THE GREATEST GIFT

"Build ‘em faster than the enemy can sink ‘em."  And they did!

This weekend past I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to travel back in time.  Albeit only for the day, I got to travel back to a time shortly before I was born and peek into the lives of what my parents, aunts and uncles, my childhood friend’s parents, and their aunts and uncles experienced and lived through.  I got to go back to World War II for a day to observe and even experience a tiny bit of a day-in-the-life of what The Greatest Generation did to give me what I maintain is the greatest gift; the birth right of being an American.  

It was a time when young men left the farms of America to serve their country.  It was a time when women hung up their aprons and took up wielding torches.  It was a time when Americans rationed everything from food to fuel to the tires on their automobiles and sacrificed much for the war effort; and it was a time when so many Americans sacrificed all.

To set the stage, during WWII the United States was at war on two fronts; the Germans in Europe, and the Japanese in the Pacific.  Now when armies are at war, an often overlooked part of that war by the casual observer is the supplying of those armies with everything they need to do what it is armies do, continue to fight.  Troops have to eat, sleep, travel, shoot, drive, fly, etc, etc, and to do this effectively they need a continuous supply of food, tents, ammunition, arms, fuel, and all those things armies need to keep them going.

America, in the midst of a depression and woefully unprepared for any war at all, let alone one on two fronts, had to come up with a way to get all these supplies to our troops who were fighting thousands of miles away and doing their level best against two, combat hardened armies that were bent on world domination and teaching the rest of us German and Japanese, so we began cranking out ships to transport all these goods and troops to the front.  

In the beginning of the war they were called Liberty Ships and were pretty bare-bones vessels.  Later, we began building the Victory Ships; leaner, and a bit faster copies of the Liberty ships.  This is where another, often overlooked, group of individuals entered the picture; the Merchant Marines.

The Merchant Marines were civilian companies and sailors that engaged in commerce or transportation of goods and services in and out of waters of the United States.  Sea truckers, if you will.  With the country now at war, the Merchant Marines suddenly found themselves an auxiliary of the U.S. Navy whose task it was to transporting fuel, ammunition, tanks, jeeps, cargo and troops wherever needed in the world.  Kind of a tricky task considering enemy battleships have made your ship a prime target. If that isn’t enough to get your adrenaline pumping, submarines are lurking about trying to intercept you and enemy fighter aircraft are searching high and low for you, all with one goal in mind; to give you swimming lessons by blowing your ship out of the water.

According to the War Shipping Administration, the U.S. Merchant Marine suffered the highest rate of casualties of any service in World War II.  Officially, a total of 1,554 ships were sunk during the war, including 733 ships packed with over 1,000 gross tons.  Hundreds more of these ships were damaged by torpedoes, shelling, bombs, kamikazes, mines, etc.   9,521 Merchant Marines were killed during World War II, and one in every 26 died.  By comparison, the Marine Corps were next with one in every 34. 

Enough for the moment about the Merchant Marines; you probably already know as much about them, but if you don’t, look them up further.

At any rate, a couple of friends of mine, (Steve and Cheryl Silkotch) had been prodding, poking, and pestering me for several years now to visit San Pedro and spend a day on the S.S. Lane Victory, only one of two Victory ships surviving that are operational.  Steve, who retired from the tugs at San Pedro and now volunteers his time in the engine room on the Lane Victory, while Cheryl works in the gift shop on board.  So alas, to placate Steve, I agreed months ago that I would take a day and venture down to San Pedro Harbor to take the Lane Victory tour.  Not really my thing, but it was the only way I was going silence big Steve and get him off my back.  It wasn’t that I was against going, it just always seemed to be bad timing and I always had something else to do.  

Steve and Cheryl set aside two tickets for me at will call.  Since my wife, Cathy, and I have this little arrangement; I don’t fly and she doesn’t do boats, I called my oldest friend in the world, Mike Higgins, and informed him he was going on a boat tour with me mostly because I don’t do well around crowds of people, and I am even less stellar in congested freeway traffic and big cities.

We arrived at the dock around seven in the morning and were promptly checked in and allowed to board.  A continental breakfast was provided and following a cup of coffee and a couple of pastries, Mike and I proceeded to show ourselves around the ship.  As we wound our way through narrow corridors, past tiny sleeping quarters that seemed slightly larger than a hummingbird’s purse, history was everywhere.  The corridors were lined with plaques and pictures of past seamen and photos of the Lane Victory in its heyday.

Making our way through the mazes of corridors, through the ship’s galley and past the Captain’s quarters, we found ourselves in cargo hold #4 which now serves as the ship’s museum.  There, we marveled at day-to-day items from bygone days.  Jeeps, antiquated nautical items, and military items a ship of this kind might transport abounded the walls and floor of the cargo hold.  They even had the original steam engine, (operational I might add) from the old USS San Pablo.  You might better remember it from the 1966 movie, The Sand Pebbles, starring Steve McQueen.  

Making our way back up to the main deck and near the fantail we were met by Steve, who had just got off duty.  

“Want a private tour of the engine room,” Steve asked?

Steve explained the workings of the engine room in meticulous detail as we made our way across narrow catwalks, around huge boilers, and down the entire length of the bowels of this incredible ship.  I think what struck me most during our private tour was the intense heat and the conditions these volunteers work under where ambient temperatures commonly hover between 100 to 120 degrees.  They also have tours of the engine room throughout the day.  Due to the noise level and limited walkways, these are done with a guide in groups of six. 

About the time we completed our engine room tour the tug boats arrived and began the task of maneuvering the Victory ship away from the dock and out into the harbor.  Before we knew it we were under way.  

