I used to believe there were just too many senseless lawsuits clogging up our court system. People seemed to be suing for every little thing and it simply had to stop. Folks were suing, (and winning), for the silliest of reasons and mostly because they were idiots doing something they shouldn't have been doing in the first place, or they could have simply used just a little common sense and avoided the mishap entirely.
Well I've changed my mind and I want to sue. The truth is; I could use the money for a new deer rifle I've had my eye on for quite some time now, and despite what my wife, Cathy, thinks, there's a dandy pair of Swarovski binoculars down a Bass Pro I really think I need as well. Besides, I calculate that if a lady can sue over spilling a hot cup of coffee in her lap, a common thief can get awarded a substantial sum for someone running over his hand while he's attempting to steal their hubcaps, or a woman can collect damages from a department store for tripping over a toddler, (her own kid, mind you), then I should have a rock-solid, slam-dunk case for negligence concerning a dangerous float tube that could have killed me, or worse!
It all started a couple of weeks ago when Cat and I made our annual pilgrimage to Bishop, California in the eastern Sierras to attend the Mule Days celebration. On one of our days off, Cathy decided one day that she wanted to fish the Pleasant Valley Reservoir, and agreeing, (like I had a choice in the matter), I thought I might just bring along my float tube, tug some streamers, and putt around to see what the big reservoir had to offer.
We arrived at the reservoir and immediately began preparations for the mile bicycle ride up the hill and back to where my wife's secret fishing spot lies. Then, when I explained to her that conservatively I was fairly certain that somewhere in the neighborhood of six-thousand-and-twelve other hillbillys probably know of her secret fishing spot as well due to the amount of Power Bait jars,candy bar wrappers, and plastic water bottles scattered about the vicinity, she invariably resorted to name calling. "Killjoy!"
We unloaded our bikes; Cathy's, a fine, expensive, quality-mad German machine, and mine, the infamous Chinese "Bicycle of Death" my wife thoughtfully had repaired to near-operable condition after it had very nearly terminated my life five years prior up on Rock Creek.
With our gear unloaded from the truck I strapped my fly rod to the top of my backpack containing my boots, waders, lunch, etc. I then strapped the float tube, which the makers had cleverly designed to be carried around in a pack of its very own, to the tote-board on the back of my bike. To that, I used a bungee cord to secure a gear bag containing my fins, and to that, the small box that contained the portable air-compressor.
I traveled the entire twenty-six feet from the truck to the gate entrance that led to the reservoir without incident. It was there that I astutely surveyed the situation and realized immediately that I had a minor problem; I couldn't get my bike with attached gear through the L-shaped walk-thru contraption that was meant to keep livestock out.
Upon unpacking the load from the bike and repeating the entertaining procedure of re-securing it all again on the other side, I was finally off...sort of.
As I pushed the overloaded bicycle up the steep hill I was beginning to wonder why I just didn't stay at the truck and fish the tail waters below the dam. Ultimately I managed to catch up with my wife who by this time already had her line in the water.
"What took ya?" she asked, as I unloaded my gear on the bluff above her.
Three hours later, with neither of us having caught a single fish, we decided it was time to cut our losses and head back to camp. We began the task of hauling everything back up the bluff and getting packed up once again, only this time I had an idea. Instead of deflating the float tube and attempting the futile job of folding something entirely impossible to return to its original size without the aid of an elephant and one of those asphalt roller contraptions, I decided to hang the gear bag with the fins on one side of my handlebars, place the air compressor in the float tube bag and hang it on the other side of my bars. Then I could put my pack on and drape the float tube over the top of me whereby I could steady it with one hand while my backpack would help hold it in place. Brilliant, huh?
"I really don't think this is a good idea," said Cathy, ever the pessimist.
"No problem, my dear," I boasted as I mounted my bike and began pedaling.
"Wait a minute," I said, pulling to a stop. "One, small problem."
"What," she said. "You mean the one where this is stupid; why you don't pack the tube into its pack like before is beyond me."
