Cut me some slack. Emil makes me write his memoirs. He says I face a choice, either write what he says or he'll haunt me for the rest of my days. Tells me his words will make me a famous man. I tell him Hitler was a famous man. Better he'd said rich and much younger but I'd settle for being younger. Week and a half would be nice. Enough time to duct tape the holes in my life before the dam goes.
Anyhow, that's what this aside is about. Futures that'll never happen and pasts that never lived. Don't know about you but I sure have a lot of both. When my mind wanders it leaves time in the dust. I can do pretty much what I want. Sounds pretty wild but it's not. My parochial school days are way too ingrained. Might sidle over to the cliff to see what's down below but never take the leap. 'Course Emil, being Emil, he can choose to fly.
Believe I left him standing alongside his pack atop the bridge overlooking Little John about to set off on the Border Trail. Would have proved a challenge back in September '69 seeing as how the trail was still a few years off in the future. Nope, she's not some ancient path in the woods. Probably's an amalgam of deer trails and overlooks. Same for the Kekekabic Trail he'll join up with in fifty miles or so. Doesn't phase Emil one bit. Remember what he said an entry or two ago? He bounces around in time like any good fictional uncle. Yesterday, tomorrow, what's the difference? His only fear is he'll run into himself somewhere along the way, be forced out of politeness to strike up a conversation only to find he's already heard or thought everything he has to say. So don't go checking Emil's facts on the internet. Won't do you any good. Emil's truth, like any truth, is pretty much relative. And Emil, being my mother's brother, is a relative. Guess that sums it up as clearly as anything.
Off my backside, get this toad on the road. Have the feeling I should field strip my Lucky Strike first. Old habits don't die hard, they don't die at all. Feel much better since I quit smoking but sure do miss that good-bad feeling of burnt lungs. Stopped at the end of the bridge. Looked down at the sand and gravel an inch past my sneaker toes then up the remnant of road. No more than a quarter mile of it left. Yeah there's more roads over the border but a few strides ahead lies the end of this one. What they call a jumping off point. Sounds exciting doesn't it? At the moment it sounds scary. Shouldn't be. The trail's well marked in most places. I've got maps and a compass. Should I wander off course, won't be by much and never'll be far from lakes that'll tell me where I am. Yup, no problems at all. Time to move on.
Looked down once more. Almost started before the thought hit me I was eyeball to eyeball with both barrels of another first step. Will they never end? Get used to it Emil boy. They're all first steps 'til you hit the last. I finally huffed off.
Road bent to the left rising all the way 'til it came to a wall of woods and a sign. Two foot wide by half a foot high brown one nailed to a post beneath a little triangular, metal plate. In yellow letters the board read Border Route Trail with an arrow pointing to the right. Took that to be a clue. On the metal plate the silhouette of a hiker perched on what seemed a craggy overlook towering above a blue lake stretching to the horizon. The hiker with a pack on his (?) back. Must be going somewhere. Thought hit me it'd make sense to find a walking stick along the way. Use it to fend off bears or the Mongol Horde should they feel a need to add the Arrowhead to their empire. Or maybe as a third leg when crossing a stream. Surrounding the tin-plate hiker and lake, one word per side, Border Route Trail. Guess I was in the right spot.
Been on this stretch of trail before but never let you know what it looked like. Eighteen inch wide bare, beaten earth at foot level and doing its best to avoid trees. Every so often another one of the triangular plates'd be nailed to a tree. Must have been short a few thousand to post every tree of the trail as most of the markings from this point on consisted of a dab of blue paint or an occasional cairn. My plan was to follow the blue just as Dorothy's was to follow the yellow brick rod. Pray to God I don't have to deal with all that caterwauling singing like she did. Should I come upon a metal man frozen in mid-chop I'll avoid eye contact and quietly pass by.
Thankfully the path continued its rise. That's sarcasm should you not have been paying attention. Seems the builders who cleared this course liked the high ground. Can't blame them. Had the land around here been bald I'd have always had a view. Might even see a horizon now and then. Wouldn't get anywhere, just stand in awe. The subtle nature of a forest encourages movement (though the face whipping nature of hazel brush seedling tends to do the opposite). Not that every tree's the same, you seen one you've seen them all. No, it's more the trees give comfort and warmth. A feeling of safety and ease of movement. Yeah, vistas are wonderful but usually are one wrong step from me becoming one with the broken boulders below. Given the choice I'll take a forest any day.
'Spose you're like me and've assumed the uphills counterbalance the downs just about perfectly. And, like me, you'd be wrong. Yeah, the distance balances nicely but check your watch as to time and you'll find we both spend way more time trudging up than gliding down. Might almost serve as a life lesson. But no, life lessons hint toward New Year's resolutions. Uphills? They're what you come to as soon as you finish a down.
'Bout twenty years back I came to know a one armed man by the name of George Hawkins. Actually he had most of his arm, just lost the hand. In place of the hand he had a grasping, hook-like mechanism. Could somehow manipulate it with his arm muscles so as to pick up things. Carried farmer matches and could light a cigarette just as nice as could be. Came to ask him one day how he lost the hand. Said he didn't lose it. Nope, kept it in a jar of formaldehyde in a cabinet above the ice box. Seemed odd to me at first but George said he was a devout Catholic and figured it best to be prepared for the Final Judgement when he and his hand would be reunited. 'Course this was in the days before the Ecumenical Movement. Back then all Catholic kids still learned their religion from the Baltimore Catechism - volumes I and II - that the Lord was eternal, infinite and all that. But Mother Church didn't really see it that way. In particular about body parts and their possible uses through eternity. Seems they didn't actually figure the Supreme Being could fabricate things on the spot. Yeah, George had to hold onto that hand 'cause it was the only one that'd fit his particular model of arm. One of a kind, can't make another just like it, so you best keep it in that jar George. Personally, I figured he kept it for sentimental reasons, seeing as how it was his right hand and he was a natural north paw. Had a lot of good times with it in his youth. Also kept it 'cause having a hand in a jar was a little weird and like most of us, George didn't want to seem too normal. Good man.
Yeah, George was a survivor. Least he was 'til he was done in by a flying squirrel while in the backyard transplanting chrysanthemums. Wasn't any cartoon squirrel either. Gray squirrel. You probably don't think gray squirrels can fly. Well, neither did George. At least 'til this one caught him square on his left ear. Odd thing was the coroner said it wasn't the blow to the head and the resulting cracked cranium that killed George. More likely the heart attack from the shock. What caused the squirrel to plummet was written off as a mystery, fate, kismet, bad karma or sheer dumb luck. Maybe this was just a clumsy animal or even had a suicidal tendency. A call to a clinical animal psychologist at the U of M confirmed the last possibility as the suicide rate among gray squirrels is one of the highest in the animal kingdom. Right up there with the Australian kinkajou. Don't ever want to let a kinkajou get hold of a hand gun. When they figure it's time to leave this world they like company. Particularly redheads. Anyhow, his wife Sophie had George and the rodent buried in the same grave. Even had their nephew Ralph throw together a little squirrel casket in his high school shop class. Wasn't the best of jobs but not bad. Got a B minus and Sophie had to pay for shop supplies.
'Bout then my attention landed back on earth, realized where I was and saw a rump-sized stump that needed mine to keep it from drifting off into the firmament. Break time. Walked forty minutes. Could tell I'd slowed my pace when I hit the trail. Maybe from now on I'll walk 'til I don't feel like it anymore. Good advice. Maybe I should listen to myself more often. Don't know how far I'll make it today but do know my stash of food hangs in a tree better than forty-five miles from here. Threw an extra freeze dried meal in the pack before setting off with the idea I might run out. Didn't think that possible a month ago. Here on the trail's another story. Once again gettin' used to the idea I've no control over anything save the next step. Reminds me of the time me and Archie bushwhacked our way into the unnamed lake in Manitoba. From his point of view I knew what I was doing. From mine, I hoped we didn't die. Seems I occasionally stick my neck out into the land of stupid. Been lucky so far. Guess I'll leave it at that. Close to six miles down with over two hours 'til noon. Was hoping for twenty miles today but'll settle for eighteen. Maybe sixteen.
Seems like my breaks are stretching at about the same rate my stride is shortening. Figure I'll eventually strike a balance. Nature taking its course and me accepting the truth. Just like she did when I hit the bushes, trowel and paper in hand, a minute ago. Good sign I can still squat when needed. Better sign I can straighten up again. Should keep me light hearted 'til the morning. Been a regular guy most of my life. 'Course there was a stretch of six days after hitting the beach on Luzon when I was bound up something fierce. When I finally let go the ground swell from the impact felt like incoming artillery. One of the men in our third platoon was awarded a Purple Heart for breaking his arm when he was knocked over by the shock wave. Since then I've lived in harmony with my bowel.
'Bout a half mile uptrail is the turnaround point of my longest day hike. There the path crosses the portage from East Pike over to McFarland. The thought of a side trip to the shore of my favorite lake has crossed my mind. I'll pass on it for now. Miles to go and the climb back up from the water is a two hundred foot elevation gain. Have plenty of that simply following the trail. Knowing the lake's down there somewhere's good enough. At the moment my stomach says lunch overlooking West Pike will be a pleasure.
Not much to say about the next five miles. They were slow. Thumped along at no more than a long two miles per hour. Surely not three. 'Bout like an Army moves. Fast on the roads, slow in the bush, a tad slower than a snail's crawl when the trail ends. Was pooped when I sat to eat. Might even take a nap.
Felt like an eagle on my lunch perch. Couple hundred feet below, the lake snaked its way west to the portage from Clearwater. Four miles away as I recall. Ghost-like zephyrs left their silver footprints here and there as they skipped up lake. Rivers of current wound willy-nilly toward me trailing their courses of slick. Strikes me as odd there's rivers in a lake. But there they were, plain as day. Their directions looked to be pretty random. Doubt that was the intent. Given the choice they'd have bee-lined from one end of the lake to the other. But, a little shove here, pull there, turned them into drunkards trying to find their way atop the bar stool. Go with the flow they say these days. From up here it appears even the flow has to go with the flow.
A little closer, right beneath my dangling sneakers, floats the pine spiked island where me and Archie'd once spent three days camping. Not many islands in the area. Most of the lakes along the border are glacier cut trenches. Seems the ice was in a bad mood when leaving the Arrowhead. Had no time for any stinking islands. Didn't catch many fish on that trip but the one's we did tie into that late spring were all lakers. Most less than three pounds but each a hoot for their fight. Few animals say northland like lake trout. Have to admit I'm happy to be where I am.
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Thursday, December 24, 2015
The Walk IV - Day After Day Tripper
Headed right at the end of the driveway, that being west on this part of the northbound McFarland Road, in bright sunlight. Read somewhere a journey starts with the first step. Probably in a Chinese fortune cookie. Ain't that just the sparklingest bit of wisdom? Better wash that kind of thinking out of my head before I take another step or this'll be one long, long hike.
Seems there's always some kind of discussion going on in my head as though there's more than one person living up there. And one of them's out to get my goat. Can't say I'm all that fond of my goat but seein' as how it's the only one I've got, he's stayin' with me. Said before I don't know where thoughts come from. Maybe they're stored upstairs over time from words I heard or read, maybe just a snippet of conversation on the bus to work. Might not even be aware of what's being said but the ear and brain don't miss a thing. Stores those words deep in a wrinkle to sit for who knows how long. Then on a Tuesday one of those little sparks in our brain shakes a few words loose while running around in a panic lookin' for the reason I'm standing in the kitchen. Not that that's ever happened to me. Or, on this morning, runnin' down the mental checklist of what's in the pack, tryin' to figure out what I've forgotten 'cause one of the only certainties in life is that I've forgotten something important.
Yeah, first step, has to be one I guess. Maybe not? Should've been paying more attention when heading out the door. Paused a moment on the bottom stair, jumped right over that first step and started on the second. Put that in your fortune cookie Lao Tzu and smoke it.
The rise from Aspen Brook's valley let me know thinking's not for the uphills. And from what I've seen of what lies ahead, my brain'll be plenty busy getting my heart in gear and lungs sucking deep. Lots of uphills followed by thigh pounding downs. Couple of million roots and rocks to step around and over. Look down young man, look down. Guess I'll content myself with staying upright. Think during the breaks and at night in the bag. I know, I know, my mind's sure to wander. Always does. You'd think I'd be content being where I am at the moment seein' as how I'm usually where I want to be. Doesn't seem to work that way.
Midway to McFarland where I'll catch the Border Trail as it passes by, I set the pack down and rested my kiester on a mostly dry embankment in the warmth of the rising sun. Felt good to have the weight off. Also was impatient to load up once again. Almost took an act of will to swig down some water from one of the green plastic Army canteens clipped to the pack frame and chow down half the hershey bar squirreled in my shirt pocket. Shouldered the pack and finished the bar while walking.
While the chocolate was melting in my mouth a forestry truck approached and slowed to a crawl. Took a look at my pack, then at my thin gray hair bared to the sunlight. Then back to the pack.
The ranger asked if I was okay. Said I was. Asked where I might be off to. Said my cabin. Asked where that might be. Said two miles back toward the big lake. Asked if I knew I was heading the wrong direction. Said yes but I was taking the scenic route. Maybe stop for breakfast in Ely in a week or so. He nodded, asked if I might pay him a visit on my return, let me know how breakfast was, then wished me a fine morning before driving on.
Conversation's not what I'm seeking on this walk. Wouldn't turn one down but'd rather not have to decide the issue. My nephew Archie'd find that hard to believe. In days past I've enjoyed approaching complete strangers simply to get their take on something I found interesting. More likely to learn something I was lacking. Weather, fishing, typical mukluk sizes for Inuits. You know, the usual run of things. But not this time. For conversation I'd packed a few of Archie's letters he'd mailed me from Vietnam. 'Course I'd already answered in turn but felt my words to have short changed him. Felt I was missing something big. The whatever that'd tie his words into a whole. Not that he was a great shake as far as writing. But his words were coherent and I was hoping to puzzle out some form of truth. Anyhow, that was my intention. I shouldered the pack and moseyed on.
Don't know when they changed the name of this road to the Arrowhead Trail. Heard tell the state's tourism department was behind the name change. Made it sound more scenic. My map calls it County Road 16. Locals still refer to it as the McFarland Road. Today I'll call it something to put to my rear. Don't see that happening anytime soon. Feels like every step I take's shorter than the last. Keep this up I'll be heading backward with every forward step.
Heard a while back that a life's worth living so long as a person has something to look forward to. In my case that's the bridge over the connecting stream between McFarland and Little John. Nice worthwhile spot for a break. Also the end of civilization 'til I hit the Gunflint in a couple of days or so. At the moment that seems like the other end of the world and it's less than halfway.
Always thrills me to see the bluffs towering over the south shore of McFarland. Usually means I'm heading somewhere I want to be. This time's no exception, though as much as I want to do this I'd rather be paddling the border lakes. That's just the way I am. Born of water's a good way to come into this world. Each lake I pass'll bring a little ache of something missed. Oh well, nothing wrong with standing between earth and sky. 'Specially with a length of fishing pole in my hands. Yeah, I couldn't resist. Packed my four piece traveling rod and reel. Good way to take a break or spend an evening. Maybe catch dinner? Hope springs infernal.
Not sure why but the view up Little John commands my attention. Always has. The way its cedar lined shores ease their way left and disappear, going to who knows where? Kind of invites me to set off, see what's out there. McFarland doesn't do that to me for some reason. Some things just look right, feel right. Some things don't. Meeting Lena wasn't that way at all. Little about her looked right to me at first but from the moment I saw her, she commanded my attention. Not like she asked, just that I always knew when she was around. Might have been in love with her from day one but didn't know it. Wouldn't surprise me at all. In some ways I'm plenty smart. Other ways as dense as lead. Don't know how it was with her. After all she's a woman. A whole different animal than a man. The ladies are in touch with the things that can't be seen. Being a man, I'm barely in touch with the things that can. But I sure do like the view down Little John. Doesn't matter that I don't know why.
