Hardened Arteries USA

Just got back from visiting relatives in Jonesville, Virginia (motto: If you can fry it, you can eat it!). Boy, are my guts tired! The little woman and myself decided kind of last minute to head south to see my relatives on my father's side this past weekend. The weekend was kind of a perfect storm for artiosclorosis. We had my Uncle Tom's 86th birthday, Sandy's and my anniversary, Father's Day and Friday the 13th, not necessarily in that order. Jonesville is a small town tucked away in the southwestern tip of the great Commonwealth of Virginia in country as beautiful as it gets. It's a damn good thing, because there is very little else to do there but eat, look at the scenery and buy land.

We set out for Jonesville early Thursday morning and stopped somewhere in West Virginia to have a couple of burgers and french fries at Wendy's. This was the healthiest meal we had until the following Tuesday. The weekend for us essentially boiled down to the cholesterolic equivalent of staying home and sucking lard from a 50 gallon drum. But then again we would have missed the opportunity of visiting with some slightly eccentric relatives and it wouldn't have tasted nearly as good.

We decided to take the scenic route rather than fight the traffic on I 71 and 75 so we moseyed through towns with names out of a Faulkner novel. Pikeville, Big Stone Gap, Stickleyville, Pound and Wise all came and went under the humming tires of our little Civic. Taking this route is essentially the same as riding "The Beast" at King's Island, only MORE frightening. You climb straight up the face of several Appalachian mountains and then you plummet like a stone down the other side, and to make things interesting, your friendly, lunatic highway engineers gleefully threw about 800 "S" curves on the downhill slope so that you feel as though you are being tested for space travel and being pushed and tugged by more G force than Buzz Aldrin ever dreamed of! Throw in the odd deer or varmint venturing onto the roadway and well let's just put it this way. The old saying "There are no atheists in foxholes" can also include any vehicle traveling at breakneck speed down the side of a Kentucky mountain, twisting and curving until suddenly..."Oh look dear, someone put in a stop light! How #$%# thoughtful of them!" I kid you not. You can be traveling 75 miles an hour on a supposed freeway and BANG! There it is, a traffic light specifically programmed to make sure the vehicle traveling the fastest catches the red. My compliments to the brake makers at Honda!

The scenery was incredible and despite my best efforts to keep my eyes on the road, I couldn't resist an occaisional glance at the vast, beautiful expanse that lay before us and wonder "How is it the government hasn't figured out a way to totally screw up this beautiful landscape yet?" I'm sure it is not for lack of effort, I have faith in our leaders. We snaked our way through the mountains and foothills until at last we were there. Jonesville. A moniker obviously thought up by one of her more creative founding fathers. My Uncle Tom, who lives on the land that had been owned by my grandparents, was doing what he always does, what with all the cultural activities available in southwest Virginia, sitting in an easy chair on his front porch (now enclosed, the 21st century hits Jonesville) and waving to passing locals. He is now 86 years old and after having spent roughly 85 of those years working on granddad's farm, I guess he's entitled to take it easy these days. His days of retirement now consist of walking to the newish golf course about a mile up the "golf course road" and tending a small garden in which he raises corn, tomatoes, lettuce and several other obnoxious veggies that I can't remember. I use the term "raises" loosely as the actual soil composition in this area is approximately 1% actual dirt, 20% weeds and 99% layered rock whose only use is that it makes a dandy headstone. I know that adds up to more than 100% but, you get the idea.

When we got out of the Civic to greet my uncle, the heat hit us like a slap in the face. One of the topographical "advantages of this part of Virginia is that it lies in the middle of what is called the Cumberland Gap, and as I said previously, the countryside is magnificent. However, being in the "gap" essentially means the sun's ability to bake every living thing in sight is at its peak. It seems that the area is kind of like a huge bowl in an even larger microvwave oven. And, because any cool summer breezes that might have been headed to the area is cut off by the mountains on either side of the gap by about 10 minutes after dawn you could be forgiven for thinking you were in Death Valley. And of course, this year summer made its annual onslaught a little early to coincide with our arrival. How nice!

