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Horse Sense for you Greenhorns
Well, it has been a few days since I have had a clear enough mind to attempt another tall tale. Although I must point out that the stories I share with you are all 100% true.Our life has been so rich and full of experiences that most people either dream of or consider a nightmare.
Speaking of mares that is the word used in tobaccky chewin' tar spittin' person that usually bathes in the stock watering trough once a month needed or not, is usually scared to death around women, drinks cheep whiskey, and wouldn't know a real good balanced meal if it were set in front of him. But. he is a man that will ride his horse 20 or 30 miles a day and his average day is 16 or more hours. He rides in the rain and snow the wind when it blows and probably has a name for every animal in his care be it horse, cow, sheep, or dog. But his main interaction and best friend is his horse.
I told you that a female horse is a mare a male horse with his testicles intact is called a stud a castrated horse is called a gelding. The majority of riding horses used by cowboys and the educated rider is most likely a gelding as they are a gentler creature mainly because stud horses have only one thing on their mind. When they get around the company of a herd of horses there are only two things on a stud's mind. The first, as you can imagine, is to impregnate all the mares he can find. When he has serviced all the mares in the herd he proceeds to do the second favorite thing he likes to do. I have to interject that a stud horse is most generally a beautiful anima,l they don't walk anywhere, they strut. They usually have a beautiful long mane that looks like the flames of a fire as they run around the pasture with their nostrils continually flaring and snorting, straining to smell as much as he can, clearing his nose with the snort, and flaring his nostrils to draw in the maximum amount of air to sample the scents just in case he might have missed a mare in his eager charge through the herd on his first pass through. This is where he do his second favorite thing, bullying the geldings and I'm sure mocking them for their misfortune of loosing their balls and will never know the pleasures and nobility that the stud was fortunate enough to have some breeder that liked a train that he felt like passing along in his herd..
As you know, I am a horse whisperer and was long before it was fashionable. I had pasture with a small hill that the studs would congregate on, surveying their kingdom. Well, as I said, I speak horse. I was walking through my pasture one day and happened to walk up on the studs hill. There were some old studs and some young studs and I walked around laying a loving hand on each one as I would eavesdrop on their conversations. I was surprised when one of the young studs turned and faced a couple of the older good old boys. I was shocked to hear the young stud show his lack of experience as he said to the two older studs, "Why don't we run down there in the pasture and pleasure one of the mares?" I wasn't surprised when one of the old studs let out a little laugh as the other old stud in all of his wisdom addressed the youngster and quietly said, "I have a better idea. Let's just walk down there, save our energy, and pleasure every damn one of them." He let out a little snort, then he gave me a little nudge and a wink and started at a slow comfortable pace. He was followed by a couple of the youngsters hoping to learn some thing from the old man I figure.
Speaking of mares that is the word used in tobaccky chewin' tar spittin' person that usually bathes in the stock watering trough once a month needed or not, is usually scared to death around women, drinks cheep whiskey, and wouldn't know a real good balanced meal if it were set in front of him. But. he is a man that will ride his horse 20 or 30 miles a day and his average day is 16 or more hours. He rides in the rain and snow the wind when it blows and probably has a name for every animal in his care be it horse, cow, sheep, or dog. But his main interaction and best friend is his horse.
I told you that a female horse is a mare a male horse with his testicles intact is called a stud a castrated horse is called a gelding. The majority of riding horses used by cowboys and the educated rider is most likely a gelding as they are a gentler creature mainly because stud horses have only one thing on their mind. When they get around the company of a herd of horses there are only two things on a stud's mind. The first, as you can imagine, is to impregnate all the mares he can find. When he has serviced all the mares in the herd he proceeds to do the second favorite thing he likes to do. I have to interject that a stud horse is most generally a beautiful anima,l they don't walk anywhere, they strut. They usually have a beautiful long mane that looks like the flames of a fire as they run around the pasture with their nostrils continually flaring and snorting, straining to smell as much as he can, clearing his nose with the snort, and flaring his nostrils to draw in the maximum amount of air to sample the scents just in case he might have missed a mare in his eager charge through the herd on his first pass through. This is where he do his second favorite thing, bullying the geldings and I'm sure mocking them for their misfortune of loosing their balls and will never know the pleasures and nobility that the stud was fortunate enough to have some breeder that liked a train that he felt like passing along in his herd..
As you know, I am a horse whisperer and was long before it was fashionable. I had pasture with a small hill that the studs would congregate on, surveying their kingdom. Well, as I said, I speak horse. I was walking through my pasture one day and happened to walk up on the studs hill. There were some old studs and some young studs and I walked around laying a loving hand on each one as I would eavesdrop on their conversations. I was surprised when one of the young studs turned and faced a couple of the older good old boys. I was shocked to hear the young stud show his lack of experience as he said to the two older studs, "Why don't we run down there in the pasture and pleasure one of the mares?" I wasn't surprised when one of the old studs let out a little laugh as the other old stud in all of his wisdom addressed the youngster and quietly said, "I have a better idea. Let's just walk down there, save our energy, and pleasure every damn one of them." He let out a little snort, then he gave me a little nudge and a wink and started at a slow comfortable pace. He was followed by a couple of the youngsters hoping to learn some thing from the old man I figure.
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This is a test to see if the email subscribers are getting the posts
One Eye for the Wilderness
This story is meant to encompass one story. But it may end up in the embodiment of two.
When we lived in Fort Bridger and I worked for the forest service as a wilderness ranger, I would spend four months from about the 10th of June to around the beginning of October (I think that is about four months). I was blessed with a dream of living in the wilderness for an extended period of time. I did this for a couple of years. To me one of the greatest callings I could imagine was to be a steward of the wild lands, of the forest and all of Gods creatures whose home the forest was.
Now there are many people that are considered stewards of the land. Most people when they think of this, the foremost thought is the farmer. Little thought is ever given to those whose job it is to oversee, protect, and manage this nations forests and the wilderness land that these forests surround. My piece of the mountain was in the High Uinta Mountains in Northeastern Utah with a sliver located in Southwest Wyoming. The Uinta Mountains are very unique in that they are one of only two mountain ranges in the world whose geographical orientation is east to west. The other to hold this unusual distinction is the Himalayas. Both mountain ranges have story and lore of their greater connection to the Almighty. Here in this country we generally reference God, in the Himalayas I would imagine it would be Ala or Buddha, I'm not sure. I do know that when I found myself cradled in the arms of this mountain it was as though God himself was holding me, watching over me, protecting me and guiding me.
During this period of time, the four months each year that is, my wonderful wife was the sole support of my expedition. She would bring me supples, news of the world, affection, and reminding me just how much love there was in this world. I would take some seasoned horses and mules and a couple of youngsters that were still a little green to teach them the ways of the mountain. I would teach them how to survive, how to appreciate, and how to be a good steed.