"No," I said smugly. "That's not the problem."
"Would it be the fact that one gust of wind and you, the bike, and the float tube are all going to sail off the embankment and end up in the water?" she said, as I thought I sensed a bit of sarcasm in her tone.
"No, that's not it either," I answered.
"Well then, would it be the fact you can't see out from under that contraption on your head and I'm going to end up going on another ambulance ride with you before the day is over?"
"Yep, that would be the one. Now, here's what I need you to do..."
Since I had observed rocks and boulders that had tumbled down the hillside and onto the road the previous night on my trip ride in, and my vision was no more than three feet in front of me with the float tube over my head and balancing on my backpack, and it was even odds my running into one of those rocks and boulders was a certainty, I instructed Cathy to ride her bike that exact, same distance in front of me, (three feet) and let me know what was ahead of us. That way, even though there was indeed a fifty-foot embankment on my right I could still see her rear tire and could follow her. I also instructed her NOT to stop suddenly or she would end up a bicycle rack.
I must say that I amaze myself on occasion at the genius the brain-maker upstairs graced me with and things were going terrific until my bride decided to pick up the pace.
"You need to slow down, dear," I cautioned her. "I can't see anything."
"There's a rock up here; go to your right a little," I heard her say.
"Where, where? Slow down, I can't see you. Where are you?" And so it went until we reached the top of the hill.
"Okay honey, there are some people on the road up ahead; you might want to get off and walk this last little stretch down to the gate." she said.
Now in the world of married bliss that last statement of my wife's is considered a challenge; throwing down the gauntlet if you will , and I simply couldn't give up and quit now. After all, I had come this far, and I must admit that the brakes on my Chinese "Bicycle of Death" almost worked admirably and would have, too,
had it not been for the extra added weight of the float tube and the fact that now it had turned into a sail of sorts. And while the float tube was directly responsible for saving me from a nasty head injury and considerable damage to a three-inch iron pipe cemented in the ground in front of the L-gate where the float tube and I came to rest; well, I think you can see plain as red paint where the manufacturer of the float tube is clearly negligible and should pay handsomely for all of my pain and suffering, not to mention the humiliation and ridicule my wife feels the need to put me though.
Now then, anybody know Denny Crane, Matlock, or Perry Mason's phone number
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH
Well, it’s that time of the month again; where the words are flowing heavily and I feel the need to rant a little about one thing or another that annoys me. Unfortunately, you the reader are in the line-of-fire, so here is your disclaimer: You may wish to cover your eyes or leave the room because someone, somewhere is about to have their feelings bruised like a peach.
While those who know me know exactly where I stand on a number of issues, I generally avoid discussing politics in my ramblings. There is a very good reason for this; I’d like to sell my books. Were I to share my political incorrectness with all, I’m pretty certain I would alienate just about half of my readers. That would be the half sitting on the other side of the fence as me, those enduring souls enjoying their change and eagerly awaiting a stimulus package of some sort to arrive in the mail any day now. (Shhh, I have it on good authority Santa is delivering it.)
At any rate, those sitting on the other end of Washington’s political teeter-totter, opposite the Changers, shouldn’t breathe a sigh of relief either, because they too have been about as disappointing as wet gunpowder. The fact is, and this is simply my take on the subject, the system is broken, pure, plain, and simple, with neither side having the ability to sit down and come to any agreement. Both sides seem to be as full of wind as a bull in a corn patch. And if we’re honest, the truth of the matter is the system isn’t broken, it’s as firm as the Rocky Mountains. It’s We the People who are to blame for allowing things to have gotten this far. Now let me tell you how I really feel.
I believe in our Constitution and the Bill of Rights and I see both sides trampling on and ignoring these sacred documents, and it disturbs me greatly. Actually, it makes me madder than an Amish electrician.