Seems there's always some kind of discussion going on in my head as though there's more than one person living up there. And one of them's out to get my goat. Can't say I'm all that fond of my goat but seein' as how it's the only one I've got, he's stayin' with me. Said before I don't know where thoughts come from. Maybe they're stored upstairs over time from words I heard or read, maybe just a snippet of conversation on the bus to work. Might not even be aware of what's being said but the ear and brain don't miss a thing. Stores those words deep in a wrinkle to sit for who knows how long. Then on a Tuesday one of those little sparks in our brain shakes a few words loose while running around in a panic lookin' for the reason I'm standing in the kitchen. Not that that's ever happened to me. Or, on this morning, runnin' down the mental checklist of what's in the pack, tryin' to figure out what I've forgotten 'cause one of the only certainties in life is that I've forgotten something important.
Yeah, first step, has to be one I guess. Maybe not? Should've been paying more attention when heading out the door. Paused a moment on the bottom stair, jumped right over that first step and started on the second. Put that in your fortune cookie Lao Tzu and smoke it.
The rise from Aspen Brook's valley let me know thinking's not for the uphills. And from what I've seen of what lies ahead, my brain'll be plenty busy getting my heart in gear and lungs sucking deep. Lots of uphills followed by thigh pounding downs. Couple of million roots and rocks to step around and over. Look down young man, look down. Guess I'll content myself with staying upright. Think during the breaks and at night in the bag. I know, I know, my mind's sure to wander. Always does. You'd think I'd be content being where I am at the moment seein' as how I'm usually where I want to be. Doesn't seem to work that way.
Midway to McFarland where I'll catch the Border Trail as it passes by, I set the pack down and rested my kiester on a mostly dry embankment in the warmth of the rising sun. Felt good to have the weight off. Also was impatient to load up once again. Almost took an act of will to swig down some water from one of the green plastic Army canteens clipped to the pack frame and chow down half the hershey bar squirreled in my shirt pocket. Shouldered the pack and finished the bar while walking.
While the chocolate was melting in my mouth a forestry truck approached and slowed to a crawl. Took a look at my pack, then at my thin gray hair bared to the sunlight. Then back to the pack.
The ranger asked if I was okay. Said I was. Asked where I might be off to. Said my cabin. Asked where that might be. Said two miles back toward the big lake. Asked if I knew I was heading the wrong direction. Said yes but I was taking the scenic route. Maybe stop for breakfast in Ely in a week or so. He nodded, asked if I might pay him a visit on my return, let me know how breakfast was, then wished me a fine morning before driving on.
Conversation's not what I'm seeking on this walk. Wouldn't turn one down but'd rather not have to decide the issue. My nephew Archie'd find that hard to believe. In days past I've enjoyed approaching complete strangers simply to get their take on something I found interesting. More likely to learn something I was lacking. Weather, fishing, typical mukluk sizes for Inuits. You know, the usual run of things. But not this time. For conversation I'd packed a few of Archie's letters he'd mailed me from Vietnam. 'Course I'd already answered in turn but felt my words to have short changed him. Felt I was missing something big. The whatever that'd tie his words into a whole. Not that he was a great shake as far as writing. But his words were coherent and I was hoping to puzzle out some form of truth. Anyhow, that was my intention. I shouldered the pack and moseyed on.
Don't know when they changed the name of this road to the Arrowhead Trail. Heard tell the state's tourism department was behind the name change. Made it sound more scenic. My map calls it County Road 16. Locals still refer to it as the McFarland Road. Today I'll call it something to put to my rear. Don't see that happening anytime soon. Feels like every step I take's shorter than the last. Keep this up I'll be heading backward with every forward step.
Heard a while back that a life's worth living so long as a person has something to look forward to. In my case that's the bridge over the connecting stream between McFarland and Little John. Nice worthwhile spot for a break. Also the end of civilization 'til I hit the Gunflint in a couple of days or so. At the moment that seems like the other end of the world and it's less than halfway.
Always thrills me to see the bluffs towering over the south shore of McFarland. Usually means I'm heading somewhere I want to be. This time's no exception, though as much as I want to do this I'd rather be paddling the border lakes. That's just the way I am. Born of water's a good way to come into this world. Each lake I pass'll bring a little ache of something missed. Oh well, nothing wrong with standing between earth and sky. 'Specially with a length of fishing pole in my hands. Yeah, I couldn't resist. Packed my four piece traveling rod and reel. Good way to take a break or spend an evening. Maybe catch dinner? Hope springs infernal.
Not sure why but the view up Little John commands my attention. Always has. The way its cedar lined shores ease their way left and disappear, going to who knows where? Kind of invites me to set off, see what's out there. McFarland doesn't do that to me for some reason. Some things just look right, feel right. Some things don't. Meeting Lena wasn't that way at all. Little about her looked right to me at first but from the moment I saw her, she commanded my attention. Not like she asked, just that I always knew when she was around. Might have been in love with her from day one but didn't know it. Wouldn't surprise me at all. In some ways I'm plenty smart. Other ways as dense as lead. Don't know how it was with her. After all she's a woman. A whole different animal than a man. The ladies are in touch with the things that can't be seen. Being a man, I'm barely in touch with the things that can. But I sure do like the view down Little John. Doesn't matter that I don't know why.
Friday, December 18, 2015
The Walk III - Off 'n Huffin'
Mid-September '69. All was ready but the weather. Cold and wet. Almost felt like winter settin' in. Sixty-three years of age and in a near panic over things I couldn't control. Each morning I'd rise, make coffee, grab some breakfast and head up to the lookout. There I'd sit for a few minutes in the steam of my cup watching the clouds course their way through the hills above Aspen Brook. The drizzle slithering its way down the panes in fits and starts told me to once again to don my rain gear before setting out on the morning's walk. Twenty pounds in the daypack to keep my shoulders in shape. Head up the McFarland Road 'til I sighted the bluffs then return home.
The big pack sat loaded by the side door waiting its turn. Bounced up and down, dropped slobber on my knees and ran in circles like a St. Bernard puppy. Almost broke my heart to leave it behind. Maybe tomorrow depending on the weather report. Like that mattered. Where I live the weather has a mind of its own. The tip of the Arrowhead is miles from anyone's predictions, or caring for that matter. A front comes rumblin' down out of the Yukon bent on mayhem, hangs a right at Hudson Bay, bangs into the mass of Superior and dumps whatever's been clutched in its paws since the good old days in Siberia. Wasn't but me, a handful of loggers and the rare fisherman who haunted these woods. Not enough bodies to warrant a college educated weather guesser. Gut feeling was as good as anything and my gut said no once again.
Did the stretch waterproofed from the waxed cotton fedora to heavily oiled shoe sole. And after a mile, mudded to the knee. My suit kept the rain out. That was good. Also kept the sweat in. That wasn't. By the time I stood watching rain dimples dance on McFarland my skivvies said I might as well have left the outer gear at home. Also told me, my hike to Ely'd make me feel and smell as natural as all outdoors. Maybe a wash cloth, small bar of soap and hand towel might come in handy. Oh well, another half pound to carry just to smell like a flower.
It's moments like that get me wondering things like, "What the hell am I doing?" And, "You'd think if I've been sweating this much I wouldn't have to pee so badly and could find my fly." Yeah, there wasn't a single reason in the world for me to hike to Ely and back except I'd gotten it in my head as something to do. Then built into something I had to do. But the closer the moment grew the less I wanted to go. At the same time I knew for a certainty the moment me and my pack turned our backs on the cabin it'd be two or more weeks 'til we returned. Up and down, back and forth I went. Constant debate with no compromise in sight. The German in me didn't care who won the battle. Just kept plugging ahead. A long day of driving got the two cooler stashes hung. Guess I was goin'.
And go I did. Woke up on Friday the 19th with no rain thumping on the roof. Wandered into the yard to find a crescent moon and Venus floating above the pines along the McFarland Road to the west. Everything was perfect. Except the warm little feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminded me how much I liked living in the cabin I'd built. The walls, shelves, tables, most of all the Lookout and the morning cup of coffee while surveying my domain. Ah well. Had to store that thought or it'd put me in the land of not doin'. Once the love of home notion arose the only way to put it down was to set out. Grabbed a quick breakfast, brushed my teeth, shouldered the pack, nearly fell over, bounced my way through the door and headed down the drive. Can't say the pack felt light as a feather but was tolerable. Air was cool, near chilly. Piercing blue-black sky dotted with the last fading stars. Good day for a hike. Checked my watch. Six-thirty. Thirty-five minutes should be two miles. And time to set 'er down and take a break. Or so I hoped.
The big pack sat loaded by the side door waiting its turn. Bounced up and down, dropped slobber on my knees and ran in circles like a St. Bernard puppy. Almost broke my heart to leave it behind. Maybe tomorrow depending on the weather report. Like that mattered. Where I live the weather has a mind of its own. The tip of the Arrowhead is miles from anyone's predictions, or caring for that matter. A front comes rumblin' down out of the Yukon bent on mayhem, hangs a right at Hudson Bay, bangs into the mass of Superior and dumps whatever's been clutched in its paws since the good old days in Siberia. Wasn't but me, a handful of loggers and the rare fisherman who haunted these woods. Not enough bodies to warrant a college educated weather guesser. Gut feeling was as good as anything and my gut said no once again.
Did the stretch waterproofed from the waxed cotton fedora to heavily oiled shoe sole. And after a mile, mudded to the knee. My suit kept the rain out. That was good. Also kept the sweat in. That wasn't. By the time I stood watching rain dimples dance on McFarland my skivvies said I might as well have left the outer gear at home. Also told me, my hike to Ely'd make me feel and smell as natural as all outdoors. Maybe a wash cloth, small bar of soap and hand towel might come in handy. Oh well, another half pound to carry just to smell like a flower.
It's moments like that get me wondering things like, "What the hell am I doing?" And, "You'd think if I've been sweating this much I wouldn't have to pee so badly and could find my fly." Yeah, there wasn't a single reason in the world for me to hike to Ely and back except I'd gotten it in my head as something to do. Then built into something I had to do. But the closer the moment grew the less I wanted to go. At the same time I knew for a certainty the moment me and my pack turned our backs on the cabin it'd be two or more weeks 'til we returned. Up and down, back and forth I went. Constant debate with no compromise in sight. The German in me didn't care who won the battle. Just kept plugging ahead. A long day of driving got the two cooler stashes hung. Guess I was goin'.
And go I did. Woke up on Friday the 19th with no rain thumping on the roof. Wandered into the yard to find a crescent moon and Venus floating above the pines along the McFarland Road to the west. Everything was perfect. Except the warm little feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminded me how much I liked living in the cabin I'd built. The walls, shelves, tables, most of all the Lookout and the morning cup of coffee while surveying my domain. Ah well. Had to store that thought or it'd put me in the land of not doin'. Once the love of home notion arose the only way to put it down was to set out. Grabbed a quick breakfast, brushed my teeth, shouldered the pack, nearly fell over, bounced my way through the door and headed down the drive. Can't say the pack felt light as a feather but was tolerable. Air was cool, near chilly. Piercing blue-black sky dotted with the last fading stars. Good day for a hike. Checked my watch. Six-thirty. Thirty-five minutes should be two miles. And time to set 'er down and take a break. Or so I hoped.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
The Walk II - Stripping Down
Damnation. Too much weight no matter how I cut it. Started to think the solution was heading out the door in shoes, socks, smile and a bag of Snickers. Bare my soul and body to the world. Then I considered that picture from the world's point of view. Guess I needed clothes. Head to foot. Maybe even a mask. And a pack to carry them in. And coffee. Dear Lord I needed coffee. What point in doing anything without a cup of joe? So I 'spose I needed matches and if it rained, a stove. And fuel. And pots and pans. And toilet paper. Had to have butt wipe or my backside would chafe something awful. And a trowel to bury my leavings. Food, rain gear, book. And so on. What to leave and what to carry? Figured I didn't have to decide 'til I set off. Last minute is always best. No need to waste any hours frettin' over every little detail.
Figuring fall'd be the best time for the hike I circled September 21st on my mental calendar. 'Course that date could move one way or the other depending on weather and leaf color. Nothing wrong with passing through glory. Start beneath green and dashes of crimson and gold. Finish atop. Begin in one season, end in the next. Maybe grow a little on the way. Never to late to grow. Grow 'til I die then grow into something else. Maybe worms and dandelions.
More and more, as the days passed, I reconsidered and expanded my idea of a stash. Maybe two. No sense in carrying anymore than I'd need over three days. Use the coolers I already had instead of boxes. In each I put two clean shirts and pants along with extra socks and underwear. Also six days of food and a backup for most everything in my pack. Maybe a book or two. Half for the way out, the other for the return. By divvying up the gear I could cut my load to around forty pounds. Maybe less.
Didn't work out that way. Even using freeze dried food, the pack weighed out at close to thirty-six pounds on the butcher scale down in Grand Marais. Throw in a couple of canteens of water and I was lookin' at about forty-one. 'Course, that'd be at the get-go and reloads. As the miles passed so would the food and water I was carrying. Buried discretely in the woods, there to give nourishment a second time. Maybe turn into worms and dandelions or simply help the forest grow.
Eased my way into carrying a pack of size. Doubt my daypack ever topped eight pounds and figured twice that would be a good startin' point. Didn't feel too bad at all. The first five miler didn't do much more than cramp my neck a little and press my feet a tad wider. I did a day on and a day off under a load but never missed a walk. Slowly increased the miles before I started in on the weight. After a month I'd learned twenty-five pounds felt a lot better sliding off than it did hoisting on.
Come August I'd done a few miles with forty-five figuring it'd make forty-two seem a breeze. What it did was make me work on excuses to get it off my back. First time out I trotted off on a six miler. Three out, take a break, three back. Didn't work out that way. Started out just fine but soon heard a pair of tiny voices. Struck me as odd bein' I was the only soul on the road. Looked around thinkin' it was Bigfoot's cousin Little. Couldn't've been, seeing as how there were two distinct voices. One with a Canadian accent, the other more like New York city seasoned with a dash of Italy. You may or may not've heard of Littlefoot seein' as how he's an elusive rapscallion. Not shy, just so small most'd never notice him under any circumstances. So minuscule he barely leaves tracks in fresh mud. Those who know say it's his constant flatulence that gives notice he's around. Smells like swamp mixed with cardamom and sugar. Kinda like a Swedish bakery after delivery of fresh lutefisk. So, hearin' the voices I raised my sniffer to the winds. Nothin' but sun on pines mixed with hot road dust. While I standing and sniffing, the voices went silent. Stayed that way through an entire downhill. Come the next up, there they were again. Only this time I could make out what they were sayin'. Went, "Sons-a-bitch, sons-a-bitch," over and over. Half a mile of that noise raised my annoyance hackles. And the voices were gettin' louder. Loud enough to hear they were rising from directly below. So I stopped to pay extra close attention. Once again not a peep. Started walking, there they were again. Had to be my shoes. Took one off, looked it up and down, turned it every which way, squeezed it, beat it. Not a sound. Then, from down below the duet piped up, "It's us, your feet, dumbass. You think you're gonna pound us from here to Ely and back you gotta 'nother think comin'." Guess I was in trouble.
Time to bargain. Negotiate. Compromise. We struck a deal. My feet'd take me to and from Ely if I'd promise to: 1) keep the weight down to the forty-two pounds I'd originally planned, 2) come winter take them on a trip to Hawaii for at least two weeks and, 3) never complain about their singing once we'd hit the trail. Took my other shoe off and the three of us shook on it. Feet? Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Odd thing was they did sing to me every step of the way. Crush of sand and gravel, splash of puddle, ooze of mud, crunch of dry leaf and the never ending soft thud of foot strike. Not a step along the way spoke of asphalt or concrete.
