Short stories
Short stories not associated with THE Ranch or Father Alkire.
Some in process. Some completed. Some retired.
Cinnamon roll suppression #
Elfriede’s cinnamon rolls are legendary. When i’m finally let into the secrets of cinnamon roll construction it’s with the caveat that family is family. And not-family is…
not family.
Elfriede is building cinnamon rolls in the kitchen.
World-class cinnamon rolls.
Cinnamon rolls that receive mention in wills.
Cinnamon rolls brides request for their wedding night.
Cinnamon rolls used as religious benchmarks: ‘If i find some of Ms Elfriede’s sticky-buns, i’ll know i’m in heaven.’
‘Down South’ we often call cinnamon rolls ‘sticky buns’.
Regardless of terminology anyone who’s blessed with one of Elfriede’s cinnamon rolls,
North or South of the Mason-Dixon,
proclaims them the best this side of the ‘Pearly Gates.’
Our family’s double-handful of Lutheran Pastors say that, after appropriate theological research and discussion, the color of the Pearly Gates perfectly matches the color of the topping on Elfriede’s cinnamon rolls.
Elfriede’s cinnamon rolls generally end up on the plates of those in need of something heavenly to celebrate a special occasion. Moving into neighborhood or
bringing home a new baby or
graduating or
Christmas…..
Christmas morning sees platefuls of Elfriede’s cinnamon rolls gracing tables all over town.
Except ours.
There is a long-standing understanding that the only cinnamon rolls staying home are those not worthy of giving away.
Not up to Elfriede’s very exacting standards.
And they’re only available if we’re quick enough to keep them out of the trash. A ‘bad batch’, by Elfriede’s standards, are in the trash faster than Summer lightning. On several occasions i point out that most bakers dream of producing cinnamon rolls equal to one of her ‘bad batches.’ Elfriede points out that practice,
not dreaming,
is the key to good cinnamon rolls.
Over the years, my cravings lead me to the dark and subtle art of cinnamon roll sabotage.
A little extra yeast.
A bit more flour.
Or butter.
Or sugar.
My profound knowledge of cinnamon roll sabotage is a secret known only to me. A secret more secure than any secret kept by any government in history. My secret cooking knowledge is even more amazing because i hold the honor of being the worst cook in the family. The worst cook anyone in our family has met or heard about.
With misconduct in mind i enter the kitchen.
First, where is Elfriede in the process of cinnamon roll construction.
Second, what nefarious path can i venture without raising suspicion.
To reenforce my obvious kitchen ineptness, and ensure Elfriede doesn’t look for ulterior motives, i throw out an amateurish baking question. A question so in keeping with my celebrated lack of skill that no subterfuge can be suspected.
‘Have the eggs been out long enough to come to room temperature?’ Elfriede doesn’t even look up from measuring flour.
‘Yes. Everything has.’
After a moment or two she stops. Looks over at me. ‘You know, you ought to write this recipe down. I’m just not sure,’ Elfriede continues, ‘if Carolyn or Hilary have a copy.’
I retreat a half step in surprise.
This is knowledge i never dream of being invited to share.
She begins tapping the metal measuring cup on the counter to settle the flour. Ensuring all the cups of flour are precisely the same.
‘If you want you can go ahead and give it to your friend at work.’
My face loses control of my jaw.
There are unwritten rules in all families. Rules about what’s talked about. And what’s not talked about. And stringent rules for what is talked about with anyone not part of the family. How much land we have. How much it costs. Why cousin Marie spent a nine-months up North with great-aunt Amelia. And, of course…..
Recipes.
A few years ago, Jessica is confirmed as 100% Mai when Elfriede offers to show her all about making cinnamon rolls. Their relationship soars to unprecedented heights when Elfriede offers to let Jessica write up the recipe and take pictures. Grandma Elfriede’s Cinnamon Rolls
My friend at work,
a mentor actually,
has been blessed with many of Elfriede’s cinnamon rolls. Over the years she has reciprocated with loaves of bread and batches of Christmas cookies. Being a remarkable cook, of the ‘old-school’, she is very familiar with sacredness of recipes. But over the last few of years, her hints about getting a copy of Elfriede’s cinnamon roll recipe are becoming less subtle. After all she and Elfriede have become colleagues.
At least in the kitchen.
Elfriede’s offer to let me write out the recipe and give my mentor a copy leaves me scrambling for a notepad and pencil.
Elfriede smiles.
Still hoping to spark an attempt by me to learn to cook.
We spend the next few hours in delightful cinnamon roll tutorial.
Elfriede patiently explains every step.
Providing details and copious commentary.
How to measure various dry ingredients. (Leveled or humped up in the middle).
How long to leave the eggs at room temperature.
And the water.
And the yeast.
How long to knead the dough. What it feels like when it’s just right.
What kind of lard is best.
Lard?
Lard?!
Slightly taken aback i query…..
‘Elfriede i thought you use butter not lard.’
