Over the years me and Uncle Emil have parked our carcasses and written a small library of them. Started when the two of us agreed most of those newsy ones about wonderful children and open heart surgery sucked to high heaven. Then my wife Lois piped in with a "Me too" and we were off. Odd thing was Lois wrote a few our counter culture ones herself. Yup, all of ours mentioned family but only in passing and rarely as the focus.
The best ones were simply hand written on the cards we sent out. Written and never seen again. Then a few months, or years, later someone on the list would pop up with a "What you said in your card this year was really strange, funny for sure, but strange. What did it mean?"
Me, I wouldn't have a clue what they were talking about. The brain moves the hand, the hand the pen and the words flow onto the card. No two the same. What I'd written was gone from my mind within seconds of sealing the envelope. So they'd have to clue me in. And I'd laugh. I love my sense of humor though I suspect it isn't mine. Figure me as a conduit for my Uncle Emil. He's the one with a sick mind. I'm just a bozo who can hold a pen and find the keys.
We've kept them all except maybe the Reed's Mill one. That was seriously gruesome in a constructive kinda way. If I find it I'll definitely throw it in. As for the strangest of the strange, my buddy Bruno Scarzinni has all the cards I've sent him over the last score of years. My Uncle Emil might seem strange but compared to Bruno he's Mother Cabrini.
So here goes, starting with this year's:
Christmas 2012
So, the other morning I wandered out to the compost bin (ain't we organic?) with the usual bucket of garbage and found the following note inside:
We're tyred of having to eat the labels off the banana peelz even
if they thay say thay r Brain Food. Take them off or we'll choo a
hole in yur roof and moov in.
The Skwirrels
P.S. We r also sik and tyrd of taking the lid off this feedr. Leev
it off or else! We meen bizness!!
Sounded like war to me. Damn ingrates! They steal corn and seeds from our bird feeder and raid the apple tree from budding time on. There's no way we owed those tree rats a thing. In a fury I wrote the following note and taped it to the bin:
Scumbags,
Take a look in the mirror. Yes, the food you've been stealing from us
does make your asses look big! It's a wonder you can still climb trees!!
We figure you owe us!!! Also keep in mind you taste like chicken!!!!
The Owners
P.S. Any wrong moves on your part, we'll live trap you and ship your
useless carcasses off to the north woods where the foxes and coyotes
will gobble you up like like Milk Duds! By the way, learn to spell!!
This morning, in the bin:
Skritch, skritch, skritch. Wat's that? Cud that sownd u heer up on the roof
be the skufling of Santa's ranedear? Think agan idiot! Enjoy the beech
in Alabama as much as we wil enjoy r nu hom. Live traps, wat a joke.
How stooped do u think we r?
Yur Wurst Nitemare
Long story short, took but a second to realize any time I'd lose trimming off the labels would be neatly offset by never again having to remove the compost bin covers. It ain't an uplifting thought realizing that squirrels are now smarter than you are. I wonder if Donald Duck ever came to that point with Chip and Dale? If not, that puts me somewhere between birds and rodents on the scale of evolution. Could be worse.
I'm almost apologetic about this one. Too cute, way too cute. Only threats, no real blood. But sometimes you write 'em for general audiences with the idea they can be stuffed in anyone's envelope and not given a second thought. I'll dig around in the ghosts of Christmas' past to see if there's something I am proud of for the next entry.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Sometimes it Gets a Little Weird in the Woods - White Guys part II
It's all about freedom Markie. Emil likes to call me Markie like he did back when I was six. Makes life worth livin'. Now I ain't talkin' about doin' anything you want 'cause some of that steps on toes. Gets in the way of other people's lives. Like some of that NRA business. Not that I've got anything carryin' a gun. Shot a few deer and ducks in my time. But those boys go overboard.
But that's not the freedom I'm talkin' about. Sometimes the mood hits me. Might be a throw back to the days when I was up and walkin' but still in diapers. Nothin' like the feelin' of runnin' buck naked through the house with my mom or dad chasin' after me. Yellin' like they think I'm gonna soak the wool Mohawk carpet and literally raise a stink. Me giggling', knowin' all the while how much power I had danglin' right in front of me. I knew I wasn't gonna pee on anything. But they didn't. Power and freedom all rolled into one.
Now that same mood still hit me when I was in my fifties. Up in the woods. No one around. Indian Summer. No bugs. Lord knows you don't want any 'skeeters or ticks around when you're gettin' weird. Me, I like to do it when I'm gatherin' fire wood. Buck naked. Well, not completely. Ever since I took ten stitches in my ankle I never fired up the saw without leather boots on. Also wore gloves and headphones. But that's about it.
Lena never caught on. But she did find it odd that I could spend eight hours droppin', sawin' and splittin' oak then come home in clothes near as clean as they were in the mornin'. Now that I think about it, maybe she did and was smart enough to not complain about havin' fewer clothes in the wash.
But that's not the freedom I'm talkin' about. Sometimes the mood hits me. Might be a throw back to the days when I was up and walkin' but still in diapers. Nothin' like the feelin' of runnin' buck naked through the house with my mom or dad chasin' after me. Yellin' like they think I'm gonna soak the wool Mohawk carpet and literally raise a stink. Me giggling', knowin' all the while how much power I had danglin' right in front of me. I knew I wasn't gonna pee on anything. But they didn't. Power and freedom all rolled into one.
Now that same mood still hit me when I was in my fifties. Up in the woods. No one around. Indian Summer. No bugs. Lord knows you don't want any 'skeeters or ticks around when you're gettin' weird. Me, I like to do it when I'm gatherin' fire wood. Buck naked. Well, not completely. Ever since I took ten stitches in my ankle I never fired up the saw without leather boots on. Also wore gloves and headphones. But that's about it.
Lena never caught on. But she did find it odd that I could spend eight hours droppin', sawin' and splittin' oak then come home in clothes near as clean as they were in the mornin'. Now that I think about it, maybe she did and was smart enough to not complain about havin' fewer clothes in the wash.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Old White Men Talkin'
Not sure where this is gonna go. That's what makes it fun. It's election day 2012. And am fillin' out a living will form so that when I can't wipe my own butt anymore there'll be someone there to pull the trigger for me.
I've been sayin' for many months that I'd write my own funeral. But till now I've put it off. Hard to tell when the right time to grind it out will come. Put it off long enough and I'll be a droolin' idiot. Pullin' up the Emil blog seemed like the thing to do. Askin' the dead seems like the best way to get a sane perspective on life. After all, Emil's been there, done that and had time to let it compost a bit.
It ain't easy gettin' Emil to start talkin' again. Since he died he's slowed down a might. S'pose time doesn't mean as much when you're beyond it. So the planning and preparing for the trip is on my shoulders. Somehow I've got to get him on good water, not another soul in sight - oops, I guess that's an accidental joke seeing as how I'm gonna be floatin' my boat with a dead man - and a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket. Also better not forget to put fluid in the Zippo. Emil says a waft of lighter fluid adds a little something special to that first drag.
"What say we fish Wedge Lake? It was good water back in the '60s and seems to be even better since they put size limits on the pike. Since it's my call I'm thinkin' we try the year 2000. Finish out that last night when you wimped out. Said you're ribs made you a danger in the canoe. Hell, the sun was out. Two and a half hours of it left before twilight on the best water either one of us has been on. Sound good to you?"
