Thursday, May 3, 2012
Will the real singer please stand.
This is my first blob since June, 2011.
Many years ago, (well, "Many Years Ago" is a better start than "It was a Dark and Stormy night", but not much better) Brian was kinda taken with the brand new release of Whitney Houston's signature song "I Will Always Love You". It was a great piece of work.
Just a quick bit of background: Young'uns are never impressed with Dad's old Oldsmobile, so it was no surprise that Brian had little tolerance for his Mom's and Dad's oldies music, either. Like a big-mouthed buffoon, I let it slip that this was an old Dolly Parton tune. Brian's face went white for a moment before it went to an enraged hue of red-purple. "That's Whitney's song! Dolly Parton is a shameless imitator." Being a witless moron, I said "Dolly wrote the song." Brian's shoulders kinda drooped, but for only a second. He had no answer.
Fast forward many years to the present. At our fiftieth wedding anniversary Todd and Jodi and the kids assembled a wonderful big-screen montage of family photos, accompanied by some of our favorite oldies songs. Before the guests began to arrive we all watched and listened. I had sworn that my emotions were NOT going to play in, but this was a bit unexpected. Ma and I were really surprised by all the fabulous decor put up by our kids and spouses.
Anyway, one of the songs was "I Will Always Love You"........... By Dolly Parton. It received good comments, like " Ooh, nice" and "This is great!" But I was was watching Brian. He didn't disappoint. He spoke in measured tones, saying "Dolly Parton Murdered Whitney Houston and stole her song."
Thursday, June 2, 2011
We had a dilemma. Our ol' toilet in my bathroom hasn't been working too well. It became apparent yesterday that it must be replaced. We were sitting in the living room discussing the awfulness of the situation. Dilemma: do we pay $379.00 for a plumber or do we pay $144.00 and turn me loose on the project. I am not a plumber. For one thing, my pants don't go down nearly far enough to even begin to show a plumber's butt crack.
I decided that it was just too risky. Translated, that means that I'm just too dang lazy and fearful. Having never installed a toilet before, I decided, with finality, that it was too scarrrry. Suddenly, someone on the tv said "Eleanore Roosevelt once said, 'you should do something that scares you every day'". That's the truth. The timing was perfect. Perfectly horrid! I looked at Maudeen. She looked at me.
I KNOW there is a life after death, because I KNOW I will eventually find Eleanor Roosevelt and give her a piece of my mind.
The guy at Home Depot showed me all the fine points of my upcoming project. I was especially impressed with the notice that said "no tools needed". I asked about that. The guy said, "If you believe that, I have a bridge I can sell you. If your fingers are as strong as Arnold Schwartzneggar's, you will be fine. Otherwise you will need tools. Just be gentle." Oh, now I'm supposed to be a gentle plumber.
Several hours later, after dragging out a heavy "twalatte" and dragging in a heavy twalatte and dealing successfully with that demoralizing WAX RING I was done. as in d-o-n-e. I hadn't broken the porcelain. I hadn't stripped any threads. There were no leaks. I even put my tools away. Okay, I lie. The tools are not yet put away, but they are stacked neatly in the corner.
Deenie said: "I can't believe this. I just cannot believe this". She thought I would be on the phone shouting,"Kenneth, get over here".
So, if you need a plumber, feel free to call..... Buttcrack Plumbing. You can find them in the yellow pages.
I decided that it was just too risky. Translated, that means that I'm just too dang lazy and fearful. Having never installed a toilet before, I decided, with finality, that it was too scarrrry. Suddenly, someone on the tv said "Eleanore Roosevelt once said, 'you should do something that scares you every day'". That's the truth. The timing was perfect. Perfectly horrid! I looked at Maudeen. She looked at me.
I KNOW there is a life after death, because I KNOW I will eventually find Eleanor Roosevelt and give her a piece of my mind.
The guy at Home Depot showed me all the fine points of my upcoming project. I was especially impressed with the notice that said "no tools needed". I asked about that. The guy said, "If you believe that, I have a bridge I can sell you. If your fingers are as strong as Arnold Schwartzneggar's, you will be fine. Otherwise you will need tools. Just be gentle." Oh, now I'm supposed to be a gentle plumber.
Several hours later, after dragging out a heavy "twalatte" and dragging in a heavy twalatte and dealing successfully with that demoralizing WAX RING I was done. as in d-o-n-e. I hadn't broken the porcelain. I hadn't stripped any threads. There were no leaks. I even put my tools away. Okay, I lie. The tools are not yet put away, but they are stacked neatly in the corner.
