IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA

AT THE TIME

My life is full of “it seemed like a good idea at the time” moments.  Like when Lecil Hadley and I packed into the Golden Trout Wilderness on our annual deer hunting pack trip, and on a steep section of trail with a drop-off steeper than a cows face to our right, I noticed the load on one of Leese’s pack mules began to shift dramatically.  Of course the load couldn’t tilt to the uphill side of the trail; that would make the situation considerably easier.  No, it began sliding to the right and it was just a matter of moments before things were about to turn western. 

I informed Leese of the predicament, and glancing back at his string, the old muleskinner grumbled something about some place in Florida with a sunny beach as he stopped to dismount.  He would, however, need some help as the boxes were heavier than Tammy Faye Baker’s make-up bags.  

With my three pack mules neatly in tow, I dallied the lead rope to my lead mule, Zane, and jumped off my horse, rushing ahead to help Lecil get his panniers off his mule and retie the load.  I overlooked one, minor detail, however, I failed to secure my horse’s lead rope to something simply because Cody is the good child of my herd and always stands quietly.  In other words, I don’t have to worry about his wandering off.  Besides, where could he possibly go?  He was on a narrow, mountain trail that wasn’t much wider than a well-fed needle. There simply was no way he could possibly turn around.  The brush on the uphill slope was so thick the snakes had to climb to see out, not to mention he had three loaded pack mules behind him that were all tied together and tethered to him.

In a jiffy Lecil’s load was on the ground and we were in the process of resituating the pack saddle when I couldn’t help but take notice of a mildly disturbing event unfolding behind me; that would be my riding horse leisurely waltzing up the trail away from us, and yes, the three pack mules were following; still tethered together.  Faster than a fat lady on a buttered handrail I left Lecil to his misery and shot up the trail in an effort to foil the escape of my four criminals. 

Upon reflection, I suppose it might have been the sight of my eyeballs popping out of my head at the terrifying thought of my remuda and pack gear scattered from hell to breakfast as the result of the potential wreck I was envisioning. Or maybe it was the curious cackling noise of my coughing up a lung as I raced up the steep trail, sounding much like a tractor trying to start on a cold Montana morning.  Even more probable was the fact that my riding horse had no doubt come to the sudden realization that my pistol was nestled in the horn bag that was secured on the saddle upon his back, and the thought probably crossed his pea-brain that I might well use it on him.  Whatever the reason, Cody began to quicken the pace as I closed in on the wayward felons.

Now this particular section of trail is a corn maze of switchbacks for about the first mile or so, and being only slightly smarter than my horse, I cleverly hit upon another of those absolutely genius ideas I am so famous for; the thought being that if I could dash up the mountain through the thick brush to the trail above quickly enough, I could cut off the foursome’s getaway and be back in a jiffy, thereby avoiding the inevitable ridicule from Lecil that was sure to come.  Imagine my glee to discover, some twenty minutes later, that I had made an apparent miscalculation in regards to the exact location of the trail above. 

Upon this enlightening discovery I determined I couldn’t go back down hill from whence I came because, well, that would be embarrassing, so I calculated that if I changed direction and headed ninety degrees left, traversing the side of the mountain, I would have to encounter the trail reasonably soon.

Rocky Mountain sheep would have gazed in awe at my nimbleness and daring as I crawled, clawed, climbed, and leapt across the side of the mountain.  Suddenly, there in front of me, was the trail.  Woo-who, I had done it!

“Ah thought ya’ll went ta catch yer critters,” drawled Lecil, sitting on a rock and puffing on a cigarette as I stepped out of the brush and onto the trail not ten feet from where I had began my torture trek.

“Naw,” I said, brushing the leaves and dirt off me. “Had to use the bathroom; took longer than I thought.  Welp, guess I better go catch my critters!”

I must confess that after following my herd’s tracks back up the trail for another thirty-minutes, it was disturbingly comfortable to look up on the ridge above me and discover my renegade remuda standing quiet as a stone watching me trudge up the trail.  I then noticed something else.  My number two mule’s load seemed a bit askew.  In fact, the entire load was hanging as upside-down as cave full of bats.

Upon arriving at the scene of the crime I had to do a double-take.  Cody, my lead horse was now at the back of the pack.  Abby and Emma, my number two and three mules, were still tied to Zane Grey, but the number two mule was standing atop of Zane’s lead rope that had come unwrapped from my horse’s saddle horn and was trailing behind him as he led the parade up the mountain.    

Lecil was propped up against a rock, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

“Okay, ya ready to go,” I said, as I pulled up behind his string and stopped.

“Don’t it look like I’m ready ta go,” he drawled, scooting his hat back into position and grunting as he pushed himself up?  Lecil pulled his lanky frame up on his saddle mule and settled in.  Then he placed his hand upon his mule’s rump, leaned back and turned around.

