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Thirty miles offshore, in 100 feet of water, the Spike isn't the most accessible dive site off North Florida's coast but July 17th marked the first anniversary of the former Coast Guard tender's deployment as an artificial reef so we were eager to see what had changed over the past year. The Spike had only been down 10 days when we surveyed it during last year's Great Annual Fish Count. We weren't expecting much then – the chance to dive a freshly minted reef was the main attraction, but it was interesting that it had already attracted a small crowd of nervous bottom fish, including the usual Black Sea Bass and Vermillion Snappers.
It was a very different site one year later. A large school of nosy barracudas followed the first diver down the line, clearing the way for hundreds of Atlantic Spadefish to move in and escort the rest of our group down. The Spike was surrounded by silversides that fled en masse as we moved through them, then streaked back to the structure for protection when gangs of Great Amberjack attacked. It's difficult to describe the sound made by thousands of fleeing fish, but they are noisy. The superstructure is now covered with invertebrates – barnacles, tunicates, sponges, and anemones – that provide shelter and food for hundreds of tiny seaweed blennies. Jacksonville's ubiquitous grunt, the Tomtate, was there in every phase from juvenile to adult. The Black Sea Bass and Vermillion snappers are now settled in under the bow with a group of small Red Snappers and waddling around in the sand was one of my favorites, a Polka-dot batfish! A year ago, I counted 6 species of fish. This year I counted 16 species.
Our group also dived the Gator Bowl Press Boxes, an artificial reef created years ago when the city's stadium was renovated. Although it had about the same amount of biomass as the Spike, there were more species. One of the joys of offshore Jacksonville for fishwatchers is getting to see species like Dwarf Goatfish, Longspine Porgys, Bank Sea Bass and Oyster Toadfish that we see don't tend to see in more tropical waters. Congratulations to Richard Salkin and T.C. Howe, who conducted their first REEF surveys.


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Timber wolves are wild animals and there is, as of 2015, no such thing as a breed of pure timber wolf. However, there are breeds of wolfdogs, such as the wolamute, that use timber wolves as a base for wolf-like domesticated hybrids.
Timber wolves are a subspecies of the common gray wolf. They are wild animals and have not been domesticated, never mind developed into breeds. Timber wolf puppy "breeds", such as the wolamute, are hybrid animals, not purebred timber wolves.
The most common hybrid breeds are timber wolf mixed with Malamute, husky, or German Shepherd. These hybrid breeds can produce happy and healthy animals that have a wolflike appearance and friendly behavior. However, wolfdogs can be difficult to train and are sometimes more agressive than other dogs towards other animals and people. Even a wolfdog of a "good" breed can become dangerous if their wolf instincts are ignored.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
These utensils are really made of stainless steel, blackened to make them look rustic. Comes with leather pouch.
This eating set is blacksmith forged in blackened stainless steel to minimize maintenance. Supplied in an attractive leather pouch with a belt loop, these period utensils are made to be used and work well. To clean, hand wash with soap and water.
All prices are in USD
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OOO email@example.com_county.toronto.toronto_star 2005-08-08 published
John GOVEDAS, 55: A force of nature with 88 keys
John GOVEDAS brightened up choir rehearsals
Pianist also brilliant composer and arranger
By Catherine DUNPHY, Obituary Writer
They are an unheralded lot, these accompanists in school gyms or drafty church basements hunched in balled sweaters over pianos that may or may not be in tune, playing for bored and/or restless choristers who may or may not be in time or on the same note.
Then there was John GOVEDAS.
A big man, a nutty professor of a guy, he would burst into rehearsals, streaming sheet music behind him -- and everything, including the choir he was about to accompany, was brighter.
"Behind your back he would be winding the kids up," said Margaret STANFIELD, the renowned and recently retired music director at Howard Jr. Public School. "He would make faces behind the conductor's back. He could be a distraction."
Before every school practice, the kids would crowd around GOVEDAS at the piano, giggling at the buck teeth and horns he added to the pictures he'd taken of them with his new digital camera. Then there was the fake hand that appeared at Halloween.
Indeed the clown who could break into The Simpsons theme song to crack up a choir hid the artist, the lyrical pianist, the composer, the arranger with the uncompromising standards and the need to hone musical expression to those same standards, to an always higher level.
"Either you could work with John or you couldn't. He was intimidating. He could wreak havoc at a rehearsal if he sensed you weren't strong or confident," said Shelagh COHEN, who could and did work with GOVEDAS for years, even after she left conducting in schools to work in administration for the Toronto public board's music department.
GOVEDAS went on to do all the accompanying work for the board.
"(His) piano was never relegated to a supporting role but was an integral part of the song," STANFIELD said in her eulogy to GOVEDAS, who died May 11. He was 55.
She was another music teacher/choir director who faced down GOVEDAS and won his Friendship. "I inherited him," she said when she went to Glen Ames school to teach. "I was told I should keep him, that he was brilliant. And that's what he was: brilliant."
The two worked together for 20 years, 16 of them at Howard school, talking over repertoire and interpretation and producing a long run of award-winning choirs from there.
GOVEDAS used to attack the piano, STANFIELD said. "He grunted, he groaned and sweated, as his page turners knew. He was a force of nature at the piano."
GOVEDAS accompanied school choirs all over town; among them those at John Wanless, Glen Ames, John Ross Robertson, Maurice Cody, Earl Haig and Gledhill schools. He accompanied adult singers as well in the High Park community choir, the Riverdale Youth Singers and the Milton Choristers. For a time he led a girls' choir in Hamilton and for 35 years he was choir director at his own church.
In his music-strewn apartment in High Park, he arranged and composed music on his electric piano. He wrote "I am the Song," a favourite with many of his school choirs. His 1996 version of "I'se the B'y" has been performed by choirs in Iceland and Australia as well as Newfoundland.
COHEN said she had to fight with GOVEDAS to show her that arrangement he insisted he'd written it for the high school voice, not that of an elementary school-aged child. And it was true that GOVEDAS, whose music degree from the University of Toronto was in choral composition, had a gift: he knew how to write for a child's voice, knew its range, understood that it is tricky for youngsters to hit a high G on an E or I vowel sound, although somewhat easier for them to manage it with the more open A, Ah, O or OOO vowel sounds. He knew how to make the rhythm fit the text, often frightening the conductors who knew there would be lots of meter and rhythm changes.
"The children found his music easy to learn, yet it was not easy music," said COHEN. " His music sat so well with the children's voice. And they adored his songs."
There were always accolades for his compositions at the annual Kiwanis music festivals. So COHEN persevered until her friend finally brought in a scratchy, scribbled manuscript of "I'se the B'y." It was the Maurice Cody school choir, under COHEN, who first performed the piece.
GOVEDAS had many commissions, writing music for families of all faiths to mark special occasions, and for both Howard and Northlea schools, long-time rivals at the Kiwanis festivals.
While music director at one Catholic church -- the Lithuanian Martyrs in Mississauga -- he was commissioned to write music for another, the Church of the Holy Resurrection. He once proudly showed STANFIELD the medal he received from the Lithuanian government for his contribution to his cultural heritage, and it was at church, the centre of community life for many Lithuanians, where he discovered his love of music.
When Lithuanian Martyrs was still located on College Street, it had a magnificent pipe organ that entranced a 6-year-old GOVEDAS waiting while his mother attended choir practice. When he was 10, his parents bought a piano; when he was 12, he was playing the organ at church; at 16, he got his first paid gig, playing for a wedding.
His brother Denis can't remember a time when John was not playing the piano at their home. That focus stayed with him for the rest of his life. "He was always so busy with his music, always running," said Denis.
But when John came to his home for Christmas in 2003, Denis knew something was wrong when his normally ebullient brother was subdued. And it was obvious he was in pain when he visited three months later.
"He kept procrastinating seeing a doctor," said Denis. "For John there was no other world than music."
By 2004, STANFIELD too was worried about her friend, especially as the February date for the annual Kiwanis festival neared. "He wouldn't let go," she said. "We were torn between saying to him that he must stop, but the feeling was that he would have given up sooner on life if he had been shut out."
Gaunt and grey-skinned, he was at the piano when Howard's primary choir, the Grade 3s, sang "Piping Down the Valleys Wild" and "The Brown Bird Singing," the latter a favourite of GOVEDAS.
"At the end they had to hold a high F note and they held it beautifully and I remember thinking I am going to hang onto this a little longer. It was an exquisite moment and John knew it too," said STANFIELD. " When they sang that last perfect note he smiled at them and nodded."
The choir won the award as best of its class, and GOVEDAS was determined to accompany his singers, as well as the choir from Earl Haig school, at the upcoming Spring Festival, the annual city-wide concert of school choirs that takes place each May at Massey Hall.
COHEN had also hired GOVEDAS for that concert to accompany the mass choir singing his piece "I am the Song," although by March she realized he wasn't going to be able to play. Still she sent the program to the printers with his name on it: "I thought I can't remove him now since it may dash his hopes and his determination."
But 10 days before the concert, GOVEDAS was moved into the palliative care unit at St. Michael's Hospital and COHEN and STANFIELD began talking about having him attend Spring Fest 2005 in a wheelchair. But when it was time for the concert, May 4, GOVEDAS was in a coma and unable to witness COHEN conduct the choir as they sang the piece he had written 11 years earlier for that same event.
It was performed just before the intermission and COHEN had arranged for the sound engineer to record and make a Compact Disk of the piece then and there.
"I went beating down Queen St. in all my finery and ran up to the 4th floor (at St. Mike's) and handed the Compact Disk to Denis," COHEN recalled. I spoke to John and told him it was a great show and that he had a lot of applause."
