Thoughts of an Average Joe

Do It Yourself

2012-01-11T20:35:00.002-05:00

I’m a frugal guy. Winnie says I’m a cheapskate. I don’t like to waste money. I frequently do, but I don’t like to. Especially when it comes to home repairs.

My buddy, Barnie, has a small engine repair business. There’s a sign near his service counter which explains his labor rates. It reads something like this:

Labor: $30/hr

If You Want to Help: $40/hr

If You’ve Already Tried To Fix Problem: $50/hr.

I’ve paid the $50/hr. many times. Last summer, the little woman’s riding lawnmower needed a simple belt replacement. There was no way I was paying Barnie $30/hr. to do an easy repair like that.

So, I drove the old Eagle Star up onto some car ramps and crawled under her. There were pulleys and gears and belts in every direction. I had an owner’s manual (and I took a year of Spanish back in high school), so it took me only two hours to figure out how to remove the main drive pulley to get to the left serpentine pulley so I could replace the belt.

The repair was complicated by the fact that my metric socket set was in my camper, which was at Dick’s RV repair to replace a fitting on the water heater I’d broken by over-tightening a nut.

Anyway, two hours later, the serpentine belt was replaced, and though in the meantime I’d missed the final game of the World Series, I was pleased with myself. I fired up the old tractor, drove onto my front lawn and engaged the mower deck. And, didn’t the Eagle Star cut a pretty, smooth swatch—about ten yards long—before I heard the ominous sound of clanging pulleys and flopping belts! Not a problem, Three days and $160 later, Barnie had her fixed up good as new.

Winnie decided we needed one of those fancy one-lever faucets, with the spray hose and all, to replace the one that came with our house of thirty years. She picked up a fixture she liked down at Smalltown Hardware and called up Jacky Spencer to see what he’d charge to install it. No way was I going to give that knucklehead plumber 80 bucks to come over and loosen a few fittings to install a simple faucet. Jackie was the dumbest guy in my class. He made it through eighth grade only because he was 16 years old and had been at Smalltown Elementary longer than any of the teachers there. So, I took off a day from work and commenced to putting in the little woman’s faucet.

There I am, wedged under the kitchen sink, my head and shoulders between half empty containers of Comet Cleanser and Kibbles & Bits, channel-lock pliers (the tool guaranteed to strip the corners off any nut) and vice-grips (designed to pinch that soft pad between the pinky finger and wrist and leave a painful bruise), at the ready. I twisted and grunted and cursed until I realized I was turning the nut in the wrong direction because I was . . . well . . . upside down and backwards. So I reversed directions with my wrenches. Finally, the nut let go all of sudden, sending me sideways under the cabinet and reminding me, in the midst of the maneuver, that I’d forgotten one very important step.

By now, I was covered with about two gallons of water and had knocked over a bottle of ammonia, the cap of which Winnie hadn’t secured very well. So, there I was, soaked in lukewarm water and smelling like I’d wet myself, when the little woman walked into the room.

“So, how’s it going, Einstein?” she innocently inquired.

“Oh, it’s going really well,” I yelled, ammonia-scented water dripping from my eyebrows.

“Call your friend, Jacky. Tell him I’ve done the hard stuff and he can take over from here.”

Hunting Camp Characters

2011-12-10T21:11:00.001-05:00

I’ve been going to deer camp for well over 40 years—to the Wright Boys Camp up near Island Lake every year—but also to several others, at times, through my life. I’ve noticed that every camp has some characters in common.

There’s always The Loudmouth—the guy who just never shuts up and spends most of his time blabbering on about his favorite subject . . . himself. Some of the guys I hunt with would be very content to stay in camp all day, consume adult beverages, eat chili, pass gas, and play cards; but they’d rather go out at -20° Fahrenheit, and develop piles from sitting on a frozen rock for six hours, than to stay in and endure the ramblings of The Loudmouth.

And, there’s always The Storyteller. He tells the same stories several times every deer season, but he’s not totally repetitious because he lies, and consequently, can’t remember how he’s told the tall tales in the past. So far, he’s shot the same twelve pointer with his shotgun, his 30-06, and his 303 Savage. That deer weighed 202 to 246 pounds, depending on how many Wild Turkeys preceded the story. Sometimes, he dragged that big buck four miles—all uphill—back to camp. Other nights he wounded the animal, which ran back two miles towards his truck, and was kind enough to drop dead 10 yards away from his tailgate.

There seems to be The Moocher in every camp, too—the guy who shows up with no food, a six pack of beer (two hours worth), just enough cash for poker, and a huge appetite. He always offers an excuse and a promise, but little else.

“I was going to bring up a big pot of moose meat stew, but the old lady didn’t make it in time. I’ll bring it next weekend, for sure.” He’s the same guy who never cooks a meal or washes a dish. He gets invited back every year only because he’s a relative and you can’t choose them.

Every camp has The Bragger, too. Up to the Wright Boys Camp, there’s a guy who, unfortunately, shot the biggest buck ever taken out of that cabin. He fell asleep in his tree stand and, when he regained consciousness, the monstrous animal (temporarily stupid because of his total obsession with does in heat), was lying down forty yards in front of him, apparently resting between lovemaking forays. That buck was the only deer The Bragger ever shot, but we’ve heard about it over and over for 30 years now.

So, there’s The Loudmouth, The Storytelling Liar, The Moocher, and The Bragger. But enough about me. There are those other characters, too.

The Joker knows hundreds of funny stories and can recall them at the mention of a word in a punchline. Everyone in camp has heard all of his jokes at least a hundred times, but we laugh with every repeat performance because The Joker is really good at acting out the stories, and speaks with foreign accents and speech impediments. For some reason, he’s always funniest on Jose Cuervo Night at deer camp.

Seems like every camp I visit has The Sleeper. My cousin, Smitty, is The Sleeper at the Wright Boys Camp. He naps in the recliner in front of the woodstove for, at least, six hours a day, goes to bed right after dinner (but before clean-up or wood splitting), and wakes up tired at ten a.m., just in time for his one hour hunt. I don’t know what Old Sleepy does when he’s not up at camp. I figure he must stay awake from Labor Day until deer season, and then catches up on his shut-eye.

There’s The Slob in every camp, too. You can track him like a deer by following the trail of empty beer cans, coffee cups, and dishes he leaves scattered throughout the cabin. As you might expect, his personal hygiene isn’t all it could be, either. He does fairly well at shooting deer and bear. I think it’s because he smells kind of wild, and they mistake him for one of their own.

A lot of camps have The Home Run King—the guy who can’t wait to get to camp and away from it all, but seems to come up with a thousand reasons to Run Home. I’m not sure if he’s afraid his little woman misses him, or fears she’s not lonely at all. I’m in luck that way; Winnie seems to enjoy my absence . . .

Things I Learned on a Fishing Trip

2011-11-07T14:19:00.001-05:00

Each spring I go on a fishing trip to northern Maine with a bunch of my buddies. This year, we traveled to Millinocket, then over the Golden Road to the Teles Road, and rented a rustic cabin on Spider Lake. We fished Spider Lake and the many brooks and streams that crossed our path for brook trout. On Saturday, we spent six hours driving, two hours fishing and swatting deer flies, and three hours emptying our coolers of the various liquid and solid provisions we’d packed for a hard day of trying to provide food for our families.

Here’s what I learned: My friend, Boozie, could fish in an aquarium containing a thousand trout and still catch and release the only chub (trash fish) on three consecutive casts. Jimbo, a rookie on the trip, is a good guy and is very bright—a veritable encyclopedia of useless information—until you get a pint of Crown Royal into him. Then, he’s even stupider than the rest of us.
There are a lot of regulations pertaining to the taking and possession of brook trout in Maine. It seems that every body of water has its own rules. We studied the 300 page summary provided by the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, and were still confused. We think we could keep up to five brookies over six inches, from brooks and streams, except those that were part of the Allagash Wilderness Waterway, in which case the trout had to be over 12 inches and, we could keep only two fish of which only one could be over 14 inches, and each must have a notch in the dorsal fin, unless there were at least 35 orange spots on each side of the fish, except for fish in streams crossing the American Realty Road, which must have no more than 25 orange spots on each side. We think we obeyed the laws. My friend, Barnie, has hired a lawyer to review the regulations and get back to us prior to next year's trip.
Another observation is that five inch trout will always swallow the hook to their bellies, where as 12 inchers will be hooked by just enough of their lip to allow you to land them on the shore, where they will slip off and flop around in a half inch of water, while the fisherman tries in vain to grab the slippery trophy before it escapes back into the stream. The event, inevitably, results in a wild dance, a escaped fish, and a frustrated fisherman with a hook through his thumb.

There is a lot of wildlife in the northern Maine woods. We saw several moose, a few deer, and hundreds of rabbits. We counted 108 cottontails on our drive back to the camp one evening. Apparently, they really do #%*! ( reproduce) . . . like . . . well . . . rabbits.

I also noticed that beer seems to evaporate in a cooler while I’m fishing. It seems that Barnie and Roy fish faster than I do, and they’d always be waiting for me at the truck when I’d climb out of the brook. They seemed really happy, even though several of our beer cans had apparently burst and were now empty. I’m not too bright, but I figured out by noon that I’d been appointed the DF (designated fisherman). Have you ever been too drunk to fish? My buddies have.

It seems that the spare tire stored under the bed of a pickup truck is not intended to be actually used. We passed three trucks with flat tires on logging company roads. It think it is Murphy’s 37^th law which says that you can drive your truck around town for 100,000 miles on old, bald tires and never have a flat, but get into the woods a hundred or so miles, and you will finally need that spare, which is now corroded to the bottom of your truck.

We met several members of the Pelletier family; you know, the guys made famous by the American Loggers TV show. We drove by their impressive logging company facility at Clayton Lake, and there was little sign of activity. (We later discovered the reason for the inactivity). It is apparently the off season for the TV show, and we met several of the loggers at their brand new restaurant and gift shop down in Millinocket. They were busy signing posters and tee-shirts, and were not looking nearly as dirty or tired as they do on American Loggers.

We had a great time and I’m hopeful we didn’t inadvertently poach any brookies with too few orange spots. To be safe, we ate them before they could become evidence.

Wierd Dreams

2011-10-10T16:49:00.001-04:00

My dreams scare me sometimes. It’s not that they are frightening in a Freddy Krueger horror movie kind of way; it’s just that they make no sense, at least not to me.
Last week, I dreamt of being chased down the street where I lived as a kid by a 1968 VW bus with peace symbols and flowers painted on its exterior. Instead of wheels, the bus had 1000 centipede legs and, where the grill and headlights belonged, was the face of my third grade teacher, Mrs. Wilson. I haven’t thought about my third grade teacher, or her support hose covered kankles, since I was in fourth grade, about a hundred years ago. So why is her face chasing me while I sleep? And, why could that many-legged VW bus move so quickly while my legs were performing as if I was knee deep in quick sand?

I made the mistake of posing that very question to my buddy, Thurm Seigars, whose tofu loving, transcendental mediating wife, Moonbeam, is a self-proclaimed expert dream analyst. Thurm couldn’t wait to deliver my diagnosis: “Moonbeam says you have some unresolved issue with your third grade teacher, which makes you invite conflict and fear into your life. You are running from peace.”

“Well, tell Moonbeam she’s full of horse pucky!” I said. “I ate three black bean burritos and a side of jalapeño poppers that night. That’s the explanation for my crazy dream.”

Why do scary, weird dreams recur while more pleasant dreams disappear, for good, as soon as I wake from them? Like when my dream involves two bikini clad Patriots cheerleaders, me, and a hot tub full of warm Mazola oil, I can’t fall back to sleep fast enough to see how it turns out. The centipede legged, Mrs. Wilson-faced peace bus, however, is chasing me as soon as I fall asleep again. Life just isn’t fair.

I've Noticed Women are Not Like Men

2011-09-26T21:29:00.000-04:00

Oh sure, I noticed the obvious physical differences between the genders at an early age. By about twelve years old, that observation was nearing obsession. But, recently, after thirty-some years of living with a female, I’m catching on that there are some other significant differences as well.

I’ve notice women, especially mothers, worry more and sleep less than I do. Our beautiful daughter, Maggie, lives in a big city several hours away from Smalltown and, if she calls while the little woman is away and I speak to her, the post-call debriefing goes something like this: “Did she say what she’s doing this weekend?” Winnie will ask.