Deenie said: "I can't believe this. I just cannot believe this". She thought I would be on the phone shouting,"Kenneth, get over here".
So, if you need a plumber, feel free to call..... Buttcrack Plumbing. You can find them in the yellow pages.
We are the greatest grandparents in the WORLD! Not - in this case - great grandparents, merely grandparents, but great, you understand. We support Connor in every last thing he does. He can always count on us. We are just... outstanding, y'know?
This has been one of our best weeks. We waved a Pikachu flag at his graduation. His friends pounded on his back quite a bit, pointing at us. He tried to look nonchalant, mostly looking in the other direction. What a guy.
Then, the next evening, the graduating class of Jordan High held a celebration party. Not a single parent showed up. Not a single school administrator showed up. Not a single adult showed up. We were the only grandparents there. We were so proud. We danced the light fantastic. We seemed to be the center of attention. We loved it. However, Connor didn't seem to be feeling too well. He sat over in a corner with his hands over his eyes. We eventually went over to him and asked if he'd like for us to get him an aspirin. He was so sweet. He said, "no, you have done enough". His hands never left his eyes.
He is planning a trip to Ireland right away. He doesn't know it yet, but we have our reservations made and our bags packed. We don't know exactly where he will be, but we'll find him. We WILL find him.
Editor;s note: Yes, this a spoof. He hasn't graduated yet. Grandma Maudeen casually mentioned to me that Connor was planning a party the night after graduation. But, she knows that I am easily befuddled, so she quickly added, "but we won't be attending that". The incongruity of it all hit me pretty hard. I awoke in the night, thinking, wow, there hasta be a blob in here somewhere.
This has been one of our best weeks. We waved a Pikachu flag at his graduation. His friends pounded on his back quite a bit, pointing at us. He tried to look nonchalant, mostly looking in the other direction. What a guy.
Then, the next evening, the graduating class of Jordan High held a celebration party. Not a single parent showed up. Not a single school administrator showed up. Not a single adult showed up. We were the only grandparents there. We were so proud. We danced the light fantastic. We seemed to be the center of attention. We loved it. However, Connor didn't seem to be feeling too well. He sat over in a corner with his hands over his eyes. We eventually went over to him and asked if he'd like for us to get him an aspirin. He was so sweet. He said, "no, you have done enough". His hands never left his eyes.
He is planning a trip to Ireland right away. He doesn't know it yet, but we have our reservations made and our bags packed. We don't know exactly where he will be, but we'll find him. We WILL find him.
Editor;s note: Yes, this a spoof. He hasn't graduated yet. Grandma Maudeen casually mentioned to me that Connor was planning a party the night after graduation. But, she knows that I am easily befuddled, so she quickly added, "but we won't be attending that". The incongruity of it all hit me pretty hard. I awoke in the night, thinking, wow, there hasta be a blob in here somewhere.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Frank
I cannot bring myself to compose a complete personal history, so the next best thing might be to tell stories from my past. Some personal histories are so dry! I hope this will be a litt-a-bit easier to read.
During the late spring of 1959, I found myself running around at 6:30 or 7:00 a.m., getting ready for school in Monticello, Utah, 55 miles away. We were acting a bit crazy, as the school year was almost over. I can't for the life of me remember why I was tearing around with Frank Long at that outlandish hour when he was not in school.
Maybe he had just gotten off graveyard shift at one of the mines.I guess he was lonely. He had graduated a year earlier from some high school in central Utah. I didn't know him too well. He had stories to tell. He had tossed up an outlandish hook shot from midcourt at the buzzer to win a game for (Salina?)High.
Jay Lish, Jim McTaggart, Ralph Ramstetter,Jimmy Dennison and I were planning to run to school that day in Jay's old '48 Plymouth. (Later owned by Eddie Burton.) Frank said, "ride with me at least as far as La Sal Junction." I thought about it and said, "naw, if I did that I would (A) have to wait for them at the junction, or (B) not get a front seat." I really don't remember why I bailed out of Frank's car.
We headed out while the school bus was loading up with high schoolers. Jay was a speedy guy, but I don't remember us being in a hurry. Jay looked in his rear view mirror and shouted, "here comes Frank". That Plymouth was no slouch, but Frank was in a '51 Mercury. We stepped on it. We were soon doing 80 or 90 miles per hour, just short of the turnoff to the mining district where most of us lived. Frank must have been doing 110 or even 120 as he started around us. That Mercury was a piece of work. It was faasst.