I had one old man named "Balley" - he was twenty five, twenty six or twenty seven. He himself in many of our conversations expressed that he wasn't exactly sure himself just how old he was. But possessing the vanity of a woman he continually tried to convince me he was twenty five or less. He had the stamina and was oh so smart. We could ride the trails at night, pitch dark, sometimes without even starlight. He would see to it that he and I and any of the other of the group that were with us safely made our destination. He was always the first to greet me whether I had my oat bag with me or not. I always carried a green army bag that held about ten pounds of grain. When you work animals at high altitudes and cover up to twenty five miles each day the grasses and the flowers need to be supplemented with higher protein grain, to maintain their health. I thought that this was possibly Balley's last year that he would be on the mountain, as his age and arthritis was also complicated by some diminishing eye sight was the reason that I took Balley to the mountain that year and chose him as my full time lead mount fully expecting that his years would possibly catch up with him. Like myself I know he would have preferred to depart this earth from the top of the mountain closer to God.
One weekend my wife came to bring me supples and we decided to drive the thirty five miles to civilization where I could spend a night with a fine meal from a restaurant and a much needed long hot shower and to sleep on a real bed. The forest service had build some beautiful accommodations at the trail head in the form of corrals. These were large corrals and were put there for the large compliment of horsemen that enjoyed this part of the mountain. It had an outhouse of the finest concrete construction, and was actually a unisex two holer, supplied with real toilet paper, even though of the cheapest quality and caliber that the governments lowest bidder could acquire. It was so bad that I think whoever made it even sold it to the Chinese.
Feeling comfortable in leaving Balley in this corral and my other five animals safely longlined in one of the high mountain meadows, my wife and I made the trip to Lyman. We enjoyed a fine restaurant meal, a long hot shower, and all of the comforts of a real bed. The next day after picking up a few supples we headed back to the mountain. Anxious to make sure someone had not stolen my horse overnight. The sight that we beheld when we reached the trailhead and the corrals that were made to keep our horses safe I would much rather that someone would have stolen Balley. Instead we found that one of these alcohol crazed bow hunters that dressed in camouflage clothes from head to toe, wrapped their bows with camouflage tape, painted their Jeep with camouflage colors, and even used foam rubber camouflage covers to keep their beer cold as they rode around on the hood of the Jeep stealthfully hunting their prey, had instead of using their prowess on legitimate quarry had used my horse Balley for target practice. They had shot an arrow into his eye. Not one of these rubber tipped arrows, but a four bladed razor sharp tipped hunting arrow. This ripped my heart out. I not only wept as if I were a child, but I wailed as a parent who had lost one of their children., as I truly had.
I made arrangements to have Balley taken back down to Fort Bridger to our local vet who explained that the damage was far beyond the eye. It involved sinuses and some of his brain, leaving no alternative but to euphonious this noble steed. I penned a letter to the local newspaper hoping that someone had witnessed this cruel and vicious act, in hopes that I could extract the vengeance that was in my heart. No one came forth. I titled my letter to the editor of the newspaper, the same as the title of this blog, "One Eye For the Wilderness". I then had to make some telephone calls to as far away as Casper and Gillette to people with horses of quality, as I needed to replace my lead animal with one with as close to equal qualities as Balley had. This was in 1984, in July, who knows maybe one of you out there now reading this blog has some information about the despicable coward that destroyed such a noble creature.
There is a follow up story that I will write that will tie into this story. When I do write it you will recognize that it is part 2 and involves buying a horse unseen over the telephone, transporting him 500 miles, and a wheelbarrow. And I know I've said it before, but that's another story
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
When we lived in Fort Bridger and I worked for the forest service as a wilderness ranger, I would spend four months from about the 10th of June to around the beginning of October (I think that is about four months). I was blessed with a dream of living in the wilderness for an extended period of time. I did this for a couple of years. To me one of the greatest callings I could imagine was to be a steward of the wild lands, of the forest and all of Gods creatures whose home the forest was.
Now there are many people that are considered stewards of the land. Most people when they think of this, the foremost thought is the farmer. Little thought is ever given to those whose job it is to oversee, protect, and manage this nations forests and the wilderness land that these forests surround. My piece of the mountain was in the High Uinta Mountains in Northeastern Utah with a sliver located in Southwest Wyoming. The Uinta Mountains are very unique in that they are one of only two mountain ranges in the world whose geographical orientation is east to west. The other to hold this unusual distinction is the Himalayas. Both mountain ranges have story and lore of their greater connection to the Almighty. Here in this country we generally reference God, in the Himalayas I would imagine it would be Ala or Buddha, I'm not sure. I do know that when I found myself cradled in the arms of this mountain it was as though God himself was holding me, watching over me, protecting me and guiding me.
During this period of time, the four months each year that is, my wonderful wife was the sole support of my expedition. She would bring me supples, news of the world, affection, and reminding me just how much love there was in this world. I would take some seasoned horses and mules and a couple of youngsters that were still a little green to teach them the ways of the mountain. I would teach them how to survive, how to appreciate, and how to be a good steed.
I had one old man named "Balley" - he was twenty five, twenty six or twenty seven. He himself in many of our conversations expressed that he wasn't exactly sure himself just how old he was. But possessing the vanity of a woman he continually tried to convince me he was twenty five or less. He had the stamina and was oh so smart. We could ride the trails at night, pitch dark, sometimes without even starlight. He would see to it that he and I and any of the other of the group that were with us safely made our destination. He was always the first to greet me whether I had my oat bag with me or not. I always carried a green army bag that held about ten pounds of grain. When you work animals at high altitudes and cover up to twenty five miles each day the grasses and the flowers need to be supplemented with higher protein grain, to maintain their health. I thought that this was possibly Balley's last year that he would be on the mountain, as his age and arthritis was also complicated by some diminishing eye sight was the reason that I took Balley to the mountain that year and chose him as my full time lead mount fully expecting that his years would possibly catch up with him. Like myself I know he would have preferred to depart this earth from the top of the mountain closer to God.
One weekend my wife came to bring me supples and we decided to drive the thirty five miles to civilization where I could spend a night with a fine meal from a restaurant and a much needed long hot shower and to sleep on a real bed. The forest service had build some beautiful accommodations at the trail head in the form of corrals. These were large corrals and were put there for the large compliment of horsemen that enjoyed this part of the mountain. It had an outhouse of the finest concrete construction, and was actually a unisex two holer, supplied with real toilet paper, even though of the cheapest quality and caliber that the governments lowest bidder could acquire. It was so bad that I think whoever made it even sold it to the Chinese.
Feeling comfortable in leaving Balley in this corral and my other five animals safely longlined in one of the high mountain meadows, my wife and I made the trip to Lyman. We enjoyed a fine restaurant meal, a long hot shower, and all of the comforts of a real bed. The next day after picking up a few supples we headed back to the mountain. Anxious to make sure someone had not stolen my horse overnight. The sight that we beheld when we reached the trailhead and the corrals that were made to keep our horses safe I would much rather that someone would have stolen Balley. Instead we found that one of these alcohol crazed bow hunters that dressed in camouflage clothes from head to toe, wrapped their bows with camouflage tape, painted their Jeep with camouflage colors, and even used foam rubber camouflage covers to keep their beer cold as they rode around on the hood of the Jeep stealthfully hunting their prey, had instead of using their prowess on legitimate quarry had used my horse Balley for target practice. They had shot an arrow into his eye. Not one of these rubber tipped arrows, but a four bladed razor sharp tipped hunting arrow. This ripped my heart out. I not only wept as if I were a child, but I wailed as a parent who had lost one of their children., as I truly had.