 Atop one of the cargo holds, a stage was set up and a band began playing swing music from the 40’s.  They were accompanied by three young gals dressed in uniforms who sang these songs in the style of The Andrews Sisters; all while young men dressed as soldiers and sailors in WWII combat gear roamed the ship to mingle with passengers and share the history they were recreating.  It was easy for me to envision my parents, for this is what they looked like.  Visiting youngsters aboard the ship were captivated at what they were seeing and a youthful gleam returned to the eyes of oldsters as they began smiling and shared stories from their days on ships such as this.

Mike and I sat up on the bridge as the old war ship chugged its way out into open water.  Along the way we saw a number of porpoise bobbing and swimming in the deep, blue waters; an added bonus, I suppose.  For at least the thousandth time in our lives we reminisced and shared stories of our own father’s experiences; the stories they had passed down to us about this remarkable time in our nation’s history.

Before we knew it, we were about a mile off the coast of Catalina Island with a spectacular view of Avalon.  As the ship set anchor, an incredible lunch was provided.  Tri-tip, Chicken, salads, rolls, and pasta were served, and no one was disappointed.  After about an hour, the ship weighed anchor and once again the cumbersome old vessel bellowed smoke from its stack and was underway. 

We hadn’t traveled very far when an announcement from the Captain came over the ship’s loud speaker.  “We have received word from Naval Command that an enemy attack is eminent. All hands to your battle stations,” he ordered.  All eyes scanned the skies, not quite certain what to expect.  Then suddenly a passenger near the fantail hollered, “There, over there; planes coming in off the stern!”

Quicker than you can inhale a gnat, the big guns located on the ship’s fantail began chattering away and soldiers shouldered their M-1 rifles and began shooting at the German WWII fighter plane that was bearing down on us.  Then, just as suddenly, another fighter plane appeared on the port side.  Then, another and another, and yet another plane appeared until six German fighter planes were swarming and diving upon us like yellow jackets at a bar-b-que.  We were under full attack!

 As we marveled at the sights and sounds we were experiencing one couldn’t help but be carried back to a distant time and imagine what it must have been like to go through such a battle and live to tell about it.  Many didn’t.

It was interesting to note that several large yachts were skimming across the water on their way to the island.  All of them shut their engines down to observe the mock battle as planes began spewing smoke and tipping their wings as if they’d suffered a hit from the gunners aboard the Lane.  One had to wonder what was going through the minds of the folks aboard those yachts as they watched the twenty-minute air-sea battle wage back and forth.

As the fighters disappeared to regroup, the crowd aboard the Lane Victory was a buzz.  A few minutes later the fighters returned, performing a final flyover and tipping their wings to those of us on board as they disappeared out of sight.  It was an incredible finally to a wonderful day aboard this unique relic from World War II.

The band began playing once again and folks began dancing nearby.  As we made our way back to San Pedro I think everyone on board had a smile on their face.  It had truly been a remarkable trip, one I’d brave the congested city and packed freeways of Southern California to do again.  I can’t say enough about the incredible crew of volunteers who work so hard to keep this bit of floating history alive.  Thank you crew of the S.S. Lane Victory for showing us a day-in-the-life of the “Greatest Generation” and reminding us of the “Greatest Gift” they gave us all; the gift of freedom.  Now, if only we can keep it!

AS THE STONE TURNS

AS THE STONE TURNS

In today’s episode, Tom discovers the joy of a somewhat frustrating conversation with a directionally challenged 911 operator as he attempts to locate an elusive hospital hidden somewhere in the remote, high desert expanses on the outskirts of Pahrump, Nevada, all while going over his last will and testicle with his wife, Cathy, who is driving.

And now; As the Stone Turns…

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When I was a youngster in school, kids were taught the fundamentals.  English grammar and the three R’s; readin’, writin’, and rythmatic, these were the building blocks of education.  And while I no doubt slept through most of that stuff and have forgotten the rest, I am pretty sure that rythmatic is spelled with an A at the beginning.

Back in the ancient times of my youth the archaic educational system forced us to change into gym clothes every day while a crusty, old coach with more wrinkles than a wet boot made us do calisthenics and physically participate in PE; cruel and unusual punishment by today’s standards where one can simply opt out and stand on the sidelines texting on their I-Phone what a grueling day they are having.  

We said the Pledge of Allegiance every morning, and dare I say, we recited it using the G word.  Today, any reference to God is banned from most schools for fear of offending someone or getting yourself placed on a Homeland Security domestic terrorist list.  Instead of yoga in PE class and learning about gay rights, illegal immigration rights, welfare rights, and every other kind of rights imaginable today, we had to learn the Preamble, the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address, and the capitals of every state in the union; all fifty-eight of ‘em.  Today, most kids can’t even tell you the names of all our states.  

At any rate, one other thing we learned at that tender, young age was the songs, and we learned lots of them.  Row, Row, Row Your Boat, She’ll Be Comin’ Around The Mountain, Alouette, and others.  I suppose the purpose was to prepare us for careers as rock stars, or at least, tolerable shower singers. I’m not sure, but out of all of those old songs that we learned, the one that was my favorite and has stuck with me all these many years later is The Erie Canal.  I suppose it was because much of the song dealt with a mule named Sal.  Even then I had this strange affinity for anviheaded longears, or at least that’s what I believed the song was about until last weekend.  Last weekend some of the lyrics came flooding back to me at a most unusual time and place, and they took on a much different meaning as well.  It was on a dark road on the outskirts of Pahrump, Nevada, out in the middle of nowhere, trying to find a misplaced hospital; or what would turn out to be the hospital from hell!

