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Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Is this too personal an operation to speak to those who know me? Tom Green featured himself getting a testicle removed on national TV. That included the severed organ and vomiting. I don’t know if he has gone in for reconstructive surgery, preferring to remain one of the elite sporting only one ball. There are cases, one is mentioned in the movie, In and Out, and one that entails the main character of J.P. Donleavy’s, The Onion Eaters involving a group of men with three. So perhaps a donor could be found for Tom if he desired.

But getting back to my predicament, I’ve been working too hard with my body for over 30 years—carrying and working with heavy ladders, climbing the same. And then restoring them to the roof of my vehicle, not to mention all the scrubbing, equipment, and  furniture moving and other miscellaneous activities I’ve engaged in. In the past I also had a carpet cleaning business, using a truck mount, an even more strenuous undertaking.

I knew I had one hernia and suspected the second, but the doctor found a third. The doctor, by the way, is known as the Hernia King of Connecticut, because he performs more of these operations than anyone else. And since he has done more than anyone else, this self appellation as King has credence. After all, wouldn’t you want a delicate operation done by the most experienced guy?

To make a long story longer, the appointed day came, and because of  issues with Patrick, my son, I ended up being dropped off at Bridgeport Hospital at the last minute. This made me quite tense and short tempered. I was not too worried about the surgery, having been assured I would not awake from the anesthesia in excruciating pain. I was upset, however, by the prospect of being late.

Fortunately I was dropped off on time. The third floor holding room had a sign telling us, the surgery attendees, to sit tight and they’d come and get us—no check-in; so I was never completely sure I was in the right place. Finally after 45 minutes of waiting, someone came out and informed us they’d be taking us soon, and my doctor’s name, Kenler, was mentioned. I took this as a good sign that I was in the right place.

At long last a couple of us were guided into a room to disrobe and put on “the gown with the open air solution for one’s ass”. My clothes went into a bag with my wedding ring. The nurse assured me that now, I was a free man. So I asked her if she had a wedding ring on—she did and added that as soon as my wife returned I would be asked to don said ring again, since I belonged to her—my window of opportunity closed as rapidly as it opened. I must say, in an aside, that this ring represents one of the most important things in my life beyond my integral involvement with life itself.

Then commenced a wonderful parade of intake personnel: data compiler, robe adjudicator, Indian anesthesiologist, Filipino scrub nurse, shaving specialist who informed me she had to “remove this sweater, but don’t worry it will grow back,” the PA who would assist the doctor, and of course, his lordship himself, the Hernia King, who drew on my abdomen a game plan, discussed risk analysis, and engaged in a brief but harmless badinage about his well-deserved appellation that should be just shortened to King.

One disconcerting aspect of this whole introduction was the PA telling me I’d be out of commission for not just two weeks, as I’d been told might be the case due to the healthy, virile specimen that I am, but six weeks of no lifting more than 10 pounds (then again, one report said 16 and another 20).

That is why I’m writing this disclosure of my medical affair. What else am I going to do? I can’t even vacuum the rug. The upside is the Valium—I am not afraid and in good spirits, just sore. I didn’t really want to go to work today anyway, and the drugs and dictum of having to rest on doctor’s orders, removes the guilt, shame, and fear that are sometimes my constant companions.

If this missive sparks in you, a desire to communicate with me, please write, either as a comment to this post or at larry@optonline.net.

This is my first real surgery. Just as becoming a father had done for me 30 years ago, this is another initiation for me into the human race of which I often observe but sometimes avoid engaging. More than ever, I feel we are all in this together, that I’m a part of you and you, a part of me.

I suspect grandchildren will be the next big thing for me. And finally, my dying will bring it all full circle.

A way a lone a last a loved along the riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by commodious vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.     Finnegans Wake

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[This is the last  installment of a hitchhiking trip I took in my twenties; see the first  post to read from the beginning]

Tail Ends

I was finally in Minneapolis. I put my pack back together.  The bright sunlight, the proximity of houses and trees whose shadows they cast, cheered me up. It seemed like home—like Michigan where I grew up—after living in California and this ride through the desert, over the mountains, and across the Great Plains.

I hadn’t had much sleep, but I wasn’t tired, just sore from sitting on the Celica’s console for 1500 miles.  I was excited about seeing my friends.  It felt good to be able to stretch, relax and put my stuff back together.  Stuff I thought I’d never see again, like my red pack and down sleeping bag.

