The Long Cross Country Flight

In my flight training days out of Crystal River FL, I flew over Lake City on my long cross country; the last hurdle to getting my license.  I was a student pilot in IFR conditions in "turrible awful" need to pee!  I flew over a hole in the clouds less than my wing span, but a clear shot to the ground.  When I circled to try to get through it, I couldn't find the hole.  Then I peered at my VFR map to discover I was circling a town at 900' with 1200' towers in the vicinity.  It's a thousand wonders I didn't pee right then an' there.  Coming to my senses, I called ATC, changing my flight plan for the third time to return to base.  Breaking out of the cloud cover and into daylight, my bladder immediately relaxed, and my toes could uncurl.  An hour later, I landed safely.  Pullin' up to the fuel pumps in front of the FBO, I turned off the switch, got out and headed to the potty, but not without leveling the prop as I passed the front of the plane; a habit I followed from my first flight instructor.  I heard one click as the magneto made contact, and that bitch started up!  Talk about Wylie Coyote an' his ears layin' back, baby, that was me.  I swallered hard, but jumped back, slidin' into the seat like an eel through a frog's ass(that'd be slick an' tight at the same time!!)  I stood on the brakes, not lightly, then switched to "full off."  I'd only turned the switch one click, which was to "right magneto!"  You can rest assured EVERY flight since that one, when I exited the plane, the keys were either on the dash board or in my hand!  I have lived a life of "Wonders never cease!"

Waggin Her Tail

Onct upon a time, an' I ain't lyin', I was on a papermill project in Franklin, Virginia.  I don't think I've ever worked harder on any job since that one.  A papermill renovation/expansion is a tad complex, for anyone in the mill will tell you that as long as the roller at the end of the line is spinnin' up paper, it's makin' money.  So what ever you do, you don't stop the line!
I came to this project from one in New York with a gal in tow, but this young gal changed to wife one Friday night after work at the preacher's house.  No bells and whistles, but a simple affair.  I think we were makin' both sets of parents happy by gettin' the appropriate signature on our playcard.  We were in love, an' trifflin' things like that didn't really matter.

Bless her heart, but Fran was City Gal from the git-go, an' here we are, though not on the edge of civilization, we're sho'nuff not in Queens.  She goes from workin' for JAL and Sabena Airlines to workin' for a small travel agency in Suffolk.  She'd only been in town a month, and this wasn't a town; it was a crossroads.  It's just the two of us in a mobile home (my goodness, but how quick it changes from 'trailer' to 'Mobile Home' as soon as you get one!) in a place where we know not hardly another soul.  So, I'm pretty much the center of her World.  That's the way it ought to be.  She'd not been there long enough to make any friends or even know the neighbors but enough to say howdy.  Soon, work got in the way.  Real soon too; it was Christmas time, and what happens to a papermill at Christmas?  It shuts down for repairs and tie-ins to all the new stuff we're building.

This "Christmas shutdown" is a week of hectic, frantic, 'round the clock frenzy to meet serious contractual deadlines.  I put in 100 hours that week.  Long week, that one; very long.  In the middle of this week was the worst, Christmas Day.  I went to work Christmas Eve and came home the day after Christmas!  My arse was dragged my tracks out to where even Roy Rogers couldn't have picked up my trail!  It was all I could do to get home when they turned me loose.

Now we only lived 15 miles away.  I pulled up, parked the car, staggered to the door, opened it to see my month old bride standin' there with a giant smile on her face waggin' her tail like a big ole hungry dog, to whom I'm bringin' a bowl of food!  I'm tellin' you, if that fanny was to swing any faster, she'd come off 'er feet!  And this dog won't hunt!  I'm exhausted.  She'd have had more conversation had she been talkin' down the well to her echo.  One big long hug and kiss was all I had in me, and I laid down on the floor right there just inside the front door.  Kid you not!  I didn't even try to get to the couch, much less to the bedroom.  I believe I was actually asleep before I got horizontal.  How do I know?....I woke up several hours later, an' there's a pillow under my head an' a blanket pulled over me, an' layin' there beside me is my pretty Irish Setter curled fast asleep!  Precious Memories...How they linger!

First Public Job

            Way back when and between wars, a father and son were farmers.  There wasn’t enough work for both, so the son hired out to other farmers for a day’s wages; 50 cents.  Carryin’ water by hand in buckets from a dug well to a water trough a long way from the well bucket was tough work for a youngster.  Another time, between another set of wars, a father and son were farmers.  There wasn’t enough work for both.  “Son” says he, “They’re needin’ help at the sawmill.  Go see to it.” And off I went with my hat ‘n gloves to my first job. 

            Little did I know I was goin’ to get paid, for it was the way we worked.  Seldom was there big tasks on the farm that a body did alone.  You helped one another.  Most of these involved the harvestin’ of hay or corn, where you’d always chip in your labor to help your neighbor.  It wasn’t for pay, it was for a livelihood.  It was for dinner on the table.  It was a way of life.  I suppose it was communal long before long hair and hippies were known.

            So grabbin’ my gloves an’ donnin’ my straw hat, off I go to Hamby Lumber Company.  I tell Mr. Hamby I heard he needed help, and I’m here to oblige.  He asks do I play football, for all the boys that had worked there before during the summer were beefin’ up for football season.  Honey, you couldn’t beef me up if you’d put me on a diet of pure lard’n beans.  If I didn’t know better that howl when the wind blew hard was the whistle as it blew through skinny me.  Anyhow, I satisfied him I was all about the work gettin’ done, football or not.  He took me down to the work line, where at the end was his son, and there was my work; off bearin’ lumber into stacks.  His son taught me how, though it wasn’t too hard to learn.  Pine goes with pine and oak with oak and  8’ boards go in one stack an’ 12’ in another stack, an’ so it goes, an’ hurry up, for it’s backin’ up on the conveyor, an’ you don’t back up the sawyer.

            I have to say that before long, I understood the ‘did I play football’ question.  This was backbreakin’ work that didn’t let up except for three times; nine, noon an’ three.  An’ there is no sweeter sound than “no sound!”  At nine sharp, the engine driven saw would stop.  Oh, but how quiet that was.  The silence was near musical.  The roar of the saw kept ringin’ in my ears, but it soon petered out to quiet peacefulness.  Not that you were aware of the silence however; you were headed to the well for a dipper of some of that delicious cold water.  Fifteen minutes was all it took for the sawyer to sharpen that giant circular blade.  He’d hit the starter, the engine would fire an’ you’d go another two hours without pause.  Kept your mind off your troubles, it did, for you didn’t have time to think about anything but that next piece of lumber comin’ down the conveyor. 

            I never could understand why the sawyer would send 1 x 4 x 8’ pine boards one at a time, and 2 x 12 x 20’ oak boards three at a time, but he did.  I could one hand an 8’ long pine 1 x 4, but let me tell you it was all I could do to manhandle those 20’ oak boards onto the stack.  But he was the sawyer, an’ I was the off bearer, an’ ne’er the twain shall meet.  After a summer of off bearin’, I could close my eyes an’ tell you they type lumber we were millin’; from the sweetness of pine and the stink of oak to the tart of poplar. 

            Then there was something called payday.  Wow.  I get money for this?  My wage was $1.25 an hour.  Rich beyond words was I.  Mr. Hamby asked me the first week, how many hours I worked.  Did I, in any stretch of the imagination, know the answer to that?  Shucks, I didn’t even remember which day I started.  Naïve perhaps, would that be a good description?  He did his ciphers, askin’ if I agreed, an’ what did I know different.  I got a check, an’ didn’t have a clue as to what to do with it.  That’s the God’s honest truth.  All I know is I didn’t have to ask for runnin’ around money come “cruisin’ time on Friday an’ Saturday night. 

            Honestly, I never remember keepin’ tabs on my work hours.  I was supposed to be there all day, and I was.  There was no getting’ around that.   But the sawyer, well he was a different sort.  Friday noon was payday.  I soon learned the saw was silent Friday afternoon and Mondays.  Friday, the sawyer went to the liquor store, an’ Monday he was still recoverin’, though I didn’t know what from at that particular time.  I was just told he was laid up drunk, which was a mystery to this li’l Baptist.  So durin’ those silent saw times they taught me to hack the lumber for dryin’, or I’d off bear from the plane instead of the saw. 

            Remember my wage, right?  Well, the next fellow down the conveyor from the saw ran a radial saw cuttin’ slabs and bark, which would be hauled off as scrap or stove wood for someone.  I was awful envious of this man.  Not only was his work much less strenuous, but one, he got to operate machinery, and two, he got paid more.  My word, his wages were $1.65 an hour.  Can you imagine such wealth?  It had to be wealth, for to me, anything you could fold was only in your dreams.  I recollect now that on that forty cents more an hour, he had a wife an’ two kids to keep whereas I couldn’t keep the tank filled on that ole Mercury.  I carried him home one afternoon after work, an’ his house wasn’t much, an’ he didn’t have a car.  Truth be told, I’m not sure he had too much of anything, but food on the table, and a bed to sleep.  I remember him sayin’ his son wanted an electric guitar.  I thought to myself that was an awful hefty want on a fellow makin’ $1.65 an hour.  But I’ll bet to this day, that man did what he could to get that guitar for his son.  Once you’re a father, you sometimes forget a wage rate; a lesson I learned hard some years later.

