The Harold Carter Trio

The thing about trying to write about things that you remember is that it forces you to remember them in some detail. I think that must have stirred things up a little in the basement lobe of my poor brain.  You know, the place where all the things you haven't thought of for... forever end up.  The synaptosomes, nerve endings that are isolated from homogenized nerve tissue, must be stimulated by the task of recalling old information to the point where they start grabbing stuff and shoving it up the tube at will.  Lately, insignificant, forgotten by-gone occurrences have been resurfacing into consciousness proving that they were not really forgotten nor upon further analysis were they always insignificant. My memoir of the Harold Carter Trio falls into this category although its significance still remains hidden. Perhaps this analysis will change all that.

Even if you grew up in a specific three county area of west central Wisconsin during the sixties, there is a pretty good chance that you’ve never heard of the Harold Carter Trio.  I don’t claim to be a music critic in any sense, but from where I sat, the Harold Carter Trio was a small group with a big sound, especially the percussion element, for you see, that was where I sat, behind rhythm guitar, Harold Carter, behind lead guitar, Bill Knupp, behind a set of Slingerland Drums.  That’s right, I was the percussion element. 

The Harold Carter Trio was a dance band that performed in small beer joints and crowded wedding dance halls alike.  The main genre was Country Western but when you are billed as a dance band in Wisconsin, you’d better have a few polkas, waltzes and even a shoddish or two in your repertoire. If you are not familiar with the shoddish, think Cotton Eyed Joe for four, if you even remember the Cotton Eyed Joe. If you don’t, it’s OK.  I can’t find shoddish in the dictionary which means that either my spelling is so far off that I have finally given credence to the question we all used to ask in fifth grade, “How can I find a word in the dictionary if I don’t know how to spell it?” or, the word no longer exists, or perhaps never existed in the first place.  It may be one of the gems lost to cultural development so this may be last reference to it ever, although I’ve never thought of the shoddish in quite those terms. 

It is more likely, that if you ever show up at a main street bar in Wheeler, Wisconsin, before midnight on a Saturday night and if there is a dance band like the Harold Carter Trio in the house, you may witness the shoddish actually being performed even though the participants will most likely not be able to supply a name for the dance that can be found in a dictionary. 

I say before midnight because usually by that time everyone is way too drunk for a lively dance like the shoddish so the music style has changed to slow songs that allow couples to more or less hold each other up while they grope and sway without actually having to move their feet.

Although it did not occur to me at the time, upon reflection I have to admit that the most noteworthy thing about the Harold Carter Trio was that Bill Knupp was from Knapp, a small village in Wisconsin.  How often does one even get to use a word that starts with Kn and ends with two p’s, let alone twice in the same sentence. I don’t think that this qualifies the memory as insignificant though, because there was also the beer. 

In my brief taste of the celebrity life, there were always adoring fans ready to buy the band a beer.  There were glasses of beer, cans of beer, bottles of beer and occasionally pitchers of beer all lined up ready for consumption, and if there is one thing the Harold Carter Trio took seriously, it was that a fan would never be insulted by not having his offering appreciated. 

So usually by midnight I was required to place my drumming stool close enough to the back wall of the stage or better yet a corner to provide support and prevent the sudden dismount that might occur when the rapturous effect of the music combined with the sensory deprivation of the beer to cast me to the floor in a cacophony of inappropriate cymbal crashes. 

This would often upset the flow of the music and cause one of those awkward moments when suddenly the loud music stops and the silence becomes deafening until that weak voice from the floor mumbles “Is it time to go home yet?”  It turns out though, that the fans loved it and it would usually result in more beer appearing in the queue. I would be propped back in my corner and the festivities would continue, with or without percussion, depending on the sobering effect of the fall.

I have not mentioned that Bill Knupp from Knapp was a small man who suffered what my wife terms Little Man Syndrome.  I’m not sure that is an official psychiatric designation but one to which I hope you can relate.  While I’m convinced that no one in the room ever noticed his stature, Bill was equally convinced that it was the elephant in his room that no one could ignore. When it was time to load the instruments and head home, a major effort in my condition, Bill was usually involved in a verbal altercation with the biggest guy present in the parking lot. 