Who was I to say no? It was a fine night. Only problem was not bein' able to fit Al in the canoe with us. Sure is kind of odd. We were gonna leave Al back in camp but just couldn't do it. So we conjured up a bigger canoe, a twenty foot Minnesota III. Seein' as how this was to be Emil's story and both me and Al would mostly keep our mouths shut and throw spinners, why keep Al off his favorite lake?
So the three of us paddled off, up lake to the northeast, past the birch where Al's red and white Mepps still hung after waiting patiently for thirteen years and started fishing the little point where I caught my first Canadian walleye. Then Emil started talking about bein' dead.
"Gotta tell you it's some kinda weird shit over on the other side. If it wasn't, nobody'd wanta be born. Don't be lookin' at me that way. Ain't nothin' new in infinity. Everything's always been there. Always will be. Churns around, gets recycled. I'm here now. There now. Everywhere now. All at the same time. That's what infinity's about you see. Everything's infinite. Except it don't look that way when you're lookin' out at the world through a pair of eyes.
It's a lot like dreamin'. Nothin' on the other side seems to make sense unless you think about it a lot. Even then it's guesswork.
That don't make much sense does it? Let's try 'er this way: Remember what you said about Vietnam? That the only ground us Americans controlled was the mud under our boots? Well, bein' dead's a lot like that. You can't see or know nothin' except what's right where you are. And let me tell you, there are some serious problems with that.
You see, it's also doggy heaven on the other side. And raccoon heaven, wolf, coyote, you name it, if it craps on the ground it's over there. And if you can only see where your foot is at the moment, not where its comin' down... let's just say you step in it a lot. Don't always smell like roses when you're dead.
And that's why there's such a long line to be born again. Life in the light might have its shortcomin's but at least you've got a pretty good idea what's on the road ahead. I'd let on more than that but I ain't got it figured out yet.
So here's the kicker. Most every religion has its Holy, its Heaven, Nirvana, somewhere out there on the other side that's better than here. But it ain't. No sir. You want the holy? Well, she's right there on the upside of the sod. Right now. Ain't nothin' any holier than floating on Wedge Lake, black water below, spruce and birch risin' above. Or splittin' wood. Sittin' on a stump with a cup of steam-risin' coffee in hand, on an early spring mornin', a grouse off a hundred yards drummin' away 'cause he's lonely. You want holy? Clean the house, eat an apple right off the tree."
The deep chill of the rain cleaned air went right into my bones. Damn the ribs hurt. But seein' as how Emil was in the canoe we fished 'er out. And darned fine fishin' it was. Remember that Emil was a died in the wool pike fisherman. But we couldn't get away from the walleyes. One bay to the next. Walleyes all the way. Past the rainbow reeds and into the deep cut bay where there's never any fish. But it's just so darned pretty we worked it anyhow.
She's a half bowl. Steep sided from the black water level up. The sunlight bouncing off the glassed out lake lit the spruce trees from the bottom up. An explosion of jade. We reeled in and simply sat there. Spellbound. Nothing to say. The only sound, Emil's zippo clacking open. I could swear the soft crackle of burning tobacco actually echoed off the wall of trees. Then Emil's popping inhales. Felt like we could sit there forever.
I have days like this now and then. Used to have them a lot. Even when I was a kid I took the ideas of fair play and we're all in this together as the way this country was supposed to operate. Why not? That's what we were taught in school.
Two years in the Army, especially my time as a grunt in Vietnam gave those feelings an explosive boost. Then decades on the job did nothing so much as expose what we'd been taught as no more than lip service. Thats just the way she was and just the way I felt about it. For about fifteen years I constantly floated in hot water. Couldn't keep from shooting my mouth off.
Then it changed. Not so much that I felt any different but my head was sore from beating it on the wall. With no obvious effect.
" What happened? I used to get a kick out of your spunk and then watching you go down in flames. Didn't have much effect I know. But you sure as hell got the little big boys to sweat on a regular basis. Even Fred Smith, the big man, that one time. Yeah, you were chicken but not gutless.
So what does happen to the ordinary guys who see the truth but don't want it to bring them down? Guess they go fishing and take a leak in the woods now and then.
By the by, I ever tell you how I used to spot fish before the days of electronics? Easy as pie so long as your glasses are tied on and you don't mind a wet head. And don't ever try it when the boat is movin' , 'specially near a reef. Not only did I end up seein' double but learned it ain't only sharks that are drawn by the smell of blood. 'Course the leeches came in handy for walleye fishin'. The good with the bad I guess."
I've been sayin' for many months that I'd write my own funeral. But till now I've put it off. Hard to tell when the right time to grind it out will come. Put it off long enough and I'll be a droolin' idiot. Pullin' up the Emil blog seemed like the thing to do. Askin' the dead seems like the best way to get a sane perspective on life. After all, Emil's been there, done that and had time to let it compost a bit.
It ain't easy gettin' Emil to start talkin' again. Since he died he's slowed down a might. S'pose time doesn't mean as much when you're beyond it. So the planning and preparing for the trip is on my shoulders. Somehow I've got to get him on good water, not another soul in sight - oops, I guess that's an accidental joke seeing as how I'm gonna be floatin' my boat with a dead man - and a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket. Also better not forget to put fluid in the Zippo. Emil says a waft of lighter fluid adds a little something special to that first drag.
"What say we fish Wedge Lake? It was good water back in the '60s and seems to be even better since they put size limits on the pike. Since it's my call I'm thinkin' we try the year 2000. Finish out that last night when you wimped out. Said you're ribs made you a danger in the canoe. Hell, the sun was out. Two and a half hours of it left before twilight on the best water either one of us has been on. Sound good to you?"
Who was I to say no? It was a fine night. Only problem was not bein' able to fit Al in the canoe with us. Sure is kind of odd. We were gonna leave Al back in camp but just couldn't do it. So we conjured up a bigger canoe, a twenty foot Minnesota III. Seein' as how this was to be Emil's story and both me and Al would mostly keep our mouths shut and throw spinners, why keep Al off his favorite lake?
So the three of us paddled off, up lake to the northeast, past the birch where Al's red and white Mepps still hung after waiting patiently for thirteen years and started fishing the little point where I caught my first Canadian walleye. Then Emil started talking about bein' dead.
"Gotta tell you it's some kinda weird shit over on the other side. If it wasn't, nobody'd wanta be born. Don't be lookin' at me that way. Ain't nothin' new in infinity. Everything's always been there. Always will be. Churns around, gets recycled. I'm here now. There now. Everywhere now. All at the same time. That's what infinity's about you see. Everything's infinite. Except it don't look that way when you're lookin' out at the world through a pair of eyes.
It's a lot like dreamin'. Nothin' on the other side seems to make sense unless you think about it a lot. Even then it's guesswork.
That don't make much sense does it? Let's try 'er this way: Remember what you said about Vietnam? That the only ground us Americans controlled was the mud under our boots? Well, bein' dead's a lot like that. You can't see or know nothin' except what's right where you are. And let me tell you, there are some serious problems with that.
You see, it's also doggy heaven on the other side. And raccoon heaven, wolf, coyote, you name it, if it craps on the ground it's over there. And if you can only see where your foot is at the moment, not where its comin' down... let's just say you step in it a lot. Don't always smell like roses when you're dead.
