Alex Malcolm

An Arizona Day's Outing

2006-11-05T01:25:00.000-08:00

Summer 1999

A short time ago I decided to go on a day-trip and finally get out and see some of Arizona. Since my transfer from Edmonton to Phoenix in the winter of 1997, most of my time had been spent cooped up inside the house or stuck in a narrow corridor of heavy traffic between home and work. However, I was indecisive about what I should see.

Arizona is full of scenic locales: the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest, the Painted Desert, snow-capped mountains, lush valleys, clear blue lakes. All of these can be found within the confines of the 48th state. Yet, just as I was deciding not to be indecisive and to decide on where to go, I decided Tombstone was just the place. I decided this from a pamphlet, which I decided to leave in the decidedly grime covered gutter where I found it. "Tombstone!" the grubby bit of paper advertised. "The town too tough to die."

Certainly Tombstone was tougher than the pigeon which thumped into my windshield at 75 miles per hour on the first leg of my journey. With mild interest I glanced in the rear-view as the unfortunate creature sailed to its untimely demise at the side of the road. Boot Hill for pigeons. My gaze returned to the map I held in front of me, my knees doing the steering. I was taking the back route out of town. The more rural the drive the better. My path would lead me out of metro-Phoenix, through Florence and on into Tucson. From there, it was but an hour’s drive to Tombstone and the O.K. Corral where the Earps, Clantons and McLaurys made the showdown a seminal part of American history. Along the way I would do something I had rarely ever taken the time to do before. I would stop at points of interest.

I travelled first along the western edge of the Superstition Mountains, where, local legend has it, a lost gold mine awaits rediscovery. And gold can actually be found in the Superstitions as there is an active mine - more of a giant slit trench really - just outside a ghost town called Goldfield. Several gentlemen old enough to remember the O.K. Corral shootout still work the mine and by all appearances they make a reasonable living at it. The advent of modern devices like backhoes and pressure hoses alleviate some of the physical problems of advanced age in miners, like 'rheumatiz'. Unfortunately, they do nothing to stem the tide of advanced neuroses as evidenced by the proliferation of "No Trespassing" and "Trespassers will be shot" signs that decorate much of the perimeter fence. Attempts at conversation with the gentlemen inside the compound were met first with silence and then with comments not fit for print. However, I thought I caught something about travelling eastbound and meeting up with a westbound shot of lead. Har har. An oldie and not even a goodie. Goldfield itself I gave a miss. A helicopter carrying a load of tourists rose from its interior in a cloud of dust, betraying the initial attraction that the town was chock full of ghosts.

From Goldfield, I turned southwest onto Route 79 and at high speed headed for Florence. One can race merrily along this road in full confidence that one is unlikely to receive a speeding ticket. There are no doughnut shops within a thirty-mile radius, and therefore, no police.

Saguaro cacti growing along the side of the road flashed by. Some were in bloom, pretty white and yellow flowers perched on their tops like the ubiquitous sombreros of so many Mexicans enjoying a siesta. The skin of the Saguaro, or perhaps it is more properly called bark as this particular species of cactus is classified as a tree, possesses a rather waxy texture and thus it shares at least one characteristic in common with Pamela Anderson Lee. One might also argue with some justification that the saguaro has had nearly as many photos taken in its natural state. Like the spines of the cactus, which are actually classified as leaves, the skin assists the saguaro in the retention of water during the hot summer months. Saguaros don’t grow their first arm until they have reached about sixty years of age and from that point on they become very photogenic. I doubt a one-armed sixty-year old Pamela Lee would be as lucky.

In amongst the saguaros, mesquite trees spread their blackened branches, providing shade to the occasional jackrabbit. I didn’t notice any rattlesnakes flattened on the tarmac as I sped along, though I nearly squashed a roadrunner that darted in front of the car. Perhaps it had been frightened by a coyote. All in all, the scenery was stunning and as I drank it all in I began to get thirsty. I remembered I had packed a water bottle in my picnic hamper, but this was stowed out of reach in the back seat and Florence beckoned in the distance.

The outskirts of Florence appear so suddenly that one is already on the other side of town before one notices the ramshackle mobile homes strewn along the northern side of the main thoroughfare. Normally this would be a blessing, but today I wanted to stop. The sign welcoming visitors to Florence states that the elevation of the town is slightly less than 1500 feet above sea level. Interestingly, it doesn’t mention the population. Possibly this is because it is difficult to keep up with the number of residents, for Florence is where the State of Arizona executes prisoners under sentence of death. The architecture gracing the south side of the road may best be described as government institution modern.

Last year was a banner year for Florence. No less than six inmates were moved closer to God in 1998, a record number for Arizona which showed the voting populace that the government recognized public concerns about housing inmates at taxpayer expense. One such unfortunate, nicknamed Bonzai Bob by the newspapers, had misspelled the English version of the Japanese word when he carved it into the chest of his murder victim. One wonders if Bob would have gone further in life had he paid attention to spelling lessons in school.

Certainly one of the witnesses to Bob’s execution had paid attention, for this woman had been chosen from a number of essay writers to travel to Florence for a once in a lifetime event. Yes, that’s right. If you wish to witness an execution in Arizona, all you need is a carefully written, grammatically correct essay stating your reasons why you’d like to see someone die. From all coherent and concise entries received, the Department of Corrections will choose up to two winners for an all expenses paid bus trip to sunny Florence for each performance.

In a second essay after the fact, the woman wrote to the newspapers to say execution by lethal injection was ‘anti-climactic’. Not for Bob it wasn’t. I’m quite certain of that. I’m not sure what the woman expected. Maybe she thought it would be like going to a movie and watching a cartoon before the main attraction. A public flogging first might have cheered her up.

One needs to question the motives of this woman to see an execution she had no connection with. She didn’t know Bob, the victim, or anyone or anything else even remotely associated with the case. Maybe Bob got what he deserved for his barbaric acts, but the essay writer’s desire to watch a live execution seems to me rather barbaric as well. Civilization ,it seems, is still only skin deep.

One other execution last year is worth mentioning. The second of two German brothers sentenced to death for murder chose to die in the gas chamber instead of nominating himself for the more popular method of lethal injection. (Death row inmates are allowed a Hobson’s choice here in Arizona) There was a specific reason for this. He argued that to die in the gas chamber would amount to cruel and unusual punishment. As cruel and unusual punishment is contrary to the Constitution of the United States in matters of Justice, though not in taxation, he believed that if his arguments were successful his sentence would instead be commuted to life imprisonment. The Supreme Court of the State of Arizona agreed to consider his application for a hearing on the argument. After much deliberation, they handed down a verdict rife with unintelligible legalese, which amounted to a confirmation of the original sentence and choice of punishment. Sins of the father? Perhaps dear old Dad had been gainfully employed at Auschwitz. If so, shame about the son. Germans have only recently been re-admitted to the human race, speaking of civilization’s thin veneer.

I pulled into a dusty parking lot with the intention of rooting around inside the picnic hamper for my bottle of water. Instead, I ended up rooting around the inside of the car for the picnic hamper. I had forgotten it at home. Luck was with me though! As I sat parched and cursing,, a sign nailed carelessly to the side of a wooden shack proclaimed that "Eats" were available a few short feet away. I climbed out and addressed a slovenly woman smoking a cigarette as she leaned across a dirty counter chatting to an equally slovenly man masticating an enormous hamburger.

"Could I trouble you for a bottle of water?" I asked. "Or a coke. Anything cold really."

"Sure hon. Hang on.." She smiled as she produced a cold and sparkling bottle of Evian. "Course you have to pay for it though". This was a rustic attempt at humour.

I paid for the bottle, spun off the top and choked back several healthy gulps of the life saving fluid.

"Thirsty, huh?" This from the hamburger man. Not a rustic attempt at witticism. A rustic attempt at conversation.

"Yep. Sure am." When in Rome….

"Good eats here". A simple rustic statement containing no subordinate clauses whatsoever.

"Really?", I doubted this greatly, but humoured him. "Burger’s good?" I knew he was enjoying it from the trail of grease that dribbled down his chin onto his shirt.

He wiped his chin with his sleeve. "Yep. ‘The Special.’ It’s the best. Better even than McDonalds. Everything on it."

A glance at the menu board tacked to the shack showed it allowed the choice of several hamburgers, the most expensive being ‘The 'Special’.

"Yep, if them on the Row over there knew how good Ruth’s burgers were over here, hell they’d die trying to get out and get one." The hamburger man chuckled. This was another rustic attempt at humour. He waived in the general direction of the penitentiary across the road. "I go to see my brother there once a month and bring him one of these ‘burgers. ‘Course he ain’t on the Row. They don’t allow that there I wouldn’t think."

I was confused and admitted as much.

"Oh. My brother’s in there, but he ain’t on death row. He’s just a regular felon. Thirty years for the removal of other people’s property without their prior consent or some such."

That seemed a bit stiff. "Do tell."

"Yeah, well he had a gun and all, plus a mask on and that got him worse time. Plus he pissed off the judge too. My brother ain’t none too smart. Pissin’ off a judge. Geez, what a fool. He got the max, sentence-wise anyway."

"And you visit him every month?", I asked.

"Yessir. Each and every month at visiting time. We’re the only family we got. I retired and moved here so’s the drive wouldn’t be as long from Bisbee. That’s where I’m from. ‘Course I don’t drive now." He looked wistful as though he missed driving. Perhaps Bisbee had a good burger hut too. He offered no elaboration and I didn’t enquire further. Bisbee was close to Tombstone and I told him that was where I was headed.

"Well, last time I was in Tombstone it was gettin’ pretty touristy. ‘Course that’s bin a long while now, but I ‘spect there’s still lots of the history left. Man, there was some colourful characters there back in the day. Whole lot more colourful than my brother. But then I suppose back then they’d have strung him up for what he did, forget about pissin’ off the judge. Well, have a safe trip, son. Drive careful now."

The next stop on my itinerary was the Tom Mix Monument twenty miles outside Florence in the direction of Tucson. My guidebook said the Monument was nothing more than a picnic area with a few benches and shade trees off to the side of the road and surrounded by the desert and all it could offer. It mentioned further that a statue of Tom Mix graced the monument and a small plaque gave a brief explanation of his life. Tom Mix, apparently, was one of the good-guy, cowboy-movie heroes who graced the silver screen way back in its golden days. He had been killed in a car accident at this site many years before when a metal-braced suitcase resting on the rear window sill of his 1937 Cord transformed itself into a missile at the time of impact and struck Tom a lethal blow to the back of his good-guy, white-cowboy-hatted head.

Such was his fame that this Monument had been erected in remembrance of him. Tom had starred in more than 300 films, mostly in the silent era, but most have now been lost as they had been filmed on combustible nitrate stock, not the most stable of film material. What I found to be an interesting side-note to Tom Mix’s life was that he was one of the pallbearers at Wyatt Earp’s funeral in 1929. Tom was a clearly defined good-guy hero in Hollywood productions. Wyatt Earp, in real life, could not quite make that claim. Hmm. Maybe Tom wasn’t such a good guy after all; hanging out with lawmen of questionable character and all that. Well, I suppose it could be argued that Tom’s hero image wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny in real life and perhaps Wyatt Earp’s reputation wasn’t as bad as some made it out to be.

I rounded a bend and immediately saw the statue. I also took immediate evasive manoeuvres to avoid hitting an obstruction lodged in the entrance to the Monument. Like a north-going Zax and a south-going Zax, two cars vying for first right of entry to the Monument had refused to yield to one another and had collided. Dr. Seuss would have been proud. "Never budge, that’s my rule. Not an inch to the west, not an inch to the east. For that’s what I learned as a boy in south-going school." The occupants had exited their respective vehicles and were busily engaged in resolving the issue. It appeared they were pacing off the requisite ten steps. I didn’t see any seconds. Not quite civilized if one doesn’t have seconds, but this was a spur of the moment thing and one does what one can here in the Prairie of Prax. Interestingly, both drivers were wearing black ball caps. Tom’s statue seemed to frown.

I was becoming hungry. It was almost 1:00 o’clock and with Tucson hidden just behind the Santa Catalina Mountains a short distance ahead, I decided to stop for lunch. I turned off Route 79 and onto Oracle Road where I saw a doughnut shop. I slowed my pace accordingly and admired a rare dusting of light snow coating the mountaintops. A few miles further and I was in Tucson proper where I spied a Schlotsky’s deli. I pulled in and ordered a sandwich and a Coke and stared wistfully out of the window, the Coke dribbling down my chin onto my shirt.
Shaped like a dog’s leg and nestled in a scenic valley, Tucson is home to roughly 500,000 of the world’s worst drivers. Earlier this year, Rex Allen, the last of the silver screen cowboys left alive, was killed when his caretaker drove over him by accident in the driveway of his upscale home. I doubt a statue will be raised for him there. It would de-value the neighbouring properties.

Tucson was also home to the residents of Biosphere 2. This was a self-contained, self-sustaining habitat into which eight ‘bionauts’ entered in 1991. The idea behind Biosphere 2 was something to do with researching space station prototypes. The bionauts emerged two years later, much thinner, but otherwise intact. No doubt this was due to the sign posted at the door to the three-acre complex which advised that no weapons of any kind are permitted inside. This was a far cry from the days when guns were not usually banned from anywhere in Arizona. Come to think of it, guns in Arizona are still not usually banned from most places, given the advent of the concealed weapons permit allowed under state law. An open-carry law also permits people to display their guns openly without benefit of a concealed weapons permit. Most people don’t though, considering such a display to be crass and contrary to good taste.

Tucson offers other attractions like the world’s largest gem and mineral show each spring, Sabino Canyon and a wide variety of museums and botanical gardens. Human attractions include a large posse of backpackers and pan-handlers who occupy the centre medians of all main roads at traffic lights. One can buy almost anything from these hucksters: Indian jewelry, newspapers, fruit, windshield washes and so on. Linda McCartney died just outside Tucson giving new life to Beatles conspiracy theorists when her death was officially reported, initially at least, as occurring somewhere in California.

Apart from some rolling hills just south of Tucson, there isn’t much to see on the way to Tombstone. The Sonoran Desert, which encompasses much of the territory between Phoenix and Tombstone, seems unvarying in its flora. If one were to explore the desert more thoroughly, no doubt one would find subtle differences, but at high speed from the tarmac, the wonders of the desert eventually blend from stunning into a rather mind-numbing panorama of uniformity.

At 2:30 I reached Tombstone and an unexpected surprise awaited. Boot Hill! I had believed Boot Hill to be in another state. Perhaps it was, but who says there can’t be two of them? I paid my five bucks and sauntered through the obligatory gift shop selling rattler fangs and Indian blankets and emerged into the sunlit graveyard on the other side. A roll of thunder greeted me and a humid wind swept down the Dragoon Mountains in the distance and across the valley floor. Throngs of tourists meandered amongst the headstones taking photographs and littering the hallowed ground with pop cans and cardboard film packages. The living outnumbered the dead two to one at least.

I wandered about myself, reading the pamphlet given to me at the turnstile by a woman looking very much like Cerberus might have done. The pamphlet gave a brief explanation of the deceased under each headstone. In some cases this was simply "Unknown" or "Stabbed in a fight in Toughnut Street." Others were more interesting. One poor soul had died from typhoid and as no one had wanted to go near him, a Good Samaritan had lassoed his leg and, from horseback, dragged him to Boot Hill for burial. Here lay a Chinese cook. There lay a Madam from one of the town’s brothels. Some inscriptions were humorous. "Here lies Lester Moore. Shot three times with a ’44. No Les. No Moore." And in the corner of the graveyard under a mound of heavy stone blocks lay the Clantons and McLaurys.

As might be expected, the pamphlet went on in some detail about these particular gravesites. Amongst other things, it said the Clantons and McLaurys were essentially law-abiding citizens fighting for their rights and murdered by corrupt lawmen opposing their views. Really? I had always believed the Earps and Doc Holliday were the good guys in this conflict. It began to rain slightly and so I headed for the car and drove into town.

By the time I arrived two minutes later, the streets were awash with water as well as tourists, all of whom were taking cover underneath the eaves of the wooden nineteenth century buildings. These were the original structures that existed when the shootout at the O.K. Corral took place in 1881. Most of the second stories to the buildings had vanished though; some because of fire, some because of decay. I parked the car and dashed through the torrent and took cover myself. The O.K. Corral lay just across the street, but as it was an open courtyard, and as I didn’t wish to get wet, I decided to take a walk along Toughnut Street before venturing there.

The Birdcage Theatre marked the eastern-most end of the street and inside old posters of plays that took place at the turn of the century graced the walls. Plays? In Tombstone? Oh yeah. No TV back then. Interestingly, I discovered that Lillie Langtry had once played the Birdcage. It was her daughter, Jeanne Marie Langtry, who married my grandfather’s brother, Sir Ian Malcolm in 1902. As I exited the Birdcage, I noticed a small child tugging at the sleeve of a man just outside.

"What are you dressed up as?"
"Why, I’m Virgil Earp," came the response.
"He’s dead," said the small boy.
"Yes he is", said Virgil.
"Why are you dressed like that then?"
"Because I’m acting a part in a play."
"Why?"
"It’s what I do," Virgil explained patiently.
"Is that a real gun?"
"Yes".
"Why? Are you going to shoot someone?"
"No." You could tell he wanted to.
"Then why do you have a gun?"

Despite what promised to be a humorous conversation that could have gone on for hours as an improvisational play in it’s own right, I crossed the street.

I had begun to feel thirsty again and so I popped into a saloon. A faded piece of paper inside the doorway indicated that this was the spot where one of the Earps had been shot while playing pool. I ordered a beer and sat down. Right away one could tell who were locals and who were not. The locals were loud and boisterous, making it clear in a condescending way that they were residents of the Town Too Tough To Die. I suppose if you live in a self-proclaimed ‘tough town’, you must also be tough by definition. Most of the locals wore hoglegs strapped to their thighs. No concealed weapons here. The tourists, on the other hand, settled back in their chairs, rather self-consciously I thought. An obligatory beer just to say they had had one where the Earps had held court and then out the door. It was still raining and so I ordered a second beer. Plenty of time still to see the O.K. Corral. It didn’t close until five o’clock.

At quarter to five the rain stopped. I sallied forth and stopped at the entrance to the O.K. Corral. I turned the knob on the door. Or rather I tried to turn the knob on the door. The O.K. Corral was closed. What! I came all this way for nothing? Come on! I cupped my hands to my face and peered through the glass. A woman who looked very much like the daughter of Cerberus back on Boot Hill counted the day’s take at a desk inside. She gave me the evil eye and followed that up with a gesture using her middle finger. I spat on the pavement to avert evil. This was unbelievable! I wished the Ferryman would come and take her away. I gestured back.

I couldn’t believe it. Loads of tourists milled the streets still. How could the O.K. Corral be closed? Where was the spirit of capitalism? What about a late shift? It never rains in Arizona. Never. It rains in Scotland incessantly, but the sun shines incessantly in Arizona. I walked back to the car. It began to rain again. I didn’t care. My day trip was done, spoiled at the end by some lazy bitch who didn’t want to work her full shift. Yeah, she probably worked a long day catering to sniveling tourists, but that doesn’t justify the finger and the evil eye. Maybe she wanted to join her friends down at the saloon and get loud and boisterous. If I see her in Phoenix, I’ll get loud and boisterous.

And so endeth an enjoyable day’s outing in Arizona. Stymied at the end, but otherwise enjoyable and the first of many such trips I hope to take.

T-Rex, the Story of a Tyrant

2006-10-29T21:05:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER ONE
THE ENCOUNTER

This story was written by Christopher Malcolm. Christopher is 11 years of age and it appears to me at least that his writing abilities are well in advance of what can be reasonably expected of an 11 year old child. Nobody assisted him in the writing of this story in any way, shape or form. I am extremely proud of his accomplishment in writing T-Rex , the Story of a Tyrant and hope to see more stories from him in the future. October 2006.

It is 66 million years ago in North America. The air is hot and humid. Birds twitter and peep in the trees. In the pond, creatures like frogs and turtles squat calmly on the banks. A small Orodromeus crouches down for a drink. As he lowers his small, delicate head to drink, he emits a small cluck and swishes his tail. Orodromeus are rare in the valley, and this one is just visiting. Suddenly, he looks up and lets out a gasping noise. His eyesight and hearing are excellent, and his sense of smell is moderate. All these incredible senses make him the deer of the cretaceous period. A short, compact body on top of two long, muscular legs give him amazing speed. He can outrun just about every other dinosaur in the valley, except maybe an Ornithomimus if it gets lucky. He hurries away in panic. His long legs move swiftly through the horsetails and ferns as he flees.

Tyrannosaurus rex growls and lumbers toward him. Thirty-nine feet long, with jaws that hold ( 60?) bone-crushing teeth, the sight of this colossal monster strikes unstoppable fear into the hearts of almost every creature in the valley. Fortunately, he isn't after the miniscule Orodromeus. He is after his favorite prey of all. He is tracking a wounded duckbill dinosaur.

His huge feet sink into the mud and pond slime. He sniffs the air loudly. He picks up the smell of the duckbill. He can tell that it has an infection. This is because he has bitten the duckbill. Tyrannosaurus are primarily scavengers, and decomposing carcasses carry bacteria. When T-rex eats, he gets some of the bacteria and germs in the serrations on his teeth. There the bacteria multiply, and the tyrant goes hunting. When he bites into another dinosaur, several bacteria get into the wound, slowly causing infection and gradually the prey grows weaker and weaker. Then the prey becomes too weak to move on, and the tyrant gets his meal. Even if it is a long-distance traveler like a duckbill, the T-rex will follow it.

Tyrannosaurus's legs are built for traveling distance, not speed. He can go relatively fast for short distances, but then must slow down to rest, not unlike a cheetah. (A 6-ton cheetah with a head 5 feet long and bristling with teeth.)

Now in pursuit of the duckbill he moves a little bit faster. He stops to rest. He rubs himself on a tree to get rid of an itch. Flies dart here and there around his small eyes. T-Rex shakes his head and closes his eyes. He opens them and decides to move toward the duckbill again. A few minutes pass and he is able to see the duckbill for the first time. It is Anatotitan, the most common species in the area. The Tyrannosaur opens his huge mouth a little bit and lets some of his long, yellowish teeth show. He cannot see the duckbill very well, because he has very small eyes and poor eyesight. He sniffs to make sure the duckbill is hurt. He can smell the strong odor of a monstrous scar on the duckbill's leg.

He also picks up the scent of something he has seen only from a distance. Tyrannosaurs everywhere are petrified by its huge size and long horns. This creature can bite like no other dinosaur. It can stab with its horns. It has an 11-foot head with bony studs around the edges of a giant frill. T-rex crouches quickly behind some wide cypress trees and a magnolia plant. Instinct, the voice in his head yells "Get Out Of The Swamp Now". But the smell of the Triceratops Maximus grows stronger. The tyrant turns to go, but just as he places his huge, raptorial feet into the mud, the bushes start to move. The smell of the monster surrounds his nose. Then, the triceratops emerges. The tyrannosaurus lowers his head in anger. His eyes narrow. The monster he smelled was a tiny baby?! The tyrannosaur gives a bellow that sends the birds in the trees leaping up and flying off like the world has come to an end. A dromaeosaur, or Raptor who was taking a sip out of the pond screamed and hurled itself into the forest like a rocket.

The tyrant charges the baby. The baby's eyes open up in terror. She wails in fright as the tyrannosaurus prepares to close his jaws of doom on her head. Just as the tyrannosaur lunges, an awful hoot rings his ears. It sounds like a hundred tubas, but worse. A musky scent makes his olfactory chambers scream. The mother Triceratops charges out of the bushes towards the tyrant. The tyrannosaurus leaps into the air and tears away as fast as his legs can carry him. Just as he thinks he is safe, he steps on an algae-covered rock and falls down. Down, and with a monumental THUD!! he lands in the soft mud. He tries rolling over, and lifting himself with his arms, but nothing works. The Triceratops is still charging, so the tyrannosaur gives a heave with his tiny arms, and, wait, yes! The tyrant begins to run once more, but as he takes his first steps to safety, the triceratops swings his head and gores the tyrannosaurus right in the leg. The excruciating pain seems to spread to his entire body.

The tyrannosaur gives a howl of agony as the horn slides out of his thigh. The voice inside his head shrieks, "GET OUT! DON'T WORRY ABOUT THE PAIN! GO! NOW!" The tyrant pulls away, but the pain becomes too intense, and the tyrannosaurus is brought to his knees. The enraged triceratops lowers her horns to finish off the tyrant. Then, by some miracle, the tyrannosaurus gets up and limps hurredly into the trees. Today is the day the triceratops will remember as the day she almost killed the scourge of the valley.

CHAPTER TWO
THE TYRANT'S MEAL
The tyrannosaur limped back to his nesting area, where his mate and a nest waited. He lumbered into the middle of a pile of rotting leaves and collapsed onto the ground. His mate, sensing something wrong, moved slowly over to him and growled softly. Four small, feathery chicks with large, clear blue eyes trot around the nest squealing and chasing one another. They are odd-looking things, only 4 feet long and covered in a coat of white down, flecked with black. One chick has a long black stripe down her back. She is the oldest chick, her egg first laid, and the first to hatch, the largest of the chicks, and the most successful of them all. She hogged most of the food, along with her brother.

This behavior is not greed and selfishness, but helping the tyrannosaur species as a whole. Chicks that hog the most food are usually the strongest, fastest, and smartest of the group. The weak and less intelligent chicks almost always die or get the least food. The stronger chicks are the ones that live longest, hunt more succesfully, and have the most offspring, carrying their traits and discoveries to their children. Then the children will do the same, and that family will be successful and would evolve into stronger, smarter, bigger, and more advanced tyrannosaurs, if it wasn't for the massive extinction that lay one million years ahead, waiting to obliterate and demolish the magnificent dinosaurs.

The chicks have large heads and short snouts, and very long legs, too long for their bodies, and account for most of their height. The chicks were crowded around a smelly pile of flesh. A Didelphodon, a small, scavenging mammal, had been wandering about the nest site, searching for scraps of food. The little female had spotted him first and snorted to the others. They came bounding over gleefully, prancing through the ferns without a care in the world. The chick that saw the didelphodon first hissed at her siblings and crouched into the horsetails without a sound. The others did the same.

The didelphodon's keen sense of smell picked up the scent of the chicks. He screeched and leaped for cover. The chicks attacked instantly and simultaneously. The battle was swiftly over. The youngsters examined their prize and a new successful generation of tyrannosaur has begun.

Scots Hallowe'en Traditions

2006-10-28T16:17:00.000-07:00

October 2006

Hallowe'en in Scotland is not quite the affair it is here in North America. The tradition of children in costume going from door to door and accumulating candy by calling out "Hallowe'en Apples!", singing a song or simply by ringing a doorbell and thrusting forth some form of bag, basket, pillowcase or other suitable item capable of holding several pounds of tooth rotting treats has not taken hold there to nearly the same extent it has here. However, Scotland is certainly not devoid of Hallowe'en traditions. Here are some old ones from centuries past. Who knows, maybe some are still practiced today.

The first ceremony of Hallowe'en is for a man and woman going out together to pull a stock of kail (greens). They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes closed, and pull the first kail they meet with. The properties of the kail thus pulled, be it big or small; straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of of the grand object of all their Spells - the husband and wife.

Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. A courting lad and lass are named to each particular nut as they are laid in the fire; and according to whether they burn quietly together, or snap, pop or otherwise start from beside one another as they heat, the course and issue of the Courtship will be.

You yourself should also go out secretly and sow a handful of hemp seed. ( I think that these days that had indeed be an extreme secret ). Look over your left shoulder and you will see the appearance of he or she who will be your true love in the attitude of pulling hemp. ( If you see someone else, especially a uniformed someone else, the modern version of this tradition I believe would be to leg it as quickly as possible ).

Taken from "The Scottish Bedside Book" published by Johnston and Bacon Ltd. of Edinburgh and London, 1957.

The Night Before Christmas

2006-10-26T21:07:00.000-07:00

Christmas 1998

Twas the night before Christmas and inside our house
A creature was stirring and it frightened my spouse
The dishes were placed in the washer I swear
In the hopes that my wife would turn it on if she cared
The children were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions of M & M's danced in their heads
Maydee was in the kitchen at long last and I with my night cap
Had just settled down to watch some satellite crap
When next to the dishwasher there arose such a clatter
That I spilled my Scotch drink and went for another
Away to the booze cabinet I flew in a flash
Tore open the MacAllan and poured a 3 finger splash
The light on the tile floor shone like new fallen snow
Illuminating centruroides sculpturatus - you've heard about scorpions before?
Then what to my wondering eyes should appear
But my little small son and his tired sister dear
Toward them the scorpion scuttled so lively and quick
I knew in a flash it would give them a prick
More rapid than Nascar my scotch glass down it came
Upturned and dumped out a $12 shot, oh what a shame
Oh bugger! Oh blast it! Oh J____s Aitch C____t
Why couldn't it be Johnny Walker Red or something less nice
To the top of the counter, thence up the wall
My wife and the children dashed away all
And from under the Scotch glass came a tippety tap
The scorpion tried stinging. Alas it found itself trapped
Now out on the rooftop my entire family hid
And inside I found a jar with a tight fitting lid
While I was tightening I heard on the roof
My wife wailing and the pawing of four little hooves
Some time later when I had had my dry sac
I felt a tap on my shoulder and my wife appeared. Alas and alack!
Clenched together and still snarling in fear, oh those shiny white teeth
Blazed through the smoke that encircled her head like a wreath
And the look in her eye gave cause for a grow man to fear
Enough is enough she said when she spoke. We can no longer live here
Mellow be rested came the half sober reply
In the morning call that idiot the Terminix guy
With a flash of her eye and a 360 degree turn of her head
I knew I should shut up lest I find myself dead
So I hopped in the car and I drove out of sight
Does anyone know where I can find a fresh litre of the MacAllan at this time of night?

A Really Stupid Truck Driver

2006-10-26T18:49:00.000-07:00

October 2001

If there is one thing I dread when I go into work each day it's getting caught up in a conversation with a truck driver who also happens to be a complete and utter imbecile. Trust me, there are plenty of them out there piloting heavy loads across North America. Today I met what in medieval terms would have been called the Village Idiot.This is a completely true conversation.

How y'all doing today?

Y'all? There's only one of me in the office at present.

Huh? Oh. I'm bringin' yuh a trailer back.

Okay, let me find the paperwork on it.

Hey, yuh hear that Osama bin Laden's a lot more dangerous than what they figured?

How's that?

He got some kinda nuke - not a big one like ours 'course, but like suitcase size.

Really? Where did you hear that?

Oh some buddy of mine tol' me he heard it on the radio today. They need to catch that bastard.

Your buddy?

No man, bin Laden.

Uh huh. Well they're trying to. They're just trying to find out where he is.

I know where he is and how to get 'im. If it was up to me I'd git 'im in two days. No more'n that.

And how would you succeed where the entire might of the U.S. military has not?

Well, he's hidin' in a cave right?

That is the general supposition, yes.

All you need to do is get a buncha bats, like mebbe 5000 or so and attach transmitters to 'em and fly 'em into the cave and that'd tell us how many people are hidin' in there.

Come again?

Sure. Like radar right. Bats live in caves right?

Ye-es. (At this point I was perhaps more incredulous than I have ever been in my entire life)

So fly 'em in there with radar transmitters and that'd tell us how many of Osama's buddies are in there.

Is this a joke?

Hell no man. I was in the army. I know what'll work. They's jus' going about it the wrong way is all. Two days. I'd get 'im.

You know, I don't usually argue with customers, in the interests of customer service you understand. In your case, I'm going to make an exception. While your theory itself is - how do I put this - interesting - there are some practical difficulties. You won't mind if I review some which pop immediately to mind? No? Good. Here they are.

1. In Afghanistan there are roughly a gazillion caves. 5000 bats x a gazillion caves is a lot of bats.
2. You would need 5000 gazillion transmitters.
3. You would need to catch 5000 gazillion bats, feed them, transport them and house them before attaching the transmitters.
4. You would then have to train them to fly into the cave of your choice and not up the nearest fruit tree.
5. What if Osama had a door built into the cave? The bats couldn't get in.
6. If there was a door, you would see it and know already that is a likely spot to bomb so why waste time with bats?
7. If there was no door, maybe Osama would have rigged some netting to catch native Afghan bats that would otherwise try and roost in his beard in their off hours, assuming the netting wasn't in place to thwart trained American reconaissance bats. You have just provided him with food for a month.
8. If there was no door and no netting or any other sort of obstruction, and no Osama either, how would you get the bats out again? I mean why waste all that money on trained radar equipped bats? Perhaps you could use trained falcons that would swoop in and gently carry the bats out in their talons? See objections 1 through 4.
9. If there were people in the cave, how could you be sure they would be Osama and Co? Maybe they would be frightened civilians hiding from a flock of electronically equipped American terror bats?
10. Why not use a small drone instead? Or a Cox airplane?
11. Why am I wasting time talking to you about this?

It'd work man. I'm tellin' yuh.

No. No it wouldn't work. This is such a harebrained scheme it defies desription. Even the CIA in their wildest hallucinations wouldn't dream up something like this.

That's where you're wrong, man. There's weird things and weird people out there in the world.

Yes. You have finally hit on the truth there. There most certainly are.

So you think it'd work?

Sure. But why not send in vampire bats? Have them suck the blood out of Osama and save the effort of training and equipping other varieties of bats with transmitters? If you sent enough of them, and starved them enough first, there'd be nothing left of Osama and the boys in the black hats.

Now you're pulling my leg. There ain't no such things as vampire bats. That's just in movies man. Hey you ever see that vampire show about the truck stop in Mexico and everyone turns into vampires and tries to eat the preacher guy and his daughter? Man, I'd have kicked some ass there. No vampire'd ever get me man. No way!

That was based on a true story.

No way?

Really?

Hell yeah.

Vacation in the American Southwest

2006-10-26T18:04:00.000-07:00

Summer Vacation 2002

Best Laid Plans.....
I don't know why I never get around to writing about our summer vacations until long after they happen, though I'm sure part of the reason stems from taking a long time to get over the experience. Cooped up in a vehicle for hours on end with a 7 year old boy and 5 year old girl can be a test of endurance second to none. I know now what my parents went through when they loaded all of us into the car and headed off for fun and frivolity and I now understand in greater measure the popularity of the National Lampoon Vacation films. Our vacation this past summer was much like an NL Vacation installment, except we didn't have a dead body strapped to the roof. But we did come close.

In the weeks prior to our scheduled departure from Phoenix, for the first time ever I did due diligence with maps and distances and budgets and tuned the car and changed the oil and checked the lights and rotated and inflated the tires on the suv. Normally we just wing it. Pack up, hop in and go. If we forget something, we just buy a replacement on the road. No big deal except we end up with things we don't really need as we already have a perfectly good one at home.
This year I was determined to plan our trip more economically, both time-wise and financially. I also found I enjoyed poring over maps of Arizona, Nevada and California and judging how long it would take to get from Point A to Point B to Point C and so on. Our goal was to head north through Payson, past the Mogollon Rim and stand on the corner in Winslow, Arizona. From there we would head directly to the Meteor Crater and then position ourselves strategically for an assault on the Grand Canyon the following morning. This would be followed by three nights in Las Vegas and five days in Los Angeles and San Diego. No detail would be left to chance.