It felt good to stretch my personality a little too and not worry about Charlie and Ken disapproving of it.  I had had to be careful.  They were not open to much of what I had to say or feel.  Now I was able to feel anyway I wanted to. Catching a bus for downtown with Kelley’s address and phone number in my pocket, I wanted to surprise my friends by showing up at the door, unannounced.  I only told them that I would try to come.  They weren’t exactly expecting me all the way from California.

I loved these people.  They literally meant “the life” to me.  When I was in school, two of them saved me, and I would never forget it.  Also they appreciated who I was and what I was capable of with my heart and mind.

“Where you going camping?”  An older, rumpled man addressed me.  His jacket and pants were stained.  He was missing some teeth and had a straggly beard.  This was before people who lived on the streets were called “homeless”.

“I’m here visiting friends,” I replied.

The gentleman started to sing, “With a backpack on my back…”

Everyone else on the bus ignored him, but I, as usual, didn’t want to offend.

“You know how to protect yourself from a pack of wolves?”  Not waiting for a response, he continued, “I learned this when I was in Alaska.  You take a knife and you cut yourself with it so’s you get blood all over the blade.  Then you stick the handle in the snow.  The wolves’ll come up to the knife, bite it and cut themselves; the blood’ll drive them crazy.  They’ll attack each other till there’s none left…” he started singing again.

I got up, pulled the cord to get off downtown, at the terminal.

“You remember what I told you, young feller.”  The doors unfolded on his last words.  I was glad to be off the bus.  It seemed I was always trying to escape one uncomfortable situation or another.  I longed to feel at rest, to put away the anxiety that fermented in my chest. I was sure that it was all caused by things outside of me.

I took a bus to the University and got off in an area that looked artsy. Maybe this is where they live.

I called Kelly.

“Hello?”

“Hi, you doing anything?”

“Larry?”

“Yeah, I thought I’d give you a call.  Is the wedding still on?”

“Yeah, sure.  Are you coming?”

“Yeah, could you pick me up?” I continued speaking very casually.

“In California?”

“No, I’m in Minneapolis.  I’m outside the Riverside Café in an artsy fartsy section somewhere near the University.”

“You’re here?” Kelley registered an appropriate amount of surprise. “The Riverside Café’s on the West Bank, stay there.  I’ll come and pick you up.”  The West Bank wasn’t all that artsy as it turned out.  Fartsy was appropriate, later that year I would have some vegetarian chili at that café.  You paid a donation and you got the meal of the day.

“Here you go, Brother,” the hippie behind the counter said.  It wasn’t very good, a lot of beans and tomato sauce—no seasoning.  It was worth what I paid for it, though.

Across the street was another café. It had the best ice cream sundaes.  They would serve you a bowl heaped with vanilla ice cream and a gravy boat filled with your choice of toppings.

Hot fudge was my favorite, and I would get them on a regular basis in spite of my lactose intolerance.

I hummed with energy.  I was eager to see my old friends, happy to have accomplished my destination, and excited to tell the hysterical story of my trip.

I’ve made it!  No more danger or uncertainty.  Not at least until I had to leave for Michigan.  Next stop was Grand Rapids, a town 30 miles from where I grew up, and where my older sister Cathy lived with her husband and son.

For now, my friends would provide me a place to stay and entertainment.

A beige sedan pulled up near me, “Boy, they’ll let anybody into this town.”

“I know,” I said seemingly astonished. “They let anybody drive too?”

“Fortunately for me.  Put you’re pack in the back.  How you doing?”  He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Well, pretty good, now that I’m here.”

“Tell me about your trip.”  Kelly was a very clever fellow with tight kinkified, red hair and a quick wit. He was at the University working on his Masters. At Notre Dame he had been a good friend and, at times, a mentor. A few years later when I was back in California and he was in New York, he gave my future wife, my address. She wrote to me. We’ve been married over 30 years.

I’d envisioned telling the story of my trip with all my friends in a circle around me, surprised, entertained, and impressed.  If I told it here in the car it would lose some of its impact.  Each telling would steal some of its thunder until it was just a light shower, a passing mist amongst my friends.

“Well, I got this ride across the desert in the back of a pickup truck with a guy who had just spent two years in jail for stealing a Pantera.  He was going to…” I told Kelly the whole story, about the cowboy, the cattle lullaby and the trip from Cedar City to Minneapolis—“I got picked up by a couple of guys who wanted to kill me on their way to joining the two million-man-strong New Zion Army in the Colorado Rockies…”

“Well,” said Kelly, when I finished the blow by blow, “That was a good story.”  He paused and arched his eyebrows, “So, you gonna join up?”

“Join up what?”

“The New Zion Army.”

I thought for a minute and then, with a half smile, said, “I guess I probably should after all that.  What do you think?”