It all began innocently enough at the handgun range over at Front Sight Firearms Training Institute, (and you wondered how I was going to be able to write that trip off on my taxes?)  Shortly after the noon lecture let out, approximately twelve-thousand-and-forty-two armed gun nuts made a mad rush for the restroom before the next range class began.  With a line longer than Disney’s Space Mountain ride, I decided to pass and went directly to my range.  Two hours later, dancing like a mad ostrich on hot pavement, I asked permission to unload and make an emergency dash to the restroom.  That is when a strange pain in my right side began to rear its ugly head.  

At first I thought it had something to do with holding my bladder for so long before going to the restroom, but as the pain grew worse I began to wonder if it might be my appendix.  That evening, after eight-and-a-half hours of worsening pain, my wife, Cathy, gave the order, “Get in the truck, Buster, you’re going to the hospital!”

I should mention that earlier in the day one of the Front Sight instructors gave me directions to the hospital in Pahrump should I need to go.  I should have paid attention.  Still, I had a general idea of where it was located and I remembered he said it was somewhere off Wilson Road.

Turning off the highway onto Wilson Road we quickly left the lights of town and the surroundings turned dark in a hurry, as rural areas are wont to do.  It was at this point things began to get rapid as the pain in my side began to increase in intensity.  The annoyance also decided to change its location and now was creeping lower into my abdomen in the area just below my navel and above where Johnson and the twins reside.

At this point, having driven a considerable distance and still no hospital in sight, my patience was growing thinner than Billy-Bob’s hairline; there wasn’t much out there.  In fact, there was nothing; no lights, no houses, no other roads, no signs, no nothing.  Nothing except desert, that is.  Something was wrong as I was certain we were getting farther and farther out into the desert and no one in their right mind would stick a hospital way out here.  I decided to call 911 to find out where this hospital was.

I have never had the pleasure of a late night chat with a 911 operator, so imagine my delight as Jessica Simpson answered my phone call and the conversation that ensued went as follows:  “911, what is your emergency?”

Tom:  Hi there, I’m trying to find your hospital here in Pahrump; where’d you hide it?

911:  What is your emergency, sir?

Tom:  I need to find the hospital; I’m having severe pain in my lower abdomen and I think I’m about to give birth.

911:  Sir, what is your address?

Tom: I’m driving, lady.  I’m on Wilson Road; can you tell me where the Pahrump hospital is located?

 911:  Where exactly are you, sir?

Tom:  I’m lost, lady.  For crying out loud, try to keep up; that’s why I’m calling you; where’s the darned hospital?

Cathy:  Be nice, Honey, they’re just trying to help.

Tom:  WHOOOAHMOTHER MARY AND A PEANUT BUTTER SANDWICH!!!

911:  Sir, are you having pain?

Tom:  You’re kidding me, right lady; haven’t you been listening?  Yes I’m having pain, that’s why I need a hospital, now where is it?

911:  Sir, I need to know exactly where the paramedics can meet you.

Tom: At the Pearly Gates if I don’t find the hospital.  Can you just tell me where the hospital is, PLEASE, LADY, I don’t need the paramedics; I just need to find the hospital!

911:  Sir, the paramedics can be there shortly if you can just give me your location.

Tom:  You’re kiddin’ me, right?  Am I on Candid Camera, or are you a stand-up comedian in Vegas and I’m on the air?

911:  Sir, where…

Cathy:  Honey, there’s a road sign.

Tom:  Wait a second; I’m at Walton Road and Wilson. 

911:  Sir, you’re going the wrong way; you need to turn around and go in the other direction.

Tom:  Cheese and rice!  Turn around, Dear; she says we’re going the wrong way.

911:  Sir, what direction are you going?

Tom:  Now I’m going the direction you told me to go; the other way.

911:  Are you driving east or west, sir?

Tom:  How the hell should I know, lady, it’s blacker than a stack of stove lids out here.  Heck, you couldn’t find your nose with both hHHHAAAAAANNNOWWWGOOD GOD-AND- A-FLOWERMAGNATE!

911:  Sir, are you okay, where are you experiencing the pain?

Tom:  It’s getting lower in my abdomen.

911:  Where exactly is the pain, sir?  What kind of pain is it?

Tom: The kind that hurts, lady.  It feels like someone’s pushing a goat head burr through my urethra tube with a flamethrower.  Any chance of you telling me where that hospital’s at?

911:  Excuse me, sir?

Tom:  I’m sorry, I confused you; I know better than to end a sentence with a preposition.  WHERE’S THE HOSPITAL, LADY?

Cathy:  Honey, we’re back at the highway; now where?

Tom:  Alright, Lady, we’re back at the highway; now where do we go?

911:  You’re at the highway?  Sir, you need to be going west; you’ve gone the wrong direction.

Tom:  Turn around, Dear, you’re not gonna believe this! Okay, is this Jessica Simpson?  I know you’re not Gracie Allen ‘cause she’s dead, which is exactly where I’m gonna be if you don’t tell me where the friggin’ hospital is, lady.  Can I speak with a supervisor or someone there who understands simple English.

It was at this juncture in our little melodrama that events began to get even more rapid as a flashing pain, located low in the area of what anatomically, (were the area a state,) would be classified as South Florida shot through me like a bolt of lightning through an Iowa cornfield.  Certain that Johnson and the twins were being attacked by a commercial-grade badger I let out a scream of profanities that would force any combat marine to stand back in utter admiration as my head spun circles like a seventy-eight turntable plugged into a 220 volt outlet.  

