completely Golden, with the exception of the black spot in the middle of its head. Once it had eaten, it would go to the far end of the tank, take off like a bat outta hell, and crash headfirst into the other end. He was the only one that tried to leap out of the tank. I guess he didn’t like his new home. I think it might’ve been cross-eyed. I named him “Deliverance,” because I figured he was the offspring of an illicit brother-sister relationship, and could probably play the banjo.

After a couple of years, it was clear the fish were here to stay. During this period, we only had one fatality, and by now they were known as J.J.’s Horde. I was still spending time teaching them the virtues of classical music, and they were still developing their multiple dance routines. The grass that I put in was called Dwarf Hair grass, and it had a mind of its own. This stuff grew faster than dandelions. I tried to get rid of it, but it just kept coming back. I thought about using some kind of weed killer, but came to the conclusion that it would probably kill the fish, have no effect on the grass, and I would end up getting a letter from “Rachel Carson or Bette White.”

One day, when I was down at the pet store buying more fish flakes, I mentioned this problem to the super-knowledgeable clerk. She said what I needed was some “guppies” that would feed on the grass. I said, “Yeah! Why didn’t I think of that?” But I was thinking “What the hell is a ”guppy?” She further commented, “You also need snails.” I told her I had a backyard full of them, and she let me know — that was not going to work.

So, I ended up with a bag of little tiny snails that cost two bucks each, which would drive a Frenchman crazy because they are so small. The “guppies” turned out to be little tiny fish, between a quarter inch and a half inch long. The “fish owner support professional” had just reached in with a net and poured a bunch of them into a plastic bag, and asked for another 10 bucks. So I went back home, dumped in the pint-size escargot, and what looked like 30 or more guppies. I watched them for a while and they formed what is called a school, which is an oxymoron when it comes to Pisces intelligence. They immediately went to the bottom, swimming in and around the grass. Aha! A solution to the problem of too much grass! (Of course, there are some of you that would suggest there is never too much grass.) The snails sunk to the bottom and didn’t do anything but lay there.

The next day, I went in to feed the fish and noticed that the goldfish were playing tag, or hide and seek with the guppies. Isn’t that cute! I didn’t feed the fish every day because someone told me that it created problems if the fish did not eat their miniature Wheaties. A day or so later, I went to feed them and treat them to the “1812 Overture,” especially the cannon part, which would really shake up the tank. I looked in the tank and couldn’t find any guppies. I finally saw a few hiding in the grass, but that was it! As I was watching, one of the more intrepid guppies left its leafy sanctuary, and much to my shock and dismay, immediately became dinner for Nixon. What the knowledgeable clerk had neglected to tell me was that goldfish eat guppies. Another 10 bucks down the drain!

Sometime later, Blue-eyes convinced me that we needed to redo a portion of our patio. She had a friend who did a project in something of a Japanese water garden motif. The next thing I know is I’m staring at a couple of magazines with various demonstrations of how to do this. Having had some terrible experiences with contractors, we decided to attempt this minor project ourselves. Mistake number two. Mistake number one was considering this in the first place. I drew up something we called “plans,” which was an undecipherable set of drawings with a bunch of meaningless notations, measurements and sketches of rocks and plants. She selected the plants and rocks, and I selected the shovels. I hired a guy help dig a hole that would become the new home for our Golden Horde, which by the way had multiplied by about 4-fold, because clearly the goldfish were doing more than just swimming, eating and pooping. I wasn’t worried about over population, because I figured Nixon would eat the young sooner or later, if he could catch them. He was getting so fat now, that he didn’t swim so much as he waddled from point to point.

We did follow one of the plans suggested in the pond magazines — sort of. The pond we chose was approximately 8’ x 6’ in a half circle, 12 inches deep with a four foot rock waterfall. The rocks were artistically piled on top of each other, with the gentle flow of water cascading into the pond and really looked great — on paper! It even told us what kind of rock to buy (called “feather rock”), because it was really light lava-based stuff. Naturally, the magazine recommended a manufacturer of the kit containing a rubber liner, a pump with hoses, a small filter and miscellaneous tent pegs to hold everything in place. Price tag for the kit, just under $400. What a bargain. That’s okay, anything for my guppy-eating friends.

We went and picked out the rocks at our local rock store, or I should say Blue-eyes directed the architectural selections. What the magazine didn’t tell us was that feather rock was as sharp as a razor, and soon made my hands look like steak tartare. We ended up with a truckload of man-eating small boulders, and me bleeding like a stuck pig, shelling out another $400. “Blondie” had a visualization of what the waterfall should look like, and I spent the next three days rearranging, at least a dozen times, rocks for this four foot waterfall. One consistent thing which continued to happen, was after each rearrangement was she commented, “That rock on the bottom — it’s in the wrong place.” Naturally, we had to set it up so the water would fall, rather than just gurgle all over and just make the rocks wet. We ran some tests, and this, of course, required more modification to our miniaturized version of Yosemite’s Vernal Falls.

Back to the handy dandy rock store, but this time with gloves and body armor, for more lava rock for decoration and gravel to go on the bottom of the pond. More bucks out the door! Of course, we had to have flagstone to get from the edge of the patio to the pond, and all around what I have now dubbed as Lake Shasta. Water plants were an absolute necessity, as well as more grass for the now non-existent guppies to hide in. If we followed the instructions in the magazine, we would have put in enough water plants to cover three quarters of the pond. My reaction to that, beyond monetary, was “How the hell do you see the fish?” Did you know that some lava rock actually floats? Believe me! One was about 18 inches long and 10 inches wide, and looked like a little island. It worked out okay though, because I figured I’d buy a little lighthouse, and stick it in the middle to warn any passing ships of this uncharted obstacle. I gave up on that idea, because I figured I would have to hire the little man to live there.