Kelly glanced my way as he drove, “Sounds good to me, but why don’t you wait till after the wedding.”

The End

See Random Roads, an international online Hitchhiking Magazine

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[This is the 3rd installment of a hitchhiking trip I took in my twenties; see the first  post to read from the beginning]

Volunteers for the New Zion Army

 A man going to work took me to Cedar City, a town in southern Utah. I could see I was going to spend a lot of time trying to hitch out of there. A car would go by no more than once every five minutes traveling north on the near empty interstate which lead to Salt Lake City. Since it’s illegal to stand on the interstate, police will give you a ticket and remove you, I had to stay on the on ramp. There, a car would only pass every half hour.

I decided that, since it was warm and I’d be there for a while, it would be a good time to sno-seal my leather hiking boots. I’d been planning to do this for a while but never found the time. I took everything out of my pack—the boots were on the bottom. With my belongings spread out on the grass, I opened up my can of sno-seal, a very slimy substance, and smeared it all over the leather, working it into all the pores and seams. After that I set the slimy, glistening boots in the warm sun so the leather could soak up as much as possible. I intended to repeat this process until the boots could take no more.

After I’d applied the second coat, I sat on my sleeping bag and thought about cracking open a book. It looked like I was having a yard sale. I wasn’t afraid it would hurt my chances to get a ride since there were so few cars anyway. Oddly enough, the very next car pulled over, a Toyota Celica.

“Where ya going?” said the smiling passenger on the driver’s right, a handsome man about 25.

Minneapolis, Minnesota.”

“Really, that’s where we’re going. You want a ride?”

I was thrilled, how lucky could I get. I thought it would be all day before I got a ride even as far as Salt Lake, “Yeah, that’s great!”

It was then I noticed their car was packed to the ceiling with clothes, boxes, shoes, stereo equipment and other flotsam of the human condition—there was no room.

“Where we gonna put my stuff?” The back seat was jammed to the ceiling. Where will I even sit, I thought? I felt my enthusiasm waning. These guys, who were both big to begin with, sure were generous to make this offer, but there just wasn’t room.

“Don’t worry,” the driver said, we’ll fit you in.” He was a stocky ruddy guy with scars on his face left over from adolescence, yet he had an attractive air about him due to his enormous self-confidence. “We can put some in the trunk and some in the back seat.”

They took individual pieces of my gear and clothes and stowed them in nooks and crannies between all their belongings. There were a few pieces that wouldn’t fit so they opened up the trunk. That’s when I saw the rifles.

“We’re hunters, you don’t have to worry, we’ll protect your stuff,” said the driver with a dry laugh.

I took my foam sleeping pad and folded it up to make a seat for myself on the console, the only place left to jam myself between these two six footers. If I was big like they were, I would never have fit.

“Boy, thanks a lot, you guys. This is really great of you to go to all this trouble. My name’s Larry, by the way.” I reached my hand towards the driver.

“Charlie,” he shook my hand.

“”I’m Ken,” said the handsome passenger, he shook my hand too.

We chitchatted a half an hour in the afterglow of finding a joint purpose. More than just a coincidence, I thought, this all came together too perfectly to be just a coincidence—all of us going to Minneapolis. Must be part of some higher plan.

“Where’d you stay last night,” I asked.

Charlie stopped smiling, “Vegas, the fucking assholes, I’d like to go back and blow up the whole damn town.”

He turned and looked at me for a moment to emphasize the weight of what he was saying, “We were trying to get up some money. We quit our jobs and are starting over in Minneapolis. My mom lives there.”

“We shoulda stopped when we were ahead,” said Ken. They both looked at me at the same time.

“Sure is beautiful out here,” I said trying to change the subject, “Ever do any camping?”

“Did all the camping I wanted to in Nam. But, what the hell,” Charlie’s eyes narrowed and his mouth contorted from a grimace into a half-smile, “You want to do some camping along the way? We could stop when we’re up in the mountains for a day or two.”

“That’d be great,” I said, not getting the picture.

We had left Cedar City on I-15 heading up toward Salt Lake City. We stopped in a bar a couple towns up for a beer; there were lots of jackalopes on the wall. The jackalope is a jack rabbit with antelope antlers. I wasn’t sure it was a real animal. I asked the bartender and he said, “Yeah, but they’re pretty rare, aren’t they, Dale?” winking at one of the patrons.

Charlie turned around on his stool and addressed the two ranchers behind him, “I thought you Mormons didn’t drink.”

“Well, if you’re a Jack Mormon, you can drink,” he laughed.