Now I had never before seen my wife drive while levitated.  In fact, I didn’t even know it was possible, but I am here today to attest that it is, indeed.  Together, in complete harmony, I grabbed my groin and we screamed simultaneously and in complete harmony.  Me, because of the pain emanating in South Florida, and my wife, as she later explained, because my sudden screams scared the grass out of her.   

911:  Sir, what’s happening; are you there?

Tom:  Yes, I’m here, in fact, we’re back at Walton ROO)ad and Wilson. 

911:   Sir, continue west one block to Medical Way, turn right and you should see the hospital.

Tom:  I see it, thanks, Lady.  Bye.

911:  Sir, stay with me; don’t hang up, okay?

Tom:  Okay; C-L-I-C-K!

Once in the emergency waiting room, Cathy did all of the talking. That would be because I was on the floor holding my crotch like I was a spastic rap star doing a break dance.  It was during this time I discovered that admittance, (seeing a doctor), and treatment was ranked somewhere below insurance paperwork and coffee break; all while being asked more questions than a What’s My Line mystery contestant.  

Then, out of nowhere, for absolutely no rhyme or reason, an old song from Misery Elementary School, The Erie Canal, came racing back into my head.  Specifically, one line kept repeating over and over again as I lay on the waiting room floor curled up in a ball and holding my privates.  

Oh, where would I be if I lost my pal?  Fif-teen miles on the Er-ie can-al.

As I lay on the floor in agony while the required paperwork and insurance information was being taken care of by Cathy, I’m certain ice ages have come and gone in less time ,until at last I was as helpless as a cow in quicksand and now I had the urgent desire to pee.  I decided to scramble to the restroom in another attempt to relieve myself; something I hadn’t been able to do all day.  I was messed up worse than a grass rope on a cold, damp morning.  

At this point, blind Bob and the Whirly Twins felt as if they were on fire and then some.  Oh, where would I be if I lost my pal?  Fif-teen miles on the Er-ie can-al.  It was difficult enough standing in front of the urinal, but attempting to complete the task at hand (no pun intended) felt like I was trying to pass a coffee can full of treble hooks.  It was a situation above critical and I felt like a masterpiece of faulty construction.  Oh, where would I be if I lost my pal?  Fif-teen miles on the Er-ie can-al.

About the time I thought I was ready for a Dr. Kevorkian motivational speech, a tiny trickle appeared.  Happy as a piglet on a teat at this long awaited development I couldn’t help but notice another development; the pain had suddenly lessened considerably.  Following copius amounts of happy medication, a ct scan, a shift change, three coffee breaks, and two doctors later the diagnosis was that I had passed a couple of kidney stones.  I had never passed at stone before, so imagine my unrestrained exuberance at having given birth to my first.  What shall I name it?  

I have had more than my fair share of unfortunate experiences in my life.  I’ve suffered accidents that run the gamut from explosions of several types, to spectacular unplanned dismounts off everything from mules to motorcycles.  I’ve experienced life flights, scary flights, and unplanned flights down mountains, rocks, power poles and even flights of stairs, and while I’ve been fortunate enough to survive them all up to this point, and many are fodder for silly stories such as this, arguably the most painful was the passing of a minuscule kidney stone.  A miniscule stone that felt the size of a disco-ball covered with thorns getting shoved through a flex-straw!

Join us for next week’s episode as Tom answers that age-old question, “Will a lighted cherry bomb explode if held under water?”

  

MAMMY

MAMMY

 

 
    There I was, standing face to face, eyeball to eyeball with perhaps the single, most terrifying and feared animal on the face of the planet. Aboriginal pictographs found in New Mexico caves clearly show an abominable monster described in ancient Indian legend and handed down from generation to generation. A miscreant so despicable the mere mention of its name struck terror into the hearts of westward pioneers, miners, mountain men, and cowboys alike. Even the Sierra Club, Greenpeace and the Center for Diabolical Absurdity would just as soon see this devilish aberration join the ranks of the Sabertooth Tiger, Wooly Mammoth, and the honest politician on the list of extinct species. Its Latin name is ODERUS PEEYOUUS TREMENDOUS, but there I was, glaring into the peepers of the beast more commonly known as "The Great North American Mammoth Skunkapotamous!"
    
In their now famous journals, explorers Lewis and Clark described in great detail an encounter with a Mammoth Skunkapotamous of enormous proportions
in which the party witnessed a fully, in the rut, massive racked, bull elk carelessly stumble into the path of a marauding pack of peeyouuses, whereupon he immediately shed his antlers, slithered away, and was shunned by all the other elk for at least two seasons.
    
Another chilling account is described by the old mule skinner himself, Lecil Hadley Esq., in which he describes how as a child his family told him of happening upon a wandering Mammy during their trek westward in the late 1800's. Leece states that near present day Laramie, Wyoming, the family's wagon train encountered the beast on the prairie, whereupon their team of oxen broke into a dead run to escape the evil creature and didn't slow down until they reached the banks of the Big Hole River in Montana.
    
So ruinous are these abominable creatures, they have been known to completely defoliate entire valleys, forests, and cause whole towns to desert and move elsewhere, so dastardly are their deeds.
    
At any rate, there I was, frozen stiff as a Yukon tee post as indescribable terror raced through my body. Realizing the futility of any attempt to flee, I turned and faced the Mammoth Mammy. Bracing myself, and trying not to exhibit any fear, I was shaking like a hound dog trying to pass a peach seed. Bravely, I attempted to stand my ground, praying my luck didn't turn muddy.
    
"Skawww-Nerrr-Yip Yip Yip," growled the infuriated Mammy, its horrid breath taking the curly out of my blond locks as the p o'd peeyouusus stomped its feet in agitation. "Skawww-Nerrr-Yip Yip Yip!"
    
