Solving The Washington Redskin Dilemma

I can remember the days when the acronym PC stood for Personal Computer.  It was at the dawning of the computer age before social media, the internet or even cell phones.  Oh, don’t get me wrong, there were computers before that, for sure, we just didn’t know what they were.   I can remember a show called the $64,000 Question which featured a twelve year old genius named Teddy something or another who had built a computer in a shoe box.  Since nobody knew what a computer should look like, we were impressed by the little box with D cell batteries and wires running everywhere.  It was only later that we learned that one of the few actual working computers in the world was housed in a three story building with a team of maintenance people working 24/7 to keep it running. So little Teddy’s shoe box computer would have been impressive had it been real.  Later it was revealed that this twelve year old genius was given the answers to the show’s questions and finally that the whole thing was a scam and everyone involved was a cheater.  We were shocked!  But as I said, that was before social media and the internet and before cheating became so common that it is no longer shocking.  Now we simply say it is not “Politically Correct” or PC and no one is particularly shocked.   That doesn’t mean we are not scandalized by behavior that is not PC.
  
Racism, racial epithets and less than flattering references to ethnic groups are all so un-PC that the slightest mention can cause huge disturbances.  For example, the use of the name Redskins for the Washington Redskins Football team has recently come under fire from the U. S. Congress.  The same Congress that not too long ago decided that Native American people should be forcibly relocated from their historic tribal lands to a place where no white man wanted to live at the time, Oklahoma, now feels that using the name Redskins for their football team is demeaning to Native American people and should be banned.

What many people don’t realize is that we in Oklahoma have the same problem on a much larger scale. According to the newest place mat at the famous Hammett House Restaurant in Claremore, the name Oklahoma comes from the Osage words “okla” meaning red, and “humma” meaning people.  Yes, that’s right, Oklahoma means “red people”.  How the spelling got changed from humma to homa was not adequately explained, but Oklahomans don’t seem to be troubled much by spelling so I suspect one is about as good as the other to most people.

I wonder why a football team called Redskins upsets the sensitivities of our lawmakers so much while a state called red people doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.  I’ve come to the conclusion that it is language itself that makes the difference.  Redskin in English sounds much harsher than Oklahoma in a foreign language. (Now here is where my dilemma begins. Osage is a Native American language so it is not really foreign but native.  English is our native language, brought from another country, so not really native but foreign.) My point is, everyone knows what Redskin means, hardly anyone, until now, knew what Oklahoma means.

I’m suggesting that Washington solve its problem the way Oklahoma did, by masking its racial epithets in an unfamiliar language.  Translate the name into French.  Who could be offended by Washington Peaux Rouges?  I mean who could even pronounce it?  What about Washington Rot Haut in German?  Washington Piel Roja might still cause problems since more people there probably speak Spanish than English.  Latin is a “dead language”. Who is left to be offended by Washington Red Pelles?  Or how many Afrikaners will attend a Washington Rod Velle game? The obscure Danish Washington Rode Skind is close enough that fans could still relate and the logo on team merchandise could be easily changed. 

But for my money, a proven winner would be my choice, The Washington Oklahomans.

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


   

The Man Who Ran Over Himself

When I was about 5 years old, I used to tell a joke.  It was the joke about the man who ran over himself. It went like this : 

Me – “Did you hear about the man who ran over himself?”

Hapless strager – “No, how did that happen.”

Me – “A man asked a little boy to run over to the cigar store across the street to buy him some cigars, but the little boy said ‘No’ so the man ran over himself!”

I thought at the time that it was uproariously funny and I’m sure I must have gotten a chuckle out of the hapless stranger, because I recall this as a pleasant experience.  Now right away you can tell that this joke was from a by-gone era.  No one would consider sending a little boy across a street today to buy cigars.  Besides the obvious danger of sending a child into traffic, there would probably be some sort of legal repercussions for sending a child to buy cigars such as contributing to the delinquency or some abuse derivative.  This joke is obviously outdated so I had to quit telling it a couple of months ago.  But something happened this morning that made me think of it, or at least just how outdated it is.  Since it is technology related, I am the first in my line to whom this has ever happened and perhaps it can be worked into a joke that my grandchildren and perhaps several more generations can tell before it becomes outdated also.  Here are the details.