As Denis played the piece, COHEN said she saw "a little movement" of John's head, a "little wrinkle" of the brow. "I think he heard it," Denis said.
STANFIELD has put together a tribute Compact Disk "of all the songs I could find that were previously recorded and arranged or written by him." It is called A Tribute to John GOVEDAS and Howard school is selling it to raise money for an award in his name to be presented at future Kiwanis festivals.
And come spring, she will organize a concert to honour the man for whom the music never stopped.
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Trevor Bauer will be fit to start the next playoff game because his injury is not very severe. An injury to the finger can heal quickly and there will be no need for him to be benched while the healing continues. Trevor Bauer is in good health and there is no reason why he should not return to start in the next playoff game.
Yes, Trevor Bauer should be able to start in the next playoff game, as long as he takes care of his finger first. He was pulled from the game due to an injury, but as long as it heals, he should be ready to go. He is well rested and will do well.
Trevor Bauer won't be able to start in the next playoff game, as his injured finger needs to heal: according to a renowned hand doctor the healing process will take longer time than he has available before the playoff deadline. Even given that period, Trevor would be wise to wait a bit longer to be sure that he is fit.
Bauer suffered a particularly gruesome injury when the moving propellers of a drone plane sliced his finger. The cut went quite deep and it now appears as though it has not yet properly healed. While it is unlikely that he will be able to play the next game for safety's sake, the injury was not so serious that it will cause him permanent damage.


text: TV ads to back new gaming mags Published on October 19, 1999. Computec Media USA, a unit of German publisher Computec Media AG, is breaking a $15 million ad campaign to support the launch of its two new gaming magazines, PC Gaming and Video Gaming. The campaign includes three TV spots airing on broadcast and cable programs and targeting a 16-to-34-year-old male audience. The ads will run from Oct. 17 until yearend. The premier issues of the new publications will hit 100,000 retail outlets Oct. 26.Copyright October 1999, Crain Communications Inc. Most Popular In this article: News


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The Toronto Blue Jays have promoted Canadian outfield prospect Dalton Pompey to double-A New Hampshire from single-A Dunedin.
The 21-year-old from Mississauaga, Ont., has taken a major step forward this season, establishing himself as one of the organization's top prospects.
In 70 games this season, he has an OPS of .868 with 29 stolen bases.
His progress has made him the target of trade speculation. Blue Jays GM Alex Anthopoulos was in Dunedin earlier this week to watch him play.
On Tuesday, Fox's Jon Morosi reported there are "strong indications" the Chicago Cubs would trade Jeff Samardzija to Toronto if the Jays were willing to part with Aaron Sanchez, double-A left-hander Daniel Norris, and Pompey.
I wrote earlier this week there's no chance the Jays trade all three players for a pitcher with one plus years of control.
Earlier this week the Blue Jays announced that both Norris and Pompey will represent their countries and the club in the MLB All-Star Futures game on July 13, in Minnesota.
Pompey is scheduled to be on Baseball Central on Sportsnet 590 The Fan today at 11 a.m. You can listen live here.


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By Anatoly Rybakov and Tim Kyle
The Quarry Road truck depot is near to our school. On the next street over. When the windows are open in class, we can hear the roar of motors. It's the lorries, flatbeds and dump--body trucks leaving for work. They carry materials for different constructions around Somerset.
At night the trucks stand on the back lot in long lines. They are protected by a watchman. Having wrapped himself in a sheepskin coat, he sleeps in a cabin. In case of an incident someone can wake him right away. To inform him, for example, that at night something was stolen.
In the afternoon the truck depot's gate is crowded by car owners. They have fawning faces: the truck depot has the best repair facilities in the city, and everyone wants the garage of the depot to fix their cars and pickup trucks. But the truck depot's garage is first and foremost committed to their own trucks, and only takes in repairs of cars when they have slack time.
The truck depot is a patron of our school. Therefore in polytechnicalization our school is the best in the district. Kids from other schools come to look at what we do in our lab. Also, we take driver's ed on an old International Harvester truck, which was also donated to the school by the truck depot. School supply manager Reginald Lacceter is always trying to steal the truck for school maintenance needs. Becomes angry when we drive to practice. Shouts that he urgently needs to transport coal or something. Despite this, we drove our due twenty hours this year. Some kids even got a junior trucking license. It's called "A Certificate of a Young Truck Driver". Inside it says: "... Has the right to operate a heavy vehicle only in enclosed environments fit for practice". Some kids from my grade actually think that with this toy license they can drive about in the city, be it if not to run into the police. However, I objected that if not to run into the police, one can drive without any license whatsoever. And anyway, I don't understand what their hurry is. Most of them will be getting their permits in less than a year; it's me who's screwed: I am younger than all the kids in my grade, and have to wait a year and a half. That's just forever!
Last year, in 1966, our school decided that kids who go from junior high into high school (in plain -- those who finish the eighth grade) will pass an industrial practice during summer break. It was brought up by the school committee under the banner "teaching the younger generation the value of hard work", and was agreed upon by almost all parents of the school. That's bullshit. They should call it "getting rid of our kids so that they don't sit at home all day long and getting some cheap labor as a bonus", if you ask me. Anyway, so it became that our class was to spend half our summer break working in the truck depot, doing "technical vehicle service practice". That is so unfair. The second half of our grade has "industrial construction practice". They work on the construction of a summer camp in Wolton, on the edge of town. They also live there. It's not a practice, it's a fucking vacation. And we have to steam in the city for the whole of June, and break our backs in the fucking depot, too.
This stupid practice is absolutely not for me. I do not have any technical skills or inclines. My only interest in motor vehicles is to drive them. But we kids, naturally, do not get to drive during our work time at the depot. So I have absolutely nothing to do here. I'd much rather do something else -- for example, remain home and masturbate a lot -- it would be tons better than working all summer.
When we came to the first day of practice, the manager of the truck depot said:
"Those who work well can even receive a real workman category and reference. I won't promise you a fifth category, but a fourth is definitely possible."
We were standing in the yard. The manager was a massive man, with a dark suntanned face, dressed in a dark blue jacket. I could see right away that he is a former trucker. All these veteran truckers have these forever suntanned faces. After all they spend all their life in the open air, in the wind and under the sun. The manager moved and talked calmly and slowly, as if he constrained himself all the time. It too confirmed that he is a former trucker. With weak nerves it is impossible to drive a truck -- you will get into an accident in no time.
"What's wrong with receiving a real workman category?.. Some of you can use it later on in life, if you decide to come and work here at the depot."
The manager looked at us with hope. He thought that we will be delighted to hear about the category. But we were silent. We knew that during the last practice only one girl received a category, for unusual discipline and obedience. The manager glanced at the sky, followed a passing by mechanic with a slow gaze and added:
"And those of you who do not wish to work, say it right away and I will instantly release you."
Some of us had no objection to get the fuck outta here. Me, for example. But what the manager called "release" actually meant "expel". And we all knew that would mean a remark in our permanent records. So nobody said they do not wish to work.
Then the chief engineer came out and led us on a tour of the motor depot. So that we would know about the operation as a whole. That is correct. If you are a part of something whole it is important to have an idea about a part of what you, as a matter of fact, are. Near to the chief engineer walked Evie Summer and Gail Mackie, two girls from our grade. They wrote down everything he said in turns. Absolutely mechanically. When one was writing, the other did not even listen to what the chief engineer was saying. Only looked him in the mouth as if she wished to say: "Ah, how interestingly you explain! I simply cannot come off". What a couple of dumb bitches.
I wrote down nothing. I was walking in some distance from the chief engineer. Close enough to hear what he is saying and far enough so that it did not look like excessive diligence. Behind me stretched a long tail of kids. They looked at everything, and argued about qualities of different trucks and cars. Ian argued most. His older brother has his own Ford Galaxie, which he sometimes gets to drive, so Ian considers himself a big expert in cars. But I actually listened to the chief engineer. In the end I'll have to write a report about the stupid practice, so I might as well pay attention now.
He explained that the truck depot consists of two services: technical and operation. Repair and general care of vehicles concern the technical service. The operation service is responsible for the actual transportation of cargo. The technical service submits to the chief engineer. The operation service -- to the chief of operation. But the chief engineer is the first deputy manager, and the chief of operation -- only the second.
I thought right away that this is wrong. I mean the fact that the chief engineer is the first deputy, and the chief of operation is only the second. After all the most important service here is the transportation of cargo. I thought about saying this thought out loud, just for laughs. But if I tell the chief engineer that he should be demoted to the second deputy manager, he will get offended. He's a small guy, but has a long nose and an angry voice, and looks like he could offend easily; and I don't wanna start a story.
We finished the survey of different repair shops and returned to the yard. In the yard stood the tech truck, a tow truck with a closed van behind the cab which read: "Mobile Technical Assistance". I thought that it is well to me to get to work on this truck. Certainly, kids with technical leans got it good. The truck depot has lots of different shops: body repair, motor repair, electrotechnical, etc... But for me, of all technical specialties I was interested only in one -- driving. And if I get on the tech truck, then I will go with it to perform repairs in all kinds of places. And, maybe, the driver will give me the wheel at some point.
The chief engineer led us into an office and announced:
"Now I will allocate you in workplaces."
I asked:
"Is it possible for us to decide for ourselves who will go where?"
"No!" -- the chief engineer answered. "It will be uneducational."