Figuring fall'd be the best time for the hike I circled September 21st on my mental calendar. 'Course that date could move one way or the other depending on weather and leaf color. Nothing wrong with passing through glory. Start beneath green and dashes of crimson and gold. Finish atop. Begin in one season, end in the next. Maybe grow a little on the way. Never to late to grow. Grow 'til I die then grow into something else. Maybe worms and dandelions.
More and more, as the days passed, I reconsidered and expanded my idea of a stash. Maybe two. No sense in carrying anymore than I'd need over three days. Use the coolers I already had instead of boxes. In each I put two clean shirts and pants along with extra socks and underwear. Also six days of food and a backup for most everything in my pack. Maybe a book or two. Half for the way out, the other for the return. By divvying up the gear I could cut my load to around forty pounds. Maybe less.
Didn't work out that way. Even using freeze dried food, the pack weighed out at close to thirty-six pounds on the butcher scale down in Grand Marais. Throw in a couple of canteens of water and I was lookin' at about forty-one. 'Course, that'd be at the get-go and reloads. As the miles passed so would the food and water I was carrying. Buried discretely in the woods, there to give nourishment a second time. Maybe turn into worms and dandelions or simply help the forest grow.
Eased my way into carrying a pack of size. Doubt my daypack ever topped eight pounds and figured twice that would be a good startin' point. Didn't feel too bad at all. The first five miler didn't do much more than cramp my neck a little and press my feet a tad wider. I did a day on and a day off under a load but never missed a walk. Slowly increased the miles before I started in on the weight. After a month I'd learned twenty-five pounds felt a lot better sliding off than it did hoisting on.
Come August I'd done a few miles with forty-five figuring it'd make forty-two seem a breeze. What it did was make me work on excuses to get it off my back. First time out I trotted off on a six miler. Three out, take a break, three back. Didn't work out that way. Started out just fine but soon heard a pair of tiny voices. Struck me as odd bein' I was the only soul on the road. Looked around thinkin' it was Bigfoot's cousin Little. Couldn't've been, seeing as how there were two distinct voices. One with a Canadian accent, the other more like New York city seasoned with a dash of Italy. You may or may not've heard of Littlefoot seein' as how he's an elusive rapscallion. Not shy, just so small most'd never notice him under any circumstances. So minuscule he barely leaves tracks in fresh mud. Those who know say it's his constant flatulence that gives notice he's around. Smells like swamp mixed with cardamom and sugar. Kinda like a Swedish bakery after delivery of fresh lutefisk. So, hearin' the voices I raised my sniffer to the winds. Nothin' but sun on pines mixed with hot road dust. While I standing and sniffing, the voices went silent. Stayed that way through an entire downhill. Come the next up, there they were again. Only this time I could make out what they were sayin'. Went, "Sons-a-bitch, sons-a-bitch," over and over. Half a mile of that noise raised my annoyance hackles. And the voices were gettin' louder. Loud enough to hear they were rising from directly below. So I stopped to pay extra close attention. Once again not a peep. Started walking, there they were again. Had to be my shoes. Took one off, looked it up and down, turned it every which way, squeezed it, beat it. Not a sound. Then, from down below the duet piped up, "It's us, your feet, dumbass. You think you're gonna pound us from here to Ely and back you gotta 'nother think comin'." Guess I was in trouble.
Time to bargain. Negotiate. Compromise. We struck a deal. My feet'd take me to and from Ely if I'd promise to: 1) keep the weight down to the forty-two pounds I'd originally planned, 2) come winter take them on a trip to Hawaii for at least two weeks and, 3) never complain about their singing once we'd hit the trail. Took my other shoe off and the three of us shook on it. Feet? Can't live with 'em. Can't live without 'em.
Odd thing was they did sing to me every step of the way. Crush of sand and gravel, splash of puddle, ooze of mud, crunch of dry leaf and the never ending soft thud of foot strike. Not a step along the way spoke of asphalt or concrete.
Friday, December 4, 2015
1969 - The Walk I - Dollars and Sense
Parameters. Believe that's the word. When to set off for Ely's more to the point? What to carry? Need maps and a pack. Rain gear. Clothes. Shoes. Butt wipe. Tent, sleeping bag, food, pots, pans, a book to read. A whole lot of stuff. So much I wonder if a sixty-three year old Dutchman like me can carry it all. Good thing it's spring and I've plenty of time to think about it and prepare 'til it's time to wise up and bag the whole thing. Like to say I'm no fool but if I'm anything, being a fool's usually at the top of my to-do list.
I make jokes about the problem of carry weight but realize what it means. Misery. Hard to have a good time and smell the roses when your shoulders are screaming bloody murder. Could have easily dropped the whole idea but once the seed was planted it grew quickly. Took root like a weed you might say. With no intention of being pulled. Done enough gardening to know weeds pull easily enough but also leave tiny little roots behind and are back and smiling in a day or so. Figured it'd be best to let my hiking weed grow 'til it found its way to Ely and back.
Hatched me a plan. First off would be a trip down to the cities to visit relatives, have a couple of free meals then hit a few outdoor stores. Thought about walking the aisles of the Army-Navy surplus in downtown Minneapolis but soon remembered the weight of that stuff. The Army's long into heavy duty. Thick, dense, enduring (like some of the cadre). Want the stuff to last through the mud and fire of a war. I'd survived my war. Done my share of misery and figured to learn from it. I wanted the pack as light as possible. Intended to visit Hoigaard's outdoor store and the brand new Burger Brother's I'd heard about. Between the pair I hoped they had what I was looking for.
Second was conditioning. Yeah, I was in pretty good shape for a sixty-three year old man. But in good enough shape to hike three hundred miles through the woods of the Arrowhead with forty-five pounds on my back? Once I had my gear and pack I'd break them in - and me down - by taking us out for an evening's stroll or two. Figured once a twelve miler with a full load didn't kill me I'd give Ely a try.
Then, out of nowhere came plan number three - a stash. The Border Trail changes into the Kekekabic Trail - those were the routes I intended to follow - where it crosses the Gunflint fifty or sixty miles from the cabin. Maybe a cache of supplies in a wood box suspended from a tree somewhere around there? Hmmm. That'd cut my weight down by close to ten pounds. Got so excited when the idea hit me I had to take a leak.
My trip to the cities was an adventure. Hit town during rush hour and got swamped in a river of traffic. By the time I broke free of the current I was half way to Wisconsin. Guess I'd spent too much time in the quiet of the Arrowhead where my nearest neighbor was better than a mile away. Heavy traffic to me was anything more than a truck an hour headin' up or down the McFarland Road. Finally, I pulled off the freeway, grabbed the map and headed back to my sister's house over city streets. Much better way to travel and a whole lot less hassle. Seems the world's got it's foot on the gas pedal and pushin' down harder all the time.
First stop in the morning was Hoigaard's. Would've gone to Burger Brothers first but it turned out they wouldn't be open for another year. Those kind of things happen to me all the time. Me and the natural order of things occasionally part ways. Both forward and backward, 'Sposed to meet a buddy over at Jack the Horse Lake to wet our lines at seven in the morning and I show up two months before he's even asked me.
They say some people never show up on time, would even be late for their own funeral. Me, I've already been to my funeral. Even had a good time. 'Course a few people soiled their drawers seein' me walking around and in the coffin at the same time. Odd thing was, I wasn't both places. Only looked like I was. Even checked that out with my buddy Mike the hairless werewolf. Had him put his hand on my shoulder - bein' what he was you didn't ever want to get too close to Mike - and take a look in the coffin. So long as he was holding on and looking inside, I wasn't in the box. Soon's he'd let go, poing!, there I was, the perfect door nail.
Mike did a double-double take and laughed, "Don't that beat all. And I thought going bald every time the moon rose full was weird."
Good thing for me Hoigarrd's was already there. Had everything I was looking for - and a few things I wasn't - even if it was bein' sold by a buckskin clad, long hair to beaded moccasins, clerk. Looked like his problem with time beat mine all to pieces. Me bouncin' around a month here, a year there and him in the store lookin' like he'd showed up for work two hundred years late.
In twenty-five words or less I explained my ambitions and what I was looking for in gear, "Should weigh next to nothing and cost about the same." His grin told me my hopes were unfounded, then rocketed off on a spiel about weight, space age metals, coefficients of something or other and lifetime durability. Never once mentioned cost. While he was rambling on I was turning tags. Also asking how much each thing weighed and mentally figuring out dollars per ounce. My truck's the standard. Comes in at around sixty cents a pound. A frame pack at a buck and a half an ounce. Top that off with the truck carrying me and me having to carry the pack. Seemed ass-backwards. Would be easier and cheaper to drive to Ely much less go through the misery of a three week hike.
It's tough on an old guy to admit a kid knows more than he does. Foolish pride. What he did do and it went dead against the grain of capitalism, was to tell me how to save five pounds of weight and forty bucks at the same time. Had me exchange the idea of a tent with a waterproof, nylon tarp, bug netting, some stakes and a hundred feet of parachute cord. Even drew up instructions how to rig it. Still, it didn't make it any easier when the cash register toted up the bill. But I walked out the door feelin' pretty good about what I'd bought. Funny how that goes when you buy quality. Grumbled my way in the door, smiled my way out.
I make jokes about the problem of carry weight but realize what it means. Misery. Hard to have a good time and smell the roses when your shoulders are screaming bloody murder. Could have easily dropped the whole idea but once the seed was planted it grew quickly. Took root like a weed you might say. With no intention of being pulled. Done enough gardening to know weeds pull easily enough but also leave tiny little roots behind and are back and smiling in a day or so. Figured it'd be best to let my hiking weed grow 'til it found its way to Ely and back.
Hatched me a plan. First off would be a trip down to the cities to visit relatives, have a couple of free meals then hit a few outdoor stores. Thought about walking the aisles of the Army-Navy surplus in downtown Minneapolis but soon remembered the weight of that stuff. The Army's long into heavy duty. Thick, dense, enduring (like some of the cadre). Want the stuff to last through the mud and fire of a war. I'd survived my war. Done my share of misery and figured to learn from it. I wanted the pack as light as possible. Intended to visit Hoigaard's outdoor store and the brand new Burger Brother's I'd heard about. Between the pair I hoped they had what I was looking for.
Second was conditioning. Yeah, I was in pretty good shape for a sixty-three year old man. But in good enough shape to hike three hundred miles through the woods of the Arrowhead with forty-five pounds on my back? Once I had my gear and pack I'd break them in - and me down - by taking us out for an evening's stroll or two. Figured once a twelve miler with a full load didn't kill me I'd give Ely a try.
Then, out of nowhere came plan number three - a stash. The Border Trail changes into the Kekekabic Trail - those were the routes I intended to follow - where it crosses the Gunflint fifty or sixty miles from the cabin. Maybe a cache of supplies in a wood box suspended from a tree somewhere around there? Hmmm. That'd cut my weight down by close to ten pounds. Got so excited when the idea hit me I had to take a leak.
My trip to the cities was an adventure. Hit town during rush hour and got swamped in a river of traffic. By the time I broke free of the current I was half way to Wisconsin. Guess I'd spent too much time in the quiet of the Arrowhead where my nearest neighbor was better than a mile away. Heavy traffic to me was anything more than a truck an hour headin' up or down the McFarland Road. Finally, I pulled off the freeway, grabbed the map and headed back to my sister's house over city streets. Much better way to travel and a whole lot less hassle. Seems the world's got it's foot on the gas pedal and pushin' down harder all the time.
First stop in the morning was Hoigaard's. Would've gone to Burger Brothers first but it turned out they wouldn't be open for another year. Those kind of things happen to me all the time. Me and the natural order of things occasionally part ways. Both forward and backward, 'Sposed to meet a buddy over at Jack the Horse Lake to wet our lines at seven in the morning and I show up two months before he's even asked me.
They say some people never show up on time, would even be late for their own funeral. Me, I've already been to my funeral. Even had a good time. 'Course a few people soiled their drawers seein' me walking around and in the coffin at the same time. Odd thing was, I wasn't both places. Only looked like I was. Even checked that out with my buddy Mike the hairless werewolf. Had him put his hand on my shoulder - bein' what he was you didn't ever want to get too close to Mike - and take a look in the coffin. So long as he was holding on and looking inside, I wasn't in the box. Soon's he'd let go, poing!, there I was, the perfect door nail.
Mike did a double-double take and laughed, "Don't that beat all. And I thought going bald every time the moon rose full was weird."
Good thing for me Hoigarrd's was already there. Had everything I was looking for - and a few things I wasn't - even if it was bein' sold by a buckskin clad, long hair to beaded moccasins, clerk. Looked like his problem with time beat mine all to pieces. Me bouncin' around a month here, a year there and him in the store lookin' like he'd showed up for work two hundred years late.
In twenty-five words or less I explained my ambitions and what I was looking for in gear, "Should weigh next to nothing and cost about the same." His grin told me my hopes were unfounded, then rocketed off on a spiel about weight, space age metals, coefficients of something or other and lifetime durability. Never once mentioned cost. While he was rambling on I was turning tags. Also asking how much each thing weighed and mentally figuring out dollars per ounce. My truck's the standard. Comes in at around sixty cents a pound. A frame pack at a buck and a half an ounce. Top that off with the truck carrying me and me having to carry the pack. Seemed ass-backwards. Would be easier and cheaper to drive to Ely much less go through the misery of a three week hike.
It's tough on an old guy to admit a kid knows more than he does. Foolish pride. What he did do and it went dead against the grain of capitalism, was to tell me how to save five pounds of weight and forty bucks at the same time. Had me exchange the idea of a tent with a waterproof, nylon tarp, bug netting, some stakes and a hundred feet of parachute cord. Even drew up instructions how to rig it. Still, it didn't make it any easier when the cash register toted up the bill. But I walked out the door feelin' pretty good about what I'd bought. Funny how that goes when you buy quality. Grumbled my way in the door, smiled my way out.
Thoughts on the The Walk
Don't know where this is going. And figure Emil's path may be dead ended. The idea came from his last post about maybe hiking round trip along the Border Trail to Ely, MN. Maybe two hundred fifty miles. Not exactly the Appalachian Trail in length but a tad heavier on the uncivilized side. Back in the late '60s few hikers traveled those Minnesota miles. Should something go wrong Emil'd be in what we called in Vietnam, a world of hurt. Don't know what they called it in WWII but I'm sure they had a phrase for being in a bind.
I've got a problem. Me and the Border Trail don't know each other well. Crossed it, canoe atop shoulders, a few times. Even walked a half mile of it with my son to see what the trail looked like. Turned out it was a well marked path in the woods. I've logged a few dozen miles on the North Country Trail, also in northern Minnesota and from what I've seen, they're similar. 'Course the size of the Border Trail's hills'd put more of a strain on the calves. Also, I have no idea what shape the trail was in back in 1970. Or even if it existed. Doesn't matter. Should I choose to write of it, it'll be just like I want it to be. Or maybe exactly how Emil tells me it is as he puffs along.
Wish I could go along with Emil on the hike. Maybe I will. The thought struck me as I wrote the above words that I could. Why not? No doubt Archie is gonna come home from Vietnam a little bit screwed up and a week or two up in the Arrowhead country with his uncle might be a fine thing to do.
Gotta think about that.
The Walk
Yeah, it's true. I wrote the words but Emil told me what to write. What he wanted was a journal much like Learning Curve. Only he wanted it to sound more like a real journal. Broken sentences. Images. Passing thoughts. And written a whole lot better. I didn't know that when he started dictating but soon figured it out. Maybe even got better at it. This is no long, convoluted tale. Then, Emil's walk wasn't a cross country trek. Just an exaggerated ramble. Like the two long Emil tales that preceded this, "Canada" and "Emil's Cabin", "The Walk" is written for my Grandchildren. Hopefully they can figure out who Emil and Archie are meant to be. And, truth be known, it's also written for me. There's a joy in being presented an idea and fleshing it out. Don't know how well I do it but somehow, that doesn't matter a whole lot. Like Emil and his hike I get a little advise, shoulder the pack then see where the path leads me.