......Go to Waste
The night before our departure Maydee and I packed the car with all the necessities of clothing, children's toys and toiletries. Because much of our trip was to take us through the Sonoran and Mojave deserts, I decided it would be prudent to stock up on water as well, both for drinking and for emergencies like unexpected overheatings on the side of the road. August temperatures in the American Southwest beggar belief if you have never experienced them and I even had a spare fan belt in the cubby-hole under the seat, along with salt tablets and soakable do-rags. I drove the fully-laden car to Circle K and bought several gallons of drinking water and wedged these in amongst the suitcases in the back. Even though it was 11:00 p.m. at the time, it was still very hot - over 100 degrees farenheit - and the chill from the perfectly functioning air conditioning was a pleasant relief from the heat. In the comfort of artificially cooled air, I looked forward to our departure the following morning.
At 8:00 a.m. we loaded Christopher and Victoria into the car, fired up the engine and turned on the a/c. The temperature hadn't changed much from the night before and already the sun loomed overhead with promises of 110 degrees later in the day. In this sort of heat, the first stream of air that emanates from vehicle a/c units is akin to staring down the tube of a hair dryer at the hottest possible setting. Until the unit begins to function, the occupants of the vehicle are subjected to a brief, tortuous blast of super-heated air straight in the face. Once this unpleasantness is over, the air gradually cools and the climate inside the car assumes a more tolerable level and off you go. Except today.
Today the air didn't cool to more tolerable levels. In fact, it cooled no further than that of the ambient temperature outside. And there is no way you can vacation in the American Southwest in August unless your a/c unit has the capacity to simulate Antarctic conditions. The evening before the a/c unit had functioned perfectly well, but now... What had happened?
"Oh dude, like you need a new condensor!" said the barely post-pubescent service writer at the repair shop after I had unpacked the car and sent everyone back into the house. "Like, all your freon has leaked out. Like, no way can you vacation, like anywhere dude."
"Really? Do you think?" I replied irritably. "Two questions. How long and how much?"
"Uh, well the condensor is like mebbe two and half feet long and..."
"No. I mean how long will it take to fix?"
"Oh. Uh, couple hours or so. Four at most. Once we get the parts. And, um, lemme see, um, no that ain't right. Um, $634.00 plus tax."
"Well there goes the vacation budget. Alright fix away and call me as soon as you have it back together."
Back at home I scowled at the walls, impatient to leave. Maydee busied herself making an early lunch for everyone while the children watched tv. It was no use consoling myself that if the condensor was going to pack it in, it was better to happen now than in the middle of nowhere. My careful plans were now in disarray and mentally I crossed off Winslow and the Meteor Crater from the vacation stops. We weren't going to have time to see them.
At three o'clock the repair shop called to say the car wouldn't be ready until the following morning as they had finally received the parts and had only just begun taking things apart. I groaned and told the kids, who weren't in the least concerned. Maydee nodded in the fatalistic way Latin Americans do when things out of their control go wrong. "Well there's nothing we can do dear," she said. Why don't you go and mow the lawn for something to do." I sulked off to start the mower only to find it was out of gas.

Deus Ex Machina
The next day, despite shouting over the phone at the repair shop, the car wasn't ready until 2:30. Becoming as fatalistic as Maydee, I decided we'd leave the next day. We weren't going to make it very far with only half a day in front of us and the money saved from not renting a hotel room that night could go toward paying for the new condensor. So, that evening we re-packed the car and got a good night's sleep. The following morning at 8:00 a.m. we loaded Christopher and Victoria into the car, fired up the engine and turned on the a/c. Nothing!
Fighting back a nearly uncontrollable rage, I opened the hood and peered inside. The a/c had worked fine returning from the repair shop, so now what was the matter? I couldn't see anything at first, but the more closely I looked at the condensor, the more I thought I saw something glistening in the darkness of the engine compartment. I got out the blacklight we use for hunting scorpions in the back yard at night (they become luminescent under a blacklight), closed the garage door and switched on the lamp. A fluorescent mess like the blood trails of some wounded alien from Star Trek suddenly appeared all over the engine, most of which was concentrated at the neck of the condensor. All the freon had leaked out again and the fan had blown it all over the engine. It turned out that the idiots at the repair shop had forgotten to install an o-ring when completing the repair the day before. A 35 cent part had delayed our departure another day. I argued for, and received, a sizeable reduction from the $634.00 I had already spent, but it didn't diffuse my frustration at being delayed 3 days. I crossed off the Grand Canyon from the list of vacation stops and instead we headed directly for Vegas as we had reservations there that night.

Job Comes For a Ride
The first leg of the trip was uneventful, apart from some squabbling over toys from the children in the back seat and some squabbling over what temperature to set the newly functioning a/c from the adults in the front seat. We stopped just south of Wickenburg at a favourite picnic site and shoo'd off various insects from the sandwiches and drinks we had laid out under a shady elm. The children ran about chasing lizards, seemingly oblivious to the heat, while Maydee and I reclined and sipped cool refreshing sodas.
After we stopped Christopher from prodding with a pointy stick a scorpion he'd found in the grass, and suggested to Victoria that it might be safer not to hang upside down by her legs from the branch of the elm, we tossed the trash from the picnic into a garbage can and headed back to the car. I hadn't yet finished my Coke and so set it on the hood while I unlocked the doors and placed the picnic basket in the back of the car. Evidently I hadn't set the drink in a particularly level spot as it tipped over when I slammed the rear hatch closed and I spent the next few minutes trying to wipe the sticky mess off the vehicle. "Hell with it," I thought. "The car needs a wash anyway. I'll do it in Vegas."
About a hundred miles later we needed gas and so I stopped at the lone gas station in the bustling metropolis of Wikieup, population 3 or 4. As I fuelled up, Maydee took the kids into the gas station to go to the bathroom. In the meantime I waved off a bee buzzing close to my head and swatted at another one that followed it a moment later. After the tank was full, I pulled away from the pumps, noticing a few more bees in front of the windshield, and went into the gas station. Christopher and Victoria were playing a game of tug-of-war with Maydee over an outsized bag of M & M's Maydee refused to buy. I joined sides with Maydee and between the two of us we succeeded in overpowering the children and replacing the candy back on the shelf. Instead we purchased some granola bars and other more nutritious snacks that we didn't really need, but which we prayed would stop the children from complaining the rest of the way to Nevada about how poor and downtrodden they were and how we never bought them anything.
Once back outside, we headed for the car until Christopher stopped dead in his tracks and let out a screech. He pointed to where I had parked and where an enormous swarm of bees now covered the front of the car, the fenders and the grill. What seemed like thousands more buzzed about angrily looking for a place to land. I was dumbfounded. What on earth was going on? A group of elderly Texans travelling together in a monstrous RV that was obliged to stop at each gas station it passed had also gathered at a distance and were shaking their heads in idle curiosity. Then it dawned on me. The bees were probably attracted to the sugar from the Coke I had spilled on the car back at the picnic spot in Wickenburg. They were getting their sugar fix for the day. Just great!
Instinctively, a frightened Maydee hustled everyone back into the gas station. "Get rid of the bees!" she shouted closing the door behind her and peering out through the glass.
Get rid of the bees? How?
One of the ancients from the RV sauntered up and whispered something that hadn't yet occurred to me. "Figure them bees on yer car are killers?"
I started! Oh thanks! Thanks for that thought! Killer bees! Just what I needed!
"If them bees are reg'lar old honey bees, you prob'ly be ok gettin' in," he continued. "Couple of stings mebbe, but not if'n they's killers. You prob'ly git swarmed."
"Yeah? How can you tell if they're killer bees or not?" I asked.
"Yuh cain't" said the codger, "Less'n they's chasin' yuh and stingin' yuh a lot. Killer bees 'n reg'lar bees look the same. Same size, same ever'thin' 'cept them's that killers got smaller wings than those that ain't."
"Are you suggesting I approach that unholy swarm armed with a tape measure?" I replied somewhat coldly.
"Nah, 'course not. Only real way to tell is to smoke 'em to sleep with one of them puffer things, cut the branch off'n the tree they swarmin' on, cover it with a big ole bag and freeze 'em in a freezer. Then when they's dead, yuh measure the wings agin a known measurement from reg'lar bees. Then yuh can tell from an average measure whether that there swarm is Africanized, partly Africanized or just reg'lar ole honey bees. On'y scientists can tell if'n a particklar population o' bees is killers or not. You cain't and I cain't. Not by lookin' anyhow. "
I goggled. Quite the fount of knowledge the old boy was, plus he must have been formerly employed as an engineer or statistician or something. Perhaps I should have asked him if he had a Six Sigma handbook in the RV so we could run an Attribute Gauge R & R on the wing size of the bees. I did spot a couple of flaws in his statement though.
"Well, I have no 'puffer thing' to smoke them with and the bees aren't on a branch so I can't cut it off the non-existent tree. Nor do I have an enormous bag into which I could stick the entire car and freeze it inside what would amount to be a massive freezer and even if I could, I find it quite likely that the population of Wikieup includes a butcher, a baker and a candle-stick maker, but nobody with a doctorate in measuring the average size of frozen bees wings against that of a known sample."
"Well there is that," said the old boy. "Tell yuh what. If'n you ken sneak inside yer car and drive off real quick like and get right up to speed - and I mean break the speed limit as much as yuh can - them bees'll prob'ly blow right off. I can take the missus and the youngsters cowerin' ower there in the gas station an' stick 'em in the RV. Then ah'll follow yuh up the road apiece. When the bees're all blown off, jus' pull over and they ken climb back in."
"The bees?"
"No, the missus and the kids."
There didn't seem to be much else for it and it wasn't really that bad of an idea. Pretty much the only option available. So I very slowly slunk behind the car while the over-the-hill-gang kept a careful watch on the proceedings. There was no way to determine whether these bees were Africanized, but I had heard that 80% of the bees in Arizona were, so there was a reasonable chance I could find myself in a rather nasty situation if the bees disapproved of my presence. At last I reached the rear hatch and opened it enough to slide inside the car. Closing it as quickly as possible behind me, the impact of the door shutting disturbed the bees somewhat and they leapt from the hood and buzzed angrily about for a moment before settling back down to their feast. However, that was nothing compared to the hue and cry they made after I scrambled over the luggage and the back seats and started the engine. The bees simply swarmed the entire vehicle in a noisy black and yellow cloud and so I punched it and tore out onto the roadway as fast as I could, heedless of all traffic laws.
I got up to speed and the bees began to blow off the car. Those that had been unable to re-land on the car when I started it up were long gone, but there was still a considerable number remaining. Unbelievably, at 60 mph, many still remained, but by the time I got to 90 only one was left, stubbornly wedged under the leeward side of the left hand windshield wiper. I turned on the wiper in the hopes of smearing him across the windshield. Alas, he sailed off into the slipstream and was lost to view.
A couple of hundred yards later I stopped and shortly after that the old boy's RV hove into view and weighed anchor. Maydee and the kids disembarked and with a smile and a wave of thanks we drove off towards Kingman.
"That was a close call" I said.
"Yeah", said Christopher. "I nearly didn't get my bag of M & M's." In the rear view mirror I spied him brandishing a 3lb bag of candy. Maydee had lost the second tug of war while hiding inside the gas station.

The Oil Patch
Just north of Kingman it started to rain. When it rains in Arizona, it usually rains briefly, but biblically. We were travelling over a twinned and freshly asphalted stretch of road following two tarped-over flatbed semi-trailers, side by side, one in either lane, neither passing the other. Typical!
Visibility was virtually zero, what with the wipers on high speed and the wash on the windshield kicked up by the rigs in front. Fortunately the inability to see put an abrupt halt on what was becoming an unbearable game of 'I spy with my little eye'. "Christopher, 'atmosphere' does indeed begin with an 'a', but out here in the desert we can't see it. We are no longer in Phoenix and have several days before we reach L.A. You can try and make us guess 'atmosphere' then."
Slowly, belatedly, I noticed my inability to see was not simply a restriction placed there by the wipers, the rain and the wash from in front. Greasy black streaks were forming across the windshield. The side windows too had what appeared to be a thin film of liquid grime coating them. I puzzled this over for half a mile and then, with sudden realization crashing in on me, I let out an anguished howl, slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road. My hatred of truck drivers and their slow moving vehicles reached new heights. The swine pulling the flatbeds in front were kicking up not simply an aquatic wash from the road, but an aquatic wash containing a gritty and very sticky film of oil from the newly laid asphalt. Essentially, they were waterproofing our car.
We sat on the side of the road for five or ten minutes. I was in an impotent rage as I couldn't decide whether to give in to my desire to get out and see how badly the car was covered in oil, and get rained on, or to stay inside, ignorant but dry. My indecision came to an end when the rain stopped abruptly and the sun began to shine brightly on the newly washed desert, the light illuminating the wetness of nearby hills in an astonishing red and purple glow. It was still very hot outside and in temperament so was I, despite the fact the semis were no longer in sight. I shook my fist at the departing rain clouds instead. "Bastards!"
Stepping away from the car I couldn't believe my eyes. The entire vehicle from top to bottom, from front to back, was covered in oil and small tarry lumps. I could hardly see Maydee and the children through the windows and as I stared in disbelief a clump of accumulated tar fell from the front wheel-well into a puddle at my feet.
Stifling an expletive only because of the presence of the children I grabbed the door handle to climb back in and my hand came away with a coating of oily filth. I was beyond shouting now and demanded a Kleenex from Maydee who rummaged in her purse and offered one in silence. The children were silent too as the Kleenex stuck to my hand and came away in strips as I tried to remove it with the other. I slammed the door shut and walked to the rear of the vehicle. Risking another coating of oil, I opened the rear hatch and removed a can of Coke from the remnants of our picnic supplies. Remembering that Coke is not only a soft drink, but also a deoxidant capable of dissolving nails overnight, I thought I might try its effectiveness as a degreaser. I poured the Coke on my hands and rubbed them together vigorously. It worked well enough that additional Kleenexes offered from the passenger window did the trick. I walked back to the driver's side of the car and grabbed the door handle to get back in.... The children learned some new words that day!

A Big Pile of Cement Wedged Between Two Cliffs
Looking like we represented OPEC in some weird and fantastic cross-country tour promoting oil-dripping, gas-guzzling suv's, we continued our drive northward in virtual silence until we reached that dullest of tourist stops, the Hoover Dam.
Having parked and exited the vehicle as quickly as possible so no one would think the oil-covered car was ours, we wandered along the top of the dam and halfway across took the requisite pictures of the children standing with one foot in Arizona and the other in Nevada. The temperature was very hot here between the narrow walls of the Black Canyon and despite the historic significance of the Dam - it was completed in 1935 at a cost of $175 million as part of a New Deal project and now provides the hydroelectricity that powers the sea of neon that is Las Vegas - I wasn't particularly interested. Generally speaking, I find great feats of engineering utterly boring and in this case, to me at least, this was nothing more than a massive pile of cement sandwiched between two rock walls providing me with a convenient short-cut between home and Sin-City.

Christopher too was bored until he spotted a lizard of some sort scuttling along the top of the dam and chased it over the edge. Instead of plummeting 725 feet to its death, the lizard walked horizontally across the vertical wall and reappeared a few feet from where we stood. Christopher chased it over the edge again. "Don't worry Dad", he said, "It's a Western Fence gecko and, as you know, geckos have millions of very small hairs on their toes and these help it stick to any surface, even glass. The gecko is perfectly safe."
Upon returning to the parking lot we found a group of cyclists pointing at the car, which still oozed and dripped in the 110 degree heat. "You guys from Houston?" quipped one. "You got enough oil there to put JP Getty outta business."
"JP Getty has been out of business since 1976." I replied rather haughtily, grabbing the door handle and once again getting my hand covered in oil. I opened the doors for Maydee and the kids to save them the trouble of cleaning their hands by means of wiping them on the seats inside.

Viva Las Vegas
Half an hour after leaving Hoover Dam we spied Las Vegas when it popped out of nowhere at the top of a rise in the road. Maydee had purchased from some telemarketer a three-night excursion package with rooms at the Excalibur for $105.00. Not a bad deal, though hotel rooms in Vegas can be had mid-week for roughly the same price just by showing up without reservations.
As we cruised the Las Vegas strip, I kept an eye out for the entrance to the Excalibur. Like their interiors, the entrances to most Vegas casinos are just as confusing to negotiate and in the past I had more than once missed the entrance to where I had been going. Traffic congestion on the strip is usually the norm and makes turning around both laborious and time-consuming.
Suddenly Maydee shouted to turn left. "Why?" I enquired. "That'll take us into the Flamingo Hilton."
"I know," she replied, "but that's where we have to pick up the vouchers for the Excalibur."
That didn't make much sense to me. Why would a profit-oriented hotel house a business that promoted excursion packages to a competing hotel? Well, stranger things have happened, but I wasn't happy about negotiating my way into the Flamingo and then out again when we should simply have been able to head directly for the Excalibur and check in.
Once inside we were directed to the offices of the company where we were to pick up the vouchers for our rooms. By this time I was rather tired and wasn't in the mood for any foolishness. A beaming and over-courteous blonde counter-rep, hired probably more for her looks than her brains, placed the vouchers into an envelope and handed them to me. As she did she very sweetly enquired: "And at what time would it be convenient for your appointment, sir? We have an opening at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning or at 3:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon. Which would you prefer?"
"Appointment? What appointment?"
The smile disappeared in a moment of confusion, but resurfaced again almost immediately, its radiance increased. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. It's your appointment with our company directors. You know, to discuss your interest in our interval estates."
I looked around, but Maydee had Houdini'd with the kids into the distance.
"Interval estates... My interest in... No, you've lost me. I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
"Oh no, sir! Everyone on this particular excursion is privileged to meet with our directors. I can set your appointment for 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning, which will allow you the remainder of the day free to enjoy our wonderful city." The smile was more radiant than ever. She began pencilling something on a sheet of paper under the counter.
"The remainder of the day... Free... Am I missing something here? I'm on vacation. Every minute I have is free. I'm not on a business trip. Which directors? What company? What are you blathering about?" And in louder tones to my dearly beloved I thought close to a fountain in the lobby: "Hon, where are you?"
The counter rep now looked a little concerned and became somewhat more businesslike. "Sir, it's a meeting to discuss fractional ownership in our interval estates which you discussed with one of our public relations officers when you booked your excursion tickets. Your excursion fare was discounted heavily in exchange for your agreement to meet with our directors."
Dawn rose with a flourish. My garrulous wife had booked the tickets. Any supposed deal, good or bad, always had her talking on the phone with telemarketers for far too long. "Do you mean time-shares!!!?" "HON!!!"
"We prefer interval estates, sir. We offer a high quality product."
With enormous effort I refrained from making a loud and boisterous scene. Instead I leaned across the counter and hissed through clenched teeth. "Do you mean that in exchange for purchasing 'excursion vouchers', in advance, and at the same price I could have obtained mid-week rooms in the Excalibur or any other hotel, I am, let me understand this, privileged to sit through what is undoubtedly a high-pressure sales pitch for some flea-bag time-share sold at an outrageous cost. You're out of your mind. I will do no such thing."
The woman bridled at the mention of the words 'flea-bag' but I continued unabated. "I have driven six hours through desert heat, rain, oil and bees to get here. Now I discover that I have essentially paid good money to sit in a room full of Jekyll and Hyde salesmen whose behaviour, upon hearing that no way in hell will I be parted from my earnings in order to purchase a part-share in the interior walls, roof and carpet of some grubby little cubicle in a part of the country that I have no intention of ever visiting - but would have book in advance if I did only to discover that a particularly incestuous pair of kissin' cousins from Arkansas along with their brood of mutant three-headed infant triplets have dibs on the place that week during the annual Ozark Mountain Drool Fest - will turn from what may most charitably be described as supercilious to overtly overbearing and hostile? Is that what you are telling me?"
"We offer a high quality product, sir."
"This is insane!"
"I'm sorry, sir, but the attendance of both you and your wife is a requirement. We offered a discounted travel package in exchange for your attendance. You have accepted the tickets. You are required to attend. Offer and acceptance. You are legally bound. 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning then. All the details are in your envelopes. Please bring your drivers license as primary identification and a credit card for secondary identification. Daycare will be provided if you have children. Goodbye!"
As the woman sauntered off to light a cigarette I fumed. Turning on my heel I went to find my beloved and our offspring and discovered them happily tossing coins into the lobby fountain. Good money after bad! Humpf! Give me one wish right about now! "All set?" asked Maydee smiling warily.
"Let me ask you something... No, better yet. Hand over the paperwork, directions and so forth, the telemarketers sent you. You understand of course that I have no intention of attending this ghastly time-share sales pitch, though you are. You booked us into this nightmare. You can book us out again." Maydee offered a wad of documents and I riffled through them. "Excellent! No mention of mandatory attendance. Well nothing signed anyway and I signed nothing in the office back there either. Plus I have the room vouchers. Things are looking up! Well, for me at least."
"I thought I mentioned we had to go on some sales thingy" said Maydee. "I thought I mentioned it a couple of months ago when I bought the tickets. We have to go. Both of us"
"Evidently it slipped your mind, dearest." I said, doing my best impression of Vincent Price in a particularly joyful moment just before the torture begins. 'So, tomorrow morning, one of the children - I'm not sure which just yet - will fall ill and be unable to attend. As we cannot leave a sick child alone in a hotel room, nor can we leave a sick child on deposit as a tertiary form of identification at the time-share daycare centre, one of us, me in other words, will have to remain behind. You will attend to remove any quasi-legal obligation we may or may not have with these parasites. Explain the situation regarding the sick child and apologize for the inconvenience of my consequent inability to attend. As I am not there, they can sell you nothing. They need my signature as well as yours. Without me there, they will probably let you leave. I'm sure they will be unhappy, possibly abusive and threatening, but there is nothing they can do. You have my permission to be abusive and threatening in return, not that you need it. If there is a legal obligation for us to attend, which I doubt, no law in the land would uphold the rights of a time-share company over the difficulties of a sick child when efforts were made by us to attend. These things happen. It's unfortunate, but the time-share gang will not go to the expense of suing us and if they wish us to return at a later date, we'll accept free vouchers to the penthouse suite at the Bellagio. Otherwise, no go. And let this be a lesson to you not to talk to telemarketers. When they call, hang up. Got it? Good!"
We returned to the car whereupon I grabbed the door handle once again...

No Sale
The following morning Maydee returned from the time share sales pitch about half an hour after she had left the hotel. As I had predicted, she had been let out of the sales pitch as I wasn't there, but only after she had been verbally abused and threatened with dire consequences because of my failure to attend. From what I could tell, the direst threat was one in which I might have to speak with their CEO on the telephone and explain myself. Now there was an empty threat if I had ever heard one. He was lucky he hadn't received an unsolicited phone call from me already. At any rate, Maydee was equally abusive in return and nothing ever came of the issue afterwards.
Having washed the car and with the rest of the day now free to enjoy what the blonde counter-rep had referred to as a 'wonderful city' we sallied forth and visited the aquarium at Mandalay Bay, which was prohibitively expensive but really quite good. The Rick Thomas Magic Show at the Tropicana was much more economical and was made all the more entertaining by dint of our acquiring front row seats, despite which I still could not see how any of the magic was done. The following day we attended a bird show, also at the Tropicana, at the end of which Christopher engaged the trainer in a discussion of all things avarian, culminating in an exchange of scientific names for the grey parrot, which Christopher didn't know, and the cassowary (both types) which the trainer didn't know.
Horrendous gamblers the pair of us, Maydee and I took turns in the evenings watching the children in the hotel room while one of us would venture downstairs to the casino and seek our fortune. On the only lucky streak I have ever hit, I managed somehow to get a slot machine to offer all kinds of bonuses and extra games, none of which I understood and all of which I hit right on the money until the amount of credits I had showing totalled 1600. Unfortunately this was on a nickel slot and my winnings came to only $80, less the $20 I had originally invested and so I returned to the room with the monetary equivalent of two tanks of gas. Nevertheless I was quite pleased and went to sleep contented while Maydee went downstairs to try her luck. The next morning as we stood in line checking out, I opened my wallet and discovered my previous evening's winnings absent. I turned to ask Maydee if she knew where the money had gone, but like she had at the Flamingo Hilton, she had Houdini'd with the children into the distance. Later discussions revealed that she had lost the $20 grubstake she had been issued with and had sneaked upstairs and swiped the money I had won in order to continue playing. She lost that too. I fumed. Not much else I could do.

Hell's Kitchen
Our next destination was Los Angeles and so we set out across the Mojave Desert with the a/c unit still comfortably blowing cool air Despite the sticker shock of the condensor replacement, I was grateful the unit was now functioning properly.
Our route from Las Vegas to Los Angeles took us very close to Death Valley where summer temperatures range from the unbearable to the abominable. Why people choose to live in this area is beyond me, but live here they do and when we pulled into Baker, California to refuel we discovered the world's tallest thermometer along the roadside. To say the least, this was an incredibly tacky tourist attraction, yet one which accurately recorded the temperature, about the only notable thing happening in Baker, which has to be one of the hottest, ugliest and most forlorn towns I have ever seen. The oppressive heat made it impossible for anyone to be outside for any length of time and the colour of the town was the same as the desert: sun-baked brick. Deserted ghost towns in the wastes of Arizona and New Mexico have more to offer than this horrible little place and even the tumbleweeds that blow their unsteady way across the highway seem to pick up speed in an effort to leave the town behind as quickly as possible.
Nevertheless, here we were and it was lunchtime. In this heat there was to be no picnic outside. Instead, we elected to enter a mall advertising a food court. We had a choice of Pizza Hut, Taco Time, Taco Bell, Burger King, Wendy's, Subway and others. Maydee took the children to the bathroom and while they were gone I decided to try Taco Time and approached the register underneath the Taco Time sign. There was nobody at the register, though a uniformed employee at the adjacent Wendy's register stood silent and sullen and picked at something lodged in his nose. After a few minutes there was still nobody at the Taco Time register and so I glanced over at the Wendy's employee who now appeared to be examining something on the end of his finger. I enquired whether the Taco Time employee might be putting in an appearance any time soon.
The Wendy's employee replied that Taco Time was not open that particular day. "Well then," I enquired, "Why didn't you say something to that effect when I arrived at the counter five minutes ago?" In reply I received a non-commital shrug of indifference. I sighed.
"What is open then? And not Wendy's. It appears unhygienic."
"Uh, pretty much everything else, I think." He was still sullen.
"You think? You know or you think you know? How about Subway? Is that open? I don't see anyone at the register." In fact there were only three employees evident and at least nine registers all along the counter.
"Yeah, that's open."
"Fine, I'll try that."
As I wandered toward the Subway register, the Wendy's employee shadowed me disinterestedly on the other side of the counter and when I stopped under the Subway sign he stopped too.
It dawned on me then that the employees on the other side of the counter were interchangeable and, regardless of the uniform they wore, served up food from any or all of the fast food outlets, unless like Taco Time they were closed for the lunar solstice or something. In any case, now that I was in front of the Subway register and having been told it was open I placed my order. "I'll have a BLT."
The employee in the Wendy's uniform washed his hands, before I had to tell him to, and placed sanitary plastic gloves on afterwards. So far, so good. "Foot-long or six-inch BLT?" he asked.
"Six inch."
"Whaddya want on it?" Had I known my presence and food order was interrupting his otherwise busy day doing nothing I wouldn't have started to get annoyed. But annoyed I got. His finger began to stray toward his nose again.
"What do I want in my BLT? Is that what you are asking me? Don't tell me that's what you are asking me because if you are, how about some bacon, lettuce and tomato!!!
While the Wendy's employee got to work on the Subway sandwich, from down the counter came a familiar-sounding screech. It was Maydee berating a hispanic-looking uniformed Burger King employee. "What do you mean Taco Time is closed? I've been standing here with you not three feet away. Don't you have the intelligence to add two and two together and figure out that I want Taco Time if I'm standing under the Taco Time sign at the Taco Time register? Why didn't you say something? What's wrong with you? My children are hungry and you are an imbecile!" It appeared Maydee too had discovered that Taco Time was closed and had discovered the fact in the same manner I had. At that point Maydee began shouting in high-speed, high-decible Spanish so I couldn't really follow what was being said, but it was easy to tell she had lost her temper and had reverted to her native language to more eloquently express her displeasure.

The City of Angels
The next leg of our journey took us into Los Angeles without incident. The traffic was relatively light, even on the L.A. freeways and without too much delay we arrived at the house of a friend who had kindly lent us his abode while he spent the week with his girlfriend in Riverside. We got settled in and had just turned on the tv when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Greg calling to see if we had arrived I picked up the receiver, idly noting that there were 17 messages waiting for him on his answering machine. A puzzled female voice asked if Greg was home. I replied that he wasn't. The female asked who I was. I said I was a burglar breaking and entering and had picked up the phone without thinking. "Oh!" said the voice. "Uh..."
"Tell you what," I said, "If you'd like to leave a message for Greg I'll try not to leave fingerprints on his notepad and he can call you when he returns."
"Oh! Uh..." Not the brightest of sparks.
Finally I explained I was a friend visiting from Phoenix with my family while we took the kids to Disneyland. "Oh." said the voice again. "Do you know where Greg is?"
Having known Greg for some time I decided it might be best to answer that I did not. Both Maydee and I had met Greg's girlfriend on a number of occasions and I could tell from the voice that this was most definitely not Kristie. The caller hung up and I returned to the couch to watch cartoons with the children. A few minutes later I heard a key turning in the front door and stood up to find Greg wandering in, trailing a long legged brunette. This time I could tell not so much from the voice as from pretty much everything else that this wasn't Kristie either.
"Wanker Canuck," said Greg in greeting.
"Scumbag Republican," I replied. "What are you doing here?"
"I forgot a few things," said Greg as he made introductions. "Just came by to pick them up and we'll leave you guys in peace. Hi Christopher. Yo, Vicky. And of course, Maydee how are you? Looking good as always. If you ever decide to leave your wanker Canuck husband, give me a call."
Maydee gave Greg the finger as she puzzled over the brunette she knew wasn't Kristie. Thankfully she remained silent on the subject and while she and the brunette sat and chatted together I followed Greg down the hallway where Greg began gathering up beach towels and other odds and ends. He gave me a sly smirk and said he had changed his plans at the last minute, but not to worry. The house was ours for the duration. I told him about the call from the unidentified woman and added that it wasn't Kristie and that I had said I hadn't known where he was.
"Right answer!" said Greg. "Knew I could count on you. Don't worry about Kristie calling or anything. I told her you and I were meeting up in Vegas for the weekend so you should be good. Just try not to answer the phone if you don't have to and on no account let Maydee answer the phone at all. Another female voice answering my number wouldn't bode well for my future welfare."
"Alright. No worries. Have a good time and thanks again." And with that Greg and the brunette departed.
Maydee shook her head in disbelief and said that this seemed so typical of Greg. I nodded and turned my attention to the phone which was once again sounding an alarm. "No one answer," I said and explained to Maydee the probable consequences to Greg if she did. A short time later we left to dine at Marie Callender's and returned after slightly more than an hour to find another brunette on Greg's property, this one ringing his doorbell.
"Looking for Greg?" I asked. The brunette replied that she was and that she had left numerous phone messages for him. I told her who we were and what we were doing, but that I didn't know where Greg had gone, only that he had left me a key to get in. The brunette handed me a business card and asked if I could have Greg call her if I heard from him. I silently noted that it was a good thing she hadn't shown up an hour and half before.
A couple of days later I called Greg on his cellphone as we were leaving and told him of the brunette's appearance and that I had left her business card on top of his fridge. Greg went wild when I mentioned her name and he cursed her in absentia. Evidently he had told her never to show up at his house uninvited. "Yeah, well, apparently she didn't listen," I said. "Oh, and by the way, your answering machine can no longer accept messages. The damn thing was driving me crazy until finally the tape ran out, but there must be at least 3 or 4 different hotties calling you by the sounds of things.
"Cool," said Greg. "Be a bud and delete them all for me would you? My mom is supposed to call and let me know some stuff and that's one message I need to get."

Gridlock
Over the next few days while we weren't unavoidably eavesdropping on Greg's answering machine we toured some of the attractions of the greater Los Angeles area. Our first stop was Disneyland and while Greg's house was no more than 10 miles due north of Walt Disney's wonderland it took us nearly 45 minutes to get there. The traffic on the I-5 Freeway gave lie to the words Free and Way. I had thought traffic on U.S. 60 in Phoenix was bad, but that was nothing compared to the gridlock we encountered in the drive towards Anaheim.
The last time I had been to Disneyland was during the U.S. bicentennial in 1976. I was all of fourteen then and was thrilled to see the glitter that gave the Magic Kingdom its nickname. This time around, probably because I am much older, there seemed to be a lot less glitter, but I certainly got excited over the entrance fees. After parting with $150 for the four of us we entered only to find Victoria was too short for most of the rides and that Christopher was unwilling to chance his young life on the fun stuff like the Matterhorn roller coaster and the Pirates of the Caribbean. Instead I found myself relegated to sharing a train ride with Christopher on a slow-moving and circuitous tour through Mr.Toad's Manor as well as holding a frightened Victoria tightly by the hand while viewing Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty's Castle. Much of the rest of our time there was spent trying to find as many hidden Mickeys as we could while standing in interminable lines under an intensely hot sun to meet and greet an overheated and grumpy Winnie the Pooh. Not long after we arrived, we were ready to leave.
We waved good-bye to a sweating Tigger and a badly miscast Cinderella who really ought to have donned an ugly stepsister costume. Instead we drove north toward Santa Monica. Or I should say we crawled north. The traffic hadn't cleared up very much and the line of cars on the I-5 and I-10 freeways resembled an enormous snake without end. Two hours later we hit the beach. Everyone splashed about and had a good time building sand castles, collecting shells and digging up sand fleas. The ferris wheel perched on top of the Santa Monica Pier offered spectacular views of the city and out over the Pacific, especially when the sun set in the evening. Overall, we found Santa Monica much more to our liking than Disneyland and I found myself wishing we had spent the entire day there instead.
The following morning we set forth for the Wild Animal Park in San Diego as my boss had generously given us free tickets from his unused book of seasons passes. As a nearby resident in Escondido he usually purchased a book and doled them out to visiting relatives, but this year he hadn't drawn the short straw when most of his relatives had decided to vacation elsewhere. We became the beneficiaries of his generosity instead.
The Wild Animal Park, as distinguished from the San Diego Zoo, is a unique 2,100 acre preserve where animals wander freely in surroundings much like their natural habitats. The exhibits are large and the animals have a great deal more freedom to roam than in any other zoo or animal sanctuary we'd visited before. The children were thrilled with all the animals on display, particularly an aviary named Lorikeet Landing. Inside one is allowed to feed the tropical birds with a small cup of 'special nectar', which is really nothing more than sugar water. The birds would flap down from on high and settle on one's hand or arm and dip their beaks into the outstretched container and fly off again after having had their fill. At one point, Victoria had no less than 7 of these birds squabbling with one another over first rights to her cup and Christopher became upset as he had only 5 birds affixed to his person. He didn't remain upset for long as at least 3 of Victoria's Lorikeets decided to answer a call of nature on her sleeve all at the same time. This caused a great deal of merriment.
We gave up an attempt to return to San Diego the next day. We had intended to take the children to the tidal pools at Point Loma in Cabrillo National Monument. Not a chance. The gridlock was so bad that after two hours of sucking other peoples tailpipes we pulled into San Clemente State Beach instead. This turned out to be a great little seaside getaway with the ubiquitous California surfin' dudes riding the waves at the north end of the one mile stretch of sand. There were hiking trails atop some wind-sculptured bluffs and to spoil it all, a train track that produced freight trains every half an hour less than 100' from our beach towels. The waves, though, were much bigger here than at Santa Monica and we all tried to build a huge sandcastle that would withstand the onrush of water as the tide rose. We lost that one despite the use of kelp, seashells and stones as fortifications. I came away quite sunburned, but thoroughly happy.
On our last day in L.A. we toured La Brea Tar Pits, which were fascinating. I had seen the Tar Pits on television before and always had the impression they were located at the base of one set of mountains or another in the greater L.A. area. I was seriously wrong. They were located just off Wiltshire Boulevard with office blocks and towers on all sides and hustling, bustling traffic threading its way around the site. The George C. Page Museum on location had a number of well-presented exhibits displaying the bones of animals which had fallen into the pits over the millenia. Included in these were dire wolves, sabre-tooth cats and woolly mammoths.
Outside the museum one could tour pits under excavation, which really amounted to not much more than filling a bucket full of oily sludge, measuring the depth at which the sludge was taken and removing and recording the bones thus discovered. I'm sure there is quite a bit more to it than that, but it does look like a very simple operation. Victoria succeeded in finding a seepage of oil on the grass outside one of the excavation sites and spent a few minutes prodding the hole with a stick she found somewhere. This brought back fond memories of our drive north of Kingman earlier in the holiday and so I confiscated the stick forthwith. Thinking it might be a nice souvenir of La Brea, I stuck the stick back into the hole and extruded a large oily blob which I wrapped around the stick much like one would with taffy. This I placed into an empty plastic bag which I tossed into the back of the car next to the suitcases. The bag promptly tore open, the oil oozed out and proceeded to smear itself all over the trunk space as things got shifted about while we started our trip back to Phoenix. And you have to love the smell of raw crude whilst entrapped in an enclosed space on a hot day. With the a/c on, the temperature was fine, but the stench was overpowering. With the a/c off and the windows down, the stench wasn't quite so bad, but the heat was overpowering. Attempts to clean the car failed. We just spread the oil about. Just perfect! I still have the stick on display in our own little museum downstairs as a reminder not to be so stupid in the future.