I made arrangements to have Balley taken back down to Fort Bridger to our local vet who explained that the damage was far beyond the eye. It involved sinuses and some of his brain, leaving no alternative but to euphonious this noble steed. I penned a letter to the local newspaper hoping that someone had witnessed this cruel and vicious act, in hopes that I could extract the vengeance that was in my heart. No one came forth. I titled my letter to the editor of the newspaper, the same as the title of this blog, "One Eye For the Wilderness". I then had to make some telephone calls to as far away as Casper and Gillette to people with horses of quality, as I needed to replace my lead animal with one with as close to equal qualities as Balley had. This was in 1984, in July, who knows maybe one of you out there now reading this blog has some information about the despicable coward that destroyed such a noble creature.
There is a follow up story that I will write that will tie into this story. When I do write it you will recognize that it is part 2 and involves buying a horse unseen over the telephone, transporting him 500 miles, and a wheelbarrow. And I know I've said it before, but that's another story
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
I took a nap at Dead Mans Pass
Sorry for my absence. And I don't know how long I am back for, but we'll give it a try. Seems like some of you liked some of the stories of things that have happened in my life. As those of you that have been following know, I drove truck for much of my life. I used to drive the Northwest, Salt Lake to Portland, Seattle, Tacoma, two to three times a week. There were lots of other drivers driving for other companies that did the same thing. There was always freight flowing from Denver to the Northwest. We would talk to each other on the CB Radio swapping stories, lies, and fantasies (and the occasional truth). And as you might realize we became familiar with each other, at least over the radio. Some of us knew each other a little better than others.
A lot of us were grain haulers. We would haul 48,000 pounds of USDA #1 grain to Portland or the Port of Tacoma, or Seattle. Some was unloaded at Cargill where it would be turned into flour to make bread. Much of it however was shipped in large bulk carrying seagoing ships and sent to China and other countries around the world. Sometimes the lines of trucks at places like Cargill would be two or three hundred trucks long. They were only equipped to handle less than the amount of truck that were waiting in line. There was one time that we waited in line for six days at Cargill. By the time the six days were over there were better than 3000 trucks waiting to be unloaded. This was due to a slowdown protest by the workers at all the grain shipping concerns to protest the Russian grain deal of 1976. Needless to say this gave us plenty of time to visit and become more familiar with each other face to face.
There were some enterprising truck drivers that would move our trucks forward in line to the grain dump pit which on an average day would dump between 400 and 500 trucks. Who would now dump only 5 or 10 trucks a day. These enterprising drivers would move our trucks up for a small stipend while we went and stayed at motels or for the few of us that ran this route regularly and had a girlfriend that lived in the area where we could stay. Now the last part about the grain slowdown I just threw in because I though you would find it interesting how commerce works.
A lot of us drivers, of course we went by different what we called CB Handles, mine was Tumbleweed. There was One Eyed Jack and many other names you can't even imagine. I had one friend that ran the same route that went by the handle, Utah Sparkie. Half the time we would be going the same direction at the same time and we would stop for fuel and food and coffee and visit. Sometimes we would be talking to each other as long as we could while one would be going one way and one would be going the other way until we were out of radio range. On one particular trip Sparkie and I had been going up and down from Salt Lake to Portland for about five years, talking on the radio, sharing meals, swapping stories and lies was dispatched out of Salt Lake a few hours after me. We both knew each others schedule this trip and figured we would run into Portland together. This gave us both a better chance of getting dispatched from the same place. Whether it was hauling paint or molding and trim or even bombs. So we made a pre arrangement that I would stop at the rest area at Dead Mans Pass. This was a hill that the truckers call "Cabbage". It is the steepest and longest grade hill in the state of Oregon, and has the only two truck runaway ramps in the state. These runaway ramps consist of pits of gravel four or five hundred feet long with around six to ten feet of gravel filling them. The object is if a truck looses its breaks going down this steep hill he could turn off onto the escape ramp, which of course would mean that it would rip every axle, fuel tanks, and anything lower than the frame off of the vehicle. It would however stop the vehicle from going down the hill and possible killing someone. The only trouble with these were should a driver opt to make use of this truck escape ramp, it not only tore off the front axles, it would propel the driver through the front windshield of the truck, proving fatal to the driver.
Cabbage got its name of "Cabbage" because the first drivers killed on this hill were hauling a truckload of cabbage. It was given the actual name of "Dead Mans Pass" by the pioneers, as it was a major part of the Oregon trail. Many a wagon ran away and killed horses, mules, and human occupants. This pass sits just before Pendleton Oregon on Interstate 80. From the top of the pass to the flat highway at Pendleton the total downhill of this 8% grade which by highway standards is STEEP, very STEEP. However, they had built a beautiful rest stop right at the top of Dead Mans Pass. It even had a crossover tunnel so that a semi truck could cross the highway parking on the other side. Either side was capable of parking about 30 to 40 trucks as well as the same number of automobiles.
As I mentioned, this friend I was waiting for was called, "Utah Sparkie". He and I had, at least for four or five years, had run the road together two or three round trips weekly, Salt Lake to Portland or Seattle. It was common for drivers to pull into the rest area and slump over the steering wheel and take a nap for an hour or two. This would refresh the driver and also put us into our destination at the time we should be arriving. I did my part of pulling into the rest area, parking my truck, grabbing my pillow, and laying it over the steering wheel and started to take a nap. We would always leave our engines running, especially during the cold weather. In the summer they kept our air conditioning going. I found myself in dreamland, having a peaceful nap when I was awakened by the blaring of the horn of another diesel truck. Not just a toot toot, but a frantic long blast as if it were saying, "get out of my way!" Snapping out of my dream I looked up and saw a semi coming straight at me with his horn honking. I thought I had fallen asleep at the wheel and crossed into oncoming traffic as his truck was moving forward toward me. Being still half asleep I wasn't able to judge the speed, only detected that there was motion and the motion was that truck coning straight toward me with his horn blaring. At this time my survival instincts took over and I knew that there was no way to survive this head on accident. Although I did not have on a parachute, I threw open my door and leaped as though diving out of an airplane to try to get as far away from the wreck as possible.
I hit the ground with a sickening thud and felt every inch of my body feeling as if it were crushed. Finding that I was still alive I brought myself to an upright position as best I could with a broken arm to see how bad the wreck really was. To my surprise all I saw was Utah Sparkie running towards me, laughing his head off, to help me up off of the ground. It was only then that I noticed that his semi was parked facing mine with our bumpers nearly touching. He thought it would be funny to come rolling towards me blasting his horn to wake my up, just as a prank. We were still friends. And Sparkie happened to have his brother with him that trip who was generous enough to drive my truck the rest of the way to Portland and drop me and my truck off at the Portland General Hospital where their able staff used their expertise to set and cast my broken arm. And to clean the asphalt, dirt and gravel out of my head, face, hands, and my knees. After that incident I still used that rest area to catch a nap. I just made sure to park my truck so that there was not room for another truck in front of me. And I never asked Sparkie or anyone else to stir me from a nap.
