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...its a book that my Father had and that I read many times as a boy. My Father told me of the winter time, and that old house they lived in. It was a worn out old small-town Victorian built 80 years earlier with one of those porches that wrapped all the way around and an integral kitchen off the back where it would get so cold that the water bucket would freeze if more than 3 feet from the wood burning cook stove.
My pop said his bedroom was on the fireplace wall but that's about it for the heat. He spent a lot of time reading his whole life.
I shiver to think of that level of poverty, being spared of it by a good man.
Still, I guess I grew up with my own version, and in the bed at night under the quilt my grandmother made and with a flashlight and my mom's portable hair dryer for heat, I read that book over and over.
The hair dryer was one of those things in a little suitcase with a hose and a bonnet. It blew nice warm heat and when you restricted air from going in the intake the thing glowed red hot.
Fortunately I never fell asleep with it running...
Been there, done that. I have no idea why.
I also remember at 3 or 4 years old taking a blanket and lying on the forced-air duct in the floor. Waiting...and waiting...for the glorious moment when the heat would come on.
My mother was raised in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont, and my Grandparents' house had large holes in the ceilings/floors to allow for heat to rise. Still waiting.
...its a book that my Father had and that I read many times as a boy. My Father told me of the winter time, and that old house they lived in. It was a worn out old small-town Victorian built 80 years earlier with one of those porches that wrapped all the way around and an integral kitchen off the back where it would get so cold that the water bucket would freeze if more than 3 feet from the wood burning cook stove.
My pop said his bedroom was on the fireplace wall but that's about it for the heat. He spent a lot of time reading his whole life.
I shiver to think of that level of poverty, being spared of it by a good man.
Still, I guess I grew up with my own version, and in the bed at night under the quilt my grandmother made and with a flashlight and my mom's portable hair dryer for heat, I read that book over and over.
The hair dryer was one of those things in a little suitcase with a hose and a bonnet. It blew nice warm heat and when you restricted air from going in the intake the thing glowed red hot.
Fortunately I never fell asleep with it running...
...Remembering old Wild Bill. No, not that guy. He'll have to tell his own stories. They're likely far more interesting than mine. I'm talking about old Wild Bill from olive drab days gone by. He was from West Virginia and funny as hell (sic) when he got drunk. He stood about 5'4" of clown dumpling and his drawl was way worse than mine. Must have been the hillbilly in him. He was a couple years behind me in time in service and wanted to go home so bad. Said he had a girl back there. Germany was a long way from WVa. and North Carolina.
I was with him one night when he got so drunk that while standing in front of a urinal he fell face first and knocked himself out on the flush valve. It wasn't really funny then but now, the picture of the scene in my mind is kinda. You had to know Wild Bill. That was a name we gave him. Most of us had nicknames over there. Mine was Haney. Actually only my room mate and a couple other guys called me that. He's the one that gave it to me so I guess he was uniquely qualified. I had another nickname but...anyway Make of all that what you will...
I know I've told this before, but I witnessed a KKK hoedown when I was about 10 or 11. Hoods. Torches. Chanting. Parading. Frightening.
It was off a dirt road in a field adjacent to a small community of black families.
It is as surreal a memory as it was when I went to visit my cousin, who lived on that dirt road, and we watched for awhile hidden behind the hedges.
There is far more to acknowledge and be thankful for than there is reason to destroy all the progress and sacrifice evident in every day life. In fact there will never be a reason for that, because evil is already defeated. We are in a lag time where the evidence of things hoped for is the assurance of the evidence of things not seen, and all because we never gave up.
But for the grace of God and the faith and active belief in something way greater and more beautiful did we teach a child the way to go, and it was not the way of the world. It was their still small voice we heard. It was at such a time as this the air became foul with lies so someone might be able to know the difference...
I know I've told this before, but I witnessed a KKK hoedown when I was about 10 or 11. Hoods. Torches. Chanting. Parading. Frightening.
It was off a dirt road in a field adjacent to a small community of black families.
It is as surreal a memory as it was when I went to visit my cousin, who lived on that dirt road, and we watched for awhile hidden behind the hedges.