Quicker than you can inhale a gnat, the odiferous fiend spun like a cutting horse, lifted its tail and took deliberate aim. It was at that moment events began to get rapid.
    
The situation suddenly became as predictable as sunset. I understood fully that I was directly in the line of fire and I was this monster's intended target. Left with no other choice, I could either beat a hasty retreat, or receive the full brunt of this beast's foul wrath.  "Skawww-Nerrr-Yip Yip Yip!"
    
To say the malodorous demon was becoming increasingly agitated was like saying the Pope has a penchant for silly hats, and though it wasn't much of a chance, it was the only one I had.
    
Quicker than a bookie's runner I turned and let fly with the required loose bowelled-panic scream usually called for in such situations and exploded off in the opposite direction like a turpentined cat with its tail on fire.  "YEOWWWEEE," I screamed, as I commenced to running as fast as was humanly possible. Racing like my feet were on fire and my fanny was catchin', I could hear the growling, snarling monster behind me. It sounded as if it was gaining on me.  "Skawww-Nerrr-yip Yip Yip, Yip!"
    
Louder and louder, I could hear the beast's evil growling until at last my worst fear was finally realized. I couldn't seem to get out of my own way. I didn't seem to be moving and it was almost as if my feet were made of cement. Then I looked down and realized my feet, indeed, weren't even moving!
    
Just then the Mammoth Skunkapotamous
let fly with a volley of the most fowl smelling, putrid air imaginable. I could see the cloud of gas rapidly coming at me, but still, I couldn't move. It was as if time had slowed to a crawl. Everything was in slow-motion. It was more than I could bear.
    
Unable to move, I was frozen stiffer than a hog in a Montana meat locker. Just as the billowy fog of nastiness began to envelope me, I could hear something familiar. "Thomas, Thomas!" Someone was calling my name. Maybe help had arrived?  "THOMAS!"
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It is absolutely uncanny, the similarity between my fifth-grade teacher, Ms Ridenhour, and her toe-curling halitosis, with that of being sprayed by a Great North American Mammoth Skunkapotamous. And while I've never actually encountered the dreaded Mammy, Ms Ridenhour seemed to be a recurring daily nightmare I couldn't escape, and her breath smelled worse than a packing plant before the pure food law. In fact, Ms Ridenhour's breath was so un-nervingly fragrant it could melt asphalt and was the reason I had no eye brows until I reached high school.
    "THOMAS, what is the capital of Kansas?" she screamed, our noses nearly touching as I bolted upright from my desk, my eyes straining to focus.
    
"Uh, Oz?" I answered.
    
Even before the roar of snickers and guffaws from the class had subsided, Ms Ridenhour was pointing her lethal yardstick to the blackboard to indicate where I would spend the rest of class, standing at attention with my nose in the center of a chalk-drawn circle. It's a well-known fact that most of my formative years at Misery Elementary school were spent standing with my nose pressed against a blackboard. That, and vigorously rubbing the sting out of my fanny after a counseling session with Principal Oger and his prized paddle.
    
Come to think of it, maybe a Skunkapotamous encounter wouldn't have been half bad? At least my eyebrows might have stood a chance?

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

 

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

 
Life is filled with stressful and difficult decisions. Imagine; do you lift the guard, turn the key, and push the red button to launch the missile, or do you wait just a little longer to hear from the Russian Premier and risk nuclear annihilation? Or how about this; your father and two brothers are working on the railroad tracks and do not see the Amtrak train full of commuters racing down upon them. Do you throw the switch that sends the train off the tracks into a brick wall to save your family? Or what about this scenario; who do you pull from the burning vehicle; the unconscious, naked super-model, or the dead mafia guy in the back seat with the briefcase full of one-hundred dollar bills handcuffed to his wrist? It's as certain as wind; life is full of difficult decisions. So imagine my dilemma, one that I face nearly every day of my life; the incredibly difficult decision of which hat am I going to wear today?



Now as a rule, choosing a cowboy hat to wear is as simple as a first-grade primer. The choice boils down to straw or felt, black or grey. That's pretty much it; not a terribly difficult decision to make. And while I have somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen cowboy hats scattered about my humble abode, each in various degrees of decay, picking which one to wear is relatively easy and dwindles quickly down to one of two lids; dress, or more often than not, my favorite hat. Ball caps, however, are a much more difficult decision and the arduous task of choosing which one to don requires considerably more thought. It's a decision that can't be taken lightly.



To begin with, I should point out that I am a connoisseur of baseball caps, and conservatively, I probably have somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred to a hundred-fifty ball caps. I know that's not many, by most standards, but I'm picky and don't keep just any ball cap.



Hats begin life as dress hats. This is the break-in period for all ball caps. These are new acquisitions that would be worn to dances, reunions, funerals, out to dinner when my wife insists I dress up, and on rare occasions, the dreaded wedding that I can't get out of going to. After a suitable period of break in time has passed, if I really like it, the dress hat becomes a go-to-town hat and gets worn more frequently. It wouldn't be uncommon to find me wearing a go-to-town hat at places like the bank, a livestock auction, the swap meet, or tagging along behind my wife, people-watching while she's shopping at Wal-Mart. Eventually though, all hats become work hats.



When it comes to work hats I generally I keep one of three in circulation at all times and at easy reach. These would be hats I wear every day. By now, the work hat has acquired certain characteristics. It fits really well. It generally has a sweat stain across the front. Sweat stains often come from inadvertent and unplanned work while you were wearing it as an everyday hat. There is often animal blood of some sort on it acquired while notching calves ears, or castrating a calf, and the best of the best have begun to fray around the bill, giving the hat a certain amount of character and respectability.