I have other stories of driving the Northwest including losing my breaks on Cabbage Pass and hitting the bottom of the hill at a hundred and twenty six miles per hour according to the highway patrolman who was hiding in the drive-in theater at the bottom of the hill using his radar to catch trucks exceeding the twenty mile per hour truck speed limit on that mountain. But then again, that's another story.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
A lot of us were grain haulers. We would haul 48,000 pounds of USDA #1 grain to Portland or the Port of Tacoma, or Seattle. Some was unloaded at Cargill where it would be turned into flour to make bread. Much of it however was shipped in large bulk carrying seagoing ships and sent to China and other countries around the world. Sometimes the lines of trucks at places like Cargill would be two or three hundred trucks long. They were only equipped to handle less than the amount of truck that were waiting in line. There was one time that we waited in line for six days at Cargill. By the time the six days were over there were better than 3000 trucks waiting to be unloaded. This was due to a slowdown protest by the workers at all the grain shipping concerns to protest the Russian grain deal of 1976. Needless to say this gave us plenty of time to visit and become more familiar with each other face to face.
There were some enterprising truck drivers that would move our trucks forward in line to the grain dump pit which on an average day would dump between 400 and 500 trucks. Who would now dump only 5 or 10 trucks a day. These enterprising drivers would move our trucks up for a small stipend while we went and stayed at motels or for the few of us that ran this route regularly and had a girlfriend that lived in the area where we could stay. Now the last part about the grain slowdown I just threw in because I though you would find it interesting how commerce works.
A lot of us drivers, of course we went by different what we called CB Handles, mine was Tumbleweed. There was One Eyed Jack and many other names you can't even imagine. I had one friend that ran the same route that went by the handle, Utah Sparkie. Half the time we would be going the same direction at the same time and we would stop for fuel and food and coffee and visit. Sometimes we would be talking to each other as long as we could while one would be going one way and one would be going the other way until we were out of radio range. On one particular trip Sparkie and I had been going up and down from Salt Lake to Portland for about five years, talking on the radio, sharing meals, swapping stories and lies was dispatched out of Salt Lake a few hours after me. We both knew each others schedule this trip and figured we would run into Portland together. This gave us both a better chance of getting dispatched from the same place. Whether it was hauling paint or molding and trim or even bombs. So we made a pre arrangement that I would stop at the rest area at Dead Mans Pass. This was a hill that the truckers call "Cabbage". It is the steepest and longest grade hill in the state of Oregon, and has the only two truck runaway ramps in the state. These runaway ramps consist of pits of gravel four or five hundred feet long with around six to ten feet of gravel filling them. The object is if a truck looses its breaks going down this steep hill he could turn off onto the escape ramp, which of course would mean that it would rip every axle, fuel tanks, and anything lower than the frame off of the vehicle. It would however stop the vehicle from going down the hill and possible killing someone. The only trouble with these were should a driver opt to make use of this truck escape ramp, it not only tore off the front axles, it would propel the driver through the front windshield of the truck, proving fatal to the driver.
Cabbage got its name of "Cabbage" because the first drivers killed on this hill were hauling a truckload of cabbage. It was given the actual name of "Dead Mans Pass" by the pioneers, as it was a major part of the Oregon trail. Many a wagon ran away and killed horses, mules, and human occupants. This pass sits just before Pendleton Oregon on Interstate 80. From the top of the pass to the flat highway at Pendleton the total downhill of this 8% grade which by highway standards is STEEP, very STEEP. However, they had built a beautiful rest stop right at the top of Dead Mans Pass. It even had a crossover tunnel so that a semi truck could cross the highway parking on the other side. Either side was capable of parking about 30 to 40 trucks as well as the same number of automobiles.
As I mentioned, this friend I was waiting for was called, "Utah Sparkie". He and I had, at least for four or five years, had run the road together two or three round trips weekly, Salt Lake to Portland or Seattle. It was common for drivers to pull into the rest area and slump over the steering wheel and take a nap for an hour or two. This would refresh the driver and also put us into our destination at the time we should be arriving. I did my part of pulling into the rest area, parking my truck, grabbing my pillow, and laying it over the steering wheel and started to take a nap. We would always leave our engines running, especially during the cold weather. In the summer they kept our air conditioning going. I found myself in dreamland, having a peaceful nap when I was awakened by the blaring of the horn of another diesel truck. Not just a toot toot, but a frantic long blast as if it were saying, "get out of my way!" Snapping out of my dream I looked up and saw a semi coming straight at me with his horn honking. I thought I had fallen asleep at the wheel and crossed into oncoming traffic as his truck was moving forward toward me. Being still half asleep I wasn't able to judge the speed, only detected that there was motion and the motion was that truck coning straight toward me with his horn blaring. At this time my survival instincts took over and I knew that there was no way to survive this head on accident. Although I did not have on a parachute, I threw open my door and leaped as though diving out of an airplane to try to get as far away from the wreck as possible.
I hit the ground with a sickening thud and felt every inch of my body feeling as if it were crushed. Finding that I was still alive I brought myself to an upright position as best I could with a broken arm to see how bad the wreck really was. To my surprise all I saw was Utah Sparkie running towards me, laughing his head off, to help me up off of the ground. It was only then that I noticed that his semi was parked facing mine with our bumpers nearly touching. He thought it would be funny to come rolling towards me blasting his horn to wake my up, just as a prank. We were still friends. And Sparkie happened to have his brother with him that trip who was generous enough to drive my truck the rest of the way to Portland and drop me and my truck off at the Portland General Hospital where their able staff used their expertise to set and cast my broken arm. And to clean the asphalt, dirt and gravel out of my head, face, hands, and my knees. After that incident I still used that rest area to catch a nap. I just made sure to park my truck so that there was not room for another truck in front of me. And I never asked Sparkie or anyone else to stir me from a nap.
I have other stories of driving the Northwest including losing my breaks on Cabbage Pass and hitting the bottom of the hill at a hundred and twenty six miles per hour according to the highway patrolman who was hiding in the drive-in theater at the bottom of the hill using his radar to catch trucks exceeding the twenty mile per hour truck speed limit on that mountain. But then again, that's another story.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
Hook line and sinker
I try to stay away from the negative parts of my illness. I have such a cornucopia of terminal diseases, so I have accepted that I have just one disease. I am dying. That's about as bad a disease as you can get. I have pulmonary emphysema, pulmonary fibrosis, pulmonary hypertension (this is not to be mistaken for regular hypertension which is high blood pressure, but I have that too). It is excessively high blood pressure in the circulatory system of the lungs. You know, all the rivers and tributaries. I also have congestive heart failure. To me this is one of the most enigmatic of all the illnesses. It is from having too much blood, too much liquid in my body. It ends up causing the right side of the heart to grow and expand, and to grow and to expand, until it expands so far that it is so thin a membrane that it bursts. You'd think with all these different diseases I could pick one of them to really worry about.
Just last night when I had to go to the VA hospital to pick up some medication that I realized that the worst disease I have is I am an addict. I am a drug addict. I take a total of nineteen pills a day. Some of these pills are potent pills to combat the pain that everything in my lungs and my heart create. I can't understand how the people that are out there that use these potent drugs for recreation can keep on using them. I myself get no type of buzz or intoxication or hallucination, they just mean that I have to take six more pills every day - four stool softeners, and two laxatives.Without which the medications turn your **** to concrete. When you are lucky enough to have a bowel movement it gives me a pretty good working knowledge of what it would be like to be a turtle giving birth to a hippo. So, I have become addicted to laxatives, which makes me a junkie.
