Our Flight time of departure to New Hampshire was supposed to have been at 1735hrs,and after driving like a madman from the "sunny hotter than hell welcome tospringtime in Macon Ga." weather I made it to the airport with an hour tospare-with the recent memory of having watched my 11 year old dance with herdance class at the Cherry Blossom festival, I was in good humor-icing on thecake was having made the commute without my car breaking down-so far it wasturning in to a great Sunday afternoon.....
But, really--what is life withouta well placed kick to the groin?
Departure time, as Jay called to tell me, had been changed until 1930-a bit of inconvenience, to be sure, but then again I have all day to get to New Hampshire and I could spend the extra time chilling out and by eatingan early dinner ...Now it is 1900 and we begin boarding--by 1930 we are loaded and the crew ,after apologizing profusely, announces we need fuel-good idea, as I suspectthe airplane will fly further with a tankful of gas-I am getting a bit anxious because regardless of where I go in my travels my bedtime is 900pm-The last thing I want to do is be traveling at night "so the boogers get me"....(My Grandmother used to say that)...I looked at my atlas and New Hampshire is just barely in the US of A--I didn't realize it but they also acquired statehood at some point-- I get on the plane, find my seat, sitting next to a young college kid probably 19 or so---she is talking on her cell phone telling either her folks or her boyfriend she didn't know when she would get there--I feel her pain--I have already been up since 0500 and my contacts are rejecting my myopia affected eyeballs-in other words, its dark, I am ready to go nighty nite and the damn airplane and all its occupants are waiting on a fuel truck--only as the last bit of daylight remained I could see out my window onto the tarmac--I saw a fuel truck pass by at least two occasions--the last one went by and I think he was pointing our direction and laughing--I can't be sure--I read the entire contents of the airline magazine, made a mental note to buy the new Mickey Mantle book just published, and get goo-goo eyed at the advertisements for log cabins (Log Cabins make me hunch)-and three pages of gadgets in the sky mall magazine that supposedly will cure my plantar fasciitus--one would think there is an epidemic of plantar fasciitus what with all the advertisements in the airplane magazines. I wonder if you catch it only on airplanes? I look around--it’s now dark-the stewardess passes out little bottles of water---
Caution: when stewardesses pass out little bottles of water that means its shift change and the truck, driver, and the gas--and more than likely the crew of the airplane--are all speeding off into the sunset.
Having enough anxiety as it is, you are also having quite the time of attempting to contain your flatulence because of the cute young lady sitting next to you-if a late plane makes her cry and call her boyfriend lord help you if you "let one go..."
Next announcement-the pilot comes on and says they have NOW exceeded the allowable time for a crew to be on the plane and have to change crews--it is now almost nine o’clock---
Fast forward: We unloaded the plane, got in line with a lot of really mad folks, and got vouchers to eat and sleep until the next day. At this moment Jay and I resorted to our experiences in Iraq, when it took three days to get on an airplane and fly somewhere. We spent the night at the Red Roof Inn. Inasmuch as I checked ALL my baggage, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. Jay was smarter because he had his shaving kit. Neither of us decided to wear underdrawers (did I mention it was hot this day?) so here we are at the RED ROOF with two Red roof Inn issued toothbrushes, me and Jaydawg in "commando" mode to spend the night. Lucky we did have two beds so it wasn't too bad.
You have to look for the silver lining--our food voucher came in handy thenext morning because WAFFLE HOUSE (Hallowed is its name) was nearby. Ain't no problem I ever had in this world that a Waffle and Country Ham couldn't cure.
Back at airport, thru security and back to the gate-our third traveler, JeffFarrell , who lives in the ATL was lucky enough to go back home and changehis underdrawers, arrives and we wait for the new day of adventure. Jay will not be flying the same route as Jeff and I --he will go to Manchester by way of New York’s' LaGuardia....we will not see him until later....way later.
Our adventure begins with the news that the medical reports on the trainwreck of all train wrecks Anna Nicole actually died of a drugoverdose-Revelation.
Our itinerary today takes us all over--to Manchester, New Hampshire by way of Memphis and Cincinnati. But my glass is half full--and by now, so is my bladder, so I head to the airport restroom, where there are always"issues"....
Airport bathrooms and the "butt gasket dilemma"---the butt gasket, for you that don't know, are the paper things you carefully place down on a toilet seat so that your behind doesn't get germs on it. The motion sensors in the restroom know when you turn away or stand back up. They are the coolest thing in the world, but sometimes, the sensors get confused with what the person is trying to do---and flush the butt gaskets down range and you have to place another gasket down on the lid--or hold it down and spin around real quick simultaneously letting trousers drop to your knees-- I call this the butt gasket bop.
We arrived at Manchester at a little past nine o’clock in the evening (already my bedtime) to a deserted airport except for passengers of our flight-we found baggage claim and waited with other passengers while bags hit the carousel..Ten minutes later the carousel comes screeching to a halt, with Jeff and me looking at each other without baggage.
Great.
Now I am up north with the clothes on my back. About this time Jay calls and tells us he made it to hotel and as he didn't have luggage either, and told us who to report to at ticketing-we went there and our bags were there (insert sigh of relief) having come up on the direct flight earlier thatday--we fist bumped each other and went to Hertz to pick up the rental car--
Day one highlights-went to lunch at a place called the Merrimack-not to be confused with Mary Macs in Atlanta-but food good--pictures of Democrats (horror of horrors) adorn the walls-that concerned me so picked a seat where my back was to the wall lest I had to fight my way out-I was ambushed however-I inquired with our server whether they had sweet tea and was told they had both sweet and unsweet. Jay and I were high-fiving our good fortune when she brought back Nestea in a bottle and set it in front ofme--clever Yankee democratic influenced ingenuity I guess--but no worry. Iwas hoping she would ask me where I was from so I could tell her Maine (theMaine part of Ga)..
For supper we wandered the streets for a while and ended up at an Italian place-there seems to be no particular place or culinary style that these NewHampshirians take to---I mean in the South we have soul food , barbecue and Macon’s' famous Nu-Way hot dog joint--in New Hampshire you have just regular places to eat-We decide that we will go to Portsmouth on Thursday night to find lobster--
Day two highlights-I still haven't figured out how to adjust my numbermatic bed-I keep mashing the button until all you hear is a whine which sounds like the starter isn't engaging--I am not convinced that setting my sleepnumber will do me much good-in the two nights I have tried to figure it out I have lost an hour and a half of sleep.
Another Yankee trick if you ask me.
We three Georgia guys (Jeff is actually from Ohio, bless his heart but has since been saved) are going to the hockey game tonight-oddly enough we are the only guys in class who are going except for the instructor and another fellow-it may be another ambush but little do they know this ain't my first rodeo--rather, hockey game--I saw the Macon Whoopee and the Columbus Cottonmouths damn near kill each other one night and that was before the game actually got under way. I even know a little about Zambonis.
However, inasmuch as I am an out of towner, I decide to refrain from running my mouth until I finish the first beer.
--we met at 515pm in the lobby to go get an early dinner before the 7pm hockey game. The weather was breezy and cool, much unlike the 90 degrees we had back in Ga--I guess the groundhog always sees his shadow up here---I decided to wear shorts. Definitely not the brightest idea I ever had, but I didn't really pack the right clothing. I only had a windshirt and didn't bring a jacket. It wasn'tcool, but it was cold. Frigid. It felt as if nothing were between New Hampshire and the North Pole except a barb wire fence that had been blown down. The wind howled.It sliced thru me as if I were wearing only shorts and a windshirt.
We ate supper at an Irish pub--where the special was called "Bangers andMash". Come to find out that is sausages and mashed potatoes served with a side of baked beans and some gravy. Very good and tasty, but if someone from Georgia named it would likely be called "Scoot n Poot".
The Verizon Wireless arena in downtown Manchester was full of hockey fans and the game with all its trappings made for a fun filled two hours. A short Arctic wind walk of a block or so and were back at the Radisson where I again screwed with the bed o' matic device trying to find my sleep number. After another 45 minutes of this insanity I opted for what I normally do--try to sleep thru the night without getting up to pee.
PS- the hotel has been invaded by 4-6 hundred Future Business Leaders of America students--mostly girls. The elevators to the tenth floor were a quagmire of young teens getting on and getting off on floors 1-9. I tell them they should be planning for the shaving cream balloon fights for later, and I get a collective deer in the headlight look. Cricket... Cricket.....so much for being a cool old dude. I laugh to myself when I see the looks of desperation on the faces of the chaperones and teachers of all these kids. I also wish I were 27 years younger and had some balloons and shaving cream...
Day three (thur)-the day we go to eat lobster. After class, we met in lobby and began our trek to Portsmouth, Maine, and the seacoast some 45 milesaway. Actually, Kittery Maine, which is right across the river and home to Warrens lobster house, our destination. As luck would have it, lobster availability and prices therein are at an all time high. The sign and waitress said so. (another Yankee trick)
Jay and I decided our chances to actually eat lobster in Maine again in our lifetimes were pretty slim, so we decided to do "the real deal" as Jay described it. But, my chances of eating chicken fingers in Maine was probably just as slim, so perhaps I should have ordered those.
I will not divulge the price of either of our dinners but suffice to say if our spouses find out our bangers will be mashed for sure. The lobster was darn good and It will be paid for in full in January 2010. .