I know the definition of “illegal”. Our lawmakers should look it up sometime; it’s in Webster’s. I don’t believe I’m causing Global Warming, and as sure as O.J. did it, Al Gore is a self-serving, hypocrite, who’s as full of crap as a Christmas goose. I guess he isn’t all bad though; he did invent the internet. I believe I have the right to own a firearm or twenty, although my wife feels one or two is more than enough to defend myself from one of those Hare Krishna types at the airport, a marauding covey of flushed quail, or that 5x5 buck.
At any rate, it is for these and a hundred other reasons I took a keen interest in the Tea Party movement early last year. I liked what I heard, I realized I wasn’t the only crazy feeling angry, and in an effort to vent my frustration with the current business as usual routine carried on by our career politicians who are making a fat living on my dime, I joined. But the real reason for this little rant is that recently something has stirred my ire and I feel it needs to be addressed.
In April of 2009, Janet Napolitano, Director of Homeland Security commented on domestic terrorists. Among those on her list were Animal Rights Activists, African Americans, Christians, and Jews. She went on to include Environmentalists, Patriots, Right-Wingers, Left-Wingers, and Pro-Life Groups. Rounding out the list were Veterans, Supporters of Gun Rights, and wouldn’t you know it, those pesky Participants of Tea Parties.
Well, I think that just about covers it; everybody in America is a potential domestic terrorist according to Janet and the Homeland Security, and I have this sinking feeling I’m listed more than once on her list of home-grown combatants since I was in the military, I am a Christian (regardless of what my Catholic ex-wife claims), I am a member of the NRA, I consider myself a American Patriot, and lastly, there is that troublesome Tea Party affiliation. The fact that Janet has lumped me in with Enviro-meddlers is an annoyance that breeds profanity and a highly uncalled for slap-in-the-face.
At any rate, here’s what bothers me most about this whole thing. A few weeks ago I received a census form in the mail. The census form comes from the government. Since I am labeled a domestic terrorist on at least one of those lists Janet so carefully reported on, I have to believe the FBI, CIA, DEA, and any other three-lettered government entity by now has a dossier on me with more information than you can collect during a day at the local beauty parlor.
I’m certain that by now, the government has been in secret meetings with my third grade teacher, the evil Ms Ridenhour, and are aware of my poor penmanship, failing math grades, and habitual tardiness. They have no doubt discovered my attention deficit disorder, the extra padding I wore when Principal Oger welcomed me to his office on swat day, and they have no doubt finally put the pieces together and determined it was me who put the eggs in the emergency fire hose in the hallway so that summer school would let out early from a mysterious foul smell. All that being said, my question is why the heck do I have to fill this darned census thing out? Shouldn’t the government already have all this information on me, and more?
The census folks want to know my race, and I am puzzled? The good folks at the census wish to know if I am Black, African American, or Negro? Am I Asian, or Pacific Islander? When they ask if I am Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish, I have to believe there has been an oversight. Aren’t they missing a large group by not counting the Italians and Poles, the Irish or Scots? And it seems to me they are slighting those of German descent as well. It’s okay excluding the French, they don’t count. I may have missed somebody, but I guess what puzzles me most of all, is that I was under the impression this was America, the land where race doesn't matter, along with creed, color and sexual preferences? So why are they asking?
Why is it that Boot Barn has a record of a pair of Justin Ropers I bought from them over twenty years ago, but the Census people want my phone number? It’s in the book. Don’t you folks back there in DC have a computer? And while we’re at it, why do they need to GPS the location of my front door?
I’m fairly certain my name, birth date, and just about anything else they could possibly wish to know about me is listed in my social security file. At least it is on every one of those annual reports the Social Security Administration sends me telling me how much of my money I’m not going to get. And why must I fill out the same stuff for my driver’s license, the loan for my house, pick-up truck, or health insurance (which the government now has a vested interest in)? And what about the loan I once got from the Farm Administration to buy some Brangus cows and a bull?
Why is it that Best Buy, Radio Shack, REI, and Bass Pro all have this information about me, but the census people want me to fill it out again? Wouldn’t a reasonable person believe all they had to do was ask one of the other agencies for this stuff, or since I’m so dangerous, check out my file readily available online from one of the other government agencies?