Since he was usually in the same condition as me it probably wasn’t as dangerous as it seemed at the time, but Harold and I were in agreement that the best course of action would be to get Bill in the car one way or another. Harold, being the most sober often held enough influence over Bill to get him in the car and affect a get away without bloodshed. “He’ll thank us in the morning”, he used to say, but, of course, he never did because by morning Bill Knupp of Knapp was still napping, and often without bruises due to our efforts.

I know that I have not done this memory justice.  The synaptosomes, as pointed out earlier are, after all isolated from homogenized nerve tissue, according to Webster, and with the quantity of beer consumed in those days it’s not too far fetched to think that all of my nerve tissue at this time of my life may be homogenized. I also failed to mention that I actually got paid twenty-five or thirty dollars for those performances, which allows me to claim professional musician as one of my credits.  That alone gives it significance, in my book. 

To a twenty year old kid, twenty-five or thirty bucks coupled with unlimited free beer and the camaraderie of older men, albeit drunken older men, while playing music on the professional stage could have been a life shaping experience. Thank God it wasn’t.

Autor's Note: The word is schottische.  This was pointed out to me by my sister and yes, it is in the dictionary. I appreciate this information because I know that she knows of what she speaks. I seem to recall a story about a night at the dance hall in Wheeler when someone schottisched so aggressively that her underwear fell to her ankles at which time she nimbly stepped out of them and continued dancing. There were no names mentioned at the time so please don't think that I am in any way implying that she was this hapless dancer. Also, the dance may have been a Jitterbug, but it did happen to someone.

The Beautiful Few

To look at me, you wouldn't believe it, but I graduated from high school fifty years ago with the class of 1963. I don't recall the exact date but I'm sure it was around the middle of May.  The reunion is coming up in a couple of weeks so I'm planning to take a trip back to the place of my youth, Colfax, Wisconsin. Luke 2:3 says "And all went to be taxed, every one unto his own city."  In some respects, our government seems to be much more proficient at taxing than the Caesar administration to which Luke was referring. After all, we can be taxed anywhere anytime whether in our own city or not.

 Furthermore, I can't really claim Colfax as "my own" city. I wasn't born there although it is the only home that I can remember.  My house and lineage is scattered across several states, and that is just the lineage I know about or choose to acknowledge. I myself have contributed to that scattering by spending my life away from my house and lineage, but that doesn't alter the fact that I'm going back, or that I suspect it may be a taxing experience.

I've taken a few steps to prepare though. I found my class ring.  I'll finally get a chance to wear it. I really didn't get to wear it when it was new for, you see, I was going steady at the time. Going steady was the first level of monogamous dating. It was between playing the field and being engaged usually right after simply going out with. It didn't carry the implication of promise for the future that engagement did but it required a certain level of commitment. Like having to spend the lunch hour hanging out with your significant other in front of her locker, escorting her to both school and private social functions and resisting copping a feel from any of her friends, at least if there was a chance that she might learn of it. Since that chance always existed in a small school, that was a burden that one simply had to bear. 

It also required the exchange of the personalized class rings which resulted in the larger ring, in this case mine, being immediately re-sized with thread and clear fingernail polish to reside comfortably on a more delicate finger.  The smaller ring, hers, could not be enlarged and was condemned to be worn on the pinkie finger of the less delicate hand, in my case never above the second knuckle. That made it vulnerable to the inevitable launch every time a snowball was hurled.  It was for these very reasons that I believe my class ring was preserved in pristine condition while hers, to the best of my recollection, was lost.

I've located and dusted off the 1963 edition of the COHIAN, the COlfax HIgh ANnual (who said we weren't clever back in the day?) I opened it for the first time in many years, admittedly with some trepidation, to determine which of my memories were actually documented and which could be freely embellished without the threat of discovery. There they were, all of the beautiful few with whom I had spent "the best years of my life". Unchanged in their youthful beauty and vitality. Even me.

Just as an anthropological dig contains more than just the shards of pottery and bone fragments that document an ancient existence, so too my annual contains more than just the pictures of activities and events and roles that document my ancient high school experience. Tradition of the day demanded that each of my classmates have an opportunity to write some reminder of a memorable, shared experience. And just as the anthropologist must contextualize and read between the lines to properly interpret the ancient runes, so too must I employ some interpretive skills to get to the heart of these matters. 