Eventually the work cap either disintegrates, or more probably, the wife tosses it into the trash while you aren't paying attention. You think you've misplaced it and by the time you discover that a criminal act has occurred, the statute of limitations has expired and you already have one or more new hats into the rotation. Thus, the process begins again.



There are certain things the cap connoisseur looks for when acquiring a new cap. Free hats are often fine, but most of the time they don't hold up to the rigorous break-in period. I guess that's why they're free? Feed store hats are one of the few exceptions and the fact is, they are getting harder to get these days. I guess with the government giving away so many free things it's difficult for the feed companies to compete.



It is crucial here to mention that baseball caps shouldn't have gimmicks hanging off them either. No novelties that make you look goofier than a hog in a ruffled blouse. Beer holders, whirly-doodles, wings and silly-looking heads of birds, and fake ponytails are better suited for a Marx movie or football helmets at a Super Bowl, but not baseball caps.

The more you pay for a cap, the more sentimental it is. That Team Hoyt camo hat generally stays a dress hat longer than that Western Mule Magazine cap, which reminds me, I've left repeated messages to my editor, Ben Tennison, on his answering machine that camo would be a great look for WM, and that if I had one or two I could probably sell a lot more magazines for him out here on the left coast.



At any rate, what a hat says on the front of it has a lot to do with wear-ability. Let's face it; a hat has to appear masculine and manly-man. Who wants to wear a hat sporting the logo of their local bank, Home Depot, or Century 21 real estate office? Pharmaceutical companies, insecticides, wormers and green energy hats aren't terribly favorable either. The baseball cap should have only the advertiser's logo on them; no silly sayings like, I'm with stupid, or I love beer. Both those go without saying.



Hats should have the logo sewn into them, as well. Hats with silkscreened logos should be avoided at all cost. I once had a ball cap sporting a silkscreened advertisement for the Breeder's Cup Race. Imagine my surprise one day to learn everything between the last R and the A in race had peeled off and I was now bragging I was a Breeder______ace!



So there it is; all you ever need to know about baseball caps. Now that you are well-versed in choosing your ball cap you can go, knowing you'll be well attired for any occasion. And remember; when choosing which hat to wear, go with your heart, not what your wife says. Ball caps most certainly do go with tuxedos!


 

 

 

 

THE PLAN

 

THE PLAN

Sorry I haven't put anything out recently, but things have been a bit busy around here lately. It's that special time of the year when my savings account dwindles smaller than a hummingbird's purse from forking out large sums of hard-earned money to certain government agencies, and unless you're Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, or Congress, it's about as hard as herding cats to come up with enough money to satisfy these folks, especially coming on the heels of Christmas. That's right, you guessed it; I'm referring to the western states Fish and Game agencies and big game drawing deadlines for hunting tags.


 
Lucky for me, this year's draws are putting me in a pretty good position to pull a couple of highly coveted tags. Coupled with my yearly New Mexico mule deer hunt, in addition to our annual pack trip into the Golden Trout for backcountry mulies, I have a good chance of drawing an X-9A tag out of Bishop, California, in the eastern Sierras, and a bow tag for Arizona's famed Kaibab, on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Lucky for me because with diesel prices skyrocketing higher than Kate Upton's hemline, I'll feel all warm and fuzzy knowing I'm sending some oil executive's kid to Harvard in a new Mercedes equipped with leather upholstery and heated seats.


 
At any rate, this year I also had scheduled one of my bucket list items to finally check off. That would be a rim, to rim, to rim hike of the Grand Canyon. Now I do a lot of the things I do alone. I prefer to hunt alone. I also enjoy fishing, packing, and doing trail work in the back country by myself. And with the exception of my mule, Zane Grey, who talks entirely too much, I also enjoy the solitude of riding my doodle-donkeys in the backcountry alone.


 
While my wife, Cathy, isn't all that thrilled with my being in the backcountry alone, most of the time she doesn't pester me about it too much. After all, it was at her insistence that I now have to carry a SPOT emergency satellite locator and a GPS unit whenever I go out alone to remote areas. I don't have the heart to tell her I'm not terribly proficient with the GPS and if I ever figure out how to turn the darned thing on I'll probably get the hang of it, but I suppose she takes comfort in knowing at least I'll have it and the SPOT with me when they find the body.


 
I should mention that when I first shared the idea with my bride about me hiking the Grand Canyon from one rim to the other, and back, and following her spontaneous outburst of chortling horselaughs, I sensed a bit of resistance on her part. That would have been when she said, "Oh Firth, you crack me up; absolutely not, Buster!"


 
Cathy and I had a serious discussion about my insistence upon this trip and how much it meant to me. Emotional, to say the least, it involved tears, hugs, outbursts and even pleas of rational. After these failed, I tried holding my breath, lying on the floor kicking and screaming, as well as putting a wastebasket over my head and threatening to wear it from now on whenever we went out to dinner.


 
Finally, my sweetheart gave in to my demands, but with a concession; Jason, my stepson, would have to accompany me, or no deal! I agreed to her demand, and while there was more screaming, breath-holding, tears, and lying on the floor, kicking in fits, that was from Jason. I was happier than a heifer with a new fence post because I was going to the Grand Canyon.


 
As it turns out, I may not have gotten my permit application into Park administrators soon enough for our planned trip at the end of April, but should my permit be denied, rest assured I have a backup plan. Suffice it to say, it involves tears, holding my breath, lying on the floor, kicking and screaming, and a waste basket!