            Off in the woods behind the sawmill, there lived a colored family.  They had a son about my age, but this young man was not all there.  I was raised to be friendly to most folks, but not the rest of the crew at the mill.  When “Boy” would come hang around, they’d holler at him to leave or “git on from here.”  Sometimes he’d listen, sometimes not, but if he stayed clear of the rest, they’d let him alone.  Where did that leave me?  I became the magnet to a mess of iron filings, an’ I just couldn’t be cruel an’ holler at him, for he jus’ didn’t know any better, an’ like a ugly dog, he needed attention too.  If he could talk, it was a language I didn’t understand.  He babbled n’ waved his arms an’ hands, an’ I nodded a lot.  “Boy” didn’t smell too so very good either.  I know there couldn’t have been a bar of soap in a mile of their cabin: not one!  An’ he slobbered.  Oh did he slobber!  Terrible.  Yet I still couldn’t take myself to be mean to him.  I had a coke bottle of well water next to me at the planing mill one day.  I turned around and “Boy” had that bottle turned to the sky tryin’ to suck the water from it.  Oh, but I was so thirsty till I saw that.  I could’ve walked all day through Death Valley never needin’ a drop; no sir-eee, not a drop!  I know he was suckin’ on that bottle hard enough to draw a vacuum on an onion sack, but wasn’t gettin’ a drop, then all of a sudden, the water disappeared out of that bottle.  In one instant the water was gone. To this day, I wonder how that happened, for it defied the laws of physics.  I don’t rightly recall which law, but it was a good’un.  I couldn’t have swallowed that much that quick, for I’d have choked.  It was what I’d refer to today as a “Kodak moment!”

            One day when the saw was silent, Mr. Hamby took me to another sawmill to check out some equipment he was considerin’ purchasin’; air dogs.  Let me tell you, Mr. Hamby’s setup was about as basic as a sawmill could be.  The only thing not manual was the saw.  The sawyer turned the logs on the table with a cant hook.  What we were lookin’ at today was hydraulic and air powered equipment that grabbed a log and turned it for the saw and run the table back an’ forth down the saw, whereas our sawyer did all this by hand.  All the dogs were mechanical, worked by hand levers, not hydraulics.  As I watched this operation, all I was thinkin’ was, “How in God’s name, will I be able to off bear that much lumber that quick?”  Didn’t give a thought to him hirin’ anyone else.  There were three off bearers at this mill.  As it turned out, he didn’t buy this equipment that summer while I was there.  I was so relieved.   Just thinkin’ about how much harder my job would have been with that new equipment, my heart just wasn’t in it. 

And you know…I got paid for that side trip too.  Oof!  I’d grown accustomed to havin’ that little bit of gas money.  And near 50 years later, an’ I’m still workin’ for gas money! 

A Precious Memory

(I wrote this to my oldest son, Michael, Jr. on his birthday)

It is hard to imagine you were born 39 years ago. Am I that old? Are you that old?! Shazzam!

It was a night I'll never forget. Let me start by saying the years we were together, your Mom was her prettiest the year she was pregnant with you. Women often bloom when pregnant, and she surely did. And bless her heart, but she looked her worst after those so many hours in labor. Poor gal was a wreck. I'm sure she never worked harder before or after that night! How long she was in labor, I actually forget. It could have been 36 hours, but that's really not important now. It's behind us, and you are living proof.
It probably wouldn't warm the cockles of her heart to remember that during labor, I would leave the labor room with the attending intern, and go back to the lounge with him to catch the latest "Starsky and Hutch" episode. Isn't that awful? But since I was not the best "coach," I knew no better. I suppose I was even lucky to be in the labor room. These were the beginning years when fathers were just starting to accompany their wives in the delivery room, and her doctor, Dr. Linton, was one who fought that practice.

After so many hours though, we (Ma and me) got to worry; more me than her. She wouldn't let on anything to alarm me. She was super proud. Her first Grandchild is coming, and in the hospital where she spent her whole nursing career. She knew most of the nurses, so you were really "a happening event" that day at Baptist Hospital.

There was no warning. I do not even remember seeing the doctor that night till right before they took your Mom to the OR. I'd gone out to the nurse's station to give Ma an update. Wasn't there but a few minutes, when the elevator doors opened down the hall, and a whole team of doctors, nurses and technicians got off and rushed quickly through the doors toward the delivery room. By the time I got there, your Mom had been wheeled out to the hall, and was waiting to be wheeled into the OR. I'm told they've tried for as long as possible for a natual delivery, but now must do a C-section.

This is where I get scared; really scared. It has been a long nine months, and all the grand and exciting feelings of becoming a father are washed away in one fleeting moment, as I watch them wheel your Mom away to a place that had just as well have been in another world. I did not know whether either of you wouild come back to me. I was lost. Giving Ma this latest information, I hunted a private place, finding solace alone behind closed doors in a stairway; just me and God. Soon there were three, for Ma soon found me, and pray we did as Ma held me as I cried, and God held her while she cried I'm sure inside. She was the strong one that night.

We got tough there in the stairwell after what wasn't too awful long. Wiping away the tears and put that smile on for the world to see, we come back to the nurse's station and our little "support group." Next thing I know, one of the nurses comes running down the hall from delivery. I remember seeing her bobbing head through the door glass, and praise be, for she's smiling! That smile light up the world for me. When I get to the door, I see she's running with you in her arms!! God above, but I've never been so happy for all is well! Your Mom is OK, and you are a big long bundle of joy!

Thinking back, I don't suppose the nurse never was actually running down the hall, but she was moving at a good clip. And I don't even think she should have had you out of the delivery room or nursery right yet, but she was one of Ma's friends and she had to "show you off" to every one. Let me say you did look a bit odd to me. You were a "cone head" if ever there was one; evidence that you were in the birth canal for quite a while. There was a little scratch on your cheek too, which I didn't really pay attention to at the moment. It was from the forceps, when the doctor tried to pull you through the "keyhole." You carry that mark still today; your birthmark. And you know how we Browns love to mock people in humor. Well, for the first month or so, when you'd get excited like a baby will do and grin, and wave your arms and legs, only one side would wave! The other side either didn't move or only slightly moved. In true Brown form, I'd mock you and wave one arm and leg and smile and coo back at you. It got better after a month or so, and had I entered you in a turtle race in the sand, you'd have gone a straight line, not the circle you would have cut the first few weeks. Ma told me months later that every time I mocked you, she feared the worse, expecting the lack of movement as evidence of nerve damage from the protracted delivery.

This was yesterday, September 17, 2011; a "Precious Memory" I'll hold dear always. The rivers we've crossed have run fast and deep since that day, and oh but the stories we can tell. May this be the first of many precious memories.

I love you.
Dad

A Southerner's View 150 Years Later

A Southerner’s View 150 Years Later

I wrote this in response to an email from a reenactor friend, who forwarded an article about demonstrations that were forming in South Carolina and Alabama against planned events memorializing the 150th Anniversary of the opening events of the Civil War, or "The War Between the States," which is the official name for the war we were taught in school, for I think everyone ought to know how a REAL Southerner feels; one unbiased and raised "at the foot of the Cross", who was also taught that the "N" word was not allowed. 

There's a sack full of do-gooders that think it isn't politically correct to fly the Stars and Bars or honor it.  They're right in one respect.  We do follow one flag now.  We fought this war 150 years ago, and most of us got "over it."  And as Ashton Sheppard says in her song, "Look it up" if you don't understand "got over it!" 

Being from North Carolina and not too far from that Greensboro sit-in from 51 years ago, those "colored folk" have rights too!  We fought for and against them, but it didn't free them, much as the history books tell different.  They still live under bad conditions, 'cause they have to wake up each and every day and look at their skin and say, "Darn, why me?" 

In 1985, I lived and worked in Massachusetts, and you can't imagine how I felt, when the Dorchester school system was sending folks to Charlotte NC to learn how they handled the segregation and busing issues of 1965 to 1968, because they were having so much unrest and violence in their schools and neighborhoods due to abolishing segregation.  I first asked myself, this is 1985;  we've been desegregated down south since 1965.  What is wrong with this picture? 

Not only, 100 years after the war, we in the south had to "MIX", but those friggin' Yankees were not required to do so?!  And...they want to know how we handled it.  WE HAD RIOTS.  WE HAD VIOLENCE.  WE SURVIVED!  Now, it's your turn!!  How do you think you are going to escape the troubles?  Good ole US of A.  Leave it to the Gov'mint to mess up and make only some change and not the rest!  And I'll bet you a Yankee dime to a doughnut that if you go back and interview the folks in power at that time, the reason was, "it's not politically correct to make the side that 'won' the War Between the States be subject to the corrective actions as a result of that victory, even though it took 100 years to START reparations! 

Further, when I was 16, I discovered I had a Yankee ancestor.  I didn't know anything about my Confederate Ancestors.  I was embarrassed.  I didn't even want to know about bein' related to a Yankee, but I was direct blood kin; my Great Grandfather was Corporal Philip W. Morgan in the 100th NY Infantry;  my namesake for goodness sake. 

In time, I became proud to be related to a Yankee.  He was a hard working man, whose Son went south and married a Southern Belle himself!!  And, he fought for his adopted country, having moved from Canada only 2 years prior to the war.  He was captured twice and was a survivor of Andersonville!  God Bless him.

In time, I also learned of my "Southron" ancestors, two of which were in Pickett's charge, the final day of Gettysburg.  One of these was even in the 18th North Carolina, which has the distinct reputation of having shot "Stonewall" one terrible night during the Chancellorsville campaign.  Who knows; maybe he even fired the shot! 

So, I can go back on both sides and live the war.  However, in 1973, I had the opportunity to move to and work in NYC.  Quickly, I became aware of a much more racist community than I ever lived in or heard of in poor southern North Carolina.  NYC was far more racist than back home.  But that didn't matter.  I was the "redneck," and I was the racist or accused, simply because that is where I called home.  I was raised not to disrespect anyone due to color, creed or nationality, and that was way, way long before it was politically correct "Like everyone!" 

Further, I belong to both the Sons of Union Veterans of the Civil War, and the Sons of Confederate Veterans.  The Union organization is much more proactive in remembering the war in a decent fashion.  However, from the literature I've read and received as a member of the SCV, I find many of them still fighting the war; and don't tell me it is about State's Rights, 'cause states rights in nothing more than the right of "new" states being brought into the Union back in those days prior to the war to Own Slaves.

I am proud to be a Southerner.  We generally are a nice bunch of folks with manners and gentlemanly ways.  Chivalry still shines down south!  Yankees lost the meaning of manners years ago.  However, wherever I have lived, north or south, I find ALL THE PEOPLE THE SAME!  They only talk different.  There are good and bad in all locations. The south only gets a bad rap due to the ignorance of the do-gooders that brand everyone with the same iron.  Have a meaningful conversation with anyone on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line, and discuss it without losing your temper or raising your voice, and you'll see that with a little bit of patience, you're both in agreement with how you like to be treated and how you think everyone should be treated equally. 