“No”, I’ll reply.

“Was she at work when she called?”

“Yup.”

“When was she going home?”

“She didn’t say,” I’ll answer.

“Is she taking a cab or the subway home?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jeez, Joe, you never ask the right questions,” the little woman will growl.

“Well, Jeez, Winnie, she’s thirty years old. She can think for herself.”

"Oh, you just don’t get it!” Winnie will respond, rolling her eyes.

“Nope, I don’t.”

Winnie tells me she sleeps only 3 to 4 hours a night. She says it’s because of hormones and worrying about the kids. It seems to annoy her that I sometimes toss and turn for two to three minutes before I can nod off for the night.

Women seem to care more about appearances than men do. I’ve noticed that when I take Winnie over to the Smalltown Congregational Church Bean Supper, she gets all dolled up in her best sweat suit with the matching top and bottom, but I wear the same jeans and mustard-stained flannel shirt I wore to dig up the septic tank cover earlier that day.

The little woman also insists that I keep the various rusted body parts of my soon to be restored, (I’ve been saying this for ten years now), 1950 Chevy pickup truck in the back yard, instead of beside the garage where I can get at them. Maybe she’s afraid that someone will spot it and want to buy it if it’s visible from the street.

The ladies don’t seem to appreciate the fun things in life. Like, sitting outside at -10 degrees Fahrenheit and waiting for a deer to walk by, or an ice fishing flag to pop up.

I’ve also learned, sometimes the hard way, that women are more thin-skinned than men. I can call my buddy, Roy, a fat, smelly, egg-sucking warthog, and it is taken as terms of endearment. However, if I would greet Roy’s wife with “Mimi, you sweaty, old, bloated, manure-covered heifer,” my little woman would become an instant widow and you’d be reading about the homicide in the Smalltown News.

Out of the Mouth's of Babes

2011-07-25T18:40:00.003-04:00

If you’ve raised a child, it’s a sure thing that your precious little darling has embarrassed you in public by saying aloud what most adults would think, but not mention. It seems we are born honest and it takes our parents several years to train that character flaw out of us.

The little woman, Winnie, had one grandmother who ascribed to the “kids should be seen, but not heard” philosophy. A visit to her Grammy London’s house was not a good time. Winnie and her sisters were expected to sit on the sofa, legs crossed and hands resting gently on their laps. They were to speak only when spoken to, or otherwise become the target of a stern lecture about ladylike behavior and proper manners. Grammy London was not a fan favorite.

Nonetheless, when our children were young—Jack was six and Maggie was three—Winnie thought they should meet their great grandmother before it was too late. About 15 minutes into the visit, during which the children had been asked to sit quietly at least a half dozen times, Maggie asked her mother a good question.

In a voice loud enough to be heard by Grammy London and maybe the upstairs neighbors, Maggie queried, “So, Mommy, what’s so great about Great Grammy London, anyway?” It’s a question that has gone unanswered to this day.

Many years ago, when Jack was four years old, I had advertised a camper for sale in The Mountain Trader. Pete, from Waterford, had come over to check it out on a Thursday evening and seemed interested. Jack had, apparently, overheard me express optimism to Winnie later that night.

On Saturday, when Pete returned with his wife for another look, he noticed that Jack was following him closely as he showed the Coachmen to his spouse. Finally, Pete’s curiosity got the best of him and he asked Jack why he was following so closely. “And, have you been sniffing me, son? Do I smell funny to you?” Jack smiled at Pete and explained. “Oh no, sir, but last night I heard Daddy tell Mommy that you smelled like money.” Pete didn’t buy my camper.

Kids seem to save their most embarrassing commentaries for crowded restaurants. My brother, KC, tells me of a trip to Denny’s with his kids. His boy, Eli, is very curious, observant, and . . . loud. About half way through his “Moon over My Hammie” breakfast, KC lost his appetite when Eli blurted out the obvious. Just as the waiter delivered meals to the family in the booth next to theirs, Eli said, “You’re right, Daddy. Those fat people shouldn’t eat all those pancakes.”

“Eli, I didn’t say that.” KC’s wife, Raquel, says his face changed from tomato red to frightened white within seconds. It got worse. “But, Daddy, you said, ‘no wonder they’re so fat, when they both ordered “The Big Stack”’.”

I guess KC left $25 and half his family’s food on the table and made for the door; Eli crying as they left. “But Daddy, I’m not fat, why can’t I finish my waffle?” he screamed.

Kids…you gotta love ‘em.

This Medication Will Help (if it doesn't kill you)

2011-06-22T21:07:00.000-04:00

The older I get, the more I worry about my health. Like most young fools at 20, I thought I’d live forever—always healthy, no wrinkles, no gray hair, no hair loss. I’d be the first to get out of this world alive, well, and looking good. Thirty-some years later, I’m here to tell you that’s not working out for me.

I’m happy to say that I am, for the most part, quite healthy. Still, I have more aches and pains than I used to. I never feel 100% comfortable any more. My shoulder will ache for two weeks and as soon as that feels better, I’ll develop a bunion on my little toe. Three weeks of liquid corn removal therapy and my foot feels fine, but my teeth hurt and I find out I need a root canal.

I’ve noticed that lately it doesn’t take much for me to injure myself. Last week, I bent over to pick up a candy wrapper on the sidewalk and threw my back out. Guess I won’t lift anything that heavy again.

For a mostly healthy old dude, I’ve gotten to know a lot of doctors in the past few years. When I was growing up in Smalltown, we had one family doctor and one dentist. Dr. Braley could fix anything from acne to a heart attack. There were no referrals to dermatologists or cardiologists. Dr. B did it all. If he couldn’t fix you . . . well, you suffered and then you died. He delivered babies, removed ruptured appendices, performed tonsillectomies, and even did surgeries to prevent young couples from having that seventh or eighth little mouth to feed. (There weren’t any magic pills back then.)

The dentist in Smalltown was Dr. Carter. I remember him well. He didn’t believe in using Novocain. I’m not sure if he was a sadist or just figured if he hurt me enough I’d remember to brush my teeth. At any rate, if you had a dental problem, Dr. Carter would fix it. He’d either drill it and fill it or yank it out.

These days, there seems to be a specialist for every ailment. It takes a separate phone book just to list all the doctors in my little area. There’s a special dentist for every part of the mouth. I’ve seen different dentists to fill cavities, pull teeth, fix my roots, cut my gums, and straighten my smile. There are special doctors for corneas, ankles, hands, feet, prostates, skin, bones, hair loss, weight gain, nerves, tops, bottoms, insides, outsides, front ends, and rear ends. The list could go on for pages.

For all my little aches and pains, I’ve been lucky, so far. I don’t have to take any prescription medications. The little woman, Winnie, started taking a blood pressure pill about a month ago and I haven’t had any food with flavor since. She’s become a sodium Nazi—“no salt for you!” I think she’s perturbed that I eat twice as much and exercise half as much and she’s the one with hypertension. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

Since apparently only older geezers watch the evening news, the advertisements are almost exclusively for drugs. Just as there are doctors for every ailment, there seems to be a drug for every condition. You’d think there was money to be made fixing sick people. Watching these commercials, I don’t think I want to take any of these medications. The potential side effects are terrifying! At the end of each commercial there is always someone listing all the bad stuff the drug can do while treating your illness.

“While taking ‘thiscostsalotufool’, you may experience incontinence, problems with bladder control, or other leakages.” Heck, I experience that just listening to the ad. “If you develop bleeding from the eyes, nose, mouth, or ears, become paralyzed, develop loss of memory, vision, hearing, or taste, or have difficulty breathing or swallowing, contact your doctor. These side effects may not be a good thing.” Ya think?

“If you are taking an antidoxythyrobenzochorazine inhibitor blocker, you should not take ‘thiscostsalotufool’.” Do you really think I’d know it if I was taking that kind of drug?

One of the blood pressure drugs warned about loss of libido as a side effect. The little woman called my doctor the next morning and asked if he could prescribe that for me. His advice was, “Just say no.” Like she hadn’t already thought of that.

My blood pressure creeps up from time to time and I’m sure I’ll have to join the millions on drugs eventually. I’m imagining the first follow-up visit with my doctor to see how the ‘thiscostsalotufool’ is working.

Doc: “So, Joe, how are you feeling?”

Me: “Well Doc, since I’ve been taking the medication, I vomit every morning, have frequent nosebleeds, can’t sleep, have difficulty breathing, and I’ve developed various leakages.”

Doc: “But the medication is working. Your blood pressure is down to 135/75.”

Me: “Oh, and Doc, I’ve suddenly developed the urge to commit homicide.”

Sometimes the Truth Hurts

2011-05-24T21:17:00.003-04:00

As I’ve written here before, my buddy, J.P., knowing I like to spin a tale, once offered advice for which I’ve been very grateful.

“Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story,” he counseled. And I’ve heeded his sage advice on many occasions. I guess you could say I’ve lied; but I’ve stretched the truth only in the interest of entertaining others.

Well . . . come to think of it, that’s a lie. There may have been other times I’ve been less than honest, because sometimes dishonesty is the best policy.

For instance, I lied for the sake of kindness (and survival), when answering the following questions:

“Sweetheart, do you think that Vanna White is prettier than me?”

“This lasagna is better than your mother’s, isn’t it?”

“This is my baby girl, Rosie, isn’t she cute?” And most importantly:

“Honey, does this dress make me look fat?”

Lying is not a new art form; not the invention of some 21st Century politician. The importance of honesty has been underscored in our history through the legacies of two of our most popular presidents—the ones for whom we get a Monday off in February—Honest Abe Lincoln and George Washington.

Most Americans are familiar with the story of our first president confessing to his father, “I cannot tell a lie. It was me who chopped down your cherry tree.” I have to wonder if his father took him behind the wood shed and gave him a good whooping, after which young George decided: The devil with this honesty crap. That didn’t work out so well. I think I’ll become a politician, instead.”

From my own experience, I can tell you that whoever decided, Honesty is the Best Policy, never, in a moment of guilty conscience, told his mother he’d stolen a Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup from the Smalltown IGA. It didn’t take me long to realize I shouldn’t have burdened my dear mom with that information. It really upset her.

Over the years though, I’ve found it is best, in most cases, to tell the truth. As I mature, I find it increasingly difficult to remember a story if it doesn’t represent what actually transpired. It’s a lot easier to remember the truth.

My younger brother, K.C., used to drink a lot of beer. As it works out, wobbly pops are not memory enhancers. Consequently, K.C. would frequently run into trouble when trying to come up with a consistent alibi to explain the four hours it took him to make the ten minute commute from work to home on a Friday night. He’d arrive home at nine o’clock with a story about working overtime and then, in the morning, remind his young wife, Renée, that he’d been late because he’d attended a meeting for volunteer firemen. Busted!

It turns out that Renée, or “the Secretary of War” as K.C. calls her, (he is smart enough, by the way, to avoid shortening that to the acronym SOW), is bothered significantly more by K.C.’s lying than by his drinking. My little brother’s pretty sharp. It took him only about five years to figure that out.

K.C. still occasionally stops at Luigi’s for a beer, or four, on his way home from work. He likes to spend quality time with his buddy, Andy. Of course, K.C. calls Andy, “Angelino”, because . . . well . . . guys like to make up stupid nicknames for each other.

Following K.C. and Angelino’s most recent bonding session, my brother arrived home late and was met at the door by his angry Secretary of War.

“Why are you so late?” she asked.

And then it happened. K.C. answered with, of all things, the truth. “Because I couldn’t drink any faster,” he replied.

It was that evening that K.C. learned that sometimes the truth hurts, but only for a few minutes. The rolling-pin-induced knot on his head was far easier to endure than the usual weekend of quiet, cold suppers and sleeping on the couch.

There’s a lot more I could say about the pitfalls of deceit, but I think I’ll wrap it up here for fear of being viewed as a subject expert.

The Evening News

2011-04-17T17:51:00.001-04:00

I guess I’m a creature of habit. I still watch the evening news on television every night, though it rarely leaves me feeling warm and fuzzy. I’m not sure why I feel compelled to tune in to find out that my 401K plan is shrinking faster than this year’s Biggest Loser, or that the national debt is growing at the same rate as Oprah, or that the CEO of some corporation that we, as taxpayers, have recently bailed out, just received a bonus equal to the annual payroll of the New York Freakin’ Yankees . . . but I do. It’s been a part of my daily routine since November 22, 1963. Damn you, Lee Harvey Oswald!