Granny
Our last stop in L.A. was at a mall somewhere out near Fontana. We had stopped in for a late lunch before continuing on to Phoenix and as we entered the mall we noticed an elderly woman seated on a bench just outside the restaurant. She looked a little forlorn as we passed by and she was still there forty-five minutes later when we left. She still looked forlorn and so Maydee stopped to ask her if she was alright. The woman smiled slightly and said that she was. She was on an afternoon outing with her son, but he had vanished into the depths of the mall with his girlfriend because, apparently, he found his mother's perambulatory abilities wanting. In other words, she couldn't keep up, which was hardly surprising given the fact she turned out to be 87 years old, and so he abandoned her on a bench while he went shopping with his girlfriend. She had been sitting there alone for nearly two hours, she said. Maydee nearly hit the roof upon discovering this and so we stayed with the woman for another quarter of an hour just to keep her company when the middle-aged son finally put in an appearance. He was none too pleased to discover his mother talking to strangers, but when an irate Maydee shamed him in loud and voluble terms and threatened to have him charged with abandonment of the elderly or something, he calmed down, apologized to his mother and then they all left, the elderly woman now giving her son a good talking to.
I told Maydee that she had a knack for befriending the oddest people in the oddest situations and that in future she should leave well enough alone. She could simply have given the woman a plastic-wrapped ham sandwich and a coke and be done with it, else she might follow us home. I was kidding, of course, but Maydee was annoyed. Christopher, logical soul that he is, pointed out the fact that the woman couldn't have come home with us because we didn't have room in the car. I told Christopher that was true, but if we expended a few dollars on bungie cords we could have strapped her to the roof rack and passed up cold drinks on occasion. Maydee fumed, stamped her feet and stormed off in the direction of the car. Christopher and I laughed and by the time we rolled into the driveway a few hours later, we felt much better after having survived the trials of a holiday in the American Southwest.

A - Camping - We - Shall - Go

2006-10-26T17:26:00.000-07:00

June 2005

A-Camping-We-Shall-Go

I don't think I've gone camping since I was eighteen or nineteen years old. I have, of course, sat around campfires choking on wood smoke and getting grungy between then and now, but have not actually stayed overnight in a tent for nearly twenty-five years. Now that Christopher and Victoria are in Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts they have been subjected to various sorts of propaganda espousing the benefits of living in the great outdoors. Recently both of them came to me and asked if we could all attend one of the numerous scouting camp-outs put on by their local packs. I thought this was a great idea, especially since living under nylon was something we could all enjoy together as a family. I brought up the idea to Maydee who seemed somehow reluctant to go and wandered off mumbling something about dirt, bears, mountain lions, mosquitoes and lack of hygienic facilities. Nevertheless, over the course of a few weeks I persevered and Maydee eventually caved in and agreed to go. By this time, unfortunately, all the summer camping slots for the Scouts and Brownies were filled and it looked like the children were to be disappointed. Upon hearing the bad news Maydee appeared much happier than she had been for a while and whistled tunefully to herself as she set off out the door to have her nails done at a local salon.
A short time later I took the children to REI Outfitters to look at new bicycles and discovered that REI was hosting a campout at Chatfield Reservoir. Tents could be rented along with any other camping supplies suburbanites like us might not have in our personal inventory of junk stacked rafter high in the garage. Having signed all of us up and loaded the back of the car with rented camping equipment, I returned home and announced the good news to Maydee that in a few short days we would be living in harmony with nature for the weekend. Maydee was less than enthusiastic and it suddenly appeared that nature was to provide the only harmony I was going to get for some time.
At any rate, Saturday June 11th 2005 was the big day and the kids were all excited, especially as Christopher had invited a friend of his named Justin to join in the fun. While I mowed the lawn before we were due to go, Maydee packed up stuff she thought would be useful on the trip. When I finished mowing I found piled inside the house sufficient supplies to keep us on safari for six weeks. There were at least six changes of clothes apiece (short pants, long pants, t shirts, shirts with long sleeves, socks, coats, mittens and hats) along with bathing trunks, towels, blankets, Tommy Hilfiger pillows, bug spray, sunscreen, three large bags of food, a large cooler full of drinks, books to read, books to colour in, books to draw in, boxes of crayons, pencils, paints and portable battery-powered DVD players with a wide selection of movies. While I stared aghast at the mountain of useless crap Justin pedalled up on his bicycle carrying one small backpack and a bag of Oreo cookies. Sensible child. Before I was finished loading our stuff I found we had to take both SUV's. Yes, that's right, two SUV's full of stuff for a one night camping trip at Chatfield Reservoir 8 miles from our front door.
Upon arrival we set up camp in a treeless plain under the guidance of the REI people whose main source of help and advice was to tell us the best views could be had if the door to the tent faced the nearby mountains. And here I was all along thinking it might be nice if the door faced the parking lot. Other than that we were given a mallet to pound the tent pegs into the dirt. Half an hour later we were done and off we went on our bicycles to Chatfield Marina where we watched the barely pubescent park police make a nuisance of themselves to anyone riding on or in any sort of water transport. While one poor victim stormed off to his vehicle to fetch some ownership documents for his Wave Runner (evidently the registration wasn't good enough) the cop tried to chat up his girlfriend perched on a second machine. "First time out?" asked the cop knowingly. "Yeah, whatever," came the reply. Around this time another cop in a boat loud hailed at top volume a third Wave Runner thirty feet away.
"What's the age of the driver on that machine?"
"I'm 37, pal, and I can hear you clearly without your friggin' amplifier. I'm not at the other side of the lake."
"The little girl sitting in front of you. How old is she?"
"She's 6 and she's not driving. I am. What's your problem?"
"The person sitting in front is deemed to be in care and control of the watercraft, sir. If the girl is 6 she can't be sitting there. She must sit behind you."
"And if she falls off? What then? This is ridiculous and so are you. She's sitting in front of me so I can watch her and make sure she doesn't fall off."
"I don't like the tone of your voice, sir, nor your insinuations. If you do not immediately move the girl to the rear of the machine, I will have no alternative but to take whatever steps I deem necessary in order to maintain a safe and enjoyable day for all those on the lake this afternoon, up to and including the confiscation of your watercraft."
The response was mostly unintelligible, but sounded like a wail of frustration from someone who wanted to commit murder but was unable to find the immediate means to do so. Instead the little girl moved to the rear of the Wave Runner and the pair zoomed off into the distance, no doubt to once again switch spots as soon they were out of sight of the fun patrol.
Maydee was less than impressed with the police and said so fairly loudly. This got a smile from the girl on the nearby Wave Runner, whose boyfriend returned brandishing a thick volume of papers showing ownership of probably everything from his house to his car as well as his watercraft. The cop glared at us and I decided it was best we depart before they ask for the ownership papers on the bicycles and the children.
We cycled back to camp to find clouds rolling in over the mountains. "Looks like rain," I said. "Lovely," replied Maydee. "This is why I hate camping." Not that she had ever camped before, but I decided it would be prudent to not to mention the fact. Looking at the tons of safari supplies heaped outside the tent, I told the kids to move some of it back into the car. Not all of it would fit inside the tent and much of it would be rendered even more useless than it already was if it were to be rained upon.
We were just finishing our third load each while Maydee hopped inside the tent to arrange what stuff we had in there when the sky opened up with unbelievable ferocity. One moment there was warmth and dryness. Two seconds later the temperature dropped 20 degrees and nature in all her harmony dumped a river of water onto us from a great height. We were running for the tent when an incredible wind sailed through. As there were no protective trees, we got the full effect. Victoria was blown off her feet, but recovered nicely by doing a somersault and headed for the door with the lovely mountain view. Christopher and Justin held onto one another and continued a staggered path in the same direction. I took up the rear and could not believe the intensity of the wind, which was now making the boys progress very difficult. As all of us reached the tent at roughly the same time, there was some hesitation as to who should enter first. This suddenly became a moot point.
What can be described only as a maelstrom from hell hit us. The tent took on all the properties of a four masted schooner without the schooner but all the sails. The pegs were ripped from the ground and the tent 360'd across the campsite much like a high-speed merry-go-round, anchored only to earth by Maydee's 98lb weight and what supplies were inside. I caught occasional glimpses of my wife inside during each rotation. Oddly enough my initial thought was that she didn’t appear to be enjoying the mountain views as they flashed by intermittently, despite the fact her eyes were as wide as dinner plates.
The wind died down sufficiently that all of us could now enter the tent and our additional weight prevented the tent from sailing off any further into the distance. We were soaked to the skin and suddenly the extra clothes Maydee had brought along seemed like prescient foresight. Not that we could get to them, loaded inside the vehicles as they were. And then the wind picked up again, more ferociously than before. Each of us sat splay-legged on the floor and leaned against the walls of the tent with our arms spread in a vain attempt to stop the fabric from blowing in on us. Victoria was frightened, especially as she does not like thunder and lightning and there was now plenty of that overhead. The rain beat down with such intensity that it stung our backs through the canvas protection and our soaked shirts. Maydee was still wide-eyed and only Christopher and Justin seemed to be enjoying themselves. For my part, I was hoping the storm would pass quickly as I suddenly remembered I had left the digital camera hanging from one of the bicycle handlebars outside.
Just as quickly as it had started, the rain stopped, the wind abated and the sun began to shine again. We climbed outside to see the aftermath and found a number of adjacent tents either blown away entirely or skeletal without their fabric coverings. A picnic table had overturned and many of our fellow campers were huddled inside their vehicles. I discovered my digital camera face down in the mud underneath my bicycle. The kids were now running around whooping with joy that we had survived, but their joy was short lived as Maydee finally emerged covered in ketchup and pieces of Oreo cookie, her hair askew and looking rather wild.
"Pack up!" she said. "We’re going home!" And with that she stomped off to her car and drove away. The rest of us took down the tent and otherwise loaded the remaining camping gear, bicycles and so on into my car and left ten minutes later. I guess I’ll have to wait another 25 years before I get to try camping again.

An English Holiday

2006-10-26T13:41:00.000-07:00

An English Holiday

( Short Version of 'Summer Vacation 2001' )

"Am I given to understand," asked the doctor assigned to us by the U.S. Embassy in London, England "that you have no record of immunization with respect to measles, mumps and rubella?"
"That is correct."
"Might I enquire why this is so?"
"You might."
"Well?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. I was waiting for the actual query."
I was in the final stages of being granted Permanent Residence in the United States four years after my employment had been transferred to Phoenix from Edmonton. Rather than extending my U.S. work visa every so often it had seemed an easier proposition to apply for a 'green card' allowing my family and me permanent residence south of the 49th parallel.
Of course, applying for U.S. permanent residency meant that a wealth of forms had to be filled out. And anytime a wealth of forms is filled out, human error is likely to step in. Despite my having dual citizenship, the legal firm employed to process my application had studiously ignored my Canadian citizenship in favour of my U.K. citizenship and I was now obliged to attend a residency interview at the U.S. Embassy in London rather than at the U.S. Consulate in Montreal. Unfortunately for me, part of the residency interview required that I present past records of immunization. I had no such records and had now been sent to a local clinic to receive the inoculations.
"Well?"
"Well, my father is a doctor and when I was a small child living in Britain he simply brought his little black bag home on occasion and jabbed me with the necessary. No doubt records of these inoculations exist somewhere, but I do not possess them."
"Employed under the auspices of the NHS, was he?
"I believe so."
"Poor chap."
"Doubtless that is why we emigrated to Canada."
"Unfortunately, without documentation proving you were the recipient of these inoculations, you must receive them now. Otherwise you cannot proceed with your residency interview.
"Will it hurt?"
"Yes."
"I don't like needles. Is there another option?"
"No! Next, please!"
The nurse prepared what seemed to me the largest needles in her inventory.
Feeling much like I had wrestled naked with a hedgehog and lost, I leaned against my wife for support and, with our children in tow, we wandered back to the Embassy.
The rest of the interview process was painless and eventually we were each issued an oversized envelope, stamped officiously in bright colours over every possible seam, and told on no account to open them until we arrived at our stateside port of entry. Now that the official part of our visit to Britain had been dispensed with, we were free to spend the remainder of our time inflicting ourselves upon unsuspecting relatives.
We boarded a train for Colchester at the invitation of my Aunt Norah, who had just returned from sunning herself in Majorca. "Please do come up to Bures," she said, without any notion of what she was in for.
Bures St. Mary is situated directly on the Essex-Suffolk border in East Anglia, with the picturesque River Stour dividing the village neatly between the two counties. Although quite small, Bures has not failed to contribute its share in the annals of British history.
An important wool trading center in bygone years, the village boasts a 13th century church containing the remains of John Constable's aunt, whose name I can't recall. It doesn't matter I suppose, though I've always wondered why people and institutions cling to any thread of fame, no matter how nebulous. Constable's dear departed auntie can't be much of a tourist draw, although I'll readily admit history becomes more alive when one encounters small unexpected details like that.
The church also contains a wonderful 14th century chestnut effigy of a crusading knight, purportedly that of Sir Richard de Cornard. This is one of only two remaining wooden medieval effigies in Suffolk. Sadly, during a mid-17th century Puritanical tirade aimed at protecting the residents of Bures from the liberal excesses of Roman Catholicism, Cromwell's New Model Army hacked up the effigy with their swords.
Today the vandalism continues unabated, though in more modern form. Not long before we arrived, local hoodlums broke into the church, damaging part of it in the process, and guzzled the sacristal wine. Vandals really should learn to appreciate the history around them instead of acting like Philistines. Personally, I coveted the effigy and would liked very much to have transported it safely home with me, propped it up in the corner and used it as a drinks trolley.
Norah's was a splendid little cottage with a wonderful garden in the back, the centerpiece of which was a splashy frond-covered pool containing an elusive frog. "We want to see the FROG!!!" was Norah's introduction to the children. I considered trotting down to the church and praying fervently to the Almighty on repentant knees to please, if You never do anything for me ever again, produce the damn frog!
Each morning I would arise early to take a walk in the crisp English country air. There is nothing so peaceful as an English country lane shortly after sunrise. Morning dew covered everything in a damp blanket and traced with heavy wet beads spiders' webs woven overnight on fences. Moles scurried about and one could find traces of their nocturnal activities in the little mounds of earth they left behind. I recognized from my childhood in nearby Norfolk much of the flora and in fond remembrance of that time plucked chestnuts from a tree in order to teach the children the game of conkers.
I plucked a sprig of holly too, skewering my thumb rather painfully in the process, and thought I remembered that the orange coloured berries growing on a particular sort of bush were edible. Later on Norah said that was correct and that they were commonly called bread and cheese berries. That was what they tasted like. One morning I hurriedly remembered that doc leaves grow next to stinging nettles and provide an opportunistic antedote to a pain I hadn't encountered in nearly thirty years.
At the end of my morning walk, I'd wander into a local shop and buy a newspaper and some milk or bread for the children. As this was a small village where everyone knows everyone else, the proprietress seemed inquisitive about my repeated presence, but held her tongue and everything was perfect in the world. With the residency interview over, all anxieties had worn off. There is a lot to be said for doing nothing at all.
During the day Norah would take us on outings in her car. We went to the seaside at the Edwardian town of Frinton and spent a lovely afternoon collecting shells on the beach. Another day we spent wandering the streets of Lavenham. With justification, Lavenham may be said to be the finest surviving example of an English medieval town and ownership of one of the haphazard timber-framed houses there is much sought after.
Norah also took us to Colchester Castle, which William the Conqueror built as the East Anglian counterpart to the White Tower in the Tower of London. Now a museum, inside the castle the exhibits were extensive and ranged from the historic to the macabre. There were Egyptian mummies donated by a local family, early human cremations still in their clay jars, stone and Bronze Age tools and weapons and even a charred piece of the wall that had failed to protect Colchester when Queen Boadicea of the Iceni sacked the town in A.D. 60. Boadicea had done so in retaliation for the murder of her husband and subsequent rape of her daughters by Suetonius' 9th Legion.
Virtually all the exhibits were clearly marked and the attached notices explained a little bit about each one. My personal favourites were two skulls and a severed forearm from Boadicea's sacking of the town, in which it is estimated 30,000 people perished.
During the day when we weren't out exploring, the children played in a playground at the local school. They met some new friends fairly quickly and it was interesting to notice Victoria exhibiting some early Boadicea-like tendencies. She approached a girl about nine years of age who was whizzing back and forth quite contentedly on a swing and ordered her off. "You go on my swing. I want yours," she said in unmistakable military overtones. The girl, five years her senior, complied without question.
Christopher, on the other hand, was more introspect and spent a good deal of time patiently answering questions about America. After I caught a frog hopping through the undergrowth on the edge of the playground, he and some of the children vanished through a hedge into someone's back garden and put the frog into a decorative pond. While I couldn't actually see him through the hedge, I knew he was perfectly safe. I could hear him lecturing knowledgeably about reptiles and amphibians to be found in the Sonoran Desert.
On the way back to Norah's we caught another frog and kept it to put into the pond there. Her frog, it seemed, had chosen new living quarters as it hadn't so much as croaked since our arrival. However, at the 11th hour it at last put in an appearance. There it was on the edge of a lilypad, staring with cruel amphibian eyes at the new and prospective interloper. I hoped the two frogs would get along better than did Christopher and Victoria when sharing a bath at home. Norah said the larger frog might engage the new arrival in territorial combat. I said that was about right and reiterated my hopes.
My own remaining time in East Anglia was spent comfortably sprawled on Norah's sofa reading Sassoon's Memoirs of a Fox-hunting Man. I envied Georgie's life of riding to hounds, despite some reservations regarding that sport and my decided lack of motivation to pursue any past-time that involved horses.
Our last morning in Bures was the day I attempted to prove the veracity of Aaron Hill's rhyme; "Tender handed stroke a nettle and it stings you for your pains. Grasp it like a man of mettle and it soft as silk remains." Aaron Hill was an unmitigated liar.
And so it was with some truculence I entered the shop to buy my morning paper. The proprietress was in fine form and bade me a good morning as I crouched among the aisles seeking some pain-relief medication more effective than doc leaves. While I found nothing for my efforts other than a bottle of Tylenol - utterly useless for nettle stings - another woman tiptoed into the shop and with a furtive glance in my direction whispered sotto voce to the proprietress. "Is that one of the Americans staying in the village?"
I cringed. Every time I come to Britain, because of my accent I am often asked if I am American. And while this is an innocuous question - most people are simply curious or just wish to strike up a conversation - the answer usually invites further explanation, which I find rather tiresome.
To be untruthful and say 'Yes, we are American' has the effect of enlivening the inquisitor, much like an unsatisfactory answer did Torquemada during a dull moment. A tortuous series of questions about America usually follows. An answer of 'No, we're Canadian, but we live in Phoenix.' results in much the same thing, with an additional request for clarification on why it is we live in the United States if we're Canadian. Sometimes, when pressed, I respond with an answer, which subjects the curious to such unexpected detail on my origins as to leave them speechless. With a bit of luck anyway.
"I don't know if he's American or not," whispered the proprietress in reply.
"Go on. Ask him then," said the customer. "Be nosy for once in your life."
"You ask him."
"No, you ask him."
"No, you!"
I was beginning to feel like Darryl van Horne in the Witches of Eastwick.
"You ask him. It's your shop."
I emerged from behind a food rack and approached the counter with my paper. Both ladies were smiling sweetly. I smiled back.
"50p please," said the proprietress. I handed over the cash and beetled straight for the door. I didn't make it.
"We were wondering...," said the proprietress, after further urging from her friend, "Are you by any chance American? We heard there was an American family staying in Bures and, well, are you of that family?"
I stopped still for a moment and then slowly and deliberately turned to face them both. They were beaming from ear to ear.
I beamed back. "That's a question I'm asked quite a lot," I said. "I never quite know how to answer. Perhaps you could help. I was born in England of an Irish mother and a Scottish father and lived shortly thereafter in the Outer Hebrides where I began to speak Gaelic. Next I lived on the Scottish mainland just north of Inverness until I moved to Norfolk, which, as you know, is the next county over. From there I emigrated to Canada where I met my Guatemalan sweetheart, had two Canadian children and, feeling the frost a bit too much, picked up sticks for Phoenix, Arizona, USA where I now reside in the broiling heat. Currently I am in Bures visiting my aunt."
The proprietress exhibited all the symptoms of being stunned with a hammer. As I departed whistling "Happy Days Are Here Again" I heard her customer say: "See! That's what you get for being nosy!"
All too soon our holiday ended and we found ourselves en route for Chicago, where we were to de-plane and present our Embassy-issued multi-coloured envelopes. My wife and children blubbed halfway to Greenland after saying goodbye to Norah, whom we couldn't possibly thank enough for having us to stay. I too was saddened and in an effort to cheer up, I purchased from duty-free 6 kilos of Jelly Babies and a very good bottle of Scotch.
We were stamped through customs and immigration in Chicago in good time and were officially granted permanent residency in the United States of America. After re-boarding for Phoenix we arrived home quite late only to discover that in our absence my prize hibiscus had died through lack of water and was lying prostrate on the front porch. Our automatic Rain Dial had reached the end of its warranty life and in accordance with computerized instructions from the manufacturer had given up the ghost two days after our departure. The next day we dug up the hibiscus and instead planted some roses obtained from a local botanical garden. Like the roses, we too were beginning a new life in full bloom.

The Three Wishes

2006-10-24T16:26:00.000-07:00

Summer 1999

THE THREE WISHES
Once upon a time there was a woodcutter who lived with his wife in a log hut deep inside a great forest. Every day the woodcutter went out into the forest to fell trees. Then he would saw the trees into boards and sell them. That was how he made his living.
One day, the woodcutter saw a big oak tree growing in a distant part of the forest. "That's odd," he said to himself. "I've never noticed that tree there before."
He set his lunch down and grabbed his axe. But when he raised his axe to make the first cut, a shrill voice called out. "Stop!" A tiny wood-sprite shot out from inside the tree."Please don't cut down this tree. I wouldn't cut down your house. Please leave mine alone too."
The wood cutter scratched his head, unsure if he was dreaming. "All right," he said. "I won't cut down this tree." He picked up his axe and turned to go.
"Wait a minute," said the wood-sprite. "I'm grateful to you for not cutting down my house and to prove it I'll give you three wishes. Be sure to use them wisely."Then the wood-sprite disappeared and the woodcutter made his way home.
When he arrived home he was quite hungry. He called to his wife. "Let's have lunch. I am very hungry."
Now it happened that the woodcutter's wife had spent all morning cleaning and scrubbing and she didn't feel like stopping to make lunch. "Can't stop for lunch," she panted. "Anyway, what's wrong with the lunch you took with you this morning?"
"I don't feel like eating it," grumbled the wood cutter. "I wish I had a loaf of freshly baked bread instead."He had hardly finished speaking when there was a thump and a freshly baked loaf landed at his feet. There was the first wish gone.
"Oh what a fool I am," he cried and he told his wife about the wood-sprite and the three wishes. His wife became angry."Why don't you think before you speak," she shrilled. "Oh I wish that loaf of bread would attach itself to your nose." And it did. And that was the second wish gone.
There was nothing to do, but use the third wish to remove the loaf of bread from the woodcuter's nose and all three wishes were used up.
"Never mind," they said. "Let's eat the bread and forget about the whole thing." And that is what they did. The bread tasted better than any bread they had ever eaten before. Magic bread always does. So if anyone gives you three wishes, remember this story. Don't waste your wishes like the woodcutter and his wife.
THE END

Y1K

2006-10-23T16:27:00.000-07:00

December 1999

Medieval World Fears It Isn't Y1K Compliant

Dateline: Europe, A.D. 999 – Waves of panic have carried as far as castle walls. Land barons have raised taxes and stepped up their schedule of exploiting serfs in anticipation of a Y1K shutdown. Concern has reached even the nobility. Sir Samuel Morley of Great Wickham-On-Tyne frets that Y1K issues could stall the next Crusade. "It could affect drastically our ability to massacre civilizations we don’t understand. We simply must become Y1K compliant." While no one really knows what that means, concerns such as Sir Samuel’s echo across the length and breadth of Europe.
In the English countryside there is widespread fear that rivers will turn to blood and that dragons will walk the Earth. Many commoners are stockpiling stale water and rancid meat for fear these won’t be available after Y1K. "I would be boarding up my windows right now", said one peasant on condition of anonymity. "If I had windows. Or boards." Many of his neighbours scheduled to succumb to plague and famine in the New Year are dying early to avoid the rush.
Across the Channel in France the panic has fostered a booming market of quick-fix charms, everything from animal entrails to Holy Relics. Yet some fear that the pending crisis is overblown. "Mankind loves to imagine horrors in the unknown and populate our frontiers with creatures of our own hysteria," Medieval scholar Theodoric the Elder proclaimed to a crowd of students outside the University of Paris. During a pep rally afterwards, Theodoric was decapitated and burned at the stake.
The calmest Y1K reactions come from those who understand the least. "I can’t count so I don’t know what is going on," opined one village idiot. "Utter ignorance has always worked for me and I’m sticking with that."
And there are those in denial. "Technically, this isn’t the millenium", the German Royal Mathematician Abacus said. "Since there was no year ‘zero’, the thousandth year of Christian history does not begin until 1001. But, of course, no one listens to me."
Organized religion too appears to be mathematically disadvantaged. Said Biblical expert Friar Edgar, "The mark of the beast is 666. So this year we encourage those carrying out persecutions to hang heretics upside down before burning them. We are working day and night to find a way to blame the pending crisis on infidels and others who do not support our views in Rome".
In Northern Europe, Y1K fears are not as prevalent as in the South. Viking warrior Hrothgar the Vengeful explained: "Most of us here in Denmark have not yet been converted to Christianity, so Y1K means very little to us. We are compliant in terms of our own religious counting and have nothing to fear for the next several hundred years."
Hrothgar’s father, Hrothgar the Tyrant added that pillaging Southern Europe is a national business enterprise and that Y1K fears in England and elsewhere may work to their advantage. "Panic and divisiveness amongst the populations of the Lower Countries can only bode well for our own future. Divide and rule. That’s this nation’s foreign policy now."
Sir Samuel of Great Wickham-On-Tyne disagrees. "If we are unable because of Y1K to mount an Expedition to save Jerusalem from the Infidel, we will be that much stronger at home. Foreign businesses like the Hrothgars’ are in for stiff competition right here along our shores. Divide and rule? No government in their right mind would ever consider that as foreign policy. What a lot of nonsense!"
As the millennium approaches, there remains in some quarters a patient fatalism. "There really isn’t anything we can do", said one Astrologer. "We shall continue to assure everyone who will listen that the sun will keep revolving and that the Earth will rise again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. And we shall continue to assure everyone of this until the Church tells us this is blasphemy".

The views expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the publisher. For comment, please reference Y(insert whatever numeral you like here)K. Responses may or may not be forthcoming dependant upon system failure.

Conversation With An Okie

2006-10-17T18:20:00.000-07:00

Summer 2000

Chapter 1: Prelude to Disaster
Dear Diary,
I haven’t had a chance to write for a while. It has been indescribably busy at work here in Phoenix and I simply haven’t had much time to languish idly at the computer. I won’t go into all of the tedious details of why it has been busy, but part of the reason is due to being short-staffed, most notably in the mechanic department.
While I was away on holiday a short time ago, I left the office in the charge of one of my assistants. The sudden, though temporary increase in responsibilities brought to light a character trait in this particular individual which had heretofore escaped my notice. In short, he became crazed with power.
The office itself remained largely unscathed from his attentions, but he managed the mechanic’s shop like a Gestapo Storm Trooper amok during a Hitlerian economy drive. No detail was small enough to escape his notice. The shop was too much of a mess, trailers were not being repaired quickly enough, completed repair orders did not flow into the office in a timely fashion, parts were not being ordered in sufficient quantities, and, Heaven forbid, food and drink were being consumed in the work areas. The final straw came when he removed a tub of bubble gum from one of the mechanic’s tool chests. The resultant effect of all of this was that both mechanics quit.
I congratulated my assistant on this accomplishment when I returned. I pointed out to him that there should now be no more trouble with untidy premises, late or incomplete paperwork, infrequent repairs or any of the other problems he encountered simply because there was now no one there to cause them. I also added that I had ordered mechanic’s uniforms for him and frog-marched him into the shop to fill in while I attempted to repair the damage.
Magnanimously, I replaced the shop water-cooler he had removed in my absence. According to him, he had removed this in strict accordance with company rules regarding the placement of beverage dispensers in work areas. When the temperature in the middle of the Sonoran Desert reaches 110 degrees Fahrenheit, it is my firm belief that the company would turn a blind eye to the presence of such dispensers. It would be considered cheaper to provide water for the mechanics within easy reach than it would be to replace them on a daily basis due to heatstroke.
I called the first mechanic and half-heartedly asked him if he would like his job back. He indicated that he had found work elsewhere on a nightshift and this allowed his wife to work during the day while he looked after their children. No real loss. He had a tendency to whine about everything anyway and this had become tiresome. It also forestalled his periodic forays into my office trying to sponge money from me to tide him over until payday - payday being three days before in one instance - or attempting to have me co-sign some massive loan which he had no hope of ever repaying. He was a hick from Wyoming whom we had nicknamed Dokie.
Next I called Dokie’s former partner in intransigence, Okie. Sparing no effort to hide this individual’s true identity, I’ll name him Carl Cannedy. Aged 47, Carl hailed most recently from the grasslands outside Paris, Texas, whence he had fled at the age of 17 after his father had threatened him with a gun. Until his hasty migration to East Texas, Carl had spent his youth in the rural parts of Oklahoma, where residents breed their own stock. Carl indicated that he’d like to come in and discuss the issue of his departure, but not when my assistant was present. I agreed to this.
He arrived at the office at approximately 5 p.m. looking much like he always did; that is to say, much like a disheveled garden gnome. Standing at 5’2" inches tall, Okie possessed one of the most unkempt beards this side of the Mississippi and a pot belly that preceded his appearance by a goodly distance whenever he rounded a corner. He generally wore suspenders of a multi-colored hue and when these were not covered in grime they were the brightest part of him. I beckoned him into my office and bade him take a seat. I could always clean the upholstery afterwards but a good mechanic is hard to find.
Grinning in his usual toothless fashion, Okie asked how I was doin’ and sat hisself down. I began the conversation by asking if he would like to come back to work. Previous experience had taught me that any other preamble to a conversation with Okie, other than getting right to the point, would result in confusion. He tended to ramble on and at times I found it difficult to understand his version of the English language.
"Ah’ll tell ya somethin’", he drawled.
Perhaps ‘drooled’ is more appropriate because he paused for a moment to wipe away with his sleeve a rivulet of tobacco juice flowing from his mouth into his beard. This rivulet had its headwaters somewhere in the region of a chaw lodged in his lower lip. "It was fine workin’ here when you was here, but when you went off on vacation, man that other guy was a sumbitch."
The ‘sumbitch’ referred to was my assistant Jeff. "Yes, well I’ve had a word with Jeff and he won’t be quite so, shall we say ‘enterprising’ in the future. In any case, I was gone only for two weeks. In all honesty, I find it difficult to believe that you couldn’t have waited until I returned to discuss any issues you may have had.
"Ah cain’t work with someone like thet aroun’. Ah cain’t. He gotta go before ah come back. The second yous was gone, he come into the shop wavin’ a buncha papers aroun’ sayin’ they weren’t filled in right. Hell, you know ah cain’t write good, but you never had no problem with me fillin’ out repair orders. On top of that, he was tellin’ me to move all them damn trailers aroun’ the yard. Ever since my accident, ah ain’t been right in the back an’ it hurts if ah’m in the damn truck too damn long. An’ of course the shop was a mess. He kep comin’ out sayin’ to fix this and then fix that an’ sheeit, we ain’t finished one job an’ then he wants us to start on another one. How’s we s’posed to keep up with sheeit like thet? An’ then he took out the cooler ‘cause he said we was havin’ water fights in the shop an’ thet was dangerous. We weren’t havin’ no water fights me an’ Eddie (the aforementioned Dokie). We’s just throwin’ water at each other to cool off ‘cause it got so hot. An’ then he took my gum away. You won’t lemme smoke in the shop so ah gotta do sumthin’ to keep my jaws busy, ‘part from my chaw. Said the gum’d attract bugs’re some sheeit and ah couldn’ have it."
Okie’s octave level had risen noticeably toward the end of his rant to the point where I was about to interrupt and tell him to calm down. He is an excitable fellow and tends to shout and to gesticulate a great deal when he has a long thought he needs to express. What he lacks in vocabulary though, he more than compensates for in volume.
Matters aren’t helped by the fact he possesses two hearing aids, both of which are normally turned off. This serves two purposes, according to Okie. Firstly, it saves on battery life. Secondly, he needn’t wear hearing protection as required by company safety mandates while conducting repairs that are loud by nature - buck riveting for instance. Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize that everyone else can hear quite well and that his fervent discourses tend to make everyone else within earshot wish that they too had hearing aids that could be turned off.
"Look, Carl. I am not about to get rid of Jeff. Despite some problems you and he may have had - yes I know, Eddie too, please don’t interrupt - he is a valuable employee. Despite his overzealous approach to certain matters which you have outlined so eloquently, he was in charge during my absence and at those times what he says goes. Problems you had with him could have been addressed when I returned and addressed, I hope, to everyone’s satisfaction. Perhaps the issue of the gum removal was a bit extreme, but he was within his rights as was his concern about the water-cooler. You and Eddie could have found a different way to cool off other than hurling cups of water at one another. That is dangerous. You could have slipped and fallen as the floor was bound to get wet. As you intimated, you have already been hurt once here and you don’t wish to get hurt again now do you? No, please don’t interrupt. Of course you don’t. Perhaps it would have been best for Jeff to have explained the dangers of slippery floors instead of removing the cooler, but there was no reason to quit now was there?"
"Whet does intymated mean?"
"It’s the past tense of a verb, meaning ‘To hint or to indicate; to announce."
"Oh."