God Bless you if you had the patience to finish reading this.  I'm sad folks are automatically brought under suspicion for being proud of their heritage just because they live or are from "down South!" 

M. Phillip Brown...American 

Barn Mechanic

"Once upon a time..." Gosh, but don't you wish all stories could start that way and then end "....and lived happily ever after."  Well they do.  It just depends on what part you have in that particular play!

Once upon a time, there was this li'l boy peoples who loved all outdoors.  That'd be me.  The back door of the house was the portal to a wonderful and exciting place, the farm.  You've heard the expression, "forty acres and a mule?"  That is what our place was...without the mule.  We did have a tractor; an Oliver 70, but I'll save that for another tale.

Gran'paw bought the place back in 30's; wantin' a change from life downtown in the big city of Winston to do something more like his raisin', is what I'm thinkin', but who knows.  It was a capitalist venture of the first waters, and it was my life for a long, long time.  Lookin' back, it was the best, but aren't all memories good when you're livin' through a hard time.

I have only "Kodak" glimpses of the original barn.  Before I was 5, Gran'paw and Dad built a new barn and lo an' behold, a separate milkin' parlor, which was built alongside the new barn.  Here, I've a few more glimpses, an' it is neighboring farmers climbin' poles an' sawin' 'em off even, then puttin' up the rafters, the roof, then the sidin'.  There wasn't a construction crew brought in to do this.  They did it themselves, rather Daddy, Gran'paw an' another farmer an' a neighbor or two.  

It was a simple structure; a pole barn.  Telephone poles, which were bought second hand from either Southern Bell, or Duke Power.  They were old creosote poles with the old spike marks.  Simple 1 x 4s lathe around the perimeter and across the roof rafters to which galvanized tin siding was nailed.  The sidin' was second hand too.  We didn't have a lot, but we had enough.  There is the story oft remembered of hearin' me cryin', and everyone lookin' all around for me, only to find me in one of those giant pole holes.  I visualize a dog there barkin' at a groundhog, but really barkin' at me.  Thankfully my memory of that is only a torn corner off that particular "Kodak."

One side of the barn was for hay bales, then the alley down which the tractor brought in the hay wagon.  On the right of that alley was the feed trough or manger with wooden head gates.  On the other side of the manger was a large open area with water trough, where the cows stayed in the winter months during bad weather, which would only be a snow storm.  At the end of the trough was a calf pen.  I suppose that small pen was my favorite place, because of the "little creatures" who lived there.  My first chores revolved around those calves.  They were in that pen for at least a year, before Dad turned 'em out with the rest of the cows.  It was my job to feed an' water these calves; usually two or three were there at any one time. 

I carried water in 5 gallon buckets to that pen from the milkin' parlor.  Lookin' back, I wonder what it would have taken to run a separate pipe down there to a permanent water trough?  It wasn't needed, is the only answer I can figure, 'cause for to a grown man, it's not far to carry a bucket of water. However, I didn't start out a grown man.  I was a li'l feller, an' when I stood straight, the bottom of that water pail weren't but about 5 inches off the ground, if that!  I don't recall any angst about whether or not there was a spigot closer to the trough; there wasn't, so just tote water to those thirsty souls.  They'd hear me comin', an' you could hear them jockeyin' for position to be the first to git their nose in the bucket.  Lordy, but three calves could sure make a racket, an' I suppose that'd be about the first time of my life where I'd contemplate such words that didn't come outta the King James!  As hard as it was for me to lug that water down there, I hated to see it splashed out instead of swallowed.  Every splash was another trip to the spigot back that long path to the milkin' parlor.  I remember now the roots of that giant oak in three separate places across the path from the parlor, runnin' between the giant oak and the pole barn then down the alley to the calf pen.  Daddy would take those roots in stride, but they were hurdles for this li'l feller, an' I figgered I'd already spilt enough water at their crossin' as needed spillin', an' these calves shouldn't be splashin' out any more. 

The calf pen was a simple boarded off section of the barn only about twelve foot square.  The boards around the pen were an odd assortment of boards left over from God knows what.  There weren't two boards of the same size that I can recall;  1 x 6s, 1 x 8s an' such.  There might have been a 2 x 4 or 2 x 6 in there somewhere.  This is where I first used a hammer.  I watched Dad nail back a board which a cow or rambuctious calf had kicked down.  This pen was where the cow lost her calf once she got back into the milkin' rotation two to three days followin' calvin'.  An' Lord only knows an' any momma can tell you that you can't separate a momma from her youngun' easy at all.  They'd both be bellowin' at one another beside that stall for a couple days followin' separation, each one tryin' to get to the other side of those boards. 

Dad would pull the board off, pull out the nail careful not to bend it anymore, then like a craftsman buildin' some fine machine, he'd lay that nail across a rock or the even another sturdy board an' carefully hammer it back straight.  I have never...I repeat never...seen a new nail.  Never!  After a fashion, the next time that board was knocked from the posts, the nails might just pop outta that board an' guess what?  You'd hunt till you found through the straw and manure till you found it.  Why?  'Cause there wasn't another one in ten miles of that barn, I'm sure.  An' bein's we didn't have a truck, that'd be a far piece to walk just for one nail.  I laugh now, but wasn't life so simple?  Then I think, findin' that lost nail was about as worrisome as havin' my car breakdown in later years.  I'd venture a guess you could say, I was good at "findin' a needle in a haystack!" 

I'd give my eye teeth for a sack of new nails back in those days, but that wasn't to be.  I wish I had a dollar for every nail I straightened.  Heck, we even straightened staples on the fence line aound the pasture, when ever it had to be repaired.  You used what you had, an' if you didn't have, you jury-rigged till the day you could have. 

Many years passed these first chore days, an' I eventually left home to a life of my own.  I was finishin' a power house job in Maine, an' workin' in the home office in Kernersville NC, preparin' for the next job in Georgetown SC.  Home was too convenient for me, so rather than bein' put up in a motel for this interim, I stayed home, which was pure joy for me.  Every night a home cooked meal better'n any I'd had since first leavin' home.  Every evening I'd help Daddy milk.  It was not work for me, but pure enjoyment.  I loved bein' in that barn, more'n any fish loves water.  The smells, the warmth as you put your head in the cow's flank as you put the teatcups to her udder.  It's near good as a plate of warm biscuits an' gravy for breakfast.

It was sad, those last couple months, 'cause Daddy was not well.  I had no idea how bad till I worked with him every night.  It was all he could do to carry the milkers from the cow, then dump the milk into the storage tank.  His knees were shot from a lifetime of squattin' beside those cows twice a day every day his whole life.  Daddy was 57; young to most, but old beyond his time.  God took me to that place for those months to be close to Daddy, an' share that precious time.  I was there two months; his last two months.  He passed early one December morning of a severe heart attack.  That was a tough moment.  It puts water in my eyes every time I recall it.  But I was there, and that is all that counts. 

It was during these next few days, as sad as they were, I had to laugh at a few things.  I was preparing all the outdoor spigots for the winter weather, and put the lamp in the well house so it wouldn't freeze too.  I was rummagin' through the "Old Milk House", which had been converted to storage, when the new parlor was built.  It was a mess.  Daddy was a pack rat.  Nothing was ever thrown away.  I was lookin' for insulation, rags, anything to wrap the exposed water spigots.  Amongst all that stuff was a cardboard box approximately one foot wide, tall and deep.  I turned back one of the top flaps and what was before me....a FULL 50 pound box of 16 penny nails.  So help me, I didn't know whether to laugh or speak of those words not of King James!  You have to know, the first thought crossin' my mind was all those nails I'd straightened in that calf pen, an' here's a full box of nails, which were probably from when the barn was built, and they'd been there covered up on the steps of that milk house for more'n 25 years!  Precious Memories, how they linger. 

There's No Skunks 'Round Here

There’s No Skunks ‘Round here

You know that smell; awful and sweet.  Well, maybe not sweet, but putrid sweet.  Ooof!  Awful is all you can say.  Usually you’re drivin’ through a bad moment in the skunk’s life, when it comes upon you, but not this mornin’.  It’s a warm Saturday mornin’ in Windsor, Virginia in Willie B’s Trailer Park. 

The sun is bright n’ shinin’ hot without a shade tree to be found.  A trailer is a God-awful hot thing it the warm months.  Makes you appreciate the dark spot under a spreadin’ oak.  Heck, I’d give my eye teeth for the shadow of a persimmon tree.  Anyhow, that smell came through the windows an’ walls like they weren’t there.  It passed ‘bout as quick as it come, but in 15 minutes, it come back again; only stronger an’ longer. 

I have not a clue where, but there’s a skunk runnin’ amuck, an’ too close to me.  Outside, there’s no trace, so I figger, maybe he’s under this palace on wheels.  I go ‘round to the kitchen side and beside the air conditioner where the smell was the worst, an’ take out a piece of skirting from underneath the trailer.  Willie B. had standards; I’ll give him that.  You can’t just park a trailer there without puttin’ nice lookin’ skirting around it.  Anyhow, I work the first piece loose, up and out….Holy Sapphire Mackerel!  I’m squatin’ on my haunches lookin’ in, and there’s sit’s Pepi LePew on his haunches lookin’ out!  Hello Aunt Diana, blow that whistle, blow!  Needless to say, we both turned tail an’ run!  Just knew I’d be hit with that “stuff,” but I got away quick.  I run down to the office for some desperately needed assistance or moral support; I didn’t quite know which, but more’n anything, I needed to drop back an’ regroup, ‘cause from where I was then, it was third an’ ten, an’ I need a miracle. 

“Willie B, you got a gun? I need to git rid of a skunk.”  He said, “We don’t have any skunks ‘round here.” 

“Willie B, what you Don’t have, is a sense of smell.  Just bring your gun, an’ come with me.  I got a plan!”  An’ he does.

