Rural Summer

Not long ago Suzie and I spent some time driving around the southeast corner of our state.  The fields that stretched onward over the rolling countryside inspired me.  Maybe that's not quite right--It's more like it awakened a memory or something in me.  Somewhere, some time in my past, I had the pleasure of enjoying some sort of similar, expansive terrain during hot, summer months.  Maybe it was my time in Oklahoma.

Anyway, here's what I came up with:

Driving barefoot, hardly dressed,
the heated air feels good.
Open windows, blowing hair;
living summer like we should.

Dusty ribbons of empty roads
cut pathways through the land.
The air that blows throughout the car
though hot, still keeps us fanned.

Unconcerned with blowing hair
and squinting into the sun,
we're singing with the radio
to add to the driving fun.

Every time we crest a rise
we ease up on the gas,
but the lonely road goes onward
through the fields of dirt and grass.

In places where the asphalt ends
and the road turns into gravel,
a rooster tail of dust blows high
and follows as we travel.

The rising plume that follows us
shows others when we're near,
and also lets any others know
if their traffic "coast is clear".

There's also reason to drive fast:
To stay ahead of dust.
Keeping it outside the car
when driving is a must.

The scents that waft from sun-baked fields
like hay and fresh-turned earth
are the country smells of summer,
and we've cherished them since birth.

After driving on these dusty roads
we're gritty, dry, and hot,
so we head down to the clear, cool river--
it's our favorite summer spot.

Out there off the beaten path
away from prying eyes,
skinny-dipping the day away
under clear blue skies.

Rural life in summertime
is simple and carefree,
but we don't want the world to know
or crowded we will be.

Rick Williams

Fashion... And Lack Thereof

I don't think I'm too stupid.  I can recognize when something is fashionable and when it's just designed to show rebelliousness or declare independence and free thought.

The pants hanging down off the wearer's ass is one thing, but some of the pants that I've seen displayed as their choice of hanging pants just cracked me up.  Last week I saw a guy walking down a sidewalk with his hang-me-downs at half mast as usual, but they were sweat pants!  I'm talking about some butt-ugly old sweat pants--undoubtedly off of a very tall guy because the crotch of them was hanging below his knees--being worn in a lame effort to look cool.  What they looked was pathetic.  They weren't even clean.  It basically looked like he was wearing someone's shop rag.  If someone would show him a picture of himself from behind he'd probably feel pretty stupid.

Now I keep seeing evidence of guys wearing the opposite.  Shirts or jackets with arms and waists way short, and high-water pants with no socks.  I see it as an opposite--and opposite to the extremely baggy pants that proliferated for so long (and helped to drive the crime rate lower because nobody could run in them).  I don't like either opposite.  Not one bit.  Maybe it's European--I don't know.  I haven't seen it in person yet but I'm sure I will someday, and when I do I'll click my tongue and shake my head like old people are supposed to do.  Here's an example of what I'm talking about.   The one in the middle is tolerable, but the other two... Ugghh...

Now let's talk about ladies' shoes.

A couple decades ago I remember thinking about how sorry I was to see the then-current style of shoes that was coming into vogue.  I'm talking about the flat, featureless, blah-looking shoes that totally took over for so long.  To me they looked like ballet slippers with endless varieties of paint jobs.  After all, what else can you do but change their color?  Okay, you can also put bows on them.  Basically, they don't have any other features besides the hole you stuff your foot into or the teeny excuse for a heel they have under them.  I know that flats are still available because "fad fashion" never goes away, it just diminishes into yet another among the multitudes of choices.  See, you can still get them anywhere--Here are a few still available from Target:

Is it just me?  I'm sure they're comfortable for the wearers.  They're just not flattering at all in my book.

Now let me jump to a style that I do like.  It's brand new.  I'm talking about what I guess are currently called "ankle boots", but I'm talking about the shortest of those. They have all the style of regular fashion boots (who doesn't love boots?) but have no long tops that cover the calves.  They're stripped down and display the legs in all their glory.  I think they look great with bare legs.  Like many fashion styles, they're not for everybody.  I think I like them best with short skirts.  Sorry, I just love the look.  I like the ones no taller than these:

I don't know beans about fashion, but I know what I like.