                Today, I received a phone call on my home phone.  When I picked up and checked the caller ID (I always screen for bill collectors) I was a little puzzled because the call was from me, from my cell phone number to be exact.  Now I was really confused because I had just checked my cell phone and responded to a text message a few seconds earlier so I knew that it was secure in my pocket and no one else could be using it.  My steel trap mind snapped shut on the obvious situation.  Hackers, I thought.  We are always hearing about hackers.  Almost every night on the news a hacker has hacked something and stolen everyone’s personal information.  Someone had hacked my cell account and redirected my connection to another cell phone and was now calling me probably for some kind of ransom to retrieve my identity.  I reluctantly pressed the talk button and said hello.  I had just poured a cup of coffee and moved across the kitchen to place it in the microwave while answering.  It sounded like some pervert on the line, not talking but breathing or blowing heavily into the phone.  Now I was getting angry.  I yelled “Look you a**hole,” but I stopped short when I heard my own words coming from the direction of that part of my anatomy that I had just referenced.  Now my mind was reeling.  I had just finished some research concerning the Creation Story in Genesis so speaking things into being was fresh on my mind.  I remembered how annoying it could be when in my childhood someone, perhaps an older sister, would repeat everything I said.  How annoying would it be to have everything you say repeated by … well, I think you get the picture.

Suddenly it dawned on me to check the cell phone in my pocket and sure enough I found the perpetrator.  Now the situation became clear but I still had to go over it in my head a couple of times to get myself to accept it.  Not some pervert blowing into the mouthpiece to intimidate me, but the phone simply rubbing on the inside of my pocket as I walked.  Not the words of my mouth repeated by another orifice but simply the speaker button clandestinely activated.  But even with a clear understanding of what had happened, I still felt compelled to mumble a quick apology before I hung up but by this time I had taken the cell phone out if my pocket so the echoing of my words was not so disconcerting.  I must have forgotten to lock the touch screen before I put the phone away after sending my message.  My home phone number is on my speed dial list.  It didn’t take long for my steel trap mind to spring around that.  I’ll have to admit at first I was embarrassed.  But the more I thought about it, the funnier it became.  It could become a suitable replacement for the outdated man who ran over himself.  Who won’t like the high tech man who called himself? 

I can almost picture it now.  My (as yet unborn) future grandson approaching a hapless stranger:

Little Andy – “Hey mister, did you hear about the man who called himself?”

Hapless Stranger – “No.  What did he call himself?”

Little Andy – “Oh, I’m not allowed to say that word, mister.”

Hapless Stranger – “Ok, I’m looking for my lost puppy, why don’t you come help me?”

Little Andy – “I’m not allowed to go with strangers either.”

Hapless Stranger – “Well, just come sit in the car with me.  I’ll give you this lollipop.”

Little Andy (running away) – “Mommmmm!”

                On second thought, maybe we just need a new version of the man who ran over himself.

Little Andy  - “Hey, mister, did you hear about the man who ran over himself?”

Hapless Stranger – “No, what happened?”

Little Andy - “He was trying to take the groceries out of his car but instead of opening the trunk he hit the self park button and ran over himself.”

Hapless Stranger – “That’s not funny.”

Little Andy - “Gramma thought so when the firemen were lifting the car off my grampa.”

While it is entirely possible that I will be, and could even be considered probable that I will be, I really do hope that I will not be the inspiration for that joke.