There is far more to acknowledge and be thankful for than there is reason to destroy all the progress and sacrifice evident in every day life. In fact there will never be a reason for that, because evil is already defeated. We are in a lag time where the evidence of things hoped for is the assurance of the evidence of things not seen, and all because we never gave up.
But for the grace of God and the faith and active belief in something way greater and more beautiful did we teach a child the way to go, and it was not the way of the world. It was their still small voice we heard. It was at such a time as this the air became foul with lies so someone might be able to know the difference...
I know I've told this before, but I witnessed a KKK hoedown when I was about 10 or 11. Hoods. Torches. Chanting. Parading. Frightening.
It was off a dirt road in a field adjacent to a small community of black families.
It is as surreal a memory as it was when I went to visit my cousin, who lived on that dirt road, and we watched for awhile hidden behind the hedges.
There is far more to acknowledge and be thankful for than there is reason to destroy all the progress and sacrifice evident in every day life. In fact there will never be a reason for that, because evil is already defeated. We are in a lag time where the evidence of things hoped for is the assurance of the evidence of things not seen, and all because we never gave up.
But for the grace of God and the faith and active belief in something way greater and more beautiful did we teach a child the way to go, and it was not the way of the world. It was their still small voice we heard. It was at such a time as this the air became foul with lies so someone might be able to know the difference...
...my young Vietnamese neighbor, An, comes over to ask if I have any zip ties he can have. His family has lived across the street for 25 years. I remember when he was a kid loving to work on cars. Still does. His little boys do too from what I've seen. It makes me happy.
He lives a few miles away now so he comes home to his parents to work on his or their car projects because, according to An, otherwise he'll be pestered to death lol. Man I sort of envy him like that. Being pestered by love.
Anyhow he hung around for a few minutes looking and asking about the various tools I was using; specifically the pneumatic nailers. Like when to use which and how to know which nails to buy and so forth. He focused on the big framing nailer I use like it was some sort of weapon. I have to imagine he was a little intimidated by it. I thought a little bit of that intimidation was a good thing. Respect and for good reason. Not enough intimidation as to usher fear though. That would be self defeating and dangerous.
Choir?
The thing is he said he wanted to learn the fundamentals of carpentry etc. I'm such a buzzkill but I couldn't stop myself from saying "well, of course you can find out just about anything on the internet but you can't go back and learn how to do it before there was such a thing as a pneumatic nailer" as I stood there with glint in my eye.
Ok, he didn't get the joke. As a matter of fact I'm not sure I do either...
My son framed for a few years. Coming down a ladder, he shot himself in the leg with one of those big framing nailers; barely missing his femoral artery.
people just don't know how much damage a 3 1/2 inch air driven nail can cause...
...my young Vietnamese neighbor, An, comes over to ask if I have any zip ties he can have. His family has lived across the street for 25 years. I remember when he was a kid loving to work on cars. Still does. His little boys do too from what I've seen. It makes me happy.
He lives a few miles away now so he comes home to his parents to work on his or their car projects because, according to An, otherwise he'll be pestered to death lol. Man I sort of envy him like that. Being pestered by love.
Anyhow he hung around for a few minutes looking and asking about the various tools I was using; specifically the pneumatic nailers. Like when to use which and how to know which nails to buy and so forth. He focused on the big framing nailer I use like it was some sort of weapon. I have to imagine he was a little intimidated by it. I thought a little bit of that intimidation was a good thing. Respect and for good reason. Not enough intimidation as to usher fear though. That would be self defeating and dangerous.
Choir?
The thing is he said he wanted to learn the fundamentals of carpentry etc. I'm such a buzzkill but I couldn't stop myself from saying "well, of course you can find out just about anything on the internet but you can't go back and learn how to do it before there was such a thing as a pneumatic nailer" as I stood there with glint in my eye.
Ok, he didn't get the joke. As a matter of fact I'm not sure I do either...
My son framed for a few years. Coming down a ladder, he shot himself in the leg with one of those big framing nailers; barely missing his femoral artery.
...my young Vietnamese neighbor, An, comes over to ask if I have any zip ties he can have. His family has lived across the street for 25 years. I remember when he was a kid loving to work on cars. Still does. His little boys do too from what I've seen. It makes me happy.