I grew up watching Walter Cronkite and I liked him. He was like a grandfather to me and had a great voice. Besides, he was on the one channel we could pick up on our roof antenna long before cable came to Smalltown. Later on, I got my daily dose of reality TV from Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw, and they were okay too, but I miss Charlie Gibson the most. Charlie (I feel like we’re on a first name basis) just seems like a regular guy . . . an Average Joe. He has fairly plain features and slightly crooked teeth, and he talked to me like he was my next door neighbor—the one I like, not the one who complains about every little thing, like my loud banjo music, my errant golf ball breaking his bay window, or that grass fire that got away from me and burned an acre or so of his lawn the weekend before his daughter’s outdoor, home wedding. Anyway, I didn’t mind all the bad news as much when it came from my friend, Charlie.

I’m not sure which is more disturbing, the news or the advertising that runs during the evening news broadcast. I get chest pains just watching all the commercials telling me about the high incidence of heart disease and hypertension among folks my age. And, all these ads about diabetes testing supplies upset me so much I’ve become, what my father calls, a commercial cook—I go to the kitchen and cook myself a snack every time a commercial comes on.

I know I’m not the only one annoyed by all those erectile dysfunction remedies. Every time one of these ads shows a romantic scene featuring a couple of sextegenarians, I give the little woman my sexy look, to which she always replies, “don’t bother.” I guess I won’t risk the potential stroke, blindness, rejection, or that “problem” lasting greater than four hours. It would probably just bring back bad memories of getting all suited up in my football uniform just to spend the entire game on the bench.

I wish more young people would watch Katie Couric, Brian Williams, or Diane Sawyer. Maybe there would be more ads about sexy cars, flame-broiled Whoppers, cold Bud Light, or Victoria’s Secret.

Will This Winter Ever End?

2011-03-31T21:14:00.001-04:00

I don’t hate winter. In fact, I have to admit, I feel a sort of warped sense of excitement in anticipation of a big blizzard . . . in December and January. But, this winter, it seems as though it just won’t stop snowing! It snows twice a week—Monday through Wednesday and Friday to Sunday. Thursdays have been pleasant.

It seems there is no end to the shoveling this year. And there has been a lot of heavy snow, especially now that it’s March and we get a foot of snow, followed by a few inches of rain with each storm. Each shovelful weighs ten pounds, or more. It can break a person’s back, all that lifting. How can I relax and enjoy the March Madness basketball tournament knowing that the little woman, Winnie, is out there in the cold, driving rain, lifting all that snow over a five foot snowbank? It is really taking the fun out of it for me. I had to wait until after halftime for her to come in and make my pizza!

I can’t remember a winter in Smalltown with this much snow. My roof had to be shoveled three times in the past four weeks! I missed two Celtics games, a golf tournament, and three episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond because the little woman is afraid of heights and makes me hold the ladder for her while she shovels the roof. I should just hire the neighbor kid to hold the ladder for her.

All that snow coming off the roof is banking up against the house. The clapboards will, likely, need paint in the spring. That doesn’t seem to bother Winnie. She doesn’t understand how annoying it is to hear all her scraping and wire-brushing while I’m trying to enjoy the Masters tournament on TV.

I’m tired of jackets, boots, gloves and hats. The snow banks and my white pickup truck are gray with dirt and sand; there are huge speed bump frost heaves and potholes the size of a Toyota Prius; and now that the snow is melting and refreezing, I’ve fallen on my kister four times in the past week. It hurts to sit on the couch—a big problem for me. I’M SICK OF WINTER!!

It’ll be great once the snow melts away in May or June. The grass will start to grow; the lawn will need dethatching and raking to rid it of the leaves and dead branches that have fallen since last fall. Flowers will need to be planted in the ground; the vegetable garden will need composting and seeds will need to be planted. In June and July, the lawn will need to be mowed twice a week. The gardens will need fertilizing and weeding. And, I’m expected to help out with all that. Oh, and the little woman wants me to replace the rotten boards on the deck because she keeps falling through! She hasn’t gained any weight, either; she made that very clear when I asked her. The deck will take up two of the ten weekends of my summer!

The lawn on each side of my driveway will need to be graded and reseeded where my buddy, Barnie, landscaped for me while plowing this winter. He doesn’t charge me extra for the sod removal.

The asphalt driveway needs to be sealed this summer. That has to be done on the sunniest, and therefore hottest, Saturday and Sunday of the summer; two days I’d rather spend with my friend, Roy, on his party boat fishing and enjoying an occasional wobbly pop. It’ll ruin another weekend, a pair of Nikes, and my most comfortable pair of jeans.

Come to think of it, the snow is quite beautiful. It should last longer . . . maybe I’ll move closer to the Arctic Circle.

My Sisters Were Trouble

2011-03-05T15:50:00.000-05:00

When I was seven years old and growing up in Smalltown, my friends were starting to get bicycles and train sets to play with. I got sisters—Vanna, Kelli, and Darlene. Every two years, I got a new one. At the time, I’d have preferred a new Schwinn or Lionel, but I didn’t get a vote; it seems Dad had more passion than money, so I got sisters.

So, what’s a young boy to do? I tried to make the most of my situation. Mom had her hands full with all the housework and dirty diapers—there were no Pampers back then—and she was happy to send me out with a sister in a stroller. Sometimes I’d have to fight with my older brother, Sam, over who got to take the baby out for a ride; he’d figured out that the 12 and 13 year old girls on the street liked to play with the baby girls. I hate to say it, but when it comes to getting attention of adolescent girls, Sam needed every advantage he could muster. I, on the other hand, had no interest in romance at that time—I was into stroller RACING.

East Street, in Smalltown, is on a hill. It was ideal for racing my little sisters against Bubba Leonard’s baby siblings. The contest rules were quite simple: there was a 10 yard push zone, a 50 yard steep hill, and a chalk finish-line where Bubba’s brothers, Lennie and Peanut, would stop the speeding strollers. There was often a wager involving some marbles, a Baby Ruth candy bar, or an empty Donald Duck Pez dispenser. For the first few years, I lost some good stuff to Bubba; his baby sisters, Lula and Candy, were fat, and gravity gave them an advantage.

When Darlene came along, I got even. My youngest sister wasn’t fat, but all the racing had worn out the old baby buggy and my folks bought a new one with bigger wheels and more mass. I did my part, too. The wheels were always greased and I removed the sun shield to improve aerodynamics. By the end of the summer of 1966, I owned all of Bubba’s marbles and half of his plastic army men.

I was a good kid, but I got into a lot of trouble with my parents because Vanna was an instigator and a tattletale. She’d provoke me until I’d give her a gentle shove, and then, because she was awkward, she’d crash into Mom’s favorite knick-knack—the one she got with the S & H Green Stamps she’d earned at the First National grocery store—and then knock it to the linoleum floor. As it turns out, Mom didn’t go for the Venus de Milo armless lady look, and I went without Oreos for a week.

Kelli was nearly as evil. She convinced me to peek into my parents’ closet just before the Christmas of 1966 in exchange for three Lorna Doones. It was a deal with a five year old devil. I made the error of telling her what I saw there, and she was so excited, she sang the Hi Heidi doll commercial non-stop at the dinner table that night. Once again, poor little Joey got busted, and it was me, not the instigating little sister, who washed the dishes for a week.

Darlene was a bit easier on me, perhaps because I’m about 11 years older than she is, but I think she never squealed on me about the stroller races because she was so exhilarated by the speed and the thrill of victory, and because I shared the Baby Ruth bars with her.

Despite being a kind and protective big brother, I endured a lot of punishment as a boy, because my little sisters liked to get me into trouble. I loved them just the same, and I still do.

I learned from those experiences and, as a result, I knew better than to punish my son, Jake, when Maggie told me he threw burdocks in her hair, kicked her, hit her, stole her lunch money, or duct taped her to a tree and tortured her with a squirt gun . . .because, I know how little sisters lie.

So . . . What Is Victoria's Secret?

2011-02-03T15:54:00.001-05:00

I’m not certain exactly when it was, but I think somewhere between the ages of ten and twelve I started noticing there were anatomical differences between me and females of the opposite gender.

During the summer of my twelfth birthday, my mother caught me peeking out my bedroom window at our fifteen year old neighbor, Donna, and her friend, Patty, as they sunbathed in their back yard. We didn’t know about the sun’s damaging effects back then so I’m sure they had lathered on layers of baby oil to enhance the sun’s burning power and thereby destroyed another layer of epidermis. I haven’t seen either of them for forty years, but I’m guessing these days they’re slathering on anti-wrinkle creams and having “age spots” surgically lopped off.

Anyway, they were small girls and they wore two-piece bathing suits, but I’m not sure they’d be considered bikinis. By today’s standards, they covered a lot of skin. There was enough material in each to make three to four modern day swimsuits. Still, my adolescent acts of voyeurism left me with a warm feeling in my belly I didn’t understand.

That feeling, of course, disappeared immediately with the sound of my mother’s voice. “Joseph Wright, what are you looking at with your daddy’s binoculars?”

Ooops . . . busted.

Many years later, I guess I still don’t understand what that funny feeling is all about, but I do know it has cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Growing up in the north country, there were lots of reasons to be excited about the impending arrival of spring each year—longer days, warmer temperatures, the melting snow giving way to green grass and budding leaves, and the end of the school year. To a twelve year old boy, however, none of those outweighed the vernal arrival of the summer Sears and Roebucks catalog.

Starting on May 1st, I’d check the mail box every day in anticipation of the Sears catalog. Its pages were packed with photographs of tools, guns, toys and fishing gear. But, to be honest, back then, it was the softer side of Sears that piqued my interest. There must have been 30 pages of women modeling underwear, bathing suits, and lingerie. Thinking back, it was mostly older women in granny undies and industrial strength brassieres, but I didn’t care. It was women in underwear and I was twelve.

When I was a little older, I found a copy of one of Hugh Heffner’s magazines in the sandpaper drawer of my Uncle Jack’s workshop. I spent a lot of time woodworking that summer. Mom was pleased that I’d taken such an interest in carpentry. I think Dad knew better.

A few years ago when my son, Jake, was sixteen, I noticed he’d taken great interest in the incoming postal deliveries. He was checking the mailbox three times a day. I figured for sure he was anxiously awaiting the delivery of the latest Sears catalog and thought it must have finally arrived the first week in May, because from May 3rd to May 9th he left his room only to eat and use the bathroom. The 10th was a school day, so I did some investigating while the kids were in classes.

I searched Jake’s room for nearly an hour before I discovered a hidden treasure in his sock drawer. It was a catalog called Victoria’s Secret and I wasn’t sure my boy should be looking at it, so I studied it . . . for three hours. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing on those glossy, full color pages. These were the most beautiful women I’d ever laid eyes on! They were nothing like the everyday women I’d admired in the Sears catalogs, and the articles of underwear they modeled were much more attractive (and revealing) than the full torso, body armor girdles of those 1960s advertisements. This was like free porn!

I think I was stuck on page 56 when the little woman, Winnie, barged into Jake’s room and caught me, catalog in hand, pupils dilated, trying to figure out Victoria’s Secret.

“What have you been doing in here for three hours?” she asked. Then she spotted my reading material and I knew I was in trouble.

“Why you old pervert. These women aren’t even real, you know.” Her face was turning red and her eyes widened. It was a look I’ve learned to fear. “They’ve all been surgically enhanced and they use that Photo Shop to airbrush out any defects in their bodies.”

I tried to think fast, but a lot of the blood had flowed from my cerebrum, so I just blurted the first words that passed through my limited gray matter. “Who cares why they look good? I’m a full grown man and I’ll look at any pictures I want to. And, if you don’t like it, take a hike.”

I told her who was boss. I didn’t see Winnie for about a week. On the eighth day, I was able to open my right eye a little bit.

A Trip to the Dump

2011-01-08T17:35:00.003-05:00

A trip to the town dump ain’t what it used to be. I’m old enough to remember the days when you could find the dump by following the smell of burning trash. There was a constant smudge going at the landfill, and that saved a lot of land from being filled. I suppose that wasn’t so good for the ozone, but Al Gore was just a kid then; we didn’t know the glaciers were melting.