He bent his eyes to a piece of paper which lay on his desk, and, exactly how we answer a lesson while looking at a cheat note, mumbled:
It is also necessary to consider personal qualities of pupils. Absent--minded (inattentive) must be entrusted with work demanding attention. Weak-willed -- assigned work demanding strong-willed efforts. Shy (closed) -- organizing work. Lazy pupils should be assigned work the results of which will be clearly visible." -- He looked at us: -- "Have you understood?"
We understood. We should be divided into absent--minded (inattentive), shy (closed), weak-willed and lazy.
I said:
"We don't have any of those."
"What do you mean -- those?"
"Absent--minded, inattentive, weak--willed, shy and closed. And as for the lazy, how will you find them out?"
With this question I have nonplused the chief engineer at once. Then Ian pushed in, the one whose brother has a Galaxie.
Ian, in general, is our most visible person. He's got a pale face, and at our school that is considered to be sheik. Especially if that face is shaded by black hair. Ian is a year older than most of us -- while I am fourteen, he's already almost sixteen, his voice had already changed, it's bassy like a teacher's, and he can grow a tiny mustache. Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Natalie Petters, always holds up Ian as an example to us. As an example of good breeding and a sober mind, that is. But in actuality, Ian is just a big loudmouth.
Ian winked at us: like, don't worry friends, now I'll twist this uncle around, -- and, addressing the chief engineer, respectfully said:
"Mr. Calgary sir, you wish to allocate the children according to their propensities and interests?"
He already knows the chief engineer's name!
"Yes, that's it," -- the chief engineer delighted and once again looked at his cheat note, -- "According to propensities and interests!"
"Then allow us to discuss it," -- judiciously said Ian, -- "and we'll plan shop assignments according to each pupil's propensities and interests."
"Well," -- the chief engineer agreed, -- "You speak business."
And reproachfully looked at me. To let me know that Ian speaks business, and I talk nonsense.
I have gotten used long ago to the fact that Ian says smart things and I do not, that everyone agrees with him, and not with me. So I left the reproachful look of the engineer without any attention. And he once again suddenly frowned:
But you'll mess everything up!"
"No!" -- we assured him. "We will not mess anything."
We began to allocate into shops.
With those who really had those blasted `propensities and interests', things went quickly. Adam Grinko and Ralph Anderson asked to be placed in the electrotechnical shop -- they are born electricians and radio operators. Ivan Polak wanted to be assigned into the motor shop. Tim Garcia and Red Roberts -- into the paint shop, they're artists. And as for Ian -- the chief engineer left him by his side as an aid -- so he had liked him. But those who didn't know what they want started a great confusion. Especially the girls. All of them wanted to work together, in one shop. Noise and shouts arouse.
The chief engineer blinked and turned this way and that. I felt that now he will grow tired of us and distribute us in his own way. But at that moment, fortunately, my turn came. I declared that I wish to pass the practice in the operation service. The chief engineer was surprised at my choice, but agreed: he was delighted at the possibility to get rid of me. I could see that he didn't like me right away.
I went to the chief of operation. He turned out to be a fat black man with fleshy lips. Exactly an hour I waited while he was arguing with someone over the phone. Even having finished his call, he kept grabbing the telephone all the time.
I declared that I was here for industrial practice passage. He was amazed.
"What are they, crazy?!"
And seized the phone.
I became frightened that he will call the manager, and hastily added:
"I wish to work on the tech truck."
He cheerfully laughed, and stroked the receiver.
"Boy, you got the wrong address! The tech truck does not submit to me. It submits to the chief engineer."
Shit, I miscalculated!
He started to explain to me, that the truck depot consists of two services: technical and operation. Technical service concerns...
But I interrupted him:
Forgive me, I was mistaken."
And went back to the chief engineer. With a gloomy face he sat alone in his office, at the big desk. I explained to him that there is no suitable work for me in the operation service.
"Wow, kid," -- said the chief engineer, -- "I see that you are a decent troublemaker!"
And without further conversations he sent me to the General Maintenance shop, or as it is simply called here, the garage.
When I got to the garage, I found out that Peter Scott, or as we call him, Smako, got assigned there as well.
Peter lives in my building, and we have been friends forever. He is probably my best friend. He is somewhat older than I am, as are most of the kids in my grade. He is almost fifteen, and I just turned fourteen two months ago. A year ago Peter and I were almost the same height. But during the last year or so Peter became humongous. He was always somewhat burly -- but now he became huge, probably bigger than all the kids in our grade, except for Ivan Polak, who was even bigger. Ian, who was the oldest, now looked smaller than Peter.
I was slightly jealous of Peter's size, especially because I was so tiny. I still look like a twelve year old, even though I'm fourteen, so when the two of us walk down the corridors of the school together, I look like his younger brother, instead of his friend. Also, I was jealous of peter's other size: he has a huge dick, with a big thicket of dark hair around it, and even recently got some growth in his armpits. My dick, even though it had grown considerably during the past year, was hardly half the size of Peter's, and with only a bit of thin growth around the base. As for the armpits -- there was nothing even to talk about, them and the rest of my body were still completely bald. I was constantly embarrassed by my pathetic amount of hair around my tool during showers after gym.
But anyway, I digress.
I think we got lucky, me and Smako, that we got to work at the garage. Those who worked in workshops, dealt with parts. We in the garage -- with the vehicle as a whole. Here it was washed, greased, adjusted, here we performed operating repairs and preventive maintenance. Mechanics were moving trucks and cars from place to place, even taking them out to the street to test the brakes and such. So Pete and I had a full possibility to practice at the wheel.
"What do you think, Smako," -- I asked Pete, -- "will they let us drive a bit here?"
He thought and responded:
They'll let us."
He was funny that way -- he always thought before responding.
"We need to do something to make it happen," -- I said.
"We'll do in time."
"If we wait too long, all the practice will pass," -- I insisted.
"We need to look around first," -- said Peter.
But, no matter how much we looked around, nobody even thought about giving us the wheel. The relation to our presence was most unconcerned. Even indifferent. They did not entrust us with important work -- they were afraid we'd mess it up. There is big responsibility here. Because of a poorly-fastened nut there can be an accident. Also, we worked slowly, and the mechanics could not wait: they had to stick to the schedule, they had a plan.
To tell the truth, I myself have never been very interested in this kind'a work. But to hang about when all around you are working is awkward. Since I already got here I might as well do something.
During the first days we were working mostly on "grab duty". To go somewhere. To bring something. To run over to the warehouse or to one of the workshops. To hold a tool, to hold a light, to wash out parts...
It was good when we got to wash a whole truck, in the yard, with a pressurized hose. Now that's what I'm talking about! The stream pressures on! You direct it this way and that, the dirt falls off the truck with big lumps and pours into a ditch. Steam comes up from the engine bay, water quickly evaporates under the scorch of the June sun. And, when the truck, fresh and shiny, goes off the scaffold, you see the results of your work. But such pleasant work was rare for us. We work in the mornings, and trucks usually get washed in the evenings when they return from their trip.
Maybe Peter and I were not too lucky after all. Those who worked in workshops, perhaps, had it better. Workshops worked one shift, and the kids that worked there always dealt with the same people. They have gotten used to these people, and these people have gotten used to them. And the garage worked round the clock, in three shifts. So Peter and I dealt with different brigades. When, on the third day, the brigade with whom we worked on the first day returned, they had absolutely forgotten about us. Looked at us with surprise: "What, are you guys still here?!"
They did not know our names. Peter, as I already said, looked older than me, so they called him "guy". "Hey, guy, go and bring me this and that..." As for me, at first they called me "boy". "Hey, boy, go and do this..." And when they heard the other kids calling me "Tinny", they too began to call me "Tinny". Annoyingly, some even started calling me "Tiny"... "Hey, Tiny, come on over here!" They thought that my nickname came from my diminutive size. Actually, it comes from my surname -- Tinner. My name is Steven Mathew Tinner. And kids at my school have a habit of turning surnames into nicknames, so back from the first grade I became "Tinny". But the workers in the garage gave this nickname a different, humiliating shade.
So, in general, our position did not suit me in any way. This way we'll never be entrusted to drive.
I shared my thoughts with Peter. He replied: "Sit easy".
It's easy for Smako to say that. With his character he can indeed sit easy. Someone will tell him: "Hey, guy, remove this bolt!" Smako silently takes a wrench and starts to remove the bolt. Does not look at anyone. Groans. He is so deep in his work as if he is doing goodness knows what... And thus everyone respects him; as he looks so serious and concentrated. And then it appears that he had removed a completely different bolt than the one needed to be removed. I would vanish into thin air with shame. And Peter -- nothing... Indifferently starts to do it all over again. And everyone thought that Peter works better than me.
There was a reason for that. I could not simply twist a bolt like Smako did. I had to know what this bolt is and why am I twisting it. I had to understand the work as a whole, it's sense and general objective. A deductive way of thinking. Peter does not ask questions, and I ask questions. And the mechanics don't want to answer questions. They have no time. Or maybe, they simply cannot answer them.
Even the foreman of mechanics James Dennon, a thin man in a beret, who looks like a Spaniard from a history book, told me:
"You, universitant--emansipe, should ask less."
At first I could not understand why he called me that. Then I found out that a famous Russian writer, Chekhov, has a story called "Sacred simplicity". It's about somewhere in the Russian province, where a priest gets a visit from his son, who became a well-known lawyer. And the father-priest called the son-lawyer "universitant--emansipe".
It is very pleasant that James Dennon, the foreman of mechanics, is so well educated and knows Chekhov so well. But his stature and wit makes it especially stupid for him to give me a nickname.