I've got a problem. Me and the Border Trail don't know each other well. Crossed it, canoe atop shoulders, a few times. Even walked a half mile of it with my son to see what the trail looked like. Turned out it was a well marked path in the woods. I've logged a few dozen miles on the North Country Trail, also in northern Minnesota and from what I've seen, they're similar. 'Course the size of the Border Trail's hills'd put more of a strain on the calves. Also, I have no idea what shape the trail was in back in 1970. Or even if it existed. Doesn't matter. Should I choose to write of it, it'll be just like I want it to be. Or maybe exactly how Emil tells me it is as he puffs along.
Wish I could go along with Emil on the hike. Maybe I will. The thought struck me as I wrote the above words that I could. Why not? No doubt Archie is gonna come home from Vietnam a little bit screwed up and a week or two up in the Arrowhead country with his uncle might be a fine thing to do.
Gotta think about that.
The Walk
Yeah, it's true. I wrote the words but Emil told me what to write. What he wanted was a journal much like Learning Curve. Only he wanted it to sound more like a real journal. Broken sentences. Images. Passing thoughts. And written a whole lot better. I didn't know that when he started dictating but soon figured it out. Maybe even got better at it. This is no long, convoluted tale. Then, Emil's walk wasn't a cross country trek. Just an exaggerated ramble. Like the two long Emil tales that preceded this, "Canada" and "Emil's Cabin", "The Walk" is written for my Grandchildren. Hopefully they can figure out who Emil and Archie are meant to be. And, truth be known, it's also written for me. There's a joy in being presented an idea and fleshing it out. Don't know how well I do it but somehow, that doesn't matter a whole lot. Like Emil and his hike I get a little advise, shoulder the pack then see where the path leads me.
Monday, November 30, 2015
The Man in Black
First time I met him was in a Sears parking lot down in the cities. Was there to buy a saw but didn't know which one'd solve all my life's problems. At least as far as wood goes. The lot was nearly empty. Bein' a sunday morning most right thinking folks were still in church trying to get their foot in Heaven's door. As you can see I wasn't among the chosen. Had my reasons, the foremost of which was the six hour drive back up to my piece of paradise. Always figured the roof of a church got in the way of a fine view of Heaven. And seein' as how God's infinite you don't have to go far to find the Old Guy.
Nearly soiled my britches when I turned from the truck door and was forehead to nose with the man. All in black from sole to fedora. No jacket but he did sport a tie. Black on black one with a wood grain pattern. Nice tie. Was gonna ask the man where he got it but before I could open my mouth he clipped off in a voice that commanded respect, "I figure you'll get the most use out of a radial arm saw. Does pretty much everything except curves. For me that's been okay. I like most everything straight on anyhow. Even use it to trim my nails to a crisp point. By the by, best you get yourself a pair of quality blades to go with the saw. Cross cut and rip. That's what I'd do if I were you."
Tipped his hat and walked off like hadn't a care in this or any other world. Don't know where he came from. Don't know where he went. Don't much care as the saw turned out to be a fine piece of machinery.
'Course I gave the moment a turn or two on my way home. First I figured him to be the devil seein' as how it was a sunday and him bein' on the outside of all those holy walls. But a moment's thought and I remembered. Met him before and would no doubt meet him again. Each time his words carried a lot of weight with me even though he always appeared as a stranger. Almost a brother but a whole lot wiser and smarter. Never steered me wrong. Also wasn't bossy. Just suggestive in the sense of, 'this's what I'd do if I were you but I'm not, so do as you please'.
Yeah, I ran into him a half dozen or more times over the years. Couple of times in the war. Once when I was a kid runnin' hooch over the border to make a buck. Always looked liked he'd just walked out of the shower, donned freshly pressed clothes and dropped by for a minute to shoot the breeze. Then just as quick, was gone. Could be he doesn't like to dress up. Kind of like me in that way. Always takes a few hours before clean clothes fit like they should.
Don't know exactly who he is. One of these days I'll have to ask. Got my notions but that's about it. All I know for sure is to pay him heed. Never seems to guide me wrong. Guardian angel? Death? The man from down below? Or maybe just me on my good days? Probably doesn't matter.
Nearly soiled my britches when I turned from the truck door and was forehead to nose with the man. All in black from sole to fedora. No jacket but he did sport a tie. Black on black one with a wood grain pattern. Nice tie. Was gonna ask the man where he got it but before I could open my mouth he clipped off in a voice that commanded respect, "I figure you'll get the most use out of a radial arm saw. Does pretty much everything except curves. For me that's been okay. I like most everything straight on anyhow. Even use it to trim my nails to a crisp point. By the by, best you get yourself a pair of quality blades to go with the saw. Cross cut and rip. That's what I'd do if I were you."
Tipped his hat and walked off like hadn't a care in this or any other world. Don't know where he came from. Don't know where he went. Don't much care as the saw turned out to be a fine piece of machinery.
'Course I gave the moment a turn or two on my way home. First I figured him to be the devil seein' as how it was a sunday and him bein' on the outside of all those holy walls. But a moment's thought and I remembered. Met him before and would no doubt meet him again. Each time his words carried a lot of weight with me even though he always appeared as a stranger. Almost a brother but a whole lot wiser and smarter. Never steered me wrong. Also wasn't bossy. Just suggestive in the sense of, 'this's what I'd do if I were you but I'm not, so do as you please'.
Yeah, I ran into him a half dozen or more times over the years. Couple of times in the war. Once when I was a kid runnin' hooch over the border to make a buck. Always looked liked he'd just walked out of the shower, donned freshly pressed clothes and dropped by for a minute to shoot the breeze. Then just as quick, was gone. Could be he doesn't like to dress up. Kind of like me in that way. Always takes a few hours before clean clothes fit like they should.
Don't know exactly who he is. One of these days I'll have to ask. Got my notions but that's about it. All I know for sure is to pay him heed. Never seems to guide me wrong. Guardian angel? Death? The man from down below? Or maybe just me on my good days? Probably doesn't matter.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Cold Snap in the Arrowhead
A couple of years ago I noticed my pants were gettin' a little snug. Struck me as odd that the cotton in my Wranglers had shrunk that much. Needless to say I sat down right away and penned a letter. Wasn't to the Wrangler people. Wrote it to myself. Mailed it on the weekend when I was down in Grand Marais and picked it up in my box the following week. Went something like this:
Dear Wideload,
Time to get up and move it. You're more than a few degrees south of chubby. Keep it up and you'll be dead in a couple of years and they'll need a fork lift to carry the casket.
One who cares (and doesn't like what he sees in the mirror)
The idea bein' I'd accept criticism from an outsider. 'Specially someone I respect as much as I do myself. Also nice to get mail once in a while. Easy for me to write off my puffing when I hiked down to the stream as nothing more than old age creeping up on me. In fact a lively brain like mine could explain most everything and make reality exactly like I wanted it even if it wasn't. All was fine 'til I was struck out of the blue with a bolt of personal honesty. Hate that when it happens. No way to sneak around the truth so I decided it wasn't too late to get myself into shape before the undertaker carved and pumped me into a fine looking cadaver.
So, I took up walking (way more appealing than cutting down on my eating). Hiking when I want to feel more manly. Not sure what the difference is but I've been told there is one. Might have to do with packing a lunch. Yeah, some of my excursions call for a break or two. Walk an hour, sit for five minutes and move on. Maybe carry a book and binoculars. Bought me a small daypack and a couple of pairs of fancy white tennis shoes with blue stripes made by a company in Germany. Don't walk every day but some hikes push twenty miles.
Usually I stick to the roads. Here to McFarland and back's an up and downhill ten miler. One day when my oats were up I continued on down the Border Trail to East Pike. There I stood mid-shore on my favorite lake, no rod, no canoe. All dressed up for the picnic but forgot the basket. Just stood there a minute staring across a half mile of glassed out water, thought, "there it is," turned around and pounded back uphill towards home. Ate my lunch a mile back alongside John Lake. Never walked rod-less again. Bought a four piece spinning rod to stow in the daypack. Also packed a few spinners and snap swivels. Some lures small enough for trout, a couple for bass. Should I pass along a stream or lakeshore I'd be ready. Felt a whole lot better with an option. It's good to be able to say no once in a while when yes is just as likely.
Don't have many creative thoughts when I'm heading down the road. Seems like I need other people around me before the idiocy floats to the surface. Tried writing but nothing comes out worth reading. Even bores me. Could be that humor, which is the way I'd go if I could write, goes hand in hand with pain, misery and stupidity. Like the other day when I broke a personal record. In a quiet life like mine, personal bests are a big deal. Keeps me motivated. Gettin' better all the time (at least till I don't). Happened on the rise coming out of the valley just past my driveway. Farted on thirteen straight right foot strikes. Near as many as the sixteen left footers I did last fall. Like a one cylinder engine as I chugged my way up the rise. A good writer could make something of that. Maybe even the theme of an entire novel. A saga. But not me. But I did make note of it in my journal. Right after a comment about noticing a wind knot in my fly line leader and maybe should put on a new one when I'm feelin' up to it.
Reflecting water. Those words kept coming back to me on my return from East Pike. Outside of an occasional tiny zephyr the water was truly glassed out. Near upside-down, right side-up confusion of the far shore. Seen it before and never gave it much thought beyond, "That's pretty neat. Maybe I should try a handstand to see if it looks the same?" Never before caught the connection between the reflection of the water and the reflection I get lost in while out on a walk. Also, the dreams I used to have when I was younger. Don't have them as much anymore. Spent most of my dream time from my years in the war 'til I retired either back in the war or out on the water. The water dreams ran the gamut from being iced out to catching large fish. Yeah, I sure liked to catch those dream fish but it seemed I didn't have much control over what was on the end of my line. 'Til I gave it some thought. Reflected on it. Seems those dreams were trying to tell me something. And it wasn't the figuring it out that mattered near as much as changing what needed changing in my life. Reflection's fine but a man's gotta go deeper than the surface. Put those thoughts into action. Did some things right. Some I screwed up big time. Long story short, guess I'm a little slow on the uptake in more ways than you can shake a stick at.
Had thoughts lately of headin' up McFarland way, catch the Border Trail and wander on over to Ely. Can't be more than a hundred-forty miles or thereabouts. A week with close to fifty pounds on my back. What's that to a sixty-three year old man besides maybe death and being eaten by feral hamsters? Once there I'd take a short shopping, eating and sleeping break then head back. See the other side of the trees I'd passed. Or maybe catch a bus back to Hovland.
Anyhow, what I'm getting around to is a walk I took after shoveling out the driveway the other day. Should've known better. Worked up a sweat in the hour and a quarter it took me to clear the snow but felt pretty good. Stuffed my shovel in a snow bank and set off south down the McFarland Road. Probably was above zero but not by much. Half hour out. A little more on the return. A smart man would've started out north. Wasn't much of a wind in the beginning but slowly built on the outbound. When it was at my back I payed the breeze no mind. Sure did on the way back. Near to froze my nose but more important, my privates. My pecker pain got my attention when it started to thaw. Guess that's one of those good-bad things. Bad that it hurt like the devil. Good that the pain said it was still attached. Might not do that again.
Dear Wideload,
Time to get up and move it. You're more than a few degrees south of chubby. Keep it up and you'll be dead in a couple of years and they'll need a fork lift to carry the casket.
One who cares (and doesn't like what he sees in the mirror)
The idea bein' I'd accept criticism from an outsider. 'Specially someone I respect as much as I do myself. Also nice to get mail once in a while. Easy for me to write off my puffing when I hiked down to the stream as nothing more than old age creeping up on me. In fact a lively brain like mine could explain most everything and make reality exactly like I wanted it even if it wasn't. All was fine 'til I was struck out of the blue with a bolt of personal honesty. Hate that when it happens. No way to sneak around the truth so I decided it wasn't too late to get myself into shape before the undertaker carved and pumped me into a fine looking cadaver.
So, I took up walking (way more appealing than cutting down on my eating). Hiking when I want to feel more manly. Not sure what the difference is but I've been told there is one. Might have to do with packing a lunch. Yeah, some of my excursions call for a break or two. Walk an hour, sit for five minutes and move on. Maybe carry a book and binoculars. Bought me a small daypack and a couple of pairs of fancy white tennis shoes with blue stripes made by a company in Germany. Don't walk every day but some hikes push twenty miles.
Usually I stick to the roads. Here to McFarland and back's an up and downhill ten miler. One day when my oats were up I continued on down the Border Trail to East Pike. There I stood mid-shore on my favorite lake, no rod, no canoe. All dressed up for the picnic but forgot the basket. Just stood there a minute staring across a half mile of glassed out water, thought, "there it is," turned around and pounded back uphill towards home. Ate my lunch a mile back alongside John Lake. Never walked rod-less again. Bought a four piece spinning rod to stow in the daypack. Also packed a few spinners and snap swivels. Some lures small enough for trout, a couple for bass. Should I pass along a stream or lakeshore I'd be ready. Felt a whole lot better with an option. It's good to be able to say no once in a while when yes is just as likely.
Don't have many creative thoughts when I'm heading down the road. Seems like I need other people around me before the idiocy floats to the surface. Tried writing but nothing comes out worth reading. Even bores me. Could be that humor, which is the way I'd go if I could write, goes hand in hand with pain, misery and stupidity. Like the other day when I broke a personal record. In a quiet life like mine, personal bests are a big deal. Keeps me motivated. Gettin' better all the time (at least till I don't). Happened on the rise coming out of the valley just past my driveway. Farted on thirteen straight right foot strikes. Near as many as the sixteen left footers I did last fall. Like a one cylinder engine as I chugged my way up the rise. A good writer could make something of that. Maybe even the theme of an entire novel. A saga. But not me. But I did make note of it in my journal. Right after a comment about noticing a wind knot in my fly line leader and maybe should put on a new one when I'm feelin' up to it.
Reflecting water. Those words kept coming back to me on my return from East Pike. Outside of an occasional tiny zephyr the water was truly glassed out. Near upside-down, right side-up confusion of the far shore. Seen it before and never gave it much thought beyond, "That's pretty neat. Maybe I should try a handstand to see if it looks the same?" Never before caught the connection between the reflection of the water and the reflection I get lost in while out on a walk. Also, the dreams I used to have when I was younger. Don't have them as much anymore. Spent most of my dream time from my years in the war 'til I retired either back in the war or out on the water. The water dreams ran the gamut from being iced out to catching large fish. Yeah, I sure liked to catch those dream fish but it seemed I didn't have much control over what was on the end of my line. 'Til I gave it some thought. Reflected on it. Seems those dreams were trying to tell me something. And it wasn't the figuring it out that mattered near as much as changing what needed changing in my life. Reflection's fine but a man's gotta go deeper than the surface. Put those thoughts into action. Did some things right. Some I screwed up big time. Long story short, guess I'm a little slow on the uptake in more ways than you can shake a stick at.
Had thoughts lately of headin' up McFarland way, catch the Border Trail and wander on over to Ely. Can't be more than a hundred-forty miles or thereabouts. A week with close to fifty pounds on my back. What's that to a sixty-three year old man besides maybe death and being eaten by feral hamsters? Once there I'd take a short shopping, eating and sleeping break then head back. See the other side of the trees I'd passed. Or maybe catch a bus back to Hovland.
Anyhow, what I'm getting around to is a walk I took after shoveling out the driveway the other day. Should've known better. Worked up a sweat in the hour and a quarter it took me to clear the snow but felt pretty good. Stuffed my shovel in a snow bank and set off south down the McFarland Road. Probably was above zero but not by much. Half hour out. A little more on the return. A smart man would've started out north. Wasn't much of a wind in the beginning but slowly built on the outbound. When it was at my back I payed the breeze no mind. Sure did on the way back. Near to froze my nose but more important, my privates. My pecker pain got my attention when it started to thaw. Guess that's one of those good-bad things. Bad that it hurt like the devil. Good that the pain said it was still attached. Might not do that again.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Emil To Archie
Dear Archie,
Been splitting wood lately. Nothing says life in the northwoods like getting ready for winter in late April. Don't know what it is about splitting wood but I sure enjoy it. Birch is the best. Burns pretty good and has a light berry smell when the maul pops it open. Don't go at it with a vengeance like a young man would. There's enough hours in a the day and days in the week to cull all I need without breaking my hump. Somedays I split the lengths next to the stump they came from. Others I simply throw in the wheelbarrow and pile alongside the cabin. Whichever strikes my fancy. Need to buck up and split around four cords. Should I spend the winter ten'd be more like it. Seeing as how I enjoy the work so much I might just keep splitting till I think of something better to do.