The countryside we were driving through was broad and flat with mountains on the eastern and western horizon. The monotony of the unchanging landscape hour after hour gave me plenty of time to worry. Little things started to occur to me like why were they so eager to share their tiny car, especially since they had to move all their stuff around? Also, when we got to talking about the Vietnam War, which hadn’t been over that long, the driver said something noteworthy in relation to Nixon, “Yeah, I’d like to kill him.”

I had brought the subject up and enjoyed how they immediately got onboard about what a jerk he was, but became concerned with the vehemence Charlie lent to the subject, “I’d like to kill the fucking bastard. And I wouldn’t kill him fast; I’d kill him slow, by the death of a 1,000 cuts like the Vietnamese do.”

He’d been to “Nam” for two hitches—four years. “Yeah, I went over there and so many of my buddies got killed, I was pissed, real pissed, so I signed up to go back and kill some more.”

I got real quiet. Up to that point, Charlie had been confident, funny, and friendly. He was still confident, but confident like a crocodile sizing up his prey. He’d done a lot of killing in Vietnam.

The further we drove, the angrier they got about things. I was very careful to be nice. They told me about losing $300 in Las Vegas, about Vietnam, about being best friends, about their jobs delivering Silver Springs water in Watts, about how Ken was running away from his wife, “Maybe I should call her.”

“Naw, don’t do that. Don’t give the bitch the satisfaction.”

“She might be worried,” Ken was worried. He wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. His wife didn’t know he was leaving.

The more tired all of us got, the darker their moods became and the more paranoid I became. They obsessed about the money they’d lost in Vegas while trying to develop some cash for their new life. Their eyes were narrow black apertures peering down the road in the twilight. They both looked at me squeezed between them in the middle, sitting on the console, as if I were part of the solution to their problems.

“You hear about the war that’s comin’?”

“What war?” I asked.

“We heard all about it in Watts. We know all about it. The word on the street is the Red Chinese are going to attack in the spring. They’re going to pour over the border from Canada,” said Charlie.

“Yeah,” agreed Ken, “We’re going to go and join the New Zion Army up in the Colorado Rockies.”

“We’ll be a million men strong and we’ll fight the Red Chinese. You want to join us?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “I’m going to a friend’s wedding and then to Michigan to see my family.”

“Well, then you could come after that.”

“Maybe.”

Next Week:

After the Prairie Dogs

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[This is the 2nd installment of a hitchhiking trip I took in my twenties; see the last post to read from the beginning]

Las Vegas Welcome Wagon and a Ride from a Cowboy

The pickup truck, that had whisked me across the California desert, dropped me off on the strip in Las Vegas. In those days the casinos were smaller, many open to the street. I walked along, somewhat apprehensive, with my pack on my back, looking at all the blinking and flashing lights and signs, listening to the sounds of the sirens going off every time someone got a few quarters back from one of the slot machines.

“Hey, you just get here? You come a long way?” A thin unshaven man in his forties in a rumpled green shirt and brown pants stepped in stride with me.

“Well, let me tell you, this is a great place. There’s cheap food and always something going on. Especially if you like to gamble. You come here to gamble?”

I told him I was just passing through. While I didn’t know what to make of him, I was glad for his input.

“The floor managers sometimes give me coupons to get breakfast. Mr. Clyde here at the Three Note, he’s a good friend of mine. He always slips me a few coupons to get food.” This guy should’ve gotten a job with the Welcome Wagon people. “Come on. I know where we can go. We can get a free meal at the kitchen. You can meet some of the guys.”

This sounded good to me. I wouldn’t have to spend any more of my money. I wanted it to last as long as possible.

“Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not destitute, you know.”

“Oh, sure. They’ll be glad to have you. That’s what this is for, people hitchhiking around, camping, needing a meal. It’s a place to meet people too, you’ll like it.”

I started to see the possibilities. Maybe I’d stay in Las Vegas for a while, go hiking in the mountains, see the Grand Canyon. Looked like an easy way to get by.

We went down the strip a few blocks, and then turned right. It was starting to get dark. Maybe I could stay with these guys tonight, get breakfast and head out in the morning.  I didn’t know yet where I’d sleep. I was a little concerned about it. When I had started up that morning, My brother, Bern, and his friend, John, had dropped me off at an onramp to the interstate in Orange County. I found there was already someone there trying to hitch a ride. The kid had a pack and a sign. He was going up north.

“You hitch much?” I said to the kid.

“Yeah, I’ve been across the country twice.”

“Where do you sleep if you don’t get a ride?” This was one of my main concerns. I knew how to stand and hold my thumb, and now decided to make myself a sign, but I didn’t know what to do once it got too dark.