There was one mechanic apprentice, Kevin, a school dropout, only about sixteen years old, who especially exasperated us. He was somewhat weary of Peter, who -- as I said -- was quite burly, so Peter paid him no attention. But he kept harassing me, sent me this way and that. "Hey, Tiny, drag some sandpaper here!" -- even though he was charged with bringing the sandpaper. And he barely had a fourth category, that asshole.
Especially this piece of shit liked to pose me and Peter with foolish riddles.
"Well, tell me, practitioners," (so he called us), "What works in a vehicle when it is parked?"
I shrugged my shoulders:
"What? The engine."
"The engine is switched off."
"The lights."
"The lights are switched off."
"So nothing works."
"No, you ignorant little shit! The parking brakes are working, that's what!"
"And what if it was not put on a parking brake?" -- I objected.
Kevin laughed loudly:
"How can you not put the parking brake on when you park! See, you know nothing about driving."
So, to wipe this Kevin's nose, I brought my "Certificate of a Young Trucker" from home and showed it to the mechanics. I in no way expected that this silly child license will make such an impression upon them. They were simply stunned when I had shown it to them. Especially as I have not given it to them to look at up close. I only showed the inscription on the license: "Certificate of a Young Trucker". Then I opened it and shown them my name and surname, my photograph and the DMV seal.
All the young mechanics here dream of becoming truckers. At each opportunity they sit down behind the wheel of a huge rig. When they do, their faces warp with fear. But they get out of the cabin later on with such an expression as if they had just flown into space and back.
The fact that I, a schoolboy, have a trucking license, had amazed them. And they did not even think for a moment that this license is not a real license. After all, it was printed at the local DMV. The DMV will not print some bullshit, or so they thought. And they were literally shaken.
Peter did not have such a license. He did not take the examination then. He told me: "Who needs it, this kiddy license?!" Now he regretted that he said so then. Now, when he had seen what authority I immediately gained with this license, he regretted that he did not go and pass that trucking test. But Smako was not as simple as he appeared at first glance. He made it seem as if he too had such a license.
When Kevin respectfully asked me: "So why don't you drive, if you have a license?", Smako cut in and answered: "And why should we chase the wheel? Let those who don't have a license chase the wheel".
From this answer it turned out, that Smako too has that license. So he does not chase the wheel. I too upheld the belief that we both have it. Out of friendship. Besides, Peter's answer shut Kevin up.
Nobody doubted that we both could drive a truck. Our authority had immeasurably increased. But in the subsequent events these licenses, my real one and Peter's assumed one, have played a fatal role.
Gradually the other workers got used to us, and we got involved in working. They began trusting us with operations which are usually assigned to fourth category mechanics. For example, to fasten the forward buffer and license plates, connect the leads to the brake lights or headlights; or to perform greasing. For that one must know where, when and what to grease.
Once I even got a fifth category job: to install and fasten down a radiator. At first one must examine the radiator attentively, check for leaks, then check the connections of both tubes and check them for leaks, then cautiously tighten the screws in place. A very difficult and responsible job. And I was charged with it. And it came out that I did it well.
When foreman James Dennon, the one who looks like a Spaniard, was checking my work, I was wiping my hands off with a rag, with an indifferent expression of my face. It's important not to fuss. If you fuss they will definitely think that you did something wrong.
Now we no longer stood as blockheads, staring, waiting to be sent somewhere. We knew ourselves what we needed to do. We have gotten used to working there, and the workers got used to us. To tell the truth, they still did not let us drive (probably mostly because they wanted to reserve that for themselves). But we did not lose hope that it will happen. We again began to consider that we got very lucky, me and Peter. The kids working in the shops have been attached to one place. And we walked around the whole truck depot. We could be sent anywhere at any given time -- the garage is connected with all the other shops. All envied our living, operative work.
Often we worked out in the yard. The sun shines. The air is light on one's breath. You see everything: who had arrived, who had left, who went where, where certain parts were taken. It is audible how the chief of operation argues over the phone. To sum it up -- you are aware of all events in the life of the depot.
Was it long ago that the chief engineer led us on a tour of the shops?.. And now we feel like real workers. The guard at the gate doesn't even request the admission pass from us.
In the mornings you don't want to get up. But something pushes you: get up, get up! You don't wanna be late... If you're late by just twenty minutes or so, it seems that everyone are working for a long time already. Everyone are in their place, doing their job, and you feel superfluous. Also, you do not know what happened since the shift started. Maybe nothing, and maybe something important. You feel your inferiority. It's not about discipline. The matter is that others are working and you're not. Hence, they are working for you; doing your job. It is best to come about twenty or fifteen minutes early. The night shift hadn't left yet, the workers of the morning shift are just arriving. The night shift's foreman transfers the worklist to our foreman. Workers and truckers change clothes, laugh, joke, tell fables. We know who speaks the truth and who is lying. Awaiting our shift, we sit on a bench at the garage gate. The morning sun is pleasantly warm. Truckers with their work permits run out from the dispatching office, they are late and must hurry up. Dump trucks leave to work, leaving behind a bluish smoke. Big rigs arrive, get serviced, and go back on the open road.
In the yard stands the manager. All workers greet him: "Hello, Mr. Jessie". And the manager answers: "Hello". Some he greets by their name, friendly as can be, others only by surname (Hello, Mr. this and that), and some he does not greet by name at all, simply says "hello". Us, for example.
However, he knows Ian by name. Ian works in the office, in the technical department, rubs about near the management, and the manager knows that his name is Ian. But his full name he, probably, does not know.
Ian goes through shops and fills up forms. In his hands is a big brilliant folder, in his pocket a ball--point pen, and when officials aren't looking, he treats workers with "Marlboro" cigarettes. Behaves indulgently, as if he is the assistant to the chief engineer.
So he holds himself with workers. And at us he winks, ostensibly laughing at his own role. Derisively calls himself "a clerk". So that we wouldn't think that he is bragging. He knows: those who brag we quickly disaccustom from it. In a very simple way. And he does not wish to test this way on himself.
Ian likes to lounge about among grownups, likes to be well informed about everything, to be in the center of events. He knows the entire management on a first name basis, all the mechanics, masters and foremen. Knows that our chief of operation will soon be replaced, and even knows the name of the future chief of operation. He informed us that the manager yesterday was reprimanded by some contractor for bad transportation of materials to the building site of a residential quarter in Sunborrow. In a word, Ian knew things that I, Smako, nor the other kids would ever be able to find out. He even knew the owners of the cars that were occasionally serviced in our garage. Sometimes we would be walking down the parking lot and he shows us:
This Lark belongs to a well--known homoeopathist, Mr. Linden. And that Dodge, the two--colored one, belongs to this guy who sells fruit on the Central market. And this tattered Ford belongs to some professor from the college..."
Though Ian lounges about near the management, knows all the workers and treats them with cigarettes, he does not enjoy any respect among them. Workers don't even know that he is a practitioner as we are. They think that he is a new administrative employee from the technical department, and as such treat him with a certain degree of coolness.
At school Ian is considered an outstanding person, and here we feel our superiority. After all me and Peter have the dirtiest work, we spend our entire day under trucks and cars. And we are very much proud of it. We are proud of our dirty jackets and greasy canvas trousers. True, I don't have technical leans, but if I must work, then I work. And, when Ian, with his brilliant folder, comes to us to the garage for information, we answer him:
"Wait, we're busy, don't you see?!"
Having heard such an answer, Ian gets very angry, though he tries not to show it.
So it turned out today.
Me and Smako were removing a burned through muffler from a vehicle. There is nothing worse than this job. You stand in the pit and you potter with the burnt muffler. It's inconvenient to work, it's hard to reach anything of relevance. The bolts and nuts have rusted, nothing wants to turn, nothing gives in. Peter kept groaning as he usually does, but it didn't help move anything along.
And here at the pit edge appears Ian, hunkers down and tenderly says:
"Hey, hard workers!"
"Hey!" -- I answered unfriendly enough.
Smako said nothing at all.
"So, you're sticking it hard, huh?!"
He did not receive a reply from us and said:
"Today after work there's a general meeting of practitioners. Appearance is obligatory."
"It's starting," -- I murmured.
"What was that?" -- Tenderly asked Ian.
"What? Your fucking meetings are a bother, that's what!"
It's not mine," -- still tenderly objected Ian, -- "The chief engineer and Mrs. Petters are heading the meeting."
Mrs. Natalie Petters is our homeroom teacher.
"Right," -- I replied, -- "We know you arranged it."
"I warned you!" -- declared Ian and left with his brilliant folder.
Me and Peter continued to work. The damned muffler did not want to give in, and I was very nervous. Today we were working with a mechanic called Lester Hugh. He is a very unpleasant fellow. A burly good looking guy, but such a rude redneck asshole. Keeps screaming and swearing at us, and when he does his face gets filled red by blood, his eyes rotate wildly, and he becomes sort of mad. I decided: if this Lester tries to insult me again, I will give him a well--deserved retort.
Lester had seen how long we potter with the muffler, and went down into the hole. On the way he pushed me aside quite roughly. Certainly, the hole is tight, it's difficult not to touch one another. But I was assured that he pushed me aside purposely, and said:
"Can you quit pushing, please?"
Lester did not find a retort. He only peeled his eyes at me. Then, when we -- at last -- had removed the muffler and were pulling it out of the hole, he -- for no reason at all -- cursed at Peter. Peter very calmly cursed back. I told him:
"Don't reply to that asshole's cusses, you only demean yourself when you do."
"I'm not a politician," -- replied Smako.