Remembering Grandpa Arlie

This is a story I started writing several years ago but never finished until yesterday.  With yesterday being my mother's birthday I thought it was the perfect time for me to get off my ass and finish this tribute to her dad.  I posted it on Facebook as a Note in addition to printing it on fancy paper for mom.  I thought I should probably post it here as well so it will be permanent.  It's the longest post I've ever made on any of my blogs.  It starts with the following paragraph:

This is my attempt to celebrate my grandpa Arlie, and to recall memories from the all too brief period of time where our lives crisscrossed. I will attempt to tell the things that—to me—are the definition of grandpa. As a matter of fact, from here on, I will capitalize the word Grandpa. In my mind he deserved it.

The Gap of Generations

One of the great frustrations in life is the difference in age between a boy and his grandfather. It’s almost as if a cruel joke has been played on us by the very nature of human generations. The scale of time between the two generations is very non-linear. One week of a young boy’s life is more like one year of a grandfather’s life. When you're a little boy he is a man you look up to, both literally and figuratively. When you are in trouble with your parents you can always seek solace and comfort with Grandpa. It is the span of time between the ages of you both that creates the comfort zone in the first place. A grandfather is kind of the anti-parent.

When you're a young boy Grandpa is there for you. He’s a teacher, a confidante’, a story teller, and a friend. You like spending time with Grandpa—watching him work, asking him questions, and occasionally helping him with something. Then time goes by, and you find yourself a little older. You start discovering girls, cars, or any number of important new things on the adolescent horizon. The whole world is at your doorstep! You find you don't have much time to spend with Grandpa any more. The years go by and you find yourself a little older, but unfortunately your Grandpa is a lot older. He has the stories to tell, but his activity level just isn't there any more.

Then, tragically, Grandpa is gone.

Wait, you cry--I wasn't ready! I want to learn stuff from him; I want to listen to his stories again now that I have an adult ear. I want to share my stories with him. You feel so sad at all the things you wish you could have done together. You think of all the things you did do together but might have been even better if you were just a little older at the time.

But it's too late. Grandpa is gone.

Big House, Little House

Growing up in Algona we lived in Grandpa Arlie's "little house." It was the house that he originally built for himself and Grandma Carol to live in while he built his dream house next door. It was a little house all right; the living room, kitchen, and dining room were all one space, and it had one bedroom, and a bathroom. My mother was the only child born to them. Oddly enough, my dad was also an only child. When they got together they decided that they were going to have a bigger family than they each had, and ready or not, the plan was set into motion. I spent my childhood years in that house, and because of the proximity to Grandpa, he was a major part of my young life.

The Man

Grandpa Arlie was the hardest working man I have ever seen. He was smart too—able to figure things out on his own without much trouble. He was a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician, a mechanic, a cement mason, a bricklayer, a tree-trimmer, and probably a host of other things I have no memory of. Never idle until later years, he possessed a tremendous work ethic. I think he felt that if he was idle something was being neglected. There was always something to be fixed, something to be painted, something to be built, or something to be done somewhere. My mother also inherited that work ethic. It seems to have skipped me.

I remember him as a quiet man when he was working. He seemed to possess a great deal of patience, because I don’t ever recall him blowing his top when things didn’t go his way. As any little boy, my head was filled with questions when I watched him work, but if they were silly he never let on. He always answered them. Maybe he was just that way to me… I don’t know.

He always wore overalls when he was working. He didn't wear the blue denim kind; he always had the gray & white striped variety. In the winter, he had a flannel shirt under them, and in the summer it was just the overalls with the top of his boxer shorts peeking out. Another thing that was always worn was his pull-on Romeos. Those were his work shoes around home. (To this day I still think of him when I see those shoes for sale in a store.) I also picture him in several different kinds of hats. I seem to recall a nice, Fedora hat for special events, and any number of the stiff-front baseball cap variety with a company logo on it (actually more commonly known as farmer’s caps now.) He always had certain things in his pockets too. His overalls always contained one of those funny-shaped woodworker's pencils in the front bib, he always had his pocket watch, and he kept his change in one of those little plastic things that pop open when you squeeze them.