The reason for our impromptu visit to the VA last night was to get a refill of some of my pain medication. After having spent two days in semi-agony, being both cold and hot at the same time. Freezing yet drenched with sweat from head to toe. As well as having every muscle in my body ache and burn and cry out. I cannot for the life of me understand how people can do this to themselves and enjoy it. How they can recreate on something that ends up costing them their savings, their paycheck, their wife's wedding ring, family car, the family home, and eventually the whole family. These are the same drugs that are in most home medicine cabinets. This is where the epidemic of drug addiction is coming from. Our children take one or two of our pills and maybe one or two more a little later. Usually the legitimate prescribe doesn't miss them because they are already addicted themselves and not completely in touch with reality. Some can tell you right down to the dust in the bottom of the bottle how many pills they have. But most are oblivious to everything except trying to find another doctor to get a prescription from. This is called doctor shopping. Pretty soon some people have a half dozen or even a dozen different doctors prescribing them highly potent pain killers or weight loss pills. There is even a group of addicts that are hooked on Ritalin, you know this is the pill that the upper crust feel their children are just not part of the "in" crowd unless they too can complain of their child's ADD. Or the teachers, which is really the worst, suggest that the child has a problem and that ADD medication will put their feet back on the ground and allow them to return to the main stream of students. When in fact the child being hooked on the Ritalin makes them more like sheep and easier for the teachers to manage and ignore their real responsibility of educating them.
It doesn't matter what the center of the addiction is. A junkie is a junkie and I have finally accepted that I am a junkie. If I am not careful these danm pills will be the death of me. I called my doctor yesterday to tell him I was out of pills and he said that was not good. I could die from not taking my pills. I could go into sweats, seizures, and just basically feel very ill. I believe he called it withdrawal. He certainly didn't want me experiencing withdrawal. Now, don't get me wrong. I appreciate everything my doctors do for me. I realize them making a junkie out of me was not done so they could get rich. After all it only costs me $8 for a prescription, so I know they aren't doing it for the money. They must be doing it for my well being. I do know that without my medications I would be a lot sicker, and would probably die. So next time you see a junkie have a little pity upon their broken soul. They may not be that way because they wanted to. But to quote the information that comes with each prescription that I get, they probably get the same disclaimer that says, " your doctor has determined that any bad effects associated with this medication appear to be outweighed by the good that they will do." Even though one of the side effects can be death or worse, i.e., dizziness, rash, and possibly constipation. What I would suggest is that you go through your medicine cabinet very carefully and remove any dangerous or potentially harmful drugs that may be in there and relocate them to a new place keeping track of the quantity which will let you know when the quantity starts changing that your junkie found your new hiding place. More children are addicted to prescription medicines than to any of the illicit drugs available on the street. I don't have to worry about my addiction as my doctors assure me I will die long before I really get hooked.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
Just last night when I had to go to the VA hospital to pick up some medication that I realized that the worst disease I have is I am an addict. I am a drug addict. I take a total of nineteen pills a day. Some of these pills are potent pills to combat the pain that everything in my lungs and my heart create. I can't understand how the people that are out there that use these potent drugs for recreation can keep on using them. I myself get no type of buzz or intoxication or hallucination, they just mean that I have to take six more pills every day - four stool softeners, and two laxatives.Without which the medications turn your **** to concrete. When you are lucky enough to have a bowel movement it gives me a pretty good working knowledge of what it would be like to be a turtle giving birth to a hippo. So, I have become addicted to laxatives, which makes me a junkie.
The reason for our impromptu visit to the VA last night was to get a refill of some of my pain medication. After having spent two days in semi-agony, being both cold and hot at the same time. Freezing yet drenched with sweat from head to toe. As well as having every muscle in my body ache and burn and cry out. I cannot for the life of me understand how people can do this to themselves and enjoy it. How they can recreate on something that ends up costing them their savings, their paycheck, their wife's wedding ring, family car, the family home, and eventually the whole family. These are the same drugs that are in most home medicine cabinets. This is where the epidemic of drug addiction is coming from. Our children take one or two of our pills and maybe one or two more a little later. Usually the legitimate prescribe doesn't miss them because they are already addicted themselves and not completely in touch with reality. Some can tell you right down to the dust in the bottom of the bottle how many pills they have. But most are oblivious to everything except trying to find another doctor to get a prescription from. This is called doctor shopping. Pretty soon some people have a half dozen or even a dozen different doctors prescribing them highly potent pain killers or weight loss pills. There is even a group of addicts that are hooked on Ritalin, you know this is the pill that the upper crust feel their children are just not part of the "in" crowd unless they too can complain of their child's ADD. Or the teachers, which is really the worst, suggest that the child has a problem and that ADD medication will put their feet back on the ground and allow them to return to the main stream of students. When in fact the child being hooked on the Ritalin makes them more like sheep and easier for the teachers to manage and ignore their real responsibility of educating them.
It doesn't matter what the center of the addiction is. A junkie is a junkie and I have finally accepted that I am a junkie. If I am not careful these danm pills will be the death of me. I called my doctor yesterday to tell him I was out of pills and he said that was not good. I could die from not taking my pills. I could go into sweats, seizures, and just basically feel very ill. I believe he called it withdrawal. He certainly didn't want me experiencing withdrawal. Now, don't get me wrong. I appreciate everything my doctors do for me. I realize them making a junkie out of me was not done so they could get rich. After all it only costs me $8 for a prescription, so I know they aren't doing it for the money. They must be doing it for my well being. I do know that without my medications I would be a lot sicker, and would probably die. So next time you see a junkie have a little pity upon their broken soul. They may not be that way because they wanted to. But to quote the information that comes with each prescription that I get, they probably get the same disclaimer that says, " your doctor has determined that any bad effects associated with this medication appear to be outweighed by the good that they will do." Even though one of the side effects can be death or worse, i.e., dizziness, rash, and possibly constipation. What I would suggest is that you go through your medicine cabinet very carefully and remove any dangerous or potentially harmful drugs that may be in there and relocate them to a new place keeping track of the quantity which will let you know when the quantity starts changing that your junkie found your new hiding place. More children are addicted to prescription medicines than to any of the illicit drugs available on the street. I don't have to worry about my addiction as my doctors assure me I will die long before I really get hooked.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
With my eyes half open
I know I haven't been writing lately. I haven't been feeling well. I guess I have just been feeling sorry for myself. Ah what the hell - we all get feeling badly, especially during winter's cold. It really makes me feel fortunate that I have someone warm to hold. I think of all of those out there who don't have anyone that cares. It's not hard to find some love it's all around us. All we have to do is open our heart, our eyes and our mind. And we can see the beauty that surrounds us.