For instance when a band mate writes, "Andy, You're still a nasty guy! Some of the things you say don't really flatter a person.", I read, "I'm just a stupid sophomore and apologize for being alive". I'm almost sure that is what she meant. And, yes, I was in the high school band.  I played drums and was required to serve a short stint in the tuba section, not because of my horn blowing prowess but because I was strong enough to actually carry a tuba. Ironically though, I didn't have the wind for it.  I didn't develop the wind to blow my own horn in public until just a couple of years ago when I started blogging.

And then there is this: "Andy, Best wishes to a real nut.  Keep up the fine humor and you'll have many more friends."  Now there is some solid truth that certainly doesn't require interpretation. She continues, "Don't forget your teasing me in Journalism class and how I pounded you up. I hope I see you after you graduate." Should I even try to discern the motive for that last remark? Should I assume that she meant that my gentle teasing was so endearing that she wanted it to continue even after graduation? Or should I stop by the tactical shop on the way to the reunion to pick up a bullet proof vest assuming that she will try to kill me on sight?

In the interest of fairness and balance, I must mention that there are also many positive salutations. Taken by itself, there are more references to the word good than I can count. While most are followed by the word luck there is also a smattering of byes and at least one riddance. Best wishes seems to appear a lot, especially in entries by the faculty. Hope was already out of the question. Best wishes appeared appropriate to them. And the ubiquitous LL&S, that pre-texting acronym for Love Luck and Success, tops the list without modifiers.

As I reflect on the events that got me to this point in my life, I may have to do some rethinking.  I recall graduation day.  While others were thinking of the beer party or elaborate home celebration that might ensue following the ceremony, I was quietly pondering the benefit of a quality education.  But now, after reviewing the annual, and perusing the thoughts of my schoolmates, well those that I could decipher, I have another thought; penmanship was not a very large part of our curriculum. And without trying to sound mean, I'll quietly add neither were spelling and punctuation. While I used to think that the sound education that I took from Colfax was of primary benefit to my ability to rise above the challenges of my life, i.e., my success, as much as I hate to mention it using that term, I now think it was something else.  I think it was the good wishes, the good luck and the LL&S of those beautiful few who ushered me through "the best days of my life". I now know why they call them "The Good Old Days".

You may have noticed that I didn't mention any names here even though each of the remarks to which I referred was boldly signed.  This was done intentionally, but not to protect the innocent.  As you well know, in the Class of '63, there were no innocent.

Too Much TV

I think I might be watching too much TV.  I can't recall exactly when I came to that conclusion or even the reason I feel that way. It isn't that I'm not getting enough exercise or displaying violent tendencies from watching too many shoot-em-up movies.  It's more like I'm getting more cynical.  I can't watch TV any more without making it interactive.  I ask impertinent questions, make snide remarks and fire off side splitting quips constantly. I think I come by it honestly though.  I think I get it from my sister, my oldest sister, the poet.  And while her poetry does not seem to be in all regards cynical, her TV watching behavior, as I recall, is.  For those of you who believe that our personality traits are in any way genetically derived, let me assure you that I understand that one can't inherit from one's sister so when I said I come by it honestly, I merely meant that we share a common gene pool.  For those who believe that environment plays an equal role, I refer to my early environment because I really can't remember a time that I didn't have an older sister.  For those who have never had an older sister, you won't be at a disadvantage here because the main theme is not my sister.  As I have expressed many times in the past, this is always about me.  The only reason I even mentioned my sister is to fill up some space and because now that she has all those book royalties rolling in one may in fact be able to inherit from one's sister.  But I'm not in any hurry for that.

I should tell you what cynical means although I suspect I may not know myself. My 1983 version of Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary shows two definitions of cynic. If capitalized, it means an adherent of an ancient Greek school of philosophers who held the view that virtue is the only good and that its essence lies in self-control and independence. Perfect.  That sounds just like my sis. Notice, however, that it is not capitalized so let's just forget that one.  The definition I'm talking about is a faultfinding captious critic. Yes, that's right, captious.  Ok, I didn't know either but Webster says captious is marked by an often ill-natured inclination to stress faults and raise objections.  Now that's what I'm talking about! With this one little caveat: Ill-nature is something that I have never associated with myself and although I have observed it in my sister, it has only been occasionally and for the briefest moment.