We return to my trailer with one or two more tag-a-longs from his office.  I commence to takin’ down a piece of skirting in the front of the trailer.  I couldn’t get the corner piece out, ‘cause it was screwed in place.  But that one piece was of sufficient size…just about skunk high and skunk wide.  I went back to my first openin’ and pulled out a couple more pieces of skirting, which were just about Phil high and Phil wide.  Then I went to the other side a bit more to the front, an’ pulled some more out my size, which I’d planned as my escape route.  No way was I follerin’ that skunk through the hole I hoped he’d use, an’ I needed an’ openin’ closer than where I crawled into this “rabbit hole!” 

Willie B’s got a 410 shotgun, which at point blank range oughta do the job!  So I posted him at the front openin’, while I go back toward the rear, and follow Alice into that rabbit hole.  I’ve a long handled shovel with me, which is about as big an’ long a stick as I could find.  Not sign one of that skunk.  I didn’t have a clue as to where it was, so I worked my way forward.  Perhaps it crawled up into the framework, but I couldn’t hardly see how.  Past the air conditioner duct, I went.  That must have been it, I think.  When that air conditioner kicked on, it scared the beJesus outta Pepi, an’ he did the natural thing an’ turned loose a scent.  You could say he messed his britches, but as it was, I was livin’ in those britches, an’ it weren’t exactly tolerable. 

As I crawled past, I kept lookin’ an’ found him not…till I looked back, an’ there he was, back behind the duct!  Oh crap, I’m the one cornered now!  I talk to him nice as pie.  I’d say I was recitin’ scripture, but it was out of a different Book.  The Gospel of Phillip didn’t quite make the cut for the Canon.  “Willie B, are you ready?  I’ve found ‘im.”  I slowly retreat just a tad, then I ease that shovel toward Pepi, givin’ him good directions toward the front, an’ coaxin’ him best I knew how.  You’d have thought I was his Momma the way I was sweet talkin’ that li’l bastard.  What does he do?  Turns an’ runs to the corner, but not out the hole. He backs up in the corner, an’ tries to stare me down.  I hadn’t planned this.  So…slowly I crawl…inch by inch, foot by foot an’ then he starts talkin’ to me.  Yes Honey, an’ loud!  English wasn’t his first language, but I did understand!  Yessiree!  Every word.  He’s sittin’ there all hunched up and slappin’ those hind feet on the ground, an’ I’m listenin’ to this one-way conversation like the sermon it was.  The Gospel of Pepi reads just about as well and mine. 

“Willie B, cock that gentleman, for I’m fixin’ to push ‘im through that hole.”  I glanced at the openin’ at the first inch of the gun barrel.  Willie B was ready! 

“Here he comes!” an’ I threw that shovel into the corner, Pepi turned toward an got half way through the hole, an’ BAM!  There’s a skunk doin’ the death rattles, but I only see that outta the corner of my eye.  As soon as I caste the shovel, I turned toward my own hole…an’ half way through is all I got too, when that cloud came over me!  Lord have mercy, an’ bring me a towel… a great big’un.  Thick?  I coulda cut it with a knife.  Gag a maggot, it would.  I hurried best I could, but from that point on, I coulda walked or run, it was of no use.  I was tagged.  When I did come out, there were no less than 20 people runnin’ in all directions!  I thought is was just me an’ Willie B, an’ a couple of his helpers, but I suppose the excitement was a brewin’ when word got out about Willie B carryin’ his shotgun down to Brown’s trailer!  They were wise though.  Heck; even Willie B was runnin’. 

I got my shovel and loaded Pepi in it, an’ carried him over to a nearby field where I held last rites an’ put him to rest.  Amen an’ amen.

But whenever it got real hot with the sun beatin’ down, I could still smell the scent there at the front of that trailer.  Also, I learned what happens when you get sprayed by a skunk, besides stink. The scent causes your blood vessels to constrict, and you get a headache.  Serious.  I had a hangover that afternoon, an’ hadn’t touched a drop.  Woe was me!      

Josh's First Haircut

It was some hot that day long, long ago.  There lay Josh, pantin’ an’ dreamin’ as dogs do.  How am I to know dogs sweat through their tongue?  All I know is me an’ cows.  Sweat runs off their back, just like mine. 

Sorrowful thing, layin’ there in the shade of that mimosa in the middle of the afternoon.  Einstein moment, I think.  I have just the cure.  Off I go in search of Granny’s scissors; the perfect tool for such a job.  Back in a jiffy, an’ ole Josh is still off in dreamland sommer’s.  Little did he know, it was fixin’ to be a nightmare of the largest proportions. 

Josh was a mixed breed dog.  I think his mammy was a hound an’ his pappy was a shep dog of some other description, but Josh came out a long haired fellah.  He was dark brown, but you brush it back to the hide, an’ that brown eventually becomes plumb white.  So I set in doin’ a yeoman’s job with those shears.  It’d cut some here, some there till I had most parts worked over from head to tail.  I even trimmed around the ears.  When I got through with the tail, Josh sorta resembled a ‘possum.  He didn’t mind.  He was instantly cool.  No more slobber drippin’ down, an’ he’d been awoke from that purty thing in his dreams.

All that was missin’ was a set of checkers.  He coulda laid on either side, an there’d been a spot for a full set of checkers…those big ones too.  I can’t say I was exactly proud, but this was my first shot at barberin.’  From the looks of it, I don’t believe I coulda made too good a livin’ at it, but then, I was only ten; what did I know or even care. 

Josh was the perfect playmate.  Ever where Phil would go, Josh was right there.  We’d go to the pasture an’ bring the cows in for milkin’ together or we’d just traipse off to the creek or to a friend’s house.  It didn’t matter; Josh was right there…or was till then.  I took off up the road to visit a friend, an’ Josh an’ me were right there together down the drive till we got to the road.  I turned left, an’ Josh run to the other side an’ turned left parallel to me, but off in the trees an’ tall grass.  Poor thing.  He knew.  He had quickly learned the meanin’ of “dog ugly!”  He would NOT come down to the road no matter how hard I coaxed or called.  No sirree; he was not goin’ to expose himself to the public. 

I was embarrassed.  There I was, tryin’ to do a good turn to my bestest friend an’ playmate, an’ I’d sure ‘nuff failed.  The only savin’ grace was hair grows out eventually, an’ so it was with Josh.  Bless his heart.  He was faithful, even though I’d made him the laughin’ stock of all His Friends! 

Don’t ever think that ‘cause we’re human, we’ve got the market cornered on feelin’s.  Animals have feelin’s too.  At least dogs do…I haven’t figgered out cats just yet.   

Ode to Aaron

Ode to Aaron

A gentle giant astride the barstool

Shoulder to shoulder, soul to soul

The future is a dream; a world away

A fork in the road of life lay ahead

An opportunity waits. Do we squat or jump, Dad?

Jump Son. Jump like I did years ago.

I never looked back once my decision was done.

Though home be familiar and full of harmony,

The challenges are ahead, that river to cross.

Ahead is a home filled with discordant melodies.

Tomorrow your dreams are reality.

Your doubts today will be only a memory.

Each day on the table, a feast we see.

Who catches, who cooks, who flavors but thee.

Enjoy Son, breathe deep, new life awaits you there.

I watched on the beach as a bully appeared.

Who drew back his fist and spread his feet?

Aaron did he as he protected his brother; no fight today.

Back to back, they would stand any time, any place.

We only want peace, him and me.  Give us our space.

Larger than life, he towered over all

I coached and I broached an unseen divide.

A head taller than all, why not hit the ball?

But Dad, oh Dad, these guys are 12. I'm only 9. I'm way behind.

How could I not know, so sad was I to expect too much

I’d watch you follow and not be aware

It was just a touch or word I need give

Andy and Opie were we only without the pole

Or the fishin’ hole, but a pair for life, a permanent bond

I loved you more than any man can

Through the fights and fuss of a broken home

I wanted you never to suffer, but life chokes

And fears have teeth and grips like bears

All my efforts were fought and lost I feared

But love shined through those dark dreary days

You stumbled and tripped, and surely you fell

But I was there all the time, each trip each fall

I tear at the thought of the pain of it all

Today I am proud, today I can see

Every pain you felt made you stronger than me

Today stands a man, no kid, no lost soul

Because through love we worked and chiseled a monument

Two totems you will see when you look at the one

The tall one, Aaron as I look up and admire

And he smiles down at me a wide grin and a laugh

He stands tough for his years and smart in his ways

No mountain or valley to high or too deep in his path

Today is full of yesterdays that built this young man

And a pleasure it was with mallet and chisel in hand

As God guided each stroke for it was His plan

I love you Aaron, I love you man!

Under the Setting Sun

Under the setting sun so far

Beneath the veil of clouds

We find tomorrow’s home

Brightly shining yet unknown

Slowly falling, calling home

We follow that trail in earnest

The pull of the moon draws

Us through to dark plains and passes

Onward we trek, searching our fortune

Yet little we know we carry it with us

Each day we strive to make our mark

Uncovers a layer of linen and bark

That guards the treasure we seek

Yet all we do is polish it deep

We nourish our soul and feed our goal

It is a terrible swift storm we sail

Weary and weak but never defeat

A sip of wine a taste of scone

One day more we charge and ride

Tomorrow is yesterday once again more

Dancin' in the Daylight

Dancin' in the daylight

With my darlin’ to delight

Cold wind blowin’ and driftin' powder

Red, her cheeks a-glowin'

Eyes mistin' from the wind

I grab her hand, make her spin

Slidin' the Snowman's Waltz

Glidin' to and fro, round and round

Gracefully, gingerly, new tracks on the ground

She throws her head and arches her back

Reachin' her arms, I follow her track

Stooping, I brace and reach for her waist

With the force of Atlas lifting her high

I throw her mightily into the sky.