I never felt this way all my life. I saw a lot of the darkness. First growing up poor, then off to war, and come home to become a policeman. Went through two wives, a couple of flings, but nothing until I opened my eyes. The only thing I can think of now that my life gets closer to the end, is my wonderful wife who shares my life and is all that is on my mind. I am still not feeling very well so my entries will probably be sporadic. But I'll come around from the dusty cellar and in my minds eye attic and see if I can find some more stories to tell of having fun and raising hell.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
I never felt this way all my life. I saw a lot of the darkness. First growing up poor, then off to war, and come home to become a policeman. Went through two wives, a couple of flings, but nothing until I opened my eyes. The only thing I can think of now that my life gets closer to the end, is my wonderful wife who shares my life and is all that is on my mind. I am still not feeling very well so my entries will probably be sporadic. But I'll come around from the dusty cellar and in my minds eye attic and see if I can find some more stories to tell of having fun and raising hell.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
time to catch up
Hello everyone,
Ken wanted me to write and tell you all not to forget about him. He has had a rather rough week, so he asked me to write and remind you all to go back and read the older blogs that you may have missed.
Things have been good and bad with Ken this last week. He actually got out of the house several times - only one of those times was to the doctor's office. The other times were his choice to try and accomplish some errands and to just get out of the house. As a result he is totally exhausted - he forgot he needed to save enough energy to write to all of you at the end of the day.
Anyhow, he will be back in the saddle soon I am sure. Please write him a message on the blog or the guestbook. I know he loves to hear from each of you.
Love and Blessings,
Sharon the real life wife
Ken wanted me to write and tell you all not to forget about him. He has had a rather rough week, so he asked me to write and remind you all to go back and read the older blogs that you may have missed.
Things have been good and bad with Ken this last week. He actually got out of the house several times - only one of those times was to the doctor's office. The other times were his choice to try and accomplish some errands and to just get out of the house. As a result he is totally exhausted - he forgot he needed to save enough energy to write to all of you at the end of the day.
Anyhow, he will be back in the saddle soon I am sure. Please write him a message on the blog or the guestbook. I know he loves to hear from each of you.
Love and Blessings,
Sharon the real life wife
Little boys and airplanes
After experiencing in what I consider my childhood years, age 16 through 21, I found that I was being held hostage by the United States Government. Had I known more about the law and the fact that people under 18 could not sign contracts that our US Airforce cohered me into four years of servitude. Not by offering me candy, although that probably would have sweetened the deal, but by offering me training in electronics. A field which captivated my mind when I was a very small child.
To lay a little background, after all what is one of my stories without background? It;s like mashed potato's without butter and gravy. Thought my father was an engineer on the Union Pacific Railroad, he also for many years lived a double lifetime. Not as a spy, like Herb Filbrick in the old TV series "I Led Three Lives", the story about a crypto analyst for the United States Government, and being the good guy that he was his third life came to bear by being a double agent working completely as a good guy for the good guys side and as a bad guy for the dirty rotten scoundrels. Little did the scoundrels know the information which he was feeding them was fabricated by the good guys with just a hint of real information to maintain their interest. So the story went... Each week our pre pubescent hero using stealth, learning and using other devious means of being a spy from both the good guys and the dirty rotten scoundrels. If I remember correctly, periodically part of his assignments and tests from school found their way brilliantly converted to mouthwatering espionage for the bad guys. I don't remember their names in the series, nor his. So we'll just call them the bad guys, Boris and Natasha. And the teenage superspy and girlfriend alias as Rocky and Bullwinkle. Though I am sure this was not what they were called in the series it will make them easier to remember in the story.
Actually my father in his second life was a drummer for the Union Pacific Railroad band. And in the house that he and my mother built themselves out of cement block, it had an attic and a ladder built onto the side of the house that went to the trapdoor that went into the attic. Every day he would make me climb the ladder with him following me and for one half hour every day we would practice playing the drums. He taught me how to play drums, I was five years old at the time. I might point out that after my half hour drum lesson. This was 1950 when TV was the newest thing and my father was taking a correspondence course on repairing TV's and radios. After the drum lesson I spent one half hour, mind you I was still only age five, my father then made me take the correspondence course along with him, thus began my love of electronics.. When I went on to high school I had the privilege of setting up and running the first closed circuit television station in the Weber County School District.
Now this is the point that I have completely forgotten what it is I was writing about and find myself wondering where Moose and Squirrel came into the picture. During the stint of forced servitude with the Airforce, part of my job required the torturous wonder of flying in a lot of very fast airplanes all the time - thus creating a love for flying forever deep within my being. I was a crypto code machine repair officer and when a piece of code machine was broken down I was placed in the backseat or belly of the fastest moving airplane they had available to get me to where the code machines were broken. After all the military works on a lot of secrets, you'd be surprised how many generals and coronals use this highly sophisticated secret code equipment to pass on their wagers and scores and point spreads of their favorite sports games, such as football, baseball or basketball. It really surprised me how that could have been top secret information.
Dreams do come true. If you have the desire, an understanding and supportive wife, and about $3000 plus sufficient time on your hands to learn to fly at a Podunk's airport. My choice was Skypark Airport in Woods Cross, Utah. It was a very small airport designed basically as a secondary airport for flight enthusiasts and flying and skydiving clubs.
Being an older airport it didn't have many amenities to offer. It had what they call T-hangers, which are long buildings separated inside with areas the shape of a T, so the airplane would park inside facing out. The tail end of the plane jutting into the storage space of the adjacent renter. This jigsaw configuration allows them to park more aircraft with its jigsaw shaping. There were also planes, like you see in the movies tied down to the concrete, not protected by hangers. I used to fly in and out of this airport all the time. I was working with a character (several other stories to come later) whose passion, profession, and minor criminal endeavors involved promoting gold mines. Some of which were in the mountains, some on rivers, however most of his mining was done on Main Street.
So you understand a Main Street miner is one who doesn't really have any legitimate revenue generating potential with the exception of some of the brilliantly contrived assays and mining reports. Kind of like the ones you saw in the old "Lone Ranger" and "Sky King" TV series. They would take scrap gold, melt it down and sprinkle it into a pan of water, so as it rapidly cooled it resembled actual gold nuggets, which when loaded into a shotgun shell that had the lead pellets removed and replaced with these newly formed gold nuggets would be haphazardly shot into the walls and floors, the ceilings, and any crevice that to the naive and greedy eye of a total novice with more money than brains to invest. This turned an otherwise empty cave to appear like the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine. Of course future investors and I think at this time I ought to point out just in case you are ever approached with an opportunity like this, bring a geologist or someone with an education higher than nine and have them inspect the property with you.
One of the main reasons I worked with this gentleman, although I did reap some financial benefits on occasion, was that he had an old 1956 Cessna airplane. He was almost blind as a bat, which meant his license I am sure had either been revoked, long expired, or maybe he never had one in the first place. But he had an airplane and I got to fly it a lot.
Now comes the main part of the story, bet you thought we would never get here... Some of the details were necessary to make everything here make sense. I have been told sometimes my blogs are too long. But how believable is a true life story only one or two sentences long?