‘I do.’
Elfriede smiles.
‘But she doesn’t need to know that.’
Ahh, yes.
Family is family.
And if you’re not family well…..
You’re not family.
Hitchhiking #
The end of an American Dream
High noon on Saturday June 22nd, 1974 i quit hitchhiking. I quit hitchhiking standing at the junction of Interstate 70 and California Avenue on the East side of Topeka. I quit.
Forever.
The day is quickly becoming hot wheat harvest festival weather. Fluffy white Kansas clouds slide East chasing a bright blue VW bug. It’s empty back seat full of a younger man’s fantasies.
I’ve been awake for the last 31 hours. 26 of them standing by a road. The night chill and dew are quickly evaporating. Along with my youth and the gas station coffee.
The guys at the gas station are generous.
Not only with their coffee but also their bathroom, bench, Cokes and vending machine sandwiches.
I get to the gas station at five yesterday evening. A pleasant ride from Kansas City in a 1957 Ford F-100. Faded and dented enough to prove its worth. Almost as faded and dented as the old farmer behind the wheel.
He buys the truck new just two weeks before his wedding. Buys it new to prove to everyone he’ll be able to take care of Mabel.
He does.
She reciprocates.
Four kids, nine grandkids, God only knows how many dogs, cats, cows, chickens, blizzards and droughts worth of care.
The old farmer and i barely have time to exchange basics when it’s time for him to head North. Mabel is spending the day with their youngest daughter. Admiring her new house and the new grandbaby. After dinner the farmer and Mable will head North to their place outside Pawnee City. It’ll be late when they arrive so Johnny, who’s farm is couple of miles from theirs, will check on the animals.
The old farmer tops off his gas.
Waves without looking around.
Heads into memory.
The gas station is right off the interstate. Close enough that i can walk over from my hitchhiking spot next to the on-ramp heading West.
It’s illegal to hitchhike on Kansas interstates. Pretty much illegal to hitchhike on any interstate in the U.S. But if you stay near the beginning of the ramps most cops, local and state, usually look the other way.
Helps to have a sign.
Wild Billy the Goat is my first hiking mentor. He’s hitchhiked in every state except Alaska and Hawaii. ‘Still think about hitching a ride to Hawaii on a private yacht. Maybe someday.’ Wild Billy grins. Hands me a wide black magic marker.
‘This will be your best friend on the road. Don’t lose it. You can get a piece of carboard anywhere. Almost everything in America is shipped in cardboard boxes. And every American business has a pile of shipping box skeletons out back of their store. Cut a clean square piece of cardboard about two and a half foot by two and a half foot. Write the name of the town you’re heading to.’
Wild Billy leans back against the wall of the road-side-attraction. Propping his feet on his backpack. We’re taking refuge from the afternoon Arkansas Sun.
‘Make sure to choose a town that is a decent size and a few hundred miles away. Don’t plan too far ahead. If you write Los Angles when you’re in Tennessee people are just going to ignore you.
If you’re near Nashville put Memphis.
If you’re near Memphis put Little Rock.
It lets people know you’re not planning to move in. There is a definite end time to their having to share their car. Once they pick you up establish a cordial relationship. Be polite. Tell a few stories from the road. People who pick up hitchhikers are looking to tap into your carefree lifestyle. At least vicariously for a little while. They want to hear good stories. If you need to make them up. With just a little effort you may find they are willing to give you a ride all the way to OK City from Memphis. Remember, and this is important, he looks over to me, ‘you’ve got to make your sign neat. Really neat.
Use your knife to cut it out. Make sure the edges are sharp. Nothing ragged. And make sure you write in neat large block letters.
A ragged sign will lose you rides from a two hundred feet away. If the sign is ragged, they’ll assume you’re ragged. They’re not going to stop.
But if your sign is clean and neat they will at least give you a second look.
Stand up straight.
Shoulders back.
Smile.
If you look as clean and neat as your sign people tend to think your hitchhiking out of some unforeseen necessity….not because it’s your lifestyle. People look right through hobos and tramps. It’s a middleclass American thing. Hell, it’s an America thing. We all turn up our noses up at hobos. If someone doesn’t have at least enough money for a bus ticket, their obviously lazy. And that’s damn sure unamerican.’
Wild Billy the Goat is a hardcore hiker. It’s his lifestyle.
Not mine.
Never has been.
Never will be.
I put my thumb out for short trips. Mostly in the Midwest. Only occasionally will a short trip become a long one. Hitchhiking to the West Coast. Or the East.
There’s a thrill being on the road. Traveling without a schedule. Traveling for the sake of traveling.
Arriving is a letdown
When i first meet Saul Paradise i immediately realize we are both burdened by a deep yearning for spiritual fulfillment. For me a post Marine Corps disillusionment. In the Corps everything is honest. Everything is clear. Now….
Saul encourages me to seek a new existential understanding on the road. On the road, he maintains, there is time for reflection and meditation. Occasionally insight. Now….