Last day-time to poot n scoot we kept our fingers crossed after returning the rental car and heading thru security --if getting home was even a smidgen as difficult as getting here we just as soon take Trailways. Save for a crucial moment in security in which Jeff almost triggered a full scale alert because of the 2 ounce bottle of maple syrup he was "smuggling" out of New Hampshire, all went well. He was just before screaming "ATTICA, ATTICA" when they found the syrup....A quick stop at the McDonalds before we boarded the plane humbled me yet again. There were several folks in line and I ordered the number 2. Quarter pounder meal.
Jay ordered the same, except no pickle no onion. Jeff ordered filet o fish. Since I was formerly as a young man in the employ of R. McDonald, I told them they would bring the kitchen into an abrupt halt seeing as how they were ordering something not normally located under the sun lamps; while I would quickly get my number 2 with time to spare. As it turned out I got mine last. I forgot to add in the "if your name is George" factor.
Moral of the story--don’t run your mouth or you’re liable to wind up with number 2 on your face and a mashed banger.
So another thumbtack on my national geographic map of places I have been. A check in the box of having eaten lobster in Maine although it may cost me a mashed banger. I have shared a hotel room with another fellow and we didn't have one pair of clean underdrawers between us. I have gone from Nashville and Cincinnati to get to my elbow, and now I understand why folks hate the airlines so much. But I saw more of this beautiful land called America, which this Macon boy gets to see while on the job! How cool is that?
Life is good.
And it’s like we say in New Hampshire... Live free or die. Its all good, but after a few days its time to go home. Homeward bound tothe land of the free and home of the Braves.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
15 FEBRUARY 2007- VISIT TO SCOTTY’S GRAVE
I was fortunate enough to find myself in Washington DC earlier this month as part of a tour during my Pre Command Course that began at Ft. Lee, then to Ft. Eustis, with a day reserved at the National Guard Readiness Center before proceeding on to Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland. However, the winter weather forced a cancellation of the Aberdeen part of the trip, leaving me an extra day in D.C.
If you only had time to visit one place in Washington DC that one place should be Arlington National Cemetery. Every hero you have ever read about rests here. Everything you couldn’t stand to hear about in that boring History class is all laid out here in what used to be, more or less, Robert E. Lee’s front yard. I already knew how I would spend the remainder of my time before I flew back to my beloved Macon on Friday. I finished up my work at almost lunch time and got the rental car and headed for Arlington, only a mile or so as the crow flies, but a good 15 minutes when you drive there from the hotel we were staying at. The night before, I had entertained two of my new friends I met in the course at dinner with the SCOTTY FAN CLUB story—I do that anytime I get the chance—and since one of the guys was from Maine, I had also been using the Scotty line he told to the upperclassmen at West Point during his hazing—which went something like this:
Upperclassmen: Where you from Cadet Scott?
Cadet Scott: Maine, Sir!
Upperclassmen: MAINE?!? How can you be from Maine with that accent?!?
Cadet Scott: The Main part of GEORGIA, Sir!
Naturally, anytime someone asks me where I am from, my response is MAINE--I have derived a tremendous amount of pleasure from that line and anytime I am in the company of Yankees, I always get ‘em with it.
But I digress.
I have only been to Arlington twice before, the most recent was in June of 2006 when General Scott was interred. Arlington National Cemetery is hallowed ground. The first sign you read when you get there says the same thing, but quite honestly they don’t need the sign. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and you get goose bumps just going in there.
On this day, the winter storm has left two-three inches of ice and snow on the ground and the entire cemetery is covered in a blanket of white, which somehow makes it more hallowed, even heavenly. I check in with the two employees in the main building. They direct me to a computer where I can look up SCOTT, ROBERT L. and get a map printed to show me where to go. I thought about that for a second and hesitated at the computer as I typed in the letters S-C-O-T-T. I thought about the day that I was in the library at McKibben Lane Elementary and first saw the picture of Scotty in front of the P-40 and after having found out that he was from Macon, had gone home to the Macon telephone directory and looked up SCOTT, ROBERT L. Here I was thirty three years later doing almost the same thing.
I had printed my map and the section—66/1003. I was smart enough to wear two coats—my leather A2 complete with the leather 23rd Fighter Group patch that Scotty had signed for me and my Army Black Fleece jacket over that. Realizing that Scotty was both Army and Air Force, it only seemed appropriate.
The tour busses are all lined up outside but no groups of people are anywhere around due to the weather. The place is all but deserted. I am convinced no one besides the employees and the Guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier are here today. The route to the gravesite takes you from the main building up to Eisenhower Drive and then left. Eisenhower Drive to section 66, which is bordered between Bradley and Arnold Drive. It is a nice walk on a spring or summer day, but on the 15th of February about half way there I thought my ears and nose were going to fall off. As always, my trusty ball cap kept the remainder of my head from freezing. I am not used to being in the cold. HOW COLD WAS IT? Let’s put it in terms we can all understand. It felt that there was nothing between me and the North Pole except for a barbed wire fence—with the fence being blown down. Even being from MAINE I can’t handle the cold.
I turn left on Bradley and think back to June, when we were up here for Scotty’s interment. It was gorgeous up here then, and it was quite moving as we proceeded behind the Caisson and the family members and friends of Scotty. On that day there had been more than one military funeral being conducted, in each of the services, and it was a bit strange now to be walking up to General and Mrs. Scott’s final resting place all alone. The quiet was deafening. There weren’t even any airplanes flying around from nearby Reagan Airport, as had been the case last June. These were very much indeed hallowed grounds and you just about have to take an extra breath to finish the thought.
I went by my memory of last June to see how close I might be before I began counting the numbers on the headstones. I had remembered a tree being nearby and turned up at approximately where I thought it would be located. I stepped as gingerly and quietly as possible and was surprised to find that my weight didn’t break through the white blanket of ice and snow. While I was pretty close (I was one row behind and about ten graves over to the right), I found myself on the backside of the row of graves until I found #1003.
Interestingly enough CATHARINE RIX GREEN was the first name I saw. On the traditional gravestones at Arlington the wives names are engraved on the back. I proceeded around to the front of the stone and read the words:
ROBERT
LEE
SCOTT JR
BRIG GEN
US AIR FORCE
WORLD WAR II
APR 12 1908
FEB 27 2006
DFC & 10 OLC
SS & OLC
AM & OLC
There were thousands of markers just like this one and I finally found the one I was looking for.
Scotty. My Scotty. My Friend, Hero and inspiration since I was eleven years old. Why, this man had been as much a part of my life as my own parents, as much as my two best buddies Guerry and Dave, my Grandparents, all my other friends and relatives. Since I was a kid not much conversation passed without the question being asked, “Have you heard from General Scott”, or “How’s the General doing?”
I took another pause and a deep breath of that frigid Washington DC air. As I stared at the final resting place of the Greatest Fighter Pilot in the World, all was calm and peaceful. In my minds eye, I saw clearly a little kid running to the mailbox hoping he would get a letter from Sun City, Arizona, 85351. I saw my buddy Guerry running hell-bent for my patrol boy post in 1975 waving frantically a brown envelope with that return address on it and opening the contents containing a letter, picture and book called God Is My Co-Pilot. I recalled three boys in an absolute frenzy as they began an odyssey of sorts, in their hero worship of the hometown Macon Georgia Hero who took time to write each of them a letter.
Then too, I saw a 66 year old man running hell-bent up my buddy Guerry’s driveway in the first meeting. In subsequent meetings I saw all our parents and grandparents become just as excited and awestruck by Scotty as we had become. They embraced it as well as we three boys did. I saw my Grandmother pull out the good tablecloth and put it on the dining room table. I saw my Dad tell me how one is supposed to address a General and how to shake hands like a man.
In my thoughts I could see the effects from an eleven year old boy to an almost 45 year old man. It came in letters, pictures, stories, books, meetings and later on in frequent visits, going to lunch, to the movie, or just talking on the phone.
It was taking Eisenhower fishing, walking the Great Wall, flying the hump, telling white lies, and even an occasional “Piss on Bissell”—it was oatmeal cookies, blood oranges, and chicken and rice soup from the China Palace. It was Glen Livet single malt 12 yr old scotch, hippoglossus hippoglossus (Latin name for Halibut), and Robin and the Grandchildren (Linda, Laura, Susan, and Scott)---it was going to the gym to work out, even if it meant exceeding the speed limit on the highway named after you. It was also about getting older, realizing mortality, fighting depression, and remaining true to the greatest girl in the world, who had to tolerate “living with a stick of dynamite.” It surely would have been a wonderful experience to meet Mrs. Scott.
I seemed to remember everything all at one time, the memories so thick and racing through my mind so fast it made me dizzy. I realized how lucky I am. I also realized how I am but one of THOUSANDS who feel the same way about Scotty. It didn’t seem as cold now and I had a smile on my face despite a tear in my eye. I took a few pictures and started to leave. I stopped a moment and then turned around for one last look at the grave site. I did what a soldier should do at Arlington. I snapped to attention and saluted. I turned once more and began the walk back to my car.
It’s been almost a year now. I miss him very much. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. The internet website transformed a three person Fan Club into a three hundred person Fan Club (with a 15% discount at the Museum of Aviation gift shop). Scotty is everywhere-- in my house, in my office and in my thoughts. Not just on a cold wintry day at Arlington, but always. It’s been that way since 1974 and there’s really no need in changing that now. I will always be a Scotty fanatic. He is part of who I am.
Precious memories—how they linger.
Me and my buddies were the luckiest three friends in the world and we know it. Scotty bonded us together forever. Guerry and Dave are family. If Scotty did nothing else for me he had a hand in that.