Finally bought a stereo system and a length of antenna wire. Strung the wire between a couple of uprights I'd screwed onto the lookout roof. Now I not only have music but also the news. Can't say the news is an improvement in my life.
She's looking like it'll be a late spring up here on Aspen Brook. The water's flowing up and over the bank in places, there's still two foot drifts here and there in the woods and all the lakes remain frozen tight. When the flow goes down and the water clears I just might try to see if the trout are still there. Bought a used split bamboo spinning rod down in Duluth. It'll be fun to see how it works.
Must have been some kind of winter up here. Almost sad I missed most of it. Makes me feel like a coward to pass the frozen months worrying the bass down in Florida. Also spent the holidays down in the cities. Almost didn't make it out of here in December. The driveway looked like a tunnel when I finally headed south. To this point I've been hand shoveling the entire sixty rods of driveway. I keep plenty of food in the cabin so there's usually no hurry finish the job. Even with the shoveling it doesn't hurt that I store a load of firewood in the truck's box. Four wheel drive is good but the extra weight helps a lot. By mid-December last winter my back told me in no uncertain terms to bite the bullet and put a blade on the front of the truck. Don't like to do that but probably will.
So, did I ever think of death when I was in training or combat? Yes and no. When it'd come to mind I'd stuff it down. And when we were in contact, there was no need to think of it. Death was there with us every inch of the way, not some idea in our heads. Mostly I'd think of staying alive and how best to do that. Even when I had to stick my neck out I was careful. Not slow, careful. My job was to keep the wounded alive and I couldn't do that if I was dead. Hell, I wanted everyone of us to pull through, especially me. Sounds selfish and maybe it is. But that's just the way it was and still is. I went to war with the idea of not dying. So Archie, that's my advice to you. Do your job to the best of your ability but most of all keep your mind on staying alive and come home in one piece. Then, over the years that follow, learn to deal with the ghosts who come back with you. You may not yet know about them but you will.
Should you have a few free moments now and then, give some thought to the canoe trips we did. Got a feeling the woods we passed through were a hell of a lot more peaceful than the ones you must be in by now. Also, consider another trip when you get home. A day, a week, I'll take whatever you can spare.
As always,
Emil
Been splitting wood lately. Nothing says life in the northwoods like getting ready for winter in late April. Don't know what it is about splitting wood but I sure enjoy it. Birch is the best. Burns pretty good and has a light berry smell when the maul pops it open. Don't go at it with a vengeance like a young man would. There's enough hours in a the day and days in the week to cull all I need without breaking my hump. Somedays I split the lengths next to the stump they came from. Others I simply throw in the wheelbarrow and pile alongside the cabin. Whichever strikes my fancy. Need to buck up and split around four cords. Should I spend the winter ten'd be more like it. Seeing as how I enjoy the work so much I might just keep splitting till I think of something better to do.
Finally bought a stereo system and a length of antenna wire. Strung the wire between a couple of uprights I'd screwed onto the lookout roof. Now I not only have music but also the news. Can't say the news is an improvement in my life.
She's looking like it'll be a late spring up here on Aspen Brook. The water's flowing up and over the bank in places, there's still two foot drifts here and there in the woods and all the lakes remain frozen tight. When the flow goes down and the water clears I just might try to see if the trout are still there. Bought a used split bamboo spinning rod down in Duluth. It'll be fun to see how it works.
Must have been some kind of winter up here. Almost sad I missed most of it. Makes me feel like a coward to pass the frozen months worrying the bass down in Florida. Also spent the holidays down in the cities. Almost didn't make it out of here in December. The driveway looked like a tunnel when I finally headed south. To this point I've been hand shoveling the entire sixty rods of driveway. I keep plenty of food in the cabin so there's usually no hurry finish the job. Even with the shoveling it doesn't hurt that I store a load of firewood in the truck's box. Four wheel drive is good but the extra weight helps a lot. By mid-December last winter my back told me in no uncertain terms to bite the bullet and put a blade on the front of the truck. Don't like to do that but probably will.
So, did I ever think of death when I was in training or combat? Yes and no. When it'd come to mind I'd stuff it down. And when we were in contact, there was no need to think of it. Death was there with us every inch of the way, not some idea in our heads. Mostly I'd think of staying alive and how best to do that. Even when I had to stick my neck out I was careful. Not slow, careful. My job was to keep the wounded alive and I couldn't do that if I was dead. Hell, I wanted everyone of us to pull through, especially me. Sounds selfish and maybe it is. But that's just the way it was and still is. I went to war with the idea of not dying. So Archie, that's my advice to you. Do your job to the best of your ability but most of all keep your mind on staying alive and come home in one piece. Then, over the years that follow, learn to deal with the ghosts who come back with you. You may not yet know about them but you will.
Should you have a few free moments now and then, give some thought to the canoe trips we did. Got a feeling the woods we passed through were a hell of a lot more peaceful than the ones you must be in by now. Also, consider another trip when you get home. A day, a week, I'll take whatever you can spare.
As always,
Emil
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Letter to Emil
Dear Uncle Emil,
Did dying ever enter your mind before you were shipped overseas? Don't know why but it hasn't entered mine. I know it's a possibility but the thought hasn't really gotten hold of me yet. It's more something I make jokes about.
Like when we were going through our AIT graduation ceremony. Now, that was funny. Some guy who claimed to be our battalion commander - don't know if he actually was 'cause we'd never seen him before. For that matter we'd never seen our company commander or even our platoon leader - stood up on a stage and called us diamonds in the rough. We were down below sitting in the auditorium. Sure didn't seem all that military. No flags or marching around, soldiers singing about killin' a Vietcong, blood-thirsty displays of us getting on line, bayonets fixed, charging dummies that look like Spiro Agnew, none of that good stuff. Nope we just sat there, in an auditorium. No movie, no play, just the guy up front telling us we need the polishing of combat to make us into finished diamonds or maybe corpses, depending on how it all worked out.
Anyhow, before the man walked out on stage to thunderous silence, I said a couple of things out loud that got me a few 'shut up Archie's'. One of 'em was "I wonder what size body bag I take?" Don't know why that'd upset anyone seeing as how that question had no doubt crossed the mind of most every man-jack in the place. Can't say I was all that eager to crawl into one of the bags just to find out. On the other hand it was an honest question. Should I ever be slid into one I probably wouldn't be aware enough to check out the size label.
A minute later I added, "Just think guys, in three weeks we'll be on our way to Vietnam." Didn't go over big either. Like I said, we know where we're going but sure don't want to think about it. Hogs to the slaughter. Not a one of us seems excited about where we're going. But then, no one talks much about it. We had this one guy who took a stand. Went on a hunger strike to either protest the war or show that he wasn't all that happy about having to take part in it. Hard to separate fear and morality. He stopped eating for about a week then disappeared. I suppose he'll spend the rest of his enlistment in the stockade. Don't know why but his protest pissed me off. A lot of others also. It's not that I think this is a good war because I don't. But I just can't help thinking he chickened out. Wasn't able to suck it up and do something completely stupid that might cost him his life. Kind of like he spit at us because we were going. That's not exactly it but it sure is part of how I feel. I wish I wasn't here but I am so I might as well finish what I started. And if I don't go, someone else will take my place. Yeah, I guess we're screwed, glued and tattooed.
Archie
Did dying ever enter your mind before you were shipped overseas? Don't know why but it hasn't entered mine. I know it's a possibility but the thought hasn't really gotten hold of me yet. It's more something I make jokes about.
Like when we were going through our AIT graduation ceremony. Now, that was funny. Some guy who claimed to be our battalion commander - don't know if he actually was 'cause we'd never seen him before. For that matter we'd never seen our company commander or even our platoon leader - stood up on a stage and called us diamonds in the rough. We were down below sitting in the auditorium. Sure didn't seem all that military. No flags or marching around, soldiers singing about killin' a Vietcong, blood-thirsty displays of us getting on line, bayonets fixed, charging dummies that look like Spiro Agnew, none of that good stuff. Nope we just sat there, in an auditorium. No movie, no play, just the guy up front telling us we need the polishing of combat to make us into finished diamonds or maybe corpses, depending on how it all worked out.
Anyhow, before the man walked out on stage to thunderous silence, I said a couple of things out loud that got me a few 'shut up Archie's'. One of 'em was "I wonder what size body bag I take?" Don't know why that'd upset anyone seeing as how that question had no doubt crossed the mind of most every man-jack in the place. Can't say I was all that eager to crawl into one of the bags just to find out. On the other hand it was an honest question. Should I ever be slid into one I probably wouldn't be aware enough to check out the size label.
A minute later I added, "Just think guys, in three weeks we'll be on our way to Vietnam." Didn't go over big either. Like I said, we know where we're going but sure don't want to think about it. Hogs to the slaughter. Not a one of us seems excited about where we're going. But then, no one talks much about it. We had this one guy who took a stand. Went on a hunger strike to either protest the war or show that he wasn't all that happy about having to take part in it. Hard to separate fear and morality. He stopped eating for about a week then disappeared. I suppose he'll spend the rest of his enlistment in the stockade. Don't know why but his protest pissed me off. A lot of others also. It's not that I think this is a good war because I don't. But I just can't help thinking he chickened out. Wasn't able to suck it up and do something completely stupid that might cost him his life. Kind of like he spit at us because we were going. That's not exactly it but it sure is part of how I feel. I wish I wasn't here but I am so I might as well finish what I started. And if I don't go, someone else will take my place. Yeah, I guess we're screwed, glued and tattooed.
Archie
Friday, September 25, 2015
Bumbling Around II
Thoughts like these have passed through my head for decades. Could be it's time for Emil to bring them out in the open. As usual I don't know where this will go. Good chance it'll be erased when I'm done. Done that before. Not fun but when something sucks, it sucks.
Woke up this morning thinking about what it'd be like if I hadn't. As far as I know, not waking up happens but once in a lifetime and with luck, once is enough. Anyhow, death was on my mind. Not unusual when you're gettin' on in years. Not unusual at any time for that matter. Dying's the one thing I know for sure will happen. S'pose there's a comfort in knowing but I can't say I feel all that comforted when I think of it. But that's not the gist of where I wandered from there.
What may or may not happen after I die is the interesting part. Anyhow that's where the thought left me till I was back from shopping down in Grand Marais and eyeballin' the loom of a paddle I was carving. Been into making paddles lately. Don't have a need for more than three or four but they're fun to carve. Start out with boards, saw 'em into strips, glue 'em up and carve 'em out. Carve's a fine word. Sounds like I go at it with knives, spokeshaves and planes. All hands on and eyeball true. Well, that's partly true. Throw in the band saw and belt sander and you're gettin' close. Still, it's all handwork and the finished product is eyeball true. Also's a good builder of concentration. Can't let my mind wander too far or I'll just have a little more kindling for the wood stove.
I've got a pretty good idea what'll happen to my body. Become one with the worms and microbes, eventually, if I'm lucky, the left nut of a moose. But the pea brain that lives in my head, the one who pays attention so the saw band stays outside the line, most anything might happen to that fella after his body craps out. Maybe nothing, maybe on a cloud honkin' away on a kazoo. Frankly I kind of doubt the latter. Maybe all of me'll break up and become parts of other things. It's a big universe out there, over time a person could get spread out pretty thin. Maybe all the way to nothing. So maybe a person's not completely dead till the last atom breaks up into something else. Back when I was a kid, my old man'd occasionally ask me what I was thinkin'. Instead of the embarrassing truth I'd usually say, "Nothin'." Could be I already knew where my future lay.
Most every trip into town I pay a visit to the library. The printed word's important to me. 'Course there's words and there's words. Good writing makes me stop and think for a while. Pause a moment and stare off into the woods lost in thought. Sometimes it's just a sentence that could as easily have been left out of the story. Like a mention of a plains Indian tribe, could have been the Comanches, and their belief on time. Seems they figured time never moved or didn't exist in the first place. That it's always now, people and things move but not time. Had that thought myself. Don't know how Einstein and all the physicists would take to the no time idea. Same goes for the four dimensions they claim we live in. All those things, length, width, depth and time are just ideas. Just our human way of explaining the real world. Adding onto it. Not the same as running a doug-fir sliver into my index finger when I'm checking the round of a canoe paddle loom. Damn that smarts. Doesn't mean our scientific way of explaining things ain't apropos but does mean it's a human thing and may or may not have any relation to anything. Except maybe my band saw and all the other tools I'm using that wouldn't exist unless we were figuring stuff out mentally.
Or for that matter, all the contraptions we use to make war. Like the one my nephew Archie is caught in the middle of. I've heard shit happens and not all of it can be used to help plants grow.
Woke up this morning thinking about what it'd be like if I hadn't. As far as I know, not waking up happens but once in a lifetime and with luck, once is enough. Anyhow, death was on my mind. Not unusual when you're gettin' on in years. Not unusual at any time for that matter. Dying's the one thing I know for sure will happen. S'pose there's a comfort in knowing but I can't say I feel all that comforted when I think of it. But that's not the gist of where I wandered from there.
What may or may not happen after I die is the interesting part. Anyhow that's where the thought left me till I was back from shopping down in Grand Marais and eyeballin' the loom of a paddle I was carving. Been into making paddles lately. Don't have a need for more than three or four but they're fun to carve. Start out with boards, saw 'em into strips, glue 'em up and carve 'em out. Carve's a fine word. Sounds like I go at it with knives, spokeshaves and planes. All hands on and eyeball true. Well, that's partly true. Throw in the band saw and belt sander and you're gettin' close. Still, it's all handwork and the finished product is eyeball true. Also's a good builder of concentration. Can't let my mind wander too far or I'll just have a little more kindling for the wood stove.
I've got a pretty good idea what'll happen to my body. Become one with the worms and microbes, eventually, if I'm lucky, the left nut of a moose. But the pea brain that lives in my head, the one who pays attention so the saw band stays outside the line, most anything might happen to that fella after his body craps out. Maybe nothing, maybe on a cloud honkin' away on a kazoo. Frankly I kind of doubt the latter. Maybe all of me'll break up and become parts of other things. It's a big universe out there, over time a person could get spread out pretty thin. Maybe all the way to nothing. So maybe a person's not completely dead till the last atom breaks up into something else. Back when I was a kid, my old man'd occasionally ask me what I was thinkin'. Instead of the embarrassing truth I'd usually say, "Nothin'." Could be I already knew where my future lay.
Most every trip into town I pay a visit to the library. The printed word's important to me. 'Course there's words and there's words. Good writing makes me stop and think for a while. Pause a moment and stare off into the woods lost in thought. Sometimes it's just a sentence that could as easily have been left out of the story. Like a mention of a plains Indian tribe, could have been the Comanches, and their belief on time. Seems they figured time never moved or didn't exist in the first place. That it's always now, people and things move but not time. Had that thought myself. Don't know how Einstein and all the physicists would take to the no time idea. Same goes for the four dimensions they claim we live in. All those things, length, width, depth and time are just ideas. Just our human way of explaining the real world. Adding onto it. Not the same as running a doug-fir sliver into my index finger when I'm checking the round of a canoe paddle loom. Damn that smarts. Doesn't mean our scientific way of explaining things ain't apropos but does mean it's a human thing and may or may not have any relation to anything. Except maybe my band saw and all the other tools I'm using that wouldn't exist unless we were figuring stuff out mentally.