“I just sleep right along the highway. I find a spot in the bushes.”

“And nobody ever bothers you?”

“Naw.” He looked at me with that confidence that comes from experience. “Nobody cares and nobody knows you’re there in the first place.”

“Oh.” I was relieved. I looked around and picked out an unobtrusive spot to sleep just in case I never got a ride out of there that day. Though I felt tempted to, I just couldn’t call Bern and John to come back and pick me up, I’d have felt foolish.

“Here we are.” The Welcome Wagon guy pointed to some steps that lead down to a double door into an old cafeteria. Inside there were rows of tables at which were sitting men in various states of decay. Their defeated eyes stared at me in my nice clothes and backpack as I got in line for food. When I finally got to the head of the line, the person serving, who was used to not judging people but knew I didn’t belong there, said there was only black coffee left.

My new “friend” and I sat down at one of the tables. I felt out of place. I hadn’t realized from the description that it would be a mission. I kept my pack right next to me.

All these guys probably came to Vegas to gamble, I thought, lost all their money and now just hang on, like moss, living off the moisture. I sipped my bitter coffee. Not being able to just down it, and, in spite of the fact that it was getting dark and I needed to go, I felt I needed to put in a little time. It would be rude to just up and leave.

After a bit, I returned my cup and slipped out the door. It was dark. I had just wasted the last valuable hours of daylight sipping bad coffee without cream and feeling uncomfortable. It’s next to impossible to get a ride in the dark. People can’t see you well enough to make a judgment and are afraid to stop. I remembered one time in Oklahoma near Ponca City, I got so desperate I tried to flag cars down. People just swerved to go around me. Finally, some Indians picked me up. They were swerving too; they offered me a drink from the bottle of whiskey they were passing around. “Now you tell people, Indians aren’t all bad,” they said as they dropped me off at a bus stop in the next town. I’d never thought they were bad, I just had heard that alcohol was sometimes a problem for them.

I walked to the main road out of Las Vegas and stood under a light so people could see me. A lot of cars went by; some sped up but none stopped.

I picked out a place to sleep. I still had never camped-out beside a road. It made me nervous, but I tried not to think on it and all the other things beneath that and beneath that, cooking under pressure in those mysterious caverns, seeking for a place to seep out. I tried to keep myself calm enough so that the top of the mountain didn’t get blown off.

A dark sedan, a little beaten up, pulled over. The passenger door swung open, “Where you going young fella?”

“Minneapolis.”

“Well, I’m going all the way up to Meadow Valley, that’ll get you part of the way.”

I didn’t know where that was, but it sounded good. I put my pack on the backseat and climbed into the front.

“Been out here long?” said the driver, a wiry man in his fifties, wearing an aging cowboy hat.

“A while. Thanks a lot…My name’s Larry.” I offered my hand.

“Edward Johnson, but people call me Pete.” He shook my hand. “Folks don’t usually pick up people after dark.”

“Yeah. I appreciate it. Where you coming from?”

“Baker. Had a job.”

“What do you do?”

“Just about every damn thing you can think of.”

“Sort of a jack of all trades.”

“You could say that. I’ve done a thing or two in my time. What you gonna do in Minneapolis?”

“A friend is getting married.”

“I’ve been married a few times, didn’t care for it.”

There was silence then. From the pale glow of the dash I could see the driver set his jaw. I tried to think of something to talk about.

“Do any camping?” I had several favorite places I would camp in the mountains around LA. I lived for it. There was something I got there—a oneness with nature, or maybe silence, or perhaps it was the only environment I felt capable in, not lost like I was in the workaday world of the city.

“Shit, Boy, I’ve been camping all my life. Why I was working construction in Baker for a week and slept a few nights under the stars. You can’t beat it. You do any huntin’?”

“No, a little backpacking and climbing.”

“Let me tell you about the time we were up Dawes Creek. We were hauling equipment up there for a mining company, that was about 15 years ago. One of the trucks got a flat. There was no road, just a dry creek bed. Well, there we were fixing that flat when we hear this rumbling in the distance. It had been raining in the mountains. It was a flash flood coming our way. It hit us like a ton of bricks. The three of us grabbed hold of the truck while it bashed us into every damn thing. Shorty couldn’t hang on and was sucked away like a bug in a fan. Didn’t think we’d see him again. Damn near drowned myself.”

“Did he drown?”