Of course, God had a hand in it all.
George L. Fisher
Original Founder and President
ROBERT L SCOTT FAN CLUB ASSOCIATION
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
DISCIPLINE PROBLEM AT SCHOOL?
A note I sent to the Teacher of my youngest after having been sent a note concerning too many trips to the restroom.....Sometimes Teachers and school administration pole vault over the things that dont amount to a hill of excrement.
29 November 06
Memorandum for Fifth Grade Supervisor of Lyndsay Fisher
Subject: Unauthorized restroom breaks
Maam;
Reference Subject above and the “Important Note” sent home in my daughters signed paper folder yesterday.
Let me preface first by stating that I love Heritage and I find the faculty and staff are exemplary in every way. All of you are overworked and underpaid in my opinion. However……..,
While I fully understand the two authorized and supervised restroom breaks during the school day, It occurs to me that Lyndsays (and most other folks) kidneys work 24/7, and are subject to result in the URGE to go certainly more than twice in the time allotted for a routine school day.
Having asked Lyndsay how far she had to travel to the latrine, I was told approximately 20 steps. Having asked her how long it took to do her “business”, I was told possibly three minutes. If I add correctly, that means she has been unsupervised this past week for a grand total of nine minutes. It is important to note that in our house she has been having unsupervised restroom visits for the last 8 years or so, and I do not recall an issue.
On a side note--If I am to understand my daughter correctly, seems that a lot of the kids are allowed water bottles in class to alleviate the need for stops at the water fountain? Thinking out loud, couldn’t this possibly cause the unauthorized restroom break?
Help me help you save the time and energy , not to mention waste of paper, by saying that I can assume the risk of Lyndsay going unsupervised to the bathroom up to but not to exceed ten (10) visit’s a day, if that is what she needs to do. If she does go to the restroom more than that, then I very well may have an issue on my hands.
If her grade point average has suffered or ever does due to her unauthorized restroom stops, please advise.
Thanks for the fine job you do in educating and caring for my child.
George L. Fisher
29 November 06
Memorandum for Fifth Grade Supervisor of Lyndsay Fisher
Subject: Unauthorized restroom breaks
Maam;
Reference Subject above and the “Important Note” sent home in my daughters signed paper folder yesterday.
Let me preface first by stating that I love Heritage and I find the faculty and staff are exemplary in every way. All of you are overworked and underpaid in my opinion. However……..,
While I fully understand the two authorized and supervised restroom breaks during the school day, It occurs to me that Lyndsays (and most other folks) kidneys work 24/7, and are subject to result in the URGE to go certainly more than twice in the time allotted for a routine school day.
Having asked Lyndsay how far she had to travel to the latrine, I was told approximately 20 steps. Having asked her how long it took to do her “business”, I was told possibly three minutes. If I add correctly, that means she has been unsupervised this past week for a grand total of nine minutes. It is important to note that in our house she has been having unsupervised restroom visits for the last 8 years or so, and I do not recall an issue.
On a side note--If I am to understand my daughter correctly, seems that a lot of the kids are allowed water bottles in class to alleviate the need for stops at the water fountain? Thinking out loud, couldn’t this possibly cause the unauthorized restroom break?
Help me help you save the time and energy , not to mention waste of paper, by saying that I can assume the risk of Lyndsay going unsupervised to the bathroom up to but not to exceed ten (10) visit’s a day, if that is what she needs to do. If she does go to the restroom more than that, then I very well may have an issue on my hands.
If her grade point average has suffered or ever does due to her unauthorized restroom stops, please advise.
Thanks for the fine job you do in educating and caring for my child.
George L. Fisher
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
PIG N' SWIM
Having almost completed my transition from my recent deployment, Wifey and I decided that since we had digs big enough to accommodate some guests that perhaps a cookout was in order.
Discussion ensued with the neighbors.
“Why not cook a Pig?” sayeth neighbor and Jack of all Trades Mike Wyrick.
“Why not, indeed”, sayeth I, as I reached for another Michelob light.
Intrigued, I ask my first and only question-
“How do you cook a whole pig do you cut him up and stuff him in the little grill I got or do you dig a pit in the backyard and where will we find this bovine to be named Jerome and will he (or she) cost a lot of money and how late do I have to stay up cause I really gave up the night years ago and I like to sleep 6 to 8 uninterrupted hours unless I get up to pee and will you be helping me cook it?”
Mike explained to me he used to cook pigs “When I was farming” and they did it several times a year---he then went into a dissertation ---a kind of a Hog Cooking 101.
I had hung out with enough backyard grilling experts and seen enough of the Food Channel to realize that this wasn’t rocket science—I had also consumed enough beer to commit to “Project Pigs Feet” right then and there—
The decision to do it was the easy part.
Fast forward a few days.
Wifey calls on the phone and tells me “I bought one of those pools at Wal-Mart”….her reasoning to me is so the kids can have somewhere to go cool off---Lord knows we wouldn’t want our little angels to have heat prostitution---or prostration, I forget which word…
She and I had this conversation a few days prior. “We need to buy one of those inflatable Wal-Mart Pools”, says she.
“Nope”, says I.
“I don’t want our little babies having heat prostitution, or prostration”, says she.
“They can use their young legs and double time it to the end of the street and damn well jump in the lake if they are hot”, says I, glancing in their direction as they were stretched out across the furniture in front of the television like a bunch of cats.
End of conversation.
I ate Frosted Cheerios for supper that night. Sue and the kids ate out.
Go figure.
The score after one inning, Man of the House 1, Family zilch.
More on the Pool later. Back to the Pig.
The reason for the cookout was quite simple. I wanted to see my family and friends, give them all a hug, tell ‘em I love ‘em and missed them, and also celebrate the birthday of the greatest country on Earth—its not everyday you turn 230 years old, you know.
Now, back to Jerome—I named the pig Jerome because the great Southern writer Lewis Grizzards’ heart valve came from a Pig---in his comedy routine he said the pigs name was Jerome—
Mike Wyrick, my friend and neighbor, and also a 200 pound equivalent of the Swiss Army knife (the man can do anything), tracked down the location to where we would buy Jerome, which was a 30 minute outside of Macon in Jeffersonville. Since the party was to be on the 1st of July, we arranged to pick up our little piece of porcine paradise (say that 5 times fast) the day prior—mainly because a 133 lb pig will not fit into the vegetable bin of my refrigerator. Yes Siree-bob, we were going whole hog.
Part 75 of the one and only question I asked Mike about was what to cook Jerome on—by this time we had decided that instead of just using an ample supply of cement blocks and fashioning a temporary cooker, that for a mere pittance Mike could gather the materials to make a permanent one from sheet metal. I am not ashamed to admit it, but while we were talking about building us a sho-nuff whole hog pork cooker, the smell of testosterone was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I got so darn excited about it I ran off to see brother Bubba and got his copy of “Willingham’s World Champion Barbeque” ---and started reading it at bedtime every night. I was psyched.
But back to my adventures as a pool owner….
I get home from work and Wifey has this huge pile of plastic and vinyl sprawled out in the center of the backyard. “There’s gonna be one hellacious dead spot here when we are done”, I tell her. “We might not ever be able to grow any grass here”…
“I ain't raising grass, I’m raising kids”…., as she pulls out a pile of white poles that would soon be a ladder. “Besides, I ain’t seen you cut the grass we do have!”
The score is now one all. I go inside, change into work clothes, and help Wifey put together the pool. I am crazy but not stupid.
Assembly is a snap, even for a mechanically deficient goob as myself. Mike the Knife shows up, and offers assistance in blowing the inflatable ring up with his trusty homemade air compressor complete with wheels and a handle to pull it along. We both go get it, and I take it back across the street with the promise of delivering it back myself when I am finished with it. The cord on the compressor is long, but not quite long enough, so I get an extension cord and with that I am able to roll the compressor down the steep bank into the backyard. In a matter of minutes, the inflatable ring is full of air, and so I gather up the compressor to take back across the street.
I hadn’t figured out how heavy the compressor would be coming back up the hill. It went down the hill just fine. I started to pull, it went a few feet, and stopped. I gathered my strength, planted my feet a little firmer, and heaved. Another couple of feet. It was obvious that I had been at a desk too long. And where on Earth is all the heat (or is it humidity?) coming from. I begin to sweat—profusely.
I will be damned if I let this thing whip me. I take a deep breath of stale, hot, not a breeze in sight unless there’s a tornado coming Macon Georgia air, and start giving it the old one two. I tug, pull, grunt, groan, moan, but am steadily gaining ground..I am going up the hill, up the hill, I think I can, I think I can….
I reach the Summit.
I am drenched. I am out of oxygen. Wifey hasn’t even turned around, and remains busy with the pool. I attempt to stand upright and pretend to breathe normally, but small bugs, grass clippings, and a neighborhood dog are all pulled in my direction as I inhale..
“Don’t let that thing whip you”, Mike the Knife says as he walks up, obviously impressed by my manly prowess.
“Too late”, I reply. While he chuckles, I adjust myself to make sure I didn’t lose a testicle or soil myself. At this moment I could have done both and wouldn’t be the wiser.
In less than 24 hours, the pool would be filled with 5000 gallons of water from the well, and my little angels would suffer from Heat procrastination no more. At the rate I was going, I may very well have jumped in with them……
But back to the Pork…..