Or for that matter, all the contraptions we use to make war. Like the one my nephew Archie is caught in the middle of. I've heard shit happens and not all of it can be used to help plants grow.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Bumbling Around
Going through one of those times in life where I'm not gettin' much done. A while back I built a lean-to on the side of the cabin. My outdoor work space. She's not much more than a twenty foot long shed roof with post supports, a deck floor atop a half dozen small piers and a couple of power outlets. Still had a pile of unused lumber and plywood so I threw together a sixteen foot work bench. Next I bit the bullet and headed down to Duluth. There I bought the tools I shoulda had when the cabin went up. Guess that's the story of life in a nutshell. Table saw, band saw and joiner. Put those together and they add up to tables, shelves, cabinets, canoe paddles and a coffin should I feel the need.
While working, my mind drifts. Not all the time, when the saws are fired up it pays to know where my fingers are. Being naturally lazy I find it easier keeping them on my hands than playin' hide and seek with finger tips on the ground.
Today, I had my mind on eyes. Mainly the color of them. Like most Minnesotans I was raised to look a person in the eye and in my growin' up years, did my best to do so. Then I heard the eyes are the windows of the soul. Put the fear of God in me that someone should know what I'd been thinking about. I knew where my thoughts had been even if I'd never physically joined them. Didn't want to let those cats out of the bag. So, over time, my eyes took to dropping and wandered everywhere but straight ahead. Came to know the condition of shoe leather way better than the color of another's eyes.
Over time I came to outgrow my fears. Worked my darndest to look a person in the eye. And almost succeeded. Turned out it's not easy doing three things at the same time. At least for me it ain't. I can listen to a person and look right at their eyes but have no clue what color they are. Tried it once but lost the gist of what the cop was saying. Turned out the right answer to the question, "Are you listening to me?" wasn't "Sorry officer, my thoughts strayed when I looked into your deep blue eyes." Wasn't sure whether he'd come upside my head with his night stick or ask me on a date. Can't say either one appealed to me.
Anyhow, that's how I got into noses. Like the eyes a person's nose says a lot about character. And's nowhere near as dangerous to stare at one. So, next time we meet and it appears I'm looking you in the eye, I'm not. Take no offense, it's just the way I am.
While working, my mind drifts. Not all the time, when the saws are fired up it pays to know where my fingers are. Being naturally lazy I find it easier keeping them on my hands than playin' hide and seek with finger tips on the ground.
Today, I had my mind on eyes. Mainly the color of them. Like most Minnesotans I was raised to look a person in the eye and in my growin' up years, did my best to do so. Then I heard the eyes are the windows of the soul. Put the fear of God in me that someone should know what I'd been thinking about. I knew where my thoughts had been even if I'd never physically joined them. Didn't want to let those cats out of the bag. So, over time, my eyes took to dropping and wandered everywhere but straight ahead. Came to know the condition of shoe leather way better than the color of another's eyes.
Over time I came to outgrow my fears. Worked my darndest to look a person in the eye. And almost succeeded. Turned out it's not easy doing three things at the same time. At least for me it ain't. I can listen to a person and look right at their eyes but have no clue what color they are. Tried it once but lost the gist of what the cop was saying. Turned out the right answer to the question, "Are you listening to me?" wasn't "Sorry officer, my thoughts strayed when I looked into your deep blue eyes." Wasn't sure whether he'd come upside my head with his night stick or ask me on a date. Can't say either one appealed to me.
Anyhow, that's how I got into noses. Like the eyes a person's nose says a lot about character. And's nowhere near as dangerous to stare at one. So, next time we meet and it appears I'm looking you in the eye, I'm not. Take no offense, it's just the way I am.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Letter Two - Archie to Emil
Uncle Emil,
We just marched in from our first bivouac. Can't say it was all that much fun. Not that it was a misery. More that we didn't do anything worth doing. Hiked around a bit, ate food out of green cans and slept on the ground. Never thought to bring a fishing pole. Didn't matter, the only water we saw was in our canteens.
Turns out our cycle is going to be cut a week short because of Christmas. Then we'll be sent home on leave before heading to advanced training. Can't say I mind that at all but it makes me wonder if the Army actually gives a damn about the war in Vietnam. Could be I'm wrong but I doubt training was shut down for a couple of weeks over the holidays during WWII. Somehow it seems like even the drill sergeants want life to be normal. Also go to bed each night being thankful they're not the suckers over in Southeast Asia being shot at.
Only two weeks to go. We chant about our time left each time we march anywhere. What we don't chant is how much time till we head wherever it is we're heading. If the rest of the trainees are like me they don't give much thought to the future. And if they do, that future doesn't involve ending up in a body bag. About all I worry about is getting through each day with as little misery as possible. A little short-sighted but the long view shows thunderheads on the horizon. Reminds me of the storm we weathered on the unnamed lake in Manitoba. Not sure where this storm's heading but it doesn't look good. However, there's plenty of time to dwell on that when the time comes.
I'd write more often but my mind and pen are usually elsewhere. Lauren sends me letters nearly every day and I try to do the same for her. When my thoughts turn homeward, most of them are on her. Our letters are as close as we can come to conversation and conversation's about all we have at the moment. When I wrote earlier about being at the end of a dead end road it was her ultimatum that finally put me there. Said she wouldn't see me till the end of fall semester (I wasn't registered) and I'd squared myself with my family (that's a long story I don't want to get into). So there I was, no school, no relationship with Lauren, not registered for the draft, out of money, no future that I could see. Turned out the draft was my lifeline. Hah, sure didn't see that coming.
And now, here I sit on my bunk, learning to be a trained monkey just like you said. There's a whole universe of humor in that. Oh well, maybe it'll all work out and I'll end up in Hawaii keeping the beaches safe for vacationers. Could say I'm depressed but I'm not. Just floating along, full to bursting with loss. Two years seems like forever. Throw in the possibility of going to war and it's … guess I don't know what it is. And don't want to think about it.
Archie
Only two weeks to go. We chant about our time left each time we march anywhere. What we don't chant is how much time till we head wherever it is we're heading. If the rest of the trainees are like me they don't give much thought to the future. And if they do, that future doesn't involve ending up in a body bag. About all I worry about is getting through each day with as little misery as possible. A little short-sighted but the long view shows thunderheads on the horizon. Reminds me of the storm we weathered on the unnamed lake in Manitoba. Not sure where this storm's heading but it doesn't look good. However, there's plenty of time to dwell on that when the time comes.
I'd write more often but my mind and pen are usually elsewhere. Lauren sends me letters nearly every day and I try to do the same for her. When my thoughts turn homeward, most of them are on her. Our letters are as close as we can come to conversation and conversation's about all we have at the moment. When I wrote earlier about being at the end of a dead end road it was her ultimatum that finally put me there. Said she wouldn't see me till the end of fall semester (I wasn't registered) and I'd squared myself with my family (that's a long story I don't want to get into). So there I was, no school, no relationship with Lauren, not registered for the draft, out of money, no future that I could see. Turned out the draft was my lifeline. Hah, sure didn't see that coming.
And now, here I sit on my bunk, learning to be a trained monkey just like you said. There's a whole universe of humor in that. Oh well, maybe it'll all work out and I'll end up in Hawaii keeping the beaches safe for vacationers. Could say I'm depressed but I'm not. Just floating along, full to bursting with loss. Two years seems like forever. Throw in the possibility of going to war and it's … guess I don't know what it is. And don't want to think about it.
Archie
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Promised Land - Letter to Archie
Emil's was a mixed marriage. He was raised a Lutheran, took his communion as a symbol. Lena took hers as nothing less than the body and blood of Christ. And took her Catholicism like her eucharist, body and blood. Being an easy going soul, Emil had no problem switching religions in order to marry the love of his life. Went to mass every sunday from the day of their wedding to that of her funeral. Then he was done. Didn't pass through the double doors of any church unless someone was being baptized, married or had passed on to his or her greater reward whatever that might be. When the time came, Emil figured his reward would be to learn the answers to life's most important questions, such as: "Whatever happened to my blue, argyle sock? I know it went into the washing machine but it sure didn't come out of the dryer", or "Whatever happened to my ball on the thirteenth hole down in Alex? I know I drove it in the fairway. Me and the Otte brothers searched for fifteen minutes. Backed up golf traffic to the tenth hole. Damned if we could find it."
Yeah, Emil took life like he found it. Sifted through the important moments to see if a grain of truth might be found on the screen. Felt the same way about his years in church. "There's some truth in nearly everything, even religion. But you've gotta dig through the trash kinda like an archaeologic dig. A body has to move a lot of dirt to find the one pottery chip that'll tell you how it was made and something of the hand that made it."
All well and good but those early years in sunday school stuck with him. Brought up smidgeons of bible lessons most every day. Might have a humorous spin. Might be serious. Either way I found his take entertaining. Even got me thinking once in a while. One of 'em came in a letter he sent.
Dear Archie,
Holy Moses, you wrote. I was beginning to think you were dead. Your's was the first envelope I've received in a long time that didn't have a bill in it. Felt like slicing it open right there in the post office but figured it best to wait a while. Savor the idea it might be worth reading for at least a few hours. Anticipation is good. Once back at the cabin I put it on the end table in the lookout. Saved it for a treat along with my after dinner coffee and one of the english toffee cookies I'd bought at the bakery.
Built the table from the scrap pile under the cabin. She's about two and a half foot square with a full sized shelf beneath. Good spot to stack books. Legs are coupled two by fours of varying wood varieties Top and shelf, left over birch floor boards. Almost pretty if you squint just right. The lamp atop's another salvage job. Rescued it from the land fill. Rewired, polished and topped with a new shade. Works like a charm and only cost five bucks more than a new one.
I finally did read your letter. Three or four times even. Good you finally came to grips with the Draft. Can't be free unless your conscience is clean. Well, mostly clean. No matter what there's always a few skeletons rattling around in there. And now you're enjoying your freedom by becoming a trained monkey. That's the way she goes when you're in the Army. Also another thing you'll have to come to grips with. Everything balances out in the long run, sometimes even in the short. At the end of the bad you'll find some good. Unless, of course, you die before that happens. Wouldn't bring that up but with a war going on I figure you're already aware of the possibility.
I was thinking about balance just the other day. That maybe the Old Testament got the Moses story a little topsy-turvy. Those things happen now and then even in a good book. Maybe God figured the Israelites couldn't handle the real truth. Too tough on 'em. The way the Bible tells it you'd think Moses was one great guy. Well, he wasn't and that's the gospel truth. In fact he was butt-ugly repulsive. Not the way he looked. As looks go he was a knockout. Tall, muscular, maybe even swarthy. Not sure about the last as I don't actually know what swarthy means. Might not be good seein' as how the word's got a wart in the middle. No, Moses was repulsive in the same way magnets can repulse. Opposite poles attract, like ones repel. Some call the force an aura. Most of us have a little bit of an aura. Moses, he had one in spades.
Anyhow, when Moses was born he repulsed his parents 'cause of the like auras. They took one look, screamed out "Monkey!", threw him in a basket - yeah, Moses was the original basket case - and dumped him in the river to get him out of sight. Maybe be adopted by river rats and raised as one of their own. On the other hand, the Egyptians were polar opposites from the Hebrews and it was natural the royal ladies'd see our hero come drifting along and pull the baby out of the rushes. Thought him the cat's pajamas and if you've ever read much about the ancient Egyptians you know how they felt about cats, 'specially the ones in pajamas.
Time passed and Moses grew to be a big man in the big pond of Egypt out there on the desert. Had no problem persecuting Hebrews since he found them as butt-ugly repulsive as they found him. Let me tell you it took him by surprise when the angel of God popped up in a vision while Moses was eating his breakfast of Sphinx Toasties cereal, banana and orange juice and told him he was a Hebrew. Boy was Moses conflicted. So conflicted he went and asked his step-father, the Pharaoh, to let the Hebrews go. Moses figured if they were gone he wouldn't feel so bad about himself. Of course the Pharaoh laughed it off with a "Get real Moses you ain't no Hebrew. You're a mummy-to-be just like the rest of us. And just who do you think'll build our pyramids if we turn the Hebrews loose? And just who'll run the delis? I know for sure it won't be me. Heck, without the Hebrews you and me'll end up wandering the desert for all eternity wrapped in strips of bed sheets with no place to rest our weary fleshless heads. How do think that'll look? And what'll it do to all those B grade movies?"
Moses fell head over sandals for the Pharaoh's line of logic. Fell so hard his aura also did a flip-flop. Began to see the Hebrews in a different light and they, in turn, took a shine to him. And the Egyptians saw him as he really was. Yup, the honeymoon was over and Moses soon found himself doin' overtime as bottom man on the block hoisting crew. Came to know the other end of the whip and found it not to his liking. Pissed him off something fierce. Got so mad his aura did another flip but he was so covered in muck it was hard to tell. However, Moses felt the change this time and slowly figured out how to switch it on and off.
Next time when Moses went to see the Pharaoh he fired up his negative side. Pharaoh took one look and said, "Moses, long time no see. Where you been?" Moses did a "Hiya-ho Phar-e-oh" and just asked for the Hebrews to be set free. But that got him nowhere. Said a simple, "You'll be sorry," and skedaddled. That night he bore down on the negative and sucked in a cloud of grasshoppers. 'Course they ate up all the crops and of course the Pharaoh didn't like that one bit. But he had money in the bank and didn't worry a whole lot where his next meal was coming from. Next day Moses went through the same spiel and Pharaoh, of course, did the same. Moses left with a simple, "You'll be sorrier." Next fell a plague of frogs and whatnot. Chariots slidin' in the frog slime caused one big time traffic jam come rush hour. 'Course Pharaoh didn't much care 'cause he lived where he worked.
This went on for a while, Pharaoh sayin' no and Moses sayin' "sorrier" all the time. Here's where the Bible gets it wrong. Over the next few weeks the plagues kept gettin bigger and the animals came from all over. Cats, dogs, kinkajous, gnus, sheep, even holy cows ( I know, I know, not a one was bad enough on its own to change Pharaoh's mind. But figure they were crushing down on the Egyptians and Hebrews and the result was not good at all). Pharaoh, he didn't mind at all. Had his street crews sweep up the mess, barbecue the beasts and held country-wide parties to eat the spoils. Good time was had by all. Till the first rhino fell. Yup, the rhino was the straw. Camel's backs broken, people crushed, houses flattened and the smell was something awful. Don't know if you've ever enjoyed the fragrance of festering, sun-rotting rhino but even if you have, try to imagine a couple hundred thousand of them perking away on the streets of old Thebes. Well, Pharaoh didn't have to imagine and he called for Moses. Told him to gather up all the Hebrews and blow the coop. And take the stink with him.
Incidentally, that's how Moses parted the Red Sea. Fired up his repulsive side and the water just scampered aside to get out of the way.
So that's my convoluted advice to you about going to Vietnam. Don't prejudge. There's balance in everything. There's bad in the good and good in the bad. What seems your darkest hour can be the turning point in your life. Less, of course, you get killed in the process. But even that might have its upside. Not sure what that might be but I have my hopes.
By the by, just finished reading The Grapes of Wrath. Kind of a promised land story the way Steinbeck told it. Got me thinking of promised lands and how they've played out over the years. 'Bout all I can say for sure is sometimes they're there, sometimes they're not and I have my doubts about the promised part.
Yours in good fishing,
Emil
All well and good but those early years in sunday school stuck with him. Brought up smidgeons of bible lessons most every day. Might have a humorous spin. Might be serious. Either way I found his take entertaining. Even got me thinking once in a while. One of 'em came in a letter he sent.
Dear Archie,
Holy Moses, you wrote. I was beginning to think you were dead. Your's was the first envelope I've received in a long time that didn't have a bill in it. Felt like slicing it open right there in the post office but figured it best to wait a while. Savor the idea it might be worth reading for at least a few hours. Anticipation is good. Once back at the cabin I put it on the end table in the lookout. Saved it for a treat along with my after dinner coffee and one of the english toffee cookies I'd bought at the bakery.