Finally, inauguration day came. We turned it on, and lo and behold, we had a waterfall and a bunch of fish that had gone into complete seclusion. It all worked, and actually looked pretty good. Blue-eyes brought me out of vodka martini to celebrate our achievement, and remind me that it was time to change the bandages on my multiple wounds. She had a few suggestions, one of which was submerged lighting, and I asked her, “Do you really think the fish want to read at night?” I can’t repeat her retort. By now, I figured these fish had cost me close to a grand. As I stood there taking in this marvelous architectural accomplishment, I thought if I could see the fish, which I couldn’t because of all the flora, they would be laughing their little golden rear ends off.

Now, this story isn’t over yet. We failed to consider a few things like raccoons, a blue heron, multiple egrets, and a bobcat that took up fishing. But that’s another story.

Moral of the story: Don’t be afraid to eat a goldfish, they’re not an endangered species!

Domesticized Wild Beasties

 

Our neighborhood like most, has their fair share of domestic animals. In our household, we always had some kind of “Pet” that was supposed to satisfy our need to be in touch with the animal world. Something that you have to keep in mind however, is that there are pets, and then there are “pets.” What that means is some of them are affectionate and appreciative, and some of them just don’t give a damn about the human race. This is unfortunately very true about cats, who are about as independent as a 16-year-old getting their first driver’s license.

About five years after we moved in, we discovered a lot of interesting nonviolent and semi-nonviolent neighborhood animals. One of the most intriguing events involved some friends who lived up on a hill behind our property. They also had four kids about the same ages as ours. They had a couple of horses, as well as a monkey. I don’t think they were trying to train a monkey to ride the horses, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. This little beast was the kind that you used to see with “organ grinders,” with their cute Bell Hop outfit and little tin cup, looking for a handout, and if they didn’t get your attention, would likely bite you on the leg.

Anyway, on one weekend we got a phone call from one of the girls, screaming at the top her lungs that their monkey had gone berserk. Neither of her parents were home, so being the good guy that I am, I went up there to assist in the capture of this wild and dangerous beast. I found my “Jungle Jim” hat and went trotting up the hill. I could hear the yelling and screeching before I got halfway there. Hell, at that point I thought this little monkey had killed at least two of the kids and had cornered the others. I then realized that I had forgotten my elephant gun!

I went in the front door and was astounded at how badly the living room had been trashed. This little monkey could not weigh much over 10 pounds, and this place looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Anything standing was knocked over, drapes were ripped off the wall, pictures were down and broken, and the kitchen was littered with debris. I finally found one of the surviving members of the family and asked where the beast was, and she pointed to a bedroom, which sounded like someone having a serious bar fight.

There the culprit was, showing one hell of a lot of teeth that could not be interpreted as a smile. It was bouncing from window to wall to bed and back again, screeching all the way. Two of the kids were attempting to throw blankets over him, but this monkey was extremely fast. After a few seconds, I came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was get out of there, close the door and let this little home wrecker calm down. I got the kids out and we shut the door with the unfortunate assumption that the monkey could not do much more damage to the room than it already had. I asked one of them how it started. He said they were watching TV and eating lunch, and all of a sudden the “monkey went bananas,” which I thought was an appropriate description.

After about 10 minutes or so, the noise and banging in the room subsided, so I opened the door a crack and saw the monkey sitting on the bed with his back turned. I quickly picked up one of the blankets off the floor and jumped on the bed, covering the monkey. Based on the amount of screeches, I think it safe to say, the monkey was more than just a little pissed. We took it to the garage where they had a cage and summarily dumped this simian in, blanket and all. I went back in the house and looked around at all of the devastation, found my “Jungle Jim” hat and went home. Never heard another thing about the monkey! I have a sneaking suspicion that it was reissued its little “bellhop” uniform, and is now standing with some organ grinder on a corner in New York City, biting unsuspecting deadbeats that don’t put something in his cute little tin cup!

The people across the street were great. She was called Babs and she called him Coot for some reason I never understood, because his name was Bob. They had three kids, and one was the same age as JJ Junior. They had a horse – mean as hell that liked to bite people – which Babs would ride once in a while, and a dog that was named Kip. He was a black lab, very smart and extremely friendly. Kip got along with Rusty, our dog, as well as Rusty my cat. Yeah, that’s right! Rusty the dog adopted JJ Junior, and Rusty the cat had adopted me. Both were strays! We had tried to find their owners, but had no luck, so I suspect they had been brought up to the hills and dumped.

Most of the domestic animals ran around loose in our neighborhood. I suspect that the Town had a leash law, but that it probably only applied to the local teenage “bomb throwers.” Anyway, Kip used to hang around the house, along with a couple of other neighbors dogs, so we saw quite a bit of him. One weekend afternoon, Blue-eyes was in the process of making dinner, which was going to be, excuse the expression, rump roast. Apparently she had taken the roast out and put it on the kitchen counter, and then went off to do something else.

It was winter and a little too cold to be working outside. I was doing some stuff down in the basement and Blue-eyes called me. She asked me what I did with the roast and naturally, I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me it had been on the counter, and now it was gone. My immediate thought was she had put it back in the freezer or one of the kids was messing with her mind. We looked all over. No roast!

The kids denied any involvement whatsoever. I didn’t think the roast could just get up and walk away because it didn’t like the thought of being cooked with raw onions and garlic. Right about then, I’m starting to get this spooky feeling that the house has been invaded by a meat eating demon, which likes its meat real, real rare. I figure any minute, something is going to take a bite out of my arm or whatever. We had hamburgers for dinner, which was fine. No roast showed up, nor did any spook, that I noticed. The mystery perplexed us!