The other day I had to take the car my mother gave me before she died, bless her heart, to a mechanic to have some work done before I die, saving my wife this problem considering how many other surprises she is bound to run across while sorting through my "hoarders paradise". As I was talking to the mechanic about my mothers car and what needed fixing on it, in passing I mentioned to the young mechanic that I used to have a shop up the road a few blocks where I too worked on classic cars and did a lot of electrical work. He asked me the name of my shop and I told him, "Tinkers Toys". He said, "I know you, I remember you. My father had a shop right next to yours in the large complex you were in". He then went on to give me the disheartening news that his father had just died a couple of years ago of a brain tumor. This brought me great sorrow. While at work his father and I were great friends. There were many times I would help him, as well as times he would help me. A couple of the other mechanics that were in the shop that I took my mothers car were gathered around admiring it. It is a 1984 Lincoln Continental with around only 50,000 miles (very low mileage). that looks as thought it just came off the showroom floor. It has been covered and stored it's entire lifetime.
After explaining what the name of my shop was this young mechanic, with some glee in his voice, and a smile from ear to ear said, "You were a friend of my father's. Sometimes when you needed help he would help you and sometimes when he needed help you would help him. I remember the funnest times. You had an old airplane hanging from the ceiling of your shop" We reminisced about it for a bit. I had disassembled the plane for storage and the wings were off of it, the engine removed and the fabric was off of it. It had all wood wings, chrome molly tubing (very strong and lightweight), covered with thin lightweight strong fabric. I had an overhead hoist on a large I-beam track. It was electric and could go up and down. I had a seat made out of a small padded chair. I had removed the legs and hooked up a cradle out of steel cable and hooked it over the hook of a winch. I could go and sit and think by putting myself in the seat and raise myself up to overlook the shop and think. When my grandchildren or any friends children came over they got to play in the flying chair. The up and down switch could be held in your hand and let yourself up and down, but could also raise a child high enough to crawl over into the airplane. The plane had dual controls with a steering wheel on each side and could carry four passengers. It had a 150 hp Franklin engine, had retractable landing gear (it had a hand crank that took 35 cranks up and 35 cranks down in order to raise or lower the landing gear) and was capable of a top speed of 207 mile per hour. It had a range of 1500 miles. It was an absolutely beautiful airplane. You can google the name "Bellanca model 1413" and see a picture of this aircraft.
Back to the story. I flew in and out of this airport all the time watching this old airplane sit in the field never being flown. I tried for months to find out who the owner was and all I was able to find was that the man that had owned it was drunk when he landed it, landed it too fast, which tore off one flap and blew out one tire. It was then parked and never again had its wings soar the sunlit days. The reason I finally bought the airplane I knew someday I would have grandchildren. I bought the airplane before my son even had a serious relationship knowing full well there would be grandsons sometime. Sure enough two beautiful grandsons, but neither grandson was interested in putting forth the effort and dedication to restoring the beautiful bird to once again be flown from one sunlit cloud to another. The plane still sits sadly in our back yard (in the hoarders paradise) hoping some generous sole will come along with interest enough to buy and restore it.
This was a very wonderful memory and I have to thank the young man for bringing it to my mind. I am sure he had as pleasant of thoughts as I did and couldn't wait to tell his wife about it when he got home that evening.
Awfully strange how small this world really is. I am still having good memories from just the other day
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
To lay a little background, after all what is one of my stories without background? It;s like mashed potato's without butter and gravy. Thought my father was an engineer on the Union Pacific Railroad, he also for many years lived a double lifetime. Not as a spy, like Herb Filbrick in the old TV series "I Led Three Lives", the story about a crypto analyst for the United States Government, and being the good guy that he was his third life came to bear by being a double agent working completely as a good guy for the good guys side and as a bad guy for the dirty rotten scoundrels. Little did the scoundrels know the information which he was feeding them was fabricated by the good guys with just a hint of real information to maintain their interest. So the story went... Each week our pre pubescent hero using stealth, learning and using other devious means of being a spy from both the good guys and the dirty rotten scoundrels. If I remember correctly, periodically part of his assignments and tests from school found their way brilliantly converted to mouthwatering espionage for the bad guys. I don't remember their names in the series, nor his. So we'll just call them the bad guys, Boris and Natasha. And the teenage superspy and girlfriend alias as Rocky and Bullwinkle. Though I am sure this was not what they were called in the series it will make them easier to remember in the story.
Actually my father in his second life was a drummer for the Union Pacific Railroad band. And in the house that he and my mother built themselves out of cement block, it had an attic and a ladder built onto the side of the house that went to the trapdoor that went into the attic. Every day he would make me climb the ladder with him following me and for one half hour every day we would practice playing the drums. He taught me how to play drums, I was five years old at the time. I might point out that after my half hour drum lesson. This was 1950 when TV was the newest thing and my father was taking a correspondence course on repairing TV's and radios. After the drum lesson I spent one half hour, mind you I was still only age five, my father then made me take the correspondence course along with him, thus began my love of electronics.. When I went on to high school I had the privilege of setting up and running the first closed circuit television station in the Weber County School District.
Now this is the point that I have completely forgotten what it is I was writing about and find myself wondering where Moose and Squirrel came into the picture. During the stint of forced servitude with the Airforce, part of my job required the torturous wonder of flying in a lot of very fast airplanes all the time - thus creating a love for flying forever deep within my being. I was a crypto code machine repair officer and when a piece of code machine was broken down I was placed in the backseat or belly of the fastest moving airplane they had available to get me to where the code machines were broken. After all the military works on a lot of secrets, you'd be surprised how many generals and coronals use this highly sophisticated secret code equipment to pass on their wagers and scores and point spreads of their favorite sports games, such as football, baseball or basketball. It really surprised me how that could have been top secret information.
Dreams do come true. If you have the desire, an understanding and supportive wife, and about $3000 plus sufficient time on your hands to learn to fly at a Podunk's airport. My choice was Skypark Airport in Woods Cross, Utah. It was a very small airport designed basically as a secondary airport for flight enthusiasts and flying and skydiving clubs.
Being an older airport it didn't have many amenities to offer. It had what they call T-hangers, which are long buildings separated inside with areas the shape of a T, so the airplane would park inside facing out. The tail end of the plane jutting into the storage space of the adjacent renter. This jigsaw configuration allows them to park more aircraft with its jigsaw shaping. There were also planes, like you see in the movies tied down to the concrete, not protected by hangers. I used to fly in and out of this airport all the time. I was working with a character (several other stories to come later) whose passion, profession, and minor criminal endeavors involved promoting gold mines. Some of which were in the mountains, some on rivers, however most of his mining was done on Main Street.
So you understand a Main Street miner is one who doesn't really have any legitimate revenue generating potential with the exception of some of the brilliantly contrived assays and mining reports. Kind of like the ones you saw in the old "Lone Ranger" and "Sky King" TV series. They would take scrap gold, melt it down and sprinkle it into a pan of water, so as it rapidly cooled it resembled actual gold nuggets, which when loaded into a shotgun shell that had the lead pellets removed and replaced with these newly formed gold nuggets would be haphazardly shot into the walls and floors, the ceilings, and any crevice that to the naive and greedy eye of a total novice with more money than brains to invest. This turned an otherwise empty cave to appear like the Lost Dutchman Gold Mine. Of course future investors and I think at this time I ought to point out just in case you are ever approached with an opportunity like this, bring a geologist or someone with an education higher than nine and have them inspect the property with you.