I’ve had enough of the Keystone Bureaucrats. Somebody back there in DC needs to jot this stuff down and stick it on the refrigerator where it’s handy because I’m tired of filling out the same info on every form. Oh, wait a minute, now I remember why the Tea Party caught my attention!
While those who know me know exactly where I stand on a number of issues, I generally avoid discussing politics in my ramblings. There is a very good reason for this; I’d like to sell my books. Were I to share my political incorrectness with all, I’m pretty certain I would alienate just about half of my readers. That would be the half sitting on the other side of the fence as me, those enduring souls enjoying their change and eagerly awaiting a stimulus package of some sort to arrive in the mail any day now. (Shhh, I have it on good authority Santa is delivering it.)
At any rate, those sitting on the other end of Washington’s political teeter-totter, opposite the Changers, shouldn’t breathe a sigh of relief either, because they too have been about as disappointing as wet gunpowder. The fact is, and this is simply my take on the subject, the system is broken, pure, plain, and simple, with neither side having the ability to sit down and come to any agreement. Both sides seem to be as full of wind as a bull in a corn patch. And if we’re honest, the truth of the matter is the system isn’t broken, it’s as firm as the Rocky Mountains. It’s We the People who are to blame for allowing things to have gotten this far. Now let me tell you how I really feel.
I believe in our Constitution and the Bill of Rights and I see both sides trampling on and ignoring these sacred documents, and it disturbs me greatly. Actually, it makes me madder than an Amish electrician.
I know the definition of “illegal”. Our lawmakers should look it up sometime; it’s in Webster’s. I don’t believe I’m causing Global Warming, and as sure as O.J. did it, Al Gore is a self-serving, hypocrite, who’s as full of crap as a Christmas goose. I guess he isn’t all bad though; he did invent the internet. I believe I have the right to own a firearm or twenty, although my wife feels one or two is more than enough to defend myself from one of those Hare Krishna types at the airport, a marauding covey of flushed quail, or that 5x5 buck.
At any rate, it is for these and a hundred other reasons I took a keen interest in the Tea Party movement early last year. I liked what I heard, I realized I wasn’t the only crazy feeling angry, and in an effort to vent my frustration with the current business as usual routine carried on by our career politicians who are making a fat living on my dime, I joined. But the real reason for this little rant is that recently something has stirred my ire and I feel it needs to be addressed.
In April of 2009, Janet Napolitano, Director of Homeland Security commented on domestic terrorists. Among those on her list were Animal Rights Activists, African Americans, Christians, and Jews. She went on to include Environmentalists, Patriots, Right-Wingers, Left-Wingers, and Pro-Life Groups. Rounding out the list were Veterans, Supporters of Gun Rights, and wouldn’t you know it, those pesky Participants of Tea Parties.
Well, I think that just about covers it; everybody in America is a potential domestic terrorist according to Janet and the Homeland Security, and I have this sinking feeling I’m listed more than once on her list of home-grown combatants since I was in the military, I am a Christian (regardless of what my Catholic ex-wife claims), I am a member of the NRA, I consider myself a American Patriot, and lastly, there is that troublesome Tea Party affiliation. The fact that Janet has lumped me in with Enviro-meddlers is an annoyance that breeds profanity and a highly uncalled for slap-in-the-face.
At any rate, here’s what bothers me most about this whole thing. A few weeks ago I received a census form in the mail. The census form comes from the government. Since I am labeled a domestic terrorist on at least one of those lists Janet so carefully reported on, I have to believe the FBI, CIA, DEA, and any other three-lettered government entity by now has a dossier on me with more information than you can collect during a day at the local beauty parlor.
I’m certain that by now, the government has been in secret meetings with my third grade teacher, the evil Ms Ridenhour, and are aware of my poor penmanship, failing math grades, and habitual tardiness. They have no doubt discovered my attention deficit disorder, the extra padding I wore when Principal Oger welcomed me to his office on swat day, and they have no doubt finally put the pieces together and determined it was me who put the eggs in the emergency fire hose in the hallway so that summer school would let out early from a mysterious foul smell. All that being said, my question is why the heck do I have to fill this darned census thing out? Shouldn’t the government already have all this information on me, and more?