Going to the Smalltown dump as kids was part of our weekly entertainment in those days. Not only was there a big fire and a huge bulldozer to watch, but we never went without my .22 rifle because there were always rats and crows to shoot. It was like going to the county fair, except there were no annoying “carnies” trying to steal my money: “Step right up. Three shots for a quartah heeah. Win the giant teddy beah.” There was none of that; just me, my dad, my brothers, and hundreds of rodents. It was like one, giant, smelly, burning arcade.

I remember only one man working at the dump when I was a kid. Ernie was an old guy, or at least he seemed that way to a ten year old. He wore the same filthy overalls and tee shirt for twenty years. He was a scruffy looking character; he never grew a real beard but always needed a shave. His two teeth were both brown, stained by the hundreds of pounds of Red Man chew he’d consumed over the years. I’m not sure how he chewed anything. His teeth, one on the top right, the other bottom left, didn’t align well enough to be useful. I guess he gummed his food and tobacco.

Ernie wore a Red Sox ball cap with no brim. “Mumumumumumistah mumumumuman,” he’d stutter. “The fufufufufirst thing I do when I get a new hat is cut off the visah. Damned thing just gets in the wuwuwuwuwuway and I’d be nununununuknockin’ it off every fifififififive mumumumuminutes.”

Ernie was entertaining to a kid. He looked funny, talked funny and drove an old Caterpillar bulldozer. What more could a boy want. His personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. I’m sure he smelled worse than the rats, but his scent was well concealed by the odor of burning rubbish.

There was no separating trash in those days—no recycling, reusing, or reducing. The cardboard and paper was burned with the leftover chicken, TV sets, and rubber tires. But, you didn’t have to worry about the fire spreading too far, because the town fathers had the foresight to build the dump near a bend in the river, which not only acted as a fire barrier, but also carried all the toxins downstream towards our rivals in St.Jamesboro.

It’s a lot more complicated going to the dump these days. There are special areas for recyclables—paper, glass, metal appliances, computer parts—and, of course, there’s the landfill. There’s a building there with a scale to drive onto so they can determine what your truck weighs, coming and going.

That scale got my buddy, Munzie, in big trouble one Saturday. It seems he made two trips to the landfill that day. He went once alone; the second time with his wife, Tiny, who wanted Munzie to take her to the All You Can Eat Pancake Special down at the IHOP on the way home. Now, Tiny is a sweet woman, but she’s not tiny—she’s a “big-boned” lady.

There is something I should tell you about Munzie; he’s never had an unspoken thought. So, on that particular Saturday morning, after he and his Silverado had been weighed for the second time, (most recently with Tiny on board), he made the mistake of doing the math ALOUD! “I didn’t know you weighed 207 pounds,” he told Tiny.

I’m pretty sure Munzie was the only guy at IHOP that morning with a black eye.

Nicknames

2010-12-12T10:50:00.001-05:00

A lot of folks, especially men, in Smalltown go by a name other than that which appears on their birth certificates. On East Street alone, we had a “Peeno”, a “Nuckie”, and a “Frenchy”, to name a few.

I’ve noticed that the use of nicknames is far more common in rural America than in our cities. I haven’t spent much time in big cities, but wealthy men, like Thomas (don’t call me Tom) Sullivan and William Robert Howell, own vacation homes on Shadow Lake. I can tell you from experience that Mr. Howell doesn’t go for being called “Billy Bob”.

Some nicknames are derived from a person’s physical attributes. I suppose that practice applies mostly to guys, because most women don’t care for labels like “Porky” or “Sweathog” or “Potbelly”. To the contrary, my flatulent buddy “Stinky” Groves considers his nickname a badge of honor. I saw a couple of exceptions to the gender rule at the county fair a few years back. There were a couple of talented female entertainers: “Busty” Galore and “Booty” Jackson performing there. They had funny names but looked like nice girls.

A lot of nicknames seem to be abbreviations of either the person’s first or last name. In Smalltown, Leonard Smith is known as “Smitty”, Albert Johnson is “Johnny”, and “Munzie” Munson’s real name is Eugene. Roosevelt Greer was 300 pounds of muscle and a lineman for the New York Giants. YOU tell him “Rosie” is a girly name. I think it’s a fine name.

Some guys are nicknamed for a particular talent or area of interest. Johnnie “Guitar” Jones can play the blues; Michael “Touchdown” Guilbeault could run with a pigskin. William “Schlitzy” Robinson is about two years older than me and I think he stole the nickname that, based on my interests as a twenty-something, should have been mine. It may be just as well. Thoughts of an Average Joe by Schlitzy Wright doesn’t have the same ring to it.

In some families, including mine, a homely name is perpetuated because . . . well, I don’t know why. My grandfather was named Rufus Ralph Wright. I’m thinking his father, my great-grandfather, was either mean or just had a twisted sense of humor (Winnie says I come by it honestly).

Gramps didn’t go by Rufus (imagine that); everyone I knew called him “Skip”. He was a commanding officer in the Army, and “Skip” was a shortening of “Skipper”. Still, he felt compelled to pass Rufus Ralph on to my Dad—I think he passed along the strange sense of humor, too!

Dad goes, of course, by Jim. My Nana didn’t want to call him Rufus, Jr., or just plain old “Junior”, so naturally he became Jim. In my 58 years, I’ve never, except for the time Dad bluffed my Uncle D.I. out of a $12.00 pot at the poker table up to deer camp, heard anyone call him anything other than Jim, Dad, or Grampa.

My older brother is Rufus Ralph Wright, III. I know . . . why? He goes by Sam. The story I hear is that my folks didn’t want to call him Rufus or Ralphie. Again . . . imagine that. Mom and Dad called him “Sandy” when he was a little guy because of his hair color, and “Sam” became the obvious, more masculine, shortening of “Sandy”. Now, it makes sense, right?

Sam has no sons, but has two lovely daughters. I think you’ll be relieved to know that neither of my nieces is named Rufus Ralph Wright, IV.

If Deer Could Talk

2010-11-22T14:59:00.002-05:00

Every November, I spend a lot of time with other guys dressed in wool and blaze orange. We spend hours talking about how well we know deer, their feeding and breeding habits, and how they think.

I’d love to be a tick on a deer’s back and listen to a conversation between two bucks. Maybe it would go something like this:

“Hey Wilbur.”

“Yeah Larry.”

“It feels like it could snow any day now. I love this time of year.”

“Yup, soon the yahoos will be out in the woods with us, again.”

“Can’t wait.”

“So Wilbur, I don’t get it. Every year, they plant those big, round, tasty, orange-colored things and we eat most of them. Then they carve faces into some of them and put them in front of the places where they bed down.”

“Yup Larry, that’s how I know it’s almost time. Soon they’ll dress up like those big, orange-colored, tasty things and come out to the woods.”

“Oh cool Wilbur, here comes one now. He’s walkin’ this way.”

“So why do they walk around on their hind legs?”

“I dunno Wilbur. No wonder they fall down a lot. And they wonder why they can’t keep up with us.”

“He’s getting’ close Larry. This’ll be fun. Wait for it. Wait for it. 60 yards . . . 50 yards . . . he stopped. He put that noisy stick over his shoulder. Okay, run!”

6o yards later . . .

“Okay. Stop Larry. Ha-Ha. Look at him. He’s hittin’ himself on the head.”

“Wilbur, he’s walkin’ this way. Should we run again?”

“Heck no! Let’s sneak around him so we can watch him. He’ll do somethin’ stupid again. I’m sure of it.”

“Here we go. He’s puttin’ that thing in his mouth and makin’ gruntin’ noises. What the hay?”

“Larry, I think he’s tryin’ to talk to us, but he doesn’t know our language.”

“What’s he sayin’, Wilbur?”

“Ha-Ha. I think he just said, ‘I’m a smaller buck than you and I want you to make love to me’.”

“That’s kinda twisted.”

“Yeah Larry, they’re a weird breed.”

“Lordy Wilbur, did he just do what I think he did?”

“Yup. Oh god, I can’t stop laughin’. He just picked up some of your poop and sniffed it. This is too funny. By the way Larry, if you ever come across any of their droppin’s, don’t sniff. I don’t know what they eat, but it ain’t cedar or acorns, that’s for sure.”

One hour later.

“Geez Wilbur, we’ve been followin’ him for a while. What’s he doin’?”

“He’s hangin’ somethin’ from a tree. He’s takin’ somethin’ from his fur and squirtin’ it. Oh god Larry, hold your breath. Whoah!”

“Geez Wilbur, what’s that smell?”

“I’m not sure, but I think he’s tryin’ to smell like a hot doe.”

“A hot doe? It’d take a doe ten times the size of big Effie to smell like that. Heck, even Effie’s too fat for me, and you know I ain’t that fussy.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Wilbur, let’s get outta here.”

“Not yet, Larry. He’s climbin’ a tree now. Let’s wait. Wait for it. Okay, when he’s halfway up the tree, make that snortin’ noise and run right past him. His noisy stick is still on the ground. Oh, and Larry, make sure he sees those big bones stickin’ out of our heads. That really makes those yahoos do stupid stuff.

A Penny for Your Thoughts

2010-10-13T21:59:00.003-04:00

Do we really need pennies anymore? I mean, what is a penny worth these days? I’m old enough to remember when a penny would really buy something. As a kid, I could go to the Smalltown IGA store and buy not one, but two pieces of candy for a penny—Mint Juleps, Banana Splits, or Chocolate Chews. They were delicious, and would stick to your teeth for hours. I suspect they were so cheap because they were subsidized by The American Dental Association.

Stop and think about it. What can you buy for less than a nickel these days? I can think of hardly anything I can buy for less than a dime. So, why does the U.S. Mint spend all the time and money to produce millions of pennies every year? Why not save the copper for important things, like 30 -06 shells? It seems like those are becoming harder to come by these days.

I suppose without pennies, the marketing gurus would have quite a dilemma on their hands. They seem to think we’re all idiots. We’ll pay $2.79 for a gallon of gasoline, but we’re not foolish enough to pay $2.80. No way.

They started making pennies when you could hire a person to work all day for a dollar. Not I can’t hire the thirteen-year-old fifth grader next door, (that’s right—he’s still in the fifth grade . . . again), to mow my lawn for more than ten minutes for a buck. So, what’s a penny worth?

The little woman, Winnie, loves pennies. She’d hate to see them disappear. Hardly a day goes by that she doesn’t stop to pick up a penny on the sidewalk. “See a penny, pick it up and all the day you’ll have good luck,” she’ll repeat with every copper treasure she discovers. It’s no wonder she finds so many—they’re worthless. Who’s going to stop and pick one up if they drop it?

Last week we were visiting our daughter in Brooklyn, where the side walks are like dog poop minefields. You have to watch your step. Of course, there’s more than dog poop on the sidewalks. There’s litter and gum and LOTS of pennies. Winnie picked up at least a dozen Lincoln heads while we were there. I’m not sure if she got any good luck as a result, but she did get worms. She hasn’t told me so, but I’ve noticed she sits on the carpet and twirls around in circles, which is always a sure-fire sign for our beagle.

These days, the expression “a penny for your thoughts” is an insult. Heck, most newspaper editors are willing to pay nickels for Thoughts of an Average Joe.

I hope you’ve found this article thought provoking and, at least, a little humorous. If not, send me a dime and a self addressed, stamped envelope and I’ll mail you the good stuff.

My Grandson is a Corker

2010-09-13T08:59:00.003-04:00

I’m finally a grandfather! Jake and his wife, Jenna, have given Winnie and me the most amazing grandson ever. We had to be patient a while longer than most of our friends, but it was well worth the wait.

Hanson is the most handsome baby boy ever born . . . really. I’m not saying that, just because he’s my grandson. He honestly is the most beautiful baby I’ve ever laid eyes on. I suppose, to many of you, that comes as no surprise. He is, after all, a Wright boy. As such, he’s destined to grow up to be handsome and charming. Eventually, he’ll thrill some lucky young lady and become her Prince Charming—her Mr. Wright. I’m not kidding; just ask Winnie.