Chapter 2: Zen and the Art of Semi-Trailer Repairs
It might be worth a sidebar here to explain the accident alluded to. Several months ago Okie and Dokie were working together on a trailer in an attempt to replace a bushing, which kept one of two axles in place. The axle was supported by means of jack-stands and a porta-power unit, which kept the axle - and the trailer - suspended from the floor of the shop during the repair proceedings. Due to inattention - or stupidity - Dokie applied air to the trailer brake system to inflate the air-ride suspension and thus raise the axle a bit higher so Okie could access the bushing more readily. In order to maintain a safe work environment, a readjustment of the jack-stands immediately afterwards was necessary. This never occurred. Now de-stabilized and supported by only the porta-power unit up its backside, the 17,000 lb. trailer shifted position and collapsed, the axle striking Okie in the guts as he lay underneath wiggling things with a 4 lb. sledge hammer. The hollow boom that marked the moment when the trailer collapsed resounded into the office, raising a few eyebrows, as did Dokie’s panicked screams to call for an ambulance. Miraculously, using one arm to drag himself along, Okie crawled into the office clutching his stomach and collapsed himself. This was ghastly. You have no idea the amount of paperwork I was now obliged to fill out. Reams of the stuff, but first things first. We called an ambulance.
The paramedics began to attend to Okie by asking him some questions while preparing an IV. "What happened?" asked one.
"Huh?" responded Okie, grimacing.
The question was repeated three times and each time Okie failed to respond. The paramedic, probably believing Okie to have fallen into a state of shock, leaned closer to him and asked rather loudly if he knew where he was.
"Course ah know where ah am. Ah’m at work. Where the f#%& do you think ah am?" came the reply.
"Okay, okay", said the paramedic. "Calm down. You didn’t say anything when I asked what had happened."
"Well ah ain’t got my f#%&*$# hearin’ aids turned on do I?" Okie turned his hearing aids on. "You wanna know whet happened? I had a goddamn trailer fall on me, thet’s whet happened. Whet’s thet ya got there?"
"This is an IV," said another paramedic hovering ghoulishly over the scene, brandishing a plastic, liquid filled bag and several tubes. "We’re going to insert an IV into you in case you have internal bleeding. You don’t want your veins to deflate from blood loss do you?"
"Ah don’t want no drugs. Ah’ll git fired if ah take drugs." He began to thrash about in an attempt to get away from the IV.
Time for me to step in. "Um, Carl. I won’t fire you if you take drugs in this particular instance. Okay? This is simply a saline fluid anyway. No drugs." Despite the injury, it was all any of us could do to stop from laughing. Paramedics included.
"Whet’s saline?" Someone laughed. I think it was Jeff.
"Salt water. Don’t worry about it."
More thrashing about at the sight of the needle. "No needles, no damn needles. Ah’m goin’ home fer a rest. Ah’m okay".
"Let me get this straight. You just had a semi-trailer fall on you and you’re going home for a rest? I won’t put the needle in if you don’t want me to, but I think that after what has happened a needle is best. It won’t hurt." This from the paramedic.
Time for me to step in again as the thrashing about increased. "CARL! Let them put the damn needle in your arm and stop making such a fuss!"
"Okay, boss." The needle was inserted and off went the paramedics with Carl secured tightly to a stretcher. And yes, when you ram the back of the ambulance with the stretcher, the legs fold up just like on TV and in goes the hapless victim just like that.
Okie’s wife called later on in the day to thank us for getting the paramedics to attend to her husband so promptly. She mentioned also that the hospital had had to operate on Okie for a lacerated artery in his abdominal region - Okie later referred to this as a laced arty - and that the operation had been a success. It transpired too that Okie’s appendix wasn’t in first rate condition either and that this had been removed as a precautionary measure. Two operations for the price of one. Evidently there was a fuss afterwards when Okie discovered what had happened.
"You removed my appendix?"
"Yes," replied the doctor. "Although unrelated to your injury, it appeared as though your appendix would rupture soon so we took it out when we operated on you for the lacerated artery."
"Ain’t an appendix an organ?"
"Yes."
"An organ? You took out a f#%&*$#’ organ? Don’t ah need all my organs?" Beginnings of panic and some thrashing about commenced.
"Well you don’t need your appendix."
"What does it do?"
"Nobody really knows."
"What the f#%& kinda doctors are you? You don’t know what my organ does so yuh take it out anyway?" Panic then set in decisively and a sedative was provided promptly and free of charge.
Later on my boss flew in from L.A. to conduct a comprehensive accident report as is required by the company. Okie was back at work by this time and we all stood outside next to a trailer similar to the one that had collapsed in order to attempt to reconstruct as closely as possible the causes of the accident. My boss has done many reports like this over the years and is very detailed and precise. Everything must be just so.
"Tell me again why you were replacing the axle bushing," my boss asked Okie.
"Cause it was wallered."
"Wallered?" My boss looked confused.
"Yep." There was no elaboration. Just "Yep."
In a rare moment of indecision, my boss stood there in the bright Phoenix sunshine unable to decide whether to write the word ‘wallered’ into the report. His pen touched the paper, then rose, then dropped and then rose again. It was easy to see what was running through his mind. He couldn’t write ‘wallered’ into the report because he didn’t know what it meant. Or in fact if he had even heard the word correctly. He didn’t want to ask Okie for an explanation of the word because Okie probably didn’t have one. The bushing was wallered and that, simply, was that. If he tried to badger Okie for an explanation, this would add stress to an already stressful situation. In fact, Okie believed this report was preliminary to having him fired. So my boss engaged another tactic.
"That’s quite the accent you have there. Where are you from?" This approach was designed as a roundabout method of discovering if he had heard the word wallered correctly. It was going to be a long day.
"Paris."
"Presumably Paris, Texas?" A slight chuckle from my boss in this sly attempt to lighten the somber mood.
Okie looked puzzled. "Yep, its in Texas." He gave me a look, which indicated he believed my boss to be insane. I doubt Okie had ever heard of France.
Chagrined that his attempt at humour had fallen on deaf ears, my boss gave up. "Wallered, you say?"
I sighed. There were better things to be doing than wasting time in conversational circles "For the purposes of this report, it might be advantageous to substitute the word ‘worn’ for ‘wallered.’ By doing so, one may avoid rustic nomenclature and come to understand the true meaning of the sentence."
"Gotcha" said my boss looking grateful. He placed pen to paper. Okie looked lost, which was the point.
A month or so later my boss held a meeting at my office on an unrelated matter with other employees who flew in from various out of state locations. During the course of the meeting the overhead projector packed it in at a critical juncture. My boss glared at me across the conference table to indicate his disapproval of my choice of overheads. I merely shrugged my shoulders and told him it appeared the bulb had wallered. That was the first time any of us in the room had seen him laugh so hard he actually cried.

Chapter 3: Grapes of Wrath
Whenever I engaged in conversation with Carl, it always seemed to me that the strains of ‘Dueling Banjos’ crept into my subconscious. I have seen "Deliverance" with Burt Reynolds only once, but I was always reminded of the scene with the young toothless hillbilly trying to outplay the city slicker whenever Okie began to speak. Carl was that toothless hillbilly all growed up and set loose on an unsuspecting world.
He employed words like ‘yonder’ and ‘wallered’ in general conversation without knowing either that they were archaic or beyond the comprehension of those brought up with electricity and running water. It wasn’t that Okie was particularly stupid, he could be surprisingly shrewd when the occasion warranted, yet he came from a completely different environment. His was a sheltered, rural upbringing where his father had ruled the roost with an iron fist and kept strangers at bay with a shotgun. He had had virtually no schooling and to a great degree was ignorant of most of those things everyone else takes for granted. He may never have heard of France, but once enlightened and given a fistful of Francs he could have figured out the exchange rate lickety split. Moreover, he was a good mechanic and had learned his trade the hard way. Which is why he had objected so strenuously to my assistant’s high handed supervisory machinations.
"When thet boy of yorn come out into the shop, he reminded me of my daddy after he warshed a jug of ‘shine down hisself. An’ ah promised myself ah’d never take thet sheeit from anyone agin. It was like he was drunk on power an’ nothin’ me or Eddie could do was good enough."
"Well, as I mentioned, I don’t think Jeff will be quite so…."
"Did ah ever tell ya ‘bout whah ah left home when ah was a kid?"
I settled back into my chair. The night was still young. "Can’t say you ever did Carl."
"My daddy was a hard man, yes he was. I had eight brothers an’ we all had to work when we was eight or nine. We was sharecroppers. You know whet thet is?"
"Vaguely, I’ve read Steinbeck."
"Well I ain’t never heard of him, but we hep’d farmers take in their crop an’ git some in exchange which we’d eat or sell. An’ we had a patch of land ourself an’ we grew our own sheeit on there as well. But we was allus hungry and we didn’ have no money an’ cause we didn’ have no money, daddy’d send us out to work doin’ whetever we could.. Which is why ah’m a good mechanic see. I can fix anythin’ with bailin’wire or whetever ‘cause ah had to. Then Daddy got some money from somewheres, ah don’t know from where, and we set up a lumber mill. You know whet a lumber mill is?"
"Vaguely, I’ve read Paul Bunyan."
"Oh. Yeah, well anyway we worked that mill fer a long time but we felled all the trees on our property an’ so we had to git more from somewheres else. At first we’d clear land from the neighbors an’ git to keep the wood fer the mill, but then they wanted to sell us the wood an’ so we didn’t make no money. My daddy tried to sell the mill so’s we could do somethin’ else but nobody’d buy it. By this time my older brothers had gone to the city ‘cause my daddy was too hard on ‘em and anyhow there weren’t food enough fer us all. We’d be workin’ before dark and stop after dark and when they lef’ ah had to do more an’ more me an’ my brother. Man ah’ll tell ya. And daddy got meaner and meaner and drunker and drunker. Then my brother lef’ in the middle of the night an’ when he woke up my daddy was so mad. He said the next one to leave would be goin’ in a pine box if he lef’ at all. I was the only one lef’ so yous know whet thet meant?"
"Presumably it meant you weren’t devoid of wood to the extent that you couldn’t make a coffin?"
A long and puzzled silence ensued terminating abruptly in convulsions and tears of laughter. A particularly large and gruesome wad of chaw splattered onto my desk. Okie swept this onto the floor and ground it underfoot. "Heh Heh Heh! Yeah, I guess we had thet much lef’. Man thet’s funny. Sheeit I never thought of thet."
"Where was your ‘maw’ during all of this?"
"Oh she lef’ years ago with some guy thet came aroun’. Yep, thet didn’ last though an’ she was livin’ with my brother inside of Paris ‘til she died. Anyhow, daddy got up and went fer his shotgun. I don’t know whet he planned to do, mebbe jes’ scare me a little but ah weren’t havin’ none of thet so I hit ‘im an’ ran off. I ain’t never seen him since, but I heard he died in ’72. Sumbitch! Hope he’s in hell!"

Chapter 4: Let Them Eat Cake
Marx believed that democratic government was essentially unviable in a capitalist society. The democratic regulation of life, he believed, could not be realized under constraints imposed by the necessities of profitable production. Marx was right. Generally speaking, most places of employment tend to lean toward the right of the democratic spectrum in order to get things done profitably. In many cases, one person has the final decision on how things will operate. These decisions may sometimes seem arbitrary or totalitarian in nature, but are often taken for the benefit of the company and, with any luck, for the benefit of the employee as well. Having said that, from time to time it is wise to ask employees’ opinions on certain matters and to make decisions with the benefit of having weighed all the alternatives. In this manner, the workplace will run more smoothly and productively and a greater sense of democratic involvement in the decision-making process will prevail. This keeps employees happy and, thus, one may avoid the introduction of Karl Marx posters glaring down at one from the walls of the workplace.
It was obvious to me that my assistant had not studied comparative politics at any time in his life and this was what had led us into difficulty. Had he done so, he would have learned that many revolutions occur due to the pangs inherent with the onset of hunger. Of course there may be underlying factors as well - the arbitrary prevention of water fights and subsequent removal of water coolers for example - but if the Okies and Dokies of this world have full stomachs, they are generally content. At the very least they are less likely to foment rebellion. Had my assistant explained the dangers of slippery floors in a repair facility -though anyone with a working brain cell should have realized these dangers - he could have avoided the first stirrings of discontent. Unfortunately, he had been too totalitarian and it was painfully obvious now that the removal of the tub of bubble gum had been the flash point of the whole affair and this was what was now keeping me at work and away from my own supper. The whole matter could have been avoided by the simple expedient of allowing Okie to retain a few pieces of bubble gum in his pockets while explaining to him the health hazards of exposing an entire tub of the stuff to the multitudinous insect life of central Arizona.
"Well, as I said Carl, I am not going to get rid of Jeff for being a bit harsh on you and Eddie. I have spoken to Jeff about this and am satisfied with his responses. You, on the other hand, could have called in sick until I returned. You could have stuck it out until you had an opportunity to discuss matters with me. You could even have tried to discuss things with Jeff himself or another member of staff. There are many things you could have done, but you chose to leave instead. I understand that you are averse to working in an environment, even for a short period of time, which may or may not have resembled your upbringing, but quitting is rather extreme don’t you think?"
"Mebbe, but I jes’ couldn’ take it workin’ fer him."
"Okay. Are you willing to return to work though? I can say with certainty that Jeff will not be on your case as he was when I was away."
"Yep."
"Good man! Knew I could count on you to do the right thing."
"S’long as Jeff’s gone, you gimme a $2.00 an hour raise and hold mah job open fer a month ‘til I try this other place. If ah don’ like it there, ah’ll come back here. If Jeff’s gone an’ I git a $2.00 an hour raise thet is." Okie smiled his toothless smile as though he was catching fish in a barrel. The look on his face told it all. We had no mechanics and he believed we were between a rock and a hard place. This be negotiatin’ time!
Well, I admit that this was a turn up of the plus fours! Right out of left field in fact! Yet, I couldn’t decide if Okie was trying to be shrewd or just being incredibly stupid. Utterly perplexed, I knew somehow there was more to this than met the eye. "I take it that you are working now?"
"Yep."
"May I ask where?"
"I ain’t tellin’."
"It wouldn’t be at Motor Cargo would it?"
"Now how in hell you know thet?" Okie was as dumbfounded as I had been moments before. "You readin’ my mind’re whet?"
"No, my first clue was the Motor Cargo uniform shirt you are wearing."
"Oh."
"Are they paying you well over there?"
"Same as here."
"Benefits the same?"
"Yep."
"Have a nice day."
"Huh?"
"The answer is no."
"Jes’ like thet. You ain’t gonna gimme whet ah want."
"Nope. Your ‘requests’ are tantamount to holding the company and me for ransom and I’ll have no part of it. You made a rather hasty decision to leave without thinking it through and if your pay and benefits are the same at Motor Cargo as they are here, then I’ll wish you the best of luck and no hard feelings. In actual fact, I have a couple of replacements lined up for your job as well as Eddie’s. Just make sure the benefits at Motor Cargo are the same as they are here. I don’t think they are you know. I keep getting their mechanics in here looking for work, so be warned. If you want your job back, I’ll hold it open until end of day tomorrow and that’s it. No raise and Jeff remains."
"Oh." Okie sported a rather forlorn look, which didn’t quite mask his previous look of triumph. "Thet don’ seem right though. Mah wife tol’ me thet a lotta times if you quit a comp’ny and git asked back like yer doin’ now you git more money when you’re hired back on agin."
"Your wife is incorrect."
"Naw, mah wife’s right. She allus is. Yous know where ah’m at. Gimme a call when you change yer mind. I ain’t changin’ mine."
Okie went home, as did I. Now we were playing the waiting game. Or, rather Okie was. I was indescribably busy.

Chapter 5: End Games
Three days later I received a call from Okie. "You an’ me we’re goin’ fer lunch. Ah’m buyin." This was more of a demand than an invitation.
"Sorry Carl, I can’t. I am indescribably busy and I simply haven’t the time to sit idly at a greasy spoon with you. I’m processing the paperwork for your replacement."
"You, you, you mean you hired someone?" His tone of voice altered from demanding to faltering.
"Indeed."
"Oh". Now there was definite note of disappointment.
"How’s things going for you at Motor Cargos?" I asked, knowing full well how things were going for him at Motor Cargo.
I held the phone away from my ear, as an audible increase in octave level wailed across the line. "Ah cain’t take it. Ah cain’t. You ain’t got no idea. Ah gotta fill out all kinds of paperwork with part numbers fer parts ah use. I keep getting in sheeit fer not fillin’ in paperwork right, they ain’t got no water out in the shop an’ this ain’t no shop. It’s a damn tin roof and there ain’t no fans’re nothin’. Ah have to use a computer to log sheeit in fer repairs and ah ain’t no good at thet. Hell you know thet. Yous did all thet fer me. An’, an’ an’ ah don’ git no sick time or paid holidays or nothin’. Ah gotta move trailers aroun’ the yard and mah back hurts since the accident still. An’ this place is such a mess if you slopped the floor a pig wouldn’ eat off it. This is the worst place ah ever worked at. An’ ah have to supply mah own air lines. That ain’t right."
The strains of dueling banjos began to hum in my subconscious. "Hmmm. Unfortunately I filled your job here so there isn’t much I can do. I have to ask though how it took so long for you to determine that Motor Cargo is less beneficent than you had initially been led to believe. You've been there a few days since our little chat."
"Whet does bennyficent mean?"
"It’s an adjective meaning ‘kind’ or ‘bountiful’."
"Oh. Well, ah got sick next day an’ took some time off which is how ah found out ah don’ git sick days here. Plus ah’s helpin’ Eddie out. He got into a car accident and had to go to the hospital so me and the wife were helpin’ out Eddie’s wife and sheeit."
"What about Jeff being here? What about the raise you wanted?"
"Oh hell. Thet ain’t nothin’" Okie’s tone became conciliatory. "We’s can work thet out me an’ Jeff. An’ benefits is better than money sometimes."
"Well Carl. As I said, I have no position open here. I can hardly rescind the job offer to the new mechanic. However, if he quits and returns to work at Motor Cargo then I’ll give you a call. Okay?"
"He come over from Motor Cargo?"
"Yep. He sho ‘nuff did" I replied. I replaced the telephone receiver into its cradle, leaned back in my chair and propped my feet up on the desk. Figured ah’d take fahve minits from bein’ indeescribably busy and enjoy life fer a bit.

Dubya Comes To Town

2006-10-16T20:10:00.000-07:00

May 2001

"So kids. What do you want to do today?"
I asked the question whilst hiding behind the morning newspaper, waiting expectantly for my breakfast egg. It was Memorial Day, the tail end of a long weekend. Maydee was up preparing breakfast and unfortunately she had already ruled out a day of hoped for lethargy composed mostly of molding my spine to the contours of the sofa.
"I have some things to do today and the three of you will find something entertaining to do," she had said prior to the commencement of breaking yolk. "Moreover, whatever you do will entail a modicum of intellectual interest. This precludes lunching at a McDonalds with a play area," she had added, as though reading my mind.
"Yes dear. Whatever you say."
"I want to watch TV," said Victoria in response to my query.
"Yeah," said Christopher clutching the remote excitedly. "The Land Before Time movie is on Toon Disney today. All the Land Before Time movies are on. It's a marathon." He pointed the remote at the idiot box, his index finger itching to push the power button.
Oh don't. Please don't. I thought to myself. You'll start World War III.
"No TV!" said Maydee calmly, but firmly. Simultaneously she slid an egg from the frying pan onto my plate and grabbed the remote from Christopher. "You are not watching TV and especially not those stupid cartoon characters. On top of everything else that I dislike about them, even their English is bad."
"Besides," said I, devouring a bit of egg and waving my fork about in reluctant agreement, "We already live in the Land Before Time. It's 300 degrees outside and the lizards in the garden are becoming larger and more carnivorous with each passing day. You can watch them instead. I think we should go to the dinosaur museum and learn about real dinosaurs."
"We've been there," said Christopher, completely unenthused with the idea.
"Yeah. They have a lungfish that scares me when it opens it's mouth," said Victoria.
"A lungfish? I thought the dinosaur museum had bones and other mildly fascinating bits of prehistoric detritus, not live animals."
"A lungfish is a living dinosaur, Daddy," said Christopher assuming the role of junior paeleontologist. "It's there as an example of evolution and it's boring."
"And scary," said Victoria, assuming the role of frightened child.
"Alright, alright. We'll find something else to do." Then a headline caught my eye. "Hmmm. What's this?" I jabbed at the newspaper with the fork. "Do you guys really want to watch a stupid cartoon character that can barely speak English?"
"Yeah! Woohoo!" cried C & V in a rare chorus of unanimity. Usually they squabble incessantly over everything, including which Disney channel to watch.
"What did I just say?" asked Maydee brandishing the frying pan menacingly. "No TV. None!" She placed the remote in The Very High Place in the cupboards. I watched, surreptitiously committing the spot to memory, there being many Very High Places in the cupboards, along with the other remote control hiding spot called many Dark Places Under the Furniture.
" Did I say TV? I did not. In fact, I believe what I have in mind includes the prerequisites of being entertaining, yet intellectually stimulating at the same time. Well, sort of anyway. A stupid cartoon character who barely speaks English is coming to town today to make a Memorial Day Speech, in two hours and not two miles from our front door. This is perfect."
"Who or what is it?" asked Maydee suspiciously. She still held the frying pan.
"The President of the United States."
Maydee had absolutely no interest in seeing George Dubya Bush, but she did point out that the President's route from Williams Field Airport to the Champlin Fighter Aircraft Museum was not being released to the public. The newspaper article said as much. The President was in town only for three or four hours before leaving for L.A. to participate in the rolling blackouts there and as security was bound to be tight - even for such a short visit - presumably the fewer people that knew of the route, the better.
"So if you don't know how he's getting to the Museum, how are you going to see him?" she asked. "If you don't know the route, he could be anywhere. Sounds like a waste of time to me."
"Well I don't think this is a waste of time. When was the last time you were ever within egg throwing distance of a President of the United States? How will we find his route? Elementary my dearly beloved. Time to sport our thinking caps. By good fortune, Dubya is arriving in close proximity to the Malcolm Compound here in Gilbert. And because we live here, we already know the lie of the land. The airport, being small, has only one entrance and one exit. Therefore we know exactly where Dubya will be at some point today between 12:00 and 12:30. Unfortunately, security is bound to be tightest at bottlenecks such as that and the presence of foreign nationals such as ourselves parked on the side of the road waving Canadian flags and books on English prose would likely warrant us unwanted attention."
"So how will you see him then? What if he takes a helicopter from Williams Field to the Museum?"
"Easy. He won' t take a helicopter. If he had intended to, the newspaper would have mentioned it. It wouldn't have said the route was not being released to the public. These things are always planned well in advance right down to the last welded manhole cover. Once he leaves Williams Field, the shortest route to the Museum is up Power Road, one measly mile away. Trust me, there will be a motorcade and that motorcade will follow the path of least resistance and take the shortest distance between two points. Human nature dictates it. So do security concerns. We'll park off Power Road and wait. Need anything returned to the Book Depository while we're there?"

A short time later C & V and I parked under a shade tree in a parking lot off Power Road. We had stopped first at McDonalds to investigate a new play area, bought some burgers and then sallied forth following battalions of police cars, motorcycles and trucks tossing out barricades at every intersection. Security was tight, but also plainly and obviously outlining the President's route.
Helicopters darted about overhead and passersby took notice of the activity. A few people had gathered at the side of the road, most having just discovered the nature of the event. But not all. "What's up?" enquired a large woman dressed in flowing purple tent robes. She was accompanied by two equally massive grandchildren with scowls on their faces. They took up most of the shade under the tree, but also provided a great deal of their own.
I debated telling her there was a sale on foodstuffs at Wal-Mart, but decided against it. She was bigger than me. "The President's here today. He'll be along in a few minutes."
"Rully? Cool! Hear that kids? The Pres is comin' in a few? Which way, ya know?"
"I would imagine it matters very little if he travels north or south along the thoroughfare, given that he'll pass by within sixty feet of here whichever way he comes. However, as he arrived at Williams Field, he will be travelling in a northerly direction. From that direction to this." I pointed to clarify.
She digested this for a moment. "I wus a senior in high school when they shot JFK. We got the day off as I remember. Guess there ain't no grassy knoll here is there?"
I wasn't sure what to make of this. The use of the pronoun 'they' seemed to indicate she believed more than one person was responsible for JFK's demise than simply Oswald alone. Had she misspoken her pronouns or was she a conspiracy theorist? The grassy knoll? Why didn't she say Book Depository? Official reports of the JFK assassination state unequivocally that the shot came from the Book Depository. Conspiracy theorists believe shots were fired from the Grassy Knoll. Was the most memorable part about that awful day in 1963 the fact she got a day off from school? Unanswerable questions. Without a shred of any real evidence I decided she was a conspiracy theorist and tried to regain the natural shade of the tree.
"Actually there is a Grassy Knoll. See the roadside slope of the 9th hole of the golf course on the opposite side of the street about a quarter mile down?"
"Omigawd! So there is! C'mon kids, let's go." She waddled off toward Gilbert's Grassy Golf Knoll, purple robes flapping in the breeze. Her behemoth grandchildren eyed Victoria's hamburger with more than casual interest as they departed and I kept my daughter in close proximity much as a seal would its young when faced with a pair of hungry sharks. It seemed the woman hoped there would be a repetition of Dallas, but why she wanted to be close to the action in the unlikely event there was baffled me. Anyway, the President was that much safer with those three mastodons blocking the view.
And so we waited. And waited. And waited. Nothing. The police presence grew thicker though and I noticed a motorcycle cop speaking with the manager of a nearby Albertson's grocery store, who had come outside to see what all the hubbub was about. After a while the cop crossed to the other side of the street and bellowed through a bullhorn: "Y'all cain't be on this sahd o' the road. Y'all're gonna hafta cross the road." Then he cruised through the parking lot on his motorcycle clearing the rabble in what I initially believed to be an effort in crowd control. Problem was, there wasn't much of a crowd.
When we crossed the road, what was probably the real reason for the containment of several dozen Presidential sight-seers became evident. As few people had realized the President was coming by until they saw the police activity and made enquiries like the purple Ms. Barney, no one had brought American flags to wave. In a show of patriotism however, the manager of the nearby Albertson's had rushed out with a cart full of flags and was doling them out on the side of the street to which we had been removed. Oops. No that was wrong. In a show of capitalist greed, however, the manager of the nearby Albertson's had rushed out with a cart full of flags and was selling them on the side of the street to which we had been removed. At twice the price they usually sell for. What a piece of unexpected good fortune!
I refused the offer of a flag which was cause for several dirty looks from those who presumed I was unpatriotic scum. So I pointed out in loud remonstrations that Albertson's was ripping everyone off. This set off a stampede to the flag cart demanding refunds. So much for patriotism.
So much for the squeeze the cop on the other side of the street was going to get for increased flag sales owing to his efforts on crowd control. By this time, the other side of the street had filled up again, but now the cop was on this side of the street talking to the grocery store manager. He made no effort to return.
In the distance, numerous headlights suddenly appeared. I gazed through a pair of binoculars and saw the advance guard of the motorcade. Far more quickly than anyone expected, numerous police motorcycles roared past exceeding the speed limit by a wide margin. A helicopter raced overhead and then a black limousine could be seen preceded by a white Ford Bronco. (O.J.?) and more motorcycles. The motorcade kept a steady, though rapid pace and the President cruised by smiling a cheesy wooden grin and waving to all and sundry. It appeared he was a sleeping automaton. Next came a wicked looking black Ford van bristling with antennae. Had anyone even whispered the word bang, that person would have been done for. And then a tow truck and an ambulance. A wayward motorcycle cop and the show was over.
"Is the President important?" asked Christopher when we climbed back into our car.
"Well, yeah, he is," I replied. "Why do you ask?"
"He had a limo," said Christopher. I think the kids would have been more thrilled with a repeat visit to the lungfish.
On the other hand, when the kids are 90 years old, they can always look back and say "My Dad took us to see the President who won by three votes and a hanging chad. We could have stayed home all day searching for the remote control instead."

Hello! Hello!

2006-10-16T17:42:00.000-07:00

Hello! Hello!

Summer 2002

I must be the last of my kind. I don't own a cell phone. Never have. Never will. Tonight on the way home I nearly got broadsided by an idiot in an SUV who ran a red light while talking on his cell phone. He had his left hand up to his ear and his right hand on the wheel. His attention span was somewhere in the ozone until I blasted him with the horn. That brought his attention down to earth. He dropped his phone and gave me the finger. I returned the gesture. Will he learn? I doubt it. I would have executed him on the spot, but I don't own a gun yet.
Frankly speaking, I don't think people should be talking on their phones while driving. It's simply too dangerous. Sure mostly everyone can walk and chew gum at the same time, but a conversation takes concentration. You need to listen, absorb the information you hear, and respond to it. Easier said than done. Too many stupid people are allowed to own cell phones. There should be an IQ test.
I'm sure everyone has a story to tell about some jerk blathering to a drinking buddy about his favourite sports team while tail-gating a family of four down a busy freeway. Even hands free phones are unsafe. My salesman has one as the company requires it. Does it help? No. He's a menace on the road when he's talking and he is always talking. He has the salesman's gift of the gab and the concentration level of a lobotomized gnat. I won't drive with him. He should be put to death.
So why do people insist on talking on their phones all day long? Is it that they feel they are so important that others need access to them at all times? I travel quite a bit and every single time Ithe plane pulls into the gate half the passengers immediately whizz out the phones and start dialing. "Yoo hoo, I've arrived. Here I am. Over here. See me waving?" No kidding! Weren't you the same people who were jabbering into the phone at the point of departure making arrangements for your idiot inbred Oklahoman cousin to meet you at the arrival gate? Why, yes you are. Didn't think they'd make it after you shouted the arrival time, the terminal number and traffic directions at them for 45 minutes prior to departure? You should be shot. Thankfully airlines ban the use of cell phones in flight. No, its not because of electrical disturbances that can throw off a plane's navigation systems. It's so the pilots don't have phone sex with flight attendants and fly into the side of a mountain.
No one is so important that they need to have their cell phones on at all times. Except possibly Heads of State, but then they usually have an aide with them fully trained in public etiquette.
So Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? Here's a thought. How about inventing an impenetrable privacy bubble that automatically deploys over a cell phone user when they begin to dial. This would at least spare us all the supermarket aisle conversations. "What do you want for supper tonight? I don't care either. I don't know. Why don't you make a decision? What do you feel like?" Yeah? Here's what I feel like. I feel like shoving you into the tomato soup can display and then kicking you to death. Take some cyanide-laced cajun crab-cakes home and do a taste test experiment.
And what about at the movies? "Hello! Hello! Hang on. I need to stick my finger in my ear. It's too loud in here! There. That's better Now I can shout. I'm at the movies. What's the movie about? Well, it's a bit hard to explain. It's about some guy at the movies talking on a cell phone while annoying a conscientious citizen who simply wants to hear what the movie is about, but can't because some guy is talking on his cell phone really loudly. Yeah, it's at the part now where he is quietly strangled from behi........" Click. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please hang up and try your call again."
Turn the thing off. Its not like powering down a nuclear reactor. Push the "Off." button. It works. Try it sometime. It's not there just for show.
Yeah, I know. They come handy in emergencies. Got a flat tire you're too lazy to fix yourself? That's right dial 911. Jam up the emergency lines so the jerk who ran out of gas two miles further along can't get through. If it's a real emergency, use someone else's phone. Everyone else has one. Save a dime.
Well, I've said my piece. I'm now going to jam up my one single solitary household phone line and go online to look up the price of tea in China and then go into a chat room and talk about it with like minded individuals. Just don't drive with your chin, nose, knee or elbow while dialing your sister in Milwaukee to tell her you got a great deal on provolone at $2.99 a pound. Wait until you get home to call her. If you don't, I'll rig your phone with an electric current that makes your eyeballs pop and your hair smoke when your phone rings. And then I'll douse you with the garden hose to try and put the fire out.

Prince Wollastoni, the Big, Fat Pika

2006-10-16T17:14:00.000-07:00

Prince Wollastoni, The Big, Fat Pika

October 2006

Once upon a time there was a great big, fat pika who lived in a cave high on a rocky mountain. The big, fat pika, whose name was Prince Wollastoni, ruled over a colony of other pikas, all of whom were athletic and fit. Pikas had to be athletic and fit because of the high mountains on which they lived. A great deal of clambering up and down over difficult terrain was part of their daily existence, as was the frequent act of eluding predators, many of which would spring surprise attacks on the colony. A fit and athletic pika stood a much better chance of escape than one who neglected his exercise.
Prince Wollastoni, however, was big and fat because he never did anything for himself. He made all the other pikas do his bidding, including bringing him food. And he never exercised or moved far from his cave. "Too strenuous," he would say. "It's much easier to sit in the warm sun and have my subjects do everything for me." He even employed two pikas to stay beside him on a continual basis, unless they were bidden to go and fetch him something. Otherwise, their duties were few and consisted mostly of taking him to safety when danger threatened. The only time Prince Wollastoni ever exerted himself was on rare occasions when one of his subjects refused to do as he asked. When this occurred, Prince Wollastoni's attendants would hold the disobedient subject face down in the dirt while the massive Prince heaved his giant bulk into an upright position. He would then sit down again, this time on top of the immobile pika. A few seconds later and the now breathless and flattened pika would reconfirm his obeisance to Prince Wollastoni for all time. Thus, most pikas had long given up any objections they may have had when it came to serving their Prince.
One day, as the pikas were preparing their midday meal of grasses and flowers, a hungry falcon swooped down on them, looking for lunch of his own. His long, sharp talons extended, the falcon was nearly successful in making off with an inattentive pika, but at the last instant he spied a much bigger, fatter and jucier pika than the one he had been aiming for. And because he was a greedy falcon who was rarely happy with a sure thing when the possibility of a greater prize was in the offing, he broke off his attack and wheeled away into the sky. His interest now lay in the capture of the bigger, fatter pika and in nothing else.
The falcon climbed up into the glare of the sun and circled there while planning the strategies of his new attack. From experience, he knew that racing down at high speed with the sun behind him made it extremely difficult, if not impossible, for his intended victim to see him coming. And from his vantage point high above, he could see that the big, fat pika had not noticed him at all, even during his first attack. In fact, the big, fat pika simply lay there in the sun giving peremptory orders to two other pikas who appeared to be tending to him. Shortly afterwards, the two pikas trotted off down the slope leaving the target unattended. "All the better!" chuckled the falcon to himself. "All the better!"
Indeed, Prince Wollastoni and his attendants had not seen the falcon, nor had they seen the aborted attack the falcon had made on the colony a few minutes before. The Prince's cave was high above those of his subjects, a fact which gave him airs of superiority, but also had a distinct disadvantage in that sounds emanating from below could not be heard high up in the lofty lair. The pikas below had witnessed the original attack of the falcon and had fled for safety, squealing a cry of alarm as they did, an alarm which did not reach the ears of Prince Wollastoni. He was ignorant to the imminent danger of the falcon's presence and because of this he had sent his two attendants below to appropriate lunch from his subjects.
While his attendants trotted off in search of food, Prince Wollastoni stuffed his fat, foul face full of marigolds and grass, a few bunches of which had been left over from breakfast that morning. The hot midday sun beat down on the fat Prince as he chewed, blissfully drooling onto his fur, his eyes closed and his entire being filled with contentment. Meanwhile, the falcon commenced his attack and with wings folded close against his body, he hurtled toward the giant, hoglike pika at high speed. Having reached terminal velocity and with talons extended in preparation for the upcoming impact, the drooling pika loomed large in the falcon's vision. He fanned his wings only at the last moment in order to slow himself slightly and to make sure he was on target.
Despite the close proximity of the falcon, Prince Wollastoni was still unaware of his impending doom. Instead, however, he became aware of an impending case of severe indigestion accompanied by an overwhelming feeling of nausea. Brought on by the heat of the day and the fact he had only had a short nap between stuffing himself with food since breakfast and now, Prince Wollastoni was suddenly very sick indeed. He clutched at his enormous belly with his oversized paws and groaned loudly. The groan developed immediately into a cry of deep and painful anguish and just at the moment when the falcon would have sunk his talons into the Prince's bulk and begun to make off with him, the huge piglike pika regurgitated an enormous greenish-gold stream of projectile vomit. This foul-smelling, disgusting mess covered both the Prince and the unfortunate falcon from head to toe.
Screeching in surprise and terror, the falcon only just managed to avoid an uncontrolled collision with his target and with great difficulty he managed to retreat slowly into the sky, trailing a stream of vomit after him. Only now did Prince Wollastoni become aware of the falcon and the danger it had posed to his august person. Belatedly he sounded a shout of alarm, a shout which sounded more like a severe indigestive gurgle than anything else and which was accompanied by more green and gold vomit.
Somehow Prince Wollastoni managed to get to his feet, still sounding an alarm. He staggered toward the trail which led down to the colony of pikas below and in his haste and debilitated physical condition he tripped over a stone and fell. Like a giant bowling ball, he began to roll down the slope, screaming in fright and gathering speed as he went. His increasing momentum caused the vomit to fly from his fur and spatter rocks and trees as he passed. A number of pikas had gathered outside a cave where they had been hiding from the falcon and now they stared in horror as a huge, fat green and gold object hurtled toward them at high speed. Only at the last moment did the pikas recognize their Prince as the object in question, but by this time it was too late for the group to move out of the way. Prince Wollastoni struck the group fair and square in the middle, tossing the pikas this way and that before continuing on his way. The sounds of screaming and the crashing of undergrowth eventually dissipated as the distance between the Prince and the pikas grew. The last sound the pikas heard was a loud splash, indicating the fat Prince had reached the end of his wayward travels. He had plunged off the precipice that marked the furthermost boundary of the pikas' territory and into the river below. Barely conscious despite the water around him, Prince Wollastoni floated away downstream like some enormous beach ball and it was some three months before the pikas saw him again. But that's another story.
The End