One of the main reasons I worked with this gentleman, although I did reap some financial benefits on occasion, was that he had an old 1956 Cessna airplane. He was almost blind as a bat, which meant his license I am sure had either been revoked, long expired, or maybe he never had one in the first place. But he had an airplane and I got to fly it a lot.
Now comes the main part of the story, bet you thought we would never get here... Some of the details were necessary to make everything here make sense. I have been told sometimes my blogs are too long. But how believable is a true life story only one or two sentences long?
The other day I had to take the car my mother gave me before she died, bless her heart, to a mechanic to have some work done before I die, saving my wife this problem considering how many other surprises she is bound to run across while sorting through my "hoarders paradise". As I was talking to the mechanic about my mothers car and what needed fixing on it, in passing I mentioned to the young mechanic that I used to have a shop up the road a few blocks where I too worked on classic cars and did a lot of electrical work. He asked me the name of my shop and I told him, "Tinkers Toys". He said, "I know you, I remember you. My father had a shop right next to yours in the large complex you were in". He then went on to give me the disheartening news that his father had just died a couple of years ago of a brain tumor. This brought me great sorrow. While at work his father and I were great friends. There were many times I would help him, as well as times he would help me. A couple of the other mechanics that were in the shop that I took my mothers car were gathered around admiring it. It is a 1984 Lincoln Continental with around only 50,000 miles (very low mileage). that looks as thought it just came off the showroom floor. It has been covered and stored it's entire lifetime.
After explaining what the name of my shop was this young mechanic, with some glee in his voice, and a smile from ear to ear said, "You were a friend of my father's. Sometimes when you needed help he would help you and sometimes when he needed help you would help him. I remember the funnest times. You had an old airplane hanging from the ceiling of your shop" We reminisced about it for a bit. I had disassembled the plane for storage and the wings were off of it, the engine removed and the fabric was off of it. It had all wood wings, chrome molly tubing (very strong and lightweight), covered with thin lightweight strong fabric. I had an overhead hoist on a large I-beam track. It was electric and could go up and down. I had a seat made out of a small padded chair. I had removed the legs and hooked up a cradle out of steel cable and hooked it over the hook of a winch. I could go and sit and think by putting myself in the seat and raise myself up to overlook the shop and think. When my grandchildren or any friends children came over they got to play in the flying chair. The up and down switch could be held in your hand and let yourself up and down, but could also raise a child high enough to crawl over into the airplane. The plane had dual controls with a steering wheel on each side and could carry four passengers. It had a 150 hp Franklin engine, had retractable landing gear (it had a hand crank that took 35 cranks up and 35 cranks down in order to raise or lower the landing gear) and was capable of a top speed of 207 mile per hour. It had a range of 1500 miles. It was an absolutely beautiful airplane. You can google the name "Bellanca model 1413" and see a picture of this aircraft.
Back to the story. I flew in and out of this airport all the time watching this old airplane sit in the field never being flown. I tried for months to find out who the owner was and all I was able to find was that the man that had owned it was drunk when he landed it, landed it too fast, which tore off one flap and blew out one tire. It was then parked and never again had its wings soar the sunlit days. The reason I finally bought the airplane I knew someday I would have grandchildren. I bought the airplane before my son even had a serious relationship knowing full well there would be grandsons sometime. Sure enough two beautiful grandsons, but neither grandson was interested in putting forth the effort and dedication to restoring the beautiful bird to once again be flown from one sunlit cloud to another. The plane still sits sadly in our back yard (in the hoarders paradise) hoping some generous sole will come along with interest enough to buy and restore it.
This was a very wonderful memory and I have to thank the young man for bringing it to my mind. I am sure he had as pleasant of thoughts as I did and couldn't wait to tell his wife about it when he got home that evening.
Awfully strange how small this world really is. I am still having good memories from just the other day
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
A cold by any other name still sucks
First we'll take up Sandra. I never pictured you as one that could instill that type of fright in anyone. I am sure it must have been someone else.
Annette, please have a safe journey.
Now to the rest of you out there. To those who have not caught this cold, for a better word, congratulations! For the other ninety percent that are experiencing whatever, again for a better word, this cold is, my condolences and best wishes. As for me I still have it. It is the cold, for a better word. Which seems to take away ones ability to think and their artistry of writing. It seems to improve their ability to assume the prone position. and sleep quite a lot. The bright part of it all is the lack of appetite caused by "it", we'll call a cold for lack of a better name. Seems to be effecting everything.
So best wishes for a quick recovery for those of you who need it. And good luck that those who haven't caught "it", this cold for a better word, feel blessed. Now I am going to go nurse my wounds, cry in my own soup, and go back to sleep.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
Annette, please have a safe journey.
Now to the rest of you out there. To those who have not caught this cold, for a better word, congratulations! For the other ninety percent that are experiencing whatever, again for a better word, this cold is, my condolences and best wishes. As for me I still have it. It is the cold, for a better word. Which seems to take away ones ability to think and their artistry of writing. It seems to improve their ability to assume the prone position. and sleep quite a lot. The bright part of it all is the lack of appetite caused by "it", we'll call a cold for lack of a better name. Seems to be effecting everything.
So best wishes for a quick recovery for those of you who need it. And good luck that those who haven't caught "it", this cold for a better word, feel blessed. Now I am going to go nurse my wounds, cry in my own soup, and go back to sleep.
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
Cure in a bottle
I think we all should thank Sandra M for her love and compassion which she practices and doesn't just write about it on our blog. The world needs many more Sandra's. So thank you Sandra for sharing you insight and feelings with us tonight.
It is not just the hunger or the cold or the heat on a hot summers day but the day like today where my heart truly goes out to the less fortunate. It gives me a great feeling of guilt each time I complain about anything, especially illness. My wife and I have both been down with a terrible illness of coughing and congestion, fever, general malice, and just plain old not feeling good.
Each time I complain to anyone about not feeling well I think of those that couldn't afford even a bottle of aspirin. They can't whip out a bottle of Nyquil or Robatussen from the medicine cabinet. That is if they had a medicine cabinet. Tonight is one of those nights that I apologize to those that feel just as bad or even worse than I do today. And actually feel grateful while at the same time guilty for having some of these medicines to help make this illness and its symptoms go away or at least diminish the discomfort that goes along with a cold.
So for now I hope and pray you all feel well. And to those of you who don't I hope you have some snake oil to help ease your suffering. Thanks again -
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
It is not just the hunger or the cold or the heat on a hot summers day but the day like today where my heart truly goes out to the less fortunate. It gives me a great feeling of guilt each time I complain about anything, especially illness. My wife and I have both been down with a terrible illness of coughing and congestion, fever, general malice, and just plain old not feeling good.
Each time I complain to anyone about not feeling well I think of those that couldn't afford even a bottle of aspirin. They can't whip out a bottle of Nyquil or Robatussen from the medicine cabinet. That is if they had a medicine cabinet. Tonight is one of those nights that I apologize to those that feel just as bad or even worse than I do today. And actually feel grateful while at the same time guilty for having some of these medicines to help make this illness and its symptoms go away or at least diminish the discomfort that goes along with a cold.
So for now I hope and pray you all feel well. And to those of you who don't I hope you have some snake oil to help ease your suffering. Thanks again -
God Bless you all,
Ken, the afterlife messenger