And that's why there's such a long line to be born again. Life in the light might have its shortcomin's but at least you've got a pretty good idea what's on the road ahead. I'd let on more than that but I ain't got it figured out yet.
So here's the kicker. Most every religion has its Holy, its Heaven, Nirvana, somewhere out there on the other side that's better than here. But it ain't. No sir. You want the holy? Well, she's right there on the upside of the sod. Right now. Ain't nothin' any holier than floating on Wedge Lake, black water below, spruce and birch risin' above. Or splittin' wood. Sittin' on a stump with a cup of steam-risin' coffee in hand, on an early spring mornin', a grouse off a hundred yards drummin' away 'cause he's lonely. You want holy? Clean the house, eat an apple right off the tree."
The deep chill of the rain cleaned air went right into my bones. Damn the ribs hurt. But seein' as how Emil was in the canoe we fished 'er out. And darned fine fishin' it was. Remember that Emil was a died in the wool pike fisherman. But we couldn't get away from the walleyes. One bay to the next. Walleyes all the way. Past the rainbow reeds and into the deep cut bay where there's never any fish. But it's just so darned pretty we worked it anyhow.
She's a half bowl. Steep sided from the black water level up. The sunlight bouncing off the glassed out lake lit the spruce trees from the bottom up. An explosion of jade. We reeled in and simply sat there. Spellbound. Nothing to say. The only sound, Emil's zippo clacking open. I could swear the soft crackle of burning tobacco actually echoed off the wall of trees. Then Emil's popping inhales. Felt like we could sit there forever.
I have days like this now and then. Used to have them a lot. Even when I was a kid I took the ideas of fair play and we're all in this together as the way this country was supposed to operate. Why not? That's what we were taught in school.
Two years in the Army, especially my time as a grunt in Vietnam gave those feelings an explosive boost. Then decades on the job did nothing so much as expose what we'd been taught as no more than lip service. Thats just the way she was and just the way I felt about it. For about fifteen years I constantly floated in hot water. Couldn't keep from shooting my mouth off.
Then it changed. Not so much that I felt any different but my head was sore from beating it on the wall. With no obvious effect.
" What happened? I used to get a kick out of your spunk and then watching you go down in flames. Didn't have much effect I know. But you sure as hell got the little big boys to sweat on a regular basis. Even Fred Smith, the big man, that one time. Yeah, you were chicken but not gutless.
So what does happen to the ordinary guys who see the truth but don't want it to bring them down? Guess they go fishing and take a leak in the woods now and then.
By the by, I ever tell you how I used to spot fish before the days of electronics? Easy as pie so long as your glasses are tied on and you don't mind a wet head. And don't ever try it when the boat is movin' , 'specially near a reef. Not only did I end up seein' double but learned it ain't only sharks that are drawn by the smell of blood. 'Course the leeches came in handy for walleye fishin'. The good with the bad I guess."
Friday, August 26, 2011
Truth Through a Glass Eye
Seems like it wasn't all that long ago I used to call Archie, Mister Know-it-all. But it may have been close to thirty years. I didn't mean that in a sarcastic way either. Unless you consider comparing him to Bullwinkle J. Moose as sarcastic. Don't know if you're old enough to remember Bullwinkle. If not, consider that you've missed something. Newer's not always better.
Back in the dark ages of the '50s, when me and Lena went to the Cities we most always stayed at Marie's house. She was Archie's mom and my sister. If a Saturday morning was in the cards, me and the kid'd watch the cartoons together. Black and white, small screen, not digital and free for the asking. We both had a funny bone for the old Warner Brothers cartoons, the 'weewy skwewy' ones filled with violence sexual overtones, and bad attitudes. Back in those days we didn't even have to feel guilty about such nonsense. Sometimes we'd really luck out and catch an old Laurel and Hardy short. Don't know which of us laughed harder.
By the time Rocky and His Friends rolled around, we didn't see each other much anymore. But that didn't stop me from watching on my own. No siree. What the hell, the Moose and Squirrel were from Minnesota, Frostbite Falls no less. We all knew where that was, only we called it International Falls. Seemed like it should've been a law in the Gopher State that a body had to watch a couple of naked north woods animals, not including the Squirrel's aviator goggles and helmet of course, take on Russian spies and ex-Nazis. Part of the show was a little segment called Mister Know-it-all, introduced by Rocky. Of course Mister Know-it-all was anything but. Can't say I ever split a gut. But it most often put a smile on my face and that's not a bad thing.
I made the connection years later when the two of us began to see each other again. Like Bullwinkle, Archie usually had his head up his keister. And at the same time, would spout whatever passed through his mind and call it gospel. Didn't help much when he pulled it out either, as he wasn't used to the light of day and the earth tones of his usual residence gave his viewpoint an off color bent. That probably explains the stories he made up about me. So I'm here to set the record straight.
When Archie won the liar's contest, it wouldn't've gone farther than a 'what if?' hadn't it been for my glass eye. Wouldn't have made it to 'what if?' if the glass eye wasn't true. That's about the end of the truth as far as I'm concerned. Except for the losin' it part. He made a big deal about it like that was the only one I lost. If I had a nickel for every one that rolled down a heat register, fell in a toilet or broke on the sidewalk when I was demonstrating how to properly bang your head on a brick wall, guess I'd have at least a buck five. One of 'em I lost to Eldon Snyder's kid Ronnie, used it as a shooter in a pickup game of marbles after a Grain Belt too many at Van Dyk's Outskirts Inn. Little prick wouldn't give it back. Paid a pretty penny for it too. Was my church eye. Had a miniature "Last Supper" in place of the pupil. She was foot painted by a guy in Mexico who had no arms. Didn't cost but three dollars down in Tijuana but the customs clown said it was illegal to bring hand-painted glass into the U.S. of A. from Mexico. Of course I explained about no hands being involved. Might as well have told that to the twenty dollar bill I slipped him to grease his palm. Scumbag.
How many did I own over the years? No idea. Some men had a closet full of ties, some just kept their ghosts there. Me, I had a drawer full of eyes and stored them in egg cartons. Started with a matching blue-green one. When our income grew, I branched out, blossomed. For fishin' I leaned toward red and white. Bobber, dardevle, bass-o-reno, dependin' what I was out for. For fly fishin', I loved my Royal Wulff. Not many knew Orvis once had this secret glass eye division. Just had to know the password (idiot's delight) on the catalogue order form. Had Disney do me up a Blossom the Skunk, the one from Bambi, for those fishin' trips I didn't want to talk about. Got so my friends could tell if I was comin' or goin' and how it'd gone, by makin' eye contact. Over time, all those eyes got to be a problem. Wasn't much to talk about when the boys at Van Dyk's just had to give me a look-see to get the low-down. Talk about the eye being the window of the soul. Needed me a Valley of the Blind so's I could be king.
As I got older, my eyes were toned down to color coordination and puns. Wisdom of age. No way was I a snappy dresser but pluggin' in any eye that clashed with my outfit, and that included overalls, just didn't set right with me. Then there was my 'i' eye, pi eye, sky eye , a blue one with a teeny cloud pupil and the ever popular 'I see you' mirrored one.
When I felt the need to laugh alone - with my sense of humor I did that a lot - I'd take my plaid suit along when Lena and I headed to the cities. Yeah that suit was a right cool one. A size too small, pants three inches too short. Pop in my hayseed eye, yup, the pupil was a real imbedded hay seed, then take the bus downtown to stroll around and gawk at the tall buildings. Had more fun than you could shake a stick at asking dumb questions of total strangers just to see the look on their faces trying to figure me out.