Colorado Government

2006-10-10T15:41:00.000-07:00

Colorado Government
Autumn 2004

Having lived in Colorado for a year and a half now, I can say with conviction that I have never seen such governmental incompetence and municipal stupidity anywhere other than here. Alberta's laws and governance had its little quirks, as did Arizona's. Nevertheless, Colorado is in a class all its own. Maybe the altitude gets to you after a while. I don't know. You decide.
Earlier this year one of the local municipalities had a recall election for the City Clerk & Recorder. This elected position, common to most Colorado towns and cities, is a fairly important one as the responsibilities of the job include oversight of local tax revenues and voting. The City Clerk & Recorder in question had an ongoing sexual affair with the Deputy City Clerk & Recorder. The affair was common knowledge inside the city offices. Unfortunately, the Clerk & Recorder's wife did not work in the city offices and was consequently left in the dark. Until one sunny morning when another city employee, who had recently received a poor performance review and was therefore in jeopardy of losing her job, suddenly decided the atmosphere in the office was oppressive and intimidating.
In an effort to divert attention from her own inadequacies, she made the affair public knowledge by reporting it to the local newspaper. After much investigation and the subsequent publication of uncovered and rather juicy emails sent between the Clerk & Recorder and the Deputy Clerk & Recorder, the Clerk & Recorder was offered a choice: face a recall election and possible loss of your $100K per year job or accept a $250K buyout and leave voluntarily. Not a hard decision you'd think. You'd be wrong. The Clerk & Recorder accepted the $250K buyout on the condition that the Deputy Clerk & Recorder also receive the opportunity to resign voluntarily along with the same monetary golden handshake. After all, they were partners in intrigue. This condition was refused, the offer was withdrawn and a recall election was held, which the Clerk & Recorder lost. He did go out fighting though. Part of his job was to ensure that all electronic voting machines (no paper ballots here) are fully charged the night before elections. For some strange reason he forgot to perform this part of his job and the recall election had to be postponed for a week. The total cost of the fiasco from start to finish exceeded half a million taxpayer dollars. Why not simply insert a clause into the swearing-in ceremony that says "If I fail to keep my pants on during the job, I can be impeached." Wouldn't this be much simpler and cost effective?
I am not an American citizen, yet I hold a Colorado driver's license. I work with two American citizens who recently moved here from out of state and who do not hold Colorado driver's licenses. Moreover, they cannot get Colorado driver's licenses because they are unable to prove they are legally resident in the United States.
Because I am not an American citizen, I have to have all my ducks in a row in order to stay here. To that end, I have a permanent resident or 'green' card, which is actually beige and not green, but that's beside the point. This card is accepted as proof that I am legally resident in the United States. I can get a Colorado driver's license with it.
However, American citizens do not have green cards simply because they aren't immigrants. They have to rely on things like birth certificates, marriage certificates, social security numbers, passports and so on to prove they are legally entitled to residency. Unfortunately, the state of Colorado requires the presentation of at least two of these documents, in the original, before they will grudgingly admit there is a greater than average chance that the bearer is actually a bonafide American resident. Out of state driver's licenses do not count toward proof of residency in the United States. I suppose that would make things much too easy.
The two Americans I work with do not have the originals of their birth certificates, one isn't married and the other cannot provide an original marriage certificate. Neither have passports. This leaves a social security number to prove they are legally resident. That's good enough for the federal government, but not for the state of Colorado. One employee offered to show his Colorado Concealed Weapons Permit as additional proof of residency, but as the permit was issued by the county authorities in his county of residence on behalf of the state of Colorado - and not actually issued by the state of Colorado - it is not listed as acceptable documentation toward getting a driver's license. So, you can legally conceal your gun, but not legally drive your car. Hmm. Perhaps this helps prevent drive by shootings.
And finally, the last straw. In a splendid display of intercommunity cooperation, the cities of Denver, Lakewood and Aurora have voted $300,000.00 between them to research, promote and hold a marathon along Colfax Avenue, a thoroughfare common to all three communities. For those of you unfamiliar with the metro-Denver area, Colfax Avenue is the worst piece of real estate Colorado has to offer. Most of the people seen running along Colfax are fleeing from the police or running for their lives. In Denver itself, they are doing both simultaneously.
By now, you are probably thinking I'm being overly negative in my view of Colorado state and municipal authorities. And a marathon is a positive thing isn't it? So then. Let's look at the positives of holding a marathon along Colfax Avenue.
There is a certain joy to be had from the ornamentation of the antique store fronts. Kitschy, but enjoyable. Out of town contestants can awaken from a pleasant night at one of the delightful retro motels that line Colfax. Many of these offer clean rooms and cable. You can expect nothing less from such first rate establishments. They can stay at the Vista Motel (no vista), Mon Chalet (no chalet) or the Sand & Sage Motel (no & no).
If marathon participants are in need of a pick me up, they can stop at one of the numerous and abnormally busy payphones along the route. Dial a certain number and like magic a gentleman will appear with a bag of meth or crack or any of a large variety of other narcotics. Runners may also stop for a drink at Saturday's Dancing Club (all nude, all the time) or at Kitty's (we never close).
In the mood for romance? A recent newspaper article indicated that 82% of all prostitution arrests occur within two blocks of Colfax. And most of the motels also offer convenient hourly rates.
Should money pose a problem, cash a cheque at one of the dozens of cheque cashing establishments that dot the landscape. Or, those brand new $120.00 Carmelo Anthony 1.5 running shoes may be pawned at any number of pawn shops located a quarter block from one another.
Maybe in a further display of intercommunity cooperation, a symbiotic relationship between the runners and the police may be developed. Runners could paste most-wanted posters on boarded up stores as they pass and the police, in turn, can drive alongside and shield the runners from gunfire.
Or maybe the cities will come to their senses and realize there is a reason Colfax isn't already teeming with joggers. Fix the street, spend the $300,000.00 improving the lives of those who already live there. Afterwards, the locals can park their Range Rovers and enjoy a run. Who knows? Maybe the cars will still be there when they return.

Darkened Memories

2006-10-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

Arthur is gone
Sleeping with a broken sword
His time is done
No more the ancient Lord

Lancelot is fallen
His broken lances rust
Gawain, Gareth, Galahad
All are naught but dust

And Guinevere
Who betrayed undying love
A multi-coloured tapestry remembered as
A sooten, blackened dove

Only darkened memories
Of an age so long ago
Embroidered empty legend
Of a truth that no one knows

Home and Garden

2006-10-09T18:36:00.000-07:00

HOME AND GARDEN

Spring 2001

Since we moved from Canada to the U.S. four years ago, I have on many occasions been asked what I find to be the biggest difference between the two countries. Generally speaking, this is a difficult question to answer as the majority of my residence in both places has been limited to defined geographical areas: Edmonton and Phoenix. A question placed more fairly, then, might be: What do you find to be the biggest difference between those defined geographical areas?
The first thing that leaps to mind is the temperature difference. In Phoenix, the summertime temperature can reach 45 celsius. In Edmonton, the wintertime temperature can reach minus 45 degrees celsius. Neither place even comes close to reaching the extreme of the other when the seasons are reversed. But, to my mind this is really not that much different. During the course of an Edmonton winter, we would sit and stare morosely out of the front room window waiting for summer to arrive. During the course of a Phoenix summer, we sit and stare morosely out of the front room window waiting for a massive air conditioning bill to arrive.
In Edmonton, during the winter, remote controls are used extensively to start vehicles in an effort to warm them up before driving off. The same devices are used in Phoenix to cool cars in summer. At Edmonton outdoor parks, children's pony rides are packed up for the winter. Pony rides in Phoenix head north in summer.
In fact, there are many similarities between the two places, even if climate conditions prevail upon the local populations to make some differing and necessary changes to their lifestyles. No, it isn't the temperature that I find to be the biggest difference. The biggest difference, and the hardest to adjust to, you might be surprised to learn, is the flora and the fauna.
As a small boy in Britain, I grew up being taught the names of flowers and other plants as well as insects and larger animals. A particular delight was chasing a hedgehog into the middle of a blackberry bush, where I subsequently remained stuffing myself until I was well and truly sick. In Canada, I used to negotiate a rickety wooden raft down a slough next to a golf course and catch frogs and tadpoles, using a branch from a birch tree as a pole to propel myself along.
When you are young, you learn very quickly and without knowing it a great deal about your surroundings. If someone asked you now as you sit reading this what caused that noise outside your window, you would say it was a crow. Unless of course it was a magpie, in which case you would identify it as such. I no longer have that luxury as I have moved fairly late in life to unfamiliar surroundings. If something screeches outside my window, I have to get up and investigate.
If Christopher or Victoria had asked me in Edmonton: What's that? I may have replied with a disinterested glance "A centipede. Crush it underfoot if you'd be so kind." Here, the same question might elicit a panicked response along the lines of "Get away from that unidentifiable thing with the 8 babies on it's back! Now!" A wide and varied selection of sprays, insecticides and heavy objects would then be employed in an effort to reduce the population of that species by 9.
This complete and utter ignorance was first revealed when we bought our house in the spring of 1998. I waited in vain for several months for oranges to grow on our orange trees, until it was revealed to me by a neighbour that as a general rule citrus fruits do not grow on ficus trees. In Edmonton, we bought our house partly in the safe and secure knowledge that we had an apple tree, a chinese cherry tree and raspberry bushes in the back yard. These were all readily identifiable. I'm not so sure we would have bought our present home had I known the difference between an orange tree and a non-orange tree. With the children growing up quickly and asking all kinds of questions, it is now necessary for me to learn what I always thought would be second nature. I am now learning and have discovered a range of fascinating things living in our home and garden.

Hibiscus
Unidentifiablus Atfirstus
Simply hadn't a clue what these were when we moved in, but I liked the flowers. They grow at an amazing rate and the more your illegal immigrant gardener cuts them, the faster they grow. They are home to a diverse array of insect life and are frequented by hummingbirds, which are difficult to shoot with a pellet gun.

Bougainvillea
Tropicus Coolus
Heard about these in books on exotic, tropical locations and thought it would be cool to actually own one. Flowers are really very pretty. Grows at a faster rate than the hibiscus and causes problems by becoming too heavy and pulling away from the wall. At one point, the bougainvillea was propped in place by a piece of 1/2" rebar. That gave way as well and so we had the gardener chop the plant to manageable size. The lizards which called the bougainvillea home are now living in a massive saguaro cactus skeleton Maydee picked up at a garage sale for $2.00.

Ficus Trees
Frickus Frackus
Called by another similar, though slightly different name once I learned their true identity. They slyly produce small green pips which lure you into believing they are actually oranges on the grow, especially as they subsequently turn orange. At maturity, the pips then either fall off or disappear. They never get any bigger than the eraser on the end of a pencil. Maybe they turn into leaves or something. I don't know. The trees are lucky I don't own an axe. Citrus trees indeed!

Pine Trees
Pinus Tallus Shadius
At least I knew what these were, though they are of a different variety than what is usually found in Canada. Okay, so I never claimed to be expert on plants.

Larch
Nuisancius Pesticius Expensivus
The tree of choice for Monty Python addicts, these things are nice and, like the pines, provide much needed shade, but also tend to grow in a tangled mess. The trimming of these trees is beyond the ken of our illegal immigrant gardener and more expensive tree chopping professionals are needed to keep the things under control. They continually threaten to blow over and crush the wall during the monsoon season. I wonder sometimes if plastic larches are sold anywhere.

Great Plains Toad
Frogus Surrealis
I had no idea that toads lived in the desert, but they do. Christopher brought one home one day from somewhere and after some discussion we returned it whence it came. The last I saw of this toad was when it turned its head and stuck out its tongue at us just prior to hopping off down a drain. Christopher told the toad - named Croaky - it was welcome to return 'home' anytime. Very cute, but unlikely. I had never seen a toad here before and never thought I would again. Until I came home the next night late from work. There, on the sidewalk, in the gloaming, with a cruel amphibian gleam in it's eye, was Croaky. The same fat grey-green blob about 6 inches long and 4 wide. It stared at me! Immobile! I put my back to the wall and sidestepped to the front door, keys and pepper spray at the ready. Very surreal, but no harm came to my family or to me from this dreadful creature that returned 'home'. Never seen another one since, but have discovered they have poison glands on their backs. Lucky Christopher.

Locusts
Biblicus Revelationus
Still half asleep one morning, I drove out of the garage to hear some crunching under my wheels. Figuring it was just another of the kid's bicycles like the last time, I kept going. A shower of dark obects suddenly fluttered about the car and I found I was caught in a maelstrom of flying insects. Grasshoppers on the move had rested overnight on neighbourhood driveways, where heat still emanated from the day before. Utterly ghastly. I continued down the driveway, now repulsed by the sound of squishing insects and backed into the garbage can. Trash flew into the street. On no account was I getting out. The garbage guy could clean it up. That's why we pay property taxes.

Scorpions
Pokus Infantus
Thus far, we have found 4 scorpions attempting to take up residence with us. Three were squashed flat and one captured in a jar for future analysis. Maydee is terrified of the children being poked by one, but as I assured her after we squashed the first one, only the bark scorpion is potentially lethal. That calmed her and so we captured the second one to see what we have. Yup. Bark scorpions. Shares in Terminix went up the same day. The kids have been warned to stay away if they see one, shake shoes and clothing before putting them on and otherwise call for assistance if one is discovered perched under the toilet seat.

Vinegaroon
Weirdus Thingus
These look like big black scorpions, but they don't have stingers. Instead they spray a mild acetic acid with their whip-like tails. This acid can be washed off with soap and water. Hideous looking, this one was found by me crawling in the garden and whacked with a shovel as I had no idea what it was. Evidently they are voracious insect eaters and are good to have around. Tough luck! NIMBY.

Aphids
Numerous Painus
Every single leaf on the hibiscus was found to have aphid eggs laid on the underside. So we bought, yes bought, two tubs of ladybirds, (1500 per tub, gross weight, some may have settled during shipping), and introduced them into the hibiscus, to the delight of the children. We followed directions, yes directions, to wet the plant first and release the ladybirds at night so they wouldn't fly off. And they didn't. The next morning, 2999 were found dead at the bottom of the hibiscus plant. One was alive and well and when I peered at it closely, it flew off to the neighbour's garden. I thought about suing the neighbour for larceny, but decided this would be a Wasteful Action, even by American standards. The gardener simply chopped the hibiscus to the extent that two leaves remained and these we sprayed with a liberal dose of insecticide.

Fire Ants
Reddus Terribilus
A dose of gasoline killed the mound growing in the garden with no problem at all, ant traps having failed to produce the desired effect. During an inspection of the ant traps, Victoria was nipped on the knee by one of the ants and she howled like a banshee having stubbed it's toe in a frozen forest. Enough was enough.

Hummingbirds
Delightful Darts
Like most people I suppose, I'm fascinated with hummingbirds. They are really a delight to see flitting back and forth through the garden. They are the only bird that can can fly backwards. There are numerous species that live in Arizona and my knowledge of these wonderful creatures is woefully inadequate. The ones we have are a red or beige colour.

Party Trick Spider
Explosivus Infantae
I have no idea what the real name of this spider might be, but it's something that would liven up even the dullest of parties. Maydee spotted the first one we saw and I smacked it with a shoe as it scuttled across the carpet. A millisecond after I whacked it, the spider exploded. After the intial fright and a simultaneous and involuntary gasp to regain my breath, it was discovered that the explosion was actually an exodus of several dozen little spider babies that the mother had been carrying on her back. The carpet had absorbed the impact of the shoe on the spider's body, and though the mother lay dead, the babies bailed. However, they didn't go far and remained close by their deceased mother. Thus it was easy to vacuum them up. Maydee came down from the ceiling two days later.

Black Boring Beetle
Holus Incactus
During a garden sojourn with Christopher one warm evening, I noticed a small hole bored into the saguaro cactus skeleton, just at the base where the wood is thickest. A small pile of sawdust lay nearby. I found this to be curious, but Christopher already knew all about the existence of the insect that caused the hole to be made. In fact, the insect could be seen burrowing away and closer inspection showed that several small holes had been bored into the cactus. Christopher called it the black boring beetle. This name will do as I can't find anything about it in any book or on the web. I even emailed an entomologist at Arizona State University to see if he would know, but as he is undoubtedly an arrogant, pointy-headed bug lover not given to revealing the professional secrets of his trade without some form of monetary reward I got no response. Wait until he wants to rent a trailer from me.

Cicada
Kinda Lika Locust
Not a grasshopper. Not a cricket. This noisy creature likes to sit in the trees in the back yard, rub its wings together in a rapid back and forth motion and exceed the allowable decibel level as set forth in town by-laws. I was happy to hear some squawking one afternoon and found a pair of jackdaws fighting for right of first entry into the tree. Enter jackdaw. Exit Cicada. It had woken me from my slumber on the sofa while everyone was out.

Jackdaws
Racketus Birdus
Usually fairly quiet, when they wish to be noisy, they are terribly noisy. But, since the Cicada, they rank among my favorite birds. Nothing is louder than a cicada. Or more annoying.

Jerusalem Crickets
Hideous Crunchus
Millions of these horrible little bugs swarm the neighbourhood at night. They are nothing like Jiminy Cricket and can be noisy when they want to be. Nevertheless, they are usually fairly quiet as any noise can attract one of several predators, including lizards, spiders, birds, toads, centipedes and so on. They are disgusting and cover the driveway three or four evenings a year. They go 'crunch' when smacked with a shoe or run over with the car.

Cockroaches
Crawlus Everywhereus
Not the type of cockroaches you find in slums or ghettos, these are light to dark brown, have large wings tucked against their bodies, long wavy antennae and can grow up to four inches long. They live under refuse in the yard, like deciduous leaves, and like to crawl on the outside of the house at night. Probably to keep warm and hunt at the same time. Rarely found indoors, they quickly die when exposed to the Terminix spray. (At least they haven't yet adapted and grown immune to it yet).

Pigeons
Crappus Oncarrus
Pigeons like to roost over the garage at night and if we leave a car in the driveway, the light of morn betrays the activities of these cooing crappers.

Western Fence Lizards
Eatem Buggem
There are at least six or seven Western Fence Lizards living in the back yard. On any given evening, at any given time, three are evident at a glance and more flit about from time to time. They eat hundreds of insects and the children love to chase them. These lizards are small, about six inches long, and do 'push-ups' when parked in one spot. Maybe this has something to do with the heat radiating from the wall, but I'm not sure. One evening, Christopher saw a spider of sorts crawling along and 'commanded' a nearby lizard to eat it. The lizard obliged and Christopher was so pleased he had finally 'trained' his gecko that he was effusive on the point for some time afterward.

Black Widow Spider
Lastus But Not Leastus
Not sure what to make of these really. Some books say the bite of the female causes slight discomfort. Some books say the bite is potentially lethal. The Arizona Poison Control page on the web says little about them of any value. I'll go with potentially lethal as I am unsure, but I honestly don't think they are. I removed a smoke detector to check on the battery when we first moved into the house. Inside I found a really cute beige spider with a small fat body and a wonderful little red mark on its stomach. I wasn't sure what it was and so I prodded it with a pointy stick before flushing it down the sink. Recent investigations into the life and times of spiders in Arizona now indicate this was a juvenile black widow. Evidently they turn darker as they mature, but the red hourglass on its stomach stays the same. Hmmm.

And there you have it. None of us have been bitten or stung by anything yet, with the exception of Victoria's fire ant. We employ relatively simple precautions to keep all wildlife out of the house, harmless or not. Outside is their home and outside is where they will remain. Else shall they die. Doors and windows are screened and kept closed. Door and window seals are inspected and replaced or repaired when necessary. Emergency phone numbers are placed at each phone in case of bites or stings or in case I have an accident while hacking down the ficus trees.
So far we haven't seen on the property any rattlesnakes coral snakes, hognose snakes, king snakes, brown recluse spiders, funnel web spiders, javelinas, gila monsters or cone nose bugs. Nor have we seen any orange trees.

Retrospect 2004

2006-10-09T18:19:00.000-07:00

Retrospect 2004

The year 2004 has flown by. It is winter now and snowing outside as I write this. It seems just a short time ago that the heat of summer forced us to ignore local residential lawn watering restrictions. Believe it or not, Denver is in the throes of an ongoing drought and because of that each particular household in the area is allotted so many gallons per month at a fixed price. Any usage over that allotment results in extraordinarily punitive rates for each excess gallon used and municipal fines can be levied for watering lawns outside specifically set times. Last year, being new to Denver, we abided by the restrictions and watered our grass as directed: ten minutes on even-numbered days twice a week; five minutes on odd-numbered days once a lunar solstice or some such foolishness. The result of our adherence to these restrictions was a dead lawn by mid-July and a notice from the home-owners association nailed to the front door stating that we were in violation of article 706.A requiring us to maintain a full and healthy lawn between the months of April and October.
Our neighbours commiserated and gave us numerous and conflicting pieces of advice on how to stay within the statutes of article 706.A while keeping the taps turned off. None of this advice worked and so one morning I arose early to give what remained of the grass a surreptitious 3:00 a.m. drink. I found all the neighbours fast asleep, as was to be expected at 3:00 a.m., but I also found all their automatic sprinklers going full blast. So much for their advice. The real secret was short periods of illicit watering in the dead of night.
Nevertheless, the watering restrictions imposed by the authorities had an effect on the water supplies available to the residents of metro-Denver. Less water was used and fears that we would run out of the stuff slowly eased from the public consciousness. In fact, so much water was saved that the utility company's profits dropped. In order to make up for this loss of income, the utility was allowed to raise water rates to extraordinarily punitive rates. Damned if you do and damned if you don't.
The seed we had laid down in an effort to renew faith in article 706.A never really took root and this spring found me hacking up the lawn and laying down sod instead. I discovered a loophole in the restrictions which provided additional watering allowances for newly laid sod - it also applied to newly laid seed, but I hadn't known of the allowance at the time - and so we set the timer on our sprinkler system to 'drown' and joined the neighbours in another season of illicit midnight watering. As a consequence we received a monstrous water bill charging us the new inflated rates as well as additional per-gallon penalties for excess water usage. Letters to the utility company pointing out the allowance for new-laid sod were returned to us with an explanation that the allowances only waived the possibility of a fine for watering outside even-numbered days twice a week and lunar solstices. We were still responsible for excess water use and were obliged to pay the new usurious rates on top of that. On the bright side, we received another letter from the home-owners association complimenting us on how nice our lawn looked.
Tearing the letter to shreds and applying for a second mortgage in case future water bills arrived with the force of a tsunami, we decided to disappear on holiday. Our first stop was Great Sand Dunes National Park in southern Colorado. Here, piled up against a mountain backdrop, we found enormous dunes the like of which I had expected to see only in the Sahara. We wandered across the dunes for a while and then hiked down the middle of a shallow, softly flowing creek. Christopher and Victoria enjoyed chasing insects and splashing one another in the warm water. Maydee and I walked barefoot along the bottom of the creek and the children found a pond with tadpoles and shrieked with delight. This was much nicer than the winter holiday we had taken in late February when we froze at Mount Rushmore, braved a brief power outage while spelunking in the bowels of Jewel Cave National Park and suffered a ghastly hike carrying a sodden and frozen Victoria halfway around the circumference of the Devil's Tower in Wyoming. Victoria had slipped and fallen into a pool of slush at precisely the halfway mark of the hiking trail. There was no short way back and the poor soul was vociferous in her condemnations of the National Park Service which had failed to forsee this eventuality and provide warm and commodious transport back to the parking area. The warm water of the creek at Great Sand Dunes National Park was much more to our liking.
Our next stop was Mesa Verde National Park where we toured some ancient Indian cliff dwellings and watched Christopher chase a lizard far too close to a precipitous drop into an abyss. After my heart rate returned to normal, I chastised him in no uncertain terms whereupon he sulked in defiance for the next ten minutes until he spied another lizard and chased it into the middle of a busy parking lot. Having decided Mesa Verde was far too dangerous for small children chaperoned by inattentive adults, we set forth for Four Corners.
Four Corners is the meeting place of Arizona, Colorado, Utah and New Mexico and is the only place in the United States where four states meet. We had a photo taken of us holding hands while we each stood in a different state. Then we rushed off to stuff ourselves with a local delicacy being sold at numerous fast food stands - Navajo fry bread. It was disgusting.
Next we headed for the Grand Canyon and in so doing crossed the Navajo nation which sprawls through most of northern Arizona. We stopped for a brief interlude at a small roadside tourist attraction announcing the existence of dinosaur footprints in some nearby sandstone. The footprints existed alright, but once we stepped out of the car we were accosted by numerous Navajo 'tour guides' offering to show us around. The guides bickered among themselves as to who had seen us first and therefore had the right to the small fee they charged for their services. It soon became apparent that most of the guides were intoxicated and when one grabbed my shirt to claim ownership of our little troop I lost my temper and started pushing back. At that point, a sober Navajo woman arrived and verbally laid into the group, effectively chasing them off. She apologized for the behaviour of her compatriots and we accepted her offer of a tour and found her to be a personable and knowledgeable guide. She was rather despondant though when she pointed out several holes in the sandstone and told us that some of the local population - including a few of the guides we had left behind - were beginning to cut the footprints from the rock and sell them as souvenirs to tourists.
The Grand Canyon itself presented a rather larger hole in the ground than those dug by the Navajos and was very interesting from a geological standpoint, a standpoint in which I have not the least interest. We decided against a hike down into the canyon because of the intense heat and the fact we weren't really equipped for such an arduous foray. We did go on a few short walks along the south rim and spied some squirrels, gophers and garter snakes. Evidently there are now 24 California Condors re-introduced to and living in the Grand Canyon, but we didn't see any while we were there. Despite having lived in Arizona for several years, this was the first time we had visited this natural wonder.
A few hours after leaving the Grand Canyon we crossed Hoover Dam and arrived in Las Vegas and that evening took the children to see the circus acts at Circus Circus on the Las Vegas strip. Victoria was most impressed with one of the performers who climbed some sort of silken ribbon arrangement and performed acrobatics high above our heads. She was even more impressed when the performer returned to earth and proceeded to tangle herself into the most impossible physical contortions. Victoria tugged at Maydee's sleeve and begged to be given lessons in gymnastics. Maydee, however, was pre-occupied in watching a different woman who was changing into and out of elaborate evening gowns in the blink of an eye. Stare as closely as we could, it was impossible to figure out how the change of gowns was done. I told Maydee that she should befriend the woman and learn this particular trick. That way Maydee wouldn't have to begin getting ready on Thursday morning when we had plans to go out for dinner on Friday night - and still manage to make us an hour late.
Over the next two days we explored Zion and Bryce Canyon National Parks and took a rather strenuous two mile hike down amongst Bryce's hoodoos. It was a very hot day and we ran out of bottled water half way up the horrendously steep return incline. We had to suffer the privations of an awful thirst for the remaining mile to the top. It really was a good thing we hadn't tried to hike into the Grand Canyon.
The next day we travelled a narrow dirt road in Capitol Reef National Park, a road which was nothing more than an old riverbed twisting and turning between two incredibly high canyon walls. Had it not been a strip of cerulean sky overhead, we could have been travelling through an amazing stone tunnel. Best of all there was no other traffic. Except for some complete idiot from Massachusetts proceeding in the opposite direction in a Mini-Cooper. This imbecile drove down the centre of the riverbed and refused to budge an inch either to the left or to the right. There was plenty of room to allow two vehicles to pass one another easily if both were to follow common courtesy and move to their respective sides of the road. This he flatly refused to do and with hand gestures through his driver's side window made it plain he wished me to reverse to somewhere where the road was wider.
There were two problems with this. Firstly there wasn't anywhere wider for at least a mile behind us. Secondly, I didn't feel like it, especially when he himself could either simply move over or could reverse and achieve the same effect. The road was wider about a hundred yards behind him. But he wouldn't budge. I tried to get past him by hopping the right side wheels of our SUV on the sand embankment on our side of the road and create more room for both of us. Unfortunately this had no effect other than setting the Explorer at a precarious angle and spilling the children's drinks.
After a suitable chatisement from the front passenger seat I reversed off the embankment, crawled the vehicle to the right side of the road and shouted at the fool in the Mini to move over to his right. The response I elicited was silence. I shouted again. Louder this time. Still nothing. And so I leaned on the horn.
If you have never leaned on your horn while stuck between two high canyon walls, you cannot appreciate the effect this has on the immediate environment. Frightened birds cawed and flapped from hidden crevices in the rock walls high above us, lizards scuttled for cover in the sand, the sky cracked. Good God it was loud! I put the Explorer in 4 wheel drive and reversed down the road a bit. Like a bull preparing to charge a red rag, I put the transmission in Drive and applied the brakes while simultaneously revving the engine. This tactic had the effect of making the Explorer stand up on its shocks so it appeared larger than it actually was. In any case, our vehicle dwarfed the Mini by a difference in height and mass of approximately 3 to 1. After a suitable interval, I released the brakes, leaned on the horn again, and charged the Mini.
While I intended this as a bluff, the Mini driver didn't seem to think so. I was gratified to discover he was well-versed in the art of reversing rapidly down a twisting riverbed. His eyes were as white and as wide as two dinner plates as he focused on the grill and churning tires of the Explorer chasing him backwards down the road. When he reached the wider part of the road a hundred yards back he appeared to lose control of his vehicle, but ended up veering over to the left. I now had room to pass and at high speed pass I did, billowing clouds of dust and sand through his open driver's side window. "Cool beans!" said Victoria from the back seat. "Yeah Daddy!" said Christopher beside her. Accompanied by frost, from the front passenger seat came silence. The silence and drop in temperature remained in effect for the rest of the day and continued on until well past 11:00 a.m. the next morning, when I exceeded the speed limit by a wide margin and was pulled over by the Utah Highway Patrol. Then all hell boiled over and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Our holiday to Canada later in the summer was less eventful despite some earlier passport difficulties. While Maydee's Guatemalan passport and Christopher's Canadian passport were still valid, both Victoria and I had sent our Canadian passports off for renewal. We had had our photos taken, but because we hadn't lived in Denver for two years, we didn't know a doctor, lawyer or any other authorized professional person who could sign the back of the photographs affirming we were who we said we were. The passport instructions, however, indicated that in the absence of such a person a notary could sign the photographs and stamp the application instead. We found an obliging notary and duly mailed the applications off to Ottawa along with our old passports, Canadian citizenship papers and other odds and ends.
Six weeks later we received them back with a note saying that the notary hadn't known us for two years and therefore our applications were rejected! Well, yes, okay the notary hadn't known us for two years, but she was taking the place of someone who had. That was the whole point! As the instructions had indicated this was acceptable, what was the problem? And what about the old passports and citizenship papers etc? Didn't those count for anything? I mean to say, one needs to prove Canadian citizenship before one is issued a passport in the first place and we had included our old ones with the photos. The photo of me in the old one looks just like the photo of me in the new application and the citizenship documents were additional confirmation of me being me. I tried calling the telephone number on the application so I could shout loudly at the inefficient bureaucrat who picked up, but was thwarted by voice mail jail. I hung up and gave serious thought to abandoning the effort of renewing my Canadian passport and taking out American citizenship, whereupon I could apply for an American passport. This process was likely to be quicker.
Just then I noticed another form along with the rejection slip. I picked it up and read it through twice to make sure I understood what it was I held in my hand. Because our passport applications had been rejected on the grounds of not knowing for a period longer than two years a person authorized to sign our passport photos, we could complete the enclosed form attesting to that and have it signed and stamped by a notary! Laughing maniacally, I headed off for a repeat visit with the notary, had her sign and stamp the form and popped our applications back into the mail again. Incredibly the applications were accepted this time after being signed and stamped by the same person who wasn't acceptable the first time. Of course we didn't get our passports back until after we returned from our holiday to the Great White North, which gave rise to the presentation of a multiplicity of international documents at the Canadian border.
Having arrived at Coutts, Alberta, the official in the booth guarding Canada's sovereignty from the evils of America requested identification. I passed over Christopher's Canadian passport, Victoria's Alberta birth certificate along with her American green card, Maydee's Guatemalan passport and cedula and my European Union United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland passport with the lion and the unicorn athwart the honi soit qui mal y pense motto. The official stared in disbelief and after some studious perusal found that the only real commonality was our last name. This seemed to pacify him a bit, though he studied Maydee's passport and cedula rather closely in an attempt to decipher the Spanish. "Got any firearms?" he muttered at last. "Nope" I replied. "Alright, go ahead."
We headed up the road a bit and stopped at the North West Mounted Police Museum in Fort McLeod and then continued on to Calgary where we spent the evening with Ken and Terri Madden. Ken produced an excellent bottle of Scotch and we sat around chatting while our children played with theirs. Christopher and Victoria were introduced to the delights of a couple of animals called Degus, which were the Madden's household pets. The following morning, on the way to the Royal Tyrrell Museum in Drumheller, Maydee and I were subjected to a non-stop barrage of pleas from the children to obtain a pair of these as pets of our own. Their plaintive mewling was ignored as 2004 had already seen the demise of one hamster, the permanent escape of another and the disappearance of our cat Minnie, which was probably turned into a midnight snack by one of the foxes or coyotes that dwell in the greenbelt adjacent to our home. Besides, the children needed constant reminding to feed the fish and Christopher's snake Cornswaggle, as well as cleaning the litter box of Spice, Minnie's replacement.
Eventually we arrived at my parent's place in Leduc and made ourselves at home, which largely meant that the children and I heaped our stuff everywhere and raided the fridge at every given opportunity. Maydee reacquainted herself with the shops and the malls she had so long ago abandoned when we had moved to Phoenix. It is an interesting point that Heritage Mall closed shortly after we left Edmonton. I'm not sure if there is a direct corrolation, but it wouldn't surprise me if there was.
In and amongst outings with my parents and the children, I visited some friends and one night found me at a billiard hall with Scott Rupert while Trooper played in the background. Trooper is one of those old and moldy Canadian bands which found meteoric success in the 70's and have since then eked out a living playing their old hits from those days on the county fair and pool hall circuit. Trooper, Prism, Streetheart - all fit into that category, but it gave me much pleasure in rehashing old times with Scott while recognizing old tunes from years before. Another day found me taking the children to visit Jay and Heather Willis who were camping at Miquelon Lake with their children, Iain and Connor. We all went on a long nature hike and the children made plaster of paris prints of animal tracks while Jay pointed out beaver and muskrat swimming along the banks of a pond. Ducks and geese abounded, frogs were caught and released, but the highlight for Christopher and Victoria was the burning of marshmallow sticks back at the campsite. These they placed into the fire until glowing red hot and then blew on the ends until a flame was produced.
All too soon it was time to depart and in a mad rush we headed south again, stopping briefly at Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump, Little Bighorn National Monument and Yellowstone National Park, where we viewed Old Faithful and a number of other geysers, hot springs and wildlife. The children were thrilled with Yellowstone, but we had spent a week here the previous year and as we had little time left before I had to return to work we didn't linger.
The remainder of the summer passed in the blink of an eye and suddenly Hallowe'en was upon us. Up until now, the usually serious-minded and studious Christopher had not succumbed to the lure of the Harry Potter books, believing them to be nothing more than a fanciful waste of time which would interfere with his studies of animal life. One of our favourite party tricks now is to ask a guest to choose an animal and have Christopher respond with the scientific name of the animal selected. Obviously, he doesn't know them all, but as most people pick a generic animal such as a lion, tiger or elephant, the response provided is usually pretty much on the money. Sometimes Christopher will reply with another question like "As there are seven different types of zebra, to which do you refer? Burchell's? Grevy's?" He even went so far as to have Maydee contact the gentleman who some years ago photographed a jaguar in the Peloncillo Mountains in southern Arizona to discover whether the animal was panthera onca or a subspecies, panthera onca arizonensis, now believed to be extinct. The gentleman referred us to a National Geographic edition which profiled the full story of the jaguar sighting and also sent a couple of autographed books he had written on the subject.
For some time both Maydee and I had been concerned that Christopher would never find an interest on any topic other than animals and, to a much lesser extent, plants and outer space, the latter subject being fertile imagining grounds for what animals on developing planets might look like. However, literally overnight and without warning we were commanded to purchase any and all Harry Potter books as well as any and all Harry Potter DVD's. We were so delighted with this sudden departure into fantasy that we rushed to do his bidding and soon the house was filled with children - ours and others - charging about shooting magic spells at one another. I was personally 'expelliarmus'-ed, and Maydee was 'ridikulus'-ed. I tried an 'immobulus' charm myself to stop the mayhem and when that didn't work I performed an 'evictus' charm on the neighbourhood children. That quietened things down temporarily, for one day at least.
Where he developed this sudden interest in fantasy we never found out, but for Hallowe'en Christopher decided to discard his already purchased jaguar costume in exchange for a Harry Potter outfit and Victoria, not to be outdone, decided she would be Hermione Grainger.
Thanksgiving came and went, we shoved up a Christmas tree in the living room and decorated it and then strung up lights outside the house. Very soon the entire neighbourhood was aglow with lights and decorations and everyone started getting into a festive mood. I started on my Christmas cards and succeeded in getting some gift shopping done before the last minute and all the time I had a nagging stomach ache which wouldn't go away. The doctor I consulted poked and prodded and said I had a mild case of indigestion and if it persisted to come back again in a week or so. The pain did persist and Maydee made an appointment for me to see the doctor again shortly after Christmas. It was an appointment I didn't keep.
On the afternoon of the 23rd I was at work and had let most of my staff go early when suddenly I doubled up in pain. After a few minutes the pain subsided and I managed to drive myself home, although in some discomfort. The following morning the pain was still fairly intense and so I went to the emergency ward at the local hospital whereupon I was diagnosed with acute appendicitis. As an appendix gone bad is not an elective sort of surgery, I was knocked out for what was to be a relatively simple operation and was told that I should be home on Christmas Day or the day after that at the latest.
Twelve days later I was still flat on my back in hospital. My appendix had gone haywire and had calcified, which caused all sorts of other problems, resulting in the surgeon having to fillet me like a fish from the navel nearly to the chest in order to effect a cure. While I had plenty of medication for the pain, the medication turned me into a drooling imbecile and at one point, in a rare moment of lucidity, I counted no less than 5 types of medications hanging from the IV stand, which now substituted for the Christmas tree we had at home. Maydee was tremendously supportive all during this trial and she and the children held a 24 hour bedside vigil, filling in when the nurses were otherwise occupied with other malcontents on the ward. After much pleading, the medications slowly disappeared from the Christmas tree and as each one went, I felt better by degrees. Eventually the doctor said I could go home if I felt up to it. After 12 days, I felt up to it, regardless of how I actually felt. Wild horses could not have kept me away. And so I fled the hospital with a driving ban of 10 days and an order not to go to work for two weeks. The pain is still with me as I type this staring at the snow outside the window, but I have little else to do and I refuse to watch Oprah. All in all though, 2004 wasn't too bad, except that I'd dearly like to spend Christmas and New Years 2005 at home.