It’s time to head home.
The Kansas Open Chess Championship will have to go on without me. It’s being held at the Holiday Inn in Salina Kansas. Almost two hours away.
The first round is ending.
The second will start at one.
If i get a ride right now, all the way to the front door i’ll miss most of the second round. Paul Tally is the tournament director. A friend from past tournaments. Even so he’ll will laugh if i try to join the tournament now. He may let me hang out in the ‘skittles room’ and play some speed chess but forget playing for money and rating points.
Time to turn my sign around.
I use one of the workbenches in the gas station’s garage to write Kansas City in very neat letters on the clean side of my sign.
It’s 30 miles to Lawrence.
55 miles to Kansas City and where i head South.
One of Wild Billy’s rules is don’t be a ‘ride-whore’. Taking any ride that comes along. A five-mile ride is probably not worth getting in the vehicle. Unless the five miles will take you to a better hitchhiking spot.
Junction of larger roads.
Shelter out of the weather.
‘If you’re in a good spot,’ Wild Billy maintains, ‘you’ve got a lot better chance to get a good ride. A ride that will put some miles behind you.’
The guys at the station give me two more sandwiches from the vending machine. A couple of cookies. A can of Coke. After handshakes i head across the overpass to the other side of the interstate.
As the Sun slips into Saturday mid-afternoon i put on my best hitchhiking stance and wait for luck.
There are four fundamental truths about hitchhiking.
No.
Five.
Planning: An even mixture of excitement and anticipation edged with a bit of fear.
Fear?
There’s always a little fear of the unknown. But this fear is packed with the promise of fun.
Waiting for the first ride: The initial waiting always brings irritation. Why am i doing this?
On the road: Excitement of being on the road. A road full of unknown.
Arrival: Letdown. Accomplishment kills vitality.
Luck: There’s always luck. The right car. The right time. The right weather.
The day i quit hitchhiking luck conspires to present me with the perfect ride. A legendary ride. A ride so perfect it falls way short of my most hedonistic early 20’s fantasies.
Five minutes after assuming the position at the top of the I-70 on-ramp heading East a car pulls over.
A bright blue VW bug.
The driver turns off the engine. Turns on the flashers. Gets out.
A young woman.
A beautiful young woman.
As she walks around the front of the car. The passenger gets out.
A young woman.
A beautiful young woman.
They introduce themselves. I do the same. Totally failing to control my Cheshire Cat grin.
Leeann is driving.
Barbara is riding shotgun.
‘Chess?’ Barbara offers as an icebreaker. My sign is hanging limply at my side. She can read the Salina side. She grew up playing chess with her brothers. Never in tournaments but a lot more physically demanding level of chess.
Her brothers hate to lose.
We talk for several minutes. They are both beginning their senior year at Missouri State University. In Springfield. They are heading back to school for Summer internships.
Leeann is a Journalism major.
Barbara Poli Sci.
Seems they are only going as far as Lawrence then heading South. Leeann has a grandmother in Chanute Kansas. The grandmother wants Leeann to have a couple of quilts that have been in the family since their coming to America. The girls are going to stop by and pick them up on their way back to school. They’d love to give me a ride as far as Lawrence. And they’re willing to share the doughnuts Leeann’s mother makes.
But in the middle of my need to say yes miles and miles of hitchhiking lore starts ringing bells.
Gunnery Sergeant Hollenbeck preaches. ‘Practice creates muscle memory. We practice again and again and again so that when you’re tired and hungry and the shit hits the fan your body will know what to do without you thinking about it.’ After 31 sleepless hoursas all my hitchhiking ‘muscle memory’ surrenders to sleeplessness.
I smile.
Thank them.
Tell them i’d better wait here for a ride all the way to Kansas City.
‘Are you sure?’
Barbara has hold of my backpack. ‘I can sit in the back with your backpack. You can sit upfront and stretch out.’ She laughs. ‘Well stretch out as much as you can in a Bug.’
‘No….i’d better stay here.’
They wish me luck. Give me two doughnuts. Pull onto the interstate.
The interstate has a slight rise in the road about a mile East of where i’m standing. As the back of their VW disappears over the ridge a Wild Billy’s #1hitchhiking caveat comes to mind.
Always accept a ride from a woman.
If a woman, young or old, pulls over, you should be in the backseat by the time the car comes to a stop. Tumbling over this thought comes one of Sal’s moments of insight.
From Chanute to Springfield leads directly through my hometown. Driving right to my front door will take them three blocks out of their way.
I’m halfway through the first doughnut when the tears start.
‘You OK?’
There’s a pickup stopped next to me. The driver is leaning across the front seat shouting out the passenger’s window.
‘No.
I don’t belong out here.’
‘Well get in. I’m driving past Kansas City. I’ll drop you off wherever you want.’