Finally, it was the dardevle eye I lost in Elbow Lake, not Wedge as Archie remembered it. He must have had a senior moment wandering around Pequot Lakes to forget something that was common family knowledge.
There's a lot more I want to say but can't until I unlock the handcuffs Archie put on me so's he could win the contest. Never worked in a fertilizer factory. Didn't lose the eye to a lag screw. Didn't die till 2000. Was born in 1923. In WWII, The Big One, I was in the Navy. In '43, was off the coast of Chile on a troop transport. Don't know if it was the hand of God or simple crap-shoot fate but I was on deck watch the night we were torpedoed by a Jap submarine. The tub went down in less than a minute. No one survived but those of us topside. Lost the eye to a little piece of wire shrapnel. A small price to pay for not dying.
One problem. There was this war on and I didn't want out of it till we won. But I knew for sure being a one-eye, that was all she wrote for me. Unless. You see, when they transferred a sailor stateside to recover, his personnel and medical files went with him. By with him, I mean in-hand. My personnel files were at the bottom of the Pacific. The medical records were lost to a zippo fire in a waste basket. A pity. So in San Diego I went in search of a clerk in need of the forty bucks I still had with me. A quick type job, a fine blue-green glass eye, a line of BS and the next thing you know I was back aboard ship. Most'd say that was a dumb thing to do, million dollar wound and all. Even being one-eyed, I could see that was foolishness but some things in life are worth doing simply because they are.
Back in the dark ages of the '50s, when me and Lena went to the Cities we most always stayed at Marie's house. She was Archie's mom and my sister. If a Saturday morning was in the cards, me and the kid'd watch the cartoons together. Black and white, small screen, not digital and free for the asking. We both had a funny bone for the old Warner Brothers cartoons, the 'weewy skwewy' ones filled with violence sexual overtones, and bad attitudes. Back in those days we didn't even have to feel guilty about such nonsense. Sometimes we'd really luck out and catch an old Laurel and Hardy short. Don't know which of us laughed harder.
By the time Rocky and His Friends rolled around, we didn't see each other much anymore. But that didn't stop me from watching on my own. No siree. What the hell, the Moose and Squirrel were from Minnesota, Frostbite Falls no less. We all knew where that was, only we called it International Falls. Seemed like it should've been a law in the Gopher State that a body had to watch a couple of naked north woods animals, not including the Squirrel's aviator goggles and helmet of course, take on Russian spies and ex-Nazis. Part of the show was a little segment called Mister Know-it-all, introduced by Rocky. Of course Mister Know-it-all was anything but. Can't say I ever split a gut. But it most often put a smile on my face and that's not a bad thing.
I made the connection years later when the two of us began to see each other again. Like Bullwinkle, Archie usually had his head up his keister. And at the same time, would spout whatever passed through his mind and call it gospel. Didn't help much when he pulled it out either, as he wasn't used to the light of day and the earth tones of his usual residence gave his viewpoint an off color bent. That probably explains the stories he made up about me. So I'm here to set the record straight.
When Archie won the liar's contest, it wouldn't've gone farther than a 'what if?' hadn't it been for my glass eye. Wouldn't have made it to 'what if?' if the glass eye wasn't true. That's about the end of the truth as far as I'm concerned. Except for the losin' it part. He made a big deal about it like that was the only one I lost. If I had a nickel for every one that rolled down a heat register, fell in a toilet or broke on the sidewalk when I was demonstrating how to properly bang your head on a brick wall, guess I'd have at least a buck five. One of 'em I lost to Eldon Snyder's kid Ronnie, used it as a shooter in a pickup game of marbles after a Grain Belt too many at Van Dyk's Outskirts Inn. Little prick wouldn't give it back. Paid a pretty penny for it too. Was my church eye. Had a miniature "Last Supper" in place of the pupil. She was foot painted by a guy in Mexico who had no arms. Didn't cost but three dollars down in Tijuana but the customs clown said it was illegal to bring hand-painted glass into the U.S. of A. from Mexico. Of course I explained about no hands being involved. Might as well have told that to the twenty dollar bill I slipped him to grease his palm. Scumbag.
How many did I own over the years? No idea. Some men had a closet full of ties, some just kept their ghosts there. Me, I had a drawer full of eyes and stored them in egg cartons. Started with a matching blue-green one. When our income grew, I branched out, blossomed. For fishin' I leaned toward red and white. Bobber, dardevle, bass-o-reno, dependin' what I was out for. For fly fishin', I loved my Royal Wulff. Not many knew Orvis once had this secret glass eye division. Just had to know the password (idiot's delight) on the catalogue order form. Had Disney do me up a Blossom the Skunk, the one from Bambi, for those fishin' trips I didn't want to talk about. Got so my friends could tell if I was comin' or goin' and how it'd gone, by makin' eye contact. Over time, all those eyes got to be a problem. Wasn't much to talk about when the boys at Van Dyk's just had to give me a look-see to get the low-down. Talk about the eye being the window of the soul. Needed me a Valley of the Blind so's I could be king.
As I got older, my eyes were toned down to color coordination and puns. Wisdom of age. No way was I a snappy dresser but pluggin' in any eye that clashed with my outfit, and that included overalls, just didn't set right with me. Then there was my 'i' eye, pi eye, sky eye , a blue one with a teeny cloud pupil and the ever popular 'I see you' mirrored one.
When I felt the need to laugh alone - with my sense of humor I did that a lot - I'd take my plaid suit along when Lena and I headed to the cities. Yeah that suit was a right cool one. A size too small, pants three inches too short. Pop in my hayseed eye, yup, the pupil was a real imbedded hay seed, then take the bus downtown to stroll around and gawk at the tall buildings. Had more fun than you could shake a stick at asking dumb questions of total strangers just to see the look on their faces trying to figure me out.
Finally, it was the dardevle eye I lost in Elbow Lake, not Wedge as Archie remembered it. He must have had a senior moment wandering around Pequot Lakes to forget something that was common family knowledge.
There's a lot more I want to say but can't until I unlock the handcuffs Archie put on me so's he could win the contest. Never worked in a fertilizer factory. Didn't lose the eye to a lag screw. Didn't die till 2000. Was born in 1923. In WWII, The Big One, I was in the Navy. In '43, was off the coast of Chile on a troop transport. Don't know if it was the hand of God or simple crap-shoot fate but I was on deck watch the night we were torpedoed by a Jap submarine. The tub went down in less than a minute. No one survived but those of us topside. Lost the eye to a little piece of wire shrapnel. A small price to pay for not dying.
One problem. There was this war on and I didn't want out of it till we won. But I knew for sure being a one-eye, that was all she wrote for me. Unless. You see, when they transferred a sailor stateside to recover, his personnel and medical files went with him. By with him, I mean in-hand. My personnel files were at the bottom of the Pacific. The medical records were lost to a zippo fire in a waste basket. A pity. So in San Diego I went in search of a clerk in need of the forty bucks I still had with me. A quick type job, a fine blue-green glass eye, a line of BS and the next thing you know I was back aboard ship. Most'd say that was a dumb thing to do, million dollar wound and all. Even being one-eyed, I could see that was foolishness but some things in life are worth doing simply because they are.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Mount Rushmore
Me and Lena have seen the Big Giant Stone Heads a couple of times over the years. First time was on dirt roads. That tan colored stuff got into everything. Had to rebuild the carburetor when we got home. Second time was with the grandkids. Sure had changed a lot. Half the people we ran into didn't speak English. And let me tell you there was a crowd.