His left wheels just barely got off the pavement. At a lower speed this would have been no problem. But he couldn't correct. He went into the barrow pit (who coined that silly phrase, "barrow pit" anyway?) He slammed into the berm (another silly word) containing the turnoff.He went airborne for a bit, then landed on the highway not more than 15 feet in front of us. But he was sideways to us. I saw - for an instant - the panic on his face. Then, he was gone in a cloud of dust.
It took 200, maybe 300 feet to stop. We went running. It must have been a windless day, because we ran into the cloud of dust, unable to see anything. We found the demolished Merc. No one knows how many times it rolled, but it ended up on its wheels. We couldn't find Frank. I was afraid he might be under the car. We could never have rolled that big monster over onto its side. We went running around, screaming, "Frank". Someone said "he's over here". He had been crushed by the car.
He was breathing, but he had an ominous pink fluid on his lips. (Sorry for being a bit graphic, but you knew this was coming.) He soon stopped breathing. The school bus came by. The driver jumped out to see if he could help. He jumped back into the bus to get the kids away from that gruesome sight.
Carloads of miners came by, heading for work, all of them jumping out to try to help, then sadly moving on. We stood there in silence. I couldn't help noticing the perfect clear blue sky. Frank's brother and grandmother soon arrived from the trailer court where they all lived. Seeing Grandma's face was a terrible moment.
After surveying the scene, the brother, (Jack?) (My memory fails) went over and sat on the running board of his old pickup truck. After a while he had some words for us. But not many. He clenched his fist and said "if I ever catch any of you speeding, I'm gonna....".
It took two hours for a Highway Patrolman to arrive. I knew the local fuzz, but I cannot remember whether it was Claude Lacy Or another guy. Ahh, my wonderful memory. I'm glad I am getting this all down. My friends would now all say, "no, it happened this way, or this way" but I haven't seen any of them in fifty years. The Patrolman sent us on our way. We wanted to stay and help get Frank into an ambulance or hearse, but we followed instructions.
As we walked into the high school at about noon, we told the principal that we had to go to the Highway Patrol office to file reports. Principal Burr told us to report and then take the rest of the day off. All the way down to the office, we worked frantically to make sure our stories jibed, I.E.,"Oh no, we weren't speeding. Oh, no, Frank wasn't speeding". We were interviewed separately. None of us were sentenced to 20 years for lying. The cops weren't dumb. They were just not interested in prying the truth out of us. Or maybe someone TOLD the truth, satisfying the interrogator.
During the late spring of 1959, I found myself running around at 6:30 or 7:00 a.m., getting ready for school in Monticello, Utah, 55 miles away. We were acting a bit crazy, as the school year was almost over. I can't for the life of me remember why I was tearing around with Frank Long at that outlandish hour when he was not in school.
Maybe he had just gotten off graveyard shift at one of the mines.I guess he was lonely. He had graduated a year earlier from some high school in central Utah. I didn't know him too well. He had stories to tell. He had tossed up an outlandish hook shot from midcourt at the buzzer to win a game for (Salina?)High.
Jay Lish, Jim McTaggart, Ralph Ramstetter,Jimmy Dennison and I were planning to run to school that day in Jay's old '48 Plymouth. (Later owned by Eddie Burton.) Frank said, "ride with me at least as far as La Sal Junction." I thought about it and said, "naw, if I did that I would (A) have to wait for them at the junction, or (B) not get a front seat." I really don't remember why I bailed out of Frank's car.
We headed out while the school bus was loading up with high schoolers. Jay was a speedy guy, but I don't remember us being in a hurry. Jay looked in his rear view mirror and shouted, "here comes Frank". That Plymouth was no slouch, but Frank was in a '51 Mercury. We stepped on it. We were soon doing 80 or 90 miles per hour, just short of the turnoff to the mining district where most of us lived. Frank must have been doing 110 or even 120 as he started around us. That Mercury was a piece of work. It was faasst.
His left wheels just barely got off the pavement. At a lower speed this would have been no problem. But he couldn't correct. He went into the barrow pit (who coined that silly phrase, "barrow pit" anyway?) He slammed into the berm (another silly word) containing the turnoff.He went airborne for a bit, then landed on the highway not more than 15 feet in front of us. But he was sideways to us. I saw - for an instant - the panic on his face. Then, he was gone in a cloud of dust.