A Garden Story Part 8 of 8

When Eve fainted Adam’s first thought was to get her to the place that they had called home since arriving at the garden.  While it was not exactly a home in the sense of a building, it provided comfort and security much like a nest provided comfort to the little birds that flitted overhead waking them in the morning.  They had a soft bed of sweet grass that they shared, an area that contained some stones that they were able to use as seats while dining, a fresh little stream that passed through a natural basin for washing.  Their bathroom needs were met a short distance away by a natural cleft in the rocks that they could straddle that had an underground stream passing through it.  So while it was not a home by some standards, it provided all the things they needed to partake of a comfortable life.  There was fruit nearby, albeit not always the first choice on their bill of fare, it was always readily available and adequate in taste and quality. 

          He knew if he could just get them there, they could rest and refresh and somehow determine what their next move should be.  He hoped that Eve would be able to walk after a short rest as his back and legs were aching along with his troubled heart.  He sat down beside her but was at a loss for anything to say.  The look on her face told him of the seriousness of her state of mind but he really had no idea what he could say to comfort her.  As he sat there studying her expression she turned to glance at him and as their eyes met she could control her composure no longer.  Her eyes welled with tears and when she tried to speak an apology for them her voice could not be found, only an unintelligible croaking sound uttered as she buried her face in her hands and wailed loud and bitter sobs.  The sadness of her demeanor crept over him and he could not keep his own eyes from oozing likened bitter tears.  He moved closer and put his arms around her and tried to hold her close but the motion of her heaving sobs necessitated a looser hold.  She laid her head on his shoulder and he on hers but could think of no word or movement to comfort her so for a time they both sat weeping in silence. 

          Tears, while of themselves not pure, have the capacity to carry impurities from the body.  Not the physical impurities evacuated by the liver or kidneys but emotional impurities that build in the wake of dire thoughts.  The act of weeping cleared their minds of the bitter residues of remorse and despair and allowed them to emerge from the wreckage of their present situation to a point where they could at least continue toward home.

          Eve was able to walk now and so side by side, hand in hand they set out in silence.  And though the immediate debilitating effects of their morning had passed, the more permanent damage of the broken relationship with the only remaining intelligent being that they knew and loved continued to envelope them in dreariness.  Adam was truly sorry that he disobeyed the old man’s instructions regarding the forbidden trees.  While he certainly did not look forward to their next meeting, he did hope that he could think of some way to apologize and at least clear the air.  He glanced sideways at Eve and noticed that she looked different now somehow.  He had always gotten a certain feeling when he looked at her before, one that he was at a loss now to describe but he knew for sure that it was not there anymore.  It was not just that the leaves were now covering her bosom and genitalia.  He remembered how that had aroused him so by the lake that he was literally paralyzed.  He wondered if he would ever have another experience like that. 

          He could not actually pinpoint what was different now but he knew that eating the forbidden fruit had changed him.  Many of the things that he saw now on the way home seemed different to him as he viewed them from his new perspective.  It was like the awe and wonder that he used to feel about even simple things - the miracle of the tadpoles and how their tails fell off and they gained legs as they matured into frogs, or the great horned green worm emerging from his cocoon as a colorful monarch butterfly - that magic was gone, replaced by an understanding of natural metamorphosis that would probably serve him well as he struggled to eke a living from the soil while robbing him of his former child-like appreciation for the joy around him.  He thought that wisdom was not necessarily a good thing and would have given anything to return to the way things were yesterday, not only with Eve but with the old man as well.

          The old man was heartbroken.  He was devastated by the action that he had had to take.  Infuriated with himself for turning his back on that serpent for even one second.  “Damn him,” he thought.  “We go back far enough that I knew what he was capable of but I hoped that Adam might be strong enough to overcome him.  I thought not knowing good and evil would protect them from his guiles since he really had no way to tempt them.  But now, now that they have eaten of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, they can certainly not be trusted again.  Surely their new found wisdom will compel them to eat of the Tree of Life and if they become exactly like us, who knows the destruction they could wreak, especially now that they are vulnerable to the serpent’s influence.  I’m sure he is defeated for now, but I know his deceitful ways will soon bring him into full recovery so there is no choice but to separate the man from the Tree of Life.  He must be banished from the garden.”  With that decision, the old man felt compelled to sit down and weep his own bitter tears.