So, during daylight hours very little outdoor activity so the only thing left for anyone to do (at least at our age) is engage in activities in air conditioned places which in Jonesville meant eating. The following is a list of our culinary exploits:

Day One - Dinner at KFC - Buffet - All the deep fried tofurkey you can eat!

Day Two - This was Friday the 13th and also Uncle Tom's 86th birthday. This meant something special! Lunch at a place in Pennington Gap named Ruby's - deep fried fish, deep fried chicken fingers and deep fried Caeser salad for the health conscious. Dinner? We ate in at my Aunt Betty's house and cooked hamburgers and Nathan's hot dogs (with chili, of course) on the grill (Hey Junior, put another angioplasty on the barbie, mate)!

Day Three - Our 33rd anniversary (I think) so of course we had to pig out. We decided to drive to a town called Tazewell, Tennessee for lunch at the "Dew Drop Inn" and so my Aunt Faye, our host for the weekend, could visit a store called Hammer's which is essentially a Dollar Store only tackier. My aunt loves these places and so we browsed and then went up to a Lake Norris (also in Tennessee) to walk off our lunch of burgers and fries (which were excellent and I would highly recommend to anyone visiting Tazewell or just looking for the fast track to major heart surgery).

For dinner we drove to Middlesboro, Kentucky a major attraction for the local folk and went to a Chinese, all the MSG you can eat, buffet. I don't know what the hell all I ate, but again it was excellent. Evening exercise consisted of strolling around the mall and looking at all the extras from the movie "Deliverance."

Day Four - Deciding it was pointless to worry about cholesterol and fat now, we greeted the day with my Aunt Betty's homemade breakfast of... sausage gravy, George Jones sausage, scrambled eggs and low fat, low carb country biscuits. Just kidding about the biscuits, the only thing we ate on this trip that was low fat or low carb was a stick of peppermint gum, and I had my doubts about that! For dinner we had barbecued chicken, some potato salad and water melon. And because my wife saw it on Oprah, a doctor, who has since had his license revoked said everyone should preface their meals with a slice of whole wheat bread dipped in olive oil. Yeah, sure, that'll be a big help.

Day Five - Departure, we decided to take Uncle Tom to breakfast at his favorite breakfast spot, Hardee's for their sumptuous steak (chicken fried) on a biscuit. Now that's good eatin'! After we finished we drove Tom home after a stop at the only place on the face of the earth that sells a flour coating mix in case Sandy and I survived to have more fried food at home. The mix is called Runyan's and it is produced nowhere else that I know of, except Jonesville. It is to die for. I'd bread my Snicker's bars with it! Part of Uncle Tom's land consists of the family cemetary and he uses it as a landmark for out of towners by telling them that we need to turn at "the place where the dead people live." If you knew Uncle Tom this would make perfect sense.

Lest you believe Sandy and I did nothing but eat in Virginia you would be wrong. Barely. We did of course sit around and talk about the family and the bigger issues involving the world, gas prices, the war and the relative merits of the various area garage sales. To be fair we did exercise some each day. We hiked a nature trail that is part of an Indian War settlement park as the first hikers of the day (I decided to try and get some infra red photographs of the countryside and wanted early morning light) and I can tell you that being first we of course were confronted with the after effects of what must have been a spider convention. Evidently, during the night a favorite arachnid pastime is making webs and stretching them across the paths of hiking trails to enjoy what must be the hysterical (for the spiders) of some moron stumbling along clawing mysteriously at the air in front of him for some unknown reason. But the spider's know the reason. The had spent the previous night engaged in a contest of "let's see how many billions of webs we can build by daylight!" Ha Ha, who would have known those creepy, ugly and disgusting creatures could have devised such a devilish prank. So, with the walk, the flailing wildly in a vain attempt to clear the path of webs and the constant wiping of webs from everywhere on my body, I had quite a workout. Sandy, who normally takes a walk like a maniac, had sensibly and much to her mirthful satisfaction enjoyed walking behind me for once. I would have asked her to walk ahead for awhile but of course, with her being well over four feet tall, I would have still ended up with several mouthfuls of webbing. I think I've seen my last Spiderman flick!