In my case, the cynicism derived from watching TV comes not so much from the programming, but from the commercials.  Don't jump to the conclusion that I don't like commercials. In fact I do. I find some entertaining, some informative and some not so much of either.  I love the gecko, that little attention-seeking twit who thinks that everything he says and does is so charming.  I know it's a stretch but I can almost see myself in him sometimes.  I've been told his animation seems much more realistic than mine, however, and that is probably the reason I'm limited to the written word. His message, though, is the kind of thing that can inspire my captiousness to new heights.  When taken with every other insurance commercial we are expected to believe that every company can save us four hundred dollars over every other company. I guess we know where government accountants go when they leave the Congressional Budget Office.

I can't help but yell at the toilet paper ad that demonstrates the ability to support a stack of wet quarters.  The day I start crapping quarters is the day I quit buying toilet paper.  That will be the day that I will start to enjoy the go.  Or more likely the day I get constipated and have to call the bank to make a direct withdrawal request.  The drug ads are another source of captious inspiration.  Any affliction that you can name, there's a cure for that.  With a good chance that when you do get cured you may experience liver damage, high blood pressure, dry mouth, excessive sweating or pain and swelling in your legs.  If your having vision problems talk to your doctor but if you have an erection that lasts more than four hours, get to the emergency room. And if you have travelled to a region known for exposure to certain viruses, tell your doctor immediately. He sure as hell doesn't want to book that cruise for his next vacation. Mesothelioma?  There hasn't been any asbestos around for thirty years but there is still, depending on which law firm is doing the counting, 16 to 30 billion dollars in a trust fund somewhere and it's driving the lawyers crazy.

But the one that drove me to say "What is this world coming to?", was the add for the 800 number to call if you need assistance fitting an incontinence pad. This is not for everyone.  This is for people who are having trouble finding a pad that fits.  How misshapen would you have to be to cause a pad to leak because it couldn't get a good seal? I've always had good luck with Form-A-Gasket when the pan gasket is leaking, but I'm not sure they even make it anymore. They display several different major brands and claim to have trained counselors standing by to help you make the perfect choice.  I couldn't help wonder what kind of training one would have to endure to get qualified to be an incontinence pad counselor.  And how would that fitting session actually go? Considering my experience with customer service reps, I don't even want to go there. My greatest hope is that you never have this problem and if you do well, know that I'm laughing with you and not at you. And if you are a professional, certified incontinence pad fitter, know that I'm laughing with you to your face but at you behind your back.  That's what cynics do.

While blogging is normally a stress relieving activity, I'm afraid I will have to terminate it at this point. I'm feeling a bit captious and I'm afraid there might be and ill-natured inclination right around the corner.  Perhaps I should go call my sister.

Using A Fire Truck

     One of the things you seem to get while driving around in a fire truck, is attention.  Knowing how averse I am to attracting attention, you may understand my frustration.  Not with strangers coming up to ask about it, or even with them snapping pictures of me posing with their children in front of the truck, as if anyone actually "snaps" pictures any more, or the plies of gratitude offered at the conclusion of the occasional impromptu fire truck ride.  No, the frustration comes from my own inadequacy in being able to answer the inevitable question, "Why did you buy a fire truck?", or the more accusatory, "Why on earth would anybody, implying anybody in their right mind, buy a fire truck?"

     The first time I heard it, I was so shocked and confused that I really couldn't even think about it.  I simply replied, "You're joking, right?", as I swung into the driver's seat and feigned receiving an emergency dispatch over my unsquelched radio.  A quick "10-4" followed by a stab on the mic button that produced a giant static burst allowed me the opportunity to speed away without further comment, but I could see as I left that the guy who had posed the question wasn't joking.  He really had no clue.  It was as if he thought there really was a reason to buy a fire truck or that if there was, I would feel the need to have one.  I guess I feel the same way that Sir Edmond must have felt when someone asked him why he had scaled Mt. Everest.  His reply, "Because it is there."  And, I'm sure he disdained the attention it afforded him in much the same way that I do as I recount the tale over and over again to anyone who will listen.