           They were relieved to be back to their familiar surroundings as they collapsed into their comfortable bed.  They fell asleep immediately.  She curled into a fetal position with her back to him and he draped himself around her like a comfortable wrap as they journeyed into rejuvenating slumber.  They had only slept a short time when they were awakened by the old man’s voice.  Adam would have preferred to sleep much longer as he felt very groggy and tired when he woke up.  But he knew that was not an option so he dragged himself from his bed and adjusted his fig leaf apron to cover himself adequately as he went forth to greet the old man.  Eve was beside him and he was aware of her struggling with her coverings as well. 

          The nap had lifted them from the point of utter exhaustion that normally follows an adrenaline filled emotional experience.  It left Adam in a compliant state willing to do anything to try to gain back the old man’s favor.  He had tried to consider his options on the walk back and had come up with a plan that involved him and Eve moving to a place in the garden farther away from the forbidden trees.  He would clear away the grass and bushes and carry seeds and plants from other parts of the garden and plant them there so that they would never have to go near the forbidden trees again.  He was hoping that would appease the old man and they could try to return to their normal unstrained relationship.

          When they were all together, the old man showed them some clothes that he had made for them.  They were made from animal skins and so were much more durable than the fig leaves they were wearing that were starting to dry and crumble around the edges.  When they put them on, they found that the new clothes covered their whole bodies and not just their genitalia.  The clothes protected them from the brush and thorns that they noticed were scratching them as they moved along the pathways earlier on the way home.  Adam had not noticed that happening before and thought perhaps it was another peril of their new found wisdom.  The old man explained the dilemma that he was in regarding letting them stay in the garden.  He told them that they would be leaving soon, even before night fall, and that they would have to make their way in the world that waited outside of the garden.

          He told them that he still loved them and would protect them in the world and that they could meet with him when they wanted to talk although once they left the garden they would not be able to see him in his current form.  He blessed them and gave them some special traits of which they were not yet aware.  They would become the indomitable human spirit which would enable them to overcome adversity through perseverance and faith.  As they walked forth from the garden into the world, they were overwhelmed by a feeling of loss of a simple, happy way of life.  The thought of turning back crept into their minds briefly but when they saw a giant tongue of flame descend over the path that they had just trod they understood once and for all that this period of their lives had come to an end.  And so like children reluctant to leave the security of the only home they had ever known, yet driven to explore and build something they could call their own, they turned their eyes eagerly toward the wonders and hardships that awaited them just over the horizon and neither looked back again.

The End

A Garden Story Part 7 of 8

          Adam knew they could not hide from the old man forever and thought it would probably be best to get this situation resolved.  Reluctantly he stood and left his hiding place and approached the old man by the forbidden tree.  He didn’t have to turn around to be aware that Eve was following him.  Adam said, “I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.”

          “Who told you that you were naked?  Have you eaten from the tree that I told you not to eat from?”

          Adam knew he would have to fess up, but he did not want to take all the responsibility for his action so he attempted to direct it back to the old man.  “The woman that you put here with me gave me some fruit from the tree and I ate it!”  Eve was approaching from the side.  She had moved around to the flank as Adam approached the old man so that she could see them both clearly.  She wanted to be ready to flee if necessary.  Slick had moved closer to her so they stood apart from both Adam and the old man.

          The old man whirled toward Eve.  “What is this that you have done?” he bellowed. 

          She stepped back in panic and stammered, “The serpent deceived me, and I ate it.”

          The old man centered his glare on Slick.  “Because you have done this, cursed are you above all the animals.  You will crawl on your belly and you will eat dust all the days of your life.”  Slick suddenly felt the feeling draining from his arms and legs.  His beautiful colors began to fade as scales formed all over his body.  As the numbness overtook his limbs, he could no longer stand and fell into a heap on the ground.  The ground around him became a fine dust like talcum powder.  Every time he tried to take a breath the powder would fill his mouth and nostrils.  The dust covered his eyes and he had to shut them tight but the dirt that was in them caused nearly unbearable pain.  With his limbs numb and eyes welded shut with dirt, he could not be sure but it felt like his arms and legs had shriveled and disappeared.  He knew he had to get out of there but the only way he could move was to wriggle from side to side and try to push along the ground. 