The Three Fish

2006-10-07T13:12:00.000-07:00

THE THREE FISH

Summer 1999

Once upon a time three little fish lived in a pond. One day, a fisherman came along and looked into the water. "There seem to be a lot of fish in the pond," he said out loud. "Tomorrow I'll bring my net with me and catch them."
The three fish heard what the fisherman said and wondered what they should do to avoid being caught."No time like the present to make an escape," said the first fish and he swam through a hole in the dyke, which dammed up one end of the pond. This led to a stream and he swam away to safety.
"I"ll sleep tonight and make my decision on what I should do early in the morning," said the second fish. When he awoke, he found that the fisherman had already arrived with his net and had plugged the hole in the dyke. "Oh oh!" said the second fish. "What should I do now?" He thought a while and then turned upside down. He floated to the surface of the pond and the fisherman believed he was dead. So the fisherman scooped the second fish out of the water with his net and threw him over the dyke. Luckily the second fish landed in the stream on the the other side and he swam away to safety.
The third fish didn't think the fisherman would catch him. "I'm the smartest fish in the pond!" he thought. "The fisherman won't catch me!" And he was still thinking that when the fisherman scooped him up in his net and took him home for lunch.
THE END

The Honest Carpenter

2006-10-07T12:57:00.000-07:00

The Honest Carpenter

Summer 1999

Once upon a time there lived a carpenter named Simon. Simon was kind-hearted, but very poor and lived in a tiny house in a very small village. He made his living fixing his neighbor’s houses when they needed repair. All his neighbors had bigger houses than he did and Simon wished that one day he could have a bigger house. Then he could get married and raise a family.
Simon was not paid very often for his labor because his neighbors knew he was too kind to ask them for money. They usually gave him food or something to drink instead. They were a mean-spirited lot and took advantage of poor Simon all the time. It seemed Simon would have to wait a long time before he could afford to build himself a bigger house.
One day a King’s Messenger rode into the village on a fine horse. He asked if there was a carpenter who could come to the King’s castle and fix the roof. The castle was getting old and the roof leaked every time it rained. All the villagers shouted that Simon was a very good carpenter and hurried him toward the King’s Messenger. The villagers thought that if Simon went to the castle and fixed the roof, the King would look kindly on their village and they would prosper because of it.
"So", cried the Messenger, "You are Simon the Carpenter? Are you a good carpenter? Will you work hard if I take you to the castle to meet the King?"
Simon looked down at his feet and shuffled them nervously in the dirt. "Yes sir", he replied, "I am Simon the Carpenter. I will work hard if you take me to the castle. The King may rely on my diligence. I will fix the roof if he wishes me to".
"Very well then", said the Messenger. "Come with me. The King shall see if you are any good at what you do. If you are, you will be paid well. If you are not, you will not be paid at all and you will be sent back to your village in shame." And off he galloped on his fine horse. Poor Simon hardly had time to grab the old burlap sack in which he wrapped his saw for safekeeping. He had to run behind the horse as fast as he could to keep up.
When he arrived at the castle, Simon was amazed. He had never seen so many people in all his life. His village was small, but here there were hundreds of people. Everyone seemed to be working doing something. Tailors were making clothes. Cobblers were making shoes. Blacksmiths toiled next to hot fires making ploughs and hoes. There was even an armourer making swords and helmets.
"Come along Simon," said the Messenger. " You may sleep outside here tonight and tomorrow you will meet the King". He pointed to a pile of straw in a corner. "Do not be late. The King likes people to be on time."
Poor Simon looked with dejection at the pile of straw. "It could be worse I suppose", he thought to himself. "At least I got to see the castle and all the different people here. Even if the King does not like my work, I have gained some knowledge of what the world is like outside my little village. Oh, I hope the King does like my work. I don’t want to be sent back to my village in shame in shame."
And then Simon wondered, "Why is there no carpenter here? There must have been a carpenter here before now. Who would build and fix things? After all, there seems to be someone doing every other kind of work. Why not a carpenter? I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow. I mustn’t be late though. " With that thought he placed his old saw aside and curled up on the pile of straw and went to sleep.
The next morning Simon awoke to see everyone getting ready to go to work. He looked up and saw the King’s Messenger purposefully striding towards him.
"Up you get Carpenter", shouted the Messenger, "It is time to see the King. He is waiting."
Simon scrambled to his feet, but could not find his saw anywhere. He looked and looked, but it wasn’t anywhere to be found. "Oh no!", he wailed, "How can I show the King my work if I do not have my saw". Feeling very gloomy indeed Simon followed the Messenger into a great hall.
The Messenger brought Simon before the King. "Here is a carpenter, Sire, just as you asked. He claims to be hard-working."
The King looked Simon up and down for a time before he spoke. When he did, he spoke in a deep voice which made Simon tremble in fright. "Carpenter, can you fix the roof of the castle so it won’t leak every time it rains?"
Simon’s knees trembled as he replied, "Yes Sire I can, but I’m afraid I have lost…"
The King cut him short. "Good. Then we shall put you to a test. If you pass the test then you can fix the roof and be paid very well for doing so. If not, you shall have be sent back to your village."
Simon wished the floor of the great hall would open up and swallow him whole. How could he pass a test without his saw? He would have to return to the village without ever having worked at all. The villagers would be angry with him and they would not give him any more work. They would find another carpenter to take his place. He would have to leave and find work elsewhere. His dream of building a larger house for himself now seemed very distant.
Then the King looked at Simon more closely. "Where is your saw, Carpenter? You claim to be able to work hard, yet you have no tools to do so. How do you explain this? Do you pretend to be a carpenter when really you are nothing more than an idle layabout? Everyone knows carpenters have saws. Where is yours?"
Simon bridled at the suggestion he was idle. He had always worked hard and this gave him the strength of mind to reply firmly to the King, " Sire, I am a carpenter and I have always done my best in my work. Sometime during the night as I slept I misplaced my saw. Now I cannot show you my work and prove to you that I am a good carpenter."
Instead of accepting Simon’s explanation as he had hoped, the King grew very angry. "How do you mean you ‘misplaced’ your saw as you slept? Nobody misplaces anything when they sleep. Do you mean to say that someone in my castle stole your saw in the night? That is a serious accusation, Carpenter. We do not have thieves in my castle."
Simon was even more miserable now. He wished he had never come to the castle. "No Sire", he replied meekly, "I did not say anyone stole my saw. Maybe it is lost in the pile of straw where I slept last night."
"Is that so!", shouted the King loudly so everyone in the great hall could hear. "The carpenter here claims to have either lost his saw in a pile of straw as he slept or has had it stolen from him. We shall see." The King commanded his Messenger to come before him. " Go to the pile of straw outside and see if you can find the missing saw. The carpenter shall remain here with me while you do so."
The Messenger left and a great silence swept over the hall. All the courtiers, lords and ladies, jesters and servants stared at Simon. Simon stared at his feet.
Then the Messenger returned. Simon’s hopes rose for the Messenger carried a burlap sack, which he handed to the King. "I found this in the straw", he said quietly.
The King opened the sack and took out a saw. The crowd gasped and so did Simon. This was not any old saw. It had an oak handle encrusted with rubies and diamonds and its blade was made of gold.
"Is this your saw?" demanded the King. "This was found in the pile of straw where you spent the night."
Simon could not believe his eyes. He had never seen such a saw. If he owned a saw like that, he could afford to build a new house and live without want forever. One of the rubies in the handle alone was worth more money than Simon had ever made in his life. And the King was asking if it was his. He gazed upon the saw for a long time and then he answered the King.
"No Sire", Simon heard himself saying, "That is not my saw. My saw is an old one with a worn wooden handle and a steel blade. I cannot afford such a saw as the one you have in your hand."
"If this is not your saw, then perhaps my Messenger made a mistake", said the King looking at Simon carefully. He sent the Messenger outside again.
The Messenger returned once more with another burlap sack. The King opened the second sack and this time took out a glittering silver saw. Again the crowd gasped.
"Is this your saw?" asked the King. "This was found in the pile of straw where you spent the night".
Simon was still in shock from the sight of the gold saw. The silver saw the King now held towards him was of less value than the other, but it was still worth much more than Simon could ever hope to earn in a lifetime. With the silver saw, Simon could build his house and still live without want for the remainder of his days.
However, Simon shook his head slowly. "No Sire. That is not my saw. My saw is an old one with a worn wooden handle and a steel blade. I cannot afford a silver saw like the one you have in your hand."
The King looked at Simon carefully a second time. "Well then, perhaps my Messenger has made another mistake and brought the wrong saw a second time." He made a motion for the Messenger to go outside and look in the pile of straw again.
When the Messenger returned, he handed the King another burlap sack. The King opened this sack and brought out a bronze saw. He held it aloft for the crowd to see. "Is this your saw, carpenter? As you can see, this one is of considerably less value than the other two. Surely a good carpenter like you claim to be would have a saw such as this."
Simon knew that the bronze saw was of less value than the gold and silver saws. Nevertheless, with such a saw Simon could afford to build his new house and work only occasionally to keep food on the table.
Again Simon shook his head. "Sire, I don’t know anything about this saw or the others. I am a poor carpenter. I cannot afford saws such as these. Mine is an old saw with a worn wooden handle and a steel blade."
The King looked at Simon and asked in a stern voice. " Carpenter, are you telling me the truth? How many saws do you think can be found in a pile of straw? I should not think that even one saw would be found in any pile of straw you cared to point at, let alone three saws of great value such as these. Perhaps you are not any good at your trade and deny that one or all of these saws are yours so that I won’t test you to see if you can fix my roof. If these are your saws, take them and go home. I will find another carpenter to fix the roof."
Simon replied meekly, "Sire, these are not my saws. If they were, I would claim them and go home as you suggest. The value of any one saw is more than I could ever earn in my life and truly I wish that one day it would be possible for me to own saws such as these. But, they do not belong to me. My saw is old with a worn wooden handle and a steel blade."
The King sighed. "Very well. I will send the messenger to look in the pile of straw one more time."
The Messenger returned a fourth time and handed the King a fourth burlap sack. The King opened the sack and pulled out an old saw with a worn wooden handle and a steel blade. Before he could say anything, Simon shouted out loud.
"That’s my saw. I would recognize it anywhere. That is indeed my saw and now I can show Your Majesty that I am a good carpenter. With that saw I can fix the roof of the castle. Sire, you will not be disappointed. Set me to any test you desire. I will do my best. You will see."
The King gazed upon Simon for what seemed an eternity. Then he spoke. "Carpenter, if this is your saw, then take it. However, there will be no test."
Simon’s joy dissipated at once. "Sire," he cried, "Please let me show you my work. I can pass any test you care to give me. All I ask is one chance. I am a poor carpenter and all I can afford is an old saw like this one. It works as well and probably better than the others because it is mine and I have used it for years."
To Simon’s amazement the King began to smile. And then he began to laugh. Soon the messenger and all the other people on the great hall were laughing too. Except for Simon. He did not know what to make of this.
"There will be no test", shouted the King so all could hear, "because you have already passed the test. You are honest, which is more than I can say for the last carpenter here. I sent him away because he stole from me and from the people who work hard here in the castle. It was with the money that he stole that he made the gold, silver and bronze saws you see before you. He wanted everyone to think he was such a good carpenter that he became rich through hard work. Now he has nothing. When my Messenger came to your village, I already knew you were a good carpenter. The quality of your work is well known. You did not have to pass a test to prove this, just a test to prove honesty. I could not be sure of your honesty because everyone in your village seemed to cheat you of your wages and what one person will do to another, so the second person will sometimes do to a third and so on. You, however, passed up not one but three opportunities to become wealthy without doing anything to deserve it. Last night I had my Messenger remove your old saw while you slept so that you would not find it this morning when you woke. Then I had him bring in the gold, silver and bronze saws and I asked if they were yours, knowing that they weren’t. Now you shall be rewarded."
And so the King gave Simon a permanent job fixing the roof of the castle and anything else that needed the attention of a carpenter. He also gave him the gold, silver and bronze saws on the condition that once a year Simon would gather together all the children in the castle and from the villages close by and tell them how he came to own such beautiful saws.
Simon was paid well enough that he finally built a large house for himself just outside the castle. He married and began to raise a family like he had wanted to. And, once a year, he returned to his old village and fixed the houses of his former neighbors. They had no carpenter now that Simon had left and none would work there because they feared they would not be paid for their labor.

The Fourth of July

2006-10-07T12:55:00.000-07:00

The Fourth of July

July 2005

As I sit downstairs typing this, through the open windows I can hear the incessant crackle and bang of fireworks outside. If I stood in the master bedroom upstairs, as I just did, I could see numerous displays of pyrotechnics all across the metro-Denver area. Many of our neighbours are banging away on their driveways as well in a less spectacular, though no less raucous effort to celebrate the Fourth of July. It is, of course, Independence Day today. This must be what it sounds like in Iraq on a good day.
Having been born in Britain and raised in Canada, Independence Day means little to me, although each year I try to raise the ire of my American co-workers by calling the Fourth of July "Traitor's Day." Some of the staff become mildly annoyed while others listen in their usual state of ignorance. "Traitor's what?" I am sometimes asked. "Day" I respond. "Traitor's Day. The day the American Colonies declared their independence from Britain."
One employee who is a particular ignoramus seemed to have forgotten the history his long-suffering teachers attempted to ingrain into his pathetic little psyche. Only after some vacuous staring into space did he remember what the Fourth of July was all about. "Oh yeah," he said. And then, in an attempt to expand his global knowledge asked, "Do you guys have July 4th in Canada?"
Now, I have been asked any number of silly questions since I arrived in the United States less than four score and seven years ago. I have been asked if I played hockey in the NHL. I have been asked if there is a Christmas in Canada. Quite often people assume I speak French fluently and on discovering that I don't ask why I don't. However, the July 4th question is asked more frequently than anything else and my stock response is to reply that, yes, Canada does have July 4th. After some thought we found a spot for it between the 3rd and the 5th.
Having said that, our children have grown up in the United States and their only memories of Canada are of trips there to visit their grandparents. Both have had American history drummed into them at school and it is very strange to hear Christopher reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, with or without the reference to God. Victoria speaks with a decidedly American accent and pronounces words with long, drawn out vowels. 'Hayand' is actually hand, for example.
What is particularly amusing are their occasional efforts to use their knowledge of American history to their own personal advantage. Victoria claimed that the freedom of speech as outlined in the 1st Amendment to the Constitution made it mandatory that I buy her a cell phone. I explained that while the American political system is a democracy, the Malcolm household is not. Further, as she still has difficulty spelling 'accessorize', she cannot.
This evening, after blasting off roughly $50 worth of Class C consumer explosives on our own driveway (less an expression of support for Independence Day as it was an opportunity to blast off roughly $50 worth of Class C consumer explosives on our driveway) the children were directed to take a shower to remove the pungent aroma of cordite, clouds of which had enveloped them as they ran about shrieking with enjoyment. Christopher objected as he wished to stay outside a while longer. Using his knowledge of American history, he declared that as today was Independence Day, he was exerting his right to self-determination and henceforth, in the matter of showers and playtime, he would make his own decisions. This was a revolution that amounted to nothing as Maydee immediately bundled him upstairs and into the shower with nearly, though not quite all of his clothes off. Christopher learned today that declaring your independence is not quite the same as achieving it. And here endeth Christopher's latest American history lesson.

Fame At Last

2006-10-07T12:50:00.000-07:00

Fame at Last

April 15, 2005

I was interviewed recently by the world renowned Commerce City Beacon. While this esteemed publication has a circulation marginally less than the Wall Street Journal or, perhaps, Women's Underwear Weekly, it is particularly notable this week simply because I am in it.
Last week, the latest and greatest technological wonder our company has devised rolled into town, found where we hide and parked its conspicuous self in my lot. A half-million dollar trailer filled with assorted visual aids and plasma tv's all designed to pitch our new satellite tracking product. Head office alerted the media to the presence of this wonder in our midst and, much to my unhappy surprise a camera crew and newspaper reporter showed up. I believe Denver was encountering what is called a 'slow news day.'
At any rate, the public relations person accompanying the trailer showed me a 5 minute video on how to best present myself to the media whilst attempting to explain a product about which I have only a very basic understanding. And then excluded himself from any further contributions.
As directed by the video, I looked directly into the camera, but found I could not bring myself to smile. Enthusiastic is not the best word to describe how I felt at being thrust unexpectedly into a situation wherein lay infinite opportunities to make a public spectacle of myself. However, I did hold up a piece of the technological gizmo and hoped the cameras would focus on that instead of on me.
For one reason or another, the TV people disappeared outside while I was preparing my spiel and filmed exterior shots of the trailer as well as close ups of various other things of dubious interest, leaving me alone with the newspaper reporter who eventually wrote the article.
I should add that the gods were with me that day as, at the last possible moment, our media relations officer from head office put in an appearance. The P.R. person mentioned in paragraph three above had failed to mention he would be coming and I had been told the day before by someone else that he would not. (At that time I also naively believed that no media would appear; I mean how could a semi-trailer be of any possible interest to the general public?). Anyway, it turned out our media relations officer was in fact scheduled to appear and that his flight to Denver from the east coast had been late in arriving. After expressing some consternation upon learning I had already conducted a media interview ("geez dude, ya didn't screw it up did ya?") he took my place in front of the TV crew who had re-assembled inside.
"Where are your customers?" he asked.
"Um, they aren't scheduled to take the tour until after lunch and seeing it's 10:00 a.m. I wouldn't expect them anytime soon."
"Weren't you told that TV would be here now and to scrape up a couple of customers willing to appear on the tube while getting a sales pitch on our product?"
"Um. No."
"Why the hell not?"
"Um. Isn't that your job? I mean, aren't you supposed to tell me what's going on and when? Yesterday I was told you weren't even coming and then this morning your hired P.R. boy over there shows me a 5 minute video and announces I'm to be the next Ron Popeil. Gimme a break! This is my branch and it is up to you to tell me if and when you are coming, what to expect and what to get lined up. No customers are expected for at least a couple of hours, so there you are."
"Okay. Hide the company logo on your shirt. You are now a customer and I'll give you a pitch."
For my first ever talent gig I got about 2 seconds worth of TV time nodding stupidly at our media relations officer as he droned on into the camera, but I learned a couple of things that day. The first is that the media can turn absolutely anything, no matter how mundane, into a story. The TV people took the same line as the newspaper reporter: "Technological wonder rolls into town!" Given the nature of the product being pitched I suppose they could have also taken the stand "Big Brother secretly tracks truck drivers as they criss-cross the nation". But they didn't. And why didn't they? Oh, that's easy. The reason the TV crew showed up is because they were ordered to. They were employed by the network that is also a subsidiary of our parent company. This was less a news story than it was subliminal advertising.
But I got my picture in the paper and 2 seconds of TV fame without making a fool of myself. That's all that counts.

Stinky and the Moose

2006-10-07T12:48:00.000-07:00

Stinky and the Moose

July 2005

Once upon a time there was a little green gecko by the name of Stinky who lived in a Bougainvillea bush behind Christopher and Victoria's house. One Sunday afternoon as Christopher and Victoria were sitting in the kitchen eating a bowl of M & M's swimming in chocolate milk for lunch, they heard a knock on the French windows leading out into the garden.
"Wob's 'at knocking?" asked Victoria, dribbling a mouthful of half-chewed M & M's and chocolate milk down her chin and onto her nice new dress.
"Wob dib you zay?" asked Christopher dribbling an even bigger mouthful of M & M's down his chin and onto his nice new shirt.
"I said, 'What's that noise?' repeated Victoria wiping her chin with her spoon. She had spat out the remaining mouthful of chocolatey lunch onto the table in order that she enunciate her words more clearly.
The knocking grew louder. "Hm," said Christopher, turning around and peering through the glass. "It seems like a little green gecko is knocking on the window. I don't think that's possible though as geckos can't knock. They are, after all, reptiles and as we all know reptiles do not possess an intelligence even coming close to rational thought. Therefore, it can't knock."
"This one can!" came a squeaky voice from outside. "Now open the bloody door! There's a moose eating my house and I want you to stop it!"
"Wow!" said Christopher. "A talking gecko! Let's let it in!"
"I don't think that's a good idea," replied Victoria dubiously. "Maybe we should shoo it away with a broom."
"No, no," said Christopher. "It isn't every day we get a talking gecko knocking at our door. Let's see what he's on about."
Christopher opened the window and the gecko tromped in looking grumpy. "There's an enormous bloody moose munching my bougainvillea bush!" shouted the gecko. "If it continues, I won't have anywhere to live. I would like it very much if you would go and stop it."
Christopher and Victoria peered around the edge of the window and to their surprise saw a giant antlered animal placidly munching a mouthful of pink flowers and thorny stems. It peered back at them through enormous sad-looking eyes.
"It is a moose!" cried Victoria.
"Now how did that get here?" wondered Christopher out loud. "As we all know, moose are native to more northern climates, particularly Canada, where they spend their days wallowing in swamps, gobbling down huge quantities of aquatic plants. Now, of course there are moose resident here in the United States, notably in Wisconsin, Michigan and Yellowstone and Rocky Mountain National Parks. It's a bit surprising to find one here in Phoenix though."
"Never mind the lesson on the geographical diversity of the moose species!" shouted Stinky, growing more grumpy by the minute. "Get rid of it or I shall have to move in here with you two!"
"Oh, I don't think Mummy and Daddy would like that very much," said Victoria. "You know how much Mummy enjoys pets around the house."
"Pets! Pets! What do you mean pets!" screamed Stinky in a very loud and squeaky voice. " I am not a pet! Not a pet I say! I am a brilliant, walking, talking example of reptilian intelligence. Unfortunately I lack the size to get rid of the moose by myself."
"Have you tried tugging it's beard?" asked Christopher.
"That's a silly question!" replied Stinky angrily. "But, yes actually I have tried tugging its beard. It took no notice of me. It seems intent on destroying my home!"
"Well, I'm sure its just peckish," said Christopher. "Oh, look! It's stopped eating the bougainvillea bush and appears to be looking for a nice shady place to have a nap."
As Stinky, Christopher and Victoria watched, the moose heaved a great sigh and lay down under a ficus tree and closed it's eyes. Shortly afterwards they heard the sounds of snoring. "It's fast asleep!" cried Stinky excitedly. "Now's your chance! Get rid of it."
"How?" asked Christopher and Victoria. "It's too big to move."
"I have an idea," said Stinky. "Do you have any balloons left over from your birthday party last weekend? I saw you had plenty. I watched as you and all your friends ran shrieking around the back garden having a good time. Thanks so much for the invitation, by the way."
"We didn't know you existed," said Christopher. "If we had we'd have invited you."
"Well, now's your chance to make up for past omissions," said Stinky. "Get the balloons."
Stinky and the children sauntered into the house and found 4,861 balloons their mother had bought on sale at the mall while shopping. They also found several large bottles of helium she had rented in order to blow up all the balloons for the party. "Inflate all the balloons," directed Stinky and while Christopher and Victoria did as he asked, Stinky unravelled a very expensive tablecloth and tore it into 4,861 strips. After they were finished, the trio studiously attached the balloons tied tightly with strips of tablecloth to the moose's antlers. Bit by bit as each balloon was attached, the moose grew lighter and lighter. Eventually it floated several feet above the ground and then a sudden gust of wind blew it over the cinder block wall and out of the children's yard. The moose floated higher and higher and off across the street where it hovered over the children's school.
Just then a murder of crows cawed their way across the sky and spied the floating moose. Something about the balloons seemed to annoy them. They dove en masse and began to puncture each balloon with their beaks. With each punctured balloon, the still sleeping moose began to float slowly downwards until it came to rest on the roof of the school. It laid there for a few minutes until the children heard a creaking and groaning sound.
"What's that noise?" asked Victoria.
"I don't know," said Stinky. "but it sort of sounds like..."
"It sounds like the moose is too heavy for the roof and the roof is complaining," said Christopher.
Just then, in a cloud of dust and debris, the moose disappeared with a resounding crash through the roof of the school.
"Uh oh!" said Christopher. "I think the moose just landed in Miss Eversall's class!"
"Goodbye!" said Stinky suddenly and flew off in the direction of his bougainvillea bush. "Thanks for your help!"
"Not so fast!" said Christopher, grabbing Stinky and stuffing him into his shirt pocket. "No escape for you! This was your idea. You have to come to school with us tomorrow and see what's happened."
"No! No! Please!" cried Stinky. I don't go to school. Let me go! Let me go!"
"Fat chance! said Christopher. "Big fat chance! You're coming with us!"
The following day they walked to school to find a huge crowd in the hallway outside Miss Eversall's classroom. Miss Eversall also stood outside her class, her arms folded across her chest, tapping her foot impatiently. Upon spying Christopher and Victoria she spoke in a very stern tone of voice. "Now that we are all here, does anyone know anything about the moose in my classroom?"
Christopher and Victoria looked with trepidation through the doorway and confirmed their worst fears. They saw a huge hole in the roof and underneath, on Miss Eversall's crushed desk, they saw the moose happily munching everyone's test papers from the previous week. Stinky quickly poked his head out of Christopher's pocket and took a look around. Just as quickly he disappeared back into Christopher's pocket.
"Well?" demanded Miss Eversall. "Does anyone know about the moose?"
Christopher and Victoria remained silent, while a chorus of students cried "No!"
"Yes," came a soft and squeaky voice from inside Christopher's shirt pocket. "Uh, I mean no. No no no no no!"
"Who said that?" cried Miss Eversall pouncing forward toward the sound of the voice. "Who said 'yes? Christopher! Was that you?"
"Um," said Christopher.
"Right!" said Miss Eversall. Class is dismissed for the day. Except for you Christopher. And you Victoria. You two will remain here and clean up this mess. And get rid of the moose! Now!"
And so it was that Christopher and Victoria, as well as a very sorry looking gecko spent the rest of the day cleaning and sweeping Miss Eversall's classroom. Christopher called the animal control van and later that day the moose was put on a plane to Canada where it spent the remainder of its days at Al Oeming's Game Farm wallowing in a swamp, gobbling down huge quantities of aquatic plants. Unknown to the animal control man who took the moose, in an effort to send the pestilential gecko as far away as possible, Christopher had stapled Stinky's tail to the moose's beard and Stinky found himself far away in another country, plotting escape. But that's another story.
Later that evening, an exhausted Christopher and Victoria returned home to eat a supper of gummy bears and ice cream. And just before they went to bed, they had a glass of milk. Christopher had a great big glass of milk and Victoria had a small glass of milk the size of a sippy cup. Poor Stinky, still stapled to the moose's beard, had nothing. Not even a glass of milk the size of a thimble.
THE END

Runnin' For The Border

2006-10-07T12:02:00.000-07:00

RUNNIN' FOR THE BORDER

Summer 2001

Rose is a Rose is a Rose
I stopped the car in front of a shabby and delapidated building in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona. A cloud of fine red dust followed the car to a halt and rolled in through the open window, covering the seats, the dashboard and me. The heat outside was intense and as soon as I stepped into the bright sunlight I cursed the fact I didn't own a cell phone. It was 9:55 a.m and I had a conference call five minutes hence. Damn and blast the new economy, its 24/7 work ethic and all the wondrous technology that made escape from the Rat Race next to impossible.
Not long ago I could have made a business trip to Nogales on the Mexican border without interruption. These occasions had been a welcome respite from the daily marathon of stress back at work in Phoenix. I welcomed the exchange of pandering to ungrateful customers, all of whom shared a solitary and deficient community brain cell, and a never ending variety of tiresome bosses for three hours of solitude in the car. Work, once I arrived was negligible. It was a lazy afternoon in a lazy border town.
For the most part the trips were still a respite, but today one must be available round the clock regardless of location. My one protestation against the New Economic Order was my refusal to purchase a cell phone. Now I was paying the price. I coughed and spat out a mouthful of dust and dialed into the conference using an old fashioned pay phone.
As usual, the call was not of any great importance; just the electronic transference of information through the medium of live telephonic speech from a distant, centralized corporate office to all field managerial service employees in remote branch locations regarding fiscal responsibility and certain changes to authorized expenditure levels. What the hell ever happened to the good old fax memo of the past? Two simple declarative sentences would have done it: "Policy change. You can't spend as much as you used to." Nah! Gotta spend money on long distance phone calls to ensure there are no cost over-runs at field locations! A company wide email would have been cheaper and easier. On second thought, everyone would have deleted it without reading. I kicked idly at a scorpion crawling around in the dust. It raised its tail to strike, but changed its mind and scuttled off instead. Me too. I hung up and decided to buy a Coke. I needed something to wash the bad taste out of my mouth.
The shabby and delapidated building appeared to be a combination General Store cum rural Steak House. It was graced by the largest set of fake steer horns I had ever seen. They stretched at least sixty feet atop the structure and still showed the vestiges of a long past whitewash. These steer horns had drawn me here. They were visible from the highway half a mile distant and somewhat less than subtly advertised the presence of a public facility of one sort or another and thus, presumably, a public payphone.
It was now ten minutes past ten. A cobwebbed red and white plastic sign hung askew in the doorway. It announced that the public was welcome to enter as of ten minutes ago. I rattled the old brass handle. The door was locked. I stepped away from the building to take another look. Maybe the place was abandoned. It was hard to tell.
Suddenly I heard the metallic snap of a lock opening. I waited. Nothing. The door didn't open. I waited a bit more. Still nothing. Hmmm. I stepped forward and tried the handle again. This time the door opened and I spied a woman shuffling off behind a counter and then disappearing into a back office of sorts. Obviously it was she who had unlocked the door. Had she heard me rattle the knob? Probably. Why hadn't she opened the door then? Old fashioned managerial service I suppose. She looked already well past the recovery stage of cost over-runs.
I'm delighted to say the shabby and delapidated exterior appearance of the building bestowed a false impression. The interior was even more shabby and delapidated. Chipped formica tables stretched as far as the eye could see, which wasn't very far. Two small grime-covered windows admitted only the barest of illumination from outside and a pervasive gloom hung throughout as a result. Wood chips lay scattered purposefully about the floor in an attempt to give the place a rustic charm - not that it needed help - and a few ancient lamps protruded at right angles from the walls. There was one over each table, presumably for romantic engagements and first dates on Saturday evenings. I wondered where the people came from. A trapped blue bottle buzzed noisily against one of the windows, vainly seeking escape. No doubt it would soon join its dead and dying brethren gathered in clumps on the sill below.
The woman emerged from her hideaway at the back of the store and bade me take a seat
"Thank you anyway. I just wanted a Coke to go. I'm in a hurry."
"What size Hon?"
"I don't know. A can I guess."
"Ya want a can?"
"Yes. A can is fine."
" 'kay, grab some pine. Be right with ya."
Grab some pine? 'Grab some Pine Sol instead', I thought, eyeing a rickety old wooden chair covered in.... geez, how thick was that dust anyway?
"Uh, Ma'am. I just wanted a Coke to go. Okay?" I had to shout. The woman had gone to ground again.
"I hear ya. Gotta find the menus."
Maybe she had heard, but obviously she wasn't listening and so I sat down in the least dusty chair available. Lovely. It was a rocker. You know. One of those annoying chairs with one leg shorter than the others. No matter how you sit, the thing tips backwards and forwards unexpectedly. I grabbed a handful of used beer coasters from a neighbouring table and wedged them under one of the legs for balance.
The woman returned with a menu, but no Coke. She stood poised with pencil on pad waiting for my order.
Okaaaay! "I'll have a Coke. Cold. One can. No glass. To go."
"That it?"
"Yes Ma'am. Thank you."
"Name's Rose."
"Eh?"
"Rose by name, not by disposition." She sort of smiled. Someone must have said that to her once.
I sort of smiled back. "Well Rose. If it isn't too much trouble, I'd like a cold can of Coke. No glass. During your absence I'll peruse the menu you have so kindly provided and make a decision on what, if anything, is edible and having made that determination consider staying and placing an order."
"Be right back, Hon. A can, right? Coke, right?"
"That will suffice."
I opened the menu and began reading. This was most definitely a Steak House. It was possible to order any of a bewildering array of cuts burned to your liking in weird and wonderful ways. Chicken fried steak, grilled sirloin, poached Porterhouse, even steak Tartar. I half expected the platitudes for this last mouth watering delight to read 'We trot your cow round the grill once and kill it.' Alas! The menu was devoid of adjectives.
My Coke arrived at last, cold, sans glass. Again Rose stood expectantly with pad and pencil. I sighed and gave in. What was the point in arguing? Against better judgement, I ordered a 'breakfastburger' - fried egg, ham and, curiously, pineapple, wedged between two pieces of rye bread. I tried to return the menu to Rose who ignored it and disappeared once again. Okey doke! I flipped the menu over and discovered a wine list. Alrighty! What have we here? What an excellent selection! None of that old musty stuff that costs a bomb in places like L'Arrogance in Manhatten or Le Chic Filet in San Francisco. Nope! Everything listed here was new, fresh and, best of all - Local! Names like La Vinaigrette and L'Infidel de Arizona leaped from the page. Had this not been a business trip, had I not been driving, I would have unscrewed a bottle at once and gargled the dust away. However, the Coke was doing just fine.
Surprisingly the first few bites of the 'burger' were quite good, although it arrived with a minimum of service and a lot of noise. Evidently Rose had some form of indentured servant manacled to a stove somewhere in the nether regions of the building. This person had a disposition decidedly less cheerful than that of Rose's. I didn't quite catch all of the shouting between the two, but I swear I heard something mentioned about mould, rye bread and having to open a new tin of pineapple slices without benefit of a can opener. About this time, the bluebottle succumbed to its inevitable fate, stopped buzzing and lay on its back on the window sill. I left the remnants of the sandwich on the plate along with $10 and vanished.

Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here
A short time later I was again speeding south toward Nogales. Although as equally modern as Phoenix and elsewhere, in many ways Nogales has not lost its old world colonial charm. The town literally straddles the Mexican border and the people on both sides of the so called 'Line' are polite in an old-fashioned sense. More often than not, on being introduced to a stranger the conversation continues well past the cursory nod and hello one expects in El Norte. Men still hold doors open for women, if only to look at their behinds as they enter first. And nothing is ever hurried; certainly there is no sense of urgency in anything anyone ever does there.
In hindsight, I suppose Rose's cafe was an indication that I was becoming further removed not only geographically, but also in a manner of lifestyle from the lunacy of Phoenix. However irritating I found Rose's lack of service, I envied her seeming inability to care about it. In many ways, this laid-back attitude manifests itself in the general population of border towns from Tijuana to Nuevo Laredo. The living embodiment of this can be found in the person of one Marvin Santos, owner of Speedy Fix, one of our better vendors in Nogales.
Marvin is one of those well travelled individuals you sometimes stumble across during life's short path. A silver-haired gentleman about sixty years of age and possessing a gammy leg, there isn't much Marvin hasn't seen or done.
He's owned and operated a bush-pilot air service in Alaska; drilled for oil in Nigeria; fished off the coast of Maine and lumberjacked in Washington state. He now owns a profitable truck and trailer repair shop and lets life run its course.
When I first met Marvin, though, I had a suspicion that he wasn't exactly truthful about his past exploits. It seemed to me that if a mundane event snuck up on Marvin from behind, he'd somehow succeed in making it blossom into an adventure of epic proportion. Thus far I had escaped any such contretemps during my visits with him and had essentially filed his nostalgic memoirs into the category of Tall Tales. Now there is nothing wrong with an exaggerated anecdote, but the sheer number of Marvin's adventures seemed almost unimaginable.
He's been unofficially and forcibly deported from Nigeria for chatting up a woman in a nightclub. The woman turned out to be the favourite of one of the ruling generals. He bought a plane in Mexico to use in his business in Alaska. As soon as it touched own, it was inspected by customs and seized as stolen property, the previous, previous owner having filed a lost property report with the FAA some time before. He had a tree fall on him while logging in Washington, hence his limp. None of this has slowed him down at all. As he says, life just deals you a hand and if it isn't a Royal Flush, you just bluff your way through.
At any rate, Marvin was in fine form today. As I pulled up he was shouting at someone in Spanish and gave them a boot in the backside as they turned to run back into the garage. "Friggin' mechanics" said Marvin peering through his bi-focals as I approached. "Who we got here now? Well, shit. If it ain't the friggin' immigrant Canuck. It ain't enough that we get 'em from the south that we get 'em from the north now too. What're you doin' here?"
"Need a break from the Rat Race, Marv. If only for a day."
"Yeah? I gave that up years ago all for the love of a doe-eyed Mexican woman. Not sure where she is now. She went out for some tortillas one day and never come back."
"I thought you said last time I was here that your wife was at home cooking tortillas. You even offered me some if I followed you over there."
"Not that one, you stupid bastard. The other one." He looked wistful suddenly. "The first one had prettier eyes."
"I thought this one had pretty eyes. That's what you said last time."
"Not as pretty as the first one, but she makes better tortillas. Speaking of which, I'm buyin' lunch."
We hopped into Marvin's Ford F150 pick-up and headed downtown. Instead of turning right into the restaurant district, Marvin went straight ahead instead. A sign flashed by: Armas y Amuniciones son Prohibidas en Mexico. "Uh, where are we going?"
"You want out of the Rat Race? We're outta the Rat Race in one minute. We're goin' to Mexico."
"Uh, yeah but I didn't bring my FN card. Without that, I can't work in Mexico."
"We ain't workin' there. We're eatin' there."
"I also didn't bring my passport. I'm a friggin' Canuck, remember? What if we get stopped coming back and U.S. Immigration wants to see my work permit?"
"Don't sweat the small stuff. See, you're all caught up in legalities and legalities are part of the Rat Race. They cause stress. You want to avoid that. Right?"
"What I want to avoid Marv, is doing the wetback thing and crawling through a sewer to get back to the U.S."
"You can't do that."
"Why not?"
"All the manhole covers this side of the Line are welded shut."
It was too late now anyway. We were past the U.S. checkpoint and lined up in thick traffic heading south. A grubby green sign blinked 'Pase' every so often, allowing vehicles to pass into Mexico without the benefit of a customs inspection. Once or twice I saw the sign blink 'Alto' in red and an unfortunate vehicle pulled over to be sniffed at by dogs and ransacked by guards.
"Shit!" Marvin exclaimed suddenly. He fumbled about frantically in his trouser pocket.
"What?"
"Can't take ammo into Mexico."
"Yeah. So?"
"So ya go to jail forever for that, man. Mexican jails ain't nice. You read in the paper about that guy from Phoenix who got caught with just one .22 shell in his trunk? Man he was in jail for three months just waitin' to get a trial date 'til his wife got enough bribe money to get him out. She was down here every week bringing him food. They don't feed ya in jail here."
"And?????" This wasn't looking good.
"There they are. Think I got 'em all." Marvin tossed several bullets out of the window. They landed 30 feet from an inattentive Mexican customs agent.
"Are you completely and utterly insane? You are a friggin' madman! What if we got the old 'Alto' light and they decided to give you the old 'Let's see the inside of your pockets if you'd be so kind' routine?"
"We'd have been up shit creek."
"Geez Marv! Don't sweat the small stuff! Just legalities right?"
"Yeah, well legalities down here are different from back there."
"You don't say!"
"Ain't nothin' to worry about. See. The sign says Pase."
"And you threw out all your bullets."
"And I threw out all my bullets. You're gettin' the hang if it. Viva Mexico. Where ya wanna go?"

Ay, Amigo! Joo My Fren!
Back to the land of welded manhole covers was my first thought. But, we had escaped the prying eyes of the Mexican customs agents and now that Marvin's pockets were devoid of ammunition, it would have been a shame to turn around without sampling some of the local cuisine. Marvin tried to make a personal note to himself to leave his bullets on the table at home when cleaning his gun in future, but the mini tape recorder he spoke into wasn't functioning. It was a gift from his wife, he explained, to help his memory along. He had forgotten to buy batteries. And how could he remember to buy batteries if his note taker was dead? I wondered if Marvin had ever been friends with Joseph Heller.
I leaned back in the seat and peered out of the window as we sped through the tourist district. The first few blocks were filled with bars, brothels, pharmacies, textile shops and nick nack emporiums, all of which were festooned with garish advertisements and lights. Marvin said that at night it looked like a New York slum draped in neon.
Never a people to under-estimate the tastes of the American public, Mexicans cater to the most popular desires of the cross-border shopper. They make it easy for Gringos to spend their money without ever having to over-extend themselves by going too far into town.
You want a velvet painting of Tom Selleck smoking a cigar? No problem. $3. Your doctor won't prescribe any more valium because you are an addict? Fear not. Stress relief is no further away than your closest Mexican Farmacia. You've always wanted a sombrero? Take your pick from literally thousands, all in different colours. You can wear it while having a polaroid taken on a street corner standing next to a real live donkey - painted black and white to resemble a zebra of course.
I have never ceased to be amazed at the worthless crap on which tourists spend their hard-earned money. Maybe the knowledge they've escaped the stress of their every day existence causes them to throw common sense to the care of the four winds. Nothing like a senseless purchase to help someone escape into a child-like dreamscape of their own making where trashy toys take precedence over the careful attitudes of scrimping and saving that allowed the vacation in the first place.
I know and understand that feeling very well. It's one of the reasons I enjoy my visits to Nogales. I like looking at the junk for sale, but I never seem to buy any. Perhaps it's in my Scots nature not to spend money frivolously. So far on my holidays I have refrained from buying nothing more than a tartan tam o'shanter with fake red hair sticking out under the brim and a plastic haggis guaranteed to delight and frighten my friends at the same time. You can't count the Loch Ness Monster on the mantle. That's real wood and metal and one day might very well be worth something.
I digress.
After a few minutes Marvin and I emerged into the commercial district where vegetable stalls, fast food stands and flower shops littered the view. People bustled about carrying shopping bags filled to bursting with their daily purchases and children ran to and fro shouting at stray dogs. Music blared from loudspeakers at every street corner while taco stands belched charcoal smoke in quantities sufficient to have alarmed even the most recalcitrant of London factory owners during the age of the Industrial Revolution. One whiff and you knew at once you were in the Third World. It's unmistakeable. It's the smell of exhaust fumes and smoke from outdoor grills and burning garbage mixed inextricably with the sweat of the toiling masses.
I think the cavalier attitudes toward pollution and the subsequent knowledge that no one cares or tries to enact legislation - or enforce it if it does exist - are the first and most visible signs of what Gringos perceive to be the lackadaiscal Mexican attitude toward life. Few people in the North realize that life for most of the Mexican population is a fight for survival. Fewer still venture past the brothels in border towns or beyond the beach at exotic resorts that are nothing more than an extension of California Dreamin' anyway. Would Mexicans rather have cleaner air and fewer stray dogs? Of course. But its cheaper to burn charcoal than propane and who gives a damn about a dog when every peso saved means your family can eat beans again today?
While we hadn't planned on stopping here, I wouldn't have minded getting out and walking around for a while and I told Marvin so. The change in atmosphere from Phoenix was refreshing, though not in a literal sense. Marvin, however, would have none of this. He pointed out that in the first place my stomach probably wasn't used to the exigencies of processing Mexican street food. This was undoubtedly true. Secondly, he had a better place in mind and, finally, he added that if I enjoyed standing still with my hands in the air while someone rifled through my pockets, we might be able to find time to stop on the way back.
I pointed out that fortunately I had never had a problem in Latin American countries and so far my encounters with Mexicans had been little more than attempts at conversation with an eye to improving my Spanish. (This usually ends up in mutual laughter and me walking into the Damas and not the Hombres, but all in a day's fun.) Those that I had spoken to enjoyed trying to improve their English in turn. In any case, I asked Marvin, wasn't the idea that crime rates were high south of the border just paranoia on the part of people unfamiliar with the territory? Many Canadians, for example, believe that crime in the U.S. is sufficiently advanced that the chances of being robbed on a daily basis are odds on. It simply isn't true. You just need to be careful.
At this point a fight broke out amongst the flower stands and several people tackled a man flailing at the crowd with a bunch of long stemmed roses. With everyone's attention now well and truly distracted, three other men grabbed armfuls of flowers and legged it.
"I think they're familiar with the territory" said Marvin. I slouched down in the seat.
We stopped at a red light and waited a moment to let cross traffic pass in front of us. Just then a ratty looking Mexican in a straw hat carrying a tray laden with blue wax candles in the shape of the Virgin rapped sharply at the passenger window of the truck. He had materialized from the ether. Certainly I hadn't seen him approach.
"Ay, amigo! Que pasa?" He smiled a toothless smile and gestured that I should roll down the window. Not on your life.
"Roll down the window, " said Marvin. "It's cool. It's just Alonso." I rolled down the window.
A rapid fire conversation in Spanish ensued and Marvin handed over a couple of dollars. Alonso accepted them gratefully with a withered hand and offered a candle in exchange. This was refused. The cross traffic stopped and we turned right down the Calle Heroica. I glanced back and heard Alonso call out "Ay, amigo! Joo my fren'!"
Marvin mumbled something about the poor and downtrodden and having known Alonso since the days of the seized airplane, but he concentrated mostly on stuffing his cash back into his trouser pocket. For some reason he was having trouble. After a little swerving into oncoming traffic, he succeeded. "Knew I had another one in there," he said holding up another bullet. "That makes six." He tossed it out the window. "Want some candles to take back to Phoenix? Gotta box of them back at the shop."

Provecho
The Casa de Antojitos turned out to be a bright, airy little restaurant with vines covering a well kept frame of white latticework around the doorway. This was a huge contrast to Rose's House of the Fake Steer Horns and Dead Flies back in Arizona. It was a huge contrast to the taco stands two blocks away.
Once inside we were greeted effusively and ushered to a linen-covered table where iced water was produced at once. By all appearances this was a professionally maintained establishment. No smoke, no stray dogs and no fights here.
Hector, the proprietor, was an old friend of Marvin's and once introductions had been made it seemed I was admitted to the inner sanctum of the social circle. "Any fren' of Marveen's is a fren' of mine. Joo wan' anyting, anytime, joo jus' ask. Hokay?"
"Hokay."
Hector bowed, rather obsequiously I thought, and disappeared into the kitchen. He was replaced at once by a nattily dressed waiter with a white jacket and black trousers. At once I named him Manuel in honour of Fawlty Towers, but this gentleman accorded us none of the immediate buffoonery that has delighted so many television viewers. He took our orders in Spanish and quietly excused himself, following Hector into the kitchen.
I had ordered Tacos de Lengua and a side of guacamole. I hadn't had beef tongue since I was a child and wondered if I would still like the taste. I remembered liking it at age five.
As a child I was subjected to culinary treats like pork brains, bone marrow and haggis. This was perfectly normal to me then, but the passing of the years and the absence of marrow spoons in my flatware collection has caused me to alter my diet in favour of burgers and fries. Tacos de Lengua would be a nostalgic trip into the past, albeit with a Latin touch, and I looked forward to it.
Manuel reappeared fifteen minutes later with our orders. Rather, he reappeared with Marvin's order. Mine appeared to be a plate of chicken, rice and beans.
Marvin complained before I did, his Spanish being more up to the task. Manuel apologized and said there was no beef tongue today. The butcher's van hadn't shown up. Why then had I not been given a choice of something else? Well, the answer was I had been given a choice of something else. I had been given a plate of chicken, rice and beans.
Hector flapped out of the kitchen like a mother hen. With Basil-like gestures he admonished Manuel, which made me feel uncomfortable, and asked me to choose from a freshly produced menu. I jabbed at the fourth item on the page without really reading what it was. Hector barked at Manuel to inform the kitchen of my new wishes and to get a move on. With a puzzled look, Manuel pointed enquiringly at the plate on the table and started to say something. Hector interrupted. Evidently he wasn't one to suffer insolence from his subordinates so, rather peremptorily, he handed Manuel the plate to dispose of. Manuel took it, shrugged and disappeared.
Hector was sorry for the confusion. It wasn't normally like this, he said. Marvin said it was. Hector said it wasn't. Marvin said it was and pointed out that the last time he had been here he had ordered Tequila Sauza. Instead he had been given Cuervo Gold. Hector countered that Marvin's taste in tequila was lacking and he had decided to supply him with a better brand of tequila. Marvin said he hadn't wanted a better brand of tequila, he wanted what he had ordered. Hector called Marvin a Philistine and Marvin replied that it took one to know one. Around this time Manuel showed up with another plate of chicken, rice and beans.
Item number four on the menu was chicken, rice and beans. Hector glared at Manuel who slunk away into the kitchen. Marvin and I didn't stop laughing for five minutes.

Breadcrumbs
After lunch Marvin suggested we take a look at some of the new maquiladoras being built around town. Maquilas, as they are commonly called, are modern day sweatshops where every conceivable type of consumerable item is made by thousands of workers paid a third-world wage. Most of the maquilas are owned by brand name companies known the world over. Interestingly enough, while these companies love to assault your senses with unceasing advertisements in print and on the idiot box, they don't seem too keen on identifying themselves on the outside of their factories. Some are identifiable only if you recognize the corporate logo, as the company name is usually omitted from the building. As one example, if you didn't recognize the logo of a popular lock company, well you'd be none the Weiser.
In their defence, the maquilas are modern structures and are built to American standards - not that that often means much - and they are clean and safe. The companies do provide a living for thousands that would otherwise engage in fisticuffs over the marigolds downtown, but the average wage is about $8.00 a day. Not enough to stop the wholesale fence-climbing, sewer-crawling, tunnel-building decathlon that continues around the clock all along the border. Nevertheless, my work does a booming business with the maquilas as they rely heavily on transport to truck their goods north and I could justify to myself the laziness of the afternoon by taking a peek at the newcomers to the slave trade.
We climbed up a steep hill on the outskirts of town, the gravel road spitting dust and rocks under the tires of the truck until we looked out over a wide valley. To the right could be seen the border highway leading north to the U.S. and south to Hermosillo and points beyond. To the right and in the center of the valley there was nothing but construction activity. Dozens of cranes dotted the landscape like so many erecto-sets and workers swarmed in never-ending lines like ants in search of a picnic.
We gazed upon the scene for a few minutes until the novelty wore off and Marvin put the truck into reverse. Instead of returning the way we came, he headed further down the gravel road. Marvin jabbed the windshield with his index finger. "We can get out that way. We'll take a spin up the highway. There's a cool looking prison you should see on the way back."
A prison? Why on earth would I wish to see a Mexican prison, even from the outside? I peered anxiously about the floor for discarded ammunition. I didn't see any and fought the temptation to look behind the seat for a forgotten hunting rifle or hand grenade.
I've never understood the American constitutional right to bear arms in defence of the nation. A hundred years ago, the possession of rifles and six-shooters by the general population may have deterred the intentions of a hostile nation whose armies were similarly equipped, but the modern day equivalent of the intent of the constitutional right to bear arms would necessitate private ownership of flame-throwing tanks and pocket thermonukes. It might be alright if the U.S. were to be invaded by Andaman Islanders or the Central African Republic, but I doubt Russia or China would be much deterred by gun-totin' rednecks like Charleton Heston. No. You'd need cheaply made and easily obtainable weapons of mass destruction for that.
As we headed toward the highway in the distance I noticed that the gravel road became narrower and somewhat rougher. Marvin didn't seem to notice and kept up a steady pace. We rounded a corner and were nearly hit by a gravel truck coming in the opposite direction. Now the road ran out. We had entered a gravel pit.
"Let's try this way" said Marvin spinning the truck around as though it were a go-cart on ice. "I kinda forget the way outta here."
That was an understatement. For the next half an hour we investigated every goat path and rabbit warren within the means of Marvin's truck and driving abilities. The highway seemed no closer than it had been when we started.
"Hey, Marv. Why don't we just follow the trail of breadcrumbs back to Grandma's house?"
"No no. S'okay. There's a way out here somewhere." Marvin didn't want to admit defeat. Well, he did know the territory after all. "There. There's the way out." He pointed toward a barren dirt clump flanked by two gorse bushes.
"Uh, I don't think so, man. That looks like tow truck territory to me."
"That's the problem with you city slickers. You buy all these SUV 4 x 4's and you never take 'em off road. Hell, a two wheel pick up's just as good. Watch this."
I watched.
"So now what? You want to jack the truck up and me push it off high center or vice-versa."
"Now how the Sam hell did that happen? Geez I haven't done that in years. I remember in Alaska once we were out in damn cold weather you know and the truck got stuck in a drift just outside town and stalled. Boy, I'll tell you. It was cold. It wasn't that far into town, but the snow was coming down awful thick. I wondered if I should try my luck and walk or start burning tires..."
"Uh, yeah Marv. Sorry to interrupt, but... Take a look over there."
On the far side of the starboard gorse bush, about 200 yards away, a large crowd of Mexicans had gathered. They were peering at us closely like the residents of the quarry did upon coming across the hated Nazi doctor in The Evil That Men Do. All were wearing bandanas over their faces. Like the Charles Bronson movie, some were even carrying picks; the rest shovels. We were going to be robbed and then hacked to death.
"Shall I walk for help while you start burning tires or vice-versa?"
"Oh..." For once Marvin was speechless.
"Buenas tardes, senores" said the chief bandit. "Yo veo que estas estancado."
"Yes, we're estancado alright" I replied. I had rolled down the window. Apart from the bandana covering his face, for all intents and purposes he might have been Alonso. Its cool. "Can you give us a pusho or are you going to deprive us of our goods and possessions without our consent? I understand there's a fine prison nearby. We were on our way to take a look at it. Have you escaped? If you get us un-estancado, we would be happy to give you all a ride back for free."
"Que?"
I motioned with my hands for a push.
"Oh si, si. No problema." He motioned at his fellow escapees. "Vengan y empujen los gringos!"
Everyone pushed the gringos and we were suddenly un-estancado. Once free of the dirt clump we shot forward and saw a gravel truck at the bottom of a hill not far away. It seemed we had been assisted by workers filling the truck with shovels. Some picked the gravel, the rest shoveled. The bandanas were to keep the dust out of their mouths.
Marvin took a high speed run at the clump on the way back up the hill so we wouldn't get stuck again, but was stopped mid-way by the chief bandit.
"Now he wants money" said Marvin.
The bandit and his merry men then picked and shoveled the clump out of the way and waved us on.
I bade Marvin stop at the top of the hill and got I out. I offered the bandit $20, but he refused it. "No. Ees okay. We help. Joo stuck. We help. No problem."
I pressed the $20 into his hand and told him to buy some beer for the crowd. "Gracias senor. Muy amable. Buenas tardes."
And we drove off following the trail of breadcrumbs back to Grandma's house.

Runnin' For The Border
On the way back Marvin remained relatively quiet. From time to time he'd point at various things of interest, but his heart wasn't really in it. It was evident he was keen to return stateside. I think the bandits had shaken him somewhat.
I spent the fifteen drive back to the border thinking about the day's events. It was certainly a change from pandering to customers back in Phoenix and I had enjoyed myself, despite the moments of anxiety.
I was glad to be going back though. I had headed for the border to escape the stress and tedium of my daily grind and was pleased that I had done so. However, I suppose the grass is always greener on the other side of the barbed wire and border patrols and I was happy not to have to work in a maquila or fill up a gravel truck with a shovel. No way could I exist selling tacos and flowers amid the noise and confusion of the downtown crowd and I don't know the first thing about running a brothel. Rose's cafe now seemed less a blight on the landscape than it had been a few hours earlier. I'm sure with some linen table cloths and a waiter named Manuel it would have been a tolerable place to eat. I still wasn't fond of the 24/7 work ethic, but there were others who had it much worse than me and sometimes I forgot that. It was good to be reminded occasionally.
About 500 feet from the border, Marvin got a flat tire. He stopped and got out to take a look. Just then the Federales pulled up behind us, lights flashing. Marvin didn't hesitate. He walked back to the truck casually and casually got in. As the cop approached Marvin gunned the engine and we fled to the waiting and welcoming arms of Uncle Sam.
"Citizenships?"
"American"
"Canadian"
"I noticed you were running from the Federales. Why?"
"Flat tire" said Marvin ambiguously.
"Anything to declare?" A dope dog sniffed the truck and sat down to lick a paw.
"Nope."
"Welcome back. Now g'awn. Git."

Silent Night Holy Night

2006-10-07T11:37:00.000-07:00

Silent Night? Holy Night!

December 25th, 2000
3:13 a.m.
Dear Diary,
Have you ever been awakened in the wee hours by the sound of your burglar alarm going off? No? Well, let me assure you it is rather a jarring experience. Once the very loud and repetitive 'Paaarp! Paaarp! Paaarp!' jolts you into unwilling consciousness, your first reaction is to panic. You equate the alarm with an intrusion. After all, that's why you pay money for the damn thing in the first place.
Having panicked, you grope the bedside table for your Walther PPK and come to the sudden and poignant realization that you've been having Walter Mittyesque dreams of being James Bond again. You don't own a Walther PPK. In fact, as you aren't an American citizen, you don't even have the right to the second amendment. You don't own a gun at all. The half-eaten avocado sandwich your three year old daughter left on the bedside table several hours ago is a poor substitute. It will have to do.
Clutching your oozing sandwich, you begin to move cautiously down the hallway. Your first course of action is to disengage the alarm with the understanding that if you do not your hearing will be permanently impaired should the racket continue to sound. You also begin to wonder why the noise has failed to rouse any other members of your family, with the possible exception of your aforementioned three year old daughter whose door, you notice, is slightly ajar. She probably went to the bathroom in the night again. I mean who wouldn't after eating half an avocado sandwich before going to sleep?
Once you disengage the alarm, you really start to awaken. That is to say, at the very least you become more fully aware of the psychological advantages to be gained by wearing a full set of clothing. It is an unpleasant feeling to be caught in a compromising position clad only in your underwear. Nevertheless, you tighten your grip on the sandwich and listen intently for the sounds of unlawful entry: the scuffling of feet, the rummaging of drawers, the unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked behind your left ear.
When none of these sounds are immediately forthcoming, you start slowly to move from room to room keeping close to the walls, silently gliding doors open and flicking the lights on as you go. Your vision adjusts to the illumination fairly quickly after the first room and this is the one advantage you, an unarmed citizen, has in a situation like this. Any burglar found to be hiding in the darkness will be unable to see for a few precious seconds once your tracked and recessed ceiling lighting comes into play. Your attack, should you wish to pursue such an option, will be aided by the fact you can see him before he sees you.
It is, therefore, fairly stressful when you clear room after room and find nothing. On the one hand, you are relieved your family is one step closer to safety with each passing moment, but your relief is short-lived as you need to ready yourself for the next room and the increased potential for danger that lies within. This is very much like a roller-coaster ride, both mentally and physically.
At last you reach the kitchen. This is the last room to clear. It is also the room in which some real sense of safety may be obtained - unless of course all your kitchen knives are secured safely in the dishwasher. On the other hand, maybe the burglar has purloined the biggest knife. At any rate, if the burglar is in the house, he is in the kitchen. There is nowhere else he can be. This is it! Decision time!
You become a coiled steel spring, ready for action. Your muscles tense and every sense is more alert than it has ever been before, with the possible exception of that time ten or twelve years ago when you discovered that the girl you were seeing had a herculean boyfriend who had just arrived home early from watching WWF live with a bunch of drunken buddies. Anyway... You crouch down as close to the floor as you can and reach up for the light switch. Across the kitchen the full harvest moon is shining brightly into the back yard and you can see the french windows have been jimmied open, allowing the cool night air to blow freely into the house. Did the burglar flee into the night once the alarm sounded or is he still here hiding just around the corner? A movement catches your eye inside the house and just to the left of the french windows. Your heart stops, momentarily. But James Bond wouldn't hesitate. Nor will you. You switch on the lights and pounce forward with what you hope is a disorienting scream reminiscent of a clumsy banshee having stubbed its toe in a frozen forest....
"Daddy. What are you doing?"

3:17 a.m.
You know? I suppose I didn't really believe the house had been burgled. Bad things happen only to the other guy. Right? Of course they do. It was only my dear little insomniac daughter that had opened the windows into the back garden and set off the alarm. How sweet!
"Victoria! What on earth are you doing?"
"Daddy! Daddy! The moon is shiny. I want to see the cat."
"Eh?" I had expected a disclaimer of sorts about Santa or something but this was a disjointed thought process if I had ever heard one. The poor dear must be sleepwalking. "What are you talking about? What cat?"
"The one Mommy wants to kill. The moon is shiny. I want to see it pooping in the sandbox."
"The moon?"
"No, Daddy! The cat!"
"Oh. Well Mommy doesn't really want to kill the cat. She just says that. As we're on the topic though, perhaps its best we put you back to bed before we both die. Hmm?"
"Daddy?"
"Yes, heart of my heart?"
"I don't feel well."
Ah yes! The old 'I don't feel well and so now I get to do anything I want including staying up to see the cat poop in the sandbox' ploy. You can't fool me. I was young once too you know.
"Daddy I think I'm gonna hurl."
3:19 a.m.
There are times, Dear Diary, when I really believe it is possible to avoid unpleasantness with a little pro-active thinking. Not that there was any malaforethought involved with the creation of the avocado sandwich with which my daughter had been supplied just prior to her bedtime, but I do honestly believe that small children should not be allowed to roam the house freely with snacks before they are tucked away into their jammies for the night. I would have discussions with my wife come the light of dawn.
I picked up the poor dear, switched off the light and closed the french windows. She was already in heavenly sleep once again and looked so tender and mild. Only I knew that this was a false innocence and that underneath her smiling, sleeping countenance lay the heart and soul of a demon child. It was best that I tiptoe quietly back to her room lest she unleash a fresh hell upon me. I hadn't gone two steps when I trod unsuspectingly on some sharp and pointy object left lying in ambush on the kitchen tiles. I nearly bit off three fingers trying to stifle a scream and it was at that precise moment the silence of the night was once again rent asunder.
"Yes? Yes? What is it? Who is it? What do you mean by calling me at this time of night?" I hissed into the phone. This had better be important.
"Merry Christmas, sir" came a cheerful nasal whine over the ether. "This is the alarm company calling. Is eveything alright?"
No one has the right to be cheerful at that time of the morning.
"Is everything alright? Did you just ask me if... Well, let me see. If you can describe standing in your kitchen clad only in your underwear while covered in luminous green vomit at 3:00 a.m as alright, then yes, I suppose things are perfectly fine. If you can describe the experience of having trodden on a toy stegosaurus in the dark while returning your insanely inquisitive daughter back to bed as the picture of perfection, then yes, things may be described as absolutely ducky. Here is the password for the alarm to relieve you of any further responsibility in the matter. Good night!"
3:23 a.m.
"Who was that?"
"What?"
"Who was that? Just now. On the phone."
"What do you mean 'Who was that?' That, dear, was the alarm company. Who do you think it was?"
"What did they want?"
"Are you serious? Do you honestly mean to tell me you didn't hear the alarm going off?"
"What's that green stuff?"
"Puke. Victoria puked."
"She shouldn't be out of bed at this time. I told you not to stuff her full of chocolates after supper."
"Now listen here....!"
"Are you going to wash it off?"
"No! I think its rather becoming. Perhaps I'll wear it until next Hallowe'en and go as a rotted corpse. If you notice, I am actually standing next to the shower with the door open."
"I can't see. The moon isn't shiny enough in the room."
"Oh... go and kill a cat."

3:27 a.m.
I was so tired when I stepped into the shower that I nearly drowned standing up. The only thing that prevented this was that each time I nodded off with the soothing hot water coursing down around me I kept listing to starboard into the wall. I knew both of the kids would be up in a couple of hours and all my energy would be spent trying to stop them from ripping open the Christmas gifts until everyone was all dressed and ready. Probably around 4:00 p.m . or so.
Rather drowsily, I stepped out of the nice warm shower and reached for a towel. I glanced through the darkness to discover that Victoria had once again resurrected herself from her bedroom and crawled under the bedcovers in mine, leaving no room for me. No matter. The cool night air now felt like a cold Antarctic gale and I was suddenly and incontrovertibly wide awake. Visions of returning to bed and catching up on dreams of pointing my Walther PPK at a scantily clad Octopussy after catching her in a compromising position disappeared as quickly as had the water down the plug hole.
Instead, I sallied forth into the living room, flipped on the TV and tuned it to BBC America. Maybe I could catch the Queen's Christmas address being broadcast live. I settled back onto the sofa for the briefest of moments until a movement just to the right of the portico caught my eye. My heart stopped momentarily and then I let out a deep, long-suffering sigh.
"Daddy. Gimme some milk!"

A Kindly Prince

2006-10-07T01:37:00.000-07:00

A Kindly Prince
For quite some time now I have been wishing I could resign my position at work and spend my time dabbling in personal interests; maybe write a book or move to the Caribbean and fish when not tanning on the beach at my private resort drinking rum. Unfortunately, because of a debt to income ratio I cannot not seem to overcome, it appeared I was doomed to spend my life slaving for a large multinational corporation at "competitive" pay. However, at least once in everyone's life, a lucky star shoots through a gloomy sky. I am very happy to announce that such a star has landed fairly and squarely in my lap. No, I have not won the lottery. Lotteries are a desperate gamble with zero chance of winning. But having said that, the stroke of fortune that has come my way is akin to winning a lottery and so I wish all of you the best and hope fortune comes your way as it did to me.
Recently, I was contacted by the Prince of Nigeria who offered to pay me $10,000,000 to help him claim funds that rightfully belong to his family. Because of an unstable political situation in Nigeria he is unable to access the funds personally, which are currently in a Canadian bank account. Therefore he requires an intermediary to help him. All I have to do is send him my bank account information so that he can transfer the money into my U.S. bank account, whereupon all the funds therein, with the exception of $10,000,000 for my assistance, will be transferred to his Cayman Islands account, leaving me rather wealthy. The transaction should be complete by this coming Friday and shortly after that I'll let you know my new address in the Bahamas. I'll also send you a photo of me driving my new BMW Z4. Until then.... adieu mes amis.

Prayer to St.Jude

2006-10-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

PRAYER TO ST JUDE
O most Holy Apostle, St. Jude, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, the church honours and invokes you universally, as the patron of hopeless cases, of things almost despaired of. Pray for me. I am so helpless and alone.
Make use, I implore you, of that particular privilege given to you, to bring visible and speedy help where help is almost despaired of. Come to my assistance in the great need that I may receive the consolation and help of heaven in all my necessities, tribulations, and sufferings, particularly (state your request) and that I may praise God with you and all the elect forever.
I promise, O Blessed Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favour, to always honour you as my special and powerful patron, and to gratefully encourage devotion to you.
Amen.