A couple of weeks later, I saw Kip by the back patio, and out of curiosity, I walked into the living room area to see what’s going on, just in time to see this dog push open the sliding glass door. He had figured out that by putting his weight against the handle, he could get it open. The case of the disappearing rump roast was closed. I went over and talked to Coot and said, “You owe me a 5 pound rump roast.” I told him what happened and he said “Yeah, Kip learned long ago how to open sliding doors.” About an hour later I was proud owner of a new rump – roast that is!

From that point forward, we made sure that sliding doors were locked to protect ourselves and dinner from this canine burglar. I was concerned that the damn dog was smart enough to pick a lock. Kip also had a newspaper fetish. I think his favorite was the sports section, because when I finally found our paper after he was done with it, that section was usually missing. This dog was a real piece of work! A few weeks later, we discovered him in the kitchen. He devoured half of a chocolate cake, and was unhappy that he couldn’t find the ice cream. The shocking thing is that the chocolate didn’t kill the dog. Most dogs have a collar around their neck, However, I suspect Kip carried a burglar’s toolkit. About a year later, Coot and Babs moved to Chicago. To this day, I’m sure that the burglary rate in their new neighborhood went up by at least 100%.

We had our share of pets over the years, or should I say they had us. Rusty the dog was a loner and had a foot fetish of the first order. My assumption was he had been kicked more than once by his previous owner. His only affection was for JJ Junior, and he pretty well snubbed the rest of us. He wasn’t real playful; he wouldn’t fetch, wouldn’t roll over, rarely spoke, and most of the time if I called him, he just ignored me. However, he was the best damn squirrel deterrent we ever had. I used to watch him take off after these little critters, but I don’t think he ever caught one – but not for the want of trying. He developed a technique of hiding under some bushes near their favorite tree and waiting until they hit the ground, and then shoot after them like a rocket. I figure it was one of his few joys in life, other than his allegiance to Junior.

He had one serious flaw, and that was his distaste for the UPS truck. He wouldn’t chase cars, but maybe figured he could knock over this truck. To his misfortune, one day he got into an altercation and the truck won. He could just be described as a really good dog.

Rusty the cat had something of the same demeanor, however, he could be much more demonstrative when he wanted something. We had no idea how old he was, but I figure at least 12 or 13. He was what I called a Tiger alley-cat, and preferred not to sleep indoors. He wasn’t particularly the house type, liked the outdoors, but clearly the family room and its fireplace was his favorite location inside, especially in the winter. I think he spent most of his nights out in the stall, protecting the horses from the rodents. We never had a mouse or rat problem when he was alive!

If he wanted something, like food, he didn’t try to communicate in any way other than to jump on you. I would be sitting in the family room reading, and all of a sudden this yellow monster would come flying through the air, and land on my lap. It didn’t matter that I may have had a cup of coffee or was trying to read the newspaper, and more than once I ended up with fluid all over my lap and the rug. He wasn’t being playful, he was making statement. If I was working outside on some project, Rusty would come along to supervise. He’d sit 10 or 15 feet away and watch what I was doing. On more than one occasion, I noticed after I completed whatever, he would go over and inspect the work.

One of his favorite tricks was to hide in the bushes or up the tree and pounce on any unsuspecting person walking by, usually scaring the hell out of them. He also pulled this trick on Rusty the dog, at which point the two would chase each other all over the back yard. I think they were probably buddies, but didn’t want to admit this because of the perceived hostilities between dogs and cats.

We had Rusty the cat for about two years. One spring day, he was lying by the family room door, where the sun was shining – his favorite spot – and I was reading. Then I noticed he had not moved in quite a while. I went over to see what was going on, and to my surprise and sadness, he was dead. No symptoms, no demonstration of a problem. He just laid down in the sun and died. I buried him in one of his favorite areas in the back 40 near the corral. Rusty the dog, wandered around the backyard for a couple of days, in my belief looking for his so-called feline adversary. Rusty was a good cat!

Over the years we had a number of other dogs, but never another cat. Those two have always stood out in my memory because of their obvious indifference to any human interface, but at the same time, clearly felt they were where they belonged.

Moral of the story – If you really want a pet, get a turtle and teach it how to bring in the paper. They live longer!

Wild Beasties Two

When you live in a rural area, you have to accept the fact that certain kinds of critters were here before you got here. So I guess it’s natural for them to assume certain rights of domain and territorial prerogatives. It doesn’t concern them that a bunch of homes have been put in and basically interrupted their normal habitat, and the strange two-legged animals think they are the only ones that matter and that they’re in charge. “Not so,” says Mother Nature. In some regards, they see this human habitat as a possible new food supply, and maybe not even excluding consumption of the two-legged animals.

We have a lot of deer that still find their way into our little neighborhood, and I’ll come back to that in a little while. Deer’s natural predator is not just man. Not too many years back, after a good rain I was out cleaning the storm drain that goes nowhere when I noticed a number of rather large paw prints. I backtracked to where they came from and found the remnants of a freshly killed animal. It was in such a state, I couldn’t be sure if it was a dog or a cat or one of the wild beasties. Anyway, whatever got this animal did some rather intricate surgical work.

My next-door neighbor saw me in back, came out to check out what I was doing. This is the same guy that probably reported me to the fire district, but that’s a different story. I showed him the paw prints and told him that that it was a pretty good size mountain lion. We natives call them Pumas. He looked at me and said, “No, that’s a dog print.” We went across the street and could see where this “dog” had climbed over a 6 foot fence, assuming because of the blood spots, with part of its dinner still in its mouth. This guy still wasn’t buying it.