It took 200, maybe 300 feet to stop. We went running. It must have been a windless day, because we ran into the cloud of dust, unable to see anything. We found the demolished Merc. No one knows how many times it rolled, but it ended up on its wheels. We couldn't find Frank. I was afraid he might be under the car. We could never have rolled that big monster over onto its side. We went running around, screaming, "Frank". Someone said "he's over here". He had been crushed by the car.
He was breathing, but he had an ominous pink fluid on his lips. (Sorry for being a bit graphic, but you knew this was coming.) He soon stopped breathing. The school bus came by. The driver jumped out to see if he could help. He jumped back into the bus to get the kids away from that gruesome sight.
Carloads of miners came by, heading for work, all of them jumping out to try to help, then sadly moving on. We stood there in silence. I couldn't help noticing the perfect clear blue sky. Frank's brother and grandmother soon arrived from the trailer court where they all lived. Seeing Grandma's face was a terrible moment.
After surveying the scene, the brother, (Jack?) (My memory fails) went over and sat on the running board of his old pickup truck. After a while he had some words for us. But not many. He clenched his fist and said "if I ever catch any of you speeding, I'm gonna....".
It took two hours for a Highway Patrolman to arrive. I knew the local fuzz, but I cannot remember whether it was Claude Lacy Or another guy. Ahh, my wonderful memory. I'm glad I am getting this all down. My friends would now all say, "no, it happened this way, or this way" but I haven't seen any of them in fifty years. The Patrolman sent us on our way. We wanted to stay and help get Frank into an ambulance or hearse, but we followed instructions.
As we walked into the high school at about noon, we told the principal that we had to go to the Highway Patrol office to file reports. Principal Burr told us to report and then take the rest of the day off. All the way down to the office, we worked frantically to make sure our stories jibed, I.E.,"Oh no, we weren't speeding. Oh, no, Frank wasn't speeding". We were interviewed separately. None of us were sentenced to 20 years for lying. The cops weren't dumb. They were just not interested in prying the truth out of us. Or maybe someone TOLD the truth, satisfying the interrogator.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Greetinks and salutations to all who view this blob. All two of you. Baadd news from the television world. I saw a stupidly stupid ad featuring a BLOB! He was a little square cube-like character, resembling qbert, advertising something or something. I, the original Blob, (almost original) have been replaced. I shall eventually fight to the finish, but for now......... it's ok.
It has to be ok. What's beyond angered? Beyond astounded? b'yond infuriated?? The only word I can conjure up is.....mumblized. I am disheartened and mumblized at this outrage. But it's ok. For NOW. I mumble a lot anyway, but mumblization is debilitating, so I shall take the high road, the higher road and - well you get it. But be aware, Mister Elephant never forgets.... I am done talking about THAT blob.
I won't even capitalize his name. His logo is moronic. his message is unrememberable. His colors are red and white. Need I say more? I think not. Far below mud and muck you will find slime. This guy is slime. Nothin' more to say.
On a happier note, I can report that this little freak was the product of advertising genii who probably never got past seventh grade. What is lower than moron? Lower than idiot? I got it. Imbecile. These Imbeciles, who cannot dress themselves, Have put manymanymany hours of hard work, laboring over chocolate donuts, and come up with a cube. With rounded corners. Genius!!! blob flies around like a demented bumblebeee, advertising whatever. I am proud to hold myself above the level of combatant in this issue. I have IMPORTANT themes to pursue.
The communication world is quickly becoming overrun with the mundane. MUNDANE? This quack is mundanious to a fault. That's right, a FAULT. I go now.
I shall be known as BLOBFISH! Blobfish the Indestructable. I have been refusing for some time now to look in any mirror that shows anything below the neck. Not that the image above the neck is any grand prize. BLOBFISH. Blobfish works well. Really well. B'fish will one day rule the television world. I will rule every channel, even those stupid cable channels. (Thank you, Ken, for bringing Enhanced Stupid to the family. NO! You are not stupid, enhanced! You merely put more and better emphasis on "stupid" than we have ever before witnessed.
Do you remember Seinfeld, the show about nothing? Well, this is Blobfish , the blob about nothing. I had a theme in mind. (I really did.) But I became incensed with the unfairness of it all that I just had to make one short little comment about "blob, - the Interloper". See, I didn't "cap" his name. Good for me. I go now. We'll see what the little creep thinks of that. I'm through talking about him. Or her. Or it. That's it! It'an it! I am gone now.
It has to be ok. What's beyond angered? Beyond astounded? b'yond infuriated?? The only word I can conjure up is.....mumblized. I am disheartened and mumblized at this outrage. But it's ok. For NOW. I mumble a lot anyway, but mumblization is debilitating, so I shall take the high road, the higher road and - well you get it. But be aware, Mister Elephant never forgets.... I am done talking about THAT blob.