When i tell my tale he threatens to pull over and kick me out. By the time we finish the sandwiches and split the remaining doughnut we reach the conclusion that i no longer belong on the road.
Certainly not hitchhiking.
Within a week i’ve given away my backpack, sleeping bag, poncho and pride. it’s time to leave the road to Saul and Wild Billy the Goat.
I still run across Saul from time to time but the last time i see Wild Billy the Goat he’s heading West on Interstate 40. I’m heading North on Arizona 64.
His sign says Needles.
Mine says Grand Canyon.
Back on Track #
Mom finally agrees to let Grandpa get me a caboose.
Bill Duck comes in from the backyard.
Covered in dirt.
As usual.
He’s building the foundations for the railroad tracks.
Well….he’s helping.
So is Horsey.
Susie and i have to stay inside the house. At least until the gravel truck is finished dumping the gravel.
The tracks are for my caboose.
Several of Grandpa’s friends from the Kansas City Southern Engine Maintenance Facility are putting in the tracks. The facility in town is the biggest railroad engine shop outside of Kansas City. Grandpa’s the KCS Chief Chemist. His lab is at the maintenance facility. He’s good friends with all the men who work on the engines.
Today they’re dumping gravel between the cement foundations for the wood ties. There are three ties for my caboose’s track. Normally there are only two ties for one length of track and the ties are on the ground. Not cement. Grandpa and the guys are ‘over building’ just to make sure Mom stays onboard with the project.
Her support is still shaky.
But it’s hard to fight public option.
The mine cave-in in our back alley creates a big hole and a whole lot of excitement. Not only in our neighborhood but all over town. The newspaper people show up before the orange warning cones start blocking off the alley. They take pictures. Ask questions. Make suggestions.
Once they get their lead story, they go looking for human interest. A family dog saving a kid from falling into a mine shaft is as good as it gets.
A reporter from the newspaper asks me a lot of questions about finding the hole. How Bill Duck, Horsey and i sneak out of the house. If we were scared. She asks about Mom and Dad. And Grandma and Grandpa. And Bill Duck and Horsey.
Mom winks at the reporter.
Says Bill Duck and Horsey are hard for most people to see.
The reporter smiles.
Asks about Susie saving my life….running back and forth from the house to the hole barking loud enough to wake Mom and Dad and the folks next door. Susie didn’t like Bill Duck and me throwing rocks in the hole.
Neither did Mom.
Or Dad.
You can read all about the hole in the book DogWater….‘Bill Duck Finds a Hole’.
The reporter asks about school. I’m in first grade. She asks about the things i like to do. Most of all i like to go down to Grandpa’s lab. Walk around the train yard. Pick up lumps of coal and throw them at the steam engines. The steam engines are made of black steel, so the coal doesn’t hurt them or even leave a mark. If the men at the facility are moving engines around Grandpa and i can ride in the cab with the engineer and fireman. Grandpa holds me up so i can pull the whistle chain.
The reporter asks if i want to be a railroad man.
Maybe.
What i really want is a caboose.
The reporter laughs.
Says i’ll have to grow up and get my own railroad.
I shake my head.
No. Grandpa can get me one right now.
She looks shocked.
Mom looks upset.
I explain that the railroad is getting rid of a lot of old wood cabooses. They’ll be torn apart and taken to junk yards. Grandpa can get me one and put it in the back yard. It’ll be the best playhouse in town. My grin must be catching. The reporter starts laughing. Says a caboose in the backyard will certainly make me the most popular kid in my neighborhood.
I shrug.
Mom says we can’t get it.
The reporter turns to Mom.
Mom immediately starts explaining how dangerous a caboose in the yard will be for little kids. The reporter nods. Agrees. But says she’s seen a lot of playhouses and tree-forts that aren’t as well made as a real caboose. Of course, that’s a decision for Mom and Dad….
and a whole bunch of people who write to the newspaper.
Seems the story sparks a lot of debate. Some are opposed to a caboose in the yard. Some in favor. Some question how the caboose will get in the yard. Some question if it’s legal to have a caboose in the backyard. Someone from the courthouse writes in to say that there are no laws against having a caboose in the backyard if a building permit is obtained.
Over the next few weeks there is as much talk in town about the caboose as the mine cave-in. Whenever we go shopping, someone is always asking about the cave-in….
and the caboose.
Mom gets asked about how scared she must have been when she and Dad found Bill Duck and me throwing rocks in the hole. Of course they sympathize with Mom. But eventually they ask about the caboose. Maybe grin.
Mom finally gives in.
Too much pressure from family, friends, neighbors, and casual acquaintances in the grocery store. If Grandpa can make the caboose safe by Mom’s standards, he can put one in our backyard.
Bill Duck, Horsey and i are back on track to becoming the most popular people in our neighborhood.
Grandpa and his friends will take the outside ladders off the caboose. So, we can’t climb up on the caboose roof.
Bill Duck and i check the ladder in the garage.
We’re pretty sure it will be long enough to get to the roof.