“Well now, I’m getting to that part. See, this wall of water swings the truck around and pushes us up sidewards on this big ass rock. I get a good bash on the head, but I managed to pull me and Reid up out of there on top of the boulder. I start hollering for Shorty but you can’t hear nothin’ above the roar of the water. Suddenly, it dies down, just as fast as it started. And I hear this ‘Help, get me out of here!’ A tiny voice off in the distance. I figured it must be Shorty, so I make sure Reid’s all right, then I find some rope that’s under the seat. I shook the mud off it and put it over my shoulder. Rope’s pretty damn heavy when it’s wet. Then I climb up the bank about 50 feet to see if I can see Shorty. Well, I can’t see nothin’ so I climb back down and start walking down the muddy creek bed toward the sound of his voice. I must’ve walked a mile before I came upon him. I was about 50 yards away and he sees me and starts a hollering, “Get back, Pete, don’t fall in the quicksand too.”

“He was up to his neck in soft mud. The flood had pushed Shorty and a lot of mud into a bend of the creek. There was so much of it every little move sank him deeper and deeper.”

“ ‘Don’t come too close, Pete, it’ll get you too.’ ”

“Well, I wasn’t afraid o’ that, but I didn’t see how getting both of us stuck would do either of us any good. So I climbed up on the canyon wall, it was pretty steep, and I inched along above the mud tryin’ not to step on something that was gonna give way and send me into the same perdicament as Shorty. Finally I got right above Shorty. The problem was there weren’t no good place to perch; all the rock was pretty loose. So I threw Shorty one end of the rope, but I told him not to pull on it because I had to climb to the top so’s I could get a foothold. Well Shorty was so scared, he started pullin’ on it right away, pretty near pulled me in. So I threw him a bunch more rope and said I’d leave him there if he didn’t stop pullin’.

“Please don’t leave me,” he yelled, then he started bawlin’ like a baby. I could barely stand it, but I felt sorry for him so I told him to hold still and I scrambled to the top as fast as I could. Once I had my feet firmly on level ground, I started to pull him out. Man, was he covered in muck. He looked like the creature from the black lagoon. I laughed and laughed. Of course he didn’t think it was too funny, but he didn’t say nothin’ seein’ as how I saved his life.”

“Wow, that’s quite a story.” I was thrilled to be sharing a ride with someone right out of an adventure novel.

“That ain’t nothin’. There was a time we was drilling for oil….” Pete regaled me with about four more stories before we got to the truck stop where the cowboy stopped for some coffee and pie.

“The coffee here’s not too good, but they make the best damn pie around.”

We sat at the counter. I decided to have some pie too and some hot chocolate. The hot chocolate was a mistake because it didn’t go that well with the pie, the pie was sweet enough. I’m always trying to get the most out of an eating opportunity but it usually doesn’t work out.

“I was over in the Panamints rounding up some strays that got loose and wandered up in the canyons. I worked for Tom Pinter at the Red Flats Ranch at the time, and this steer got hisself caught in the branches of a dead tree of all the damned things. I got off my horse and was trying to free his horns without getting’ gored when I saw the snake.”

“Was it a rattler?” I was hanging on every word that came out of the mouth of this rugged man, when the chubby smiling waitress came over to warm up his coffee, “You fillin’ him full of your bullshit, Pete?”

“Well now, Honey, I’m just givin’ him the benefit of my experience.”

She laughed and said sarcastically, “Lucky him.”

“Ah, she’s just jealous.”

“What? Cuz I ain’t as good a liar as you?” She moved down to the other end of the counter with her coffee pot.

We finished our pie without a lot more talk, paid our tabs, and left. Pete drove about a mile more, pulled over, and said, “Well this is it.” Dropped me off and turned down a dirt road. We had come about 50 miles. I was disappointed. I thought from the way Pete was talking we were going ten times that far.

There were no lights to stand under now and few cars. I was out in the country. East of me was open land that ended in the dark outline of a mountain range providing a jagged earthly frame to a sky full of stars. It was my first night hitchhiking. I new I had to find a place to sleep now. On my side of the road there were some trees and a fence with a few strands of barbed wire along it. I could hear the lowing of cattle in the distance. Carefully, I lifted my pack over the fence, then spread the barbed wire and climbed through. There were no cows in sight, no way to know whether I was in their field or not. I worried they might walk on me as I slept. I climbed into my sleeping bag and listened—how could I sleep and watch out for cows at the same time? Exhausted, I dozed off anyway.

I dreamt that I was lying in the middle of a herd. I tried not to move for fear they would step on me. Sometimes the sound of a car going by woke me, but mostly there was silence, distant peaks, and a long empty road on the other side of the fence.

I awoke in the gray light before dawn intent on getting back on the road before someone spotted me trespassing. Still there were no cows in sight, just the distant lowing. I fell back to sleep.