He had a little thing he always said when he explained things too: “Whatchacallit” or “whatchacallum.” Not whatchaMAcallit or whatchaMAcallum—his word only had four syllables. I remember that word being used an awful lot during conversations. I can still hear him say it.

I loved his laugh too. He had a slow, easy “hee hee hee” that was all his. That is one thing that I will never be able to describe, but I can still hear it. I hope I never forget it.

The scents of Copenhagen and Old Spice were two other things I remember about Grandpa Arlie. He liked his Copenhagen. I remember the perpetual bulge in his lower lip from the stuff, and the spit cans that were everywhere. There was always a spit can next to his easy chair in the house, one in his car on the floor next to the seat, and in multiple places in his garage. I think he always smelled like his Copenhagen, and in the mornings he smelled like Old Spice after shave. Yep, that's Grandpa all right. Even now if I ever smell Old Spice or Copenhagen I’m instantly transported to thoughts of Grandpa.

I remember Grandpa loved watching westerns. If he had a choice there was always a western playing on TV when I was there. I also remember Lawrence Welk being on their television a lot too, but I suspect that was something both of them loved. The soft, comfortable recliner chair parked in front of the television was his luxury item.

Grandpa was a man of simple pleasures. For example, he loved his peanuts. He always bought the Planter’s Cocktail variety. (Those also ended up being spit cans, and the containers he used to contain screws, nails, and other hardware in his garage.) He also liked crackers and milk. I remember thinking how weird it was to just put saltine crackers into a bowl of cold milk, but in retrospect, how different is that from enjoying them in a bowl of cream soup? Not much. I’d like to think he is where I got my love of crackers from.

One of my memories was when I started calling him Pop. I don’t know what prompted me to do it but I did. He responded by called me son. I still remember the exchange that took place all the time: “Hi pop!” “Hello son!”

Like many people of his era, Grandpa was a resourceful man. He saved and reused everything that was possibly reusable. His garage was evidence of that. In addition to the peanut cans I mentioned before, his hardware was also contained in recycled baby food jars and coffee cans. His homemade flagpole in the front yard of his house was topped by a painted toilet tank float.

I remember how he loved to make a snowman with us. I don't know if he was doing it for us or for him, as I was way too young to read people's motives back then. I just know that he built big snowmen.

Every Christmas he seemed to take great pride in decorating his house and his carefully-manicured holly tree in the front yard with lights and decorations.

Grandpa’s Haven

Grandpa’s garage was a special place. Appearances didn’t count in Grandpa’s garage. It was his space—a place where he could spend time without worrying about whether or not he was going to get something dirty. Now that I think about it, maybe that was the whole plan—to make it so unappealing that people chose not to venture in. I think the whole building was built from cedar, and I don’t think there was paint on any of it. I don’t know whether they were stained from age or just perpetually dirty, but the colors on the bare wood ranged from dull reddish brown to dirty black. It had a wood floor too, and it seems like I remember it creaking when you walked on it. The outside of it was all split cedar shakes; roof and walls. Apparently cedar was cheap back then. I remember it as a dark, dirty, and smelly place, but it must’ve been his getaway—he spent a lot of time there. It was a place filled with his ingenuity.

Almost everything in that garage was homemade. There were no hardware superstores back then, so if you needed something you had to build it. He made his own shelves, drawers, tables, handles, brackets, hooks, and any other items he needed. There were homemade handles on his files, his hammers, his axes, and everything else. He made anything that was possible for him to make. His table saw started life as an actual kitchen table at one point. It was carefully slotted and had an old washing machine motor beneath it to drive the blade. The table saw was a luxury to Grandpa though. He could cut as straight with his hand saw as most people can with their motorized saws. He had a very precise and methodical action to his arm when he was sawing. I know because I remember watching him a lot. His bench grinder was built the same way as his table saw—from a cast-off washing machine motor.