     Seriously, though, it made me realize that the interesting nature of my circumstance would continue to draw me into contact with people and good manners would dictate that I needed to have a better answer to their questions than a non-interested brush off.  I had actually considered a few reasons to buy a fire truck during the bidding and seeking wife's permission phases of the process.  Oklahoma has been experiencing dryer than normal conditions over the past several years.  Various parts of the state have been rated anywhere from a little dry to extreme drought conditions since 2010.  Less than sixty miles from my home, hundreds of homes, including the major portion of a small town were destroyed by wild fires last summer, partially because the rural fire companies did not have adequate manpower or equipment to overcome these wind driven infernos. Even though I live in the city limits of a town with a well equipped and well manned fire department, I do live on the recently annexed, expanded city limit so there is a half mile of vacant land between my property and the developed part of the city proper.  Vacant land in this part of Oklahoma implies heavily vegetated grasslands interspersed with natures fire bombs, red cedar trees, and scrub brush, the natural beginning of development for native Oak-Hickory forests.  So even small, untilled areas become extremely volatile, especially in dry weather.  The major use of this property at present is for trail riding, unsupervised teen beer parties and as an outdoor adventure area for groups of young boys whiling away the hours of a hot summer day.  I used to belong to one of those groups of young boys and recall that one of the most exciting things to do while whiling away hot summer hours was to see how big a fire we could build and still be able to put it out.  So it is not totally inconceivable to me that the vacant area between the city and my property could become a raging inferno at anytime for any number of reasons, Karma being one of the foremost.  It is also not inconceivable that, given the choice of protecting my property or a whole subdivision of houses, the fire chief might choose the latter, hence the need for my own fire truck did in fact exist.

     As I mentioned earlier, wild fires from the previous fire season had prevailed in the area and much of the equipment used in battling them had been seriously depleted in the effort.  It stood to reason that it should not be difficult to resell my truck at a good profit.  The reasons were really starting to pile up.  In a dry period sometimes watering bans go into effect.  I had the perfect mobile irrigation system.  I can make it rain on someone's yard or garden even if Mother Nature, herself, is unwilling or unable to do so. No disrespect intended, Mother. And last but not least, the local fest. Every community has at least one summer fest on its town-promoting agenda.  These usually include parades, street dances, food booths and perhaps a wiener dog race or some other shameless spectacle, but heretofore, no fire truck rides.  The key to success, find a need and fill it.

     But the actual use for my fire truck, so far, has been none of those things.  It turns out that the Lord really does work in mysterious ways. 

The Owalla Road Baptist Church sponsors a vacation bible school and either by design, my wife is on the VBS committee, or by divine intervention, I'm still not sure but I'm going with the latter, the VBS theme involved fire.  Specifically kindling one's heart for God, but anyone who has ever tried to inspire children knows that abstract concepts must be closely related to real experiences.  The fire truck was pressed into service.  Applying adult logic, though, fire trucks being what they are, devices to control fire, I saw myself as the antithesis to kindling.  The devil showing up every morning with extinguishing equipment to make sure hearts kindled for God did not actually get out of control.  It seems to me that this metaphor is not entirely lost on many adult members, myself included, of many churches with no harsh judgement intended toward the Owalla Road Church or any church.  I think many of us show up occasionally, or even more often, with our fire retarding equipment well in place, but there is an old saying that says something about the futility of admonishing people over politics or religion, so I choose to respect that since there is hardly ever any humor in it.  Just sayin'. 

     The children loved it.  They regarded me as the exciting old man (can you say "oxymoron") who showed up in a fire truck every morning, moments before the van transporting them pulled in, to flash emergency lights and blow sirens while they were unloading in the parking lot. Clapping their hands tightly over their ears, squealing with excitement or (as it occurred to me the last day when I left the siren blaring and actually stepped in front of the truck) pain, they would run for the church door anticipating another day of fire kindling fun.   A real fire man showed up one day to explain some of the clothing and equipment used to actually enter a burning structure, but I couldn't help notice that he didn't have a fire truck.  The kids didn't, though.  They were well impressed and learned some fire survival techniques.  I was left alone with my petty jealousy.

     Mid-week was when the rubber hit the road, or more accurately the water hit the kids.  I fired up the pumps and made it rain.  Not just rain, but rain sideways to some extent.  The younger groups had fun playing in the falling spray, but as the age groups reached upper elementary levels the inevitable gauntlets were hurled, "Betcha can't knock me down with that thing".  Increasing the pressure to water-cannon levels I was able to demonstrate not only fire fighting capabilities but riot control effectiveness as well.  It wasn't hard to get them to admit it was fun being pinned to the ground by hundreds of pounds of pummeling water spray, so all in all, I think everyone had a good time.  I know I did.