          The old man continued.  “I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers.  They will strike your head and you will strike their heels.”  In his agony Slick knew he must get to the water to wash his tortured eyes.  He tried to get his bearings and headed as best he remembered toward the water.  But the woman was in the way. 

“Damn you, move!” he shouted.  He was not even aware that his voice had become an inaudible hiss.  In his desperation to get to the water he had to resort to the only way he had to get her to move.  He reared his head back and in his blind rage began biting at her foot screaming “Move damn it, move!”

          Somehow in the confusion Adam sensed that Eve was in danger.  He sprang to her side like a cat reaching her just in time to pull her out of range of the striking snake.  When she moved, the snake shot desperately toward the pond leaving a totally dismayed Eve watching him depart with her hand over her mouth.  She had no time to grieve nor even comprehend what had happened to her handsome friend.  The old man whirled toward her and both she and Adam blanched in fear.  “You,” he said, his voice softening slightly but still quite stern, “I will increase your pains in childbearing.  You will give birth to children with great pain.  Your desire will still be for your husband, and he will rule over you.”  Adam was relieved to hear that.  After seeing what had happened to the serpent, he was fearful of what Eve’s punishment would be.  But this, pain in child bearing, was trivial to him.  Not that he wasn’t concerned that Eve would have to bear pain, but compared to being covered with scales and having your arms and legs wither away, this was nothing.  He had fully expected to be required to participate in the punishment but now it looked as though he would come out of this unscathed.  He was about to congratulate himself when the old man continued, “Adam, because you listened to your wife and ate from the tree about which I commanded you, ‘You must not eat of it,’ cursed is the ground because of you.”

          Adam’s heart sank as remorse and the bitterness of sorrow welled up within him like one of the steaming geysers he had seen on the other side of the garden.  It burned in his stomach like acid making it hard to pull in his breath.  The vision of Slick trying to breathe with the dust filling his mouth and choking him flashed across his mind like a hideous video scene.  The words because you listened to your wife and cursed is the ground continued to resonate over and over.  He resolved never to listen to Eve again.  Oh, yes, she was pretty alright, and the gifts she possessed, well, what man would not want to stay in her favor to enjoy those, but now that he understood he would be held responsible for participating in her schemes and treacheries, he vowed to himself to always follow his own heart in matters of judgment.  I would have never eaten this stupid fruit no matter how hungry I was, he thought.  I should not have let her talk me into it.  How would I have known that the old man was going to show up just then?

          His silent recrimination was cut short as the old man continued, “Only through painful toil will you eat of it all the days of your life.”  Painful toil lingered in Adam’s mind.  Why must I suffer pain when it was clearly Eve’s fault, he pondered?  The old man wasn’t finished, “It will produce thorns and thistles for you and you will eat the plants of the field.  By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.”  Adam steeled himself for the ordeal that he was sure was about to take place.  To dust you will return re-conjured the vision of Slick writhing in misery and Adam thought that perhaps he could feel his own legs starting to get numb.  He looked at Eve and closed his eyes to fix that last image of her in his mind, fighting the urge to cry out to her in his impending agony.  He waited for a few moments that seemed like a whole lifetime but nothing happened.  He cautiously reopened his eyes but the old man had departed.  He and Eve were alone and the look on her face told him immediately that she was in trouble.  He lunged forward to catch her as her body crumpled to the ground in a full faint.