There is a smell that comes to mind when I think of Grandpa’s haven: Heating oil. His garage was only 3/4 of the whole building, and sharing a wall with it next door was the room that housed the heating oil supply for both houses. It was no pretty place. I’m pretty sure it just had a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling with a pull cord on it. The floor was hard-packed dirt, worn smooth over the years and was probably totally soaked with stray drops of heating oil. The dirt floor and the heating oil both gave the building its unique aroma. I have no idea how big that tank actually was, but to a little kid, that above-ground tank was huge and looked like it held a million gallons.


Grandpa Arlie was a concrete man by trade the whole time I knew him. He worked at other jobs in his past I’m sure (stories of the railroad come to mind), but I remember him and concrete. He knew concrete. Back then you didn’t go to the store and buy a bag of “ready-to-go” concrete mix; you had to buy the ingredients and mix it yourself. He knew exactly how to mix the cement, the sand, and the gravel. He knew when you had to add different ingredients, and he knew how much. I can still remember him mixing concrete with his hoe, lovingly pushing and pulling it back and forth in his homemade mixing trough or his wheelbarrow. To this day whenever I’m around someone mixing concrete with water in a wheelbarrow Grandpa comes to mind.


I really don't remember what my earliest memory or Grandpa was. I remember so many little things but it's so fragmented. It frustrates me. I feel that I should have been writing everything down, carefully noting and remembering every little thing about him. If only I would have had a camera of my own back then!

I remember going to visit Grandpa in the hospital shortly before he died. He was still in reasonably good shape for an old man, but was mentally exhausted I think. Grandma had died several years prior and he had been on his own for quite a while by this time. He had voluntarily given up his driver’s license a few years prior because he no longer felt good enough about his driving. Little by little he had been losing his ability to do the things he wanted or needed to do on his own. I remember him sitting up on the edge of his hospital bed, and he said to me, “I’m tired. Nothing works any more. I’m just tired.” Within days after that he was gone.

When Grandpa’s few possessions were carefully divided among us after his passing, I ended up with two things: His homemade bench grinder and his ball-peen hammer. I used that bench grinder for years and years. I was sorry when I finally had to part with it out of space considerations. I felt like I was betraying his memory somehow. I still have his hammer though—its handle worn smooth and colored dark from years of his use. I had it at work for a few years, but finally brought it home. I always called it Grandpa’s Hammer. It will always be called Grandpa’s Hammer.

Someone once asked me several years ago, “If you could spend time with any person from history who would it be?” At that time I really had no answer. I remember thinking about it several times over the years since then. Who would it be? Thomas Edison has come to mind, as did Henry Ford, and Ben Franklin. I have decided though, that it would have to be—without a doubt—Grandpa Arlie.

I miss him still.

Childhood Taunting

There are things in my life that I wish I could undo.  I'm sure everybody has them, but they probably don't dwell on them.  What's done is done, right?

I think the things that eat at me most often are the ones that involve people.  I think about the times I have fallen into the "crowd mentality" when someone was being picked on.  I know for a fact that I have stood idly by while someone was taunted and picked on back in elementary school.  I think what ends up happening is that you just don't want to be the spoilsport.  I went to school with several kids that got picked on fairly regularly.  One that comes to mind is Allen Adams. A nice kid, he got picked on all the time.  If memory serves me, his family didn't have much money and he wore clothing that was probably all ill-fitting, secondhand stuff. I know he was taunted to tears more than once.  I would like to apologize to him.  I wonder what became of him?  I wonder about people like him sometimes.  I wonder if things they were subjected to had any lasting effect on them or those around them.  What if he was one of those guys that lay his head down on a railroad track when he couldn't take it any longer?  What if he grew up a murderer or--at the very least--an alcoholic?  Or maybe the taunting shaped him in a totally opposite way: Maybe he grew up determined to be successful and raise a family that would never have to be ridiculed like he was?

It makes you wonder.  Okay, it makes me wonder...

Kids don't think of the consequences of their actions.  They haven't been alive long enough to learn the ramifications of bad behavior, so when there is taunting and ridicule going on, kids don't need much of a reason to jump into the fray.  Sometimes it was that they wanted to be an active part in the taunting, and sometimes it was just so they wouldn't appear to be on the wrong side.