All of a sudden it seemed like my head was filled with loud moos. I opened my eyes, clear bright light poured in. I was surrounded by cows. The mooing, which all night had served as a lullaby now was strident and alarming.

I quickly pried myself out of my bag and stuffed everything in my pack. Grateful I wasn’t lying in manure; I climbed back through the fence.

Snow-laced peaks sat coolly under the morning sun on the eastern horizon. I had missed the colors of sunrise but felt refreshed and happy that I’d crossed a hurdle.

Next week:

Volunteers for the New Zion Army

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When I was young I hated peas. There are stories and vague memories of me, around two, sitting for an hour on a little chair with my cheeks puffed out with peas, refusing to swallow. In my defense, the peas were mushy canned peas, and my mother always overcooked them. I can still remember how unpalatable they were. I refused to swallow them because I was afraid I’d throw up.

One Thanksgiving several years later, still bearing the same affliction, I was at the dinner table, mouth, full of peas, when an alarm came from my stomach to send them forth in an outward direction.

My father, perhaps aware of a disturbance in The Force, pointed a menacing finger at me and growled, “Don’t you dare!”

In fright, I reversed the flow and swallowed, possibly saving my life. Thankfully, my mother eventually changed over to canned corn, and it became a non-issue.

Later still, my father reopened an old diner called the Dinner Bell. On the menu was split pea soup. Since I could have almost anything I wanted to eat, I had no intention of trying it.

One day I was washing dishes in the back (as part of my father’s slave labor campaign) and I smelled a wonderful aroma emanating from a pressure cooker on the stove. I asked the cook, a very large and kind woman, what it was.

“Split pea and ham soup.”

I must’ve made a face, so she said, “It’s good; you should try it.”

At lunch, I took a thimbleful out back and very carefully and very slowly tried the smallest taste of it—it was delicious. I had a large  bowl and have loved it ever since. It didn’t taste like peas to me at all.

Epilogue

My wife and I would make split pea soup sometimes. I especially liked making it with lots of shredded carrots.

When Brian, my youngest was five or six, Helen had it on the stove cooking when he got off the bus from school.  As soon as he walked in the kitchen he said,”What’s that awful smell,” started to make involuntary heaving sounds and ran to the bathroom.

When he emerged, he stood in the middle of the kitchen and sternly declared to his mother,”Don’t you ever make that again!”

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Pie, particularly the dessert variety, is purely a comfort food. Comfort is a good, psychologically healthy thing, while white flour, fat, cornstarch, and white sugar, the major components of pie, are not.

The Middle Way* would neither dictate abandoning pie completely, nor overindulgence. My recommendation, if you have a pie, is not to overindulge by eating the whole thing, but rather, only eat half, unless of course it’s wild blueberry or strawberry rhubarb.**

I have always loved pie and I’m not alone in thinking it is the greatest food known to man. I’m not sure, but I think my mother may have made one once. She was not famous for her cooking skills. My father, after one of her fine meals, would declare, “That was a good meal, Rose… Larry, could you go get me the bread and peanut butter.”

Grandma, my mother’s mother, however, was a great cook. She was famous for her fried chicken, strudel, and, her pies. When she was at our house over the holidays she would sometimes make a couple. They were so delicious I can still remember how I yearned for more after finishing my little piece.

As I’ve mentioned before, I grew up in a large family. Eventually there would be 11 children. When I was nine there were fewer, but still a lot of pie eaters to contend with. My brother, Bern, often remarked it was like growing up in the Army—you ate as much and as fast as you could in order to get enough. For that reason, when it came to having a treat like pie, my parents would divide it up. You would get one small piece, and that was it! This is why I talked my grandmother into teaching me how to make them.

She warned me it was going to be hard. My plan was to make eight to ten pies, so that when they were shared, I could have as much as I wanted. She showed me how to make the crust. You mix 2 cups of flour, a little salt, and a cup of shortening, then you cut the shortening into the flour. This was a labor-intensive task, often done with a fork and knife, to get the cold shortening to blend with the flour—not easy. She next showed me how to form the dough by adding a touch of water and using our hands to knead it. “Don’t add much water and don’t handle it much or the crust will be stiff.”

She made a pie and with her help, so did I. I had to handle the dough a lot. When I rolled it out, it stuck a bit to the rolling pin, but she helped me. Then as I was putting the top crust on, the crust started to fall apart and she helped me again, and though my crust was a little small and I had trouble sealing the edge, she managed to flute it into a work of art.

Her pie was awesome. Though my crust was a little stiff, dry, and crumbly, my pie was still good, and now, I knew how to do it.