The census folks want to know my race, and I am puzzled? The good folks at the census wish to know if I am Black, African American, or Negro? Am I Asian, or Pacific Islander? When they ask if I am Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish, I have to believe there has been an oversight. Aren’t they missing a large group by not counting the Italians and Poles, the Irish or Scots? And it seems to me they are slighting those of German descent as well. It’s okay excluding the French, they don’t count. I may have missed somebody, but I guess what puzzles me most of all, is that I was under the impression this was America, the land where race doesn't matter, along with creed, color and sexual preferences? So why are they asking?
Why is it that Boot Barn has a record of a pair of Justin Ropers I bought from them over twenty years ago, but the Census people want my phone number? It’s in the book. Don’t you folks back there in DC have a computer? And while we’re at it, why do they need to GPS the location of my front door?
I’m fairly certain my name, birth date, and just about anything else they could possibly wish to know about me is listed in my social security file. At least it is on every one of those annual reports the Social Security Administration sends me telling me how much of my money I’m not going to get. And why must I fill out the same stuff for my driver’s license, the loan for my house, pick-up truck, or health insurance (which the government now has a vested interest in)? And what about the loan I once got from the Farm Administration to buy some Brangus cows and a bull?
Why is it that Best Buy, Radio Shack, REI, and Bass Pro all have this information about me, but the census people want me to fill it out again? Wouldn’t a reasonable person believe all they had to do was ask one of the other agencies for this stuff, or since I’m so dangerous, check out my file readily available online from one of the other government agencies?
I’ve had enough of the Keystone Bureaucrats. Somebody back there in DC needs to jot this stuff down and stick it on the refrigerator where it’s handy because I’m tired of filling out the same info on every form. Oh, wait a minute, now I remember why the Tea Party caught my attention!
Saturday, February 27, 2010
L.A.F.
Winter; that interminable time of year that brings with it cold winds, freezing temperatures, and forced isolation. That period of mind-numbing boredom that falls between the end of hunting season, and the fishing opener. It is that endless stretch of months, each with around fifty-eight days in them when cabin fever strikes and normally sane people begin to entertain curious thoughts that under normal conditions would be dismissed as crazy.
Winter; when even the dog is brought inside as a humane gesture of compassion, but then the full magnitude of his gastric intestinal potency is realized when the both of you, confined in the same room, he sleeping peacefully, you staring aimlessly at your wife's issue of Home and Garden, he cuts loose with lethal a one.
Even the wife becomes an annoyance of epic proportions, and you entertain thoughts of fool-proof alibis you'll need for the authorities to explain her sudden disappearance. Thoughts that suddenly snap you back to your senses because you realize the consequences of having to spend the remainder of your life in an eight by ten cell with a three-hundred pound serial killer named Leroy who fancies himself as some sort of weight-lifting Rudolf Valentino. As winter wears endlessly on and seems to drag like the last day of school, these crazy thoughts begin to dart in and out of one's mind with greater and greater frequency. Soon, nightmares of Oprah, Rachael Ray, and the Twilight Zone re-runs become routine as you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
There are a few twisted individuals out there who steadfastly maintain winter is a wonderful time of year. Yeah, I guess if your a Polar Bear. They tout skiing, sledding, snowmobiling, cross-country snowshoeing, and building snow men as great winter activities, and one nutcase out there even advocates investigating, identifying, and following animal tracks.
Statistics tell us that most suicides occur during this period of enforced confinement, and I believe I know why. For many of us it's undoubtedly due to the onset of Leather Affliction Fatigue, or L.A.F..
You see, for those of us with horses it is that dreaded time of year we decide to clean our tack. This is most often brought about when we discover our inability to reach into the television set and choke the cast of The View. More importantly, those of us with mules, who are already considered by most as being a couple of crayons short of a box to begin with, often have even more tack to clean than the person with but one animal. And, as we all know, mules are like potato chips; you can't have just one. Just why that is I haven't figured out yet, but I'll let you know when I have a break-thru.