The guys from the maintenance yard are also building steps with railings to get in the caboose. And a real nice stair on the inside to get up to the cupola.
The cupola has a platform with benches. And windows all around. There’s enough room on the platform for two men….maybe four kids, to sit and look out over the caboose.
And the yard.
And the street.
And probably to the Thompson’s house on the next block.
The caboose is being repainted in Kansas City Southern colors. Red and yellow. There’ll also be new KCS shields painted on both sides.
The potbellied coal stove in the caboose is already gone.
Dad’s suggestion.
He says Mom will never go for having a fire of any kind in the caboose. They’re also replacing the glass windows with thick plastic. No worries about broken glass in the yard.
Or in the caboose.
Grandpa says guys from the train-yard will weld the caboose wheels to the track so there’s not chance of it moving
By the time Mom agrees to the caboose, the mineshaft and tunnel are full of dirt and sand and rock. Some rocks so big that one rock completely fills a dump truck. The mine company, in a flash of public relations brilliance, agrees to use their big trailers and cranes to help set the caboose in the yard. They also announce that once the caboose is secured on it’s track, there’ll be a party.
Ballons and games.
Hotdogs and hamburgers.
Potato salad and baked beans.
Pies and cakes and Cokes. Enough for all our neighborhood.
The newspaper reporters will be back.
So will the TV folks.
Bill Duck, Horsey and i really don’t really care about the party.
The people.
Or reporters.
The games.
Or food….
unless we can have it in our caboose.
The Day i Leave Earth #
The day i learn the safety of just leaving Earth.
Davy Gene and i plan this outing for weeks. Six weeks. The only thing left to chance is the weather. And the fishing. However….
Davy Gene is religious.
Very religious.
Comes from a long line of ministers and church going aunts. He’s confident God will understand our need.
God does.
No clouds. No one fishing at the Strip-Pit Rally Course.
At oh-seven-hundred Davy Gene walks through the front door. His new tuned-up, washed-up, gassed-up, cleaned-up Datsun 240Z waits in the driveway.
Nose-out.
He tosses his Marine Corps field jacket on the couch. ‘Won’t need this.’
Tuesday May 29nd, 1973.
Sunny. Warming. Mid 70’s.
Davy Gene walks into the kitchen lighting a joint. A thin, perfectly rolled high-quality marijuana cigarette.
‘Want a brat?’
Davy Gene pulls out a kitchen chair.
Sits.
The first time we meet, Davy Gene’s working a grill full of bratwurst. There are seven or eight, grills going at the Camp LeJeune Married NCO (noncommissioned officer) Housing common area. A Sunday afternoon barbeque. A monthly event throughout the Summer. Davy Gene and his wife live three doors down from my platoon sergeant. Dutch and his wife.
My invite to the barbeque.
Before Dutch introduces me, Davy Gene says, ‘Want a brat?’ picking up a brat with a pair of well used grill tongs. With his other hand he plucks a bun off another grill he’s tending.
‘Warm buns make all the difference.’
Being a lowly Lance Corporal i live in a standard U.S. Marine Corps barracks. Dutch’s wife Sharon, demonstrating a platoon full of pity, occasionally invites me over. Usually for dinner.
And to meet a girl.
Sharon comes from a long line of Jewish matchmakers. Seems my family background is sufficient for her to accept me as a client.
Barracks life creates an intimate comradery….and a need to get off base at any opportunity. Dinner at a ‘real’ house with ‘real’ furniture and a ‘real’ bathroom
not shared with 10 other guys
makes my time at Dutch and Sharon’s almost Heaven. Throw in spending the evening with a girl and i’m well beyond the ‘golden gates’.
Later in life i learn that Davy Gene is an artist.
With pen and ink as well as charcoal.
His drawings have a wealth of detail. Often microscopic. They can now be found all over the Midwest.
Some of his drawings are large. Billboards, board rooms, art galleries, court rooms, school rooms, living rooms.
Some of his drawings are small. Letterheads, invitations, theater programs, business cards, Bibles (‘Occasionally Uncle LeRoy’s sermons are a bit too platitudinous).’
Some his drawings are even found in gas station bathrooms.
‘My best work’.
Occasionally Davy Gene creates metal sculptures.
Large metal sculptures.
Thousand-pound metal sculptures….proving the masculinity hidden in his delicate pen and ink work.
Three years after we get out of the Corps, he and i reconnect in college. The ‘local school’ for both of us. Our respective hometowns are only 40 miles from campus. Something not mentioned in our 12-word barbeque interaction.
Our re-introduction is at the student union information desk. Both talking to the brunette at the desk. She’s remarkably pretty.
And remarkably friendly.
During my first couple of weeks at school i find numerous reasons to return for information. Finally finding the courage to ask a question that has nothing to do with student union.
Or campus.
But a lot to do with Friday evening.