When the Saturday before Christmas came, I was ready. My mom bought me the pie filling and other ingredients. I measured out into two large bowls enough flour for eight pies. I cut in the required amount of shortening, an even more difficult undertaking than usual because I had 8 cups of flour in each bowl. My hands started to ache from the interminable cutting in of the shortening. But I didn’t start complaining…not yet.

I was not known for my patience in those days. Yet, I hung in there while visions of pies danced in my head.

Once the gargantuan task of cutting-in was complete, I formed the balls that would become top and bottom crusts. I had trouble because the dough didn’t want to stick together, so I kept adding water. Then came the hard part—rolling out the dough.

First I cleared a small area on the cluttered countertop. I took one of the balls and lightly floured the space. Lightly, because Grandma said to use as little as possible, then I plunked the ball of dough there and smooshed it with the roller. I attempted to roll out the crust, it stuck to the roller, I had forgotten to add flour to the roller, I did so, it still stuck. I added more flour; my limited patience was beginning to wear thin, unlike my pie dough. There may have been a few curses at this point. I rolled again, still stuck, louder curses. More flour—still sticking.

Finally, adding a great bit more, it began to roll out. However, it began developing cracks, “Shit!” I patched them with more dough. More sticking ensued. After much effort, a complete bottom crust was formed, a little thick and floury, but measuring with the pie pan, it was ample enough.

I went to pick it up by the edges, it was stuck to the countertop, “Oh, my, God.” I may have thrown a pie pan at this juncture.

Never-the-less, I persevered, the rolled crust broke up in my fingers. My beatific vision of sitting down amongst a table of brown crust with caramelized bubbles of an assortment of fruits was in danger of crumbling also. I may have thrown another pan and allowed another invective to escape my lips. I patched the new holes and cracks in my crust and started working a large spatula between it and the counter. I attacked it from all sides, until it was free; then I tried to lift it onto the pie pan. The concept was sound, but the application was fraught with difficulties. It kept falling apart amidst my cries of anguish, “Nooo!”

Finally, I got the dough into the pie pan; it was now in about eight or nine pieces. I hammered them together with my fist punctuating each blow with a word like, “Damn, you, stupid, dough.” At last, I had a crust that almost filled the pan.

In went the filling and then it was time for the pie’s top crust. More flour went on the countertop—Formica is not a suitable surface, by the way.

Despite the added flour, the top crust went on the pie in sections. I patched the cracks as best I could and tried to flute the edges. Since the dough was so brittle and scanty, that did not go well either. After some more labored nine-year-old cursing, I used a fork to mush the top edge to the bottom edge.

As you might imagine, the next seven pies did not go off effortlessly either, in spite of the fact that I went from solid top crusts to lattice after the second pie. Even the “ribbons” of lattice went on piecemeal.

At one point, my mother came into the kitchen. She felt compassion for her suffering oldest son. Either that or she couldn’t stand any more loud cries of lamentation or metallic bangs of cookware hitting the wall and floor with accompanying exclamation.

By the time she made her entrance the kitchen counters and floor were covered with flour, pans, bowls and utensils. It looked like a bakery war zone.

She stood beside the island at the end of the kitchen surveying her son covered with flour except for the flesh-colored tracks where tears had coursed down his cheeks. The kitchen actually looked worse than usual (The kitchen never looked like Betty Crocker’s, my mother did her best, but maintaining the house and the horde of beings under her care was a job that she, an “only child,” found beyond her grasp).

“Larry, don’t make the pies if it’s going to make you so upset.”

I managed to choke out these words, “But I like pie.”


*Buddhist path of avoiding extremes.

** The subject of whether to slather it with vanilla Häagen Dazs, whipped cream, or both will be treated in a separate post where it can be given the attention it deserves.

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When my daughter, Madeleine, was seven or eight years old, she discovered that cold cuts, something she loved and had on her sandwiches every day, came from animals. She and my wife were at Liscio’s, a butcher shop, waiting their turn at the counter to order. Madeleine saw the butcher handling and packaging shanks of ham for a customer and something occurred to her.

“Does ham come from animals?” she asked the large Polish gentleman wearing the bloodstained apron.

“Why yes,” he smiled, “all this meat comes from animals.”

Madeleine’s jaw dropped, the color left her face. When she could speak, she said, “I’m never going to eat meat again!” 

This new conviction lasted quite a while. After all, her father had been a vegetarian for years. It wasn’t until lunchtime the next day, when she was quite hungry—Madeleine, after all, loved ham—that she said, “Mommy, I’m just going to kill the animals, a little bit.”

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