You seen the picture of the place? Yup, that's about what it looks like. Might be better if you just stumbled on it, "Well I'll be damned. Will ya look at that?"
But all that's just an excuse for lettin' me fill you in on one of the best kept secrets in the country. It all goes back to 1923 when the idea for carving some kind of massive, great American monolith in the Black Hills was spawned. In the search for a man to do the job, a brief look turned up Gutzon Borglum. Couldn't have been too hard. He was about the only one listed in the Yellow Pages under Carvings, Big-Assed. And Borglum was looking for work at the time. He'd had a tiff down in Georgia about how to do Stone Mountain and had stomped out. Seems the Rebs didn't like the idea of immortalizing Scarlett O'Hara because she hadn't been written about yet.
So he heads on up to South Dakota. Has a palaver with a couple of guys named Doane Robinson and Senator Peter Norbeck about what to carve and where to carve it. They be shootin' for some tall rickety rocks called the Needles. Borglum goes and takes a look-see. Don't see much that he likes. The statues would have to be way too skinny and he ain't into skinny. But now he's got the bug. Says he'll do it if he can chop him out some Presidents. Throws out the names of Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln. The Dakota boys give their okay. Borglum now knows what he's lookin' for. Just needs to get his hands into some government pockets.
In 1924 he finds that through the help of Alice Roosevelt Longworth, Teddy's daughter. She had a lot of pull up there on Capital Hill, Alice did. Some called her The Other Washington Monument. You can look that up if you don't believe me. And it turns out she's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly if that gift horse is made of gold. Old Borglum, he ain't been sittin' on his thumbs all winter. Been workin' his kiester off lookin' for what we now call a win-win. He not only wants to become 'nobody ain't never gonna forget me' famous. But has a hankerin' to live out the American Dream.
And that's where Mount Rushmore comes in. Tell you the truth, this is where it gets all chicken and egg for me. Don't really know what came first, whether he found out the mount was just right for carving. Or that there was this big ol' vein of gold running through it. So big and so obvious, no one could see it but him. Oh yeah, he was hot to start a drillin' and a blastin'. But was lacking the say-so to start.
Turned out he knew people who knew people who knew Mrs. Longworth. Gets himself an introduction. Talks patriotism, art, monuments. Doesn't get but a yawn. Then talks gold. An eyebrow raises. He pulls out the assay report. She finally agrees to twenty percent and.... "Gotta get Daddy up there or no deal Mr. Borglum!" Borglum agrees but insists Teddy gets put in the back. Hush-hush from there on.
1925. The deal passes through Congress. Over the next sixteen years 24.7 million in American green backs cracks off and slips out of the site under the cover of darkness. Kicker is that millions more sits about where Teddy's collar bone woulda sat had not Borglum passed away in March of '41.
Today the Park Service knows all about the gold but no way they can desecrate an American icon. And they ain't talkin'.
You seen the picture of the place? Yup, that's about what it looks like. Might be better if you just stumbled on it, "Well I'll be damned. Will ya look at that?"
But all that's just an excuse for lettin' me fill you in on one of the best kept secrets in the country. It all goes back to 1923 when the idea for carving some kind of massive, great American monolith in the Black Hills was spawned. In the search for a man to do the job, a brief look turned up Gutzon Borglum. Couldn't have been too hard. He was about the only one listed in the Yellow Pages under Carvings, Big-Assed. And Borglum was looking for work at the time. He'd had a tiff down in Georgia about how to do Stone Mountain and had stomped out. Seems the Rebs didn't like the idea of immortalizing Scarlett O'Hara because she hadn't been written about yet.
So he heads on up to South Dakota. Has a palaver with a couple of guys named Doane Robinson and Senator Peter Norbeck about what to carve and where to carve it. They be shootin' for some tall rickety rocks called the Needles. Borglum goes and takes a look-see. Don't see much that he likes. The statues would have to be way too skinny and he ain't into skinny. But now he's got the bug. Says he'll do it if he can chop him out some Presidents. Throws out the names of Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln. The Dakota boys give their okay. Borglum now knows what he's lookin' for. Just needs to get his hands into some government pockets.
In 1924 he finds that through the help of Alice Roosevelt Longworth, Teddy's daughter. She had a lot of pull up there on Capital Hill, Alice did. Some called her The Other Washington Monument. You can look that up if you don't believe me. And it turns out she's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly if that gift horse is made of gold. Old Borglum, he ain't been sittin' on his thumbs all winter. Been workin' his kiester off lookin' for what we now call a win-win. He not only wants to become 'nobody ain't never gonna forget me' famous. But has a hankerin' to live out the American Dream.
And that's where Mount Rushmore comes in. Tell you the truth, this is where it gets all chicken and egg for me. Don't really know what came first, whether he found out the mount was just right for carving. Or that there was this big ol' vein of gold running through it. So big and so obvious, no one could see it but him. Oh yeah, he was hot to start a drillin' and a blastin'. But was lacking the say-so to start.
Turned out he knew people who knew people who knew Mrs. Longworth. Gets himself an introduction. Talks patriotism, art, monuments. Doesn't get but a yawn. Then talks gold. An eyebrow raises. He pulls out the assay report. She finally agrees to twenty percent and.... "Gotta get Daddy up there or no deal Mr. Borglum!" Borglum agrees but insists Teddy gets put in the back. Hush-hush from there on.
1925. The deal passes through Congress. Over the next sixteen years 24.7 million in American green backs cracks off and slips out of the site under the cover of darkness. Kicker is that millions more sits about where Teddy's collar bone woulda sat had not Borglum passed away in March of '41.
Today the Park Service knows all about the gold but no way they can desecrate an American icon. And they ain't talkin'.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Eulogy For Greg Nason
Yes I, Markie, nephew of Emil Schonnemann, am a wimp. No, I couldn't do it on my own. Yes, I had to call in my Uncle Emil, a real man, a Western Minnesota man, to read it for me. Is that good enough Emil?
Eulogy ( got to be read in full West Minnesota or Dakota accent. Yah sure.)
Figured I best write this thing out or I'd forget way too much. It's mostly about Greg and me. And mostly the truth. Understand, that when it comes to occasions like this one here, I've got my problems. That's why my Uncle Emil from up to Parkers Prairie is doin' the talking. As to how she goes, you gotta cut him a little slack. I had to do him in back in 19 and 75 so's he could be planted atop Jimmie Hoffa. I bring him back now and then to write a piece for me. So he gets a little confused as to whether he's comin' or going. Talks in a Western Minnesota meets Eastern Tennessee meets Arlo Guthrie mono-tone.
First off I wrote this recollection like a "Winnie the Pooh" story. Emil said it stunk to high heaven. Wouldn't read it unless he could put his own spin on it. Kinda like interpret it as he went along. Might get a little herky-jerky on the way. He did like the title. Actually, he said he'd smelled worse. So here she goes:
The House at Soderville Corner
Chapter 9
IN WHICH Mister Wonderful and Mister Fun go Fishin' in the Million Acre Woods and maybe meet a Heffalump.