We are a week or so away from the event, and Mike has now acquired the materials and begun assembling the cooker—Friends and neighbors, this thing is a work of art. Had there been Pig cooking or grilling around back in the days of Picasso or Rembrandt, maybe Mike would have had some competition. The cooker, about 4 feet wide and almost 8 feet long, is of a very simple design, but it is the simplicity that sets it apart from its peers. We hoisted the cooker into the bed of Mike’s pickup truck and carried it over to the backyard, placing it under a shady Oak tree. It stood there in all its glory, a manly structure if ever there was, and I contemplated posting signs near the cooker—WARNING: This is a high level Testosterone area. Act Accordingly.
We were almost set. The pool was being filled, the cooker was finished. We were approaching zero week, and it would be asses and elbows in getting the house I could ill afford cleaned up, going to get the rest of the food, etc….things were looking pretty good, and then it happened.
Disaster.
Two days later, Wifey calls me in quite the tizzy. Actually, Apoplexy is the right word, since I am trying to clean up my mouth and not say s--- hemorrhage anymore.
Mans best friend, Joe Fisher, the 14 yr old son who I want to grow up to be just like, was out on the mower cutting the backyard when a rock flew into the side of the pool, putting a gash in the side near the bottom.
Wifey, already under duress in cleaning the house and preparing for the first real shin-dig we ever had, calls with apoplexy and was in process of sharpening a kitchen knife and fixing it to where Joe would be unable to provide us any grandchildren ----BUT, I was able to talk her “off the ledge”, so to speak, and we could and would fix it.
OH THE HUMANITY!!!!!...............
The gash in the pool was minor, and it took nearly as long for the 5000 gallons of water to empty as it did to fill up---a full day and half the night—once empty, Sue put a patch on it and let it dry, and on Friday afternoon (party was Saturday at 1300) we started filling up the pool with another 5000 gallons—we have a well, so my water bill is ok…and as far as I can tell, the well has at least 10,000 available gallons of water….
The one disadvantage of cooking an entire pig is you have to stay up with him (or her)----I ain’t good at staying up at night. People are supposed to sleep at night, that’s why they made night dark. But, being the troopers we are, Mike the Knife, me, Mans best Friend, and even Winnie stayed up with the pig—Winnie lasted until 0300, Joe 0330, and Mike and I took a nap while no one was looking—possibly as long as 30 minutes.
Instead of the 10 hours we thought the pig would require, it took only 7. We kept him warm until about 1230 pm—by that time our first guests had arrived….
The pool was full and ready for action at 0600 Saturday morning. At one time during the event I looked in and counted a dozen little heads churning the water as if by a school of piranha. At any moment I suspected the patch would fail and in an instant 5000 gallons of water and a dozen young’uns would be swept away…it didn’t happen.
The patch is still in place. The Pig was dee-lish. There were no fights, and the cops didn’t have to show up. Someone counted about 80 folks not including the kids. Clean up was a snap, my testosterone level is back to normal, and I don’t think there was a single reported case of heat castration.
Jerome may have been a Jemima instead. But it is too late to find out now—the freezer is full of leftovers.
Life continues to be good. Did I mention how good it is to be home?
Discussion ensued with the neighbors.
“Why not cook a Pig?” sayeth neighbor and Jack of all Trades Mike Wyrick.
“Why not, indeed”, sayeth I, as I reached for another Michelob light.
Intrigued, I ask my first and only question-
“How do you cook a whole pig do you cut him up and stuff him in the little grill I got or do you dig a pit in the backyard and where will we find this bovine to be named Jerome and will he (or she) cost a lot of money and how late do I have to stay up cause I really gave up the night years ago and I like to sleep 6 to 8 uninterrupted hours unless I get up to pee and will you be helping me cook it?”
Mike explained to me he used to cook pigs “When I was farming” and they did it several times a year---he then went into a dissertation ---a kind of a Hog Cooking 101.
I had hung out with enough backyard grilling experts and seen enough of the Food Channel to realize that this wasn’t rocket science—I had also consumed enough beer to commit to “Project Pigs Feet” right then and there—
The decision to do it was the easy part.
Fast forward a few days.
Wifey calls on the phone and tells me “I bought one of those pools at Wal-Mart”….her reasoning to me is so the kids can have somewhere to go cool off---Lord knows we wouldn’t want our little angels to have heat prostitution---or prostration, I forget which word…
She and I had this conversation a few days prior. “We need to buy one of those inflatable Wal-Mart Pools”, says she.
“Nope”, says I.
“I don’t want our little babies having heat prostitution, or prostration”, says she.
“They can use their young legs and double time it to the end of the street and damn well jump in the lake if they are hot”, says I, glancing in their direction as they were stretched out across the furniture in front of the television like a bunch of cats.
End of conversation.
I ate Frosted Cheerios for supper that night. Sue and the kids ate out.
Go figure.
The score after one inning, Man of the House 1, Family zilch.
More on the Pool later. Back to the Pig.
The reason for the cookout was quite simple. I wanted to see my family and friends, give them all a hug, tell ‘em I love ‘em and missed them, and also celebrate the birthday of the greatest country on Earth—its not everyday you turn 230 years old, you know.
Now, back to Jerome—I named the pig Jerome because the great Southern writer Lewis Grizzards’ heart valve came from a Pig---in his comedy routine he said the pigs name was Jerome—
Mike Wyrick, my friend and neighbor, and also a 200 pound equivalent of the Swiss Army knife (the man can do anything), tracked down the location to where we would buy Jerome, which was a 30 minute outside of Macon in Jeffersonville. Since the party was to be on the 1st of July, we arranged to pick up our little piece of porcine paradise (say that 5 times fast) the day prior—mainly because a 133 lb pig will not fit into the vegetable bin of my refrigerator. Yes Siree-bob, we were going whole hog.
Part 75 of the one and only question I asked Mike about was what to cook Jerome on—by this time we had decided that instead of just using an ample supply of cement blocks and fashioning a temporary cooker, that for a mere pittance Mike could gather the materials to make a permanent one from sheet metal. I am not ashamed to admit it, but while we were talking about building us a sho-nuff whole hog pork cooker, the smell of testosterone was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I got so darn excited about it I ran off to see brother Bubba and got his copy of “Willingham’s World Champion Barbeque” ---and started reading it at bedtime every night. I was psyched.
But back to my adventures as a pool owner….
I get home from work and Wifey has this huge pile of plastic and vinyl sprawled out in the center of the backyard. “There’s gonna be one hellacious dead spot here when we are done”, I tell her. “We might not ever be able to grow any grass here”…
“I ain't raising grass, I’m raising kids”…., as she pulls out a pile of white poles that would soon be a ladder. “Besides, I ain’t seen you cut the grass we do have!”
The score is now one all. I go inside, change into work clothes, and help Wifey put together the pool. I am crazy but not stupid.
Assembly is a snap, even for a mechanically deficient goob as myself. Mike the Knife shows up, and offers assistance in blowing the inflatable ring up with his trusty homemade air compressor complete with wheels and a handle to pull it along. We both go get it, and I take it back across the street with the promise of delivering it back myself when I am finished with it. The cord on the compressor is long, but not quite long enough, so I get an extension cord and with that I am able to roll the compressor down the steep bank into the backyard. In a matter of minutes, the inflatable ring is full of air, and so I gather up the compressor to take back across the street.
I hadn’t figured out how heavy the compressor would be coming back up the hill. It went down the hill just fine. I started to pull, it went a few feet, and stopped. I gathered my strength, planted my feet a little firmer, and heaved. Another couple of feet. It was obvious that I had been at a desk too long. And where on Earth is all the heat (or is it humidity?) coming from. I begin to sweat—profusely.
I will be damned if I let this thing whip me. I take a deep breath of stale, hot, not a breeze in sight unless there’s a tornado coming Macon Georgia air, and start giving it the old one two. I tug, pull, grunt, groan, moan, but am steadily gaining ground..I am going up the hill, up the hill, I think I can, I think I can….
I reach the Summit.
I am drenched. I am out of oxygen. Wifey hasn’t even turned around, and remains busy with the pool. I attempt to stand upright and pretend to breathe normally, but small bugs, grass clippings, and a neighborhood dog are all pulled in my direction as I inhale..
“Don’t let that thing whip you”, Mike the Knife says as he walks up, obviously impressed by my manly prowess.
“Too late”, I reply. While he chuckles, I adjust myself to make sure I didn’t lose a testicle or soil myself. At this moment I could have done both and wouldn’t be the wiser.
In less than 24 hours, the pool would be filled with 5000 gallons of water from the well, and my little angels would suffer from Heat procrastination no more. At the rate I was going, I may very well have jumped in with them……
But back to the Pork…..
We are a week or so away from the event, and Mike has now acquired the materials and begun assembling the cooker—Friends and neighbors, this thing is a work of art. Had there been Pig cooking or grilling around back in the days of Picasso or Rembrandt, maybe Mike would have had some competition. The cooker, about 4 feet wide and almost 8 feet long, is of a very simple design, but it is the simplicity that sets it apart from its peers. We hoisted the cooker into the bed of Mike’s pickup truck and carried it over to the backyard, placing it under a shady Oak tree. It stood there in all its glory, a manly structure if ever there was, and I contemplated posting signs near the cooker—WARNING: This is a high level Testosterone area. Act Accordingly.
We were almost set. The pool was being filled, the cooker was finished. We were approaching zero week, and it would be asses and elbows in getting the house I could ill afford cleaned up, going to get the rest of the food, etc….things were looking pretty good, and then it happened.