At any rate, in my case my lovely bride, Cathy, has lately been barking orders like drill instructor with Turrets. Apparently my being idol and banging my head against the wood stove annoys her. My hearing, suddenly not what it used to be, I have chosen cleaning our tack the lesser evil of the three-hundred-sixty-two other tasks she has lined out for me. I now understand why pack station operators and the packers who work for them are often times nuttier than granny's fudge.
Anyway, I calculate that by April I should have our half-dozen saddles, seven packsaddles, twelve hundred bridles, halters, cinches, hobbles, reins, bosals, pack manties, panniers, and other assorted items she'll find for me to clean nearly finished. That is unless I have failed to clean them to her demanding specifications, at which point I'll be back to watching The View. Then again, maybe following animal tracks cross country on snowshoes wearing only a freshly cleaned pair of chaps and a beenie might not be such a bad way to go!
Winter; when even the dog is brought inside as a humane gesture of compassion, but then the full magnitude of his gastric intestinal potency is realized when the both of you, confined in the same room, he sleeping peacefully, you staring aimlessly at your wife's issue of Home and Garden, he cuts loose with lethal a one.
Even the wife becomes an annoyance of epic proportions, and you entertain thoughts of fool-proof alibis you'll need for the authorities to explain her sudden disappearance. Thoughts that suddenly snap you back to your senses because you realize the consequences of having to spend the remainder of your life in an eight by ten cell with a three-hundred pound serial killer named Leroy who fancies himself as some sort of weight-lifting Rudolf Valentino. As winter wears endlessly on and seems to drag like the last day of school, these crazy thoughts begin to dart in and out of one's mind with greater and greater frequency. Soon, nightmares of Oprah, Rachael Ray, and the Twilight Zone re-runs become routine as you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.
There are a few twisted individuals out there who steadfastly maintain winter is a wonderful time of year. Yeah, I guess if your a Polar Bear. They tout skiing, sledding, snowmobiling, cross-country snowshoeing, and building snow men as great winter activities, and one nutcase out there even advocates investigating, identifying, and following animal tracks.
Statistics tell us that most suicides occur during this period of enforced confinement, and I believe I know why. For many of us it's undoubtedly due to the onset of Leather Affliction Fatigue, or L.A.F..
You see, for those of us with horses it is that dreaded time of year we decide to clean our tack. This is most often brought about when we discover our inability to reach into the television set and choke the cast of The View. More importantly, those of us with mules, who are already considered by most as being a couple of crayons short of a box to begin with, often have even more tack to clean than the person with but one animal. And, as we all know, mules are like potato chips; you can't have just one. Just why that is I haven't figured out yet, but I'll let you know when I have a break-thru.
At any rate, in my case my lovely bride, Cathy, has lately been barking orders like drill instructor with Turrets. Apparently my being idol and banging my head against the wood stove annoys her. My hearing, suddenly not what it used to be, I have chosen cleaning our tack the lesser evil of the three-hundred-sixty-two other tasks she has lined out for me. I now understand why pack station operators and the packers who work for them are often times nuttier than granny's fudge.
Anyway, I calculate that by April I should have our half-dozen saddles, seven packsaddles, twelve hundred bridles, halters, cinches, hobbles, reins, bosals, pack manties, panniers, and other assorted items she'll find for me to clean nearly finished. That is unless I have failed to clean them to her demanding specifications, at which point I'll be back to watching The View. Then again, maybe following animal tracks cross country on snowshoes wearing only a freshly cleaned pair of chaps and a beenie might not be such a bad way to go!
Saturday, February 6, 2010
It will no doubt be a subject of debate for centuries to come. Scholars will hotly conjecture the yea's and nay's in lecture halls, classrooms, and textbooks all around the world, and so heated will the arguments be that one thing is for certain; there will be fisticuffs.