I won't even capitalize his name. His logo is moronic. his message is unrememberable. His colors are red and white. Need I say more? I think not. Far below mud and muck you will find slime. This guy is slime. Nothin' more to say.
On a happier note, I can report that this little freak was the product of advertising genii who probably never got past seventh grade. What is lower than moron? Lower than idiot? I got it. Imbecile. These Imbeciles, who cannot dress themselves, Have put manymanymany hours of hard work, laboring over chocolate donuts, and come up with a cube. With rounded corners. Genius!!! blob flies around like a demented bumblebeee, advertising whatever. I am proud to hold myself above the level of combatant in this issue. I have IMPORTANT themes to pursue.
The communication world is quickly becoming overrun with the mundane. MUNDANE? This quack is mundanious to a fault. That's right, a FAULT. I go now.
I shall be known as BLOBFISH! Blobfish the Indestructable. I have been refusing for some time now to look in any mirror that shows anything below the neck. Not that the image above the neck is any grand prize. BLOBFISH. Blobfish works well. Really well. B'fish will one day rule the television world. I will rule every channel, even those stupid cable channels. (Thank you, Ken, for bringing Enhanced Stupid to the family. NO! You are not stupid, enhanced! You merely put more and better emphasis on "stupid" than we have ever before witnessed.
Do you remember Seinfeld, the show about nothing? Well, this is Blobfish , the blob about nothing. I had a theme in mind. (I really did.) But I became incensed with the unfairness of it all that I just had to make one short little comment about "blob, - the Interloper". See, I didn't "cap" his name. Good for me. I go now. We'll see what the little creep thinks of that. I'm through talking about him. Or her. Or it. That's it! It'an it! I am gone now.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Blobbing for Connor's Swim Team
Recently, we received a schedule of Connor's swim meets. I decided that I would not miss a single meet. Well, I missed the first one because I'm me. You know... Flagboy. On the day of the second meet, I found a good parking spot on the east end of the school and ran inside to find the pool.(Me? Running? Yeah, rright.) But I was hurrying.
I hustled like a man on a quest. I kept thinking I could smell the pool, or at least, feel the dampness in the air. When I got to the FAR west end of Jordan High, I finally lost faith in my keen nasal instincts and asked a guy where the swimming pool was. He seemed like a fellow who had been asked many many stupid questions by many decades of students, but this one had him stumped for a second or two. "There's no swimming pool."
Acting on his instructions, I went screaming for Mount Jordan Jr. High School where Jordan was competing with Grantsville. Connor is a senior and a team captain. The meet was fun and, of course, Con-man did really well.
I decided that, considering my navigational skills, I would stick to "home meets" for awhile. I had MJJH's location down pretty well, because we had watched Jodi compete there in gymnastics. The next meet was against Pleasant Grove. By this time I had my swagger back and went strolling in a half hour early. Things were looking smooth. But, alas, a girl met me at the door. "We need timers! Will you help?" I politely declined. "But it's really really easy, and you will do great." This poor girl had no knowledge of the whole "Flagboy" thing. She was very determined and I soon found myself sitting on a timer's bench. Connor came along, quite surprised to see me there. He was really excited for me. He, too, had no real grasp of "D-flaggs".
Okay... Ya hold two buttons. Ya push the right hand button at the instant the heat starts and both buttons at the instant the heat ends. Simple. I had no idea what the second button did, but I didn't care. I was on lane six where the younger kids compete, and sometimes lane six was empty. Nice. The kids all jumped off a platform. I was doing well. That is until the kids all jumped into the pool and then took their starting spot IN the pool, for the backstroke. I was confused, but just for ONE second. The starting horn was, for me, the STARTLING horn. I was most of one second late. I felt sooo bad. I worried about being arrested and thrown into a cell with Brian David Mitchell or Mark Hoffman or the guy with all the facial tattoos. The swim meet went well the rest of the way. The timer sitting next to me casually said, "Oh by the way, this is just "backup" timing. The actual timing is all electronic."
I was so busy with that stupid timer that I almost didn't get to see Connor compete. Oh well, it was great being ther with him. I assumed for some insanely wacky reason, that the boys dressing room was on tne south end and the girls were on the north. Oh, no. As I started out the south door, the one I thought I came in, a woman grabbed me and said, "you can't go out through the girls dressing room."
But, really, I am finding my way around the facility quite well. No. Really. I just wear a fake mustache and shades so the timer girl will never remember me.