ANOTHER YOUNG SOUL LOST TOO SOON

ANOTHER YOUNG SOUL

LOST TOO SOON

Into each person's life, at one time or another, tragedy befalls us all as it finds its way into our lives. As 2011 fades away like a politician's promise, bringing with it a renewed hope and outlook for the coming year, a pair of tragic events has had a dramatic and devastating effect on all of us here at the Firth camp. By the way things have wound down in 2011, the 2012 year looks as bleak as the euro.

Earlier this year came the devastating news about my oldest grand-daughter, Courtney. "Squeek" fell under the spell of a boyfriend's whim and became, of all things, a vegetarian. Since she lives up in Northern Kalefornia, I suspected something out of the normal would eventually happen, but this sort of thing was out of my realm of comprehension.

I could have imagined had she simply decided to become a hippy, and run off into the redwoods somewhere donning tye-dye and beads to get lost in hallucinogens, free love, and grown an Afro while tripping around in the forest quoting Neil Young. Or she could have joined a religious cult and simply barricaded herself in a compound somewhere awaiting the arrival of the mother ship to whisk her off to Neptaradice. She could have even joined the communist party and set up shop in a far-a-way jungle somewhere, plotting the overthrow of some banana dictatorship, toting an AK-47, wearing crossed bandoliers, and a camo headband around her forehead like most normal kids do these days, but no, my sweet baby grand-daughter decided to become a vegetarian.

Coming from generations of family with a rich, ranching history in the cattle industry you can imagine our dismay at this alarming event. Cowboys don't understand vegetarians. I've even gone so far as to explain to my grand-daughter that cows eat grass and hay, chickens eat grain, and pigs consume pig food, which is all of the above. You fry them in canola oil; canola is a vegetable, so what's the problem?

I fear next, Courtney may go the way of Sheryl Crowe and start using only one toilet tissue for her morning constitutional. What can you do, I ask? This, from a college graduate. You buy them books, send them to school, and what do they do? They eat the teacher. Maybe it's a good thing families can no longer afford to send their children to college? At least she hasn't become a democrat…yet!

At any rate, yesterday, a crushing blow was delivered yet again upon learning that a young man Cathy and I accepted into our family many years ago has also been taken from us, and not only could one make the assumption he simply fell off the deep end, I submit that he dove off head-first!

Christopher is step-son Jason's best friend. We've known Chris since grammar school and for reasons I won't go into, he has become our illegitimately adopted, other son. He is also, I have come to discover, the reason why some species eat their young. Still, I should have seen the signs.

First, Chris became involved in the Save-the-Wolf cause some years ago. While his intentions were well-meaning, he was terribly misled, and arguably, his enthusiasm and participation in the movement along with countless other mindless eco-zombies in the feel-good world of enviro-meddlerism, has contributed to the devastation and rapid decline of America's western big game animals. Elk, moose, big horn sheep, and mule deer populations are plummeting rapidly in the west where wolves have been re-introduced, and in some areas have disappeared completely, having been depleted by wolf populations allowed to go unchecked.

Unaware of the reason for this decline, or even that there is one, Chris hasn't done the math and figured out that wolves eat big game, and uncontrolled growth of a dominant predator will inevitably result in disaster. It was our fervent hope, upon learning of Chris's affiliation to shrub-cuddling, tree- hugging, and do-goodedness and this particular cause, that shock therapy to his groin area might snap him out of it, but alas, one blind following has simply led to another.

The Christmas before this, 2010, Chris lovingly wrapped, all by himself, a present he'd chosen to give to me. It was a heartfelt gift he'd given in earnest and chosen with considerable thought. As it was my turn to open a present that morning, you can imagine my surprise, not to mention suffering a mild cardio-infarction when I unwrapped Chris's gift and discovered a Sierra Club calendar staring me in the face. Chris had spent hard-earned cash for this calendar; cash that no doubt went to the Sierra Club's legal fund to support the Wildlands Project. If you are unaware of just what the Wildlands Project is, I beg you to take some time, look it up for yourself, and make up your own mind. Then, if you haven't lost all of your marbles trying to figure out how this could really be allowed to happen in this country, you can at least shake your head in disbelief; but in a nutshell the Wildlands Project opens up huge expanses of land for wildlife to travel unimpeded from Canada to Mexico, east to west, all across America through major corridors. A nice, fuzzy idea, except it does this by funneling people who currently live in less populated areas within these corridors into major cities and eliminates rural populations entirely. I guess if you currently reside in the Rocky Mountains, the Appalachians', or the western coastal chain of mountains that include the Cascades, Sierra Nevada, and San Bernardino's, and you are inclined to live in a sardine can alongside millions of others, you won't mind having your property taken from you at whatever fair-market-value the government decides is fair and shipped off to the city. As for me, like Gene Autry once crooned, "Give me land, lots of land under starry skies above; Don't fence me in."

Upon awakening from the floor following Cathy's removal of the defibrillator to get my heart started again, and explaining to the impressionable, young Christopher that the Sierra Club was no longer that once fine organization John Muir envisioned it to be when he founded it back in 1902, I actually believed Chris might at last stand a chance and come around, and that a lobotomy might not be necessary. Then, last night, I learned Chris must have once again stood mesmerized in front of his Lava lamp for too long a period and has now aligned himself with the Center for Biological Diversity, or as I refer to them, The Center for Diabolical Absurdity, and Christopher is now asking folks to donate money to support this organization.

There are four phrases in this universe that instantly bring my blood to a boil and escalate my blood pressure higher than the price of cows in an up market when I hear them.  "Bruce Babbitt said today...", "Harry and Nancy will fix it," "Honey, I forgot to pack the coffee." and "Today, in federal court, the Center for Biological Diversity filed..."