Wind fills her wings, and she reaches for more

I pull back my long winged arms

And with one mighty thrust

I'm there beside her high and fast

There is no end, no stopping us now

On toward the sun, our flight has begun

I lag just an instant to keep her in sight

In awe and inspiration I trail her no more

For together we sail and sail and go

Into the red sky upward higher we fly

Yoner tall cedar our roost awaits

It is there we will nestle our wings intertwined

Our heads covered over 'neath twigs and vines

Hearts in rhythm, our breathing does slow

Eyes closed, nose to nose, cheek to cheek

Each moment together our dreams come true

Night's clothes are our bedding, our thoughts our pillows

We've come far, but farther to go

Come dawn we will feed each other's needs

In the grip of love, a ravenous feast

Never enough, always a taste

There is more each day, and less by the night

As I caress her and milk her of the honey of love

Our flights are nourished once more, but only for a day

There is always a hunger, always a need

As the wind of dawn brushes loose a gap in the leaves

We stretch ourselves straight and preen

The darkness behind us, into the wind we jump

Not high not long not far to go

Down by the creek where the croakers are slow

Full again off again into the wind

Another sight awaits what will it be

A canyon a mountain, deep or high

Together we go, together we fly

Onward, onward, never behind

There are friends we see along this path

These friends, some old, some new, all in awe

Look at them go, they say.  Never saw them

So happy that way

So happy that way

To love honor cherish, so happy that way

Froggy's

Bein' a Dad is about the most precious job a man can have.  That's one li'l party that rates in the top ten down Memory Lane. 

But I gotta say, that before this particular night, all the roadwork was laid better than any runway extension at JFK.  Yessiree Bob, there's years, in fact, years of angst, tears, regret, an' hard work, all topped with with a thick slatherin' of Love.  Can't be Dad without love, and you can't love without fallin' down and gettin' dirty now and again.  Heck, there's many a time I failed.  But, Lordy, Lordy, I think there's more good days than bad, when you peer back through the briars to the head of the path.

It was party time in Dover.  Some friends needed to complete a foursome for dinner, and I got the call.  "Let's do dinner; we've a friend in from Germany, but she needs a 'date.'" 
"Well, Ok.  I'll oblige...I've a notion to break bad an' it might as well be with y'all."  
"We want to stop at Froggy's for a drink first." 
"Sound's great to me," so off we go.  I've got the biggest vehicle, so I pick 'em up, and we're sittin' at the bar ordeirn' drinks before the motor even got hot. 

An empty stomach and alcohol are just right for startin' off a calm, peaceable night out with friends and a good meal.  As Bill Clinton always starts off a comment..."Let me say this..." It was a long time 'fore I left that bar stool; a looong time; swimmy headed time.  It was feel good time for Phil, and I'm a Steve Martin friendly type of guy when my mind gets thrown outta gear.  Plumb happy, I am. 

For some reason, I get the notion to call my boys.  Have never set down with them and had a beer...never.  Strange as it may seem, we didn't keep alcohol in the house.  It's just not a menu item.  Never had it around when I was a kid, and didn't see any need in havin' it around for my own younguns.  Must be the Baptist in me.  Not for nothin', but one son bein' classified in the alcoholic category didn't help.  Needless to say that happened not at home, and I spent a lot of time not understandin' it all, but tryin' my damndest to fix it, but to no avail.  As it was and is, it is his to control; no one else's.  Tonight, Mike was the first call.
"Son, come on down to Froggy's an' have a drink with your Dad.  In fact, you don't have a hair on your hind end, if you don't." 
Then I called Aaron with the same message.  To my knowledge, neither boy had ever seen their father take a drink.  I had no idea they'd come, but I sure hoped so, because this was an opportunity I'd long, long awaited; just to sit and have a beer with my sons. 

Once I'd made the calls, I then went right back to partyin' and mixin' with folks around the place.  There wasn't a soul there I missed that night.  I was probably the oldest one there too.  The friends I was with were the same age as my children, as were 75% of the people in Froggy's that night.  I'm sittin' there with my 'date' just a cuttin' up a smidgeon, and havin' a good laugh, when I sense someone beside me; it's Mike. 
"Dad, are you all right?  What are you doin'?"
"Aw hush Son and have a beer."
"Naw, I don't think I will."
"Nope, we're puttin' all that behind us.  Don't lie to me and say you're not drinkin'.  Have one with me."  And he does.  We tap the necks of those bottles together, hug each other manlike, and sit an chit chat for a while.  Before long, Aaron arrives, and we go through the same 'quiz and have a beer' offer, and the three of us are, simply put, enjoyin' ourselves. 

But kinda like returnin' home to your parents on that once or twice a year homebound journey, in five minutes, we're caught up!  Must be a man thing, 'cause women never finish fillin' in the months on end of adventures that happened since the last visit.  Me 'an the boys run outta conversation soon, so I'm off an' runnin'.  I just happened to have a camera with me that night, and there's a lot of single women there that need their picture took, and I need to be in it with 'em.  Why?  Lord only knows, but there were several pictures that night and it was not purty tryin' to explain 'em all to the SheCoon, when she came back off her business trip.  Again..."Let me say this..." I'm not on a short tether, but there's no need to tempt Jesus either.  I even dance with most of these women, and there's pictoral proof of that no-no too.  Another man thing I don't completely grasp.

As the night wore on, so did my alcohol consumption.  However, in all my years, I've never been so drunk that I wasn't aware of my surroundings.  That doesn't mean I could negotiate 'em all that well, but I always had an eye out for trouble, or not, always with the option of keepin' clear of it.  But this night, my eyes were on my sons.  Once Dad left the bar stool and started makin' his rounds, Mike and Aaron posted themselves about the room.  It turned out this was "their hangout."  They knew the owner, and many of the patrons.   Wherever I'd go, I'd catch a glimpse of them watchin' me; watchin' Dad.  At that moment, the roles reversed for the first time in our lives.  Wow!  They're lookin' after me; protectin' me!  This memory puts water in my eyes every time I recall it.  Even now, the emotion wells deep inside as I realize the Love I freely gave my sons had gone to bud and multiplied.  Sweet Jesus, but it is a wonderful feelin' to look on a bumper crop of Love that you sowed on "new grouud." 

As friendly as I was, they did sense it was time to circle the wagons a tad closer.  They got with me when I neared the bar close in on one of their friends.  This young fellow was leanin' on the bar talkin' to friends, when I spied the opportunity I always sought...to goose!  Forgive me Lord, but I was taught this trick way too early in life.  So early, if fact, that it was engrained in me, just like eatin' breakfast or goin' to church on Sunday.  It was the natural thing to do.  When most least expectin' it....and so help me God, if a feller is bent over in arms reach of me, I'm gonna check his oil.  Yessiree, and Mike an' Aaron "saw the look."  Heck, I thought I'd passed this along to them too, but it just never too hold.  Anyhow, as soon as my arm shot out, thumb in the ready, each one of them grabbed me from both sides sayin' "No Dad.  Not here, not him!"  They actually had to wrestle me down.  It's akin it to a cow kickin'; once she's drawed that foot back, you can guarantee it's gonna connect with somethin' 'sides clean air.  I have never been stopped mid-goose, but they managed, God bless 'em.  He was a right good size feller, but part of the art of goosin' is duckin' the swing that follers.

I was just wallerin' drunk by now and needin' to be somewhere other than in a public venue.  I herded up my crowd to load 'em up in the van an' head home. 
"Where's your keys Dad?"
"Right cheer Son." an' as soon as they jingled, they're snatched outta my hands in their final act of kindness that night...to see that I made it safe into the arms of Morpheus without drivin' home drunk. 

Mike, Aaron, I love you.

Time is a Treasure

Time is a treasure we never hold dear

Life is a gift we spend without fear

Love is our treasure; time is our foe

For gingerly we cherish, and brashly we go

Into the future, without clue to the path

We charge through transition at dawn

Speeding through the portal we go.

Pulling life, love and time in behind us

Leaving only a whirlpool to show.

Easter Sunrise

December 29, 2010

Easter Sunrise

Have you ever been where you couldn’t laugh as much as in a church?  Well sir, let me tell you that standin’ on the beach amongst God’s fav-o-rites at an Easter Sunrise Service is no different than sittin’ in a pew half way through a good stone throwin’.  I’m recallin’ that particular service in 1972 near Surfside Beach SC while visitin’ my Aunt and Uncle.

We all got up early this Sunday and down to the beach we go.  Windy, it was and overcast.  The only sun shinin’ was if you were hoverin’ ‘round 15,000’, an’ even up there, The Light was a-waitin’ the dawn.  We gathered just below the dunes toward the rear of the congregation just like any good “back row Baptist;” especially since this was a Presbyterian service.  Shucks; are they any different.  I think if you said ‘yes,’ Jesus would tell you to go cut a switch.  Anyhow, there we stand; my Aunt, with Uncle Palmer standin’ behind her, my Brother, my wife, and me standin’ right behind her with my arms affectionately around her. 

I recall a blustery wind blowin’ hair this way an’ that an’ folks forever repartin’ the wisps even a “little dab of brylcream” couldn’t tame.  The preacher cranks ‘er up, an’ we’re all eyes an’ ears.  Amazin’ how big some of those ears are uncovered of those blowin’ tresses.  Me an’ Uncle Palmer are movin’ sand back and forth, buildin’ little roads with our ‘loafer dozers.’  Out of nowhere, I feel a pain.  Lordy, but not now!   Ok, Ok.  Easy does it.  Beans are gonna be the death of me yet.  Usually the day after a fine meal of pintos and collards, that pain is the warnin’ shot across the bow, which instead hits the powder magazine midship. Just pinch off just a smidgen, I think, an’ maybe nobody will hear, much less know the biological torment you are experiencing.  Yep; gas pain.  Somethin’ you’d not fear were you in a thunderstorm, but not thunder of your own makin’ and in the midst of a church service to boot.