And to think: Barbara called Jodi one day this week. She thought she heard some background noise. "What's going on?" Jodi replied, "Oh, I'm just feeding fifty swimmers." Sometimes I wonder if Jodi realizes how much I sacrificed that day to help Connor out.
I hustled like a man on a quest. I kept thinking I could smell the pool, or at least, feel the dampness in the air. When I got to the FAR west end of Jordan High, I finally lost faith in my keen nasal instincts and asked a guy where the swimming pool was. He seemed like a fellow who had been asked many many stupid questions by many decades of students, but this one had him stumped for a second or two. "There's no swimming pool."
Acting on his instructions, I went screaming for Mount Jordan Jr. High School where Jordan was competing with Grantsville. Connor is a senior and a team captain. The meet was fun and, of course, Con-man did really well.
I decided that, considering my navigational skills, I would stick to "home meets" for awhile. I had MJJH's location down pretty well, because we had watched Jodi compete there in gymnastics. The next meet was against Pleasant Grove. By this time I had my swagger back and went strolling in a half hour early. Things were looking smooth. But, alas, a girl met me at the door. "We need timers! Will you help?" I politely declined. "But it's really really easy, and you will do great." This poor girl had no knowledge of the whole "Flagboy" thing. She was very determined and I soon found myself sitting on a timer's bench. Connor came along, quite surprised to see me there. He was really excited for me. He, too, had no real grasp of "D-flaggs".
Okay... Ya hold two buttons. Ya push the right hand button at the instant the heat starts and both buttons at the instant the heat ends. Simple. I had no idea what the second button did, but I didn't care. I was on lane six where the younger kids compete, and sometimes lane six was empty. Nice. The kids all jumped off a platform. I was doing well. That is until the kids all jumped into the pool and then took their starting spot IN the pool, for the backstroke. I was confused, but just for ONE second. The starting horn was, for me, the STARTLING horn. I was most of one second late. I felt sooo bad. I worried about being arrested and thrown into a cell with Brian David Mitchell or Mark Hoffman or the guy with all the facial tattoos. The swim meet went well the rest of the way. The timer sitting next to me casually said, "Oh by the way, this is just "backup" timing. The actual timing is all electronic."
I was so busy with that stupid timer that I almost didn't get to see Connor compete. Oh well, it was great being ther with him. I assumed for some insanely wacky reason, that the boys dressing room was on tne south end and the girls were on the north. Oh, no. As I started out the south door, the one I thought I came in, a woman grabbed me and said, "you can't go out through the girls dressing room."
But, really, I am finding my way around the facility quite well. No. Really. I just wear a fake mustache and shades so the timer girl will never remember me.
And to think: Barbara called Jodi one day this week. She thought she heard some background noise. "What's going on?" Jodi replied, "Oh, I'm just feeding fifty swimmers." Sometimes I wonder if Jodi realizes how much I sacrificed that day to help Connor out.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Still 500 Miles Away From Home
Once in a while I come across an old old song by Bobby Bare.(This is an old, old, old song in blobfish years.) The name of it is "500 miles from home". This song became a favorite the instant I heard it in the 1960s. It struck a chord with me because I had hitch-hiked a lot when I was a kid. A whole lot more than my parents ever knew about! Living in La Sal, near Moab, I found that "thumbing" got me into Moab or Monticello much more easily than trying to arrange rides. (Thumbing could be pretty tense. I remember being stranded near Church Rock, 20 miles north of Monticello, for many hours one Sunday afternoon with NO traffic and a snowstorm blowing in, and me in a t-shirt.)
I yearned greatly for my old home town of Alma, Co. In about 1956, when I was about fifteen, I announced to my parents one day that I had saved almost enough money in my baby-sitting account to ride the Trailways Bus from Moab to Fairplay, Co. and back again two weeks later. All I needed was a few dollars for spending money. They agreed and my plans were made. Jack and Margie said they they were looking forward to seeing me.
Problem. The bus came through Moab at 3:30 a.m. Dad woke me up at 2:30 and we were on our way. We got into town soon after three o'clock on a warm July morning. Dad offered to sit with me 'til the bus arrived. I said "oh, no, I will be just fine." As his taillights disappeared around the corner I broke into a run. I was danged if I was going to waste 13 dollars and a few cents on bus fare!
I got to the north end of town in really good time, heavy suitcase and all. Ten or fifteen minutes went by. Here came the bus. The wind-draft off that big old thing 'bout blew me over. I felt some real remorse as I stood there in the darkness.