What especially revolted me is Lester's treatment of Susan. Susan is the dispatcher of the truck depot. And she is in love with this fucking redneck or something, god knows why... Twenty times a day she appears in the garage. Pretending that she is searching for someone. And it's completely transparent that she's not, because if necessary she can call out over the radio: "such and such is requested to come to the dispatcher immediately".
Susan would pass near the garage and look at Lester. And his face immediately became sleepy. And if she approached him he frowned, pretended that he is occupied. Susan would leave. It was a pitiful and revolting sight. The poor chick was so humiliated!
Smako said once:
"Why is she running after him?! He is not obliged to go with her. Dumb bitch!"
But I pitied Susan. I was sure she didn't just unexpectedly stick to Lester. Perhaps, he used to fuck her and then deserted her?
There are sometimes cases when a girl unexpectedly falls in love with a guy even if he does not pay her any attention. But such cases are rare. I only know one such case. It's a girl from my grade, Natalie Fleck. A very thin girl with shiny eyes. She is friends with Maya Katansky. And Maya is the prettiest girl in school. And if some guy falls in love with Maya then Natalie Fleck immediately falls in love with that guy. It's an unusual case, of course. Natalie falls in love out of rivalry with her friend. Or, maybe, on the contrary, out of solidarity. However, I could not care less about why it happens.
Maya and Natalie worked in the interior shop. They repair seats, sew canvas coverings, tool bags and so forth.
When Maya passed through the motor depot, all the workers looked at her. She is that beautiful. Slender, with a long black plait. It was unpleasant to me that everyone is looking at her. A bit creepy, for grown men to look that way at a fourteen--year--old girl! But I could understand them, though, as I also could not help but to look at her, and my dick would jump up like clockwork.
I must say that lately I am quite strung out. I guess that's why my dick is so sensitive to Maya's appearance... Not that I was such a potent sex god before, but -- ridiculously enough -- I used to get some action when I was younger; abet be it mostly with Peter. Peter and I started doing stuff when we were about eleven, I think, and it went on for quite a while. I guess it's like that with guys you grow up with -- we were used to playing naked back from when we were babies, and when we discovered it felt good to rub our boners together, we would occasionally do it. When we were eleven though it got a bit more serious: we discovered the all--mighty orgasm, and would jerk each other off to a dry finish. Then we progressed to sucking. I'm not saying that I have any weird tendencies -- but I must say I did enjoy having Smako's fattish peter in my mouth, and liked how I could feel him vibrate like a string before he would jerk violently and go all limp. Needless to say I enjoyed being sucked as well. When we were about twelve, Peter started growing hair around his thing. And once when we were doing our thing he suddenly squirted a few drops into my mouth. At first I thought he peed and was thoroughly disgusted. But soon enough we found out what it really was. I was still somewhat apprehensive about letting his goo into myself, so from then on I would take out his dick and finish him off by hand when I felt he was about to shoot. Every time we did it he shot more and more stuff, and it got thicker and creamier. I was, of course, jealous and waited for my own development which only came a year later -- when we were thirteen. But to my disappointment, it was around the same time I started squirting cum that our secret activities started to dry out -- and I could not understand why. Peter began to rapidly grow, the hair that was up to now around the base of his cock, started appearing all around his pelvis, and on his balls, and he -- for some reason -- became really shy all of the sudden, and would only occasionally agree for a mutual jerk off over a dirty picture I managed to get. Then even that gradually stopped. I could not get why he was suddenly so embarrassed -- it was me who was supposed to be shy, with my still almost completely bald dick and pitiful amounts of sperm. But, anyway, as that outlet of my horniness was now shut, I started exploring other avenues of relief, and that was when I started thinking of Maya.
The funny thing is that Maya and I used to be good friends when we were really little: we were friends all the way through kindergarten. And it was about then that we sat behind some bushes out in the park, pulled our undies down, and gawked with awe at each other's private parts. The second time we did that we even progressed to touching. I remember quite vividly that her hand felt really good on my rock--hard little dickie... But, as such things usually go, in about the first grade a wall came down between girls and boys: suddenly, it was us against them and we couldn't be friends anymore. But, even though I knew that for sure, Maya didn't seem to: she continued to be friendly with me, even though I made sure to keep my distance, as girls -- as all first graders know -- are quite dangerous. Later on I realized my mistake -- but it was too late now, we were no longer friends; just friendly. Maya still always called me by my name -- Steven -- disregarding all others kids who called me Tinny, which I think was a good sign, and also she always looked on me with a smile the meaning of which I did not understand and thus did not know how to interpret: did she smile because she liked me or because she thought I was childish and funny, with my diminutive size?.. In any way, I was way too chicken to ask.
But anyway, I digress again.
That jerk Lester also liked looking at Maya. And while the other men at the depot just looked appreciatively, he -- in my opinion -- took it way too far. He ogled, clearly indicating that he likes her shape. Once he suddenly dragged a seat to the interior shop. The seat was in perfect condition, but Lester told them that it needs to be repaired. And yesterday, when we left home, he stood at the gate and looked at Maya. And said something to her and Natalie Fleck.
I had not heard what exactly did he say. But at that moment I decided: if Maya will answer him, I will despise her. A girl who does not care about her dignity and replies to a rude jerk, who is interested in little girls on top of that, does not deserve otherwise.
Maya didn't even turn to look at him.
I was very much delighted at that.
Natalie Fleck did turn back. But I don't care a lick about her!..
Anyway, we removed the muffler and dragged it over to the welding shop. After it was fixed we brought it back and took the longest time putting it on. To put a muffler in place is even more difficult than to remove it: you have to hold it up in the air, and for so long that your hands become numb.
Now, to finish this truck's service, it was necessary to replace the bearings of the forward wheels. I already brought new bearings from the warehouse. Wrapped in lustrous oiled paper, they laid on the workbench. But we were not allowed to put them in by ourselves, Lester had to supervise. And he wasn't around, he lounged about in the interior shop, ogling at Maya. I went there as well.
With a happy physiognomy Lester sat on the brink of a workbench and smoked. Maya was sewing on a sewing machine. Natalie Fleck was sewing with her hands. The shop-master Eddie Clay was cutting a leatherette piece on the floor.
"We need to put the bearings in", -- I told Lester.
He answered nothing.
I did not repeat myself. He heard quite well what I said. I approached the girls. It was interesting for me to listen, how a rude bastard like Lester talks to them. But he kept silent. Perhaps, I interrupted him. Perhaps, he did not wish to continue with me there. Or maybe he already finished before my arrival, exhausted himself.
Suddenly Susan the dispatcher entered into the shop and stopped at the entrance.
I realized that now a small scandal will develop, and was very much delighted. Let Maya see what kind of fruit this Lester is.
"Mister Hugh, can I please talk to you in private for a minute," -- with a pitiful voice said Susan.
Lester's face became sleepy.
"What now?!"
"For a minute, please," -- repeated Susan.
All of us, including Maya, and Natalie, and even the shop--master Eddie Clay, looked at them.
Lester frowned:
"Why so secretive?"
"It's business," -- said poor Susan.
"All right," -- lazily said Lester, -- "I'll stop by the dispatching office later."
Susan stood there a little more, turned around and left the shop.
There was an uncomfortable silence. I was smiling. Lester looked at me frowningly:
"Whaddareya showing your fucking teeth for?!"
To which I replied:
They're my teeth, I'll show them if I want to. And you should better come and put in those bearings, before we leave to our meeting."
He had literally become green when I said "better". He understood, that I was hinting at "better than sitting here ogling at an underage girl". And grumbled:
"Don't you worry, they'll be put in without your lousy help."
"As you wish," -- I said and left the shop.
After work we all gathered in the back lot and sat near an old defunct late 40's International Harvester flatbed. This truck had been written off. It was deemed unusable and was subject to dismantling for parts.
The meeting was opened by Ian. He said that as we had finished our first week of duty, it was time to sum it up. But first of all we must choose the meeting's chairman and secretary.
He himself was chosen as chairman. Ian always gets elected chairman in our class. Someone offered I was to be the secretary. But I said that my hand hurts, that I bruised it with a hammer. It happened a long time ago, and I had already forgotten about it. But now, fortunately, I remembered. Everyone believed me, so Gail Mackie became the secretary instead.
Present at the meeting was our homeroom teacher, Natalie Petters, and the chief engineer of the motor depot. That same one who gave us the tour on our first day. It turns out that he is considered the head of our practice. I didn't know that.
The chief engineer said that the truck depot administration has created the best possible conditions for us. All children are allocated according to their interests, propensities and personal qualities. All shops and brigades pay us full attention. In general, all goes well. And he hopes that we will receive some labor skills. And if someone has complaints, he will listen to them with pleasure.
But looking at his face it was clear that he will listen to complaints without any pleasure whatsoever.
All were silent, nobody expressed complaints.
Then Ian said, that he agrees with the chief engineer entirely. Our practice is going perfectly. The administration treats us perfectly well. All kids have made enormous progress. And if someone lags behind, it is their own fault, let them catch up. But who exactly lags behind, Ian did not say. He tries not to offend anyone.
Actually the practice was not at all going as perfectly as they made it out. To take, for example, me and Smako. We were only working properly the last couple of days. And before that we were on "grab duty". And those who work in the mechanical shop, still did nothing. They just stand behind the workers' backs, looking at how those work on different machine tools. We started calling them "behinbackers". One of such "behinbackers", Darren, sat near me. I pushed him so he'd express himself. Darren waved his hand: he did not want to get involved.
So I said:
"Some kids do not work, they only look."
"No," -- objected the chief engineer, -- "they do not look, they observe. They have observant practice."
Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Natalie Petters, was delighted that all goes well. She always rejoices when all goes well, and is afflicted when it goes badly. And I really did not want to upset her. She is elderly, and has a weak heart. So I did not begin to argue with the chief engineer.
Mrs. Petters said that she is very glad to see that all is going well. But, she added, practice should be coordinated to the educational process, coordinated with the school program. When we work, we should think all the time about the physical and chemical laws which we studied at school. We should coordinate these laws with what we see and do during repairs or manufacture.
We did not object to Mrs. Petters. We never object to her. Let her speak.
After that the chief engineer said:
"Children! I, unfortunately, have not had time to inspect your overalls. But I think that your earnings will not be less than a dollar thirty an hour."
All were delighted to hear this and were very much roused by the announcement.
"Attention! There is an essential offer!" -- pompously declared Ian.
But the kids could not calm down. A dollar thirty an hour! That's nearly eight bucks a day! Not one of us had dreamed of such money... Especially the girls. They giggled and whispered, likely discussing what they will spend their salary on.
"Quiet, children," -- Mrs. Petters said, -- "the quieter you will sit, the faster we will be done."
She always calmed us so.
But Ian had already taken offense that the kids do not wish to listen to his essential offer. With all his charisma, he was very whimsical. He pouted with insult and at once became similar to a child:
If it doesn't interest you, I won't speak."
Those were pretty words. Under no circumstances would Ian agree not to speak. When all have calmed down, he said:
"Mrs. Petters is absolutely right: it is necessary to coordinate our work with the school. That is why I make such an essential offer..."
Here Ian made a pause to intrigue us and to give his words more relevancy. It is a primitive oratorical trick. However, Ian always managed to pull it off -- an intense silence set in. I, on the contrary, never was able to use this trick. As soon as I paused, somebody else would immediately start to speak. After Ian was convinced that he had our undivided attention, he solemnly said:
"My suggestion is to restore this defunct truck by the common efforts of our class and to donate it to our school."
And he majestically gestured towards the broken IH truck near which we sat.
All have turned back and stared at this unfortunate vehicle. Even to a person unfamiliar with the automotive trade, it's pitiable condition was obvious. It was supported by wooden planks and has been absolutely dispossessed: all whatever little working parts have been removed from it.
"The condition of this vehicle is serious," --continued Ian. -- "but that just means our merit will be more considerable!"
He went on to say some more heart--felt words. Something along the lines of if we restore this piece of junk we will immortalize our class, we will glorify ourselves through the centuries and our descendants will speak of us. He said it a little differently, but such was his meaning.
Mrs. Petters's face became confused. She always became confused when some one of us acted with an unexpected offer. She did not know how the principal and the manager of studies will react to it.
"Can you really cope with this?" -- She asked worriedly.
All were so pleased by the forthcoming pay that they had lost all ability to sensible judgment. A chorus had cried out: "We can do it!"
I too was glad that I will receive so much money. But it is not right to lose all self--control, common sense and a sober sight at things because of it. So I said:
"First of all let's examine this heap. And then we'll decide." -- and so my words would sound more convincing, I added: -- "It is necessary to compile a defect sheet and to define the amount of necessary repairs."
How I screwed in those big words, huh! They made a big impression on the other kids.
Even Ian had nothing to answer. He only derisively asked:
"You're afraid, aren't you?"
"I am not afraid of anything!" -- I answered. -- "But we have to approach this responsibly."
Here Vern Backman stood up, stuck a finger into the body of the unfortunate truck and said:
"I know this jalopy perfectly well. It's in very good condition. And if something is missing, I will get it in no time."
As during further events Vern will play an essential role, I will say a few words about him.
First of all, Vern is a friend of Ian, or -- more accurately -- his assistant and aide--de--camp. I don't remember in which grade we have composed a song in which there were such words about Ian:
And, expecting orders,
Vern trembles before him...
"Before him" -- before Ian.
Secondly, Vern was a "difficult pupil". In the sense that he was known throughout the school as an avid trader. He traded stamps, lunches, candy and match boxes, arranged protected subscriptions to any magazine, he could get a badge of any sports team from any country, he could get tickets for any local ball game, any concert, any exhibition... How he did it -- nobody knew. He was not a crook. He was even, generally speaking, a harmless fellow. But he had a convulsive passion for getting stuff, trading stuff. Maybe he was not quite right in the head. Mrs. Petters warned us that Vern is somewhat mental in that area and begged us not to make any transactions with him.
During the first day of our practice Vern brought with him a pocket radio receiver in the size of a cigarette box, only somewhat thicker. Where Vern got this receiver, I do not know. He brought it, surprised us all with it, and never brought it again.
The next day Vern showed up in Finnish trousers, very narrow, with white stitches up and down each pant leg. These are very good, convenient trousers with lots of pockets. But for the fat Vern they were way too were narrow. He could neither sit down nor stand up in them. He could not even close the top button on his stomach. The next day these trousers disappeared from him.
So every day Vern surprised us all with some new thing. Either he'll bring a big colorful poster with models of Italian sports cars, or a lighter with a tiny ashtray fixed into it, or some other interesting thing. All kinds of stuff. He'll bring it once, and then this thing disappears, god knows where. And it is not clear whose thing this was, does it belong to Vern or someone else. Maybe he had simply borrowed it.
But because of these features Vern immediately became an appreciable and even a known figure in the depot. Everyone knew him. Especially as Vern preferred to be on "grab duty", liked to walk about the truck depot. I could not understand in what shop he works. Some days he pottered around in the warehouse, on some he went somewhere with the depot's booking agent, on some he ran Ian's errands.
And now he stood here, fat, full of himself and pink--cheeked, with a firm light hedgehog--cut on his head, wearing enormous black glasses, and asserted that he will get all the parts in no time.
"Here, you see," -- softly, but reproachfully said Ian to me, -- "Vern understands the general issue, and you do not understand it."
"I understand," -- I answered, -- "and Vern blabs about things he does not know!"
"No!" -- objected Ian. -- "this vehicle can be restored. I too understand a little about these things."
Ian was hinting at the fact that his brother owns a Ford Galaxie and thus he, Ian, is a better driver than all of us. But to drive a car is one thing, and to repair a truck -- a completely different thing.
"So it is," -- continued Ian. -- "And you, Tinny, lack enthusiasm. You do not wish to participate in our common cause."
"Don't twist my words," -- I said. -- "I wish to participate in our common cause. But I don't want us to shout out empty promises. I work in the garage so I know the vehicle as a whole. We must define the amount of repairs first of all. Here, Smako will tell you too, he also works in the garage."
But Peter said nothing. He is usually a silent guy, and at gatherings such as this his gift of speech vanishes altogether. He just grunted a bit, but had not managed to squeeze out a word.
Vern said:
"I consider Ian's proposal real. Let all the others speak."
"Yes, let the others speak," -- said Ian, -- "And Tinny is always against everything. It is not his fault, but his misfortune."
He wished to humiliate me with this remark.
The kids working in the mechanical shop asked whether they will make the parts for our truck themselves or will they only observe.
Of course they'll do it themselves," -- assured Ian. -- "Am I correct, Mr. Calgary?"
Mr. Calgary is the chief engineer. He answered:
"If you restore the vehicle, then only by your own hands."
But nobody paid attention to his significant "if". All have only heard the words: "by your own hands".
Ivan Polak and the other kids working in the motor shop declared that they can probably assemble an engine for the truck.
Maya and Natalie Fleck undertook the sewing of seats.
Those who worked in the electroshop said that their shop is full of all kinds of surplus electric equipment. It is possible to restore it and install it on the vehicle.
Tim Garcia and Red Roberts undertook the painting of the vehicle in any color. Ryan Richie promised to weld all necessary welds -- he worked with the welders. Leon Stamm and Derek Hyde said that they will repair the radiator and will make all the body work. In a word, all have lit up at this idea.
"Our class is unanimous," -- said Ian. -- "Except for Tinny. Fortunately, he remained in proud isolation."
I objected that I was misunderstood. I am not at all against it, but consider...
Ian had interrupted me and, with a disgusting smile, told me that I can prove in practice that I'm not against the idea...
Why does it always turn out so? Whatever nonsense Ian says, everyone agrees with him. And whenever I speak, a mistrustful expression appears on people's faces as if there is nothing to expect from me but nonsense. Each time I pledge to myself that I will not speak at gatherings. And still every time I do it.
"Now," -- Ian said, -- "I suggest we elect a staff. It will supervise the work concerning vehicle restoration."
"What do we need a staff for?!" -- I cried out. -- "It's only good to arrange stupid meetings!"
All have yelled that no staff is necessary. Nobody wished to sit at Ian's gatherings.
"Okay, you're right," -- suddenly agreed Ian, -- "Perhaps a staff is not necessary. But we must choose a head. To coordinate all the work."
It was clear he wanted to be the head.
So I nominated Ivan Polak, who is the best technician.
Ivan Polak is the best at technical stuff out of all of us. Let him be the head."
But that lickspittle Vern objected:
"The head needs organizing abilities. Therefore I nominate Ian. He works in the office and can coordinate everything. And Ivan can be a deputy for technical affairs."
All had agreed. Ian was chosen as the head, and Ivan Polak as the deputy for technical affairs.
Ian declared:
"I'm sorry, but a supply assistant is a must. I nominate Vern. He's great at getting stuff."
Vern, of course, is an undoubtfully great at "getting stuff". But it's how he gets them that got me worried. His shady deals can go too far and compromise us.
So I said:
"I oppose."
"Why?" -- asked Ian.