          When she was once again aware of her surroundings, she was aware of motion.  With her eyes still closed, it seemed to her that she was floating. She opened her eyes and was relieved to notice Adam’s determined face only inches away from her own, not looking at her but beyond her to the path ahead.  She was cradled in his arms as he carried her away from that horrible site.  As the memory of Slick’s agonized dash to the water flashed through her mind, she wondered how a place of such beauty could have been the setting of such horrible events.  Not wanting to interact with anyone right now, she tried to remain relaxed but he sensed her return to consciousness and found a suitably comfortable spot to gently lower her to the ground.  He was relieved that she had awoken but the expression that lay upon her face like a grotesque mask told him that she was far from normal.  The lingering visions of her beautiful friend suddenly turning drab and ugly and ultimately transforming into a hideous snake, the thought of the old man’s disfavor, not to mention threats of pain, the adrenaline let-down after the extreme fear caused by expectations of impending violence, all combined into a mantle of despair that lay upon her like the coating of dust from Slick’s ordeal.

          Adam totally understood her plight and shared it for the most part.  While he was not suffering the loss of someone he cared a good deal

about, he could surely sympathize with Slick’s fate, especially at that moment when he was convinced that he was about to share it.  The old man’s disfavor weighed equally heavy on his mind.  He had not yet had an opportunity to analyze the effects of the curse that had been put upon him, but he knew that it implied certain and long lived misery and that translated into dread for now.  All of those burdens, plus the anxiety of wondering what would happen next and what they should be doing now was exacting a heavy toll from both of them.

To Be Continued…

A Garden Story Part 6 of 8

Eve caught her breath at the beauty of the place as they approached the area of the forbidden trees.  Her tears had proven therapeutic in that they cleared away some of the tension and anxiety that Adam’s absence had caused.  She remained a little upset with him but still would have preferred him to the present company.  But she did have to admit that Slick had been a real comfort to her.  He was quite charming with his sharp wit and quite funny as well.  After she regained her composure and they were able to travel in a normal manner he had kept her in stitches with his antics.  She would not have been able to find this place on her own although she suspected he might have taken a roundabout way to get here presumably to spend more time with her.  She chose to regard that as a compliment and while she regarded him as a dear friend, she sensed that he would like to take their relationship to a more intimate level but hoped intensely that he would not indicate so.

          The old man had a nagging feeling that something was amiss but was having trouble putting his finger on it.  He had been concerned about his children since he had been forced to tell them how things had come about.  He was sure that they had not understood everything he had explained but he was also sure that if they took the time and approached it together they would come to a reasonable understanding that would make their lives more comfortable.  He did not want them to live in fear, either of the world around them or of him.  But right now, something was not right.  He thought perhaps the memories that he had unveiled for them during the night might have been more than they could bear.  He had hoped that the memories would serve them and allow them to be more like their natural born children would be, but perhaps the whole idea of birth and death was too much for them to handle right now.  If that were the case, he certainly did not know how he would be able to rectify it but he knew that he must go to them and offer them comfort if necessary.

          As Eve and Slick settled back in the shade of the forbidden tree to relax for a while and rest up from their long hike, the first signals of hunger began to stir.  She had only eaten a small breakfast and the stress of the morning and the walk had consumed much energy.  She looked around for something to eat but the only food in sight was the fruit on the forbidden tree.  It was the most beautiful fruit Eve had ever seen and the aroma of the blossoms permeated everything with the most delicious scent she had ever encountered.  “I’m so hungry,” she said to Slick.  “I think we should go into the forest and find something to eat then come back later.”

          Slick looked at her incredibly.  “We are sitting under a tree that bears the most delicious fruit in the garden and you want to go somewhere else to eat?” he asked.

          “We can’t eat the fruit from this tree,” she replied.  “Adam said if we eat the fruit from this tree we will surely die!  Oh, Slick, I’m so hungry but I don’t want to die!”

          “You won’t die if you eat this fruit.  I eat it all the time and do I look dead to you?” he mocked.

          “But the old man told Adam that if we eat it we will die!”