Hanson is really smart, too. He can already count to 100 and can sing the alphabet. Well, not out loud, of course. He doesn’t talk yet. For crying out loud, he’s only eight months old! Well, actually, he does say one word. When we’re alone, he calls me Grampa, just as plain as day. Grampa is his first word! He doesn’t say it in front of anyone else because, on top of all his other admirable attributes, he’s thoughtful and sensitive. He doesn’t want to hurt the feelings of his parents or grandmother.

Like his father and me, Hanson is a die-hard Red Sox fan. He had little choice, really. Jake is an even more avid BoSox devotee than I am, so Hanson was born with two options: he could be either a Sox fan or an Or-phan. Anyway, my grandson likes to watch the Red Sox on TV. His favorite player is Dustin Pedroia. I think that’s because he figures he’ll be Dustin’s size in a couple of years.

Hanson’s already quite an athlete, too. He can swing his little plastic bat with power, and already throws a fastball and a spitter (actually, it’s more of a drooler).

I love to take my grandbuddy out for a walk. His stroller rides and handles like a Mercedes E Class, compare to the junk I used to push Jake and Maggie around in. Then again, I think it cost as much as my first car.
I’m sure you’re reading this and thinking I’m seeing Hanson as perfect through the biased eyes of a proud grandfather. That’s not true. I’m being totally objective about my amazing grandson . . . honest.

My friends, Barnie, Roy, Ted and Bert were all grandfathers before me. Barnie has three beautiful, charming granddaughters and I know, in his eyes, they are the most wonderful babies to grace this planet. Sorry Barnie, but that’s just not true. They are amazing and, maybe the most incredible baby girls ever born, but they’re not Hanson.

Roy, Ted and Bert have grandsons. Roy calls his little guys his grandbuddies, a term I think he coined, and I really like (and am not ashamed to steal). My friends are all very proud grandfathers and each thinks his grandsons are the brightest and most athletic little boys ever. I hate to break it to you guys, but you are each seeing your grandsons through the biased eyes of a proud grandfather. You need to be objective . . . like me. I have to admit that your grandsons are absolutely incredible, but the most amazing ever? Well . . . uhmmm . . . no. That would be Hanson.

Last week, I was walking the little guy through the park in Smallville and you should have heard the comments from the ladies we passed.

“Oh, what a cutie. Look at that precious face and that little tuft of hair on his head! And, he’s such a chubby little guy. Look at that belly, and the dimples in his thighs. He’s just adorable . . . and that baby! He’s adorable, too.

I Think I'm Becoming My Father

2010-09-01T22:07:00.000-04:00

When I was in my twenties—a long time ago—I was sure I’d never get old. Somehow, I was going to be the first person to circumvent the aging process. I would retain the youthful appearance and physical fitness of my twenties without the use of hair dye, Rogaine, human growth hormone, Botox or surgery. I would stay young, simply because I am me and God loves me.
It ain’t working out that way.
I’ve become a thick-around-the-middle, wrinkled, chicken-skinned, balding, gray-haired, set-in-my-ways, arthritic codger and I’m not a damned bit pleased about it.
Seems like I never feel 100% healthy anymore. One week my right shoulder aches for no apparent reason and, as soon as that heals itself, the bunion on my left big toe becomes inflamed. And so on . . .
I get injured sometimes too. Mind you, I’m not talking about throwing my back out by lifting a fifty pound bag of cement mix. Sometimes reaching over to switch off the lamp next to my bed can cause me to hobble around like Amos McCoy for a week. This aging crap ain’t for wimps.
And I’ve developed a new enemy . . . the mirror. Last Tuesday, I was shaving and there, looking back at me, was my father.
I don’t mind having my dad’s features; he’s a good looking guy, like all the Wright boys. I just want to look like he did at 25.
It’s not just the mirror, either. I’m becoming my father in other ways too. That’s not all bad; I love Ole Dad. I just can’t believe how often I’ll hear myself say something and realize I’ve become him.
Lately I’ve heard myself say things like:
“How can these kids listen to that crap? That ain’t even music.”
“How can you stand that hair in your eyes? You look like a damned girl.”
“Kids these days don’t want to work for a living. They want everything handed to em.”
“Why don’t that kid buy some pants that fit?”
“Because I said so, that’s why.”
“Stop wimperin’ or I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about.”
Dad has a real gift for making borderline inappropriate remarks to the ladies without getting his face slapped. I haven’t mastered that yet.
Once, after spending the entire deer season at camp, Dad told a young lady, “I’ve been in camp so long, even you look good.”
She laughed.
So how come when I told Eva, the young waitress down at Fat Anthony’s, she looked good with a little extra junk in her trunk, I was rewarded with a black eye? It seemed like a compliment to me.
Maybe I’m not my father yet, after all.

My Daughter is Getting Married

2010-08-15T16:30:00.000-04:00

My daughter, Maggie, is getting married this summer and I’m here to tell you that things have changed . . . a lot . . . since the little woman, Winnie, and I tied the knot in 1977. The Wright household is all atwitter with excitement over the wedding plans and, while I have offered a few suggestions, it has become readily apparent that my expected participation, at this stage, is to write checks and stay out of the way.

I thought Winnie and I had a wonderful wedding and reception 33 years ago. After exchanging vows at the Smalltown Congregational Church, we were off to celebrate at the Bull Mountain Ski Lodge. We had a great meal we picked up at Dan’s Market—tuna and chicken salad finger rolls, IGA potato chips and macaroni salad—served on paper plates, the fancy ones with the little blue flowers on them.

It was quite a party too. We danced the night away to “The Rusty Bean Music Machine”. Rusty was the mechanic down at Blake’s Esso Station, but he moonlighted as a wedding singer. Accompanied by his Casio keyboard, he belted out all the nuptial classics, from Roy Orbison’s It’s Over to the Rolling Stones’ (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction. I was encouraged that Rusty just might play something appropriate for the occasion when he invited Winnie and me to the dance floor as he played the lovely Beatles ballad I Will. My new bride was less than impressed though, when he completed the Fab Four medley with I’m a Loser and I Should Have Known Better.

It was a great party and before we knew it, we were dragging Schlitz cans behind our 1972 Chevy Vega on our way to honeymoon for two glorious nights at the Buck and Doe Lodge in Island Lake.

Now that Maggie is planning a wedding, I’m discovering that some entrepreneurs have found hundreds of ways to turn marriage into a major industry.

There are no more do-it-yourself weddings. One must hire a wedding planner for fear that the bride and her mother will forget some of the ways to spend money on the big event.

Maggie is a beautiful, wonderful, young lady, but she’s pushing 30 – old maid material by 1970s standards—so I was happy to agree with the little woman that our little girl should have a nice wedding. I was duped; had no idea what I was agreeing to.

Let me provide you with a partial list of the components of a 21st Century wedding.

• An engagement party - because the bride’s parents aren’t going to spend enough on the wedding itself.

• Save the date cards - these go out several months prior to the invitations just in case one person didn’t hear about the impending nuptials via email, Facebook or Twitter.

• The bride’s dress - must be custom made by a designer to ensure that it is like no other and costs as much as an entire 1977 wedding.

• Music - no “Rusty Bean Music Machine”. One must hire different musicians for the ceremony, cocktail hour, and reception. The band for the reception must include a horn section and a lead singer with, at least, one Grammy on his/her mantle. The cash outlay for music on the big day must be equal to, or greater than, twice the cost of the bride’s dress.

• Flowers - must include exotic species only – nothing grown in this country and certainly nothing the father of the bride can pronounce . . . or afford.

• Photographer - must include still photos and hi-def video. The photographer must be a descendent or former student of Ansel Adams and must be so busy that he/she couldn’t care less if you turn down their offer to document the big day for the cost of a European vacation for two.

• Guest Bags - The list goes on, but this is the item that earned me the nickname, “George Banks”—you know, the Steve Martin character in Father of the Bride. I’m told we have to give each guest staying at the hotel a guest bag containing bottled water, aspirin, and snacks. Pleeease! I love these people, but will they really need snacks after the $150 meal? And aspirin because I bought them too many $10 cocktails? And water? Doesn’t that come out of that shiny thing hooked to the sink, like at home?

I love Maggie and I hope she is happily married for many years. Her mom and I have been in a state of continuous bliss for 33 years now. If wedding expense is a happiness factor, I figure she and Roscoe should be good for, at least, 330 anniversaries.

Give the Ump a Break

2010-07-19T16:07:00.001-04:00

My brother, K.C., is a fair amount younger than I am (Mom’s Catholic and Dad was Persistent). Consequently, his kids are a lot younger than Jake and Maggie. His boy, Eli, plays Little League baseball and K.C. volunteers to be an umpire for the league.

I’m not sure why anyone would sign up for that job. It’s a thankless position, and besides, who needs umps on the field when there are a dozen or so keen sighted, well informed, loud-mouthed mothers in the bleachers who are more than happy to render an opinion on each pitch or play.

There’s something about watching her little boy play, that seems to turn even the most pleasant woman into an over-protective, raving maniac. Betsy Peters is a nurse over at the Smalltown Medical Clinic. When I go to see Dr. Braley about my little problem, (the nature of which is none of your business by the way), you could sweeten your tea with the kind words that drip off her tongue. But sit her backside on one of those pine planks, and she becomes an over-opinionated Momzilla.

“He was safe!” she yelled, when her little darling popped out to the pitcher as Timmy ran from home plate to third base. “That was a hit, ump. You’re gonna cost my Timmy a scholarship with calls like that.”

I’m sorry Aunt Betsy but, first of all, this is Little League. More importantly, Timmy’s name and any form of the word “scholar” shouldn’t be used in the same sentence. It’s like Rosie O’Donnell and Sarah Palin (or any other intelligent, attractive woman). They don’t belong together.

K.C. was calling balls and strikes behind home plate for an All Star game last week and getting way too much static from Lynette Goyet, from nearby St. Jamesboro.

“That weren’t no strike, ump. Get yer eyes checked,” she yelled in her high pitched, fingernails-on-the-chalkboard voice.

K.C. showed considerable restraint, especially for a guy with the reputation for having a short fuse. He’s grown up a lot since he broke Junior Wilson’s nose over a receding hairline comment.

Lynette had “helped” K.C. call the game for five innings and I know my little brother well enough to realize his patience was wearing as thin as the late April ice on Shadow Lake. I cringed when Lynette’s chubby kid, Georgie, stepped up to the plate.

Georgie swung wildly at the first two pitches, missing each by a foot or so and then took a partial swing at the third offering. K.C. said he went around and was out on strike three.

Lynette went ballistic. She was on the field and in my brother’s face before little Georgie could waddle back to the dugout.

“He didn’t swing,” she screamed. “You’re an idiot!”

“And you’re ugly,” K.C. retorted, drawing cheers from most of the crowd.

“What did you say?” Lynette asked.

“You heard me.”

“Well I demand that you ask the third base ump . . .”

K.C. walked down the third base line to confer with Ike Masure and then returned to home plate.

“Ike said that I made an accurate call . . . and by the way, he said Georgie was out, too.”

Some Folks Shouldn't Wear Spandex

2010-06-23T22:22:00.001-04:00

There ought to be a law regulating who can wear Spandex or Lycra or, for that matter, bikinis, Speedos, crop-tops, or short shorts of any material. Heavy people shouldn’t be allowed to wear that stuff. If you don’t weigh at least 25 pounds less than I do, (40 pounds for you ladies), you shouldn’t be parading yourself around in a pair of those stretchy bicycling shorts. It ain’t pretty and it ain’t appreciated.

You could incite a small earthquake, caused by the collective full-body shivers of those you pass on the street. I know, some of you will insist that you need those biker shorts for the padding they provide to soften your ride. Well, please, just Velcro some foam rubber into a pair of baggy shorts and call it good. You’re obviously not riding marathons anyway. You can make it down to Dunkin’ Donuts and back without those special shorts.

I can’t imagine what possesses heavy folks to wear clothing that is too tight, too skimpy, or too revealing. All I can figure is they either own no mirrors, or have really messed up eyesight. Otherwise, noone would leave home looking like so many people I see at the Smalltown SmallMart or Old Orchard Beach.

Last year, the little woman gave me a three month membership to the Smalltown House of Fitness where she’s been a member for years. She said she thought it would give me something to during the long winter months. The truth is: she thinks I’m too fat.