Disaster.
Two days later, Wifey calls me in quite the tizzy. Actually, Apoplexy is the right word, since I am trying to clean up my mouth and not say s--- hemorrhage anymore.
Mans best friend, Joe Fisher, the 14 yr old son who I want to grow up to be just like, was out on the mower cutting the backyard when a rock flew into the side of the pool, putting a gash in the side near the bottom.
Wifey, already under duress in cleaning the house and preparing for the first real shin-dig we ever had, calls with apoplexy and was in process of sharpening a kitchen knife and fixing it to where Joe would be unable to provide us any grandchildren ----BUT, I was able to talk her “off the ledge”, so to speak, and we could and would fix it.
OH THE HUMANITY!!!!!...............
The gash in the pool was minor, and it took nearly as long for the 5000 gallons of water to empty as it did to fill up---a full day and half the night—once empty, Sue put a patch on it and let it dry, and on Friday afternoon (party was Saturday at 1300) we started filling up the pool with another 5000 gallons—we have a well, so my water bill is ok…and as far as I can tell, the well has at least 10,000 available gallons of water….
The one disadvantage of cooking an entire pig is you have to stay up with him (or her)----I ain’t good at staying up at night. People are supposed to sleep at night, that’s why they made night dark. But, being the troopers we are, Mike the Knife, me, Mans best Friend, and even Winnie stayed up with the pig—Winnie lasted until 0300, Joe 0330, and Mike and I took a nap while no one was looking—possibly as long as 30 minutes.
Instead of the 10 hours we thought the pig would require, it took only 7. We kept him warm until about 1230 pm—by that time our first guests had arrived….
The pool was full and ready for action at 0600 Saturday morning. At one time during the event I looked in and counted a dozen little heads churning the water as if by a school of piranha. At any moment I suspected the patch would fail and in an instant 5000 gallons of water and a dozen young’uns would be swept away…it didn’t happen.
The patch is still in place. The Pig was dee-lish. There were no fights, and the cops didn’t have to show up. Someone counted about 80 folks not including the kids. Clean up was a snap, my testosterone level is back to normal, and I don’t think there was a single reported case of heat castration.
Jerome may have been a Jemima instead. But it is too late to find out now—the freezer is full of leftovers.
Life continues to be good. Did I mention how good it is to be home?
Domestic Bliss in the Millenium
This past week Wifey had a job doing that graphic layout designing thing that she does, which relegated me into a life of having to look after things upstairs---mere child’s play, I think to myself..
The Week looked something like this:
MONDAY- Arrive home from work, psyched to the max—I would impress upon Wifey how simple planning, time management and a little enthusiasm could get er done, even if I had just completed an 8 hour day 80 miles away—
Change out of uniform, get into kitchen, take whole roasting chicken out of the fridge, preheat oven to 350 degrees, and prepare chicken for roasting with herbs and spices—garlic pepper, kosher salt, fresh ground black pepper, thyme and rosemary. Gently coat bird in extra virgin olive oil prior to the rubbing on of spices. Also, begin to thaw the vegetables—on this night it will be cream corn with extra can of whole kernel corn added, and the delectable ford hook lima beans cooked just so--- (Butterbeans for those of us who live in the South).
Prepare fresh pitcher of Sweet Tea, and make idle chit-chat with kids about school, their dreams and goals in life. Wisely elect to feed doggies so they will not end up begging for scraps at the table. Fresh water and dry food aplenty.
Once the bird is placed in the oven and vegetables begin their initial warm up, empty the dishwasher and assemble clean plates, silverware, and glasses.
Help 16 year old daughter child finish the laundry, and have everyone take their own clothes to their respective rooms. Do this with enthusiastic dispatch, and then read the Macon Telegraph in its entirety whilst dinner cooks itself.
After the sumptuous meal, quickly assign KP duties to the girls, with the trash disposal tasked to Mans best friend. Manage and supervise in exemplary fashion, even taking time to show the correct way to load the dishwasher and replace the garbage bag. Use roasted chicken carcass as basis for Chicken Soup—put carcass in pot, add water, boil to a fare thee well in conjunction with kitchen police. Take to sink, strain, and sort good chicken from the rest of the chicken carcass-- Place pot in refrigerator overnight.
Place emphasis on light and thermostat discipline, and take the rest of the evening off, only after having ensured that all offspring have lessons complete and clothing available for the next duty day.
Dismissal of all Troops to their respective areas approx 2030 hrs.
Retire to bedroom and read until drifting off to sleep, approx 2130 hrs. Last conscious thought was how easy this is….
TUESDAY—
After working a half hour late, arrive home and gather soaking wet newspaper from driveway. Go inside, notice only 1/3 of dependants around, and in an effort to save time, dispense with changing out of army clothes and get right to preparation of the evening meal. Tonight the menu calls for Chicken Soup and Sandwich medley. Remove chicken stock from fridge and place on stove. Use existing half used box of linguini noodles and almost empty bag of egg noodles from previous meals and add to pot—add dash of hot sauce, and whatever else located near the stove. Let odor waft thru the house and take pride in getting the most out of your $4.25. Grab loaf of Colonial Old Fashioned White Bread (Hallowed be its crust) –remove 8 slices from the bag, and prepare sammys made from PBJ, Ham w/ Mayo/mustard combo, and Bologna w/ mustard. Assemble sammys, and cut each into 4 adorable little triangles. Keep in mind that presentation is the key, so arrange soup in middle of plate, with cutesy cut sammys neatly around the bowl at 12, 3, 6, and 9 o’clock.
After meal is prepared, go out in search of dependents. Find two kids, and ask wife if she would like to eat at the table or be served at her workstation down in the basement. Get no answer, so ask again—louder. Inform her the meal isn’t getting any warmer. Answer phone call from oldest who plays 20 questions about what is for supper, only to elect to eat at neighbors across the street.
Serve meal to the kids and yourself. Give bites of PBJ sammy to each dog as it is amusing to watch them get the peanut butter down without licking a dozen times. Drink all but the last swallow of Tea from night before—the swallow that has more than its share of grounds in it—and save for working wife. Immediately after meal, put bowls in sink, paper plates and napkins in trash can. Add the bowls to the dirty dishes that have collected since Monday evening when they were all clean-- ask out loud and to no one in particular just how in the hell that happened, then serve the working wife her dinner after the kitchen is cleaned. Fill the water bowl with a little extra for the peanut butter breath dogs, and throw a handful of food in the bowl. Wipe the stove, turn out the lights, and notice the folded clothes on the couch. Resolve to get them tomorrow. Threaten to cut the legs off your son if he doesn’t get the trash can moved to the curb, and answer “BECAUSE I SAID SO” when he questions why he has to take a shower two nights in a row.
Announce to entire house, ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF 39 Please take thine narrow asses to bed!”-- Then retire to your own room.
Finally take off uniform and remember to do what you intended on doing the very moment you got home—go to the bathroom and take a leak.
Tempis Fugit (Time Flies), you say to yourself as you hit the sack, lapsing into a coma as the room turns dark.
WEDNESDAY
Arrive home to another soaking wet newspaper and mailbox full of bills. Have apoplexy as you read the power bill as you walk to the front door. Ascending the steps, trip over one small razor two wheeled scooter –grunt, then use profanity. Go inside cussing the power company and Ben Franklin for the whole electricity thing and notice every light in the house on. Throw George Fisher style fit and threaten kids with not only their lives, but the lives of any kids they plan on having. Notice out of corner of your eye the dogs have ran up under the sofa to hide.
Go into Kitchen, wonder just how in the world the sink got so full of dishes, and marvel at the collection of drinking glasses you have acquired in 17 years of marriage, all on display in sink number two. Beer Glasses, Jelly Jar glasses, and even a holiday glass from Arbys, circa 1987. Look around and notice no one anywhere near you in the house.
Prepare dinner by going to the fridge and grabbing a pack of Hot Dogs and Brats. Cut some potatoes into wedges and throw some olive oil and salt on them and toss them into a 400 degree oven. Light grill with grill lighter you just recently purchased in a multipack of three from Wal-Mart, but only after have looked downstairs, upstairs, the bedrooms, back deck, the workshop, and the backseat of my car. On way to light grill grab handful of paper towels and wipe forehead of sweat—cuss because it has become increasingly hot in the house due to thermostats being adjusted to save money.
Open a can of Baked beans and put in saucepan on stove. Search high and low for the tongs you got for Fathers day. Find them right before the hot dogs and Brats spontaneously combust. Forget about the potatoes in the oven, but rescue them when they are the shade of the bark commonly found on a Georgia pine. Make pitcher of Sweet tea, using too much water and not enough sugar. Listen to the 10 year old wax eloquently on how the tea is “not like Mommas and boy is she not going to like this at all.”
As the dinner hour approaches, send out rescue party to see where 14 yr old son is. Receive “visit” from 16 yr old daughter who grabs a hot dog “to go” since she is helping the neighbor lady with her kids.. Discover when Joe, aka Mans best friend, comes home an hour later that he was playing pool at Johns, and inform him he has broken General Order number 1, and that he is confined to quarters for the next 24 hours. On his way to his room he can “damn well take out the trash young man”--- Take pride in yourself for exercising some “tough love” as you leave a hot dog and baked beans on the stove in case anyone wanders down in the middle of the night hungry. Feed each dog half a bratwurst apiece, and take the glasses and pile in the sink. Pray that the dish fairy comes in during the night and cleans them. Plop down on couch, exhausted. Pull folded clothes out from under your butt in order to make some room and get comfortable. By doing some quick planning in your head, you figure out the rest of the week’s dinner menu:
THURSDAY- Cereal with or with out milk. With or without bowls. Ala Carte.