I absolutely cannot remember who picked me up and dropped me off at Crescent Junction. My next ride was with a trucker. Hmmm... Maybe he picked me up in Moab! Hey, this happened 53 years ago! I should remember everything?? He told me to be ready for a very sudden jolt at any time. He said it was his policy to slam on the brakes full blast if he saw anything that remotely resembled a cop-car. People who gave kids like me rides were in great need of someone to talk to. He dropped me in
Grand Junction.
My next ride was with a guy who was having some car trouble. No surprise. 63.28% of all cars had trouble in those days. We made it through Montrose before his car boiled over. He told me to watch the car while he (A looked for a large tin can and (B walked down to the river to fill it. I was silently cursing my luck as he wandered along the highway and then down to the river - a river that I couldn't even SEE! Being a stupidly loyal kid, I could not jump out and flag down the next driver.
I sat there wishing I had elected to take the north route through Glenwood Springs, but being trapped on Hoosier Pass with NO traffic didn't appeal to me. I knew that feeling. We chugged into Gunnison without further incident. As I stood there on the east end of Gunnison, my heart sank. Here came an older car pulling a large trailer house. Being a stupidly caring lad I could not say "go 'way. Move on!" The auto was filled with a huge family of Hispanic people. They spoke more English with their hands than they did with their mouths. There were at least four of us in the front seat and who knows how many urchins in the back. I thought I could see about ten legs and eleven arms back there, all moving randomly about. A very happy family indeed. The driver, whom I shall call Pepe, cheerfully regaled me with nonstop chatter as we crawled along.
My mood was a strange cross between despair at our turtle-pace and my growing admiration for this beautiful family. If there were ten people in the car, and if you multiply that by thirty two, then there had to have been 320 teeth smiling at me the whole way. I knew nothing of heaven but this seemed pretty close to it. They told me they were off to Saguache. With heavy heart I saw Monarch Pass coming up. Being a stupidly selfish boy, I said "my aunt lives here in Sargents. I'd better stop and say hello." They dropped me off and I sadly watched them drive away. Really, I could have run beside them for the first 300 feet. That car was that slow.
My next ride was with a guy who introduced himself as a rodeo performer. About 500 yards up Monarch Pass, we went flying around the old mobile home. I ducked my head to avoid being recognized. This rodeo guy was driving a '50 ford. Remember those old '50 fords? They could HAUL. As we raced across South Park (yes, THAT South Park) this guy said he traveled North America on the rodeo circuit. Broncs, bulls, he rode 'em all. He made belts and other leather goods to pay the bills between events. He may not have been a real person. He may have been a country song posing as a person. He told me all about his endless injuries; broken teeth, broken arms, broken legs and other broken appendages. I wished like crazy that I could have gotten one of his belts, but my thirteen dollars and a few cents was very precious to me. The belt would have become a useless lifetime momento. I was a size 32 at the time and I'm an expanding 42 these days.
I didn't have a watch, so I must have asked each benefactor fifty times what time it was. He dropped me off in Fairplay at 4:30 p.m. The bus had only beaten me by about 15 minutes. I felt like the king of the world as I trudged through town, savoring all those familiar sights.
Six miles to go. I'll bet you have never heard of a PlymFord. Warren Good was an eccentric genius/handyman/mechanic/inventor. He had done something nobody had probably thought of. He had combined a trashed out old Plymouth with a thrashed out old Ford. The Good kids (yeah, for the most part, they were good kids) called this thing a PlymFord. Warren went sailing past me heading up Fairplay Hill doing about forty mph. He cleared the top doing about 30 mph, which is a testament to his ingenuity. Soon he reappeared, having finally recognized me.
The whole trip was almost exactly 500 miles. From my house at Cal Uranium in San Juan County, Ut. to my brother Jack's house in Alma Co. in less than 14 and a half hours. No freeway in those days. Two fun-filled weeks later I was on the bus heading for home. Well, I couldn't have fibbed to Jack saying I had to leave at 2:30 a.m. when he knew the westbound bus left in the afternoon.
I yearned greatly for my old home town of Alma, Co. In about 1956, when I was about fifteen, I announced to my parents one day that I had saved almost enough money in my baby-sitting account to ride the Trailways Bus from Moab to Fairplay, Co. and back again two weeks later. All I needed was a few dollars for spending money. They agreed and my plans were made. Jack and Margie said they they were looking forward to seeing me.