     The culmination of VBS on Sunday evening was a celebration.  The parents proudly watching the performances of their children, the director receiving accolades for another great season, the teachers and staff volunteers quietly thanking God that it was finally over.  But the crowning event was a fire truck ride for all the kids.  Twenty-five children precariously perched on top of a careening fire truck hurtling down the highway with lights flashing and sirens blaring.   That would have been really exciting.  But the way we did it, minus the precariousness, not really careening or hurtling but with lights and sirens all the same, was exciting enough for little hearts that had been kindled for God.  But for an attention seeking, exciting old man, priceless.

    This is probably the last fire truck installment for a while at least. There may be one more in the future perhaps written by my protege, if I had a protege, who will continue my legacy with another fire truck story.  It probably won't be as good as these last few have been but the title I'm suggesting is "Burying The Old Man In His Fire Truck".  As for the first step, dig a pretty big hole.

Having A Fire Truck

     There is a lot I don't know about fire trucks!  But since buying one, there's a lot less I don't know than I didn't know before I bought it.  For instance, I didn't realize fire trucks got such bad gas mileage on long trips.  But I do now.  I may be getting ahead of myself here.  Recall that I had just made the winning bid on a fire truck and was faced with several dilemmas, the direst of which was telling my wife about it.  I'm here to admit that that was just an old blogger trick to hold your interest, like a "Who shot JR?" cliffhanger.  So now that the whole nation is on the edge of its collective seat, I can reveal that it was not a dilemma at all.  In fact, she was elated that I had bought the fire truck.  She loves fire trucks.
     It turns out, though, that what she loved best about this fire truck was that I bought it.  And because I bought it, she could see no reason why she should not spend money to remodel two bathrooms and a bedroom.  Now I don't have a thing against remodeling, but I do tend to resist spending money unless it is absolutely necessary, so purchasing the fire truck really required a reassessment of what things in life are absolutely necessary.  It seems that while the need to own a fire truck is self-evident, there is more subtle evidence to suggest that remodeling is also a necessity from time to time.  That's another thing I didn't know about fire trucks, but I surely do now.
     With that dilemma cleverly averted, I was still charged with the administrative items and transportation.  The administrative tasks, transferring money, acquiring insurance, transferring title, etc., were really more mundane than painful, but still mildly painful, in a mundane sort of way.  Acquiring insurance taught me another thing that I didn't know about fire trucks but being familiar with insurance, as you are, I don't think I have to elaborate on that.  So it all boiled down to transportation.
     Once again, an obvious solution presented itself.  Find someone to help drive, rent a car for the one way trip there, drive the truck back, what could be simpler? One might think that finding someone available to leave at a moments notice to help drive on a sixteen hundred mile journey might be a dilemma in itself.   Not for me, because I am blessed.  I have an angel, albeit an unlikely one, named Adam, who was in fact available, a pretty good driver, and young and healthy enough to deal with those situations that might arise on a long road trip that can be so challenging to an arthritic, heart attack survivor such as myself.  With all dilemmas now cleared we set off with enthusiasm and excitement for the frozen climes of west central Minnesota.
     I have intentionally neglected to mention our destination until now, but with good reason.  I have relatives in both Minnesota and South Dakota. While I felt a serious obligation to pay visits, the nature of this trip, in my opinion, did not present the proper opportunity for fulfilling those obligations so I opted to keep the destination quiet trying to maintain peace in the family.  But I realize now that no one really reads this anyway so hiding secrets here is like burying a dead fish underwater.
     We left Claremore in the afternoon and arrived in the little town of Wadena, Minnesota, about lunch time the following afternoon.  The paperwork transferred smoothly and finally we were at the fire house. The truck was still in service meaning that the water tank was full.  Since the weather was below freezing, we opted to empty the tank for the trip.  This allowed the opportunity to learn how the pumps worked and which lever to pull and when to pull it to get the water flowing.  In that session, I learned a lot about fire trucks that I didn't know before.  I also confirmed that I had certainly purchased a gem.
     We left Wadena with the blizzard-of-the-century already ravaging Colorado.  It was on an easterly warpath approaching the western side of the Dakotas heading straight for us.  The plan, head south as fast as a fire truck could carry us.  It turns out, that was pretty fast.  We made it past the freeze line without getting snowed in but by the time we reached Kansas City, we were definitely in the pouring rain.  I learned something about fire trucks and angels on that leg of the journey.  I learned that it costs about a buck a mile in gas money to keep a fire truck moving at a fast pace over a long period of time.  I learned that angels aren't always the gentle, smiling beings one sees mentoring little children on television programs.  My angel, at least, seemed to have a more human reaction to having to climb on top of the truck in a 30 mph, 10 degree Fahrenheit wind to secure the hose protecting tarp that was about to blow off.  I learned that angels know words that us mere mortals have no idea about.  But all in all, there was just the right amount of excitement and tension to keep things interesting until our adventure concluded when we pulled into the driveway at Claremore.  All unscathed, man, angel and truck.  The truck had performed well.  The man and angel, well, still talking at least, but you know how long road trips can take their toll even on angelic men and manly angels.
     I was glad to be home.  I was especially relieved that the truck had been transported without damage or incident, other than to my wallet.  My wife was especially happy to see me, as was the remodeling contractor. Another thing I learned about fire trucks.  No matter how much they damage your wallet, they will never be a match for a remodeling contractor.
   