FRIDAY- Papa Johns Pizza
Life is good—but it’s been a tough week.
The Week looked something like this:
MONDAY- Arrive home from work, psyched to the max—I would impress upon Wifey how simple planning, time management and a little enthusiasm could get er done, even if I had just completed an 8 hour day 80 miles away—
Change out of uniform, get into kitchen, take whole roasting chicken out of the fridge, preheat oven to 350 degrees, and prepare chicken for roasting with herbs and spices—garlic pepper, kosher salt, fresh ground black pepper, thyme and rosemary. Gently coat bird in extra virgin olive oil prior to the rubbing on of spices. Also, begin to thaw the vegetables—on this night it will be cream corn with extra can of whole kernel corn added, and the delectable ford hook lima beans cooked just so--- (Butterbeans for those of us who live in the South).
Prepare fresh pitcher of Sweet Tea, and make idle chit-chat with kids about school, their dreams and goals in life. Wisely elect to feed doggies so they will not end up begging for scraps at the table. Fresh water and dry food aplenty.
Once the bird is placed in the oven and vegetables begin their initial warm up, empty the dishwasher and assemble clean plates, silverware, and glasses.
Help 16 year old daughter child finish the laundry, and have everyone take their own clothes to their respective rooms. Do this with enthusiastic dispatch, and then read the Macon Telegraph in its entirety whilst dinner cooks itself.
After the sumptuous meal, quickly assign KP duties to the girls, with the trash disposal tasked to Mans best friend. Manage and supervise in exemplary fashion, even taking time to show the correct way to load the dishwasher and replace the garbage bag. Use roasted chicken carcass as basis for Chicken Soup—put carcass in pot, add water, boil to a fare thee well in conjunction with kitchen police. Take to sink, strain, and sort good chicken from the rest of the chicken carcass-- Place pot in refrigerator overnight.
Place emphasis on light and thermostat discipline, and take the rest of the evening off, only after having ensured that all offspring have lessons complete and clothing available for the next duty day.
Dismissal of all Troops to their respective areas approx 2030 hrs.
Retire to bedroom and read until drifting off to sleep, approx 2130 hrs. Last conscious thought was how easy this is….
TUESDAY—
After working a half hour late, arrive home and gather soaking wet newspaper from driveway. Go inside, notice only 1/3 of dependants around, and in an effort to save time, dispense with changing out of army clothes and get right to preparation of the evening meal. Tonight the menu calls for Chicken Soup and Sandwich medley. Remove chicken stock from fridge and place on stove. Use existing half used box of linguini noodles and almost empty bag of egg noodles from previous meals and add to pot—add dash of hot sauce, and whatever else located near the stove. Let odor waft thru the house and take pride in getting the most out of your $4.25. Grab loaf of Colonial Old Fashioned White Bread (Hallowed be its crust) –remove 8 slices from the bag, and prepare sammys made from PBJ, Ham w/ Mayo/mustard combo, and Bologna w/ mustard. Assemble sammys, and cut each into 4 adorable little triangles. Keep in mind that presentation is the key, so arrange soup in middle of plate, with cutesy cut sammys neatly around the bowl at 12, 3, 6, and 9 o’clock.
After meal is prepared, go out in search of dependents. Find two kids, and ask wife if she would like to eat at the table or be served at her workstation down in the basement. Get no answer, so ask again—louder. Inform her the meal isn’t getting any warmer. Answer phone call from oldest who plays 20 questions about what is for supper, only to elect to eat at neighbors across the street.
Serve meal to the kids and yourself. Give bites of PBJ sammy to each dog as it is amusing to watch them get the peanut butter down without licking a dozen times. Drink all but the last swallow of Tea from night before—the swallow that has more than its share of grounds in it—and save for working wife. Immediately after meal, put bowls in sink, paper plates and napkins in trash can. Add the bowls to the dirty dishes that have collected since Monday evening when they were all clean-- ask out loud and to no one in particular just how in the hell that happened, then serve the working wife her dinner after the kitchen is cleaned. Fill the water bowl with a little extra for the peanut butter breath dogs, and throw a handful of food in the bowl. Wipe the stove, turn out the lights, and notice the folded clothes on the couch. Resolve to get them tomorrow. Threaten to cut the legs off your son if he doesn’t get the trash can moved to the curb, and answer “BECAUSE I SAID SO” when he questions why he has to take a shower two nights in a row.
Announce to entire house, ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF 39 Please take thine narrow asses to bed!”-- Then retire to your own room.
Finally take off uniform and remember to do what you intended on doing the very moment you got home—go to the bathroom and take a leak.
Tempis Fugit (Time Flies), you say to yourself as you hit the sack, lapsing into a coma as the room turns dark.
WEDNESDAY
Arrive home to another soaking wet newspaper and mailbox full of bills. Have apoplexy as you read the power bill as you walk to the front door. Ascending the steps, trip over one small razor two wheeled scooter –grunt, then use profanity. Go inside cussing the power company and Ben Franklin for the whole electricity thing and notice every light in the house on. Throw George Fisher style fit and threaten kids with not only their lives, but the lives of any kids they plan on having. Notice out of corner of your eye the dogs have ran up under the sofa to hide.
Go into Kitchen, wonder just how in the world the sink got so full of dishes, and marvel at the collection of drinking glasses you have acquired in 17 years of marriage, all on display in sink number two. Beer Glasses, Jelly Jar glasses, and even a holiday glass from Arbys, circa 1987. Look around and notice no one anywhere near you in the house.
Prepare dinner by going to the fridge and grabbing a pack of Hot Dogs and Brats. Cut some potatoes into wedges and throw some olive oil and salt on them and toss them into a 400 degree oven. Light grill with grill lighter you just recently purchased in a multipack of three from Wal-Mart, but only after have looked downstairs, upstairs, the bedrooms, back deck, the workshop, and the backseat of my car. On way to light grill grab handful of paper towels and wipe forehead of sweat—cuss because it has become increasingly hot in the house due to thermostats being adjusted to save money.
Open a can of Baked beans and put in saucepan on stove. Search high and low for the tongs you got for Fathers day. Find them right before the hot dogs and Brats spontaneously combust. Forget about the potatoes in the oven, but rescue them when they are the shade of the bark commonly found on a Georgia pine. Make pitcher of Sweet tea, using too much water and not enough sugar. Listen to the 10 year old wax eloquently on how the tea is “not like Mommas and boy is she not going to like this at all.”
As the dinner hour approaches, send out rescue party to see where 14 yr old son is. Receive “visit” from 16 yr old daughter who grabs a hot dog “to go” since she is helping the neighbor lady with her kids.. Discover when Joe, aka Mans best friend, comes home an hour later that he was playing pool at Johns, and inform him he has broken General Order number 1, and that he is confined to quarters for the next 24 hours. On his way to his room he can “damn well take out the trash young man”--- Take pride in yourself for exercising some “tough love” as you leave a hot dog and baked beans on the stove in case anyone wanders down in the middle of the night hungry. Feed each dog half a bratwurst apiece, and take the glasses and pile in the sink. Pray that the dish fairy comes in during the night and cleans them. Plop down on couch, exhausted. Pull folded clothes out from under your butt in order to make some room and get comfortable. By doing some quick planning in your head, you figure out the rest of the week’s dinner menu:
THURSDAY- Cereal with or with out milk. With or without bowls. Ala Carte.
FRIDAY- Papa Johns Pizza
Life is good—but it’s been a tough week.
AQUAMARINE!!
Mckibben Lane Elementary school...2nd Grade --fall of 1969..snot nosed kids abound. Teachers with those funky glasses like they wore back then (the good looking teachers all got knocked up and left the program)...we are talking RETRO...
It is coloring time..Construction paper handed out, and kids break out the Binney Smith Crayolas from our desk bags--yall remember Desk Bags? The canvas deal that tied t the side of the desk--pouch opened up for your notebooks, the pockets on the front for rulers, watercolors, etc. at the end of the school year you could take them home and have your mom wash them for next year---
if you were in the 4th grade, you could take the deskbag home and explain to your mom why it was that you wrote the word F--- on their --but that's yet another story) --
-anyhow..the Binney Smith Crayolas--they are next to the PASTE. How bout that PASTE? Who the heck invented that mess? It was in the plastic white jug that is supposed to look like a barrel and it is all but dried up...
Later, like in the 5th grade, the Ol man came into some money and purchased the Fisher kids rubber cement---Rubber cement is what made the hottest girl in school, Wanda Beck (hallowed be thy name) come up to me and ask to borrow my rubber cement. She was wearing hot pants--it was 1972---but that's yet ANOTHER story----anyway, back to PASTE.
Some of these kids live off this stuff as opposed to the school lunch. In fact, if it weren't for boogers and paste, some of these kids would have scurvy.... Crayolas in hand, and we go to work in earnest--coloring pictures of our pets, perhaps flowers and trees-- the normal 5-6 yr old stuff.. Guerry Bruner, my boyhood Friend and idol, readies himself in his typical fashion--goes for the ruler, lays out what he needs, and sharpens crayons accordingly (he has the 64 count deluxe box w/built in sharpener as I recall)-- Guerry Bruner, if you need me to paint a picture, is the little boy in class with the slicked back black hair, and not a one out of place, thankyouverymuch. Neat as a pin, while the rest of us were unkempt and probably infested with lice. This little second grader
looked just like he stepped out of a Sears & Roebuck Sunday ad.