“Ya know; Ah seen it right off and figured what wus gonna happen, but why azactly din’t ya tie thet horse-a-yourn when ya jumped off,” he asked, grinnin’ like a dog eating peanut butter from a wire brush.

“I don’t know,” I grumbled, a bit puzzled by his statement.  “Guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Half-an-hour later, as we stopped at the Little Kern to water our stock before crossing and heading up the canyon, it suddenly dawned on me as Lecil’s earlier comment rattled around my head like a BB in a boxcar.

“You mean to tell me you saw that I didn't tie my horse, not to mention you knew what was going to happen, and you didn't think that maybe, just maybe, it might have been prudent to say something like, oh, I don’t know, like, hey idiot; tie your horse?” I asked.  

“Ah, I dunno,” he said thoughfully, as he placed his hand on his mule’s rump, turned in the saddle and grinned.  “Ah suppose it wuz fer the same reason why ya din’t tie your pony ta sumthin’ in the first palce.”

“Yeah,” I grumbled, “And what might that be?”

“Welp,” he drawled, turning forward in his saddle clucking for his mule to move out. “Guess et jes seemed like a good idea at the time!”

FOCUS....

                     FOCUS

You probably won’t believe this, but I have spent an inordinate amount of time this past weekend putting together a tremendous essay for this month’s story.  The truth is; it’s been kind of a dry spell lately, and I’ve had trouble sitting down and focusing.

Anyway, I think I finally came up with something; a story, that is, not something as in a screwdriver, or a lizard, or a piñata, or something like that.  (Although a screwdriver does sound inviting right now,) but as I started to say, I’m not one to pat myself on the back, mostly because to perform that feat it is nearly impossible and would require incredible dexterity on my part due to the fact the arms are hinged in such a manner as to physically defy su….sorry, I’m just having trouble focusing.

At any rate, I really outdid myself by creating a hysterical tale about the time Lecil Hadley loaded up all his dirty saddle blankets, pack-pad covers, cinches, and canvas manties and headed into town to the local Laundromat for his yearly pack-gear cleaning, only to discover the proprietor had received prior warning of the impending visit and locked his door just as Leese pulled into the parking lot.  Then I wondered if Lecil could actually get all of his pack gear into the back of his truck?  It’s important for a writer to construct his stories in a manner that they are believable, and at the time, Lecil owned a pack station and had probably twenty-or-so mules.  Do you realize how much pack gear that really is, considering packers always have extra gear on top of what they use on a daily basis, and it’s probably physically impossible to get all that gear into the back of a pick-up?  Then I realized I’m not really a writer anyway; more of an ink slinger, really, having never actually had any formal training, unless you count Ms Ridenhour’s incessant, “I before e, except after…” whatever.  Then I realized I was wandering again…focus now, I gotta focus…

“You not weowcome heow!  You go way!  You crog my macheens; you go way, you go way NOW!” screamed the feisty little Chinaman who owned Ling Wey Laundromat.
Then I wondered if I was stereotyping Chinese people, not only with the pigeon-English Ling Wey was speaking; but do Chinese really own Laundromats anymore?  Of course not, I realized.

“You go way,” screamed the intimidating Korean, as Lecil stood in front of Hyung-Soon-Jung’s Laundromat.

At this point I was stumped.  What would Lecil do now, after all, a rational person would turn around and leave; but then I wouldn’t have a story.  Besides, a story has to have conflict.  You know, guy meets girl, guy loses girl, guy gets girl back.  I had to have conflict to make this story work.  Focus, Firth, focus…
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Lecil’s steamy affair with Mayleen Trefflecoop had been a longtime, on again, off again affair.  The voluptuous beauty was deeply in love with Lecil, and the feeling was mutual.  Lecil just had one problem; he couldn’t commit to the relationship.  Actually, he had two problems, as he stood timidly on Mayleen’s porch, his legs buckling and his arms burdened under the weight of his dirty saddle blankets, pack-pad covers, cinches and canvas manties that were in desperate need of cleaning.

“You go way, you go way,” screamed Mayleen defiantly, as she produced a pair of whirling numchucks and sprang nimbly onto the porch from behind the screen door.
Wait a minute, I thought, just two problems?  Nobody has just two problems.  Life is full of problems; mortgages, work, bills, family emergencies? Standing on a porch, cowering in fear before a numchuck wielding, Dolly Parton look-a-like surely isn’t one of them.  Besides, Mayleen is a red-head, not a blonde, and a blonde couldn’t have the dexterity and where-for-all to wield numchucks; but that would be stereotyping, wouldn’t it?  Focus, now, focus…it’s got to be believable, Firth.  Try again…
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Lecil stood at the edge of the steep precipice overlooking the ocean.  “This ought to do the trick,” he thought to himself, as he surveyed the foreboding, jagged rocks below.  All Lecil had to do was jump and it would be all over.  The misery would disappear, the rejection eliminated, the fear gone; it would all mercifully come to an end.  No more numchuck wielding redheads, no more crazy, irate Chinese or Korean Laundromat owners, no more wondering how he was going to get his pack gear cleaned by next year.
“You go way, you go way from criff.  You no can jump,” ordered the Irish-born, New York cop, waving his baton at Lecil while angrily nudging him away from the edge of the cliff.
Wait a minute; no one is going to believe such an outlandish tale as this for even a minute; Irish cops are only in the movies…focus now, Firth, focus…make it believable.
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Lecil pulled up in front of Wally’s Water World and Natural Hot Springs Resort, and set the parking brake on the rented 40’ U-Haul truck containing most of his accumulated pack gear.  Lecil lifted the sliding door open and began unloading his dirty saddle blankets, pack-pad covers, cinches, and canvas manties and headed toward the resort’s gate for his yearly pack gear cleaning.