Problem. The bus came through Moab at 3:30 a.m. Dad woke me up at 2:30 and we were on our way. We got into town soon after three o'clock on a warm July morning. Dad offered to sit with me 'til the bus arrived. I said "oh, no, I will be just fine." As his taillights disappeared around the corner I broke into a run. I was danged if I was going to waste 13 dollars and a few cents on bus fare!
I got to the north end of town in really good time, heavy suitcase and all. Ten or fifteen minutes went by. Here came the bus. The wind-draft off that big old thing 'bout blew me over. I felt some real remorse as I stood there in the darkness.
I absolutely cannot remember who picked me up and dropped me off at Crescent Junction. My next ride was with a trucker. Hmmm... Maybe he picked me up in Moab! Hey, this happened 53 years ago! I should remember everything?? He told me to be ready for a very sudden jolt at any time. He said it was his policy to slam on the brakes full blast if he saw anything that remotely resembled a cop-car. People who gave kids like me rides were in great need of someone to talk to. He dropped me in
Grand Junction.
My next ride was with a guy who was having some car trouble. No surprise. 63.28% of all cars had trouble in those days. We made it through Montrose before his car boiled over. He told me to watch the car while he (A looked for a large tin can and (B walked down to the river to fill it. I was silently cursing my luck as he wandered along the highway and then down to the river - a river that I couldn't even SEE! Being a stupidly loyal kid, I could not jump out and flag down the next driver.
I sat there wishing I had elected to take the north route through Glenwood Springs, but being trapped on Hoosier Pass with NO traffic didn't appeal to me. I knew that feeling. We chugged into Gunnison without further incident. As I stood there on the east end of Gunnison, my heart sank. Here came an older car pulling a large trailer house. Being a stupidly caring lad I could not say "go 'way. Move on!" The auto was filled with a huge family of Hispanic people. They spoke more English with their hands than they did with their mouths. There were at least four of us in the front seat and who knows how many urchins in the back. I thought I could see about ten legs and eleven arms back there, all moving randomly about. A very happy family indeed. The driver, whom I shall call Pepe, cheerfully regaled me with nonstop chatter as we crawled along.
My mood was a strange cross between despair at our turtle-pace and my growing admiration for this beautiful family. If there were ten people in the car, and if you multiply that by thirty two, then there had to have been 320 teeth smiling at me the whole way. I knew nothing of heaven but this seemed pretty close to it. They told me they were off to Saguache. With heavy heart I saw Monarch Pass coming up. Being a stupidly selfish boy, I said "my aunt lives here in Sargents. I'd better stop and say hello." They dropped me off and I sadly watched them drive away. Really, I could have run beside them for the first 300 feet. That car was that slow.
My next ride was with a guy who introduced himself as a rodeo performer. About 500 yards up Monarch Pass, we went flying around the old mobile home. I ducked my head to avoid being recognized. This rodeo guy was driving a '50 ford. Remember those old '50 fords? They could HAUL. As we raced across South Park (yes, THAT South Park) this guy said he traveled North America on the rodeo circuit. Broncs, bulls, he rode 'em all. He made belts and other leather goods to pay the bills between events. He may not have been a real person. He may have been a country song posing as a person. He told me all about his endless injuries; broken teeth, broken arms, broken legs and other broken appendages. I wished like crazy that I could have gotten one of his belts, but my thirteen dollars and a few cents was very precious to me. The belt would have become a useless lifetime momento. I was a size 32 at the time and I'm an expanding 42 these days.
I didn't have a watch, so I must have asked each benefactor fifty times what time it was. He dropped me off in Fairplay at 4:30 p.m. The bus had only beaten me by about 15 minutes. I felt like the king of the world as I trudged through town, savoring all those familiar sights.
Six miles to go. I'll bet you have never heard of a PlymFord. Warren Good was an eccentric genius/handyman/mechanic/inventor. He had done something nobody had probably thought of. He had combined a trashed out old Plymouth with a thrashed out old Ford. The Good kids (yeah, for the most part, they were good kids) called this thing a PlymFord. Warren went sailing past me heading up Fairplay Hill doing about forty mph. He cleared the top doing about 30 mph, which is a testament to his ingenuity. Soon he reappeared, having finally recognized me.
The whole trip was almost exactly 500 miles. From my house at Cal Uranium in San Juan County, Ut. to my brother Jack's house in Alma Co. in less than 14 and a half hours. No freeway in those days. Two fun-filled weeks later I was on the bus heading for home. Well, I couldn't have fibbed to Jack saying I had to leave at 2:30 a.m. when he knew the westbound bus left in the afternoon.
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