          “Well, you will not surely die.  The old man knows that when you eat it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like him knowing good and evil,” he said as he stood to reach for a particularly perfect fruit.  He took a large bite and began chewing it slowly.  He pushed the fruit toward Eve, “Here, eat some!  It is delicious.”

          Eve looked at him in disbelief then at the fruit that was so close that she could smell how good it must taste.  “Knowing good and evil,” she said.  “Is this a desirable thing?”

          “It is what makes the old man seem so smart and powerful.  It is what allows me to live free in the garden and not have to answer to anyone.  Don’t you want to be like the old man?  To do whatever you want whenever you want?  Here, take a bite!”

          She could resist no longer.  Taking the fruit in her slender hand she took a bite and began to chew.  It was even more delicious than she had anticipated.  The more she chewed, the sweeter it tasted.  Finally she swallowed still not sure what to expect.  As the delicious morsel slid down her throat she suddenly became aware of Slick’s hungry eyes leering at her in a way that she had not noticed before.  She looked down at her naked breasts and suddenly she felt self-conscious about them being exposed to his glare.  She noticed his eyes drop to the soft tuft between her thighs and her reaction was to cover herself with her hands.  She quickly reached up and pinched off some leaves from the forbidden tree and held them in front of her covering her nakedness as well as she could.  

          As Adam reached the clearing, he spotted Eve and Slick under the forbidden tree.  He saw that she was fidgeting with some leaves in front of her and that Slick was laughing uproariously pulling at them as though trying to take them from her.  As he drew nearer they spotted him and Eve called out to him.  Slick immediately turned and withdrew to the edge of the pond and pretended to be admiring the water lilies there.  Adam approached cautiously.  He expected Eve to be angry and he thought the best thing he could do was to start apologizing and not stop until she was ready to take him in her arms and forgive him.  He opened his mount to speak his apology but noticed that a half-eaten fruit lay at her feet.  “Have you eaten the forbidden fruit?” he gasped in horror.  “Oh, Eve, are you dying?”

          “Yes, I ate some of the fruit.  It is delicious, and no, I’m not dying.  I’m fine,” she said.  There was no hint of anger in her voice.

          “But the old man said we would die if we ate it,” he said.

          “But Slick told me that was because he did not want us to eat it.  When we eat it our eyes are opened and we become like the old man.  Look,” she said.  “I’m not dead.  I have gained wisdom Adam.  I feel wonderful.  Here try this.  Please, Adam, eat this and see what it will do for you.  It tastes wonderful and it will give you wisdom.  Please try it,” she implored, holding the fruit out to him.

          Adam’s heart was pounding.  He wanted to please Eve more than anything in the world, but he did not know if there would by a consequence for disobeying the old man, or if there was, what form it would take.  He felt like his options were limited.  He reached out and took the fruit and took a huge bite which he quickly chewed and swallowed.  She was right.  It was truly the best tasting food he had ever eaten.  His head seemed to clear.  Since last night, he had felt like he was walking in a haze of confusion.  But now he seemed able to see through that haze.  His new found memories were no longer just a blur in his mind.  He was able to look at things clearly and judge the goodness or lack of it in them. 

          As he turned and saw Slick by the pond looking back at him and saw that Eve had tried to cover herself with leaves he suddenly felt exposed and ashamed.  He turned and headed for the nearest clump of bushes that he saw.  Beyond them in a small clearing was a fig tree.  Its huge leaves will cover me, he thought as he gathered several.  Nearby was some tall grass and he quickly broke off several long stems and twisted them into a make shift belt.  Eve was at the fig tree now gathering her own leaves so he broke off some more stems of grass for her to use.  As he finished fashioning a belt and necklace to hold her leaves, he thought he heard the old man coming.

          “Shhh,” he shushed Eve.  “We must hide from the old man,” he whispered.  They ducked down in the tall grass and remained very still.

          When the old man saw the serpent and the partially eaten fruit under the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, he knew things were dire.   There was no sign of Adam and Eve except the partially eaten fruit so he knew they must be hiding.  He called, “Adam, where are you?”

To Be Continued…