Another workout consisted of a trek up the side of small mountain across the road from my Aunt Betty's to get a different view of the landscape. I think the mountain is named Everest or something like that. When coupled with humidity of around 3,000% and temps in the 90's you can imagine what great fun the family had. The excuse for making this hike, was ostensibly to take a look at a piece of property that my Aunt Faye was thinking of buying, which is her favorite pastime next to buying anything that isn't nailed down at any available dollar store. She owns several acres of land in different places scattered throughout Lee County, Virginia, for no apparent reason. I must say, that the hike was worth it, not only in terms of the tonnage loss from the workout, but for the unbelievable view of the Cumberland Gap that we beaten over the head with, when we reached the top. OK, halfway to the top. OK, OK, maybe a quarter of the way to the top. Sheeesh. Pick, pick pick. I've posted a picture of the view at the top of this post but it absolutely does not do it justice.

If weren't for the fact that in summer you might as well live in a furnace, that in a matter of days your arterial system would look like an ad for the Portland Cement Company and that the nearest medical facility is in Minneapolis, I think I might like living there.

Well, I better get going, I want to beat Sandy to that unopened can of Crisco in kitchen.

Love

Dad

How to Destroy a Friendship in One Easy Lesson or Off With Their Steering Wheels

This post is a direct order from another of the many people that totally control my life. My daughter threatened to boycott my blog if I didn't tell you the story of the magic disappearing car from my days in the service. It is the story of the American male. Of friendship, betrayal, love, lust (well, OK no love and definitely no lust), danger, intrigue and finally tragedy. It is a story, like so many otheres, with heroes and villains, saints and sinners, and very nearly, Smith and Wesson. Our story takes place in 1971 on the war torn shores of Pensacola, Florida, motto "If the navy ever leaves we're screwed." 1971 was a year of golden memories. I wish I could remember them. Well, I can remember just enough to do some real damage.

In an earlier post (the last one, I believe) I mentioned in the early 1970's I found myself in the U. S. Marine Corps, and true to the long line of patriotic military men in my family I volunteered for the service. When I signed up my recruiter promised excitement, travel, great career training and a uniform guaranteed to melt the bloomers off any mid-western lass of my choosing. I of course, recieved none of it, and, were it not for the fact that my number in the draft was 35, I might have complained to someone.

After nine fun-filled, leisurely weeks at the Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Resort and Spa, I learned that I had been chosen for "special" training. We learned all of this in one of our final meetings in the barracks with the DI's who told everyone what their Marine jobs would be. I was assigned to something called the Naval Security Group, with training to be held at the Naval Communications Training Center (NCTC, pronounced "nitsy titsy" by the Mensa candidates in our platoon). The other 75 privates got "surprise" the infantry, or grunt duty. I was also told I would need a security clearance which consisted of a thorough, detailed and expensive FBI investigation of my past to make sure I wasn't a commie or "gook sympathizer" according to my DI. I found out later that the investigation consisted of a couple of Lake County agents (imagine the agent's excitement at that duty) going around and asking several of my neighbors what kind of person I was. Thankfully they all lied and I got in. I don't shoot a rifle well.

My DI wasn't too sure, but he figured that I was going to become an investigator for the Navy and would come back and investigate him for abusing privates (in a nice way, I mean) and with that the DI laughed and then the rest of us realized we could laugh too. That DI, what a great kidder. Actually it turned out it was a job in communications and cryptology and fortunately for me, it meant not going to 'Nam.

Anyway, back to our real story. I arrived at the base in Pensacola at the same time as some other privates who had gotten the same designation and had gone through boot camp the same time as I did, but in different platoons. I'm not sure why, but I became pretty good friends with a guy from "Bah-ston" after awhile and we took to going into town and partying on occaision at the places that tolerated military personnel. His name is Bob Duggan and he had another buddy from his own platoon at Parris Island he had gotten to know from the New England area named James Malgano, I believe it was. They had become pretty good buddies at boot camp and I knew virtually no one, so was happy to hang out with some of those guys. Bob and James got to be so close that they actually decided to split the cost of a car together, so that they would be better able to get around, as there was very little (by very little I mean none)in the way of public transportation.