Built the table from the scrap pile under the cabin. She's about two and a half foot square with a full sized shelf beneath. Good spot to stack books. Legs are coupled two by fours of varying wood varieties Top and shelf, left over birch floor boards. Almost pretty if you squint just right. The lamp atop's another salvage job. Rescued it from the land fill. Rewired, polished and topped with a new shade. Works like a charm and only cost five bucks more than a new one.
I finally did read your letter. Three or four times even. Good you finally came to grips with the Draft. Can't be free unless your conscience is clean. Well, mostly clean. No matter what there's always a few skeletons rattling around in there. And now you're enjoying your freedom by becoming a trained monkey. That's the way she goes when you're in the Army. Also another thing you'll have to come to grips with. Everything balances out in the long run, sometimes even in the short. At the end of the bad you'll find some good. Unless, of course, you die before that happens. Wouldn't bring that up but with a war going on I figure you're already aware of the possibility.
I was thinking about balance just the other day. That maybe the Old Testament got the Moses story a little topsy-turvy. Those things happen now and then even in a good book. Maybe God figured the Israelites couldn't handle the real truth. Too tough on 'em. The way the Bible tells it you'd think Moses was one great guy. Well, he wasn't and that's the gospel truth. In fact he was butt-ugly repulsive. Not the way he looked. As looks go he was a knockout. Tall, muscular, maybe even swarthy. Not sure about the last as I don't actually know what swarthy means. Might not be good seein' as how the word's got a wart in the middle. No, Moses was repulsive in the same way magnets can repulse. Opposite poles attract, like ones repel. Some call the force an aura. Most of us have a little bit of an aura. Moses, he had one in spades.
Anyhow, when Moses was born he repulsed his parents 'cause of the like auras. They took one look, screamed out "Monkey!", threw him in a basket - yeah, Moses was the original basket case - and dumped him in the river to get him out of sight. Maybe be adopted by river rats and raised as one of their own. On the other hand, the Egyptians were polar opposites from the Hebrews and it was natural the royal ladies'd see our hero come drifting along and pull the baby out of the rushes. Thought him the cat's pajamas and if you've ever read much about the ancient Egyptians you know how they felt about cats, 'specially the ones in pajamas.
Time passed and Moses grew to be a big man in the big pond of Egypt out there on the desert. Had no problem persecuting Hebrews since he found them as butt-ugly repulsive as they found him. Let me tell you it took him by surprise when the angel of God popped up in a vision while Moses was eating his breakfast of Sphinx Toasties cereal, banana and orange juice and told him he was a Hebrew. Boy was Moses conflicted. So conflicted he went and asked his step-father, the Pharaoh, to let the Hebrews go. Moses figured if they were gone he wouldn't feel so bad about himself. Of course the Pharaoh laughed it off with a "Get real Moses you ain't no Hebrew. You're a mummy-to-be just like the rest of us. And just who do you think'll build our pyramids if we turn the Hebrews loose? And just who'll run the delis? I know for sure it won't be me. Heck, without the Hebrews you and me'll end up wandering the desert for all eternity wrapped in strips of bed sheets with no place to rest our weary fleshless heads. How do think that'll look? And what'll it do to all those B grade movies?"
Moses fell head over sandals for the Pharaoh's line of logic. Fell so hard his aura also did a flip-flop. Began to see the Hebrews in a different light and they, in turn, took a shine to him. And the Egyptians saw him as he really was. Yup, the honeymoon was over and Moses soon found himself doin' overtime as bottom man on the block hoisting crew. Came to know the other end of the whip and found it not to his liking. Pissed him off something fierce. Got so mad his aura did another flip but he was so covered in muck it was hard to tell. However, Moses felt the change this time and slowly figured out how to switch it on and off.
Next time when Moses went to see the Pharaoh he fired up his negative side. Pharaoh took one look and said, "Moses, long time no see. Where you been?" Moses did a "Hiya-ho Phar-e-oh" and just asked for the Hebrews to be set free. But that got him nowhere. Said a simple, "You'll be sorry," and skedaddled. That night he bore down on the negative and sucked in a cloud of grasshoppers. 'Course they ate up all the crops and of course the Pharaoh didn't like that one bit. But he had money in the bank and didn't worry a whole lot where his next meal was coming from. Next day Moses went through the same spiel and Pharaoh, of course, did the same. Moses left with a simple, "You'll be sorrier." Next fell a plague of frogs and whatnot. Chariots slidin' in the frog slime caused one big time traffic jam come rush hour. 'Course Pharaoh didn't much care 'cause he lived where he worked.
This went on for a while, Pharaoh sayin' no and Moses sayin' "sorrier" all the time. Here's where the Bible gets it wrong. Over the next few weeks the plagues kept gettin bigger and the animals came from all over. Cats, dogs, kinkajous, gnus, sheep, even holy cows ( I know, I know, not a one was bad enough on its own to change Pharaoh's mind. But figure they were crushing down on the Egyptians and Hebrews and the result was not good at all). Pharaoh, he didn't mind at all. Had his street crews sweep up the mess, barbecue the beasts and held country-wide parties to eat the spoils. Good time was had by all. Till the first rhino fell. Yup, the rhino was the straw. Camel's backs broken, people crushed, houses flattened and the smell was something awful. Don't know if you've ever enjoyed the fragrance of festering, sun-rotting rhino but even if you have, try to imagine a couple hundred thousand of them perking away on the streets of old Thebes. Well, Pharaoh didn't have to imagine and he called for Moses. Told him to gather up all the Hebrews and blow the coop. And take the stink with him.
Incidentally, that's how Moses parted the Red Sea. Fired up his repulsive side and the water just scampered aside to get out of the way.
So that's my convoluted advice to you about going to Vietnam. Don't prejudge. There's balance in everything. There's bad in the good and good in the bad. What seems your darkest hour can be the turning point in your life. Less, of course, you get killed in the process. But even that might have its upside. Not sure what that might be but I have my hopes.
By the by, just finished reading The Grapes of Wrath. Kind of a promised land story the way Steinbeck told it. Got me thinking of promised lands and how they've played out over the years. 'Bout all I can say for sure is sometimes they're there, sometimes they're not and I have my doubts about the promised part.
Yours in good fishing,
Emil
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Letter One - Emil's Epilogue IV
I pick up my mail down at the post office in Hovland. Rarely there's anything so I only grab it on my way to and from somewhere else. Wasn't for taxes, car insurance, the monthly electric bill - got power in the fall of '66 - and the occasional letter there'd be no reason for a box. Have to admit I do like it when people write. Learned years ago the best way to get a letter is to write one. Prime the pump.
The first year Archie wrote me every month or so. We did our last trip in the spring of '66 then he was back to the Cities for a summer job. Didn't say much about the U, just that he was still going. After that the letters slowed. Come the winter of '67 they stopped. His mother wrote me he'd bought a car and she also saw him less and less. Guess I'll stop there and let Archie's letter from the fall of '68 fill in the blanks:
Dear Uncle Emil,
It's been a while hasn't it? Guess you can tell from the return address things have changed in my life. Big time. At the moment I'm sitting on my bunk surrounded by the quiet of a sunday morning barracks. It's an easy day. The men in the Smokie Bear hats are sleeping in. Went to Mass the first two weeks in Basic but it was too much like drill. When the priest said we should yell our responses like we were in formation I figured God must be pretty far away or He could hear us just fine. Made me long for the days of digging pier holes. Never figured work would put me closer to God than church. Live and learn.
So that's why I'm sitting here writing. Outside of the fact that I miss you and the good times we had. You probably know exactly what I mean. Quiet is good. Especially when you're going through training and there's a war going on.
I'll cut my story short for now. Bought a car a little over a year ago. Fell in love eight months ago. Dropped out of school, ran out of money and ended up nose to the wall at the wrong end of a dead end road. No way was my life going anywhere. Felt liked been living a lie. Still in love and knew that relationship was going nowhere until I became an honest man and found an honorable direction to my life. Didn't know where to turn till the Draft popped into my head one particularly bad morning. All of a sudden it didn't seem all that big a deal to walk in and tell the truth.
Didn't know who to see or where to start so I headed for a recruiting office. Must have brightened their day seeing as how the two sergeants were sitting around twiddling their thumbs. Could be there's not a whole lot of young men fired up enough about volunteering for an unpopular war to keep things hopping in an enlistment station. Then there was me. Mr. Sunshine. I fired off the whole spiel about not having registered and that I was their man should they want me. Turned out there was nothing they could do. Said I needed to go find my local Draft Board and deal with them first. Lucky for me they knew just where it was or I'd have no doubt chickened out if I'd had to find it on my own.
I found the old guys upstairs above a Merwin drugstore in a strip mall. Been by the door many times over the years but never consciously saw the name. Yeah, they were old guys. Probably left over WWI vets or maybe a bunch of old farts who had nothing better to do with their time. Looked like I should dust them off before I began.
Started out by saying I wanted to volunteer for the Draft. Let them know my intentions were good. Maybe cut down on the chewing out I was going to get. When I followed up with my real problem, outside of being stupid enough to volunteer for the Draft, they took it well. Couple of "tut-tuts " and "tsk-tsks" and they were done. Signed me up on the spot and told me my greetings from the President would arrive in the mail shortly.
Six weeks later I headed to the Federal Building downtown to be inspected, inducted and shipped off to Fort Campbell. I was sure one unhappy soul. A couple of days later during processing a man with two bars on his shoulder (four if you count both sides) suggested I learn Vietnamese to aid me in my tour of Southeast Asia. Also suggested I might consider signing up for a third year. Said that way I'd spend my time in supply instead of inside a body bag. Probably a good deal but couldn't see any possible glory in handing out underwear.
On the upside, haircuts here are cheap (and thorough) but we have to get one each week. The clothes are free and we get all the guidance a man could want. I've come to fear having someone jump on my Johnson even though I don't know what my Johnson is. I'd ask but figure they'd show me by jumping dead on or maybe in it. Other bad places to have someone jump are on your dick or in your shit. Leads me to think the Johnson lies elsewhere. Don't know if the food is good or bad but my stomach fears there won't be enough.
So here I sit. Can't say I'm happy but can say I created my own problem and am now paying the price. Oh well, guess there's always a price to pay no matter what you do. Maybe it'll turn out for the best.
Archie
P.S. What you said a couple of years ago, about me and the Draft, was pretty much on the money. Got any wisdom for a fool who's on the short track to Vietnam?
Still have the letter and all the rest he sent. I wasn't thrilled he ended up in the Army. Vietnam's a war of stupidity. Not one a sane man would want to take part in. As to Archie's problem with the Draft Board, I was only guessing. Saying words that came out of nowhere. Probably the same place ideas come from. Out there, or in there somewhere on the other side of the invisible wall. You know, like the one you cross when you fall asleep. Guess I'll leave it there for now.
The first year Archie wrote me every month or so. We did our last trip in the spring of '66 then he was back to the Cities for a summer job. Didn't say much about the U, just that he was still going. After that the letters slowed. Come the winter of '67 they stopped. His mother wrote me he'd bought a car and she also saw him less and less. Guess I'll stop there and let Archie's letter from the fall of '68 fill in the blanks:
Dear Uncle Emil,
It's been a while hasn't it? Guess you can tell from the return address things have changed in my life. Big time. At the moment I'm sitting on my bunk surrounded by the quiet of a sunday morning barracks. It's an easy day. The men in the Smokie Bear hats are sleeping in. Went to Mass the first two weeks in Basic but it was too much like drill. When the priest said we should yell our responses like we were in formation I figured God must be pretty far away or He could hear us just fine. Made me long for the days of digging pier holes. Never figured work would put me closer to God than church. Live and learn.
So that's why I'm sitting here writing. Outside of the fact that I miss you and the good times we had. You probably know exactly what I mean. Quiet is good. Especially when you're going through training and there's a war going on.
I'll cut my story short for now. Bought a car a little over a year ago. Fell in love eight months ago. Dropped out of school, ran out of money and ended up nose to the wall at the wrong end of a dead end road. No way was my life going anywhere. Felt liked been living a lie. Still in love and knew that relationship was going nowhere until I became an honest man and found an honorable direction to my life. Didn't know where to turn till the Draft popped into my head one particularly bad morning. All of a sudden it didn't seem all that big a deal to walk in and tell the truth.
Didn't know who to see or where to start so I headed for a recruiting office. Must have brightened their day seeing as how the two sergeants were sitting around twiddling their thumbs. Could be there's not a whole lot of young men fired up enough about volunteering for an unpopular war to keep things hopping in an enlistment station. Then there was me. Mr. Sunshine. I fired off the whole spiel about not having registered and that I was their man should they want me. Turned out there was nothing they could do. Said I needed to go find my local Draft Board and deal with them first. Lucky for me they knew just where it was or I'd have no doubt chickened out if I'd had to find it on my own.
I found the old guys upstairs above a Merwin drugstore in a strip mall. Been by the door many times over the years but never consciously saw the name. Yeah, they were old guys. Probably left over WWI vets or maybe a bunch of old farts who had nothing better to do with their time. Looked like I should dust them off before I began.
Started out by saying I wanted to volunteer for the Draft. Let them know my intentions were good. Maybe cut down on the chewing out I was going to get. When I followed up with my real problem, outside of being stupid enough to volunteer for the Draft, they took it well. Couple of "tut-tuts " and "tsk-tsks" and they were done. Signed me up on the spot and told me my greetings from the President would arrive in the mail shortly.
Six weeks later I headed to the Federal Building downtown to be inspected, inducted and shipped off to Fort Campbell. I was sure one unhappy soul. A couple of days later during processing a man with two bars on his shoulder (four if you count both sides) suggested I learn Vietnamese to aid me in my tour of Southeast Asia. Also suggested I might consider signing up for a third year. Said that way I'd spend my time in supply instead of inside a body bag. Probably a good deal but couldn't see any possible glory in handing out underwear.
On the upside, haircuts here are cheap (and thorough) but we have to get one each week. The clothes are free and we get all the guidance a man could want. I've come to fear having someone jump on my Johnson even though I don't know what my Johnson is. I'd ask but figure they'd show me by jumping dead on or maybe in it. Other bad places to have someone jump are on your dick or in your shit. Leads me to think the Johnson lies elsewhere. Don't know if the food is good or bad but my stomach fears there won't be enough.
So here I sit. Can't say I'm happy but can say I created my own problem and am now paying the price. Oh well, guess there's always a price to pay no matter what you do. Maybe it'll turn out for the best.
Archie
P.S. What you said a couple of years ago, about me and the Draft, was pretty much on the money. Got any wisdom for a fool who's on the short track to Vietnam?
Still have the letter and all the rest he sent. I wasn't thrilled he ended up in the Army. Vietnam's a war of stupidity. Not one a sane man would want to take part in. As to Archie's problem with the Draft Board, I was only guessing. Saying words that came out of nowhere. Probably the same place ideas come from. Out there, or in there somewhere on the other side of the invisible wall. You know, like the one you cross when you fall asleep. Guess I'll leave it there for now.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Walnut Apocalypse
Tales like this pop up outta nowhere. Probably would have been a good idea if it'd stayed in hiding but my grandson Jakob was nearby. Being nine years old he's about the right age and mindset for this style of story so I laid it on him. Yeah, he did me proud by laughing. Probably had the same image in his head. 'Course it wasn't exactly like what follows but the gist was there. Anyhow, it goes like this:
Once in a while Emil'd catch me off guard. Say something so far out in left field I figured he must have slipped through a hole in time to a world most of us have no clue is there. Yeah, there's other people in the world who do the same thing. Could be you know a few. Odds are you weren't in the same canoe or alone in the boonies with the crazy man like I was.