On our first visit to the gym, I wore my baggy cotton sweatpants and a Cabela's sweatshirt. Winnie wore a similar outfit. Angie, the cute, little, 22 year-old aerobics instructor, wore a tight, bright pink, stretchy workout outfit and looked good in it.

At our second session, Monique Belanger, a mean-spirited busy body, wore the same outfit as Angie. Let me go on record as saying that Monique is twice the woman Angie is . . . in both age and body mass. She apparently has a gift for seeing the worst in others and a self image so distorted that she sees herself as looking like Wonder Woman in an outfit that, in fact, makes her resemble the Michelin Man.

So, like I said, there ought to be a law: to buy certain apparel items you should have to show an I.D. If you’re over 40, no Spandex, Lycra, crop-tops, or short shorts for you. If you are under 40, you step on one of those new scales that sends electronic waves up through your body and determines your BFI (body fat index). If you’re over the limit, do the world a favor and go back and trade in the Spandex stretch pants for a loose fitting cotton work-out outfit. And no crop-tops either. I don’t care who you are, I don’t want to see your muffin top hanging out over your undersized jeans. And that goes for you girls, too!

And fellas, I don’t care if the mercury is about to blow the top off the thermometer; if you’re not in a whole lot better shape than I am, for crying out loud, keep your shirt on! You could be harpooned at the beach.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against oversized people. Heck, I’m one of them! Just do us all a favor. If you have a lot of junk in the trunk, hide it—it’s not a treasure to be shared with others.

I Wish They'd Shorten the Political Season

2010-06-09T20:10:00.001-04:00

The political campaign season in this country is too long. Do we really need two years and hundreds of millions of dollars to decide who should lead our state or nation?

I, like most Americans, have decided whom I will vote for even before the campaign begins—it’s the person running against the candidate I hate. So spare me the baloney and send me a check for my share of the millions spent to try to convince me. It’s a waste of money; and furthermore, all those repetitious, mean spirited ads interrupt the ballgames and reruns of “Everybody Loves Raymond” I’m trying to enjoy.

There are too many campaign signs, too! It really annoys me to see six identical signs along a thirty yard stretch of roadway. I’ll be damned if I’m going to give my vote to any candidate who thinks I’m so stupid that I have to read his or her message six times in six seconds in order to get it.

Did you ever think of what happens to all those signs after the elections? I’m guessing most of them are filling our landfills. Some of us pay a dollar a bag to use the landfill. Why not charge candidates a buck a sign? I think it might improve their respect for my intelligence.

One way we could shorten the season is to have a six week campaign, in which candidates compete for the office to which they aspire, through some “Survivor” like contest that measures grit, common sense and integrity. For instance, “Survivor Smalltown” might pit the final remaining member of the Holstein Tribe against the winner of the Jersey Tribe primary in an immunity challenge which involves producing the most farm income at a time when raw milk is garnering only $12.00/100lbs. and the cost of fuel to run feed harvesting equipment is hovering around $4.00/gallon. The Selectman election would likely go to the candidate wise enough to, reluctantly, sell his or her herd for beef and his pastures for house lots.

I’m sure there are a few politicians out there who truly want to serve their constituents for the right reasons, but there are plenty of nut-jobs, too. I’m not saying we should totally scrap the electoral system upon which this great nation was founded; I just think it needs some serious tweaking.

Deer season is way too short and the political season is way too long. Maybe we should lengthen the season for deer, shorten the season for politicians, and increase the bag limit for both.

Where'd This Tattoo Come From?

2010-05-24T07:15:00.001-04:00

Did you every wake up with a headache and some new body art? Me neither . . . honest. I was just wondering about you. This isn’t about me, is it?

As I look around at the epidermis of my friends and neighbors, I’m seeing an investment opportunity that in 10 to 20 years will fund my retirement and allow Winnie and me to buy that new motor home we’ve been dreaming of. I’m going to develop a tattoo removal system that is painless, effective, and very expensive. The way I see it, there will be a lot of future parents and folks going through that mid-life change—you know, the one that makes “life in the slow lane” seem like a good thing—who will pay a lot to erase some body art.

“It seemed so awesome at the time,” they’ll say. “I didn’t know I was going to get older, have kids, get divorced, have a career, and stuff.” I guess we all think we’ll be the first to avoid aging and a responsible lifestyle.

The other day, the little woman and I were having ribs over at Applebee’s when in comes a young couple, both dressed in nothing but black leather. Coincidentally, they both had hair dyed a shade of black that just doesn’t occur in nature. They each had so many piercings; I had to peek after they took a swig of beer just to see if their faces leaked!

Their skin was ghost-white—a nice contrast to all that black—except for lots of very colorful body art. You’ve got to know that the young man with “Phoebe” engraved within a heart on his face, is going to someday marry a Susan or a Mary . . . KACHING! . . . a down payment on our new Winnebago!

And Phoebe, with the snake tattoo running from her right shoulder, up her neck, above her upper lip and onto her left cheek, will someday be a soccer mom and president of the PTA . . . KACHING! KACHING!

I’m guessing that Josh, who bags my groceries down at Dan’s Market, will someday be Reverend Joshua McDonald, and regret the “See You in Hell” tattoo with flames emblazoned on the back of his right hand . . . KACHING Reverend, and God bless you.

Lori, the lovely, young blonde who serves me my weekly double hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and nuts (I’m sorry, but I’m weak) over at Carmen’s Ice Cream, will someday tire of explaining the bright, green image of a seven pointed leaf adorning the area just below the front of her neck to her 2nd grade students at Smalltown Elementary. “Little Johnny, it’s like I told Jennie last week; it’s an oregano leaf . . . I don’t know why your daddy laughed when you told him that” . . . Money, Money, Money, Money!

Ernie, the ex-Marine who sells me my Bud Light down at the Big Apple convenience store, will be in to see me. His girlfriend, Marissa, will tell him that she won’t marry him until he has that naked girl removed from his arm . . . show me the money, Ernie!

I think I’m onto something big. I might even start looking at yachts or a little winter place in Barbados and maybe a BMW convertible for Winnie. All I need is a name for my new enterprise—Tats-Be-Gone? No Regrets? Mistake Eraser?

Weathermen Don't Know Sleet

2010-05-10T20:13:00.001-04:00

I’m guessing meteorologists go to college for at least four years; some of them for six or eight, I’m sure. So why, with all their schooling and all their high-tech gizmos, are they accurate about half the time?

There are several, well-funded federal and international agencies sending up weather balloons as well as geostationary and polar satellites, and using Doppler and polarmetric radar to predict the weather, and still we get some genius on the evening news telling us “tomorrow will be mostly sunny, except if it rains or snows.”

My 80 year old mother-in-law is more reliable than all of them. She never had the opportunity to attend college, but when I want to know whether to wear my “2 Sexy 2 B 40” tank top, (okay, so it’s a few years old), or my raincoat to the pig races at the county fair, I call her.

The TV weather personality may predict mostly sunny skies, but if Bea says “red sky in mornin’, sailors take warnin’”, I’m wearing my high rubber boots.

The scientists study El Niño and La Niña patterns to predict long-range weather patterns and try to warn us about how much snow to expect in January. I’ve learned to pay little attention to their predictions, but if my mother-in-law tells me the squirrels have been loading up on extra acorns and beech nuts all November, I’m going to see my buddy, Barnie, to buy a 48 inch, 30 horsepower snow blower.

I don’t pay any attention to Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog Day. Seems like every year he sees his shadow on that early February morning and we are told to expect six more weeks of winter.

First off, where I live, a winter that ends in late March is something to celebrate. I’ve seen my brother, KC, do cartwheels down Main Street wearing only his BVDs after news like that.

Secondly, of course Phil sees his shadow every Groundhog Day. He pops out of his hole and is immediately greeted with the flash of 200 cameras and five gazillion megawatts of TV camera lights. It could be midnight and he’d see his shadow.

My little woman’s mother is a virtual encyclopedia of rhyming weather predictions:

“When dew is on the grass, no rain will come to pass.”

“When leaves show their back, rain we won’t lack.”

“When the wind is from the south, rain is in its mouth.”

Still, my father-in-law, Floyd, hasn’t learned to rely on his wife for weather advice. Floyd has been farming for over 50 years. One late August morning he really wanted to cut a field of rowen before the weekend. Rain was predicted for the entire week to follow.

“Bea, I’m going to mow the Quimby field today,” he announced at the breakfast table.

“The cows are lying down,” she replied.

“So?”

Bea hardly looked up from her bowl of shredded wheat. “It’s gonna storm today. You’ll never get that hay dry and it’ll rot in the field.”

Floyd bristled. He really wanted to cut that hay. “That pretty little girl, Sarah, on Channel 3 promised sun today and tomorrow,” he said.

“The cows are lyin’ down,” Bea repeated.

“They’re just tired, you silly old woman. Sarah’s a college trained meteorologist . . . and she’s some cute, too.”

“Suit yourself.”

Needless to say, Floyd no sooner knocked down 40 acres of a valuable second crop of hay when the skies opened. It was the kind of weather that inspired Noah to build that big boat.

The storm made mud so fast that my father-in-law soon had his Massey Ferguson stuck to the hubs of its five foot wheels. It took two other tractors and three hours in torrential rain to extract Floyd from the quagmire.

It was six o’clock that evening by the time Floyd, tail between his legs, dragged his sorry looking, water logged, manure-enriched mud covered self into the farmhouse.

“What a day,” he lamented. “I’m tired, dirty, cold and starving. What’s for supper?”

Bea was less than sympathetic. “I don’t know Floyd. Why don’t you call that pretty little girl on Channel 3 and ask her? Maybe she’ll take you for a picnic on the beach . . . and don’t forget your sunscreen.”

My poor father-in-law didn’t get a beach picnic or a home-cooked meal that night. In fact, he survived on humble pie for the following week or so.

Childbirth Can Be Painful

2010-04-29T21:15:00.002-04:00

When Jake, our first child, was born over 30 years ago, the little woman and I were, needless to say, quite excited. We did all the right stuff and read all the right books to be sure we were totally prepared for the parenting experience. Don’t laugh yet; it gets funnier.

One of the things we did was to take a Lamaze course so that our little bundle of joy could enter this world in a natural, drug free way. Winnie was about five months along when we started our classes and, while I thought I’d already done my part to get her to that point, I agreed to attend.

So, every Monday night for a month, we sat in a circle on the floor of the Smalltown High School gymnasium and practiced heavy breathing. There were deep, “cleansing” breaths and quick “hee hee hoo” breaths (for those untrained readers, that’s “hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hoooooooo”), all designed to, I think, calm the expectant mother and entertain the expectant father. It seemed to me that the delivery was going to sound a lot like the conception but, being a sensitive guy, I kept that to myself.

I had my doubts about how effective all that huffing and puffing was going to be, and it concerned me, a bit, that I was missing TV coverage of four Red Sox games for Lamaze classes. But, as I was learning, parenthood means sacrifice, and I was determined to do my part. So, I listened to the games through a hidden radio earphone. Winnie wasn’t too proud of me when I yelled “Yes, Yesss!” in response to a Yastrzemski homer, just as the rest of the class was exhaling “hee hee hoo” breaths. Ooops.

I did pay enough attention so that I became quite adept at “hee hee hoo” breathing which is, by the way, also helpful for belly pain after an all-you-can-eat bean supper down at the American Legion Hall.

Finally, the big day came and, as soon as the Patriots game was over, I drove the little woman to the hospital. “Remember honey, Doctor Braley said most couples get to the hospital too early. We don’t want to inconvenience him by arriving before we need to, do we?” I helped her with the heavy breathing every ten minutes, or so, and for the first three hours of Winnie’s labor, the Lamaze techniques were working fairly well. That all changed in the final moments before the blessed event. There I was, inhaling deeply, puffing away and, as always, being generally supportive when it all fell apart. The little woman seemed to be in a bit of pain, so I did what I’d been trained to do.

“Breathe, honey, breathe; hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hoooooooo,” I coached her.

“You breathe, you idiot! You did this to me! Get me some drugs . . . NOW or you’ll never touch me again!” she yelled. She hadn’t been so mean, or looked at me with those scary, Linda Blair Exorcist eyes when we’d practiced these relaxation techniques at home.