So it's sometime in the last century. Greg Nason and century. I like the sound of that. Years and decades don't really cut it. Not a big enough frame to fit him in, be stickin' out all over. Heard him called a 'bigger than life' and a 'been there and done everything' kinda guy. Wore more different coats and got more W-2s than any man I ever met. Maybe not the last of the Twentieth Century dirt-turners and wood-benders but sure in the running.
Back at Robbinsdale High he was just Nason. Say Nason and most everyone knew who you meant. Me and Greg crossed paths once in a while back then. Shared friends. Not much more than that. Figure he'd pretty much say the same. Best friends? Sure didn't see that coming. Ask either of us how that came about, we'd both say Bonnie and Lois. No doubt about it. The two of them's the best things that ever happened to a couple of square pegs like Greg and me.
Can't say exactly what year it was. Call it '87. I was in the throws of my big-bad, mid-life crisis. Greg was in the throws of me whining about it. The four of us were up on the North Shore at the Chateau Leveaux for a long weekend in early May. Us boys were lookin' to scare some trout. The ladies to have a good time. Lois and Bonnie always seemed to have hold on what's important than us two bozos.
Saturday morning after a meat and potatoes breakfast plus a couple of cups of stand-your-hair-on-end coffee, me and Greg jumped in his truck, a little Mazda or some other kinda rice burner, headed inland and uphill foe gravel and two-track. The ladies shot straight for Grand Marais. Greg drove. I rode shotgun with the maps.
You gotta understand, the two of us most always had a hoot together. Just a hoot. No more. We weren't the hollerin' kind. Our kinda fun usually filled our noses with oak dust, wet us to the bone and found us in the wrong place at the right time. Sometimes vice versa. Don't even get me started on the Nason ram which put me airborne. Just call it a case of lost love and a city boy's butt in the line of fire.
Might have meant something to Greg but I sure couldn't have told you one way or the other if the leafless trees we were passin' on the side of the road meant anything. Seemed like every time we ended up on the North Shore, our Cities shorts and t-shirts turned into long johns. No Leaves? No big deal. Besides, we were way to much into hoping the stream we were standing in had the same name as the one on the map. And figured if we drowned enough worms and pitched enough itty-bitty spinners, we'd eventually snag something. "Blessed be the boneheads." Mostly we were happy to be on the backroads together and thankful it weren't raining any harder.
In those days, or pretty much any other days since, neither of us knew diddly-squat about catchin' trout. Coulda held our own on bullheads and sunnies. But trout? Might have been in the creek but sure weren't in the cards. If you'd have asked Greg, he'd have owned up to it. Probably would have, even if you didn't ask. On the other hand, I lean on talkin' a good story. BS is what I do best. What he has to say usually gives me a better grip on things. How to actually get stuff done. I'd pass on such as how long Jack Nicklaus trims his fingernails so as to get a better grip on his shaft. I 'spose Greg had me pegged but kept his tongue so's he wouldn't spoil the free show.
So the morning passed. Most important part was not forgetting to meet Lois and Bonnie for lunch. Great white trout hunters down from the mountains. Didn't much expect to be missed by the ladies and sure weren't disappointed.
Doesn't really fit here but I just gotta pass on this 'Nasonism.' "If a tree falls in the forest and I'm the only one around, am I still wrong?" Something only a husband and a true Catholic could say.
As best I can recollect, seems it was around 2:30 by the time we headed up the Pike Lake Road. That's the one which goes to Pike Lake, don't you know? Scouted out and threw spinners in a few creeks within spittin' distance of the road. On the map they looked like little bits of Heaven. Truth was, the ones at our feet did too. Probably even fish in 'em. Guess the missing link was still us.
A long mile up from the lake the map showed a two-track headin' west toward Highway 4. Midways she passed a creek widenin' called Mark Lake. No doubt a sign from the gods. Was a two-track in name only. But hard bottomed. Slow and steady as she went.
Mark Lake made us wish we'd have brought the canoe. Had a homemade pole dock even. Greg figured the dock was there because of what was in the lake. Most likely fish. Shoulda been a logician instead of fishin'. ('Spect that was meant to be a pun. And not much of one if you ask me.) Wrote the lake down as one we'd have to come back to some day.
Back on the two-track we headed up a long hill in open country. 'Member what I said about no leaves in the trees? That's 'cause Spring hadn't sprung in the Arrowhead as yet. 'Til Friday the ground was still froze solid. When the truck buried to the floorboards over the crown of the hill, Greg figured that was a definite sign the frost was on it's way out. Didn't know whether to sing "Hooray for Spring" or cuss out Mother Nature.
Now Mr. Nason, he comes prepared for bein' outdoors. Been temporarily inconvenienced on many a questionable back road. Usually has enough stuff in the truck box to build a small house. Not this time. He was up here to have a good time. Just didn't know what kind of good time. We got out. Took a look. And commenced to stuffing logs, branches, rocks and antlers under the drive wheel. Had no more effect than spraying a rainbow of mud on Greg when I gunned the motor. Don't know if that was what upset his usual balanced apple cart. But he commenced to uprootin' small aspen while I trotted off west for help like Rin Tin Tin.
Half a muddy mile later, I'm standing on Highway 4. And thinkin' we ain't seen nobody or anything with a motor since we left Lois and Bonnie. Look up. Look down the road. Waitin' for nothing. Then I realized, like a kinda vision, zen-like and all, that sometimes you got to do something really stupid to realize how stupid you really are.
When I got back to Greg, the truck was still in the mud which was now lookin' a whole lot more like a pond. I scope the scene and ask him,
"What happened to the stand of popples that was over there?"
And he gets that Nason grin on his face that I ain't seen since High School.
"Most of 'em are buried somewhere under the truck. Last couple disappeared over the hill when I goosed the engine and dropped her into gear. Like firin' bolts out of a crossbow. If there were any left, I'd let you give it a go."
And he gives out a laugh that tells me the truck ain't going nowhere today.
Nothin' left to do hoof'er out three mile to the Pike Lake Road and see what we would see. So now it's sneaking up on seven. Clouds on the tree tops. Startin' to sprinkle a bit. Heck, we both seen worse. Couple a best friends goin' for a stroll in the woods, in the rain, in the growin' dark. Don't think for a moment we were bummed.
Seein' as how we had at least an hour to burn, we commence to firin' off some plans about what to do with the truck. Greg listens. Then patiently suggests in his quiet, Camel smokin' way, that my idea of buying a helicopter and learning to fly it, might be a way to get the truck unstuck. But probably won't get her out by Monday. Says instead, he'd seen a log truck up a driveway off the Pike Road. Come morning, we'd drive back and check it out. He knew what it was like to own an old boom truck. Lord knows he knew that. Figured most likely what the owner'd be like and how twenty bucks would go a long way with him.
By the time we come up on the Road, it's black as the ace of spades. Good soakin' rain. And we been hearing what sounds like something following us for the last quarter hour. We stop two. Three times. Listen. Nothin'. Soon's we get movin', there she goes again.
Now, the Pike Lake Road be gravel up here. Seein' as how we want to be goin' down the road, not up, Greg starts firing up a match every so often so's we don't miss our turn. Last one gets us there. And in the flare up, a face. There and gone in a snap. Ugly, bald, red eyes, fangs hangin' out all over. Reminds us both of Mr. Grygelko, our gym teacher. 'Course it coulda been a Heffalump. But we didn't think of that 'til years later. For the moment, seems one of us has wet his drawers. 'Cause Greg ain't here to defend hisself, I'll just say it was me. That's what friends are for.