The question most often asked of me is, "Hey Tom, you're not gonna write another book, are ya?"
"As a matter of fact I am," I'll reply. "Wanna hear about it?"
"No, not really."
Then there's the inevitable follow-up question, "Hey Firth, have ya ever considered professional counseling? I mean, where in the world do you come up with this stuff anyway?"
Well, I'm glad you asked because the answer to that burning question is multiple and complex. You see, sometimes my ideas for stories come early in the morning when I'm out hunting, sitting on some frigid, craggy canyon wall, or perched atop some steep, wind-blown peak watching the sunrise while I'm coughing up a lung at ten-thousand feet and attempting to be quiet about it. There, with my fingers and toes number than the combined speeches of Al Gore, my mind wanders to some past event. Like, "Remember that time you and Lecil nearly froze to death on that deer hunt up in the Sierras' when the mules ran off and ya had to hike the twelve miles back to the trailhead in the snow," I'll ask myself? "Ah, those were the good old days," I'll mumble incoherently because my moustache is frozen to my lips.
Other times ideas float by effortlessly. Like while I'm hiking the three miles back up river to my truck after having slipped on a rock and found myself shooting down Dead Man's Rapids with a death grip on my fly rod and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich hanging precariously out of my mouth while screaming. "I really should appologize to those children if they're at that campsite up here a bit," I'll tell myself. "I wonder if they'll have nightmares?"
Sometimes ideas show up while I'm searching through my eight-thousand-and-twelve pockets for that pesky roll of toilet paper I'm certain I remembered to bring along, but don't discover until, in desperation, I've had to resort to leaves that were humbly too small for the task, snow covered pine boughs that rudely awakened one's senses, or rocks with sharper edges than most of my skinning knives.
But most of my story ideas seem to arrive while I'm out cleaning the mule's pens and attempting to ignore Zane Grey's habitual complaining about the quality of the last load of bermuda or alfalfa I went into debt to have trucked in. There, with a manure fork in my hands, topics race through my mind like stock-car racers weaving through a wreck at Daytona.
And then occassionally I'll get an idea or two following a futile and one-sided argument with my bride, Cathy, and I've locked myself in the bathroom. There, in the comfort and solitude of the comode I'm able to review my badly beaten ego and stand in front of the mirror while I rationally explain in pantomime and in precise detail all those things I wished I'd have had the presence of mind to say while I was getting my fanny chewed out, but couldn't think of at the time. "What did you say in there? I heard that!"
So when someone asks me if a particular story is reeeeeally true or not, I simply tell them to keep in mind that most of the lies I tell are the truth; sort of. You prepare yourself for a life of fiction when you hang out with the crew of individuals I find myself surrounded by.
And God bless 'em, each and every one.
The question most often asked of me is, "Hey Tom, you're not gonna write another book, are ya?"
"As a matter of fact I am," I'll reply. "Wanna hear about it?"
"No, not really."
Then there's the inevitable follow-up question, "Hey Firth, have ya ever considered professional counseling? I mean, where in the world do you come up with this stuff anyway?"
Well, I'm glad you asked because the answer to that burning question is multiple and complex. You see, sometimes my ideas for stories come early in the morning when I'm out hunting, sitting on some frigid, craggy canyon wall, or perched atop some steep, wind-blown peak watching the sunrise while I'm coughing up a lung at ten-thousand feet and attempting to be quiet about it. There, with my fingers and toes number than the combined speeches of Al Gore, my mind wanders to some past event. Like, "Remember that time you and Lecil nearly froze to death on that deer hunt up in the Sierras' when the mules ran off and ya had to hike the twelve miles back to the trailhead in the snow," I'll ask myself? "Ah, those were the good old days," I'll mumble incoherently because my moustache is frozen to my lips.
Other times ideas float by effortlessly. Like while I'm hiking the three miles back up river to my truck after having slipped on a rock and found myself shooting down Dead Man's Rapids with a death grip on my fly rod and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich hanging precariously out of my mouth while screaming. "I really should appologize to those children if they're at that campsite up here a bit," I'll tell myself. "I wonder if they'll have nightmares?"