I knew she didn’t really want those unnatural drugs. “Just breathe, honey. It can’t hurt that much. Thousands of women do this every day.” It seems that wasn’t the best choice of words.

Winnie got her drugs and it all worked out alright. We have some lovely photographs to prove it—group pictures of a tired mommy with sweaty hair, wrinkled up baby Jake, and a proud daddy with a black eye.

Poachers Are Not Hunters

2010-04-06T21:37:00.001-04:00

I hate game poachers. You know the kind of guy I’m referring to. He’s that poor excuse for a human who thinks he’s a hunter because he shoots a lot of deer and moose from his pickup truck while shining a billion candle power spotlight on them, and then leaves them in some farmer’s field to die and rot. He brags about the deer he shoots legally, but everyone knows he’s lying through his tooth. He’s not a man, and he’s certainly not a hunter.

He’s the kind of guy who is able to hunt at midnight because, during the day, he naps. His shiny, new F150 with the fancy spotlights is parked in the dooryard of his shack down by the river while his wife works a double shift down at Dan’s Market and his poor, rag-wearing kids are off at school.

I wish there was an open season on deer jackers. Have the game wardens turn them loose in a field and allow law-abiding sportsmen to cull the human herd of some of the weak-minded, amoral, spineless losers that steal the wildlife that wardens and honest outdoorsmen, like me, seek to preserve and protect. I’d pay good money for that license permit.

Since I loathe poachers, I like game wardens . . . most game wardens.

When I was a young man—a long time ago—the warden responsible for the area from Smalltown to Island Lake was Dain Eldridge. He was a pea-brained, power hungry, mean-spirited, arrogant putz. I mean that in the kindest way, of course.

Dain wasn’t smart enough to outwit the deer poachers, so he abused the power of his position and wasted taxpayers’ dollars by prosecuting dangerous culprits like my grandfather. It seems Gramps had taken my twelve year old nephew, Jake, fishing for the afternoon. Jake was visiting for the day from Connecticut, and had no fishing license. Dain nailed Gramps for fishing with two poles, in a pond that was home to nothing but three gazillion yellow perch. My grandfather lost his fishing license for two years, and the world was a safer place, thanks to Dain Eldridge.

A long time ago, shortly after the little woman and I were married, I was hunting squirrels up near Hogback Knob with my brothers, Sam and KC, when I found a broken robin’s egg on the ground. It was the prettiest shade of blue I’d ever seen. I guess you’d call it . . . well . . . robin’s egg blue.

I knew Winnie would like it, so I tucked it gently into the little plastic Baggie I use to keep my hunting license dry.

Wouldn’t you know it? When we returned to my truck, Dain Eldridge was parked there waiting for us. He knew my Dodge Ram and also knew my brothers and I come from a long line of dangerous perch poachers, so he was likely concerned that we’d get more than our share of the two billion gray squirrels up on Hogback Knob.

Needless to say, when I pulled the Baggie from my pocket to show my license, Dain, being blessed with ultra-keen senses, spotted the little blue egg shell.

“Looks like you found a robin’s egg,” he stated.

“Yup.”

“You can’t remove that from the woods. It upsets the balance of nature.”

That’s when I lost it. “The balance of nature? I can’t believe you’re preaching to me about the balance of nature! You cleared two acres of beeches and ash trees from what was once the best hunting area in the county to put your house and your mother’s trailer, and you have the audacity to chastise me for removing a broken egg shell from the forest? You pea-brained, useless, rubber-spined . . . drain on society. Don’t you have something better to do? Why are you bothering me over this used robin’s egg?”

“Because I can.” Dain smirked. “It’s my job.”

So now you’re sitting there reading about Dain Eldridge, the dim-witted, self-important, spineless, poor excuse for a human being. And do you know why I’m telling this story to millions (okay, maybe hundreds) of readers?

Because I can. It’s my job.

I Like Beer

2010-03-18T21:21:00.004-04:00

I like beer—beer is good. There’s nothing like a cold beer on a hot summer day, or a cold winter night, or . . . well, you get the idea.

Beer drinking has become more complicated than when I started drinking beer in the late sixties. Back then, there were about six kinds: Bud, Schlitz, Miller, Schaefer, Pabst, and Narragansett. There were probably others; they just didn’t have them in Smalltown at Dan’s Market or Luigi’s Bar. Nowadays, there’s a microbrewery in every county making “designer beer”. I’m not a big fan of those fancy brews. Beer shouldn’t taste like pumpkins or blueberries or lemons or chocolate. Beer should taste like . . . well . . . BEER.

The best thing to happen to my favorite beverage in the past 40 years is diet beer. I’m a bit of a health nut, so if I’m going to enjoy a dozen or more brewskis, it’s got to be Bud Light. That’s why the waist size on my Levi’s hasn’t changed in 20 years, though I do wear them a few inches lower these days. The little woman, Winnie, is concerned that my legs are shrinking because my jeans have gone from a size 36/31 to 36/27 since I met her. I think they just make them different now.

This is a true story (the names have been changed to protect the guilty). My buddy, Munzie’s favorite beer is O.P. (Other People’s). The year I met him, he was having trouble seeing eye to eye with his, now former, wife so he spent nearly every evening at my house watching the Sox or the Pats and drinking my Bud Light. I enjoyed his company, so I was happy to share my beer. I’d just ask Winnie to pick up an extra case, or so, at Dan’s every week.

Roughly a year (52 cases of Bud Light) later, a bunch of us went camping. Another friend, Barnie, offered to make a beer run, so I ordered myself a case. Munzie ordered a case, too.

“Bud Light?” Barnie asked.

I was quite surprised at Munzie’s reply.

“Oh, no thanks,” he replied. “I don’t really like that kind.”

I wasn’t upset with Munzie—just grateful I didn’t stock the flavor he likes. Lord knows how many more cases I’d have gone through.

Barnie likes to drink beer too—lots of beer. His beer consumption philosophy is “if you weren’t supposed to drink 30 (or more) beers a day, they wouldn’t make 30 packs.” He doesn’t believe 30 packs were made to share with friends. Barnie’s the only guy I know with a padlock on his beer cooler. I think that’s, in large part, because of Munzie’s preference for O.P. and the philosophy of another mutual friend, Roy, who likes to say; “you can’t drink beer all day, if you don’t start in the morning.”

In our younger years, it was fairly easy to tell how many “wobbly pops” Barnie had enjoyed by the looks of the girl he was dancing with. It seems that all the young ladies at Rex’s Dance Hall got a little prettier with each beer. I hate to say it, but some of the "20 beer women" were homelier than a mud fence.

Barnie Lang is a five-foot-six, scrawny wimp until he has about a dozen beers. Then he’s six and a half feet of muscle . . . and mouth. It’s at about that time of the night when he finds the homely girl with the biggest boyfriend and makes his move.

If I had a cold beer for every time I got my butt kicked for knowing Barnie, I’d have enough O.P. to supply Munzie for another year.

Potholes and Frost Heaves

2010-03-03T21:58:00.001-05:00

The snow and ice of winter makes for some treacherous driving at times and, if you've driven on New England roads for long, you've probably been scared to the point of incontinence while behind the wheel. There's nothing to get your juices flowing like the helpless feeling of doing repeated 360° turns while crossing an icy bridge. Still, I think I prefer the ice and snow of winter to the potholes and frost heaves of spring.

Asphalt doesn't hold up well to six months of frozen precipitation and the plowing, sanding, and salting required to keep New England roads passable. I live near the top of Winding Hill Road and, by late March, the daily commute is like a roller coaster on a slalom course. Any chance of avoiding significant damage to the suspension and front end alignment of my truck is dependent upon my ability to avoid cavernous potholes and anticipate those sometimes significant heaves in the pavement caused by expanding frost.

I'm not too quick these days, so I try to wait at my driveway for a younger driver—one that isn't talking on a cell phone—to pass by. I’ll then follow them at a safe distance. This system works fairly well. I follow their course down the hill until they hit a pothole which I then know to avoid.

My buddy, Wilbur Gilliam, is a mountain of a man. He's not fat; he's got a lot of muscle on his bones. He's also cross-eyed . . . and he's cheap. When gasoline prices rose above four bucks a gallon, Wilbur bought a used Mini Cooper. Did you ever take a good look at the front end of a Mini Cooper? The way the headlights and grill are arranged, it looks like a face. It sort of grimaces at you like it is burdened with the task of hauling its owner around—understandable in Wilbur's case. Wilbur in his Cooper was quite a sight to behold. I've opened sardine cans that weren’t so tightly packed.

Driving the springtime obstacle course has always been a greater challenge for Wilbur then for most, because of the crooked eye. His depth perception is . . . well . . . he doesn't have any. You'd think he would hit about half of the potholes but, for some reason, he averages hitting about 90 percent.

One April morning on my way to the dump, I could see that the traffic in the oncoming lane was moving slowly to avoid a small car and a huge man. It seems that Wilbur had planted the right front tire of his Cooper so deeply into a very large pothole that he'd broken a tie rod; the right headlight was dangling; and he’d lost his dentures.

I, of course, pulled over to see if I could help and, as I approached, Wilbur stood next to his car and grinned, exposing his toothless pie hole. I didn't mean to laugh so hard. I just couldn't help myself.

When I regained composure, Wilbur asked, "What's so damned funny?"

"I'm sorry buddy but, with that crooked headlight and black grill, your car looks just like you!"

Luckily, Wilbur has been a friend for a long time and isn't thin-skinned or he might have rearranged my grill to match that of him and his car.

It occurs to me that there are no potholes or frost heaves on a well-built, well-maintained, gravel road. I'm considering proposing legislation to ban the use of asphalt on any road or highway north of Massachusetts.

The World is Full of Stupid Drivers

2010-02-13T08:34:00.001-05:00

Is it just me or are there more stupid drivers on the road these days? I don't drive all that much. It's about five miles from my home to my workplace, so you'd think I could negotiate those ten miles a day without wanting to take a life. The problem, I've decided, is that while one has to pass a road test to drive, a person can obtain a license to operate a dangerous vehicle without any measurement of intelligence, common sense or human courtesy. Does that scare anyone else?

There's an intersection on my short commute home that requires me to wait at a traffic light were several minutes. That’s several dangerous minutes for me to sit and stew in anticipation of what nearly always happens when it's my turn to go. For this particular intersection on a State highway, some ingenious engineer, apparently one with a sadistic sense of humor, decided that the flow of traffic from the south, east, and west should be controlled by a light, but let's allow the nice folks coming from the north to decide for themselves if they should recognize the yield sign governing their traffic flow. I can tell you, without hesitation, that most of them, especially those in a hurry to get to their Hummers back down country, don't yield.

To make things worse, they tend to respond to my light-flashing, horn-honking, tailgating rage with a hand gesture. You'd think they could at least apologize for their ignorance by waving with their entire hand . . . they’re number one with me too! Makes me wish I still owned that rusty old F350 with a heavy duty bumper handcrafted from 2 by 10 rough cut hemlock.

The other folks that make my blood percolate a bit are the young drivers who are so important that they can't get out of their own driveway without restoring contact with the other important people of the wireless world.

So there I sit, at a stop sign waiting my turn, when around the corner, turning left in front of me, is a multi-tasking, 20-year-old mother. I can tell she’s a mom because of the "Caution—Baby on Board" sign in her side window. She negotiates the corner, practically on two wheels and just misses my front bumper. She offers no hand gestures though, leaving me to wonder why. Is it because of the "Baby on Board" or is it that she has a phone in her left hand and a latté and the steering wheel in her right hand?

Is it just me . . . ?

The Demolition Derby at Dan's Market

2010-01-31T17:50:00.001-05:00

Big parking lots drive me crazy. It doesn’t seem to matter whether it’s the lot at Dan’s Market or Small-Mart; they all scare the bejeebers out of me. There are more rules, and more careful drivers, in a demolition derby at the county fair. On the roads and highways, most drivers know, and follow, the laws and rules of etiquette; but turn into a shopping center parking lot and it’s every person for themself.

Last week, I drove the little woman over the Dan’s to pick up some grub. I love to eat, but I hate grocery stores, so I waited in the truck and took in the greatest show on earth. It’s like watching Extreme Fighting, but without the rules that prohibit things like eye gouging, biting or throat punches. Heck, I can sit in the supermarket parking lot for free and watch folks―many of whom I also see kneeling piously at church on Sunday mornings―treating one another with total disrespect and ill will.