I did not wish to tell him why.
"I oppose, and that it!"
"You have to explain your claim," -- Ian insisted.
I blurted out:
"He's your friend."
Everyone burst out laughing. Ian again oppositely smiled:
"This is not a basis for a dismissal."
Vern was chosen as supply assistant.
Then Ian noticed:
"Here, see: me, Ivan Polak and Vern is the very same staff which I offered from the very beginning."
We decided to let him call it a staff. The hell with him, if he likes it so much!
"Now," -- Ian said, -- "let each shop elect a senior member."
All began to elect.
In the garage only two of us worked: Peter and myself.
Smako elected me to be the senior member.
After this meeting I had an unpleasant deposit at the bottom of my soul. It seemed to me that all the other kids think of is my unsuccessful performance, and that they're laughing at me. In fact, when I came home I was so irritated by it all that I locked myself in my room and just stared at the wall.
When the doorbell rang, I didn't even hear it at first. But when it rang for the second time I heard it and went to answer the door, slamming my bedroom door on the way out.
Who could it be, anyway?! I knew that my parents should not be home from work until much later, and I wasn't expecting any friends. Was it our annoying next-floor neighbor Claudia again? She had a habit of coming over when my parents weren't around, and then complaining for half a fucking hour about how my dad's car was in her parking spot (as if it was my fault), or about how my soccer ball smashed a flower in some lame excuse for a garden she had outside. God I hate her. I decided that if she will turn out to be behind that door, I will tell her to fuck off. A small scandal would do me nicely right now -- it would give me a chance to vent and calm my wound-up nerves down.
But when I threw open the door, I discovered not Claudia, but Matty: the eleven-year-old son of our other next-floor neighbor, Mrs. Renebaum.
"Oh, it's you," I said rather unfriendly--like. Matty was looking up at me (thank heavens at least for that -- I'm slightly taller than my eleven-year-old neighbor!) and uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to another.
"Hi, Tinny... Uh, I mean Steven..." -- he mumbled quickly and embarrassedly, having sensed my tone. -- "I was... I mean... I was playing outside, and my mom had to go to the doctor while I was outside and I... I forgot my key..." -- With that he completely lost his nerve and looked down at the floor, but managed to squeeze out: "Can I maybe use your bathroom?"
You see, there is a reason why Matty was acting this way. His mother and he moved into my building a year or so ago, and, being three years younger than me, his mom immediately got my mom to have me "keep an eye on him" while she was gone somewhere, almost the next day. Now I, of course, didn't want to babysit some kid when I had stuff to do, so when our moms left, I told him that he is not a baby and can take care of himself, and told him to go play outside. Now any other ten year old would have been delighted to be granted freedom -- but this strange kid was so awkwardly shy of everything. At first he walked outside and just sat in the corner, looking at his feet. And when I went out to go to a friend's house, I suddenly noticed that he was walking at some distance behind me. I stopped -- he stopped as well... I looked back, he turned all red and tried to make it look as if he was looking at something else altogether. So what could I do?.. Of course, I could tell him to get lost. But for some reason my better nature got hold of me and I sighed, turned around, took him by the shoulder and led him back to my place, where I (lamenting my fate) remained with him for the remainder of the time until his mom came back and picked him up.
Since then, we became sort of friendly. I mean, he wasn't the kind of friend I could really do something with, as he was little compared to me. But sometimes I didn't mind him hanging around. Maybe it was because it felt good to be the bigger one for a change, as I was so used to being youngest in my grade. Or maybe it was something else. I don't know. But anyway, after a while he grew comfortable at being around me, and when he heard the other kids calling me Tinny he started to as well. But just last week he decided to come over while I was mad after another fight with my mother, and, being irritated, when he started "Hey Tinny, do you want to do something...", I snapped at him and told him that Tinny is what older kids get to call me, not a microbe like him, and that he better get lost quickly before I kick his ass, and then slammed the door in his surprised face.
Now of course I later regretted it, as I realized that I just vented my irritation out on him. But I didn't yet have time since then to go over to his place and set things straight, so you can understand the kid for being somewhat wary at coming over, and even more so after hearing my unfriendly tone of voice.
But, after all, it wasn't his fault that fucking Ian got me all worked up at the meeting today. I opened the door and gestured the poor shuffling Matty to come on in:
"Yeah, sure, go ahead."
He ran into the toilet, shut the door behind him, and after a short moment I could hear a stream of piss hit the water, followed by a sigh of relief. Then Matty emerged from there with an absent-minded smile.
"Thanks, Tinn... Uh, I mean Steven..." -- he said and raised his eyes again: did he blow it?
"It's okay, you can call me Tinny," -- I said. Then I looked into his begging gaze and added: -- "And you can stay until your mom comes back".
Matty beamed a happy smile.
I don't remember exactly what we did for the next hour or so. But I know we ended up playing dominoes (it was pretty much the only game he was good at), and while playing we ended up talking about my work at the truck depot. He kept asking me questions about it. I was rather annoyed at him reminding me of today's events, I -- to spite myself -- told him that we're gonna be restoring an old International Harvester truck.
What does it look like?" -- he asked right away.
I shrugged:
"Like... I don't know, like a truck! Most of the flatbeds in the truck depot are I-H trucks. Didn't you ever see them?"
Matty shrugged as well and told me that he doesn't remember. Then I remembered that I used to have a small model of a late--forties IH truck, and started looking for it. I got a box of my old toys out of the corner of my closet and started going through it, throwing old stuff this way and that. Finally, I grabbed hold of the little metal IH truck, and turned back to Matty:
"Here, look, it looks like this."
But Matty wasn't looking at the toy truck. His gaze was pinned to a pile of junk I just threw out of the box which lay at his feet, at the center of which was a large picture of a naked lady posing seductively for the camera.
Shit! What a moron I am, I completely forgot that I hid that magazine there. It was one of my first ever wank--mags, I remember that I traded it for some untold treasures from some older boy at school two years ago, when I was twelve. Thinking back on it, and considering the quality mags that I have nowadays, it was a pretty lousy deal -- as it was a half--torn up mag with the cover and some pages missing, so I never even knew what it was called. But of course back then this was the greatest thing in the world for me and Peter, and we had many a wanks over it's pages (now I could even make out a fine thin residue of Peter's dried--up semen on the photograph, on the woman's cheek).
And now Matty was looking straight at it, at the roundish breasts and slightly blushed vagina, and slowly turning red in the face and ears. My first thought after being mad at myself for forgetting, was: "Is he going to rat me out?" But the thought immediately after it was: "Matty? Am I crazy? He wouldn't rat me out". I calmed myself down and casually inquired:
"Like it?"
Matty finally managed to tear his eyes away from the picture and looked up at me, his face turning even redder. He swallowed loudly but said nothing. I smiled at him as casually as I could, as if nothing happened, and said:
"I forgot it was in there. Haven't looked at it in ages."
Matty swallowed again, and once more stared at the picture as if his life depended on it. I waited a few moments, picked up the mag (Matty followed it hungrily with his eyes) and, to his complete amazement, handed it over to him:
"You wanna look at it?"
Once again he swallowed, and hardly noticeably nodded.
For the next ten minutes Matty was soaking in the forbidden pleasures of the female form. He took his time, studying every page to the tiniest of details, occasionally swallowing and shifting his weight, trying desperately to conceal a very apparent boner under his shorts. I sat nearby, casually looking around as if nothing concerned me. But, to tell the truth, I also had quite a boner going on. And it wasn't so much from the mag (I've seen that thing ten thousand times before!), but from the thought of Matty being all horny in my room. But soon the pages were over, and Matty circled back to the first picture he saw, of the blond in the seductive pose.
"Hot, isn't she?" -- I asked with a grin.
"Yeah..." -- Matty squeezed out hoarsely.
"If you want, you can take it home with you, and wank over it," I suggested monogamously.
Matty threw up his eyes, turned red again, and (again hoarsely) replied:
"I can't, my mom would kill me!"
To tell the truth, I knew he was going to say that. Matty was very much a momma's boy, he was constantly afraid of his mother and was under her total control. He didn't dare peep without her permission, and she watched him like a hawk, so he was probably right to think that the mag would be discovered in no time. So, as it were, I knew he was going to say something like that, and so I -- being horny as hell and hoping for at least some action -- said the previously prepared phrase, as nonchalantly as I could:
"Well, then you can wank over it here, if you wish."
Matty turned even redder, and quietly asked:
"Tinny... What is `wank'?"
That actually took me by surprise. I had no idea he was *that* innocent, after all at his age me and peter were even doing somewhat more than just wanking. But then again, this might just make it easier than I even thought. I made a reproachful face:
"You don't know how to wank?!" -- I asked as if I was asking him if he did not know how to breathe. -- "How is that possible?"
Matty turned the color of ripe pomegranate and shrugged. Very casually I walked over and sat behind him:
"Here, let me show you."
And with that I, without warning, slid my hand down the front of his shorts and took hold of his very hard tool.
Matty nervously gasped and in the first instant tried to move away, but then, as my fingers made contact with the tip of his dick, he shuddered slightly and froze. My experienced fingers immediately found that tiny spot right under his piss slit that feels like heaven to all boys, and as soon as I made contact with it, I could feel he was mine. A shudder went through his body (I felt it as his back was touching my chest), and when my finger skillfully slid along the downside of his head, he let out a small whimper and relaxed backwards, leaning onto me. I began to slowly work his tool, sliding my fingers back and forth. After two minutes or so of this he softly whimpered again, and I felt his ballsack tense up and shrivel closer to his dick. He was starting his "journey", as Smako and I used to call it when we were eleven. And not just any journey -- it was his first ever journey. For some reason, that made me really excited. But I couldn't do much with my hand being constrained inside his shorts and underwear, so I let go of his tool and started slowly pulling my hand out (Matty looked back at me with a hilarious look of cheated expectations and disappointment). I whispered:
"I can't show you like this, my hand gets stuck, you have to take your shorts off."