A little while into our artistic endeavor, and I notice that while the rest of us are doing normal kid stuff with our crayons, and another few have resorted to picking noses or eating whats left of the paste (the scurvy kids), Guerry has been in ARCHITECT mode and drawn a Crane...with tracks, a boom, winch, to include the metal work that supports same..so, next thing you know there is a crowd of booger eaters around his desk pointing, whispering, and asking WHATS THAT, WHATS THAT.... Finally, It may have been ME who asked, as my 42 year old memory fails me now, but SOMEONE asked what color crayon he was using--the color most magnificent and the contrast and hue unequaled by anything I had seen in my entire 6 years or even in his deluxe 64 count box with built in sharpener....
With little to no hesistation, he replied "AQUAMARINE"---it resonated across the room as if a battle cry--an alert to duty, like "THE INJUNS ARE COMING!", or DAMN THE TORPEDOES.... "AQUAMARINE", Indeed. Never had a color shone so bright, so crisp, or so....so....BLUE-GREEN... Needless to say, the rest of us rifled thru our worn down, nubbed, chewed on Crayolas desperately searching for AQUAMARINE...actually, my search would be a futile one, for it wasn't until that Christmas that I got a box of DELUXE 64 count w/Sharpener Crayolas, and had AQUAMARINE of my own to wear down to nothing. It was always the most used crayon in my box.
In my office I currently look at a framed photo I have of Guerry and I--resting on the frame is a Binney Smith Color Crayon--AQUAMARINE.
The Crayola AQUAMARINE color crayon. My buddy Guerry. Life is better for having known them both.
It is coloring time..Construction paper handed out, and kids break out the Binney Smith Crayolas from our desk bags--yall remember Desk Bags? The canvas deal that tied t the side of the desk--pouch opened up for your notebooks, the pockets on the front for rulers, watercolors, etc. at the end of the school year you could take them home and have your mom wash them for next year---
if you were in the 4th grade, you could take the deskbag home and explain to your mom why it was that you wrote the word F--- on their --but that's yet another story) --
-anyhow..the Binney Smith Crayolas--they are next to the PASTE. How bout that PASTE? Who the heck invented that mess? It was in the plastic white jug that is supposed to look like a barrel and it is all but dried up...
Later, like in the 5th grade, the Ol man came into some money and purchased the Fisher kids rubber cement---Rubber cement is what made the hottest girl in school, Wanda Beck (hallowed be thy name) come up to me and ask to borrow my rubber cement. She was wearing hot pants--it was 1972---but that's yet ANOTHER story----anyway, back to PASTE.
Some of these kids live off this stuff as opposed to the school lunch. In fact, if it weren't for boogers and paste, some of these kids would have scurvy.... Crayolas in hand, and we go to work in earnest--coloring pictures of our pets, perhaps flowers and trees-- the normal 5-6 yr old stuff.. Guerry Bruner, my boyhood Friend and idol, readies himself in his typical fashion--goes for the ruler, lays out what he needs, and sharpens crayons accordingly (he has the 64 count deluxe box w/built in sharpener as I recall)-- Guerry Bruner, if you need me to paint a picture, is the little boy in class with the slicked back black hair, and not a one out of place, thankyouverymuch. Neat as a pin, while the rest of us were unkempt and probably infested with lice. This little second grader
looked just like he stepped out of a Sears & Roebuck Sunday ad.
A little while into our artistic endeavor, and I notice that while the rest of us are doing normal kid stuff with our crayons, and another few have resorted to picking noses or eating whats left of the paste (the scurvy kids), Guerry has been in ARCHITECT mode and drawn a Crane...with tracks, a boom, winch, to include the metal work that supports same..so, next thing you know there is a crowd of booger eaters around his desk pointing, whispering, and asking WHATS THAT, WHATS THAT.... Finally, It may have been ME who asked, as my 42 year old memory fails me now, but SOMEONE asked what color crayon he was using--the color most magnificent and the contrast and hue unequaled by anything I had seen in my entire 6 years or even in his deluxe 64 count box with built in sharpener....
With little to no hesistation, he replied "AQUAMARINE"---it resonated across the room as if a battle cry--an alert to duty, like "THE INJUNS ARE COMING!", or DAMN THE TORPEDOES.... "AQUAMARINE", Indeed. Never had a color shone so bright, so crisp, or so....so....BLUE-GREEN... Needless to say, the rest of us rifled thru our worn down, nubbed, chewed on Crayolas desperately searching for AQUAMARINE...actually, my search would be a futile one, for it wasn't until that Christmas that I got a box of DELUXE 64 count w/Sharpener Crayolas, and had AQUAMARINE of my own to wear down to nothing. It was always the most used crayon in my box.
In my office I currently look at a framed photo I have of Guerry and I--resting on the frame is a Binney Smith Color Crayon--AQUAMARINE.
The Crayola AQUAMARINE color crayon. My buddy Guerry. Life is better for having known them both.
BLEND IT AND THEY WILL COME
"BLEND IT AND THEY WILL COME"
It was older than my kids. My almost 16 year old Oster blender, a wedding gift affectionately known as "Excalibur", sustained major injuries this week as a result of being mishandled by obviously disgruntled employees of the ever dysfunctional Delta airlines. Excalibur made milkshakes from time to time, but its true calling was the perfect mixing of Frozen margaritas-the "frozen concoction that helps us hang on", as the song goes.
I have been traveling with Excalibur for some time, now, having discovered that when away from home that not only would a frozen margaritas would be cheaper if one made them themselves, but it was a great way to "make some friends", as Stu Drake, one of Excalibur's best customers, always said.
Indeed.
It made Margaritas for all my rowdy and not so rowdy friends, but most times for my National Guard buddies-in most of the 13 original colonies, and most recently Nebraska, who mourn with me in my recent loss. It has blended from Memphis to San Diego, and even entertained international guests from the Republic of Georgia. Excalibur had no enemies, and left happiness in its wake. The FRAPPE button on Excalibur was the key that made our margaritas just a little bit better than the competition---FRAPPE is a French word that, when roughly translated, means "MIX THE EVERLIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF..."
To Frappe with Excalibur was like getting a chance to run the bases at Fenway Park. Excalibur made quite a sound when frappaying-once the margarita was halfway complete, the motor would shift gears, go into climbing gear and the sound would go from a high pitch climbing gear into a deep throated, 8 cylinder 455 cubic inch positive tractioned roar that would make an F-16 in full afterburner pale in comparison. And the result? A perfect Margarita, a room full of friends, and good times to the max. No Limes? No Salt? No Problem.
So one can imagine my shock when, as I unpacked from my flight into Barstow from Atlanta this week, I discovered that the plastic pitcher had been cracked.
"BASTARDS", I screamed out loud, followed by a string of profanity as only me, my Father, and Grandfather would be capable of spewing. I cussed the overpaid baggage handlers. I cussed Delta airlines, and wished them bankruptcy. I cussed the Atlanta airport with all its trappings, a place that I have grown to detest. I then did what anyone else would have done who faced the prospect of having a roomful of buddies expecting FROZEN FRAPPAYED Margaritas available in less than 2 hours-I tried to put it back together.
The crack was a long one, so I tried to align in such a way as to possibly just allow for a small leak -I could get by with that-I filled the blender up with water from the sink and it continued to pour out. GODAMNSIEVE!, I screamed again-- The tequila would surely do the same, and since tequila is not the cheapest stuff in the store, I decided this wouldn't work.
Not knowing what to do next, I called Stu. Thomas S. Drake. The Stubester. Stu is beyond being the bomb. He is righteous. He is coveted, and hallowed is his name.
"STU!" I said, all the while trying to keep my composure, "the Bastards broke my blender!".
"WHAT?!?", Stu asked incredulously.
I then explained to him my tale of woe, and as he knew that I had a better chance of peeing on somebody's head and tell them it was raining than try to give our buds margaritas on the rocks. That wasn't, or isn't, in my humble opinion, the way to run a railroad. It surely wasn't the way to conduct Happy Hour in room 143 of the Holiday Inn Express, Barstow. It's the FROZEN CONCOCTION, like the song says. I had to be true to myself. To do anything less would be just as bad as smoking crack with the devil while dancing around the bible fire.
"We can go to Wal-Mart and get another one", Stu suggested. In my state of shock, I had not thought of buying another blender. For god sakes, I hadn't even had a chance to mourn for Excalibur, and now here it was being suggested to replace it. Didn't Excalibur deserve a little more reverence? It was all happening too fast. My shock intensified. Stu said, "Get ready, I am on the way", and hung up. In less time than you could say "salt on the rim" he was at the door. He put his arm on my shoulder and told me it was going to be alright. When Stu says that, you can take it to the bank. Since I trust him with my life, we departed out the door, headed to Wal-Mart.
By this time some of the other folks had found out somehow that Excalibur had bought the farm, and so they too came along with us, offering support.
In my haste, I had forgotten to call my wife and tell her the tragic news. While Stu and the others were working feverishly to get us to Wal- Mart, I called Sue and told her about Excalibur. She took the news like a man, and said we would just have to get another one. She didn't seem too concerned that I was trying to deal with my grief. "Just don't get some wussy froo froo smoothie making blender-no REAL MAN would be seen with one!"