We went back and looked at the prints again and I commented that I couldn’t think of any canine that would have a foot like that. He still insisted that it was a dog. My suggestion to him was “Well, if you see it, don’t try to pet it, because it’s a mountain lion disguised as a dog!” It turns out that a number of domestic animals had been killed in our little area and a warning was issued to the residents to keep their eye out for a mountain lion disguised as a large poodle. I jest! The disguise was really not a poodle, but a St. Bernard.

One of the other examples of wild inhabitants would be the raccoons, which were extremely clever and persistent. It doesn’t seem to matter to a hungry raccoon that there is a relatively sophisticated locking mechanism on a garbage can. They could figure out how to open it faster than JJ could figure out how to close it. Many a morning I would go out to get the paper and be greeted by garbage scattered from one end of the driveway to the other. In one instance, they chewed off the locking mechanism on the garbage can. I got a new one with a twist top that was advertised to be foolproof, but it didn’t say to whom, because I don’t think it slowed the raccoons down one second. Maybe the “fool” part was meant for the guy that bought it.

One evening after it was dark, I was reading and heard a bunch of racket. I turned on the outside lights and discovered a raccoon stuck in one of the containers. I kicked it over to let this little devil out, naturally scattering garbage all over the driveway. Damn raccoon didn’t even say thanks – it just slowly walked away. I cleaned up the garbage and decided it was time to go to bed. I think the little sucker just hid until I was gone and then went back, because the next morning, sure enough there was garbage scattered all over “hell and gone.” I figured if this ever happened again I would just leave it in the garbage can, presuming it would be a wake-up call for the garbage pickup people, or as they preferred to be called “sanitation engineers.”

I thought I had successfully defeated this problem by building a wood fence that retained the cans. The problem with that was that if I forgot to pull the cans out on Monday, the garbage man would leave everything as is, meaning I was still the proud owner of 30 gallons of garbage. I guess opening a little gate was not in their job description. The final solution was called “the bungee cord,” and it worked as long as the troops would remember to attach it. Raccoons have their place in this world; I’m not real sure where it is, but I know it’s not in my garbage cans nor swimming around in my pool in the middle of the night.

We have always had our fair share of deer visiting both the front and the backyard when we leave the gates open. Most of the time the invasion is in the spring. The Does would show up with their young ones. We must have entered into the fifth-generation of these visitors. Quite frankly, they’re so pretty I don’t see how anybody can shoot them. Part of the problem is they will eat anything except the weeds and these Does raise hell with roses and other succulents. The other aspect of this is “where Bambi goes, nothing grows.” So we end up with brown spots all over the yard. But it’s okay! The grass grows back fast, but it’s the potted plants that really take hell.

Every so often we would unknowingly close up all the gates and have deer trapped in the backyard. This gets unpleasant in a hurry. They start running around the backyard, taking out anything in their way and trying all of the access points that are now closed. The mature deer have no trouble jumping over my six-foot grape stake fence, however the young ones can’t do that, and usually in a flight of panic, go crashing through the stakes. This can get expensive in a hurry, predicated on the price of grape stakes these days, if you can even find them.

One morning a few years ago, I had to go out to what I call the Back 40, where the vegetable garden is, and there was this eight point buck eating apples off my tree. He turned and saw me, and lowered his head. I turned, and lowered mine as I was running for the safety of the house. He was a big brute, for coastal deer. I could see the headlines, “Local man gored 53 times while attempting to capture Bambi’s father, barehanded. The assailant was last seen eating apples and smiling.” I told Blue-eyes what had happened and her comment was, “You mean to tell me you’re afraid of a little tiny deer?” My retort was, as Little Beaver would say, “You bet-chem, Red Ryder!” (If you don’t know who Little Beaver was, or for that matter Red Ryder, you clearly never owned a Red Ryder Lever Action BB gun. Look it up on the web, it’s too difficult to explain. And if you are at a loss about Bambi, you’re in real trouble.)

Another type of wild beastie that we’ve seen on occasion includes some rather large bobcats. They hang around out back, and their primary interest seems to be the squirrels. One weekend I was standing on the patio looking out toward the stall, and all of a sudden this bobcat leaped from somewhere and landed a good 8 feet up a birch tree where a squirrel had been sitting. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The squirrel was toast! The bobcat slowly came out of the tree, walked onto the lawn, and sat there for a few minutes making sure lunch wasn’t going to go anywhere. Based on that event, I always look around when I go back by the birch trees. I didn’t bother to tell my flaky neighbor, because he probably would’ve said, “It’s a dog!” I can see the headlines now, “JJ’s (who as we reported was recently gored) flaky neighbor, loses three fingers while attempting to pet a bobcat. His only explanation to the press after this incident was, “I thought it was a dog!”

We used to have a few skunks when we first moved in, but they seem to have diminished. I saw one a few months back on the back lawn during the day, kind of wandering in an erratic fashion. I was a little concerned because what miniscule understanding I have about skunks is they can be prone to being rabid. I watched it for a while and it seemed disoriented. I always thought skunks were more nocturnal, so I decided to call the animal control people in our county government. Once I got through the multilingual recording, with 14 options and talked to a live person, I was told that the earliest they could get out there would be in two days. I really felt comfortable with the fact that our local government would be on the scene to support the situation, if indeed “Pepe La Pew” was rabid. Part of my concern was that my neighbor would adopt it, convinced it was a dog.

Moral of the story – Animal rights are one thing, but I think more of them need to be house trained.

Don’t Fence Me In – or – Dude, Keep off the Grass, both types!

If you’ve been following some of my stuff, you’ll know that in “Border Wars,” I was putting up a huge grape stake fence that was reminiscent of the Great Wall of China. It took me about three weekends and couple of “sick days” to finish this job – not to mention a whole bunch of cash. Blue-eyes and the curtain climbers would alternate in holding the grape stake while I continued to pound my fingers. I had placed a level string from post to post to maintain a consistent height on the fence line. All the holder had to do was have the top of the stake just below the string line. Blue-eyes was pretty good at this, but the kids, being somewhat shorter, didn’t prove to be real competent. I came to the conclusion that they all lacked depth perception. But now the property was almost fully enclosed and the insurance company was a happy camper.