Buying A Fire Truck

     Is it just me, or did everyone at one time or another dream of being a fireman and racing, on a shiny red fire truck with sirens blaring, toward the excitement surrounding an out-of-control fire?  Well, to be honest, the out-of-control fire part might be an embellishment to the more mundane dream of simply riding on a fire truck.  I really can't remember the exact way that dream played out because it was a long time ago, but I recently discovered that I grew up with a latent interest in riding on fire trucks so I can only assume it must have been one of those mind shaping thoughts that periodically play out in the minds of children.  I suppose I could project this assumption to explain all of the quirky passions that have revealed themselves since my retirement, but I try to keep this short and focused (as if focus is even possible any more).
     I've been monitoring an on-line auction site that disposes of property for municipalities and other public agencies such as colleges, prisons, etc.  I've bid on and actually acquired several vehicles and other treasures from various cities and schools across the country.  One disadvantage of bidding on items in remote locations is that it is difficult and expensive to go and inspect the property before bidding.  Pictures of vehicles are displayed along with written descriptions that in some cases are informative and accurate.  With a little practice and patience I have been able to develop enough skill at evaluating those descriptions to become comfortable bidding on items "sight unseen".  I have acquired some vehicles at very low prices that I have been able to turn around at small profits, more accurately, with the potential for profits, as I am much better at acquiring than turning around.  Actually, turning around, in my yard that is, has become an issue in itself, what with all the stockpiled vehicles stacking up.  Also, the adventure of going to pick them up has added some excitement to my normally routine existence so most of the time it is a win-win situation.
     One of my favorite categories of vehicles to watch is fire trucks.  Fire trucks are unique vehicles to purchase in more than just the obvious bright red, lights and sirens way.  First of all, they are almost always very low mileage for their age.  For instance 1970's models, the ones that are generally in my price range, typically have less than 20,000 actual miles.  Since the engine is used to power the pumps, the engine hours can be much higher than the mileage would indicate but these hours, in my opinion, are low stress miles so the trucks are usually mechanically sound. 
Secondly, as emergency vehicles, they are expected to be available at all times so they are well maintained at tax payers expense insuring that all the manufacturer's recommended procedures are followed to the letter.  Thirdly, to comply with safety laws pumps and equipment have to be certified periodically which means all equipment is inspected, and pressure tested and either replaced or repaired to certifiable specifications, again at tax payer expense.  Additionally, the nature of the work, hours and hours of waiting punctuated by short periods of intense work, keeps wear to a minimum.  Also being garaged in the fire house, cleaned and polished after each use and generally looked at as an item of pride by those around them, insure that used, even well used, fire trucks are a sound purchase in the used truck auction.  The thing that I could not figure out though, was why there were not more bidders interested in purchasing them.  But since this normally worked to my benefit I never really pondered it too deeply.
     It was just a few months ago, February, to be exact, that I could finally resist no longer.  A 1972, IHC, Cargo Star chassis with a 1000 gallon water tank, a certified pump, 14,000 actual miles and the full compliment of equipment including thousands of feet of hose, ladders, hose connecting tools and fire fighting equipment including pikes, axes, hand held extinguishers and you name it, came on the market.  It was still in service in a small town in another state, albeit 800 miles away.  Still in service? Certified? 14,000 miles? What's not too love about that?  I was hooked.
     My technique at auctions is to lay in the weeds until the last minute.  Each day my excitement would build as I checked the bidding.  Not many people bidding.  Not much enthusiasm for my prize.  The anxiety and pressure mounted throughout the two week bidding period until finally the big day arrived.  I had set an alarm on my cell phone so as not to fall victim to the distractions of the day that had caused me to miss so many opportunities in the past.  When the alarm sounded with thirty minutes to left to bid, I logged in with high expectations of becoming a fire truck owner.  The last bid was more than twelve hours ago. No one was watching this truck.  I hunkered down like a cat in front of a mouse hole and waited, just in case.  At two minutes to go I made my move.  Boom!  Twenty seven hundred bucks with an automatic option to go as high as 3500.  The seconds were counting down, but not nearly fast enough for me.  Finally, the end of auction notice appeared with yours truly as the winning bidder.  Relief.  Elation.  Reality.  I now owned a fire truck that was 800 miles away.  I had to come up with 2700 bucks and get it transferred to the city treasurer within five days.  I had to make travel or transport arrangements or both to get it picked up within ten days.  I had to tell my wife.
     A new adventure was about to begin.  All I had to do was survive telling my wife.  But since this installment is about "Buying a Fire Truck", I'll have to continue at another time, soon I hope.  I hesitate to use the old saw "God willing and the creek don't rise" because lately, even though God may be willing, although sometimes it's hard to tell about God, the creek seems to be rising more frequently, if you know what I mean.  If you don't, don't worry about it.  I seldom do myself anymore.