So I do.  Stiff legged as I can, I break off just a li’l chunck an’ turn ‘er loose.  Whew!  Thank you Jesus!  Silence!  Did I say ‘silence?’  Honey, she might not have spoken, but she had arms an’ legs, for she was a-crawlin’ her way up to my collar.  So help me God, I felt ever toe hold to the top. I felt the warmth that crisp Spring mornin’ an’ was fixin’ to share with the world.  Did I say “blustery?”  Dead calm as soon as the bubble burst.  There wasn’t breeze enough to put a mere quiver in the flame of a candle.  I could’ve used an orchestra full of those little fans with the prayin’ hands just ‘bout then.  Yessiree Bob, ‘cause just as soon as she cleared my collar, you’d ‘ave thought I was the preacher from all the attention I got.  The wife, well she broke free of my comforting arms quicker’n a short horned calf breaks clear of the chute at the rodeo.  That movement alone got me just a little tickled…. just a little.  Brother, he glances over and grimaces one of those looks that only speaks, “you rotten sumbitch!”  Aunt Jerri, bless her heart, takes it on the chin, but cast such a stare to let me know the trouble I’m in…I’m startin’ to quiver now, not only doesn’t this bother me, but I know how much misery is being visited on them.  It was so thick it would have dulled a sharp knife.  With each second longer, I start to shake ‘n heave, doin’ my best to squelch the laugh that is buildin’ in my toes.   

Uncle Palmer is the one that doesn’t care.  He’s back there busy with those dozer loafers.  His shoes have buckles, which he didn’t bother to close, so every time he moves his feet, sounds like the safety backup bell on a front end loader.  He’s oblivious to it all, but then he pauses.  All construction comes to a stop.  He looks over at me an’ grins.  He’s the devil incarnate and would do anything he could to git you to laugh when you shouldn’t, and the time was right.  He’d found his ‘mark,’ but not till my mark found him.  With a look of desperation you’d only see on Barney Fife, he zips up his windbreaker to his throat…but he doesn’t stop there.  He’s got my attention, catches my eye, then tucks his head and zips the coat up over it, leavin’ the ‘headless horseman’ in our midst.  That’s all it took. It starts as a snort through my nose till I can’t hold back any longer, and I bust out laughin’ right there amongst God and everyone awaitin’ the Risen Savior.  It rize all right, but t’warn’t the Savior.  In a last ditch effort to avoid total humiliation, I turn an’ take off a-runnin’ back toward the car, where Granny sits outta the air so as to keep her neuralgia at bay. “What’s happenin’?” she asks, an’ with tears in my eyes an’ a snicker in my breath, “nothin’ at all that a good breeze wouldn’t fix.” 

Me and My Goat

January 1, 2011

Me and MY Goat

Chapter One

What a car!  A Dream it was.  It started out nice, and it lasted a long time.  More miles on that car than any other; nearly 175,000 miles I reckon; the speedometer cable rung into one time and it was an awful long time till there was enough money for taters and mechanics.  It was a muscle car from the muscle years.  It was loud and it was fast and it was fun.  And I’m sure, beyond a doubt it could tell you some tales, but let me tell ‘em first.  Who’d believe a car? 

It was the summer of 1971; not long following college graduation.  I was waitin’ for my wife at the barn on the research farm where I worked.  She was late that day.  Finally, I saw her at the top of the rise at the stop sign, and something didn’t look just right.  The tail end of the car was lookin’ funny and I was lookin’ at the front end.  Oh no.  It’s wrecked.  Well, maybe it ain’t that bad, for she’s still drivin’ it.  And that’s when the fight started….”What happened to my car,” were the first words outta my mouth; not, “honey, are you all right?”  I suppose my priorities were somewhere else just then, for that was really a car!  See, some 40 years later, and I still miss that car: 1965 Ford Galaxie, 390 cid, two door hardtop, fastback, bone white with red interior.  She was a beauty, and to this day; the best car I ever owned.  But it would never replace the Goat.  I suppose it was deevine providence once again in my life that gave me a ride to get me through the “wilderness years.”  And you think Jesus was the onliest one in the wilderness!  He wasn’t, and mine lasted a tad more’n 40 days, I’ll tell you. 

Anyhow, that’s when I learned the meaning of “totaled,” as to damage estimates for automobile insurance uses.  It means “tough luck buddy, for this horse needs shootin’.”  I think insurance gave me $800 and I sold it to a mechanic for $400, thinkin’ I got a deal.  We went shoppin’ for the replacement, and this Green Goat won my heart.  I never was good at car shoppin’.  I’d start on one lot with plans to “shop around,” and next thing I know, I’m drivin’ off the lot in my next “ride.”   Remember, I was still a youngun.  I was just shy of 22, and lookin’ back, I stayed a youngun probably another 22 years before I got into the next stage of life, “Youngun Plus One!”  Here this youngun was sittin’ in what I thought was the fastest thing on the road.  We’ll get to the fast tales in a minute, but she was fast that day.  Remember “Redline Tiger Paws?”  That was the tire of the day; wide with a thin red stripe.  Yessiree; fast car with wide tires on rally rims.  I was King.  Move over Elvis.

The downside of this was one week after I committed my paycheck to GM for the next 3 years, I drove by the gas station where this mechanic worked, and there was the Galaxie.  You’d never have known there was anything wrong with it.  This mechanic was a superb auto body man, and I’d not known such things were possible.  And this gas station was on the just down the corner from the apartment where we lived and I had to pass by my favorite car every day, but it wasn’t my car anymore.  Sad, sad, sad!  But I got over it.  I’d step on the gas a bit harder, hopin’ to spin a tire, but it never happened, but at least I got outta sight of that Ford, and finally I got mostly over it. 

It wasn’t too long and I got my first job out of school on a chicken farm in Farmington NC.  This is where I learned the real meaning of fast.  Up till that time, I hadn’t been too, too excited about drivin’ much more’n 10 or 15 miles over the speed limit.  I’d had a couple speedin’ tickets, and it didn’t do to pay more insurance than I needed.  Sin’s a bitch.  Do it once and it multiplies!  I speed and it cost the ticket and court costs, then you git this li’l note from the insurance company that some sumbitch at motor V had to go tell on you, and you git to pay the insurance company about four times the cost of the speedin’ ticket for three more years!  Anyhow, me’n the wife are carrin’ two boys who were workin’ for me back to Winston one evenin’, when I come up on this ’66 Dodge Charger.  Hmmm.  For some reason, when I got along side, that’s where I stayed.  Wasn’t goin’ too fast, but I wasn’t passin’ either.  This is how I drove then, and not much has changed, but I did have a heavy foot.  I’d drive 10 miles over the limit, which was usually pretty safe from tickets.  It was always in the fast lane.  Cars seem to travel in packs just like dogs.  You ride down the road, and you’ll come up on a mess of cars all bunched up in both lanes.  I’d inevitably have to work my way through the pack, then I’d break free and git on down the road for about two or three miles till I got to the next pack and the cycle would start again.  This evenin’, there were but two cars on the road; me an’ him and we’re both about dumb, ‘cause we both thought we had the best and the fastest.  Hell, I know I had the best car on the road, and never thought about the fastest till that moment. Side by side we were doin’ about 65 in a 55 zone, and I saw his car jump!  The race is on!  YeeHaa!  Git’er Goat, and through the firewall goes my foot.  My toes are pullin’ all the stops outta that carburetor, an’ you could color us gone.  He jumped first, but it wasn’t for long and I’m passin’ him like he’s sittin’ still.  I’m hearin’ “Beach Boys 409” and ever other fast car song I know from those days, and a-grinin’ to beat the band.  My first race and I won…or thought I did.  I looked in the mirror, and here he comes…slowly, but surely, here he comes.  I’m whippin’ that Goat for all she’s got, an’ there just ain’t anymore left.  I look to my left, an’ sadly, but surely, there he goes.  He’s not goin’ much faster, but like an ice cream cone in the sunlight, it’s drippin’ faster’n I can lick.  I hadn’t even looked down at the speedometer till then, and I like to have soiled my drawers, for I’d run outta numbers, an’ the hands on the clock was gettin’ near to startin’ the second go-round.  Interpolatin’ the empty space between 120 and zero, I figger I was doin’ 135 and he was doin’ 140 comin’ across the Yadkin River bridge on I-40.  Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, but I couldn’t complain about those numbers.  I suppose the saddest part was I had witnesses.  I coulda made a good tale outta that’n otherwise.  Probably the best part of the whole deal is we lived through it.  Some sad things do have a good endin’s.

Chapter Two

When I left that job, we bought us a mobile home, and moved to Kernersville.  Farmin’ is now history.  I’m in a factory makin’ more money workin’ 60 hours a week, getting’ overtime, than I was workin’100 hours a week on the farm with only two days off every other week.  This city work spoilt me! 

And don’t you know, my next door neighbor is a mechanic.  And wouldn’t you know, I need some mufflers.  And of course, I wanted some loud ones.  Well, they didn’t start out loud.  They had a nice rumble; kind of throaty without the awful loud noise that brought a lot of police attention.  The cops can hear one roar for a mile, and just sit there waitin’ for you to round that bend through their radar.  Onliest thing is, for a whole week, I had a headache.  It actually took that long for me to get adjusted to the rumble. 

It didn’t take long, and those Redline Tiger Paws were slicker’n racin’ slicks.  There wasn’t enough tread on those tires to say “grace” over.  They might have been pretty tires in the beginning when there was a lot of tread showin’, but they didn’t last a year.  The year was 1972 and the new thing was radial tires.  I remember for $136 cash money, I was able to get a set of blems(blemish tires with something that kicked ‘em off the inspection line at the factory, but still safe enough to market.)  Who’d know, but me, and as the sayin’ goes, “ten dollars is ten dollars, and I wasn’t rich just yet, nor famous, and all good looks did was git me in trouble, not transportation.   So I’ve got me a fine car that goes fast, sounds bad, and turns on a dime.  One thing about radial tires that you wouldn’t notice today, because that’s the only kind of tire there is, but back when we were still debatin’ over whether a tire had two ply side walls or four ply and “belted tires” had just added 5,000 miles to a set of tires when if you got 10,000 miles outta set of tires, you got more’n you’d expected and you’d brag for a month at that.  But that first set of radials took a few corners to get use to them.  They cut sharper’n normal.  If you weren’t careful or slowed down quite enough, you’d swear you’s up on two wheels in a turn.  Lordy they were quick.  I’ll tell you how good they were; I don’t remember the next set of tires I bought, they lasted that long.  It was at least two years and nearly 40,000 miles.  Worth ever cent of that $136, wasn’t it? 