One of the things that is important in a project of this nature is called planning. I thought I’d done a pretty good job in laying out the fence line and executing post holes in their proper spacing, including positioning these all in place, facing the right direction and being somewhat level. Minor problem! J.J. forgot to plan for gates. For you “techies” that’s not Bill, but the kind that swing. I don’t think Bill is much of a swinger. This caused a minor flap in that everybody in the family had an idea of where the gates should go and what size they needed to be. I think the suggestions for gate location got around 20!

It was finally mandated that we had to have a gate for the corral large enough for a truck to get through – and a small gate so we didn’t have to open the large gate to get the horse out. So that dictated a large gate up front, near the entrance to the backyard so a truck could get in and – naturally, a small gate so that we don’t have to open up that large gate. We had to have a small gate at the other side of the front of the house so that we wouldn’t have to walk to where the other gate was. There was an area of the property that was not enclosed because it was basically a dry creek, except in the winter, with a storm drain and was about 3 feet lower than the nominal surface of the yard. So naturally, we had to have a gate there so we could get into the area to clean out the weeds and check the storm drain. We got that sorted out, and I had to revise my layout and sink additional posts.

At this point, the priority list mandated the labor battalion (meaning J.J.) move to concentrate on the front of the house. What little lawn there was, was mostly dead. The previous owner had installed a sprinkler system, however it didn’t seem to be working. I located two control valves and turned them on. Nothing! I looked around side of the house and found another valve and turned it on. Eureka! There was water shooting up all over the area and most of it was not going anywhere near the lawn. I decided to try to isolate the problem, and discovered that the guy had attempted to put in both a drip system as well as sprinklers. It clearly wasn’t going to work. After a few hours of trying to figure out this mess, I came to the conclusion that this was the sprinkler system from hell. I suspect this guy was ether drinking something or smoking stuff.

Rather than mess around trying to fix the problem, I just ripped out the lawn and the old sprinkler system. Good decision! The guy had put in flexible tubing, and unfortunately it had kinked in a number of areas and was absolutely useless. In the process of digging out this tubing I discovered tubing for water in areas that went nowhere at all, no input, no output and no sprinkler head.

I went down to the local garden store and got a truck load of loam delivered after I had rototilled the entire area. I got it all spread out, and dug the trenches for the new sprinkler system. I used PVC and had a lot of fun gluing my fingers to the pipes and the various fittings. By the time I finished, my fingers were purple and mostly stuck to each other. One of the more interesting things I learned was that this glue likely contained either or some other interesting substance in it, and you could get a little silly in a hurry. I found myself having a strong desire to say “Hey Dude,” and to begin sniffing the can. “Surfs up!” I jest as usual.

I got some good advice on the type of grass seed and put in the new lawn. I was really quite surprised at the variations of grass available. I’m talking about the type for growing lawns, not that other stuff! The new sprinkler system worked like a champ and I proceeded to stand around and watch the grass grow. About a week and a half later, a bunch of green stuff started poking its head above the mulch. Sweet success!

The guy at the garden store told me I had to keep the new lawn very damp and should water twice a day. Because of this, any little varmint that wandered into the area would leave its little footprints. That’s how we discovered that a mass of dogs, raccoons and cottontail rabbits inhabited the neighborhood. In some instances, the raccoons had dug up small areas, but the ground was so wet I couldn’t walk on it to repair the damage. I figured I’d fix it after the lawn came in. The cottontail rabbits didn’t do much other than to leave a little trail which is not really noticeable. The dogs left some rather interesting deposits that I just chose to ignore.

One morning I heard a bunch a racket in front and went out and found three of one of my neighbors horses racing around on my new lawn. I had put up small string barrier, about a foot tall with red plastic ribbon all around the entire newly planted area so that people would realize that it was not to be walked on. Two of the horses had gotten tangled up the string, and had pulled all the stakes out of the ground and were racing around, somewhat panicked, attempting to get free from whatever was on their hoofs. My new lawn was now a great big mass of horse hoof prints.

I recognized the horses as belonging to my neighbors in the back and went over to his house and woke him up. It was at least 6:30 in the morning. Time to get up, anyway. He answered my banging on his door in his PJs, cute things with little red hearts. I told him his horses were out. He didn’t seem surprised. He asked, “Where?” and I pointed in the general direction of my house. With that he turned and shut the door, clearly an unhappy camper. That’s what he gets for wearing PJs anyway. I’m a skivvy’s man myself, but that’s probably more than you wanted to know.

By the time I got back to my place, the horses were gone, along with my little string barrier. My neighbor showed up a little later and his only comment after surveying my newly destroyed lawn was “Where’s my horses?” I felt like suggesting, “Just follow the string and the muddy hoof marks!” I don’t think he’d had his morning coffee. Naturally, he did not comment on the obvious massive destruction to my infant lawn. Maybe he thought I had planted it that way. If that were true, I assume he went home later and said to his wife, “Boy! This new guy has a unique idea about what a front lawn should look like.”

He didn’t say squat – as in a “Hey! I’m sorry. Can I help repair this mess?” or even return to the scene of the crime. I figured he must be a soul mate of my “Border Wars” neighbor. I later discovered that his horses got out pretty regularly and went down the street to visit their buddies at the stable, which was a couple of blocks away. Within three weeks, my new friend’s house was “For Sale.” J.J. strikes again, making new friends all over the place and changing the basic topography of the neighborhood. I guess maybe I had discovered yet another non-candidate for “Welcome to the neighborhood committee.” Blue-eyes’ comment was “If you keep this up at the rate you’re going, we’ll be living in this neighborhood all alone!” I actually thought about that, but came to the conclusion it would be extremely difficult and too complex to accomplish. Besides, some of them were very friendly.