Probably the biggest scare was being out of matches. And Greg's Zippo sittin' back on the truck seat. That was the first time I ever saw him cry.
Took us a moment to collect ourselves. All we had to do now was stumble on down the road and hope for a light back in the woods. Or do the six miles to Highway 61. Maybe another fifteen to the Chateau.
Luck would have it that no more than a mile later we spy a lit up cabin off the road. Figurin' it might be a witch's house, we set to arguing over who gets to be Hansel. A minute later, scissors finally cuts paper and we settle on Big Hansel and Little Hansel.
Finding the driveway in the dark was no cinch. Greg knows back country driveways and keeps to high ground. I learn that water flows downhill and that my boots ain't waterproof.
So there we are. Standin' on a stranger's doorstep, in the rain, in the dark. And outside of my grumblin' about wet feet, we ain't made no sound to let whoever's inside know we be there. Greg says,
"Since I'm Big Hansel, I say you knock on the door. I'll just stand behind in case the shotgun blast throws you my way."
Rapped loud enough to let them know I'm there. But not so loud as to say I need blowing away.
Man comes to the door. Nice man. Kept the safety on the whole time. Lets us use the phone. A half dozen busy signals later we get through.
Seems Lois and Bonnie were so shook up about it bein' after ten o'clock and no sign of us, it was all they could do to put down the better part of two bottles of German wine while sittin' in the hot tub. So grief stricken about us maybe bein' eaten by wolves, they couldn't make hide nor hair of the directions we were giving them. So they got the manager. He can barely hear us over the ladies' laughter. Finally gets the gist of our whereabouts. Comes to the rescue in his noble Pontiac Bonneville.
Next day. After another meat and potatoes and table pounding coffee breakfast, Greg and me head back to the woods. Turns out he was right. As usual. Twenty bucks and a log truck did the job just fine.
So that's my Greg Nason story. I know you got your own. He was a best friend to a lot of us.
Comments by Markie
Yup, my Uncle Emil read it. His heavy accent and bumbling through the story was my crutch. That and the many times Lois made me do the eulogy aloud in front of others. Wouldn't have made it without her. When I was in the Third Grade I read part of the Heffalump tale, the one by A.A. Milne, aloud to the class. Good story. Good humor. My spelling list is penciled inside the cover.
This tale, like most everything I write these days, violates most every law of writing I learned at the University of Minnesota back in the '60s and '70s. Not easy for me to do. But a helluva a lot of fun. I don't write all that well. But I'm getting better. Don't know if I'm learning or unlearning. Or if the tricks are new or old.
As for Greg. He's a hole in my life that will eventually scar over. But never go away.
Eulogy ( got to be read in full West Minnesota or Dakota accent. Yah sure.)
Figured I best write this thing out or I'd forget way too much. It's mostly about Greg and me. And mostly the truth. Understand, that when it comes to occasions like this one here, I've got my problems. That's why my Uncle Emil from up to Parkers Prairie is doin' the talking. As to how she goes, you gotta cut him a little slack. I had to do him in back in 19 and 75 so's he could be planted atop Jimmie Hoffa. I bring him back now and then to write a piece for me. So he gets a little confused as to whether he's comin' or going. Talks in a Western Minnesota meets Eastern Tennessee meets Arlo Guthrie mono-tone.
First off I wrote this recollection like a "Winnie the Pooh" story. Emil said it stunk to high heaven. Wouldn't read it unless he could put his own spin on it. Kinda like interpret it as he went along. Might get a little herky-jerky on the way. He did like the title. Actually, he said he'd smelled worse. So here she goes:
The House at Soderville Corner
Chapter 9
IN WHICH Mister Wonderful and Mister Fun go Fishin' in the Million Acre Woods and maybe meet a Heffalump.
So it's sometime in the last century. Greg Nason and century. I like the sound of that. Years and decades don't really cut it. Not a big enough frame to fit him in, be stickin' out all over. Heard him called a 'bigger than life' and a 'been there and done everything' kinda guy. Wore more different coats and got more W-2s than any man I ever met. Maybe not the last of the Twentieth Century dirt-turners and wood-benders but sure in the running.
Back at Robbinsdale High he was just Nason. Say Nason and most everyone knew who you meant. Me and Greg crossed paths once in a while back then. Shared friends. Not much more than that. Figure he'd pretty much say the same. Best friends? Sure didn't see that coming. Ask either of us how that came about, we'd both say Bonnie and Lois. No doubt about it. The two of them's the best things that ever happened to a couple of square pegs like Greg and me.
Can't say exactly what year it was. Call it '87. I was in the throws of my big-bad, mid-life crisis. Greg was in the throws of me whining about it. The four of us were up on the North Shore at the Chateau Leveaux for a long weekend in early May. Us boys were lookin' to scare some trout. The ladies to have a good time. Lois and Bonnie always seemed to have hold on what's important than us two bozos.
Saturday morning after a meat and potatoes breakfast plus a couple of cups of stand-your-hair-on-end coffee, me and Greg jumped in his truck, a little Mazda or some other kinda rice burner, headed inland and uphill foe gravel and two-track. The ladies shot straight for Grand Marais. Greg drove. I rode shotgun with the maps.
You gotta understand, the two of us most always had a hoot together. Just a hoot. No more. We weren't the hollerin' kind. Our kinda fun usually filled our noses with oak dust, wet us to the bone and found us in the wrong place at the right time. Sometimes vice versa. Don't even get me started on the Nason ram which put me airborne. Just call it a case of lost love and a city boy's butt in the line of fire.
Might have meant something to Greg but I sure couldn't have told you one way or the other if the leafless trees we were passin' on the side of the road meant anything. Seemed like every time we ended up on the North Shore, our Cities shorts and t-shirts turned into long johns. No Leaves? No big deal. Besides, we were way to much into hoping the stream we were standing in had the same name as the one on the map. And figured if we drowned enough worms and pitched enough itty-bitty spinners, we'd eventually snag something. "Blessed be the boneheads." Mostly we were happy to be on the backroads together and thankful it weren't raining any harder.
In those days, or pretty much any other days since, neither of us knew diddly-squat about catchin' trout. Coulda held our own on bullheads and sunnies. But trout? Might have been in the creek but sure weren't in the cards. If you'd have asked Greg, he'd have owned up to it. Probably would have, even if you didn't ask. On the other hand, I lean on talkin' a good story. BS is what I do best. What he has to say usually gives me a better grip on things. How to actually get stuff done. I'd pass on such as how long Jack Nicklaus trims his fingernails so as to get a better grip on his shaft. I 'spose Greg had me pegged but kept his tongue so's he wouldn't spoil the free show.
So the morning passed. Most important part was not forgetting to meet Lois and Bonnie for lunch. Great white trout hunters down from the mountains. Didn't much expect to be missed by the ladies and sure weren't disappointed.
Doesn't really fit here but I just gotta pass on this 'Nasonism.' "If a tree falls in the forest and I'm the only one around, am I still wrong?" Something only a husband and a true Catholic could say.