Matty hastily -- he clearly wanted the wonderful feelings to resume -- stared pulling down his shorts, without a moment's hesitation. Maybe he didn't feel threatened to be caught because he knew that my parents would not be home for hours, or maybe he was high enough on his first experience of sexual pleasure that he lost all ability for critical thinking -- whatever it was, his shorts and underwear were down around his ankles in seconds, and his little hard prick, wound up as a string, was protruding straight forward, awaiting the resume of intoxicating caress. So what could I do other than resume my duties?..
This time I wrapped my entire fist around his tool and started moving it up and down, while also playfully caressing the sensitive spots with my fingers along the way. Matty started breathing faster, his eyelids slowly becoming heavier, and his balls tightening in some more. I then carefully, as not to move too much, brought my other hand around his other side, and started gently caressing down the center of his ballsack, which produced another -- this time much more audible -- whimper from him. My own dick was now straining my undies almost unbearably, and I wanted nothing else but to spring it to freedom, rub it against Matty's little tool, and shoot my load up into his bellybutton. But I instinctively felt that I shouldn't rush this, and that first -- before I make any sort of advances of mutual pleasure -- I should show Matty the pinnacle of nature's experiences: the all--powerful orgasm, hook him on the ultimate pleasure. And, judging by his breathing, that profound moment of realization was growing nearer.
His eyes now almost completely closed, Matty was now beginning to buck his hips uncontrollably with every movement of my fist, trying to push his cute little arrow further into my hand. His breathing was becoming more and more haggard, his mouth open, the sight through the slits of his eyelids completely glazed over. His back was now tense and his stomach was as hard as an ironing board. His whole body was now concentrated, held hostage by the feelings emanating from the tip of his little hard tube, as his hairless groin went up again and again to meet the bottom of my fist.
And then it happened. His eyes threw open, a wide gaze of wonder in them, his breathing stopped for a split second... and then I felt his tool pulse in my hand, as he pushed out breath after exhausted breath while his body shook in the throes of his first ever dry orgasm. It was profound.
After coming down from his high, Matty slowly caught his breath, and looked back at me. On his face was a clear sense of wonder and gratitude. I, for some reason, felt a bit embarrassed. Matty, on the other hand, very uncharacteristically, had none of that. He happily asked:
"Was that `wank'?"
I laughed, and told him that yes, it was indeed a wank. He then proceeded to finally get a bit embarrassed as sitting there, still with a boner, with his shorts around his ankles. He hastingly pulled them up as I was putting away the mag. I then casually suggested that we finish our game of dominoes.
Later on that day Mrs. Renebaum stopped by looking for her offspring when she didn't find him at the house. She told Matty to go home and have supper. After his mother left, Matty, turning desperately red again, asked me if he can look at the pictures again some other time.
"Sure," I said, "Whenever you want, when my folks ain't home, I mean..."
"And... Maybe we can do wank again too?" -- he whispered, while looking into the floor. I assured him that that's also definitely something we can do, and in return got another happy smile. And caught myself on the sensation that I'm starting to become quite fond of that funny, awkward kid. And, naturally, having some steady action again, and that close to home too, is also great. I mean, who would have thought that the cure to my horniness would turn out to be the pesky boy next door I was forced to babysit once in a while? What a character that Matty is -- "can we maybe have wank again", have you ever heard anything funnier?..
End of Part 1 (includes Chapters 1,2,3,4,5)
Thanks for reading. Feedback and suggestions welcome :) email@example.com


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Before starting at The Fit Pit in 2009 I rode a bike for exercise. I've been riding since 1972, racing and doing time trials. I heard about The Fit Pit while doing a spin class and thought I should give it a try. My attendance was sporadic at first but
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My husband recently died. He was young, just 53, and he left my daughter and me in a world of uncertainty and despair.
The most consistent phrase I heard during the weeks following his death was this "If there's anything I can do, let me know." It's a polite, unoffensive phrase, one I've offered myself so many times when I've been unclear exactly how to help. The truth is, it doesn't help. What did? The people who offered nothing, but did something. One neighbor showed up every night with a hot dish of italian food. Another friend showed up and announced he was going to clean out the garage. A former business partner called on the day I'd planned to drive myself to have my husbands remains cremated. I'm forever grateful for her steady hand on the wheel. My co-workers arrived with a living Christmas tree during a week when I'd been dealing with the sobering details of funeral arrangements..My sister in law scrubbed my bathroom so many times I can't count.
I'm forever grateful. I was so in shock from the extreme stress of unexpected death, I didn't have the time or energy to come up with a list of what needed to be done, for me, or my daughter.
The people that saved me were the people who anticipated the need, then did it. Recently, a co-worker was diagnosed with cancer. As we discussed her decision to begin radiation immediately, I found myself close to these words "If there's anything…"
Instead, I sent a cleaning crew to her house.
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Ronald Reagan's home state has seemed an improbable place from the beginning for the Mondale-Ferraro team to make a major stand. In fact, a month ago the tracking polls that Democratic strategists run here every night showed their man slipping so far behind President Reagan that the Mondale campaign thought hard about taking its money somewhere else.
But they decided to dig in. And this week, as the campaign escalates to full force here, Joe Trippi, the young politico managing the effort, finds reason for wary optimism.
Walter Mondale's opinion tracking polls show the Democrat steadily eroding Reagan's lead in California over the last couple weeks, according to Mr. Trippi. Opinion here has been ''extremely volatile,'' he says, giving him hope that Reagan's support is not rock-solid. ''People are going to be surprised how close this is going to be.''
Morale of staff members and volunteers in the field has picked up considerably over the last couple weeks, says Hank Barnard, the jeans-clad director of the Westside Voter Registration Committee in the Democratic stronghold of Santa Monica. Their spirits had hit an all-time low after Geraldine A. Ferraro's finances came under scrutiny in August, he said.
Here in Santa Monica, many of the people who are registering as Democrats here express the view that President Reagan reflects the interests of an elite rather than poor and middle-class Americans.
Margot Bryan, a young gemologist who voted for Reagan in 1980, switched to the Democratic Party last week, saying of Mondale and Ferraro: ''I just really feel they're for the people. I felt that way about Reagan four years ago.'' But now, she continues, ''I think he's out of control. ... All he cares about is his elite group of people.''
But longtime Democratic volunteers note even here in Santa Monica that college students and other young voters are no longer the Democratic bloc they once were.
No one is claiming that California's 47 electoral votes are likely prospects for the Mondale column, but then Mondale is running closer here than in Texas or Florida, the other big Sunbelt prizes.
So Mondale is spending more money on television commercials for California than anywhere else in the country, and the state runs neck and neck with Texas in gobbling up other campaign monies.
With so much ground to make up in the remaining month of campaigning, Trippi has pared Mondale's strategy for staging an upset here down to several narrowly focused efforts. ''If we fail at any one of those efforts,'' he says, ''we'll lose. But we're getting more and more confident that we'll succeed.''
The gist of the Trippi's ''on the ground'' (nontelevision) campaign strategy is to isolate small segments of the California electorate and ''work very hard on them.''
The first phase, which just came to an end, has been to go into heavily Democratic areas and register as many voters as possible before today's deadline.
The second phase begins now. The Mondale camp will attempt to reach, with absentee ballots, what some are calling ''lazy Democrats.'' Trippi has a list of 1.7 million California Democrats who are registered to vote but stayed home for the last two elections. As many as possible of these names will be contacted by phone and through door-to-door visits by Democratic staffers and volunteers around the state.
This is a 20-day drive that will end Oct. 26, when the Democrats will mount a general get-out-the-vote campaign.
Throughout the remaining month of the campaign, the Mondale team will be working to win over moderates, both Democrats and Republicans, who are currently leaning toward Reagan. This effort will be focused on about nine areas of the state where Trippi thinks Reagan falls to the right of moderates on key issues - especially environmental issues.
The key here, he explains, will be to focus voter attention on these issues in a race that so far has turned on the candidates' personalities.
Apart from television commercials and targeted mailings, this part of the campaign will depend heavily on campaign appearances. Mr. Mondale and Ms. Ferraro themselves will be scheduled to reach this group of voters, as will Gary Hart and John Anderson, who are headed for California this month.
Democrats were outdone in the voter-registration phase of the California campaign. While almost 248,000 new Democrats registered between May 7 and Sept. 7, Republicans added more than 312,000 new voters to their ranks in that time.
Now Hank Barnard at Westside Voter Registration is busy switching from a registration network to a phoning and precinct-walking network to reach the ''lazy Democrats.'' With the roughly 380 volunteers he has mustered in the last two election campaigns, he figures to be able to hit nearly every Westside person on Trippi's list who hasn't moved or passed away.


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hottubmk on Family Tree Circles
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Journals and Posts
Bain Family Tree
I'm looking for the Bain Family Tree.
I heard at one time are name was McBain.
Here are some names on my grandfathers side:
E A Chambers (Ester)
Adrian Bain Born June 21, 1901.
James T. Bain Born July 12, 1929.
Florence Chambers not sure
Ruth Bain March 1, 1894.
My great great grandfather was a Cherokee Indian Chief. The only name I have is his last name Clement/Chambers.
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