As i walk up to the information desk i focus on the tall guy standing next to her. A good-looking dude who is obviously remarkably comfortable in his own skin.
Probably another student worker.
When i get to the desk she smiles. Calls me by name. Introduces me to her boyfriend.
Her live-in boyfriend.
I smile. Mentally running through enough regulation Marine Corps swear words to make Dutch proud.
Sitting in the student union cafeteria drinking an afternoon cup of coffee my would-be girlfriend’s boyfriend walks over and sits down. Seems my would-be girlfriend tells him i’m also a former Jarhead. Somewhere during our third cup of coffee Sunday afternoon barbeques at the married NCO housing are mentioned.
So are brats.
By the time we settle into a pitcher of beer at the bar across the street from campus
my would-be girlfriend’s boyfriend is one of my best friends. My would-be girlfriend becomes his new wife and my best female friend. A few years later he becomes the best-man at my wedding.
The day we meet at the Camp LeJeune cookout Davy Gene and i share12 words before we part ways. Our meeting sliding out of memory. By Rally Day were sharing tens of thousands.
Words.
And memories.
Davy Gene scoots his chair closer to the kitchen table. Holds the joint so i can take a hit. I’m patiently and methodically reducing an ounce of marijuana to powder in a well-worn 9 by 13 inch baking pan. My fingers covered with sticky golden-brown resin recently clinging to the fine hairs on the buds of Michoacan. A full ounce of buds. No leaves. No stems. No seeds.
Sinsemilla.
Sinsemilla is something new in the 1970s marijuana market. A female pot plant that is not pollinated. As soon as any male plants are identified in the crop they are ripped from the Earth. Consequently, the female plant doesn’t produce seeds. Instead produces more THC. The good stuff.
We smoke.
We drink coffee.
We swap stories.
Stories featuring bars.
And girls.
Most Marines tell friends and family adventure stories. Stories about traveling. Being deployed. Foreign countries. Maybe combat. Most Jarheads talking among themselves tell stories that start and end with girls. Maybe a bar fight thrown in for color.
After another cup of coffee and a couple of stories about redheaded barmaids the pot is reduced to powder. Almost as fine as the Gold Medal flour it’s about to join.
Although we’re using a Betty Crocker fudge brownie mix Grandma encourages me to add two heaping tablespoons of Gold Medal Premium Quality Self-Rising Flour to the mix. Not sure where her knowledge comes from….there are no mixes of any kind in her house. Grandma only bakes from scratch. But pleasantly surprised i’m baking anything she gives me a pass on scratch-only-recipes.
I never mention the cup of marijuana.
Once the Michoacan and Gold Medal are thoroughly mixed with Betty Crocker’s concoction we settle back with another cup of coffee. Soon the kitchen is filling with a delightful smell of brownies….
and marijuana.
While the brownies cool a bit Davy Gene rolls a couple of more joints for the road.
Once the brownies are almost cool, we cut them into 5-inch by 3-inch squares.
We each have one.
Finish our coffee. Lock up the house. Head for the Strip-Pit Rally Course.
Davy Gene driving.
Me riding shotgun.
Our piece of the Southern Kansas/Western Missouri border is covered in coal. Some far enough underground that miners dig deep to find it. Some almost on the surface.
Eighty years ago, is the highpoint of local mining. It’s a time when government regulations are quite lax.
Very lax.
This lack of regulation leads to a fair number of deaths deep in the Earth.
Including my mother’s father.
This same lack of regulation above ground leads to some fine fishing.
Steam shovels,
really big steam shovels,
scrape off 20 to 60 feet of earth to get to the ‘surface seams’ of coal. The overburden is piled up next to the pit. In time grass and bushes and bugs and trees grow. The pits fill in with water. Fish flourish.
Some fish are brought in by the state forestry people.
Some fish drop by on vacation and stay.
Hundreds of fishing holes now cover Southeast Kansas/Southwest Missouri. Fishing holes of varying sizes. Some small. Some big. Big enough to waterski. Deep enough for SCUBA diving.
Side Note:
SCUBA diving in the strip-pits is illegal.
Davy Gene loves fishing.
Hates swimming.
But his feelings don’t deter him saving me on several diving adventures.
‘Always Carry a Fishing Reel in Your Critter-Bag’
The Strip-Pit Rally Course is on the Missouri side. Eleven miles from my driveway. Hard surface roads for the first nine miles. Then dirt.
Lots of dirt.
About 30 miles of dirt roads thread around some 25 strip pit fishing holes.
We hit the dirt just as the sinsemilla Michoacan assumes ascendency over Betty Crocker’s fudge with Gold Medal Premium Quality Self-Rising Flour.
Our first run along the course takes an award winning 13 minutes 30 seconds.
I know.
I’m holding the stopwatch.
Davy Gene looks over. ‘Hell, we can beat that.’
Trees on either side of the road become a green tunnel. The first tunnel we blast out of….
i scream.