How Do I Love Thee?

THE GOLDEN STRANDS

The golden strands burst o’er her purple raiment

And follow gently down the satin folds.

For in her chamber my fair love is lying,

A pure unblemished vision I behold.

Her face is warm and beautiful as heaven

When all the stars are blazing in the sky

The smooth white skin absorbs the fleeting moonbeams

She radiates them to me from her eyes.

The moon light falls to kiss her snow white breasts

Like rolling waves upon the emerald sea

They rise and fall with every gentle breath

Their fullness beckons to me silently

Well before the clamorous dawn approaches

I lie down quietly in her embrace

Comforted by steadfast devotion

Soothed in the sanctum of her grace

Too soon the boisterous world is calling for me

And dawn comes crashing rudely through the glass

I leave my love aslumber in her chamber.

My heart remains for it refused to pass.

Love's Refinery

Her love is like a towering oil well

That probes the rocky subsoil of my heart.

That point without compare is free to drill

The bedrock that the lessers could not part.

She struck the pocket where the crude love was.

It's free to bubble forth with each heart beat.

She's taken that of which God was the cause

And with her love she makes His work complete.

She pumps each little drop my heart can store

Into hers where it's processed and refined,

But in the taking she gives back much more

That makes me able to love all mankind.

As though the pipeline from my heart to life

Was nourished by the love of my dear wife.

My Resting Place

There's still a place where I may rest

And forget the agonies of the day.

A place where skies are ever clear,

Where the Sun smiles down through perfumed air

To touch gentle streams and shimmering pools,

Where flowers rustle softly beneath the kiss of the bee

Or the caress of a passing butterfly,

While angels in Heaven look upon me

And envy my fate.

That place is where you are.

Cracks In The Time-Space Contiuum

The White Bird

I saw the white bird soar on silent wings
     And mount above the feathery wisps of white
From the confines of the rutted road
     I rose and followed silently its flight

So gracefully we glided through the clouds
     Their airy substance neither broke nor stirred
Across the seas and o'er the mountains' domes
     Through the very gates of time I tracked this bird

The fog closed round us like a crystal shroud
     Like a prism filtering its rays
It cast the light from every side and angle
     And made the sun surround us like the day

Through this spectrum's splendor we continued
     Never seeing earth nor sky nor sea
The past obscurred the future still enshrouded
     The present nothing save that bird and me



Forever Now

The past should be the present
     The present shouldn't be
          The future, if it should exist
     Should do so openly

We shouldn't have to worry
     Over what we think should come
          Or ponder what has come to pass
     And what we should have done

We shouldn't have tomorrow
     Or have had yesterday
          We should have woke this morning
     And known it was today

Last week should be forgotten
     Next month should never come
          Last night should follow yesterday
     When yesterday is done

Were waiting for tomorrow
     Remembering yesterday
          And living when and then and if
     While now goes on its way

If the past would be the present
     And the present wouldn't be
          The future when and then and if
     Would be so plain to see