Like I said, I remember several kids that got picked on.  Jenny was a big girl and was picked on because of her size.  Susan was a tall, thin, plain-looking girl that seldom had anything to say.  I don't think she was picked on, but being shy and not talking much is all it takes for kids to make fun of you.  I have no idea what happened to Jenny, but I know Susan is still around.  She introduced herself to me at one of our reunions several years ago.  I didn't get to talk with her like I wanted to.  I would have liked to spend some time with her.  I did see her at a local store once, but couldn't talk to her then because she wasn't alone.  In retrospect, of all the people that I saw at the reunion that day, she was the one that I wanted to sit down and talk with.

When it was Valentine's Day back then we had "mailboxes" set up in the classroom for us to put classmate's valentines in.  I remember getting a strangely good feeling when I dropped a valentines into the boxes of the kids that got ignored or picked on.  I felt the same way when I got one from any of them too.  It was a "doing the right thing" feeling I guess.  I don't know.  I know we were all only doing it because we were required to, but it still had a good feeling.

When kids pick on other kids they fail to consider that the kids they are picking on are just like everybody else.  They treasure the same memories that everyone else does while growing up:  Maybe it's learning to ride a bicycle, getting  a kitten or puppy, receiving that special item for Christmas or birthday.  The kids that aren't popular may not have a line of people to ask them to the prom, but that doesn't mean their lives are any less meaningful. 

I while back I was introduced to a video on YouTube called Perspectacles.  It was made in a local high school so it's not real high quality, but the message it carries is clear.  When the guy finds these special glasses he puts them on and finds he suddenly knows the emotional baggage that the person he's looking at is carrying around with them from day-to-day.  The guy that finds the glasses is usually surly and rude, but when he puts them on and sees the bad things are in the other people's lives he has a sort of awakening.  Click the link and watch it.  It's too bad they don't really exist--An awful lot of people could benefit from them.

Spring, Shooting, and Spending

It's pathetic when you find yourself smack in the middle of May and have nothing good to write about.

We have had the worst (meaning coolest and wettest) spring I can ever recall.  We have set the record already for the coolest April on record, and it's looking like we're on our way for an equally crappy May as well.  We have had something like 4 nice (meaning only dry and sorta warmish) days all spring so far.  We inhabitants of the Pacific Northwest have become a group of morose, surly shut-ins.  Don't mess with us... We're already pissed.

The good news it that I have managed to ride my Harley to work twice already, and given the days that it was really even feasible I'd say I'm running 50%.

I have had thoughts of selling the Harley recently.  I know it will probably pass, but the reality is that I don't ride it much.  I don't think I rode it to work one single time last year.  My fickle nature once again?  Maybe. I do have a tendency to be into something 200% and then have it fall completely off the radar.  Truth is, we seem to have more fun traveling by car doing our photography thing.   Today's market is not conducive to selling a Harley though.  That doesn't surprise me really because the Harley marketplace was hugely overpriced for a long, long time.  Now that everyone is in dire financial straits, there are lots of them for sale--Most of them nicer, newer, and cheaper than mine.  Given that, I'll probably just die with it whether I use it much or not.  Time will tell.  My fickle nature also covers the desire to sell it--meaning that too will pass.

Photography.  I miss it.  I know I've mentioned this before, but I find myself craving it, and yet being frustrated by it at the same time.  I would be happy to wander city streets for hours on end (weather permitting of course) looking for candid shots of people or whatever.  Since my 365 photo blog ended I have nothing forcing me to take shots, but I still feel the need.  It's probably just as well the 365 ended because I have little imagination, and I was running out of inspiration and ideas.  The factor of having little imagination is probably why I'll never be a good photographer.  I lack the creative gene.  Still, I enjoy it. I have been perusing Craigslist and other places for several months now, looking for someone selling a Canon 50D.  They don't make them any longer (having replaced them with the 60D), but I wanted one anyway.  They are highly regarded by photographers and have lots of great features.  Then recently I decided a 60D (which is on Sue's shopping list) would be just fine.  It has several new upgrades over the 50D, but is also short an item or two from the feature list of the 50D.  The plus is that they can still be bought new unlike the 50D.  Then a few days ago I had a realization:  I have no reason to upgrade my camera body.  My photography just isn't that good.  Sure, everyone likes buying something newer and better no matter what the category is, and I think I was caught up in that.  Realistically, I may buy a lens or something, but no new camera body is going to make me a better photographer.  I would just be a cool upgrade.  It would also be costly.