The bright light in the open field races along my optic nerves, almost reaching my brain before we dive back into another green tunnel. Attempting to reconnect understanding i turn around. Look out the back window into a swirling tan nothingness. We are running from a rooster-tail of dirt probably visible to the astronauts in Skylab.
Two miles into the third lap i take a deep breath and kiss the Earth goodbye.
It seems the safest thing to do…..
Davy Gene’s wife puts another hamburger on my plate. ‘If you guys want some more i’ll have to get them on while the coals are still hot.’
She smiles.
Hands me another beer.
I spend about seven years in a Hippie haze. Sex, drugs, rock and roll, hitchhiking and writing. My only anchor….
Davy-Gene and my best female friend’s home.
Always Carry a Fishing Reel in Your Critter-Bag #
Contemporary coal mining practices are more environmentally sound than our great-grandparents practices. But their lack of environmental awareness left our part of Southeast Kansas/Southwest Missouri with some awesome fishing holes.
Our part of the world has (had) enough coal to choke a horse.
Well, a mule.
Mules are the animal of choice in coal mines. Especially in deep mines. Mules are tough. Their hooves are hard. Their legs are short. They work on and around jagged piles of coal and rock more easily than horses. They can work in any tunnel where a man can work. Mules don’t eat or drink as much as a horse. They don’t ‘spook’ as easily as horses.
And they don’t produce as much waste.
Except gas.
Mule gas smells….methane doesn’t. Mule gas may make the canaries turn a bit green but won’t kill them. Methane will…..just before it kills the men and mules.
Our part of Southeast Kansas/Southwest Missouri is rich with coal.
Some deep.
Some surface.
The story that coal and other fossil fuels are formed by decaying dinosaurs is if anything allegorical.
At best.
Coal comes from the conversion of Carboniferous Period plants to burnable rock.
Bituminous coal around here.
This wonderful conversion takes about 300 million years and begins about 75 million years before dinosaurs start walking around. Kansas and Missouri coal lays largely undisturbed for all those millions of years. Undisturbed by almost everyone. Even dinosaurs.
The great railroad boom in the 1800s makes it possible for us to pull most the Kansas/Missouri coal out of the ground in less than 150 years.
By 1880 our area boosts some 300 deep mines.
By 1900 really big power shovels are stripping away 60 plus feet of dirt to get at surface coal before trundling on. The dirt overburden piling up next to the pit. The concept of reclamation is getting some press, but we don’t give it much credence.
The coal is gone.
Hundreds of strip pits left behind.
Eventually they fill with water. Grass, bushes, trees grow on the dirt piled next to the strip pits. Eventually they become fishing holes. Some world-class fishing holes.
Some so small that a kid can easily cast from one side to the other. Usually catching a bush before breaking their fishing line.
Some strip pits are so large two speed boats pulling water-skiers can run side-by-side.
Some strip pits are full of crystal-clear water, six to 12 feet deep. Perfect for swimming.
Or snorkeling.
Some strip pits are 40, 50, 60 plus feet deep. Deep enough that 20 feet down a lungful of air awakens a need for SCUBA gear.
Just to see what’s there.
However….
SCUBA diving in strip pits is illegal. Hundreds of dollars in fines and confiscation of equipment.
However…..
Law enforcement, county, state, Fish and Game are all ‘outdoorsy’ people. The kind of people who have fun hunting and fishing.
All outdoorsy people have stories about the one that gets away. A deer. A turkey. A fish.
All outdoorsy people have stories about losing something. A knife. A flashlight. Fishing gear. Occasionally the lost object is quickly forgotten. Occasionally the lost object has memorable value.
Actual or sentimental.
Time to talk to Davy Gene.
Davy Gene loves to fish.
Spring, Summer and Fall he spends a solid 15 to 25 hours a week fishing in a small aluminum flat-bottom boat with a small trolling motor.
Small thermos of coffee.
Some high-quality marijuana.
Davy Gene has a substantial collection of fishing gear. Rods. Reels. Nets. Tackle boxes filled with perfect flies, spinners, spoons, plugs, lures, jigs for any occasion. Or any fish. Davy Gene is also a friend.
A good friend.
Best man in our wedding.
A Marine Cops buddy who’ll always take my call. At any time. From anywhere.
Even collect.
In the Fall of 1971, the Shimano Dux 15 fishing reel hits the market. By the Spring of 1972 it’s available in Midwest big cities. Davy Gene drives to Kansas City to get one.
Tries it out as soon as he gets home.
Decides he doesn’t like it.
Gives it to me.
I rarely fish.
But i frequently tag along to carry gear. Help get the boat in and out of the water. Complement Davy Gene on his skill. Pour some coffee. Smoke some weed.
I am, however, a hell of a SCUBA diver. And our strip pits are too good not to dive.
Time to talk to Davy Gene.
He knows the laws and loopholes on what can and cannot be done in, on, or around a strip pit. He quickly comes up with a plan. A plan just this side of foolproof. A plan proving he’ll do anything to support my devotion to diving. He knows the need of being on the water.