They bought a great car. It was a cool looking, I would say 1964 or 65 yellow Chevy Nova with black racing stripes, jacked up rear end, four speed stick on the floor and a customized wood grain steering wheel. It also had black intereior and a custom 8 track stereo system. In short it was "one sweet ride."

I would say that the amiability of negotiations for scheduling use of the car lasted about 3 nanoseconds. And within days the two virtually despised each other, threatened physical violence and whose greetings in passing consisted solely of four letter words.

Then things got rough. In order to try and control the car and keep the other from driving it, they took to hiding various small but necessary components to the engine. Things like the distributor cap or the pistons would mysteriously vanish only to magically reappear when the culprit wanted the car. This was pretty common as our training consisted of working swing shifts at the communications center and Bob and James were on different shifts (Another good reason for getting the car together right? No conflicts).

One day Bob and I decided to get away from the Pensacola area, where the women treated military guys like most people treat lepers, only from a greater distance. We lit upon the bright idea of driving to Panama City, a small resort area maybe 100 miles down the road on the Florida panhandle. We decided to go that very weekend as we were both scheduled to have our 72 hours off work come up on that Friday. Now, when Friday arrived, I had to work later than Duggan and so he spent the time waiting for me, doing something constructive, like getting liquored up at the local nosepaint emporium. So he was in peak driving condition around 11:00 p.m. when we finally got together to set out for paradise. I, being the sober one for a change might have volunteered to drive, but these were different times. Things were a little more lax about DUIs and I was young, immortal and stupid. So when Bob told me he was able to drive, I felt like I was back in my mother's arms.

Now relations between Duggan and Molgano had, by this time, reached a level akin to the Arab-Israeli conflict, only more civil and when Bob and I got into the car that night, we breathed a sigh of relief as the mighty Chevrolet 4 cylinder purred to life when Bob turned the key in the ignition. Bob got her into reverse in a reasonable amount of time, turned to look out the rear window so he could back out and slowly inched backward turning the steering wheel to maneuver out of his parking spot. He had gone about 3 nano inches when the beautiful, wood grained, cusomized steering wheel came off of the column and into his left hand. Turning back to face the front, Bob stared uncomprehendingly at this foreign object that had materialized, now in both of his hands. Time froze, somewhere CSN&Y sang "Teach your children well...", I think it was the 8 track but couldn't be certain, as we both gaped at the now useless steering wheel clutched in Bob's hands. After what seemed an eternity, Bob's face drained of color, his rage visibly building, now squeezed the wheel in a death grip, until finally as the tension inside the car reached its zenith, certain events followed,which must have happened in a heartbeat, but seemed to evolve in slow motion at the time

An enraged Duggan, raised his right fist, preaparing to pound it on the dash. He slowly raised that fist, taking deliberate aim and screaming, "That (insert very bad word indeed) Molgano. And as he screamed he launched that fist toward the dashboard. Now, I think I mentioned earlier that Bob had spent the better part of the prior 3 or 4 hours constructively consuming as much of the local hooch as possible, with the consequent result that his descending fist completely missed the dash board, but squarely found the tape in the 8 track player and we both gaped anew as bits of plastic and strands of magnetic tape flew in a thousand directions inside the little yellow nova likes something out of a Sam Peckinpah movie.


Now it gets funny. As we sat there in now stunned silence, the realization that the lack of a steering wheel might make driving anywhere a tad tricky, I uttered the words that would become a portent of the mechanical and technical disasters that would plague me the rest of my adult life, when I said, hopefully "No wait, I can fix it...". Now remember... I'M the sober one!

Such is my mania to get away from the brutal boredom that is a military base in the early 1970's I began scheming. My hillbilly problem solving brain ,with smoke literally coming out of my ears from the strain, hit upon a solution brilliant in its simplicity. "I'll tie it back onto the steering column," I proudly announced.