Damn, I think to myself. Tough Crowd. I agreed with her, but only for the reason that the smoothie maker was more at risk during travel than the standard blender. I was still thinking of some kind of closure for Excalibur and I while Stu drove hell-bent for Wal Mart. Stu was driving at least 10 miles over the statutory speed limits, and for Stu to drive like this surely was a sign of this being a serious situation. But I was in good hands, and by now I had reconciled to the fact that desperate times call for us to SUCK IT UP AND DRIVE ON, and that's what we were doing.
We arrived at Wal Mart in what I am sure is record time, and promptly went to House wares. As I looked on the new blenders, my mind flashed back of Excalibur. The good times. The Frappe button. And all of my friends that may have winded up hugging the porcelain queen because of all the fun we shared. Excalibur, broken pitcher or not, had seen its duty and done it. Remember the Alamo. Pearl Harbor. 9-11. And Excalibur.
Stu busied himself by getting right to the heart of the situation and looking at the technical specifications of the 5 or 6 blenders that were available, including the wussy froo froo smoothie maker that my wife had threatened to cut off my boy parts had I purchased it. We decided on another OSTER. A 450 watt 10 speed two gear ratio Sherman tank of a blender with a thick glass pitcher. 450 watts of bone crushing power at my fingertips. Surely the lack of having a "FRAPPE" setting would be of little consequence.
Five minutes and twenty eight dollars later, and we are speeding back to the Hotel. Margaritaville Barstow would be opening its door in room 149 in less than an hour. We divvied up assignments on the car going back. Wayne would get the ice, I would unpack the new blender yet to be given a name and Stu would grab the chips and dips from his room.
In less than ten minutes, we were up and running. I had a moment or two alone, and decided to blend the first batch before the rest of the crew got there. "If you are half as good a blender as Excalibur, then you will do fine", I said to no one in particular, particularly because there was no one in the room but me, and hit the liquefy setting, high speed. The blenderjumped to life like the space Shuttle on the launch pad. I could tell right away this was a thoroughbred. Its throaty roar blended the first batch of ice and Margarita mix with little effort. This was childs play. About this time Stu showed up ant the door, grinning from ear to ear. "I could hear it all the way down by front desk", he said. "The clerk thought we were having an earthquake!" I knew we were back in business.
Fast forward a few days and several batches and newly made friends---
I have discovered that the Glass pitcher from the new blender fits perfectly on the old chasis of EXCALIBER. After all, wasn't Excalibur's Heart and soul in the motor, anyway? So now I will keep the new Blender at home, and still travel with the new and improved EXCALIBER II.
It is a match made in heaven. And now me and my friends will be able to "HANG ON" for years to come.
It was older than my kids. My almost 16 year old Oster blender, a wedding gift affectionately known as "Excalibur", sustained major injuries this week as a result of being mishandled by obviously disgruntled employees of the ever dysfunctional Delta airlines. Excalibur made milkshakes from time to time, but its true calling was the perfect mixing of Frozen margaritas-the "frozen concoction that helps us hang on", as the song goes.
I have been traveling with Excalibur for some time, now, having discovered that when away from home that not only would a frozen margaritas would be cheaper if one made them themselves, but it was a great way to "make some friends", as Stu Drake, one of Excalibur's best customers, always said.
Indeed.
It made Margaritas for all my rowdy and not so rowdy friends, but most times for my National Guard buddies-in most of the 13 original colonies, and most recently Nebraska, who mourn with me in my recent loss. It has blended from Memphis to San Diego, and even entertained international guests from the Republic of Georgia. Excalibur had no enemies, and left happiness in its wake. The FRAPPE button on Excalibur was the key that made our margaritas just a little bit better than the competition---FRAPPE is a French word that, when roughly translated, means "MIX THE EVERLIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF..."
To Frappe with Excalibur was like getting a chance to run the bases at Fenway Park. Excalibur made quite a sound when frappaying-once the margarita was halfway complete, the motor would shift gears, go into climbing gear and the sound would go from a high pitch climbing gear into a deep throated, 8 cylinder 455 cubic inch positive tractioned roar that would make an F-16 in full afterburner pale in comparison. And the result? A perfect Margarita, a room full of friends, and good times to the max. No Limes? No Salt? No Problem.
So one can imagine my shock when, as I unpacked from my flight into Barstow from Atlanta this week, I discovered that the plastic pitcher had been cracked.
"BASTARDS", I screamed out loud, followed by a string of profanity as only me, my Father, and Grandfather would be capable of spewing. I cussed the overpaid baggage handlers. I cussed Delta airlines, and wished them bankruptcy. I cussed the Atlanta airport with all its trappings, a place that I have grown to detest. I then did what anyone else would have done who faced the prospect of having a roomful of buddies expecting FROZEN FRAPPAYED Margaritas available in less than 2 hours-I tried to put it back together.
The crack was a long one, so I tried to align in such a way as to possibly just allow for a small leak -I could get by with that-I filled the blender up with water from the sink and it continued to pour out. GODAMNSIEVE!, I screamed again-- The tequila would surely do the same, and since tequila is not the cheapest stuff in the store, I decided this wouldn't work.
Not knowing what to do next, I called Stu. Thomas S. Drake. The Stubester. Stu is beyond being the bomb. He is righteous. He is coveted, and hallowed is his name.
"STU!" I said, all the while trying to keep my composure, "the Bastards broke my blender!".
"WHAT?!?", Stu asked incredulously.
I then explained to him my tale of woe, and as he knew that I had a better chance of peeing on somebody's head and tell them it was raining than try to give our buds margaritas on the rocks. That wasn't, or isn't, in my humble opinion, the way to run a railroad. It surely wasn't the way to conduct Happy Hour in room 143 of the Holiday Inn Express, Barstow. It's the FROZEN CONCOCTION, like the song says. I had to be true to myself. To do anything less would be just as bad as smoking crack with the devil while dancing around the bible fire.
"We can go to Wal-Mart and get another one", Stu suggested. In my state of shock, I had not thought of buying another blender. For god sakes, I hadn't even had a chance to mourn for Excalibur, and now here it was being suggested to replace it. Didn't Excalibur deserve a little more reverence? It was all happening too fast. My shock intensified. Stu said, "Get ready, I am on the way", and hung up. In less time than you could say "salt on the rim" he was at the door. He put his arm on my shoulder and told me it was going to be alright. When Stu says that, you can take it to the bank. Since I trust him with my life, we departed out the door, headed to Wal-Mart.
By this time some of the other folks had found out somehow that Excalibur had bought the farm, and so they too came along with us, offering support.
In my haste, I had forgotten to call my wife and tell her the tragic news. While Stu and the others were working feverishly to get us to Wal- Mart, I called Sue and told her about Excalibur. She took the news like a man, and said we would just have to get another one. She didn't seem too concerned that I was trying to deal with my grief. "Just don't get some wussy froo froo smoothie making blender-no REAL MAN would be seen with one!"
Damn, I think to myself. Tough Crowd. I agreed with her, but only for the reason that the smoothie maker was more at risk during travel than the standard blender. I was still thinking of some kind of closure for Excalibur and I while Stu drove hell-bent for Wal Mart. Stu was driving at least 10 miles over the statutory speed limits, and for Stu to drive like this surely was a sign of this being a serious situation. But I was in good hands, and by now I had reconciled to the fact that desperate times call for us to SUCK IT UP AND DRIVE ON, and that's what we were doing.
We arrived at Wal Mart in what I am sure is record time, and promptly went to House wares. As I looked on the new blenders, my mind flashed back of Excalibur. The good times. The Frappe button. And all of my friends that may have winded up hugging the porcelain queen because of all the fun we shared. Excalibur, broken pitcher or not, had seen its duty and done it. Remember the Alamo. Pearl Harbor. 9-11. And Excalibur.
Stu busied himself by getting right to the heart of the situation and looking at the technical specifications of the 5 or 6 blenders that were available, including the wussy froo froo smoothie maker that my wife had threatened to cut off my boy parts had I purchased it. We decided on another OSTER. A 450 watt 10 speed two gear ratio Sherman tank of a blender with a thick glass pitcher. 450 watts of bone crushing power at my fingertips. Surely the lack of having a "FRAPPE" setting would be of little consequence.
Five minutes and twenty eight dollars later, and we are speeding back to the Hotel. Margaritaville Barstow would be opening its door in room 149 in less than an hour. We divvied up assignments on the car going back. Wayne would get the ice, I would unpack the new blender yet to be given a name and Stu would grab the chips and dips from his room.
In less than ten minutes, we were up and running. I had a moment or two alone, and decided to blend the first batch before the rest of the crew got there. "If you are half as good a blender as Excalibur, then you will do fine", I said to no one in particular, particularly because there was no one in the room but me, and hit the liquefy setting, high speed. The blenderjumped to life like the space Shuttle on the launch pad. I could tell right away this was a thoroughbred. Its throaty roar blended the first batch of ice and Margarita mix with little effort. This was childs play. About this time Stu showed up ant the door, grinning from ear to ear. "I could hear it all the way down by front desk", he said. "The clerk thought we were having an earthquake!" I knew we were back in business.
Fast forward a few days and several batches and newly made friends---
I have discovered that the Glass pitcher from the new blender fits perfectly on the old chasis of EXCALIBER. After all, wasn't Excalibur's Heart and soul in the motor, anyway? So now I will keep the new Blender at home, and still travel with the new and improved EXCALIBER II.
It is a match made in heaven. And now me and my friends will be able to "HANG ON" for years to come.
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