For the uninitiated, the CBD sounds innocent enough, as do the quaint names of most environmental organizations, but upon closer examination, one discovers the truth about these hypocritical pinheads and it's really quite ugly.

The Center's beginnings were founded in New Mexico's Gila Wilderness back in the seventies where Kieran Suckling, Peter Galvin, and Todd Schulke met while surveying owls for the Forest Service. Apparently, while camped out one evening, the trio smoked some really good stuff and after having an out-of-body experience they decided that what they really wanted to do in life was to change the world. How, you ask, could they pull this off? How could they change the world, I mean? Through the Endangered Species Act.

While time doesn't permit a detailed and complicated explanation in such a short essay, simply put, they would use a clause called The Equal Access To Justice Act as it pertained to the ESA. What this act allows them to do is to sue the Federal Government (you) with taxpayer money, (your money) and then receive a settlement from the government, (you). In other words; you, the taxpayer, pay all legal costs incurred by the CBD (or any other environmental group) so they can sue you, and then you, the taxpayer, pay out a huge monetary settlement to the CBD. Pretty clever, huh? It really has nothing to do with fuzzy creatures, cute lizards, pretty butterflies, insects, or plants; it's all about control of public lands, agencies, and money, mostly the money.

The truth is, young Christopher is just one of the legions duped yearly by the radical environmental community and their slick-talking ads, and while young Chris has the attention span of a monkey with a fly swatter, and we will no doubt find him in the near future raising money for such worthy causes as the Save the Elk, Save the Mule Deer, and Save the Moose Foundations, while in his spare time he'll walk door to door calling awareness to the plight of the three Big Horn Sheep remaining in the Rockies that the wolves missed, not to mention his call for attention to the demise of family pets in rural areas where wolf populations have no more big game to eat, so they've now started on Fido and Rover. The fact is, nobody really wins; nobody but the Center for Biological Diversity, that is.

At any rate, upon hours of soul searching I have come to the realization that for Christopher, and others like him, who have fallen under the feel-good spell of radical environmental groups such as the CBD, The Wilderness Society, The Nature Conservancy, PETA, Greenpeace, and dozens upon dozens of others like them, that no amount of electro-shock therapy is going to help. All the lobotomies in the world will simply make these wannabe do-gooders more zombie-like than they already are. There is only one solution I see that has a real chance to work; sterilization! That way, unable to procreate, the race of eco-Zombies will soon fade out of existence, much like the Yellowstone elk herds, and common sense will eventually return!


 

OCCUPY HENHOUSE!!!

OCCUPY HENHOUSE.

I have two words for you this Christmas; chicken soup! As this Christmas season rapidly approaches the anticipated morning I awake and stumble to the tree, only to discover that crusty old curmudgeon in the red suit, Saint Nick, has once again failed to bring me anything on the list I'd carefully prepared and sent him back in March, I feel the need right now for some chicken soup. No, it isn't because I'm sick or under the weather, even though it's been colder than a corpse in the Rogue River, and the wind has been blowing harder than Chinese algebra for the last month.


 
No, but among other things, what's bothering me is Cathy's damn rooster. Now, I know rooster's "cock-a-doodle-do", and I realize they perform this ritual every morning. I'm okay with that. In fact, I'm fine with it for no other reason than along with my singing mules, it annoys my neighbor, Lilburn Merriwether so much; especially when they all begin singing in concert sounding much like a hillbilly band in a tin barn. But I ask you; "Four in the morning?"


 
At any rate, last night I stayed up late, thinking. (I know that's a difficult concept for some to believe, but it's true.) I was contemplating whether or not Santa would bring me anything I'd requested. After all, his track record for bringing me anything other than socks, thermal underwear, or sweaters uglier than a bucketful of armpits, or anything else I could use was poor at best. In fact, aside from that Fort Apache set when I was five, he's been down-right dismal every since.


 
I have been good this year. Well, pretty good. What I mean is; I've tried to be good, kinda. Regardless, I felt I was entitled to my list of requests from Santa. After all, he's pretty much got an unlimited budget, and me, not so much. So why shouldn't I get all those things I really, really, wanted? I deserved them, I wanted them, I should have them!


 
Then I began to wonder if I really was entitled to all the neat things I wanted on my list to Santa. Was I really entitled to that Kimber 1911 .45 pistol I wanted? What about that guided elk hunt in Colorado I've wished for so many years now, or that new four-weight Winston Boron IIx fly rod? I could maybe understand the new Polaris diesel Ranger being a problem, but Santa could always have it shipped, couldn't he? Was it really Saint Nick's responsibility to put that pair of Simms G-4 Pro waders under the tree on Christmas morning; I wondered?


 
Then it occurred to me, maybe, just maybe, if I had saved my money all these years I could have bought some of these things myself. Naw, that was a silly idea, wasn't it?


 
So I wrestled with the moral dilemma I found myself in all evening and into the wee hours of the morning. Finally, somewhere around three-thirty I drifted off to sleep on the couch, resigning myself to the fact that Santa really didn't owe me anything and that if I really wanted something bad enough there was but one thing to do.…I could get off my fanny and get Cathy another job so she could support me in the manner I'd like to be accustomed!


 
Then it happened; somewhere around four a.m., "Cock-a-doodle-do!" Over, and over, and over again, "Cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a-doodle-do, cock-a…!" Then the mules chimmed in; first Zane, then Emma, and finally Abbey. "Haw-hee-haw…" It sounded like a sasquatch convention. Then the phone rang, it was Lilburn. "Firth, your gol da*# son-of-&%*# animals are a …"


  So that brings me back to chicken soup. After all, I am at least entitled to some sleep, aren't I?   Merry Christmas everybody, Merry Christmas!