While expeditin’ material to and through the pipe fabrication plant for power plants around the country, I became acquainted with an engineer, who became my best friend.  Being the project engineer on a power plant project in Astoria, New York, I spoke with him often regarding material for his site. After a year of speaking with him over the phone, Zac comes to the factory on business, and we finally get to meet.  I’m talkin’ to Zac for a year now, and hear this accent from who knows where with a strong nasal tone and sounded sorta like he’d be from Cincinnati.  First impressions on the phone are misleadin’ as the dickens, for I’ve got this image in my mind of a short little feller.  Anyhow, short, he ain’t.  He’s taller’n me an’ I’m a smidgen over 6-3.  He’s 6-5 if he’s an inch.  He’s even got a mustache like me.  If you didn’t know better, you stand us side by side and you’d think we were brothers.  My own mother told me that, when she saw a picture of us together years later.  But listen’ to me, then listen’ to him and you’d know we weren’t from the same litter.  First thing I know, Zac’s talkin’ about his job an’ how he needs some help, an’ what’d I think about comin’ to work for him as an engineering clerk or field engineer.  Bein’ the worldly man I am; man heck, I’m but 23, and haven’t thought about supper yet.  Why’d I even have a thought such as workin’ somewhere else, much less in New York City?  That was way yonder across more pastures than I’d imagined.  I don’t know ‘bout this.  To be asked such a thing outta the clear blue, when I’m right happy here in NC in my mobile home an’ all, and got a nice car ’n wife ‘n child not yet a year old.  Next thing I know, I’ve had my first airplane ride.  I went on one of those job interviews.  Just picture the old television show, “HeeHaw” and the segment titled “Goober and Gaylord go to Hollywood!  That’s me all over again, ‘ceptin’ I’m goin’ to New Yawk. 

Shucks, I didn’t even know what a job interview was.  When I left that chicken farm, I heard about this factory needin’ help, and I needed work, so I grabbed my hat n’ gloves n’ walked in the front door to this big office buildin’.  See, my Aunt’s neighbor told her that her son was workin’ as a laborer in this place paintin’ pipe.  I didn’t know what pipe was, but I’d heard of paint an’ figgered I could get one on the other, had I a brush.  The receptionist asked who I wanted to see.  I told her, I didn’t have narry idea, but that I heard y’all needed some help an’ hear I am.  Comin’ off the farm, that’s how we worked.  You had a neighbor needin’ help in hayin’ or corn silage season, you just went over an’ helped.  No questions asked.  Next thing I know, I was handed a job application.  I filled it out, and in come this fellow in charge of the laborers.  Anyhow, he saw where I had a college degree, and was over qualified for him, so he passes me off to another department head.  I explained to this next feller I’m needin’ work, and heard they needed folks.  I even told him I was lookin’ for somethin’ temporary, for I was lookin’ for another farm, but in the meantime, I needed to eat.  He decided he could use me, and for the high pay of $2.74 an hour, I could work for him in the material control department.  I never really looked back.

 They liked me, and I liked them, and off we go on the next phase of life; that of the construction circuit from pillar to post, hilltop to valley and across more rivers than I can count, but the Goat carries me well.  Labor Day 1973, I come off Route 22(this was before Interstate 78 cut across New Jersey from Pennsyltucky to Newark,) through the toll booth onto the northern end of the New Jersey Turnpike, rounded the turn and looked out onto bumper to bumper traffic across what seemed like 10 lanes and for as far as I could see.  Sweet Jesus, what a sight.  I rolled down the winder and spit a mouthful of tobacco juice, and said to myself, “it sure didn’t look like this from the air!”  That “parkin’ lot” will forever more be my first recollection of life up “Nawth.” 

Chapter Three

The next 8 months were work, work, work.  I didn’t really have time to get to know the big city too much.  Then one day, the boss came through the office sayin’, “as they say in the construction trade, “don’t send your laundry out this week, ‘cause you won’t be here to pick it up.”  An hour later we were told the job was bein’ shut down.  God Bless ConEd, was all I could think.  I was scared.  I cried. I really did.  Here I’d left the comforts of home, gathered all my eggs, put ‘em in that Goat and brought ‘em to the Big Apple.  Being new to this line of work, I didn’t know folks took care of their own and didn’t just ‘throw the baby out with the bathwater.’  A couple days and a lot of prayers and worryin’ later, I was told of a reassignment to a powerhouse in Stilesboro, Georgia.  I had to hunt the map on that’un, and when I did, I didn’t know they made dots on maps that small!  And fact it was, for by the end of the week, I was drivin’ through this dot of a town in northwest Georgia to the biggest power plant I’d ever seen.

Goat was home.  The roads were two lane and made for fun.  There’s a sayin’, “I love to see a poor man have a rough time.”  That was life in Georgia.  I didn’t have two nickels to rub together, so every day was a gift from somewhere.  My financial life was naught.   I didn’t have a clue about how to manage money.  My good parents were absolutely the best in the world with regards to ethics and morals and teachin’ how to be good and do good an’ all that, but we never were taught money, and that has foller’d me from daylight to dark all the days of my life.  Fortunately, I get spells of common sense reckonin’, and straighten out messes brought on by financial neglect, and this venture was the beginning of one of those messes.  It tripped the balance of life and next thing you know, there was a divorce.  I was embarrassed, for I was the first person in my family that did such a thing.  I was sho’nuff poor, and sho’nuff was havin’ a rough time, but much like the sayin’, “What don’t kill us, makes us strong.”  This was one more buildin’ block of my life’s structure, and I have built a fine house, let me tell you; a fine ‘un! 

While I didn’t have nickels, I could find pennies.  We lived in a trailer park that was plumb nearly in the departure to runway 36 of the Cartersville airport.  Curiosity got the best of me, carried me there one Saturday afternoon, an’ next thing I know, I’m goin’ for a $5 air ride.  Then, God bless him, the pilot says put your hands on the yoke and “git yer money’s worth; you might as well fly as ride.”  So that was the beginning of my flyin’.  I met another fellow at the airport, also in flight trainin’, who just happened to live in the same trailer park.  Now Terry ran a ‘fillin’ station up on the four lane.  He and I became good friends, and lo and behold, I got to help him out a time or two at the fillin’ station.  I’d pump gas and he’d pay me in gas.  It worked out.  Meanwhile, I’d put Goat on the rack and change oil, an’ such.  Once while on the rack, I hit the exhaust with a wrench, to find one muffler sounded hollow and one still had some meat in it.  Remember those glass packs I had installed about a year or so ago?  Well, they’re near the end of life as we know it in muffler years.  But my pennies bein’ spent on $5 plane lessons, I decided to swap the mufflers around so the other side could ‘git hollow’ too.  Basically now, I was runnin’ straight pipes off the Goat and she sounded some fierce.  The dog wouldn’t bite, but she barked well, an’ often late into the night. 

Having separated from wife, I experienced the Ramada and the Holiday Inn bars and dancehalls over in the next county in Rome, Georgia.  Bein’ raised at the foot of the Cross, I didn’t have much chance to go to such establishments in my growin’ up years.  Oh, I’d get a beer in college at one of the many beer halls along Hillsborough Street in Raleigh, but that was the extent of my wildness; very tame.  This was the first time I’d experienced liquor by the drink.  North Carolina doesn’t pass such a law for another 11 years (1985!)  This dog had now been turned loose, and he was ridin’ a Goat.  I fell “into a burin’ ring of fire,” but thankfully, it was only a flash in the pan.  I got a taste of the Devil an’ he got a taste o’ me.  I don’t really know which one spit the other out first, but luckily I liked my jaw full of Redman and Skoal better.  30 days o’ Saturday night sinnin’, liquor n’ women and I got a call to return to NYC and the job I’d left the year prior….time to pick up that laundry!! 

Chapter Four

The trip back North was a dilly.  It started out as a bad finish to a night full of fun, frolic and last, but not least…a snoot full of tequila as Terry and his wife and me and a li’l gal, Nancy celebrated my last night in Georgia.  On the way back to Cartersville from the Rome Ramada, there’s this old, old covered bridge across the Etowa River.  Terry’s no more sober than I am and I’m seein’ umpteen of everything.  I know we hit the turn comin’ onto that bridge on two wheels an’ still get through it without scrapin’ the sides just like threadin’ a needle.  One ‘o God’s little miracles, it was; just one of many I’ve seen. 

The next mornin’, I’m wearin’ a size 27 hat.  You’ll never find one in the hat store that big, but that was it that Saturday.   Actually, I think it was a kettle drum turned upside down with a hole through the hide for my head.  The blood rushin’ through my veins sounded like the old Colorado River runnin’ wild through the canyons.  Today, this many years later, I feel that pain.  I’ll never know how I survived that day.  Slowly an’ step by step, I loaded everything I owned in that car; everything, including a small console TV.  I had to take the passenger bucket seat out, invert it and put it in the back so I could get the TV in the car.  Then, from the rear view mirror and going around to the right, ending behind the driver’s seat, I packed and I packed clothes and things.  No boxes; didn’t have room.  Every little space was packed full.  When I was through, there wasn’t room for a ball of cotton.  Oh, did I mention I had air shocks!  For the first time, I needed ‘em! 

It was a six hour trip to Winston-Salem. I remember pullin’ into the drive around 3:30 PM Sunday afternoon.  It was a miserable drive, but what was bad was another 11 hours in front of me.  Poor Ma loved me to death, and I’m sure she saw what looked like a burnt match stick getting’ outta the Goat.  I felt burnt too.  I can only imagine I looked like I’d been pulled through a knothole backwards.  She had me a pot of pinto beans on the stove; my favorite, but my stomach was in revolt and if I ate one servin’, it was one more than I wanted.  I took a nap, and shortly before dark, left for New York. Ma, poor thing, musta thought I’d sho’nuff gone to the dogs, seein’ me pull away that evenin’.  