“You go way, you go way… ya’ll” bellowed the burly, Alabama redneck proprietor, clad in bib overalls and brandishing a double-barrel shotgun…

HOW FAR WE'VE COME.

HOW FAR WE’VE COME,
AND HOW DO WE GET BACK?

When events happen such as Hurricane Sandy, Katrina, or any other of nature’s occurrences come along, they don't happen in a vacuum. They aren’t events that rush in, wreak havoc and then go away, leaving us to pick up where we left off.  In fact, they change our world at the most basic levels, leaving us vulnerable and with the sudden understanding that we are among the tinniest of creatures, left helpless and on our own to fend for ourselves.

The truth is the real tragedy here isn't Hurricane Sandy, but rather it’s the lack of planning prior as it pertains to the aftermath of any given catastrophe’s devastation, and even worse, the faith that the people living in these areas have come to put in the almighty, take care of us, government, a government with an outstanding record of ineptness in regard to past performances in nearly every arena, and now these folks are seeing first hand just how limited that help really is.

When I was growing up in the fifties, America was still primarily a rural nation and even many of those that had moved to the urban areas after World War II were from a rural background.  Back then, folks in rural areas were survivors; they were survivors by nature.  Families grew their own food, they slaughtered their own animals, they canned and put up supplies to get them through the tough times.  And when a disaster did strike, it was neighbors, churches, and others just willing to help that came to their aid.  Now that mandate to help our fellow Americans has been turned over to ever-inefficient big government agencies.

The layers upon layers of bureaucracy are staggering and woefully incompetent in supplying help and needed supplies.  No food, water, fuel, electricity, or trash pickup has caused sanitation to become an issue of real concern as people are using the bathroom wherever they can.  From utility crews arriving to help restore power to victims of the disaster being turned away and sent home because they are non-union, to FEMA closing their doors because of the adverse weather conditions that have affected the restoration of the infrastructure, if you're one of the victims, it's pretty much tough tittie right now.
Get used to it, folks; this is how big government works and this how it affects its subjects when they come to depend on it from the cradle to the grave.  Folks need to wake up and realize the inadequacies of big government.  Hurricane Sandy is a peek into the future and the direction our nation is going.  It’s also a clear vision of what people need to do to prepare for the next Sandy, or heaven forbid; something worse!

GOT NUTTIN'

GOT NUTTIN’

Every so often I get slapped upside the back of the head with an overwhelming urge to write.  It’s an uncontrollable feeling that wells up inside me and demands to substantiate itself through the power of words.  When I sat down to write this month’s blog, I was in the throes of just such a feeling.  Thankfully, it has passed.

So here it is; this month’s official, "I got nuttin’ worth writing about" blog.  I have decided I will put it in whenever I have nothing worth writing about.  Don't be surprised to see it quite often.  From here on out, when my schedule requires me to deliver a new monthly blog and I don’t have anything, I'll simply say, "Ain’t got nuttin’."  I know that is incorrect grammar.  I know it just as sure as I am haunted by the ghost of Ms Ridenhour, my 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade teacher in grammar school.  And quite frankly, (if I can call you Frank) as I look over some of the other nonsense I’ve previously put up here on this blog spot, I should have written this blog a long time ago.  “And why,” you ask, “didn't I?”

I suppose it boils down to nothing more than ego and vanity.  I was bound and determined to write a new blog each month because, well... I don’t really know why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  My life is full of, “it seemed like a good idea at the time,” moments, and after all, that is what I write about most of the time, isn’t it?

At any rate, I'm older and wiser now and I know when I have nothing to say.  This is one of those times.  I also know that possessing this powerful knowledge is also freedom of sorts.  A freedom that allows me to get up from my chair and walk away from a blank piece of paper or computer screen that’s screaming loud enough to de-wax ear canals, that annoying voice in the back of my head hollering, “Write something, Firth!”  Its freedom from this incessant need to win your approval, and even more importantly, it is freedom from this deep-rooted, obsessive compulsion and the irresistible impulse to end each blog with a silly joke.  Joe Biden!

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!"
    ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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?