Moral of the story There’s two types of grass and sometimes you need both.

JJ and Blue-eyes – the Fundamental Coffee Date

 

In my generation, when you went out on a date, it was not necessarily consistent that you went for a drink or a beer or whatever. There was one exception to this rule, and that was the frat rats, which couldn’t wait to get smashed out of their gourds. Although I was over 21, I really didn’t drink. Maybe the occasional beer, but one brew was usually accompanied by a headache. Being realistic, I thought why should I pay $.50 to get a headache? Blue-eyes was underage, so that eliminated the “going out for a beer” question. Her being from Wisconsin, I should’ve known that she likely knew more about beer than I did, but she never made mention of it. Mix that with the bowling alley her family owned, and she was probably weaned on Miller High Life. Not knowing that fact probably saved me a lot of money, not to mention a few headaches.

Naturally, by this time I had given up the Friday night poker-pizza party. I was still working at the gas station and likely smelled like an oil rig, despite numerous showers. I think the petroleum products had permeated my body. On one occasion, as we were driving to get coffee or whatever, she stated “Gee, I smell gasoline!” I explained what the problem was and her question was “How much money did they pay you for this?” I told her what I got an hour, and that the only side benefit was I was able to get all the gas I could drink for free, but not for my little TR-3. In reality, the guy I work for was so cheap he wouldn’t even give his employees a discount, but of course, at that point gas cost about $.60 a gallon. Her only comment was “that sure isn’t much money.”  I said something about the intelligence level required being close to zero, and I got the impression that she felt I fit right in. No big deal. She offered to pay for the coffee. I let her!

After coffee, she commented “The place I work for is looking for a couple of guys to come in and help out – especially on Friday nights with their teen dance.” Naturally, I asked her what it paid and was rather chagrin to find out that it was three times my current hourly wage. Without showing too much excitement, I gushed “I’ll take the job!” After the fact, I discovered that she was also involved in the Friday night teen dance debacle. Had I known that, I would’ve done it for free. Anyway, I got the job.

That evening ended my career in the petroleum industry, and so began my career in monitoring the conduct of the leaders of the next generation. This job was so great, I kept it through the balance of my university experience. I knew I was destined for management when the next year I was named Director of Teen Activities. No raise, just the title. Chauvinism personified! This really impressed Blue-eyes, or so I thought. I think in reality, it kind of pissed her off because she was more qualified. Ms. California wasn’t happy either, both because she had been there for approximately 2 years and was a Recreation Major. I always wondered about the curriculum for that major, and had a number of rather malicious thoughts.

Prior to my involvement with the teen dance (which I referred to as the local bomb throwers weekly organizational meeting), I had paid little attention to that generations rather raucous music. I wondered how you could possibly dance to this “noise.”  We didn’t have to tell these kids not dance so close because they never touched each other while they were working up this huge sweat. I had always thought the Mashed Potato was something you ate, the Twist had to do with pretzels and the Monkey Jump with something associated with the zoo or possibly Tarzan. This was a whole new world, filled with early-stage teenie-boppers gyrating to music that hurt my ears and gave me a headache worse than beer. I was tempted to ask for hazardous duty pay, but then realized as a member of management, it was part of my job responsibility.

Naturally, on Fridays since we were both going to work at the same place and time, we had to ride together and sometimes were accompanied by the soon-to-be Miss California. When Ms. California was not going, we took my car, but often Blue-eyes would insist on driving her 1951 Chevy, which frankly scared the living hell out of me because her idea of 25 miles/hour was really 40 miles/hour and for me, excruciatingly fearful. She was a good driver, but had a lead foot, and the yellow light meant “let’s go faster.” She likely had to have a new clutch put in the Chevy every 5,000 miles. This need for speed was true her entire life, but the only tickets I know of that she ever got were for parking. All of our daughters have inherited this particular speed gene.

As a something of a side note, “Ms. California” dated my roommate for a while and some years back I ran into him on an airplane and asked whatever happened to so-and-so, as well as “Ms. California?” I knew that she went to the finals and came in third or fourth. I mentioned that I had seen her on TV doing an ad for toothpaste or some such thing. He said that he understood she married a dentist and had 24 kids or some number like that. I’m sure he was exaggerating.

It wasn’t always just a cup of coffee or lousy pizza, although every once in a while I would spring for a pitcher of beer as we got to know the little Italian couple that owned a really great pizza restaurant. Friday work responsibilities usually ended at 8:30 when the teenyboppers had to go home. We would often go out to get a pizza, and every once in a while I would spring for a steak dinner at a place that can only be classified as a real dump. But the facts are, they had extremely good steak dinners for $2.95, which was called a club steak, and you got a baked potato and a nice salad. The food was actually very good, and again we got to know the people who owned the place and became somewhat regulars. If Ms. California was with us, my roomie would come and we would spring for dinner. Last of the big spenders! This lasted for about two years, but unfortunately this little dive was right in the way of a freeway project, and it disappeared from the face the earth.

As a side note, many years later we went to a concert, and lo and behold there was another dive with the same name. So we stopped in and discovered that it had been the same owners, and they had relocated in this really raunchy area near the auditorium. The original lady owner had just recently passed away, and I mentioned to the waiter that I used to work for them as a bouncer back in the late 50s. We got a free drink and talked a lot about some of the characters that used to hang around the old location. It was something like a forerunner to that TV show called “Cheers,” but without a real fat accountant or a psychotic Postal Service employee. Fortunately, I never had to bounce anybody, because I was a pretty big guy and usually people would behave once we had a little talk.