He lives a few miles away now so he comes home to his parents to work on his or their car projects because, according to An, otherwise he'll be pestered to death lol. Man I sort of envy him like that. Being pestered by love.
Anyhow he hung around for a few minutes looking and asking about the various tools I was using; specifically the pneumatic nailers. Like when to use which and how to know which nails to buy and so forth. He focused on the big framing nailer I use like it was some sort of weapon. I have to imagine he was a little intimidated by it. I thought a little bit of that intimidation was a good thing. Respect and for good reason. Not enough intimidation as to usher fear though. That would be self defeating and dangerous.
Choir?
The thing is he said he wanted to learn the fundamentals of carpentry etc. I'm such a buzzkill but I couldn't stop myself from saying "well, of course you can find out just about anything on the internet but you can't go back and learn how to do it before there wasn't such a thing as a pneumatic nailer" as I stood there with glint in my eye.
Ok, he didn't get the joke. As a matter of fact I'm not sure I do either...
...my young Vietnamese neighbor, An, comes over to ask if I have any zip ties he can have. His family has lived across the street for 25 years. I remember when he was a kid loving to work on cars. Still does. His little boys do too from what I've seen. It makes me happy.
He lives a few miles away now so he comes home to his parents to work on his or their car projects because, according to An, otherwise he'll be pestered to death lol. Man I sort of envy him like that. Being pestered by love.
Anyhow he hung around for a few minutes looking and asking about the various tools I was using; specifically the pneumatic nailers. Like when to use which and how to know which nails to buy and so forth. He focused on the big framing nailer I use like it was some sort of weapon. I have to imagine he was a little intimidated by it. I thought a little bit of that intimidation was a good thing. Respect and for good reason. Not enough intimidation as to usher fear though. That would be self defeating and dangerous.
Choir?
The thing is he said he wanted to learn the fundamentals of carpentry etc. I'm such a buzzkill but I couldn't stop myself from saying "well, of course you can find out just about anything on the internet but you can't go back and learn how to do it before there was such a thing as a pneumatic nailer" as I stood there with glint in my eye.
Ok, he didn't get the joke. As a matter of fact I'm not sure I do either...
In military basic training the mental/emotional is stressed along with the physical in order to toughen a mindset; a sort of preset weariness in the guise of forced self discipline.
I must say, being a hopelessly undisciplined 19 year old to begin with that, at least in my mind, life was all just one big risk after another. Anything can happen, and usually does.
That is exactly what a drill sergeant tries to wrangle out of you. A soldier is to know what is going to happen, and to be prepared for the suffering as much as the victory over ones own doubts and failings...
All that said, that cold rainy December morning about 3AM I guarded my post as ordered. I had my clipboard around my neck and a trusty 4D cell flashlight; ready to engage any threat and since I was still young, didn't need these smudged up drugstore reading glasses to read my general orders off the clipboard. Empowerment is the new black, don't you know...
At any rate I was defending the security of the Post Morgue.
Not sure which door the threat might appear but I guess the Army didn't want to take any chances. Zombies are just a hassle any way you look at it, especially if wearing olive drab.
Two hours on, four off. That was the gig. It was my second shift and I was in my second and last hour of sleep deprivation during that cold December rain in Ft Polk Louisiana in 1974.
There I was, sleep deprived and well into an anguished 11 weeks of civilian mind destruction so I could fight with somebody besides myself.
As I said, there I was on the porch of the Post Morgue, a spare wooden structure painted, wait for it, greenish yellow, no doubt built in the teens to train soldiers for the war to end all wars. At least one of them.
I'm peering into my time-heart-memory- lens and I can see myself there, wearing ill fitting army garments and huddled up on a hot water pipe I found protruding from an exterior wall.
As I'm hanging on there in dreamy half snooze I hear bangs and bumping around inside. I didn't have the courage to knock on the door but just in case I clutched my clipboard tightly.
I wonder now, at this late stage of the game, if any of it actually happened. I remember thinking somewhere along the way during my early enlistment days that I had really gotten myself into a pickle this time.
(The green pickle; that's an inside soldier joke. You get the gist)...