Somewhere along the way, I stopped for gas and noticed I had only one headlight.  Great I said, for I’ll get a ticket for that somewhere tonight, then I banged the fender with my palm…bingo; the light came back on; saved by one more little miracle. Every hundred miles or so, I’d have to stop and bang the fender to ‘wake it up.’  Little did I know, but I was wakin’ myself up for the drive.  It was a long night, but Goat and an untold quantity of truck stop coffee got me through the night.  I hit the jobsite in New York about daylight Monday morning.  I suppose it was good to be alive, but somehow, I just didn’t feel enthused.  It was tough keeping the drama of the last couple months hid from the world.  Me an’ Goat were one.  We’d both seen better times an’ the miles were startin’ to show. 

Eventually, I saved enough pennies for a headlight.  I found a basement apartment, which I know was one of those illegal places folks in New York hide undisclosed tenants for some tax free income.  What did I care; for $35 a week, I had a place to sleep, wash an’ eat. Sometimes I got to do all three in the same day.  Did I mention finances was the straw that broke the camel’s back and ended the marriage?  With the aid of my good friend’s wife, we sat down an’ put Phil on a budget.  After all the bills I owed, I had $25 a week left to buy food and gas.  $25 a week in New York City…but I was in Queens…it was manageable.  Part of my budget plan was write all my creditors a letter of woe, and tell them I was broke, but I was going to pay them what I could till they were paid.  I don’t know how, but I did it.  I did nothing but work, go home and start over the next day.  Every payday, I’d sit down and write checks for all but $25. 

My friend Zac and his wife were my best friends.  They took me under their wing, and took care of me, providing me support and friendship; two things I needed the most.  Cindy worked in a dialysis medical center and through her; I got myself a blind date.  I believe we only went to the movies, but it was a date.  It was a one date relationship.  Goat was well behaved, but he was loud.  All the other goats and taxis in New York were jealous.  Driving that car down the street was like a new bull comin’ on the farm.  I’d pull up to a light, another car would pull up, listen to the rumble, an’ I’d notice the other car start to twist as the driver would race the engine, tryin’ to engage me.  All their car would do was rock, but I’m sittin’ in Mr. Rumble and Roar.  Even if they had glass packs, you couldn’t hear ‘em over Goat’s straight pipes.  Every stop light was like the Christmas Tree at the drag strip.  You’d watch for that caution light on the cross street, the rockin’ would start, you have the green and “bang,” we’re off.  And we’re off with a roar.

Here I sit with a pretty nurse, mindin’ my own business, tryin’ to behave, and this Puerto Rican taxi driver pulls up beside me.  The clock is tickin’.  Soon, his taxi starts a-rockin’.  I look over an’ we smile that smile and nod.  We look back and watch the light….tick, tick, tick…yellow…you count one...two and jam your foot into the carburetor on the anticipation of the delayed green.  Remember that console television I just had to bring with me when I left Georgia, and how I had to remove the seat to make room for it.  And I even put the seat back….but, did I bolt ‘er down?  Noooo.  I forgot that little part.  All four barrels of that Rochester Quadro Jet aren’t fully open an’ all I see outta the corner of my eye are a pretty set of legs as they fly up and she flies back to the rear seat!  Kodak moment extraordinaire, it was.   Forget the race.  It’s all I can do to get the car stopped and rescue her from the oblivion of the back seat.  I couldn’t have been more embarrassed.  I didn’t have the nerve to ask her out after that.  Elaine, I have a drink to you now and again in remembrance of that night and that light! 

Chapter Five

The next few months are a dry spell in my courtin’ life.  After unloadin’ Elaine, it was a good while before I even let anyone ride with me. 

One mornin’ in August, I’m in bumper to bumper traffic on the Grand Central Parkway nearin’ LaGuardia Airport, when I tap the brakes for the stopped traffic, and no pedal.  Not narry nothin’!  Sweet Jesus, what’s happenin’ here?  I start pumpin’ like I was on a life savin’ foot pump, thinkin’ that’ll work, and what do you know, but it does!  I got brakes!  HooRay!  She can stop.  I’m reluctant to hit the gas, but after several successful pumpin’ exercises, I find she’ll stop every time.  The only thing is, she stops right quick, when the brakes do grab, and the other thing is, I have to drive about 5 car links ahead of myself in preparation for that awful quick stop.  Success doesn’t spoil me any, but it sure did keep me alive for a good while.  Heck, I even developed good tone in that one leg, just from pumpin’ the brakes.  If anyone was watchin’ from the adjacent lanes probably figgered “that poor fellow has some sort of nervous condition.  Bless his heart.”  An’ they were right.  I was nervous that Goat wouldn’t stop, but I was pretty gentle and he obeyed the reins, even though he felt like he was getting’ kicked. 

One day George, a coworker, needed a lift to work.  Me livin’ right close was the answer to his prayers.  We’re drivin’ along the same Grand Central Parkway at a good clip.  You could always do that till just about LaGuardia, where you went from 50 MPH to bumper to bumper and stop n’ go for a mile before our exit.  You should have seen the look on George’s face, heck you didn’t need to see it, you could hear the look, the first time I had to stop.  “Don’t worry George.  It works ever time.  I been at this for a couple months now.  There’s permanent creases in the armrest and his foot prints in the floor board on the passenger side from the couple days he rode with me.  George was a fine fellow.  He knew the condition. He had a wife, five daughters, two still at home, and a bitch dog.  He knew poor, and empathized with me. 

Anyhow, my last tour of duty on this project, prior to movin’ to Georgia, I needed a ride to work, and George came to my aide.  That was back in the days when you had a set of snow tires on another set of rims for the winter months.  George needed a rim, an’ wouldn’t you know I found him one…layin’ on the side of the Grand Central Parkway.  See, when George picked me up those several times, I’d just meet him down at the intersection of the Long Island Expressway and the Grand Central Parkway.  He’d slow down an’ I’d hop in and off we’d go.  I look back at that, and wonder how I survived not havin’ been run over day after day.  Anyway, I came across this tire layin’ off to the side of the GCP.  I determined it would fit George’s can, so I grab it an’ was rollin’ it along one of those mornin’s, and threw it in the car when George slowed down.  You’d have thought I bought him a new watch.  Shucks, we were both proud of savin’ a nickel.

As it turned out, I pumped those brakes for five months.  It was only the master cylinder, not a broken line, so it never did give out completely.  I didn’t have the money to get a replacement master cylinder, so I made do with a lot of luck and more prayers than Carter has little liver pills.  And I had good friends.  Yes, I’ve been blessed with good friends, and my best friend, Zac, gave me a Master Cylinder for Christmas that year!!  I didn’t know how to act.  I’d never gotten any present I ever needed more.  We snuck the car in the power house one night and installed the new part.  Joy to the World; I had brakes.  I suppose I wasn’t the only one that was happy.  It’s a thousand wonders I didn’t simply crash and burn sometime in those five months.

Havin’ a Rochester Quadra Jet turned out to be more of an issue than a failed master cylinder.  There was this plastic choke pull out, that invariably failed more’n once.  Fiddlin’ around with it when I had trouble gittin’ ‘er started, I stumbled on an answer.  If I left the door open, I could fire ‘er up, and before she died, I could run around, pop the hood, and reach in an pull out the choke lever manually just in time, and she’d keep a-runnin.’  I didn’t know these choke pull outs were very inexpensive, but it didn’t much matter.  Remember, I was doin’ good to sleep, wash and eat all in the same day on my $25 budget.  Besides, I only started that car twice a day; goin’ to and comin’ from work.  It just took me a couple extra steps.  Five months of pumpin’ brakes will prepare you for most any calamity. 

Unfortunately, the vacuum seal in that choke pull out would become so deteriorated to the point that while drivin’, I got to where I had to throw it in neutral, hit the brake, then race the engine at stop lights and stop signs or worse, in stop n’ go traffic.  That was the worst.  On the way to an’ from work on the Grand Central Parkway, I used all my limbs to keep ‘er goin’.  One hand on the wheel, one on the gear shift, one foot on the brake and the other pumpin’ the gas. If I looked like I had a nervous condition with just the brakes aliment previously, I looked like a sidewalk Preacher, forever more shellin’ down the corn in a scaldin’ sermon.  It wore me out drivin’ that Goat.  I was at an auto parts store one time gettin’ some oil, when I mentioned my dilemma to the counter clerk.  He correctly diagnosed the choke pull out and provided me a new one for a couple dollars.  After I put that jewel on and cranked ‘er up without runnin’ around like a blind dog in a meat house, I felt like kickin’ myself all the way to the bank. It’s amazin’ how rich you can feel spendin’ but two dollars.

I run the brakes a bit long too.  She’d stop, but it got to where I near ‘bout had to drag my feet to come to a complete stop.  There got to be such a sound more like the gnashin’ of teeth sound of metal on metal instead of metal on brake pads.  I pushed the brake pads to the limit too.  By the time I got around to fixin’ them, it was not only brake pads, but drums and rotors thrown in for good measure. 

In the next year, the most I did was continue to burn those glass packs completely clean of any mufflin’ fiber.  She was pure straight pipes and sounded some bad, but honestly, she didn’t have the power to pull a sick whore off a piss pot.  Mind you, she’s got some age on ‘er now.  Much like the recent country song, “she ain’t as good as she once was, but she’s as good once as she ever was!”  If I got ‘er to the top of a hill, chances were she’d roll to the bottom; under power or not, and I could get ‘er stopped.  I did start courtin’ George’s daughter, an’ it got to be a joke ‘tween her sisters about how loud the car was.  “Fran, here comes Phil; you can hear him three blocks away.”  Love is grand an’ has no ears, and my life simply turned another corner. 

Me an’ Goat survived NYC and moved on to Virginia and the next job.  I worked that budget well and got all those bills paid, and actually started puttin’ money away for a change.  I kept to the $25 livin’ life, but now and again, I’d git me a pizza instead of a can of beanie weenies or Vienna Sausages and crackers.  I was steppin’ in high cotton by the time I got to Franklin, Virginia.  After 175,000 memorable miles, I traded for a long nosed ’74 Grand Prix.  She was purty, but she didn’t have near the personality Goat had!  Amen.