The more we dated, the more intimidating Blue-eyes became. I discovered that she had been the head majorette while attending UCLA, and she demonstrated her skills at baton twirling. I guess that’s where the great legs came from – all that marching around. She had also been in three or four Rose Bowl parades and had basically given lessons to young would-be majorettes. One time we were talking about music and I disclosed that I could play a horn, trumpet and trombone, but had given it up because I split my lip and could never get the muscle to perform as it should. The end of my great musical career. Ha! After I told her this, she got up from her couch went into the bedroom and came out playing a really fantastic clarinet. She said she’d been taking lessons for about 10 years, and frankly she was very good.

Blue-eyes was a hell of an athlete when she was younger. As a high school kid she had played girls’ softball and had played women’s softball for her two years at UCLA. She was a shortstop, had a great arm and hit the ball a ton. During this semi-beginning of our relationship, I began to wonder if there was anything that she couldn’t do, when I discovered inadvertently that she had been a bathing suit model for a company called Rosemary Reed down in Southern California. Later, we took up tennis and she was an excellent player, albeit noncompetitive. To her, tennis was a social game and she didn’t really care if she won or lost, except when she played singles with me – which of course took on aspects of World War II. She regularly beat me because she had a wicked slice curve serve and I couldn’t hit it. It’s a good thing we didn’t play for money, because if we had, I’d have been totally broke. Having my ego shattered was pricey enough!

I began to spend more time at her apartment than I did in my luxurious dwellings in the old Victorian tear-down that I lived in – likely to the chagrin of her two roommates. Their dog’s name was Kim, and unfortunately he got out once too often. Being the good scout, I cruised the campus neighborhood for the next two or three days trying to find the dog, but no luck. It wasn’t tagged, so I assume it either got picked up by some other students or the pound, although I did leave a description of the dog. The only picture they had of this little beast was with a cast on its leg while it was still a puppy. Blue-eyes and her roommates were devastated. At least I endeared myself to her roommates and they were willing to put up with my constant visiting. Little did I know that runaway dogs would play a role throughout our relationship. Naturally, this was when I was doing anything I could to ingratiate myself with this Blue-eyed beauty. As it turned out, I didn’t really have to do this Sir Lancelot bit. It turned out old Blue-eyes really liked me. That’s when she first started calling me “weird.”

After well over two years of doing our Friday stuff with the teenyboppers, me hanging around her apartment, cheap dinners and a lot of conversations, we got engaged. I don’t remember who proposed to whom – right!  But in the final analysis, I gave her an engagement ring and life began from that point forward. That summer, when she returned to Southern California, I went down there, got an apartment and was working two jobs to try to make enough money to support myself for the next school year, which was my last year.

She still needed to finish another semester to get her State Certificate for working with the handicapped. Every so often she would comment that dating me made her “more than qualified for anything that the state could throw at her regarding handling the handicapped.” I think she was being a little negative. I would see her on most weekends and we would spend time at the beach, swimming or just bagging rays, wandering around Knott’s Berry Farm and Disneyland, to which she had free passes – however, I avoided any attempts on her part to get me to go bowling. We went together for almost 2 years, and in June of 1960, when I allegedly graduated, we got married. I was almost 25 and she was 22, older than most single persons of our generation.

Moral of the story – Sometimes things that look too good to be true, really are.

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 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.”

A Not So Fortunate Horse Named – Lucky!

Some years back we left the city to find more comfortable and larger dwellings to accommodate our growing family, both in size and numbers. I didn’t realize that if you fed kids they would grow. We bought a house that had a bunch of land in what could be euphemistically defined as “a bedroom community” with a myriad of hiking and horse trails, dirt and dust, and one huge population of flies mostly the size of a small Piper Cub. After a period of settling into a general state of acclamation I began to get severe subliminal pressure to acquire the means for equestrian delight, meaning a damn horse. Indirect comments such as “Gee, Daddy, all my friends have one,” prevailed, winning the day.

I had the sinking feeling that this was going to go the same direction as the acquisition of our fish tank and the eventual allocation of responsibility. (But that’s another story.) You have to keep in mind that our family already had:

• A dog called Rusty,
• A myriad of goldfish whose names I couldn’t keep track of,
• A stray cat that I named “Cat,” which later social pressure and demands required that “Cat” have a real name,
  so I call it Rusty simply because of it’s color, figuring that if I called “Here Rusty,” the damn cat wouldn’t come anyway, and
• An uncountable array of gophers, which neither of the Rustys paid any attention to.

During this time I was trying to domesticate the horde of the furry cave dwellers to teach them birth control, with no luck whatsoever. Besides that, my loving spouse suggested if successful I would be in big trouble with the Humane Society.

One day at work I was discussing some of these family matters with an associate who lived a few miles from me and whose daughter had grown and left home, leaving behind an aging Wyoming Mustang that had been trained for working cattle. He told me the horse’s name was “Lucky” in that “he used to be a stallion” (active words “used to be”), however, he had been neutered or spayed or whatever they call it. I did not say anything, but I wasn’t convinced that this was a real appropriate name. Think about that for a minute! Anyway, you know what I mean. Good old Lucky would whinny in a very high voice, thereby eliminating any doubt whatsoever about his sexual proclivities.

As part of the deal my so-called friend would throw in all available accoutrements which were collecting dust in his stable. I thought this was all the paraphernalia needed for any kind of equestrian activity. Wrong! This included a Western saddle, multiple halters with multiple reins – as in bridles, which has nothing to do with weddings.