On the water.
Not in the water.
Certainly not under the water.
He hates swimming. SCUBA diving is nowhere near a conscious thought. But he’ll faithfully support my madness.
Underwater i always have critter bag. A small nylon mesh bag snap-linked to a front ring of my tank harness. The bag is good for storing interesting underwater finds. Fish, shells, weird bits of metal, even coral.
When out in the ocean.
Rocks, bullet cases, weird bits of metal, a Shimano Dux 15.
When in a strip pit.
I do dozens of dives in strip pits all over our area. Only twice is our plan tested when i find representatives of law enforcement waiting when i surface.
Once a county sheriff.
Once a game warden.
Both ask the same question. ‘Do you know it’s illegal to SCUBA dive in a stirp pit?’
Both get the same answer, ‘Yes sir. But i’ve been looking for this guy’s fishing reel.’ I say digging the Shimano Dux 15 out of my critter-bag. ‘His wife just gave it to him.’
While i’m pulling my gear off, both members of law enforcement perform the same 20th century ritual.
They radio their dispatcher.
The dispatcher calls the phone number i’ve given them.
Davy Gene answers on the second ring. He’s thrilled that his missing Shimano Dux 15 has been found. The reel is a gift from his wife. He tells the dispatcher that he never expected me go look for it. But he knows i know how upset he is at losing the reel. Being a former Marine Corps buddy i must have taken it on myself to go search.
Despite the consequences.
Law enforcement people are often former military. If not, they are always promilitary. Either way they know what it’s like to help a buddy. Know what it’s like to lose something outdoors. Hunting. Or fishing.
Know what it’s like to be willing to risk a fine to help a friend.
Both strip pit encounters with law enforcement end with a lecture on SCUBA diving in strip pits. A handshake. And an escort back to the main road. Just to make sure their lecture is taken seriously.
What they never seem to figure out is that i always check-in with Davy Gene before diving. Tell him where i’m going. Make sure he’s going to be at his house. Or studio. Near a phone.
Just in case law enforcement calls
Christmas Lights #
A non-ecclesiastical Christmas trend.
After Thanksgiving.
At least that’s the common knowledge when i grow up.
Middle of the 20th Century.
Usually, the week after Thanksgiving Christmas lights start to appear.
First in stores.
Then homes.
They blaze our evenings. A welcome distraction to the dark of December. Welcome enough that we pile in the car.
No seatbelts yet.
But plenty of blankets.
Mom and Dad in the front. Kids in the back. Then drive. Around our neighborhood. Then another.
Maybe another.
The whole while trying to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ enough to keep Mom from turning around to scold us….for not ‘oohing and aahing as much as her. When the requisite number of oohs and aahs are reached we head home for hot chocolate.
Occasionally Dad and Mom will share a cup of coffee from Dad’s Stanley thermos. And maybe, if it’s cold enough, the kids will be allowed a sip. Once the metal thermos-top-cup is cool enough.
By the second weekend of January, December’s cold colorless nights reclaim our evenings.
Times change.
Christmas lights hit the stores early November. Thanksgiving weekend most families now split their time between football and parades. Their Christmas tree, wreaths, yards decorated with bright twinkling lights.
By the first of December i can read a newspaper sitting in the front yard. Well I can if i can find a newspaper. The daily newspaper, like the Dodo, is waddling to extinction.
Certainly, if our Christmas lights are not up by the second week of December neighbors are stopping by to make sure all is well.
No one in the hospital.
No deaths.
As a card carrying ‘well-in-my-day-senior-citizen’ i’m tempted to say ‘well in my day….’
but…
I really like the lights. I’m learning to support our ‘people’s proclamation’ that the dark days of Winter will not win.
Not this year.
Not this month.
Not this week.
Not this….
‘In my day’ Christmas lights are safely in the attic by the second weekend in January.
No sooner.
No later.
It’s a more religious time.
The lights, after all, commemorate the star’s light lighting the way for the shepherds and wise men. Who arrive a proper 12 days after the birth. Time enough for Joseph, Mary, Jesus and a couple of cows to have some ‘new family’ bonding time. So, the weekend after Twelfth Night all lights in boxes. All boxes put away.
These days Christmas lights are under bushels by the weekend after Christmas.
I miss the lights.
More than i miss the religious significance.
Apparently i’m not alone.
At least on the lights.
Although most lights are dutifully gone by the first Sunday after Christmas there are a few families keeping them trimmed and burning.
Well past Epiphany.
As January fades, our neighborhood and others in our town, still have some Christmas lights up. Usually white. Usually draped on bushes. Around doors. And occasionally peaking through a window from their Christmas tree sanctuary.
Not as many. Or elaborate. Or colorful as mid-December. Not enough to read by. But enough to sparkle a street.
Enough to encourage the long way home.
newhouse notebook 