By now, Duggan, who had been utterly drained by his explosion of rage and his gargantuan effort to take in the carnage that had once been his pride and joy, could only nod weakly as though this solution was not only obvious but sound. Such are the ravages of alcohol. At this point the plot ran into a small snag. What do I tie the steering wheel onto the column WITH? No problems, mate, I'll just use my handy dandy t-shirt. Yeah, that's the ticket. And so, after several trial and error attempts, I finally had the wheel tied to the three chrome spokes attached to the column, somewhat securely. By this time, Bob had changed to the passenger side and was passing the time in a coma. It was roughly 4:00 a.m. and still dark by the time we finally hit the road and set out for pristine, x only chromosome laden, civilian shores of Panama City.


All things considered, I would have to say the drive went pretty smoothly. For about 30 miles or so. I was driving east down a stretch of some road at about 50 mph when, SURPRISE, the steering wheel comes off the column into my hands. With cat like dexterity I immediately dropped the wheel into my lap, a strand of t-shirt still tied to the wheel on one end and the spoke of the column at the other. Normally I don't think this would have been a problem except, that because of the configuration of the Nova's interior and its accessories, the wheel became pinned between my legs, and no amount of struggling, cursing or pleading to God above could budge it. I am thinking that Mr. Duggan was still napping, but I'm not sure as I struggled with the wheel, feverishly tried to direct the car with my knees (no easy task I want to tell ya!) while trying to gauge my immediate topographical options. Fortunately, that particular stretch of Florida highway was relatively straight and though the car drifted to the right slightly, I was able, by some miracle or the grace of God to coast to a stop to the side of that highway. Thankfully there had been no traffic, oncoming or following, it being very early in the morning.

That is the last I remember of our attempt to reach Panama City, as the ravages of time and maybe a couple of beverages have erased any memory of getting back to base at Pensacola. We must have tied the wheel back in place or rigged it up somehow to get the Nova back. I know this because several days later, I had borrowed the car (Duggan and Molgano were fast losing interest in the magic disappearing Nova and gladly loaned me the keys) to go into town to see the newest Woody Allen movie "Play It Again, Sam". Whilst I was making a left turn across oncoming traffic, guess what? The steering wheel again came of in my hand, but this time since I had the wheel fully turned the left when it happened, the car essentially circled continuously in and out of traffic through a gas station back onto the road and back into the gas station before I could reach the brake. Having finally learned my lesson (you can only fool a marine four or five times) I parked the Nova in an adjacent lot and went to the movie.

I never saw the Nova again, or what was left of it, and that suited me just fine. It may still be sitting on some corner lot in Downtown Pensacola for all I know, and now being called "Retro Art". Maybe Bob remembers, I did copy him on the blog. Last I heard of Molgano, he was trying to become a republican lobbyist for General Motors.

I hope you're happy Melanie. You certainly have become quite sadistic since you took up "Roller Derby". Be careful out there don't skate over any land mines or anything.

Love
Dad

That's not a stain on my dress blues, Sarge, that's ART!

Hello again, friends and neighbors. Time once again for a venture into uncharted territory. The "war story". By war story, I mean noncombat war story, thank Christ!
"What did you do in the war, Daddy?"
"I don't want to talk about it! Well, OK, let me have another Stroh's and I'll tell you. You know son, I slogged it out, toe to toe with the commies of Cuba, in a little backwater hell hole called "GITMO."

Yes, I was on "The Rock" in the bleak, dark days when the only torture going down was the chow we Marines, in moments of desperation (the day before payday usually) were required to ingest lest we starve, which on second thought was probably a decent alternative. Being on what is technically known in geographic terms as an "island" and being restricted to about 2 square miles of that island, opportunities for entertainment in our off time were a tad limited. I mean, how many quarts of whiskey can one man ingest in 72 hours? Well, quite alot it turns out.