Adventure on Wildcat Trail

2006-10-06T20:19:00.000-07:00

Adventure on Wildcat Trail

Guard Duty
When Antwinus stood guard over Prairie Dog Town, he preferred the day to be a nice warm spring afternoon. On nice warm spring afternoons, Antwinus could peer over the top of his parapet and gaze down into the lush green Valley of the Wildcat Trail immediately below him. For a distance of several miles he could see fresh clear streams meandering their way toward the Valley from the snow-capped mountains to the west. Grass grew thick and lush and waved lazily back and forth with the warm northwesterly winds that blew in along the streams to the base of the high sandy outcrop where Antwinus and the prairie dog population of Wildcat Trail dug their labyrinthine of tunnels. For hundreds of yards around and beneath this raised mound of soil, the prairie dogs of Wildcat Trail spent their lives in relative comfort; each family with its own underground den and ample store rooms to keep a hoard of nuts, seeds and bedding for the cold winter months. Above ground, the prairie dog pups could scamper their young lives away with hardly a care in the world. Antwinus and his compatriots composed a semi-militaristic cohort under the command of Chief Engineer Ratnit whose job was the security of Prairie Dog Town, both above and below ground. While the cohort was less militaristic than Chief Engineer Ratnit would have liked, largely thanks to Antwinus and the rest of the cohort being rather an unruly lot, security was paramount. The cohort did a grand job of keeping things safe.
As the prairie dog pups grew their first year and romped around outdoors, Antwinus and the cohort would keep careful watch and would warn of the approach of any danger presented by hawks, coyotes, foxes and other predatory denizens of the valley. At the first sign of danger, Antwinus and others standing guard in their little round pillboxes would stamp their feet, swish their tails and emit a shrill peep before disappearing headfirst down their holes to safety. Once the danger was averted, the pups would once again cautiously come out to play and roll around in the dust and grass, exploring, discovering new things and making friends with the garter snakes, killdeer and other more docile residents of the Wildcat community. Yes, for Antwinus, standing guard over Prairie Dog Town on a warm spring afternoon was a pleasure.
What was not a pleasure was being assigned to stand guard over Prairie Dog Town on a very dark, chilly winter's eve. The moment Antwinus had been sent unexpectedly on guard this particular evening, icy winds suddenly howled down from the mountains, coursing along the long frozen streams whose sole purpose now seemed only to hasten the frigid blasts of winter air along their solid lengths and then to guide these frozen winds down Antwinus' backside. To make matters worse, there was a quarter moon which provided only the barest of illumination and on those rare occasions when any light that did manage to poke through a series of low scudding snow clouds, Antwinus was invariably to be seen receiving a deposit of heavy wet snow down his neck. As all were sleeping comfortably in their dens below ground, there were no prairie dog pups in sight and if he could have seen through the darkness and the snow, Antwinus could have confirmed all the spring grass was long dead, as was any love and charity he may have harboured for Chief Engineer Ratnit. This wouldn't have been much in any case.
There was absolutely no point in standing guard on a night like this. As far as Antwinus knew, any self-respecting predator would be fast asleep in his own home, dreaming of warmer days. It was unlikely any fox or coyote would be enthused by the idea of digging up a portion of the Town for the remote chance of a meal on such a filthy night and both predators and prairie dogs could safely take time off from trying to outwit the other. No. The only reason Antwinus was on guard, and he was the only one on guard that evening, was that he was being punished by Chief Engineer Ratnit.
Half an hour ago, Antwinus had been accompanying the Chief on one of the engineer's periodic "Support Patrols." These patrols were designed to ensure the continued strength and soundness of the tunnel walls throughout Prairie Dog Town. Ratnit would produce an Almanac, which was essentially a map of the town below ground, it's various levels, rooms, anterooms, storage chambers and so on. The Almanac would show when each tunnel or support had been built and when Ratnit had passed inspection on construction. After a period of time, each tunnel would be re-inspected for soundness and Ratnit would either once again pass inspection or condemn the area until such time as re-shoring work could be completed. This was a sensible enough proposal for any weakness in the tunnels and walls could wreak havoc should a collapse occur, especially during an attempted incursion by fox or coyote, whose claws could easily rip apart unsound earthworks. The trouble, in the view of Antwinus and others, was that Ratnit was overzealous in his inspections and would often check the soundness of a tunnel wall or support by digging deeply into it with alarming ferociousness by means of a shiny silver instrument Magpie had bartered with him a few months ago. Ratnit called this instrument a spoon, which was what Magpie had called it, though not having said why or where she had come by it. Ratnit ostentatiously displayed the spoon around his waist in a rather grubby belt of woven grass. Antwinus personally believed Ratnit wore the spoon as a sort of 'badge of office'. It wasn't that that everyone failed to recognize the Chief Engineer on sight, but that Ratnit felt himself to be a rather important person and should therefore sport some sort of emblem that reflected this importance, much like the Town Councillors did with their cloaks and chains of office during council meetings. And, as elections to Town Council were scheduled in a few weeks time, and as Ratnit had let it be known that he wished to run for the newly invented office of Chief Protector during the elections, any symbol that reflected his rank and standing now would fare him well in the final results.
Well, Antwinus didn't think much of the spoon or of Ratnit's chances of election to Town Council and had been idly leaning against a support next to the one Ratnit had been attacking with his spoon when Ratnit's support suddenly collapsed. Ratnit had been buried in an avalanche of dirt and stones and by the time Antwinus and other members of the Support Patrol had succeeded in digging him out, they had also found occasion to remove a rather large and juicy earthworm which had found lodging up Ratnit's nose.
The fact important members of the Town Council, along with a rather distinguished looking skunk named Mephitis who was visiting Prairie Dog Town that evening, had arrived to see what all the fuss was about and were witness to the extraction of the earthworm had not improved Ratnit's temper. Blaming Antwinus for no other reason than he had been holding the Almanac while Ratnit had been digging, Antwinus had been sent outside on guard for the duration of Ratnit's pleasure. This did not improve Antwinus' temper, especially as the collapse had been no one's fault except Ratnit's. His spoon was a menace as was the ferocity with which he wielded it, but Antwinus had no choice. On guard he went, while below Ratnit attempted to regain face by explaining that Antwinus had selected from the Almanac the wrong support for inspection. The support that had collapsed had been earmarked for re-shoring work beginning tomorrow. It was the additional inspection work that had weakened the now collapsed support. None of this was true of course, but that was the beginning of the explanation Antwinus heard as he sauntered off to his solitary, frozen duty.
A Most Unhappy Den
Meanwhile, not far away, Laetran's wife Alopex was once again giving tongue to the living arrangements she and her young pups had been provided for the winter. She was not at all happy. "This den is too small for the four of us!" she snapped at Laetrans. How do you expect two adult coyotes and two pups barely weaned from last summer to squeeze into such a small place. And it smells. I don't see why you had to choose us a winter den that was formerly owned by a skunk!"
"The den is fine," replied Laetrans morosely. "I enlarged it considerably when we first moved in, if you remember, but on cold nights like this we're better off keeping close together and staying warm. As far as the smell goes, find me a den that doesn't smell. It's not that bad anyway. When I evicted old striper, I didn't give him a chance to spray the place. I simply chased him off."
"Perhaps you did" replied Alopex, but you know that every time Mephitis passes by he gives the entrance to his old den a nice big squirt to spite us and then we drag the stench in after us. That's what smells. You really are hopeless. We need a new den and now would be a good time to go looking don't you think? Or do you think you might like finding a new den all to yourself?"
"Now!" cried Laetrans increduously. "It's nighttime! It's freezing outside! You can't possibly be serious! There couldn't be a worse possible time to go looking for a new den, not that I'm enthused by the idea of finding a new one in any case. As far as I'm concerned, this den is fine."
"It is not fine" replied Alopex in a voice that gave no doubt as to her intent to throw Laetrans out unless he left of his own accord. "I don't care how cold it is outside, go and make a head start. At least while you're gone the rest of us will have space to stretch out for a while. You can come back in an hour if you feel too cold. But make no mistake, what you are looking for is something larger, less smelly and preferably closer to sources of food and water. I'm tired of making trips to the stream over by Prairie Dog Town. As a matter of fact, a den close to Prairie Dog Town would be ideal, if they haven't all been taken already. Why don't you pop over there and see what you can find. Yes, I know it's dark and cold, but I I think you'll find it much darker and certainly much colder in here unless you leave immediately. Got it? Good!"
And with that, there were now two residents of Wildcat Trail out and about on this abysmal night. Neither were happy. Both were cold. Each wished they were underground where it was warmer.
Frozen But Vigilent
Antwinus shuffled about the parapet, stamping his feet and trying to stay warm. His cloak was pulled tightly around him in an effort to keep out the cold, but it didn't seem to help much. Neither did the woolen bonnet he wore on his head or the mittens he wore on his hands. His ears and fingers were slowly numbing and he was thoroughly miserable. Nevertheless, he kept watch as best he could despite the cold and the snow blowing about him. He had been outside for nearly an hour now and he had seen nothing and heard nothing except the wind whistling down Wildcat Trail. And then, almost imperceptibly, he smelt something on the wind, something that smelt faintly acrid. He sniffed in an effort to make out what the smell was and then it dawned on him. Skunk! It was the smell of skunk! Maybe it was Mephitis on his way home, though he really should have stayed overnight at Prairie Dog Town in weather like this. It didn't make much sense and in any case why would Mephitis be spraying scent unless he was in trouble?
Antwinus doubled his vigilence because of the smell and the possibility there might be trouble out on the Trail. He called down into the burrow to report, but received no reply. The wind carried away most of his words and besides, it was a long way down the parapet into the tunnel below. It was unlikely anyone would have heard him even on a nice warm afternoon, let alone in vile weather such as this.
The smell grew stronger and Antwinus became more concerned. He squinted into the darkness, but had difficulty seeing past the frost and ice that had encrusted the fur on his face. He thought he saw a dark shape slipping past him in the darkness, but he could not be sure. All the time the smell of skunk grew stronger. And because the smell had grown stronger instead of remaining constant, it meant the smell was mobile. This, Antwinus believed, was the result of some animal having been sprayed by Mephitis or another skunk and that could only mean the animal would be a predator moving about from place to place. Mephitis and his cousins used their scent only in self defence against predators like coyotes and foxes and never wasted it. Unless, of course, and here Antwinus had to stifle a laugh, it was Mephitis spraying the entrance to his old den after that stupid coyote had chased him out of it. That coyote, what was his name? Laetrans? Yes, that was it. That coyote could be scented a mile off as could the rest of his smelly family. Laetrans and his kin were easy predators to avoid because of the constant stench of skunk they carried about with them. Why didn't they switch dens and return the one they occupied back to its rightful owner, Antwinus wondered. There was no way he'd put up with a stench on his fur all day long. Even skunks themselves didn't smell that bad. In fact, skunks were usually fastidiously clean animals.
In any case, Antwinus was now rather worried. Given the circumstances of the smell growing stronger, it seemed likely that there was a predator out on the Trail this night. It might be Laetrans. It might not. In either case, Antwinus decided he had better vacate his guard post and head underground to report. There was no real danger to anyone inside Prairie Dog Town as predators could not dig through the soil fast enough to catch anyone, unless of course the soil was unstable, but the Support Patrol took care of such problems before they became a concern. The recent collapse of the support earlier was not of such magnitude, Antwinus thought, to pose any trouble either. At least not yet and he was sure the Support Patrol was already undergoing repairs. No, the trouble Antwinus foresaw was someone coming up for a breath of fresh air and falling prey to the predator, if it existed. This too was unlikely, especially on such a foul night, but Antwinus and the other members of his cohort left nothing to chance. He had better report the possibilty of a predator loose on the Trail. Besides, he had had enough of the cold. Underground was warmer and heading there reduced the possibility that he himself would end up as a surprise snack in the jaws of some snarling, drooling canine if indeed one was on the prowl.
Warm But Ignored
Meanwhile, underground, Ratnit had smoothed things over with the Town Councillors as best he could. While amused at Ratnit's self-importance and peremptory manners towards his subordinates, the Councillors had instructed him to begin re-shoring work on the collapsed support as soon as possible. Ratnit nodded his agreement vigorously, wringing his hands in supplication to their authority. As soon as the Councillors had left, with a bemused Mephitis following behind, Ratnit began barking out orders to the Support Patrol.
"And go and get Antwinus off guard duty too. He'll have had enough of the cold by now and he can help with the heaviest digging"
At that moment a frozen Antwinus appeared, already dripping water in puddles at his feet as the snow and ice began to melt in the warmth of the underground tunnels. He saluted and made his report, sniffling and snuffling while his whiskers thawed.
"And so," replied an unsympathetic Ratnit when Antwinus had finished, "based on the smell of a skunk, you believe Prairie Dog Town is in dire jeopardy? Imminent attack? Is that what you are saying? Well, let me tell you something. Mephitis is here in Prairie Dog Town still, so your theory doesn't hold much credence now does it?"
"Chief Engineer", replied Antwinus wearily. "I am simply reporting what I believe to be the presence of a predator roaming about. I'm pleased to hear Mephitis is safe here with us, but the smell may have been the spray from one of his cousins. Therefore, it might be prudent to have a member of the Cohort stand guard at the bottom of each exit leading to the outside and prevent anyone from going out. I think this is a sensible precaution, at least for the next hour or two. Of course, that is only my recommendation. It is your decision."
Ratnit snorted. "I have been instructed by the Councillors to begin re-shoring work on the collapsed support immediately. I can't spare anyone to stand a fool's errand for any length of time, especially one as foolish as protecting the exits from those who might wish to go outside. You're lucky I don't send you outside to stand another spell of guard duty. And I would except you're needed to help with the re-shoring work. Predators out on a night like this! Humph! Not likely! Now, let's get to work."
Above Ground
Laetrans loped along Wildcat Trail, his coat of fur becoming covered in snow. He was cold, but not particularly so just yet as his coat kept him reasonably well insulated. It would take some time before he needed to seek shelter in a warm den again. Nevertheless, he didn't like the weather one bit and as he exhaled, his breath rose up and formed uncomfortably heavy icicles on his muzzle and whiskers. This was the silliest errand he had ever been sent on, but it was better to spend an hour or so in a fruitless effort to find a new den on a night like this than it was to stay at home and listen to the incessant nagging of his wife.
He headed toward Prairie Dog Town and climbed to the top of the soil mound where the prairie dogs kept their vigil in more clement weather. From here he would have a better view of the surrounding area and might be able to fend off the impossible and spot a likely den, despite the snow and the darkness. In his wanderings, he tripped over a couple of snow-covered parapets and found no prairie dogs on guard. That was to be expected and so he paid scant attention to the possibility of surprising a prairie dog above ground, which would have made a nice and unexpected meal. And so it was that as he passed along he missed a frozen Antwinus just about to head underground. Instead, he sat down and tried to paw the icicles off his nose and whiskers, which were becoming a nuisance. And as he sat, he thought he heard faint noises coming from below ground. He cocked his head to one side and listened more intently. He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard some scratching and scrabbling as though dirt was being moved around not too far below the surface. He listened for a few moments more and became sure of it. He heard voices too. One in particular, louder than the others, was barking out orders. A moment later and the scrabbling noises stopped and the voices grew mute. Laetrans continued to paw at his icicles and gave one a good tug, but was rewarded only by a painful feeling that nearly caused him to believe that the icicle was now permanently attached to his nose. He considered giving up and returning home to his den. Forget Alopex and her nagging. He'd been out here long enough.
Just then the scrabbling noises and the voices started again. He heard some shouting about sending someone outside on guard and this made him more attentive. Maybe he'd get a meal after all, but after a few minutes he realized no one was coming outside, at least not in the immediate vicinity. Yet the scrabbling and the voices had peaked his curiosity. They really were quite close to the surface so Laetrans snuffled along the surface and pawed away some of the snow. He cocked his ear to the ground again and listened intently. The sounds were closer now and Laetrans realized with a start that it could only be prairie dogs directly beneath him. Suddenly he felt as hungry as he had ever been and he began to drool, which didn't help with the icicle problem. The drool simply added additional encumbrance as it froze, but Laetrans didn't care. Whatever he did he wasn't going to find a new den tonight, he realized that. The weather made that a virtual impossibility, but if he were to return home to Alopex and the pups with some juicy prairie dogs, maybe the nagging would cease for a day or two. He pushed down on the earth with his front paws and found the dirt to be quite solid with cold and ice. Despite this he tried clawing at at the frozen soil and found he could shift some of it. Not a lot, but enough to give him encouragement. He drooled some more.
Ratnit's Folly
Beneath ground, the re-shoring work had begun in earnest with Ratnit once again barking out orders to his cohort. He wanted all the loose soil moved aside before the task of reshaping it back into place could begin. Ratnit needed roots, grass and any similar material to be sorted and kept aside so it could be added at judicious intervals to add strength to the structure as it was rebuilt. Earthworms he could do without as their constant burrowing, in Ratnit's opinion, caused most of the damage to tunnels and supports. Grass and roots on the other hand, helped keep the soil in place.
During the course of the work Ratnit was busy scraping with his spoon and moving twice as much soil as anyone else, a fact which he constantly reminded everyone of. No one dared point out that if they had a spoon they could move just as much dirt as Ratnit, if not more. Eventually a clearing was made and Ratnit stood in it, gazing up at a large whiskery root that stuck out from the ceiling. Ratnit voiced his professional opinion that the root and its numerous offshoots would aid in strengthening the support once the dirt was replaced. They needed to get the root down and pulled apart.
Against better judgement, Antwinus spoke up to say he believed the root was already performing a task of structural integrity in that it was even now helping to keep the roof from falling in on them. If, in Antwinus' opinion the root were removed, there might be another collapse, this one exposing the tunnel to the outside world. Given the current state of the weather and the possibility of a predator outside, Antwinus asked whether it might be more prudent to simply leave the root in place.
A number of the cohort murmered their agreement with Antwinus' opinion, but Ratnit would have none of it.
"Nonsense!" he shouted. "I'm the Chief Engineer here and I know what needs to be done. That root needs to come down. Several feet of earth remain between that root and the outside, That's plenty to keep the roof up and I don't want to hear any more about predators. There simply aren't any out there and we have work to do." With that, in order to reach the root overhead he ordered a number of prairie dogs to form a pyramid by standing on top of one another. Climbing to the top of the prairie dog pyramid, Ratnit brought forth his spoon once again. With a vengeance he began loosening the dirt around the root. Antwinus shook his head and moved into the near distance. He didn't want to be anywhere close in case the roof fell in, which he felt it would.
After ten minutes of hard scrabbling with the spoon, Ratnit felt the root move. More than that, he could see the earth above him moving as well as though someone else was above helping to remove the root from its encumbrance. But that was impossible. There was no one outside. The only other explanation Ratnit could think of was that perhaps Antwinus had been right: the root was a structural support, he had dug too far and now the roof was indeed going to collapse.
Well, suddenly the roof did collapse! The root and mounds of dirt and stones fell on top of Ratnit and the pyramid of prairie dogs, knocking them to the ground. As he lost his balance, Ratnit also lost his grip on his spoon, which flew off into a corner of the tunnel and came to rest against a stone with a clank. An acrid stench filled the tunnel as frigid air flowed in from outside and the last thing Ratnit saw as he tumbled backwards was an enormous set of canines flanked by two ridiculous looking icicles snapping at him in earnest. Ratnit believed he was about to perish in a surreal world of disbelief and horror where half frozen drool dripped down on him like some nightmare rainfall.
Laetrans' Folly
Laetrans continued digging in earnest. He scratched and clawed at the frozen soil and began to make some progress in creating a reasonable hole in the earth. The clumps of soil he dug up were discarded behind him as the hole grew bigger. Just as he reached the point where the soil was slightly less frozen and easier to shift he found the top of a large root from some long dead plant, possibly a small tree. The root slowed his digging, but he pawed around it in an attempt to move it out of the way. Suddenly Laetrans felt the root move. More than that, he could see the earth below him moving as well as though someone else was below helping to remove the root from its encumbrance.
Then the earth under him collapsed and Laetrans fell face forward into the hole. After a few moments recovering from the shock, he saw a sight that caused him to fly into a frenzy. Directly beneath him were a dozen plump, juicy prairie dogs collapsed all over the floor. Most were dazed, covered in soil and stones and all nearly within reach of his jaws. Never before had Laetrans been so close to so many prairie dogs at one time and certainly never so many in a position so ripe for the taking. Unfortunately he discovered that the hole was only big enough to permit his front legs and head inside as his shoulders and body were too wide to permit a total entry into the tunnel below.
Unable to control his excitement, Laetrans lunged forward to gain better entry but succeeded only in wedging his shoulders more tightly into the hole. Laetrans wriggled and squirmed, but found he was well and truly stuck. He could go no further.
The prairie dogs that had formed the pyramid now began to dig themselves out from the dirt and scatter, cheeping loudly in alarm and panic. Only an older and greyer one remained where he was, just out of reach and paralysed with fear. Laetrans snapped at him anyway, but succeeded only in spattering the prairie dog with drool and saliva. There was nothing doing. The hole simply needed to be larger. Only then could Laetrans free himself and have a chance of chasing down the prairie dogs. Unfortunately for him, his front legs dangled uselessly in thin air and he could not use them to dig away any more dirt. His hind legs, likewise, were useless as they were outside on solid ground. Laetrans had never felt so frustrated! He howled loudly as though this would help extricate him from his predicament, but the only effect it had was to make the paralysed prairie dog below him quiver with fear even more.
The Chamber
Antwinus had watched the entire proceedings in shock. Everything had happened so quickly he could scarcely believe his eyes. In an instant the roof had fallen in and the hole above filled with the snarling countenance of a very nasty and very smelly predator intent on gobbling every prairie dog in sight. Fortunately the coyote had gotten stuck, which was an absolute miracle, especially for those who had formed the pyramid. They had been closest to the disaster and had the coyote been able to get inside, very probably they would have fallen prey to the fetid, ice covered jaws that even now snapped at an immobile Ratnit.
Recovering his senses, Antwinus rushed forward and grabbed Ratnit, pulling him away from the coyote and shoving him none too gently onto a pile of soil that had earlier been cleared away from the general work area. Here Ratnit curled up in the fetal position, his teeth chattering with fear.
Antwinus also managed to rally those of the cohort who had not vanished too far down the tunnels and set them to work making blockades of soil across the tunnel on either side of the hole, making sure everyone remained out of reach of the coyote above. Until the coyote was removed from the hole, either by his own efforts or by other means, this particular section of tunnel had to be sealed off. In essence, they were building a chamber with no exit, but the one above, which Laetrans now occupied. If the coyote did manage to get inside, he'd find himself enclosed in a very small space with nowhere to go but up and out again. The work would have to be completed very quickly and the soil had to be very thick and very well fortified with as many rocks, stones and other impediments as possible or the coyote would simply dig through the blockade with his claws. Antwinus also sent one of the cohort to inform the Town Councillors of what had happened and what he intended to do, also informing them that Chief Engineer Ratnit was currently incapable of rendering any help or advice for the moment.
The work of building the blockades proceeded quickly, but it soon became apparent to Antwinus that there were not nearly enough rocks and stones to prevent the coyote from digging through if Laetrans did manage to get loose. It looked like the blockades were going to be temporary measures at best. An alternate solution would have to be found. Extricating the coyote by pulling on it's tail from outside was one option, though a dangerous one that would surely result in the loss of one or more of the cohort once Laetrans got turned around. Even then, it woudn't prevent the coyote from returning and enlarging the hole so he could get inside. No. What was needed was some plan that would remove the coyote long enough to complete repairs to both the collapsed support as well as the roof itself. And then, just as the Town Councillors arrived, their cloaks flapping around them worriedly, Antwinus had a brain wave. He was very happy to see Mephitis accompanying the Councillors as Mephitis was central to the new plan he had devised.
The Town Councillors crowded into the clearing and gazed up in astonishment at the head and forelimbs of Laetrans hanging in space above them. Laetrans front legs flailed wildly but could find nothing to get a grip on. His yellow eyes gleamed at the sight of so many prairie dogs and perodically he would let out a bark or a howl as he continued to try and free himself from the hole. Laetrans was still in a frenzy, but this was now more directed at getting free than it was trying to snap up prairie dogs, though the thought of catching so many still remained as a primary concern. Alopex would be pleased and maybe Laetrans would be freed from being nagged for a while.
Below Laetrans, the prairie dogs continued to work, building up the blockades Antwinus had directed. Mephisti and the Town Councillors continued to take in the situation and shook their heads in puzzlement as to how this disaster had happened in the first place. Ratnit, slowly returning to reality, pointed a finger directly at Antwinus and began to croak that the blame lied entirely with him and with no one else. Because he was still in a state of shock, he was unable to put forward a very good argument why this was so. Antwinus looked irritated at this interruption and gathered Mephisti and the Councillors in a circle, essentially excluding Ratnit from any contribution to the solution he was about to outline. After a few moments the Councillors began to smile, as did Mephisti. Some of the Councillors clapped Mephisti on the back and others Antwinus. Antwinus' plan had met with approval.
Ratnit tried to speak, probably to say that any plan of Antwinus' was doomed to failure. No one ever knew what he intended to say for two reasons. Just then Laetrans let out a howl that drowned out Ratnit's words. Also, Antwinus had had enough of Ratnit and had picked up his spoon which had flown off into a corner of the tunnel when the roof collapsed. Antwinus gave Ratnit a sharp rap on the noggin with the spoon and told him to be quiet. He told Ratnit he was in no shape to assist in anything at the moment and that even under normal circumstances he wasn't much good. Ratnit slumped backwards on the pile of soil on which he had been lying and Antwinus directed two members of the cohort to take him outside the immediate area into a safe tunnel beyond.
A short time later the rest of the cohort had finished building the blockades so Laetrans head was now stuck in a clearing bordered by walls of dirt. The Councillors filed out of a small exit that remained in one of the blockades so that the only Antwinus and Mephisti remained inside with Laetrans in what was essentially a small room. Laetrans looked worried. Antwinus brandished the spoon and took a swing at the icicle still hanging from Laetrans nose. He managed to connect with the bottom of the icicle and broke off a substantial piece. Laetrans howled with pain, but rubbed the remaining piece of icicle with his paw. The icicle by this time had melted enough that it too broke loose and Laetrans nose was free once again. He could smell without obstruction. Antwinus took another swing with the spoon, aiming at the other icicle, dangling from Laetran's whiskers, but missed. He did manage to catch Laetrans on the chin though, which caused another howl of pain. At this point Mephisti stepped forward and asked Antwinus to stand over by the exit, outside which a number of the cohort stood ready with a pile of soil to seal the chamber when directed. Antwinus did as directed while Mephisti turned around and stood on his front paws, his backside facing upward toward a horrified Laetrans.
Laetrans, realizing what was about to happen let out the loudest howl of his life and covered his eyes with his paws. He wished now the icicle that Antwinus had broken off was still attached to his nose, obstructing his sense of smell. Too late, he realized one can't have everything in life. At that moment Mephisti let loose an enormous spray of the smelliest musk ever produced by a skunk on Wildcat Trail. It caught Laetrans directly in the face. His nose filled with the musk as did his mouth. Despite covering his eyes with his paws, the musk filtered in to cause annoyance there as well. His entire coat was covered, from legs to head and what was exposed of his shoulders inside the tunnel. Without question, Laetrans was the smelliest coyote in existence. He shuddered and groaned and whipped from side to side in an effort to escape the torturous stench that enveloped him. This action, which exceeded the frenzy he had been in when he first fell into the hole, dislodged some of the soil that kept him captive and after a few moments he was free. In the meantime both Mephisti and Antwinus had left the chamber and the cohort had closed off the exit. What was left was a chamber filled with skunk musk. Laetrans had no intention of entering the chamber and managed to scramble outside whereupon he rolled about in the snow trying to remove as much of the musk as he could. His howls of anguish could be heard for miles. He would smell horribly for days.
Alopex, who could easily recognize her husband's howls, awoke to the noise and smiled to herself in the knowledge that her husband had managed to screw things up once again. She rolled over and went back to sleep. She wouldn't have been so complacent had she known what she would be sharing a den with over the next little while. It would not be prudent to include her comments here once she discovered what had happened.
Awards and Afterwards
Antwinus and Mephisti left the chamber and the cohort sealed the exit in case Laetrans fell into the hole instead of exiting from the top. The blockade wouldn't hold an infuriated coyote for very long, but Antwinus had been counting on Laetrans wishing to find the quickest exit possible to distance himself from the stench and to try and remove the musk Mephisti had sprayed him with. In this he had been correct and Laetrans had pulled himself upwards and outwards instead of descending into the smelliest room anywhere. Antwinus too had been fortunate in his guess that the blast of musk would stir Laetrans into such distress that he'd be able to free himself from the hole. Now that Laetrans would be busy for the next while attempting to remove the smell from hs body, the cohort would allow the chamber to breathe out the remaining fumes before tunnelling back in and closing the area for good, including the roof. A different tunnel with new supports would be built in an ajacent area in case Laetrans returned in the future to try his luck once again.
The Town Councillors had been so impressed with Antwinus' plan and the way he had carried it out, not to mention the success it enjoyed that they decided to award him on the spot with the Pawprint Medal for intelligence and bravery. In addition, they decided not to hold the position of Chief Protector up for election. They had seen the possibilities that could occur if the wrong person were to be elected to such a responsible job. It would be better if someone who had shown their abilities be appointed to the position and so it was Antwinus also received the nomination and confirmation along with the Pawprint Medal. As a Badge of Office he was given the spoon Ratnit had earlier possessed. As for Ratnit, he was most unhappy having to report to Antwinus, who was now in charge of security in and around Prairie Dog Town. While Ratnit remained Chief Engineer, he was subject to the directives and commands coming from Antwinus' office. On the bright side, Ratnit was never posted to stand guard on a frozen winter's eve.

Wyoming Long Weekend

2006-10-06T19:49:00.000-07:00

Long Weekend in Wyoming

The Labour Day long weekend sneaked up on us as a bit of a surprise. We'd been so busy with innumerable projects around the house that we never gave much thought of getting away for a few days. Suddenly we realized there were three days in front of us that we could use as a break from life in Denver. We also realized that we hadn't gone anywhere since our trip to New Mexico nearly five months before. And so we packed up the usual clothing, toiletries and snacks and decided on an early Saturday morning departure, our goal being Glenrock, Wyoming.
Glenrock's claim to fame is a small museum featuring dinosaurs collected by Dr. Robert Bakker, a paleontologist renowned for his theories that dinosaurs were warm-blooded and that several different species had proto-feathers adorning their bodies. Proto-feathers you ask? An early type of feather that looks similar to modern day birds feathers, though not permitting flight and possibly utilized for warmth or mating displays. Several fossils of dinosaurs with primitive feathers have been found in China in recent years, bearing out Dr. Bakker's theories, theories he expounds ad nauseum on the Discovery Channel or on A & E. Because Christopher, now 11 years of age, is utterly fascinated by dinosaurs, it was he who put forth the idea of heading for the Glenrock Paleontological Museum, a four hour drive north of Denver.
Unfortunately, because I refuse to leave the house on holiday while it is in a state of disarray, the children spent a great deal of time cleaning up before we were to leave. However, because they dawdle it takes a long time for them to clean the house to my satisfaction. And in this case they took so long playing with the toys they were supposed to be putting away that a Saturday departure now became impossible. I didn't feel like embarking on a long drive and arriving at our destination just as it was getting dark. Yes, that's how long the children took cleaning up: from 8:00 a.m to 4:00 p.m. So we decided we'd leave on Sunday instead.
Sunday morning arrived and we started to climb into the car. Maydee elected to drive as I had finished another chemotherapy session the previous Friday and was feeling rather run down. Normally I drove while on holiday, comparing Maydee's everyday driving abilities to my own were I seriously under the influence of alcohol. In this case it was prudent to let her steer as it was unlikely I'd make it out of the driveway without falling aleep. I did take the time though to throw our neighbour's three day newspaper collection onto their porch. The paperboy, in true American tradition, had tossed them onto Andy and Amie's driveway, thereby alerting would-be burglars that nobody was home over the weekend. It was apparent Andy, Amie and their children had also forsaken Denver for the long weekend.
I stayed awake nearly to the freeway entrance whereupon I fell into a deep slumber and was awoken only once two hours later when we stopped in Chugwater, Wyoming for a picnic lunch at a rest-stop. I was surprised we had made it so far in so short a time. I began to mentally calculate the distance from Denver to Chugwater, the time it had taken us to get there and thus determine whether Maydee had been speeding. Unfortunately, my head was so foggy that I gave it up as a lost cause and decided that probably she had been speeding slightly. I think Maydee was grateful I had been sleeping because on those rare occasions she drives while I navigate from the passenger seat she is subjected to innumerable pieces of advice like "slow down, you're speeding"; "watch out for the a) car ahead b) car beside us c) car behind us d) red light e)amber light f) family of four with their dog and stroller stopped in the middle of the intersection to pick up the milk bottle the occupant of the stroller has tossed into the roadway." At any rate we had made it to Chugwater safely and gobbled down some cold sausages and hard boiled eggs before loading up into the car again. At least we hadn't been pulled over for weaving from lane to lane like we had a few years earlier in California. I had been sleeping in the passenger seat then too.
While not exactly a fan of mini-vans, I had to say I rather liked Maydee's Grand Caravan, equipped as it is with three rows of seats. While the adults sat in front, the children sat in the rear, each having their own row to themselves. This prevented squabbling and arguing over crayons, books and papers. The van is also equipped with a premium sound system and music of the Ally and AJ variety can be faded into the rear speakers so the adults don't have to listen. A built in DVD player with surround sound also occupies the children's time, leaving me to sleep and Maydee to speed.
Two hours after Chugwater, we pulled into Glenrock and almost immediately found the museum. It was closed. Maydee was incensed that we had wasted four hours driving to a one-horse town whose only attraction was closed on Sundays and Mondays, thereby precluding an overnight stay and seeing the museum on the morrow. Christopher, surprisingly, was not as dissapointed as I imagined he would have been. Instead he actually apologised for a wasted four hour drive and said he should have called the museum to find out its operating hours. We told him not to worry about it as we should have checked as well and if it hadn't occurred to us to do so, then we could hardly blame him. Victoria scowled in the background hoping to see Christopher catch a yelling.
After mulling over some tourist maps we had picked up, we decided to drive back down the freeway a few miles to see the Ayres Natural Bridge State Park. Here, over the course of millions of years, a river wore away at a wall of rock eventually creating an opening, which grew larger and larger as time passed until a natural bridge was formed. Located just two miles from the Oregon Trail, the bridge and the surrounding area provided a safe haven for settlers travelling west in the 1800's. Legend has it that an Indian was struck and killed by lightning on top of the bridge and since that time local Indians would not go anywhere near the place. Settlers in the area, therefore, were safe fom attack.
We spent a couple of hours at Ayres Natural Bridge on some short hikes, one of which took us on top of the bridge itself, which afforded wonderful views of the countryside about. What should have been an easy climb for me actually took up a great deal of energy owing to my chemotherapy treatment and while I rested once we reached the bottom again I watched Christopher and Victoria scramble over some loose rock formations underneath a precipitous overhang. Suddenly Christopher gave out a loud whoop of joy which could mean only one thing: a snake sighting. Sure enough, Christopher emerged from the rocks with a large garter snake which he proceeded to show off to other children in a nearby playground. The boys were fascinated, the girls less so until Victoria took possession of the snake and let it curl around her arm like some elongated reptilian bracelet. Some of the girls then became more interested and one or two actually deigned to touch the snake, though none had the courage to wear it like Victoria. Just then a loud song burst out from the adjacent picnic area and while I didn't catch all the words, it was apparent we had stumbled aross an evangelical Christian outing. For fear of being exhorted for playing with one of Lucifer's pets, as well as for suborning their offspring to evil incarnate and being forcibly tossed into the river in a mandatory 'Ye shall be born again whether ye like it or not' ceremony, I made Christopher return the snake whence it came, presumably a hole leading directly to the Devil's Den below. Having done that, thereby escaping an unwelcome bath and a starring role in Deliverance 2, we set forth for Douglas, Wy., where we intended to stay the night prior to visiting Fort Fetterman the following day.
I promptly fell asleep once we hit the highway again, but was awoken a short time later by Maydee asking which exit into Douglas we should take. I said to take exit 140 as it seemed that's where most of the hotels and motels were located. The one necessity we require in guest lodging is a pool for the children to swim in. The first hotel off the exit ramp was a Best Western advertising such an amenity and so we pulled up outside. Suddenly the children startd screaming from the back seats. "It's Miss Amie, It's Miss Amie." Still half asleep I didn't quite understand what was going on until I saw our neighbour's SUV parked in front of us and Amie starting to unpack their belongings. Well this was a turn up of the plus fours. Smack dab in the middle of Nowhere Wyoming we run into our neighbours checking into the same hotel. Andy emerged from the lobby with his kids, Rigo and Cammy and our children and theirs linked arms and did a dance of delight. Victoria even went so far as to ask whether she and Cammy could have a sleep-over!
Once settled in, we all went out for Chinese. The place looked grotesque from the outside, but the food was really quite good. Afterwards we returned to the motel and the kids went swimmng. As for me, I went straight to sleep, utterly exhausted after sleeping all day. The following morning saw us head for Ft. Fetterman.
Ft. Fetterman was built in 1867 to control the immediate territory from Plains Indians attacks on settlers moving west. It also served as a major supply point for cavalry units fighting Indians elsewhere, but by all accounts Ft. Fetterman was a hardship post. This was due more to winter weather than to anything else. The Fort had been inadvisedly built on top of a high plateau which allowed all the ferocity of winter's ice, snow and winds to travel through the camp unimpeded. Nevertheless, the Fort persevered until 1882 when it outlived its usefulness. The Plains Indians had been forced onto reservations and the military abandoned the Fort. Today there isn't much left, just a few original (restored) buildings and an interpretive trail which lets you imagine what life must have been like living at the Fort. To my mind, Ft. Laramie, Wy. and Ft. Union N.M. are much better examples of military outposts built in the 1800's. Nevertheless, Ft. Fetterman was interesting in its way, though not interesting enough to keep me from falling asleep again on the way home.
We pulled into our driveway at 2:00 o'clock and unpacked the car. Amie and Andy pulled into their driveway shortly afterwards. We waved at one another before I climbed the stairs and lay down on the bed for a rest.