As best I can recollect, seems it was around 2:30 by the time we headed up the Pike Lake Road. That's the one which goes to Pike Lake, don't you know? Scouted out and threw spinners in a few creeks within spittin' distance of the road. On the map they looked like little bits of Heaven. Truth was, the ones at our feet did too. Probably even fish in 'em. Guess the missing link was still us.
A long mile up from the lake the map showed a two-track headin' west toward Highway 4. Midways she passed a creek widenin' called Mark Lake. No doubt a sign from the gods. Was a two-track in name only. But hard bottomed. Slow and steady as she went.
Mark Lake made us wish we'd have brought the canoe. Had a homemade pole dock even. Greg figured the dock was there because of what was in the lake. Most likely fish. Shoulda been a logician instead of fishin'. ('Spect that was meant to be a pun. And not much of one if you ask me.) Wrote the lake down as one we'd have to come back to some day.
Back on the two-track we headed up a long hill in open country. 'Member what I said about no leaves in the trees? That's 'cause Spring hadn't sprung in the Arrowhead as yet. 'Til Friday the ground was still froze solid. When the truck buried to the floorboards over the crown of the hill, Greg figured that was a definite sign the frost was on it's way out. Didn't know whether to sing "Hooray for Spring" or cuss out Mother Nature.
Now Mr. Nason, he comes prepared for bein' outdoors. Been temporarily inconvenienced on many a questionable back road. Usually has enough stuff in the truck box to build a small house. Not this time. He was up here to have a good time. Just didn't know what kind of good time. We got out. Took a look. And commenced to stuffing logs, branches, rocks and antlers under the drive wheel. Had no more effect than spraying a rainbow of mud on Greg when I gunned the motor. Don't know if that was what upset his usual balanced apple cart. But he commenced to uprootin' small aspen while I trotted off west for help like Rin Tin Tin.
Half a muddy mile later, I'm standing on Highway 4. And thinkin' we ain't seen nobody or anything with a motor since we left Lois and Bonnie. Look up. Look down the road. Waitin' for nothing. Then I realized, like a kinda vision, zen-like and all, that sometimes you got to do something really stupid to realize how stupid you really are.
When I got back to Greg, the truck was still in the mud which was now lookin' a whole lot more like a pond. I scope the scene and ask him,
"What happened to the stand of popples that was over there?"
And he gets that Nason grin on his face that I ain't seen since High School.
"Most of 'em are buried somewhere under the truck. Last couple disappeared over the hill when I goosed the engine and dropped her into gear. Like firin' bolts out of a crossbow. If there were any left, I'd let you give it a go."
And he gives out a laugh that tells me the truck ain't going nowhere today.
Nothin' left to do hoof'er out three mile to the Pike Lake Road and see what we would see. So now it's sneaking up on seven. Clouds on the tree tops. Startin' to sprinkle a bit. Heck, we both seen worse. Couple a best friends goin' for a stroll in the woods, in the rain, in the growin' dark. Don't think for a moment we were bummed.
Seein' as how we had at least an hour to burn, we commence to firin' off some plans about what to do with the truck. Greg listens. Then patiently suggests in his quiet, Camel smokin' way, that my idea of buying a helicopter and learning to fly it, might be a way to get the truck unstuck. But probably won't get her out by Monday. Says instead, he'd seen a log truck up a driveway off the Pike Road. Come morning, we'd drive back and check it out. He knew what it was like to own an old boom truck. Lord knows he knew that. Figured most likely what the owner'd be like and how twenty bucks would go a long way with him.
By the time we come up on the Road, it's black as the ace of spades. Good soakin' rain. And we been hearing what sounds like something following us for the last quarter hour. We stop two. Three times. Listen. Nothin'. Soon's we get movin', there she goes again.
Now, the Pike Lake Road be gravel up here. Seein' as how we want to be goin' down the road, not up, Greg starts firing up a match every so often so's we don't miss our turn. Last one gets us there. And in the flare up, a face. There and gone in a snap. Ugly, bald, red eyes, fangs hangin' out all over. Reminds us both of Mr. Grygelko, our gym teacher. 'Course it coulda been a Heffalump. But we didn't think of that 'til years later. For the moment, seems one of us has wet his drawers. 'Cause Greg ain't here to defend hisself, I'll just say it was me. That's what friends are for.
Probably the biggest scare was being out of matches. And Greg's Zippo sittin' back on the truck seat. That was the first time I ever saw him cry.
Took us a moment to collect ourselves. All we had to do now was stumble on down the road and hope for a light back in the woods. Or do the six miles to Highway 61. Maybe another fifteen to the Chateau.
Luck would have it that no more than a mile later we spy a lit up cabin off the road. Figurin' it might be a witch's house, we set to arguing over who gets to be Hansel. A minute later, scissors finally cuts paper and we settle on Big Hansel and Little Hansel.
Finding the driveway in the dark was no cinch. Greg knows back country driveways and keeps to high ground. I learn that water flows downhill and that my boots ain't waterproof.
So there we are. Standin' on a stranger's doorstep, in the rain, in the dark. And outside of my grumblin' about wet feet, we ain't made no sound to let whoever's inside know we be there. Greg says,
"Since I'm Big Hansel, I say you knock on the door. I'll just stand behind in case the shotgun blast throws you my way."
Rapped loud enough to let them know I'm there. But not so loud as to say I need blowing away.
Man comes to the door. Nice man. Kept the safety on the whole time. Lets us use the phone. A half dozen busy signals later we get through.
Seems Lois and Bonnie were so shook up about it bein' after ten o'clock and no sign of us, it was all they could do to put down the better part of two bottles of German wine while sittin' in the hot tub. So grief stricken about us maybe bein' eaten by wolves, they couldn't make hide nor hair of the directions we were giving them. So they got the manager. He can barely hear us over the ladies' laughter. Finally gets the gist of our whereabouts. Comes to the rescue in his noble Pontiac Bonneville.
Next day. After another meat and potatoes and table pounding coffee breakfast, Greg and me head back to the woods. Turns out he was right. As usual. Twenty bucks and a log truck did the job just fine.
So that's my Greg Nason story. I know you got your own. He was a best friend to a lot of us.
Comments by Markie
Yup, my Uncle Emil read it. His heavy accent and bumbling through the story was my crutch. That and the many times Lois made me do the eulogy aloud in front of others. Wouldn't have made it without her. When I was in the Third Grade I read part of the Heffalump tale, the one by A.A. Milne, aloud to the class. Good story. Good humor. My spelling list is penciled inside the cover.
This tale, like most everything I write these days, violates most every law of writing I learned at the University of Minnesota back in the '60s and '70s. Not easy for me to do. But a helluva a lot of fun. I don't write all that well. But I'm getting better. Don't know if I'm learning or unlearning. Or if the tricks are new or old.
As for Greg. He's a hole in my life that will eventually scar over. But never go away.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Vacation
Uncle Emil will be out of the office for the foreseeable future as he's visiting his soft-brained nephew who sometimes goes by the moniker of Coolfront. Occasionally he digs himself a hole and tries to drag others in with him. Has no regard for their possibly fatal attacks of boredom. I'm going there to bail him and them out. Mostly them. He can worm his own way out for all I care.
See you in a while,
Emil Schonnemann
P.S. Coolfront can be found at deadmanlake.blogspot.com
See you in a while,
Emil Schonnemann
P.S. Coolfront can be found at deadmanlake.blogspot.com
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