Sometimes ideas show up while I'm searching through my eight-thousand-and-twelve pockets for that pesky roll of toilet paper I'm certain I remembered to bring along, but don't discover until, in desperation, I've had to resort to leaves that were humbly too small for the task, snow covered pine boughs that rudely awakened one's senses, or rocks with sharper edges than most of my skinning knives.
But most of my story ideas seem to arrive while I'm out cleaning the mule's pens and attempting to ignore Zane Grey's habitual complaining about the quality of the last load of bermuda or alfalfa I went into debt to have trucked in. There, with a manure fork in my hands, topics race through my mind like stock-car racers weaving through a wreck at Daytona.
And then occassionally I'll get an idea or two following a futile and one-sided argument with my bride, Cathy, and I've locked myself in the bathroom. There, in the comfort and solitude of the comode I'm able to review my badly beaten ego and stand in front of the mirror while I rationally explain in pantomime and in precise detail all those things I wished I'd have had the presence of mind to say while I was getting my fanny chewed out, but couldn't think of at the time. "What did you say in there? I heard that!"
So when someone asks me if a particular story is reeeeeally true or not, I simply tell them to keep in mind that most of the lies I tell are the truth; sort of. You prepare yourself for a life of fiction when you hang out with the crew of individuals I find myself surrounded by.
And God bless 'em, each and every one.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Hi all; I'm new to this whole blog thing and to be quite honest I've never read a blog, (mine or otherwise) ever, so this will be my first actual blog. I was convinced by my webmaster, the evil Chris West, that I needed a blog and that it was expected of me, so anything posted prior to this was actually my webmaster masquerading as me. People often masquerade as me, mostly when holding up convenience stores or after being caught in an uncompromising position with a farm animal by a startle farmer.
At any rate, I will attempt to do a good job and should an actual thought should somehow find its way to my head I will do my best to first remember it, then jot it down here. I mean really, who actually reads this stuff?
Until later, I'm off to try to find a thought! tf
At any rate, I will attempt to do a good job and should an actual thought should somehow find its way to my head I will do my best to first remember it, then jot it down here. I mean really, who actually reads this stuff?
Until later, I'm off to try to find a thought! tf
Friday, December 25, 2009
THE SADDLE
I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine,
It was new and figured to last a while
And it fit my fanny fine.
Constructed with care for detail, it’s craftsmanship superb.
It was made to stand the test of time
And it stood out from the herd.
I brought it home and oiled her up and just in case she squeaked
I rubbed her down with talcum powder,
Every flap and crease.
I wrapped the horn with rubber from a tire tube gone flat
And riveted a pouch on the billet
Where my fence pliers comfortably sat.
I put her to work immediately and she’s never let me down.
We’ve shared a lot of miles together,
More than either of us could count.
From mountain meadows, rocky trails, and hills choked thick with brush,
To sun-baked summers packin’ salt
To cows too tough to flush.
Over the years she’s seen her share of cinches come and go.
A breast collar here, a britchen there,
And gallons of saddle soap.
Her bars have covered horses and mules of every type.
From one’s as quiet as headstones
To the occasional unscheduled flight.
Enough ropes have burned around her horn to start a forest fire.
She’s packed out deer and orphaned calves,
And stretched miles of downed barbwire.
She’s held countless bawlin’ baldys at the end of a tight-stretched rope,
And watched as calves got branded,
Doctored, notched, and groped.
She’s sat and waited patiently out in back of the saloon,
And hauled me home not criticizing
My howling at the moon.
She’s weathered sons and daughters through gymkhanas and the like.
Now she baby-sits the grandkids
When they come to visit overnight.
She’s certainly been a dandy and unlike a bureaucrat,
She’s been honest and hard working
There can be no doubt in that.
Yep, I bought myself a saddle back in nineteen sixty-nine.
It was new and figured to last awhile,
And it fit my fanny fine.
-tf
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