First, a history lesson on how America (motto "We never a met a third world country we couldn't kick the crap out of, at least not until 1953") obtained the base to begin with. In short, I wouldn't know, but I have heard it had something to do with Teddy Roosevelt rough riding a seniorita known San Juanita Hill after war had been declared following a suspicious explosion on the USS Maine which was attributed by American zealots to Cuban rebels, but which in fact had been caused by the accidental ignition of methane gas which accumulated in the sailors quarters following a night of Dos Equis and burrito supremes from the local Taco Bell. The resulting loss of life (apparently one dozen sea anemones gave up their ghosts) inspired the iconic American publicist, William Randolph Hearst, already in pique due to the kidnapping and conversion of his granddaughter to a notorious gang of Democrats, drummed up false charges against the Cubans as being the miscreants responsible for the Maine's destruction. Thank God we've never gone to war on trumped up charges since!

To make a long story a bit longer, the Americans whomped those little godless Cubans and at the surrender table the following exchange took place.

President McKinley "We want that port down there at Guantanamo Bay for a naval base. We'll sign a 99 year lease, with an option to renew, so nobody can say we took advantage."

Cuban Leader "Well, it has a lot of value for our country, it is the main trade route for our cigar and Cuban sandwich trade and losing it will cause massive poverty in the region, not to mention the humiliation of an occupying force on our mainland!"

President McKinley "OK, We'll give you a buck for it."

The rest, as they say, is history. The United States became the proud owners of a Cuban port which had all the military strategic value of tits on a boar. As it turned out, Gitmo ultimately became the U.S. version of being shipped "to the Russian front" for Germany, or "to Siberia" for the Soviet Union. As a matter of fact, quite ironically, this is how I came to find myself stationed there. I had managed in some way, which is of no interest to my wife and children, to get sentenced, I mean assigned to duty at Gitmo by my First Sergeant, a great guy by the name of Brewington, a man who loved me like his own child. Ah yes, "The Brew" as we all called him. Wonderful sense of humor and would do anything for you. Ask anyone, (except Bob Duggan or Keith Doughty) they'll tell you. He just had unusual ways of showing it.

So, in the summer of '72 I found myself living it up in that Caribbean paradise, having beverages, eating, having beverages, standing guard duty and having beverages. This was interrupted only by my exciting regular 8 hour shifts in the communications center on "John Paul Jones" hill typing airplane coordinates, which consisted of 12 digit numbers and transmitting them to various other bases around the world and to Washington for God knows why! I really wondered if there was any reason for us having this base especially when I started reading the messages we were sent from all the other bases which consisted of reams of pages with, surprise, 12 digit numbers that were the same airplane coordinates I had so painstakingly spent hour typing and sending out. I finally realized the whole point was just to piss off Castro. Not that we hold a grudge or anything.

Anyway, what made me think of all this was that I recently read somewhere (possibly the stall of a toilet on the Ohio turnpike) that the Cleveland Museum of Art was going to host an exhibit that consists of the armor of soldiers from the middle ages. And I thought to myself, holy crap, they're calling old army uniforms and gear, "ART." Does this mean that there is a chance that all of my Marine corps uniforms and gear might wind up in an art museum somewhere in 500 years? Does that turn your stomach like it does mine? Naw, couldn't happen. They would have to go with some soldiers that were a little more spit and polish than me. I mean, I had a hat (or "cover" in Marine parlance) that I wore every day for 2 solid years and that by the end of my time little parts of cardboard had started poking out of the brim from the rips. I think the helmet I had issued to me (Hey, you never know) had something like "F*&%$ Nixon" written on the inside liner. My boots hadn't seen actual shoe polish since boot camp, and the belt buckles, buttons, ribbons and other little trinkets we were supposed to put on our uniforms had essentially started to oxidize and were losing all the princples of what would qualify as actual metal.

No, I think the art museums of the future will probably go with stuff from the TV commercials, shiny and crisp and military. That would be my guess, but I wonder...I think I'm going to go see that exhibit after all. I heard they have a suit of armor that has "F*&%$ Henry VIII" and "Anne Boleyn is a slut" etched on the inside.

Love
Dad