We were up on the border lakes, believe it was Watap and were sittin' around camp on a late and cloudy afternoon. Watap's a long, skinny lake, not much more than river-wide, with some serious, south shore cliffs touring above piles of rubble that made a campsite near impossible. Instead, we were illegally lounging on the Canadian side gettin' up the energy to start dinner. The plan was eggs and sausages along with a bannock. Nothing fancy but when you're outdoors and hungry, most anything goes down well. First things first, we started with the bread. Emil began by pounding up a ball of dough, worked in a generous dollop of a cinnamon-sugar mixture and raisins, spread it inch thick in the larded pan, browned the bottom of the loaf, then tipped 'er face to the fire we'd built and burnt to coals. While the bread baked I grabbed my rod and wandered down to the water. Not so much with the idea I'd catch anything but heck, we were on the Canadian border. Yeah, I had my hopes.
Those hopes were for smallmouth bass. Back then I had a thing for smallies. Still do. Not sure if it's their red eyes or never-ending fight. Turned out it didn't matter since I didn't hook a one. But I wasn't skunked. No sir, my slip-bobbered jig and pork rind turned up a half dozen walleyes, kept half. In twenty minutes our menu changed. Fresh food trumped store-bought and three fifteen inchers would go down fine with the eggs and bread.
But that's not what this memory's about. I recall it being between walleye's two and three that Emil wandered down from the fire ring. Couple of minutes earlier I'd heard him chuckling to himself. Not a good sign. Emil's solitary chuckle most always meant he was working up something to share. Since mine was the only set of ears within ten miles that meant me. For a moment I considered grabbing the Grumman and paddling to mid-lake 'til he calmed down. Instead I stood my ground, continued to fish and took my medicine like the man I hoped to become.
He didn't jump right in. Waded in like the water was cold. Seemed Emil was never in a hurry when he was bustin' a gut to let something out. Watched me fling a few casts. Even let me hook up and land a walleye before he started,
"Last August I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Been havin' a nightmare. Don't know how or why, dreams make me figure that out on my own, but the two of us were arm wrestling in Furlong's House of Ill Brew down in Parkers. Me and a dinosaur that is. Big fella. One of them tyrannosaurus rex's with the little arms. No more than forty inch biceps. Long story short, I beat it (not sure if it was a boy or girl. Didn't figure it was my place or anywhere near wise to peek down there.). Actually tore its arm off. Chartreuse blood shootin' out everywhere. Talk about pissed. Last thing I recall was the big, yellow teeth just before they woulda snapped my head off."
"Woke up in the morning thinkin' there was a message in that dream. Maybe something to do with beer, bars, arms or extinction. Figured the latter more likely and trotted off to the cities 'cause of their big libraries. Did some research on why and how the dinosaurs disappeared. Checked both the science and science fiction sections. Even checked the Children's Room and read a few stories about a monkey who kept getting in trouble. Found nothing more than wild guesses and conjecture. Turned out it was up to me to solve the mystery."
'Put on my thinking cap - mine says 'Olberding's Equipment and Burial Service' on the front - and headed outdoors to walk my way to a solution. Learned year's ago I figured things out best when afoot. Wasn't more than a couple of blocks when the idea hit me. Squirrels. Down on Hennepin Avenue I came on the biggest squirrel I'd ever seen, staring down from a sign atop the entrance of a strip joint by the name of 'The Copper Squirrel.' You don't believe me, have a look for yourself. Struck me the combination of big squirrel on the outside and naked truth inside was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. Figured it the voice of God. And kinda like Jesus hanging out with the lower classes. Christ were to come back you wouldn't find him sailing on Lake Minnetonka. No sir, he'd be down here with the hooligans and hookers. And just maybe a sod buster from up in Parkers Prairie seeking an answer of great historic import."
"Gave it a few turns around the block and came up with an answer. All the books said not everything died when the dinosaurs took a hike. Nope, it seems the scroungers did just fine. Small rodents and whatnot. Got me wondering why. Then I recalled a picture of some fossils from about the same time, near a hundred million years ago. Wasn't much more than some softball-sized, oval-shaped tracks in the rock. The scientists gave those tracks some convoluted latin names that made no sense to me. What did make sense was their size, shape and that they were mixed in with some bone prints."
"Puttin' two and two together, a little interpretation, and a dash of interpolation I figured those ovals to be nuts. Most likely acorns and walnuts. Could be those dinosaurs were allergic to nuts. That took care of the herbivores but what about the carnivores? Aha! They were eatin' the small mammals. 'Course we wouldn't have seen them as bein' small. Figure them as dog-sized squirrels."
"All well and good but my idea still seemed too complex to be right. After all, the simplest solution is usually the right one. Gave some thought to modern day squirrels, mice and chipmunks. Also to Disney cartoons. Also to the trees drawn in the books at the library. Saw the big picture and the solution was obvious."
"Back when the dinosaurs disappeared there were palm trees that grew giant acorns and walnuts. Near the size of coconuts. Now palm trees don't have branches. No place for a rodent to store nuts. So they used the only cavities of size they could find and stuffed their stash up the backsides of the dinosaurs. 'Course that plugged the beasts up something awful. Fatally even. Over a few decades they all died off. The more the big guys ate, the quicker they died. The quicker they died, the more rodents that survived to stuff nuts up the backsides of dinosaurs and so on. Makes sense to me. Could even be that's where our saying 'cram it with walnuts' comes from."
'Bout then I had my third keeper. Time for dinner. "You know Uncle Emil, I kind of have to agree with you. As to your solution of the extinction mystery, there's no doubt in my mind that it's nuts."
Once in a while Emil'd catch me off guard. Say something so far out in left field I figured he must have slipped through a hole in time to a world most of us have no clue is there. Yeah, there's other people in the world who do the same thing. Could be you know a few. Odds are you weren't in the same canoe or alone in the boonies with the crazy man like I was.
We were up on the border lakes, believe it was Watap and were sittin' around camp on a late and cloudy afternoon. Watap's a long, skinny lake, not much more than river-wide, with some serious, south shore cliffs touring above piles of rubble that made a campsite near impossible. Instead, we were illegally lounging on the Canadian side gettin' up the energy to start dinner. The plan was eggs and sausages along with a bannock. Nothing fancy but when you're outdoors and hungry, most anything goes down well. First things first, we started with the bread. Emil began by pounding up a ball of dough, worked in a generous dollop of a cinnamon-sugar mixture and raisins, spread it inch thick in the larded pan, browned the bottom of the loaf, then tipped 'er face to the fire we'd built and burnt to coals. While the bread baked I grabbed my rod and wandered down to the water. Not so much with the idea I'd catch anything but heck, we were on the Canadian border. Yeah, I had my hopes.
Those hopes were for smallmouth bass. Back then I had a thing for smallies. Still do. Not sure if it's their red eyes or never-ending fight. Turned out it didn't matter since I didn't hook a one. But I wasn't skunked. No sir, my slip-bobbered jig and pork rind turned up a half dozen walleyes, kept half. In twenty minutes our menu changed. Fresh food trumped store-bought and three fifteen inchers would go down fine with the eggs and bread.
But that's not what this memory's about. I recall it being between walleye's two and three that Emil wandered down from the fire ring. Couple of minutes earlier I'd heard him chuckling to himself. Not a good sign. Emil's solitary chuckle most always meant he was working up something to share. Since mine was the only set of ears within ten miles that meant me. For a moment I considered grabbing the Grumman and paddling to mid-lake 'til he calmed down. Instead I stood my ground, continued to fish and took my medicine like the man I hoped to become.
He didn't jump right in. Waded in like the water was cold. Seemed Emil was never in a hurry when he was bustin' a gut to let something out. Watched me fling a few casts. Even let me hook up and land a walleye before he started,
"Last August I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Been havin' a nightmare. Don't know how or why, dreams make me figure that out on my own, but the two of us were arm wrestling in Furlong's House of Ill Brew down in Parkers. Me and a dinosaur that is. Big fella. One of them tyrannosaurus rex's with the little arms. No more than forty inch biceps. Long story short, I beat it (not sure if it was a boy or girl. Didn't figure it was my place or anywhere near wise to peek down there.). Actually tore its arm off. Chartreuse blood shootin' out everywhere. Talk about pissed. Last thing I recall was the big, yellow teeth just before they woulda snapped my head off."
"Woke up in the morning thinkin' there was a message in that dream. Maybe something to do with beer, bars, arms or extinction. Figured the latter more likely and trotted off to the cities 'cause of their big libraries. Did some research on why and how the dinosaurs disappeared. Checked both the science and science fiction sections. Even checked the Children's Room and read a few stories about a monkey who kept getting in trouble. Found nothing more than wild guesses and conjecture. Turned out it was up to me to solve the mystery."
'Put on my thinking cap - mine says 'Olberding's Equipment and Burial Service' on the front - and headed outdoors to walk my way to a solution. Learned year's ago I figured things out best when afoot. Wasn't more than a couple of blocks when the idea hit me. Squirrels. Down on Hennepin Avenue I came on the biggest squirrel I'd ever seen, staring down from a sign atop the entrance of a strip joint by the name of 'The Copper Squirrel.' You don't believe me, have a look for yourself. Struck me the combination of big squirrel on the outside and naked truth inside was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. Figured it the voice of God. And kinda like Jesus hanging out with the lower classes. Christ were to come back you wouldn't find him sailing on Lake Minnetonka. No sir, he'd be down here with the hooligans and hookers. And just maybe a sod buster from up in Parkers Prairie seeking an answer of great historic import."
"Gave it a few turns around the block and came up with an answer. All the books said not everything died when the dinosaurs took a hike. Nope, it seems the scroungers did just fine. Small rodents and whatnot. Got me wondering why. Then I recalled a picture of some fossils from about the same time, near a hundred million years ago. Wasn't much more than some softball-sized, oval-shaped tracks in the rock. The scientists gave those tracks some convoluted latin names that made no sense to me. What did make sense was their size, shape and that they were mixed in with some bone prints."
"Puttin' two and two together, a little interpretation, and a dash of interpolation I figured those ovals to be nuts. Most likely acorns and walnuts. Could be those dinosaurs were allergic to nuts. That took care of the herbivores but what about the carnivores? Aha! They were eatin' the small mammals. 'Course we wouldn't have seen them as bein' small. Figure them as dog-sized squirrels."
"All well and good but my idea still seemed too complex to be right. After all, the simplest solution is usually the right one. Gave some thought to modern day squirrels, mice and chipmunks. Also to Disney cartoons. Also to the trees drawn in the books at the library. Saw the big picture and the solution was obvious."
"Back when the dinosaurs disappeared there were palm trees that grew giant acorns and walnuts. Near the size of coconuts. Now palm trees don't have branches. No place for a rodent to store nuts. So they used the only cavities of size they could find and stuffed their stash up the backsides of the dinosaurs. 'Course that plugged the beasts up something awful. Fatally even. Over a few decades they all died off. The more the big guys ate, the quicker they died. The quicker they died, the more rodents that survived to stuff nuts up the backsides of dinosaurs and so on. Makes sense to me. Could even be that's where our saying 'cram it with walnuts' comes from."
'Bout then I had my third keeper. Time for dinner. "You know Uncle Emil, I kind of have to agree with you. As to your solution of the extinction mystery, there's no doubt in my mind that it's nuts."
Friday, August 21, 2015
Life at the Cabin - Emil's Epilogue III
One thing's for sure, life in this world has grown louder with the passing years. Worst was during the war. Odd thing was, once we'd landed ashore, quiet could be even worse. Nothin' like the dead silence of being set up in the black of a tropical night to give a man the heebie-jeebies. Death'd come creeping on cat's paws. Sometimes just the slightest noise and the night would light up. Turn into a wall of explosion. Out there in the Pacific quiet would often mean death and noise usually meant it was too late.
Anyhow, all those explosions made me a little deaf. Not all the way deaf but should there be background noise, I lose words. Not so up at the cabin off the McFarland Road. Here, words don't get lost in the jumble 'cause there is no jumble. Most of the time there aren't a lot of words either. That's fine. What I feel like saying, I write down. Not sure why but I do.
Mostly I work. You see, I've got a house to finish. The intention's to get it done, down to the last stick of furniture before I call it complete. Varnishing the floor turned out to be a good reason to go camping. First I figured to pitch the tent in the yard. Instead, I headed all the way over to Esther Lake about four miles away. The DNR'd started stocking Esther with trout back in the '50s so old boogers like me could catch a few and still think they had it. Not near as much fun as bushwhackin' through a half mile of brush to chuckle over a handful of little brookies but the campsite let me fish in the morning, head back to the cabin and varnish my way through the midday hours. Then, head back to Esther for the evening hatch.
Also afforded a chance for intelligent conversation. Well, conversation anyway. Can't say most of it was worth remembering but it did make me thankful for living on my own. Maybe I shouldn't be critical. Could be one of the good old boys was brain damaged from all the bug juice he slathered on his head. 'Bout every half hour or so he'd pull his ball cap and foam a thick line of spray along his hat crease. Hard not to stare when the juice started seeping toward his eyes. Scary and fascinating at the same time. Made me want to grab a rag to stop the flow before he was blinded. But each time the stuff reached his eyebrows, he'd reach up with both hands and work the repellant in like he was washing his head and hair. Got so I'd hang around before turning in to see if he glowed in the dark.
Four coats plus two days to let the smell go down. Varnish is powerful stuff. Could be that's why it lasts as long as it does. Also smelled a lot like a heavy dose of bug juice. That's why I stayed away the two extra days.
Spend a lot of time in the Lookout. Sleep there, read, write, think about the world but mostly do a lot of looking. Never get tired of the view. Once in a while I get lost in thoughts of Lena. Not like I conjure her up. More like she comes riding in when the light is just so. Or on a smell when I'd be cooking dinner. Usually onions frying in butter. Yeah, when we were together that's how meals would start. Guess our love was grounded on onions and butter.
And I missed Archie. Didn't see him much over the next couple of years. Then nothing. Didn't know where 'til the first letter arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
Anyhow, all those explosions made me a little deaf. Not all the way deaf but should there be background noise, I lose words. Not so up at the cabin off the McFarland Road. Here, words don't get lost in the jumble 'cause there is no jumble. Most of the time there aren't a lot of words either. That's fine. What I feel like saying, I write down. Not sure why but I do.
Mostly I work. You see, I've got a house to finish. The intention's to get it done, down to the last stick of furniture before I call it complete. Varnishing the floor turned out to be a good reason to go camping. First I figured to pitch the tent in the yard. Instead, I headed all the way over to Esther Lake about four miles away. The DNR'd started stocking Esther with trout back in the '50s so old boogers like me could catch a few and still think they had it. Not near as much fun as bushwhackin' through a half mile of brush to chuckle over a handful of little brookies but the campsite let me fish in the morning, head back to the cabin and varnish my way through the midday hours. Then, head back to Esther for the evening hatch.
Also afforded a chance for intelligent conversation. Well, conversation anyway. Can't say most of it was worth remembering but it did make me thankful for living on my own. Maybe I shouldn't be critical. Could be one of the good old boys was brain damaged from all the bug juice he slathered on his head. 'Bout every half hour or so he'd pull his ball cap and foam a thick line of spray along his hat crease. Hard not to stare when the juice started seeping toward his eyes. Scary and fascinating at the same time. Made me want to grab a rag to stop the flow before he was blinded. But each time the stuff reached his eyebrows, he'd reach up with both hands and work the repellant in like he was washing his head and hair. Got so I'd hang around before turning in to see if he glowed in the dark.
Four coats plus two days to let the smell go down. Varnish is powerful stuff. Could be that's why it lasts as long as it does. Also smelled a lot like a heavy dose of bug juice. That's why I stayed away the two extra days.
Spend a lot of time in the Lookout. Sleep there, read, write, think about the world but mostly do a lot of looking. Never get tired of the view. Once in a while I get lost in thoughts of Lena. Not like I conjure her up. More like she comes riding in when the light is just so. Or on a smell when I'd be cooking dinner. Usually onions frying in butter. Yeah, when we were together that's how meals would start. Guess our love was grounded on onions and butter.
And I missed Archie. Didn't see him much over the next couple of years. Then nothing. Didn't know where 'til the first letter arrived from Fort Campbell, Kentucky.
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