He touted a horse blanket and a saddle blanket, and I thought “with all that hair, what the hell does a horse need a blanket for, and do saddle blankets have to be warmed up before you can ride?” Included was a horse brush, a real brutal looking implement for scraping hair off the horse’s rear end, which might be useful as a discipline tool for the kids should they get out of line, and the perpetual horse droppings. Just kidding about the droppings. Wrong!

When you buy a used car one should look at the tires, ask about the brakes, check out the engine, ask if it burns oil. You try to find out how many miles are on the heap and what type of fuel is used. In buying a horse, these questions are slightly different. For example, “how much is a ton of alfalfa? Do you feed it corn? When was the last time the horse was shod, like in new tires? What’s your annual vet bill? (This is a high-priced horse mechanic!) Has the horse had its teeth floated in the last year? (What the hell is that? Picture yourself having your teeth floated!)  Naturally, I asked all ask these questions. I’m lying through my floated teeth!

Somewhere in there I agreed to take his Wyoming thoroughbred off his hands for a mere 400 bucks. When I got home that night, sitting in the yet-to-be-constructed back patio, having prided myself on making one hell of a deal, I suddenly realized that I had put the “cart before the horse.” Stark realization hit me — I had no corral!

I did a backflip into double vodka martini and thought about the problem. I had planned on a nice quiet relaxing weekend. Those concepts suddenly went up in smoke when I realized I better think about building a corral, which of course I was an expert having been educated by a well-founded Jesuit institution, (Mea Culpa is Latin for getting hit in the head with a hammer) — let alone a stall, now that I was the proud owner of a horse. Notice I didn’t say “we” because when it came to the corral construction, the “we” part went south with the ducks, but that’s another story. As an alternative, I thought about selling the kids, but we passed through that proposition during the “Curse of the Golden Fish,” so I won’t bring it up again.

I won’t bore you with the details of construction, but the local lumberyard was about $800 richer and counting. My schedule was in complete disarray. The family ganged up on me exclaiming that my attitude and demeanor were questionable, and my logic was dismissed as inconsequential because I was incapable of understanding why the damn horse had to have a house, in horsey talk — “stall.” I was learning a bunch of new phrases that are unacceptable in this narrative, if we are to maintain a PG-rated story.

You need not be reminded that the only “stud” in that corral was a 2 x 4 spruce, and not Mr. Lucky. I’m still hung up on that name and can only define it as something of an oxymoron, with an accent on the moron being the guy who bought a horse without a corral! My rebuttal to these insistent passionate inquiries was “Hey, when the horse was in Wyoming I doubt if they provided it with shelter which included hot and cold running water!” The collective common retort was “this is not Wyoming, Daddy!” I lost it again.

Any form of syllogistic logic fell on deaf ears and I was once again outnumbered 5 to 1, so I hastily drew up the plans that included a tanning booth, a Jacuzzi and a massage table for good old Lucky for relaxation after a hard day of standing around in the yet to be completed corral. I’m sure you think I’m exaggerating. Well, maybe just a little bit. To pour salt in an open wound, my ex-friend wanted to charge me rent for his corral. He was fortunate that I didn’t have any ammo for my trusty Colt 45, version 1904.

At that time I had a vintage Porsche that could be called a project car, meaning it was a real wreck, according to my spouse who knew squat diddly about vintage foreign autos. It was one of the first Cabriolets that had roll-down windows. Because of the horse, Mr. Lucky, I no longer had the time nor the funds to complete this male-oriented right-brain project. I often thought of buying a harness for Mr. Lucky and attach it to the Porsche and have him drag the wreck downtown. Said spouse suggested that I “had lost my ever-loving mind” and that I would be “incarcerated for not having the proper license or documentation for horse-drawn Porsche.”

Sometimes after work, when it was too dark to go slosh around in the uncompleted corral and its subsequent 8000 foot luxury stall, I would sit, with my vodka martini, in my Porsche dreaming that I had just taken first place at the Laguna Seca, but someone had named the car Mr. Lucky!

Now if you get the impression that the kids didn’t help, you’re wrong. They would cart the necessary two-by-fours and two-by-sixes, mix cement for at least 15 minutes a day, not including wicked weekends where their quota was at least doubled. By now, it was winter and I took my customary two weeks off for the holiday season which was spent sloshing around in the mud completing Lucky’s new abode. I came to the conclusion that there is no Santa Claus!

I’ll finish this at some other time because Mr. Lucky turned out to be a rather extraordinary member of the family even though it, (“IT” versus he or she only because of the previously mentioned loss of “ITS” stallion status and to be politically sensitive, no gender discrimination was intended. I think this is called a legal disclaimer) cost a small fortune, but had tremendous long lasting side effects that aided the growth of the flora surrounding the residence. Now that’s no bull. Lucky put new meaning into the words “Mucking around” and brought life to many heretofore dying azaleas, some tuberous begonias and one pomegranate tree.

The disappointing aspect was when we brought him home, which means I rode him 10 petrifying miles, and once in the corral, IT completely ignored the stall and spent both day and night standing in the rain, or whatever. When I went out there to suggest he use this elaborate facility, he bit me! My soon-to-be disowned offspring stayed up most of the night worrying about Lucky standing in the cold rain. My response was “Hell! If he’s that cold he will put on a blanket!” At this point, I began to suspect that when Lucky got his you-know-what cut off, whoever did it slipped up and performed a frontal lobotomy. Some people don’t know one end of a horse from the other. That could be construed as a political statement. I tried to explain this to my kids, but my lovely wife told them that “Your Dad had one, (frontal lobotomy, not the other procedure) when he was 13.”

The detailed exploits of Mr. Lucky will continue once I recover from the depression caused by the memory of these transcribed events.

The moral of the story is that proper orientation is very important and one should never look a horse in the rear end when you should be looking at its teeth to determine when was the last time it had its teeth floated. Think about that if doesn’t hurt too much!