Ah, financial matters.  Given today's economy I'm very lucky to have my job, but the reality is that it's one job.  Suzie has a job now working part-time for the Auburn School District, but it hasn't really gone gangbusters on how many days she gets called in to substitute.  It's kind of like we are a one income family with 1.2 income's worth of expenses.  That means that little by little our savings are waning.  Now I have the news that Sarah's college scholarship ends after this semester, and that means her mom and I will have added expenses that we didn't have before.  It probably weighs on Suzie--me having marriage expenses like child support and such--but at least it was already "on the table" before we got married and therefore not a surprise.  I guess that's just the way things go.  Neither of my parents went to college, nor did any of my brothers or sisters.  I sorta did if you count my sporadic classes as Green River Community College for a few semesters (thanks to the G.I. Bill) but they didn't amount to anything.  Neither Sarah's mom or her brother went to college, nor did their parents.  Nobody in Suzie's family went to college either.  The reality is that we all came from working-class families and there just wasn't the money to go around.  Sarah is very, very lucky given our family history of being working-class blue-collar people.  I do feel good about what she has accomplished though.  While many people that go to collage are only concerned with social stuff and partying, she has done very well at holding two jobs in addition to keeping grades up.  On a related note, I told Suzie recently (I was having dreams of philanthropy) how--if I had the means--how cool it would be to send her son, Dane, to college.  He expressed and interest in going back to school.  He is a whiz at math, and Sue said he had always loved school.  I have to wonder:  How many millions of people in our country could have been "movers & shakers" if they had only had the opportunity for higher learning?

Let's talk health.  No, wait--let's talk about my lack of health.  Lately I have had itchy skin and it drives me crazy.  Small patches that itch below the skin.  At first I thought it was some sort of hives or something, but it won't go away.  Hot water seems to exacerbate it.  I have been thinking about going through the battery of allergy tests to see if anything has changed during aging.  I did it a few decades ago and wasn't allergic to anything then, but time changes people so who knows.  I keep putting it to the back of my mind because it was very painful and uncomfortable.  Also, I have been plagued with headaches for quite some time.  I've grown accustomed to that.  Although they are obviously a nuisance, I can usually alleviate the pain quickly with two Excedrin.  I keep wondering (and I've shared this with others) why those giant CAT-scan thingies or whatever they are still cost so much.  There is little or anything that anyone has to do unless you are going through a dye-injection/tracing procedure.  You lie down on the table and it rolls you into the machine and gives you a complete body scan.  The computerized machine is doing all the work, so why do they still cost so much?  They should be FREE for all of us just based on the amount of things they might detect before they might become a real life-threatening problem.  That's our health-care system for you.  Money talks.

Oh, my computer just reminded me:  Child support due today.  Sigh.

The Neon Enigma - Solved!

That sounds pretty mysterious doesn't it?  I'm just talking about my lowly Plymouth Neon, and my arduous journey seeking its mechanical harmony.

Although I'm a product of a highly mechanical lifestyle, the cars nowadays are puzzling.  I am still very much able to do repairs of certain systems of a vehicle, but the cars are no longer mechanical devices like they once were.  Now they are electronic machines.

My method of troubleshooting a problem of runnability is one consisting of two parts Google, one part replacement of car part, and 4 parts hope. It's a pretty lousy formula.  Up until now it hasn't helped me a whole lot.

One of the earliest items that I had suspected was the one I just replaced this weekend:  The camshaft position sensor.  Although it's just one of many sensors that make an engine run these days, everything I read about it on the internet told me that it would be highly unlikely to be the culprit.  Truth is, maybe it wasn't the culprit.  While I was replacing it, I also cleaned and sealed a few electrical connectors going to other various places under the hood.  Maybe it was one of those connectors.

I waited until now to drive it a couple more times to make sure, but the bottom line is, my car finally runs fantastic!

Now if I could just find out what makes it clunk so badly when I hit bumps...