My favorite show on that particular day was the soccer mom in the brand new Volvo station wagon who slowly cruised the lot―up Row A, down Row B, then diagonally across the empty spots at the end of row B to get to Row C. Around and around, prowling like a coyote, waiting to pounce on a spot near the store entrance. I watched her cruise for ten minutes—and then it happened. A red Chevy backed slowly out of its spot as an elderly couple waited patiently in their Grand Marquis to take its place. The Chevy was barely out of her way when Sally Soccer Mom pulled across the lane to cut in front of the old folks, nearly scraping the “Give Peace A Chance” sticker off the bumper of her Volvo. The senior citizens and I watched in disbelief as Sally jumped out of her car, her Gucci exercise outfit still damp with perspiration following her sixty minute Tae Bo workout at the Ladies Fitness Center and walked the few yards to into the grocery store, pleased to have saved herself that extra twenty or so steps from the empty spots at the end of Row B. In spite of my wishes, she made it into the store without getting tiretracks on her overstuffed designer outfit.

It seems to me that most of these parking lots are not designed with pickup trucks in mind. The rows are too close together, and the spaces too narrow, to allow for my F-150 to back out and turn to exit in a single maneuver.

That’s a big part of the reason I’d rather go to the oral surgeon than shop. I’m telling you, current parking lot designs discourage shopping by pickup truck owners. With that in mind, I’ve been thinking I could save money by trading the little woman’s Honda Civic for a brand new three-quarter ton F-250 with a crew cab, duelies, and an eight foot bed.

No New Year's Resolution For Me

2010-01-07T21:57:00.002-05:00

I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I know I won’t keep them anyway, so why bother? I do make a New Week’s resolution every Monday morning—to lose weight! It typically lasts until about suppertime.

I’m overweight . . . kinda fat. I like food, and not just any food; I like the bad stuff—potato chips, pie, chocolate, burgers, fries . . . . .I like the stuff that’s supposed to be good for me too—salad, vegetables, fruit, rice. . . The problem is that I like everything, and lots of it.

To make things worse, the little woman, Winnie, eats like a bird and—get this—she hates chocolate, and ice cream and cake and donuts—anything sweet, really. And I’m not saying she can take it or leave it; she really hates it. That’s just wrong, isn’t it? All I can figure is her DNA must be screwed up. There must be a misplaced sweet tooth chromosome somewhere along her double helix that distorts her sense of good vs. bad, tasty vs. repulsive. I fear I may have done irreparable damage to our species by giving in to her tireless pleas to help her reproduce. Okay, I was the one begging, but I’m just saying I feel a little bad about enabling the propagation of this defective trait to another generation.

It’s really not all my fault that I’m fat. Let’s face it, there are lots of opportunities to take in calories out there and I can resist anything . . . except temptation.

There’s even temptation at work. Candi, one of my co-workers, is a baking diva … the queen of tarts. Every Monday and Wednesday, she arrives at the office with a Chocolate Raspberry Torte, Cinnamon Sticky Buns, or some equally delicious and decadent treat. I could choose not to eat her offerings, but I don’t. I really like them and it shows. Candi, on the other hand, is a hundred pounds of fitness who obviously hasn’t enjoyed a cookie or brownie in years. She’s probably too stuffed after the 16 peas and 2 teaspoons of cheese curds she scoffs down at lunch everyday.

I’ve decided I have a couple of choices. I can limit my intake to spinach, rice cakes, dried out chicken, and tofu, or I can just hang out with people fatter than me. I choose the latter option.

So, these days, I spend a lot of time at bluegrass festivals, county fairs and Small-Mart. It makes me feel better about myself and besides, fat folks are more fun than skinny people.

You have to be industrious, determined, disciplined and a bit neurotic—maybe even obsessive compulsive—to be thin. Does that sound like the kind of person you want to party with?

I’ve heard of folks who were “fat and happy”, but never heard anyone described as thin and happy. I suspect there’s a reason for that. When you picture a “jolly” person, is it a stick thin super model that comes to mind? I didn’t think so.

I did just read about a study that claimed that thin people live longer, but I’m wondering . . . does it just seem longer?

I won’t be making a New Year’s resolution this year; but if I did, it would be to eat everyday as if it was the last day of my life.

Going Postal

2010-01-06T21:02:00.000-05:00

Growing up in a small town, I visited the post office nearly every day. Our family lived in the village; home mail delivery was not an option, so I picked up the mail every day on my way home from school at lunchtime. Yup, I walked to Smalltown Elementary―nearly three miles each way, most of it uphill,―four times a day, in a part of the world where the temperature hovered around zero for half the year. Okay, so maybe I’ve embellished a bit but, let’s just say the walk was far enough that there weren’t many fat kids in my seventh grade class.

The post office was an important social center, in our little village. Since nearly everyone had a post office box, most townsfolk stopped by every day or two. They planned their daily mail pick-up to be at a certain time—in part because they knew someone else who would make that same pick-up time part of their daily routine. Lots of local news was disseminated in that post office lobby. It was important stuff, like the young widow, Sally Peterson, dating Bucky Simons within days of his release from prison. And to think it had been only six months since her late husband’s tragic human catapult experiment. The word at the post office was that his last words were, “Sally, watch this!”

I still live in a fairly small town, but a mailman drives to my mailbox and delivers a bill or two and several pieces of junk mail five days a week. Most of the mail I receive is for me or a family member, but I must say I’ve learned a lot about my neighbors through receiving mail intended for their mailbox. If not for my inept, careless mail delivery person, I’d have no clue that old Mr. Gotlowski still likes to look at pictures of naked women. It was fun delivering that magazine to him personally. It may have been a week late and slightly dog-eared, but the way his face flushed, I could tell he was pleased to finally receive it.

There isn’t a mailbox in my neighborhood that hasn’t fallen victim to the snowplow. Sometimes, on my way to work, following an overnight blizzard, it’s like maneuvering my pickup truck through a slalom course of fallen mailboxes. One particularly snowy winter, every one of my neighbors had to use the old mailbox post in the five gallon bucket of sand trick in order to receive postal deliveries for the remainder of the winter. Three years later, Mr. Gotlowski still uses that system. No sense in rushing into a permanent fix―especially with so many magazines to read (or, at least, look at).

Did I mention that, since 2002, I have not lost a mailbox to the evil snow plow driver? Well, that’s a fact. I picked my mailbox up off the street three times that winter and I’d had enough. This was war! I live on a cul-de-sac, which Zeke plows in both directions giving him two ways to knock down my postal hardware and, trust me, he got me coming and going.

You’ve heard that necessity is the mother of invention. Well, Zeke was the MOTHER that inspired my invention of the Snowplow Buster Mailbox System. The SBMS is very low tech: a board, two washers, a nut, and a bolt. It swings both ways (something I’ve accused Zeke of more than once).

After the first few storms of the winter of 2003, I found my mailbox dislocated left twice, and once to the right, but still intact. Zeke hasn’t hit it since. The contest is over; Zeke seems disinterested in playing a game he can’t win. He still attacks my neighbors though―even knocks down Mr. Gotlowski’s sand bucket post sometimes. Being a good neighbor, I’m always there to right his mailbox, gather up his letters and magazines and . . . eventually. . .deliver them to his door.

Wireless World

2009-12-16T21:08:00.002-05:00

I'm one of those dinosaurs who still has a telephone attached to my wall, and to the rest of the world, with wires. That's because the part of the world in which the little woman and I live isn't ready to be part of the “wireless world”. Most of my friends have gone cellular, which is why I have had to learn a new language, sort of like Pig Latin (ig-Pay atin-Lay). These days, I have to figure out the other end of a conversation while hearing only two out of every three or four words. I'm telling you, sometimes it's very difficult -- even dangerous -- to respond.

How do I answer my wife's friend, Sarah, when the question sounds like this? “I'd like blip have you blip blip over and maybe show blip blip blip and maybe blip blip breasts. Would you blip blip blip interested?”

“Uhhm . . . well . . . I'm sorry Sarah, could you say that again?”

My face turned red the other day while I was standing in the checkout line at Dan’s Market. I was in front of my buddy Roy’s son, Coleman, who had never had a lot to say to me.

“Hi, how ya doin'?” he asks.

“Good,” I reply. “You?”

“I'm good. Just got outta work. Stopped by Dan’s to pick up a twelve pack,” he says.

“I see that,” I reply. “So, how's the old man? I haven't seen him this week.”

Coleman looks at me funny, but keeps the conversation flowing. I'm quite flattered actually. “Hey man, wanna come over and catch the Sox game tonight? Maybe pound back a few cold ones?”

Now I'm really flabbergasted. “Oh, thanks Cole. I appreciate the offer, but I promised the little woman I’d take her to the bean supper down to the church tonight.”

Coleman just shakes his head and says, “Hey man, I gotta hang up. One of my dad's old buddies is standing next to me and keeps answering my questions.” He touches that Green Tooth, or whatever it's called, in his left ear and slaps me on the back. “Hi Joe, how ya doin’?”

I try to act as cool as possible and reply, “Oh, hi Cole; I didn’t notice you standing behind me.”

Dropped calls are particularly annoying. I hate it when I rattle off a most charming and hilarious story for two to three minutes, nail the punch line, and then listen for the response . . . silence. Now that's particularly tough for me because, about half the time, silence is the response to my hilarious anecdotes even without a dropped call; but when I realize I've been talking to myself for who knows how long, it really aggravates me. To make things worse, I'm suspicious that some of my friends have mastered the “dropped call fake”, and will use it at my very mention of a funny story.

If World War II made my parents part of the “Greatest Generation”, then cellular technology has turned Generation Y into the “Rudest Generation”. They don't seem to recognize that texting, tweeting, and answering the cell phone, five times during a ten minute conversation could make a guy feel his company is unappreciated and his words unimportant. God forbid they should miss a message on that little electronic gizmo. Makes me want to break their nimble little thumbs.

Call me an old-fashioned, backward thinking, narrow-minded, old fool if you want to. Just don't call me on your cellular phone.

Eye Anxiety

2009-11-29T21:21:00.000-05:00

About every two years or so, I get a postcard from my eye doctor inviting me to go in for another exam. I don’t know why, but I think I’d rather have a colonoscopy. It makes me nervous, I guess, to have to answer all those questions: “Which is better, number one or number two?” It’s a lot of pressure. What if I answer wrong a couple of times? Will I see upside down and backwards with my new glasses? I’m breaking into a cold sweat just thinking about it.

And, what if the doctor gives me bad news? I’d rather die than lose my vision. It just wouldn’t be the same having the little woman read Uncle Henry’s Trader to me. Also, what’s up with that air puff test? Does that tell them something about my eyes or is my doctor just a mean, perverted, sick little man?

I reluctantly decided to go in for my eye exam last month (actually, Winnie made the appointment and told me I was going). As if I wasn’t feeling enough anxiety, I get to the eye care place to find out that old Dr. A, whom I’ve seen for twenty-five years, is “out sick”. I think “out sick” is doctor-speak for “playing golf”.

Anyway, I was told I’d be seeing Dr. B that day. As it works out, Dr. B is a pretty little girl. I guess she must be in her twenties, but she looks about fifteen to me. Do you know how long it’s been since I was in a darkened room with a young girl asking me which I like better? Now, I was really nervous.

I decided that I should do what any mature man would do in that situation; I’d mess with her. She put that complicated looking gizmo in front of me and started asking me all those difficult questions.

“Which is better Mr. Wright, number one or number two?”

“Can I see them again?”

“Number one or number two?”

“Well, number one looks bigger and number two looks crooked.”

“Does either look clearer?”

“Oh, maybe number one,” I answered.

“Okay, how about number three or number four?” she asked.

“Number two.”

“No, Mr. Wright, that’s not an option. Number three or number four?”

“Can I see them again?”

(Big sigh) “Number three or number four?”

“They look the same to me,” I replied, chuckling inside.

“Okay, Mr. Wright, try this. Number five or number six?”

“Oh, can I go back to number four? I think that looked a little closer than number three.”

“AAGH! Never mind, Mr. Wright. I’ll just shine this bright light in your eyes and that will tell me your prescription.”

“Alright, now we’re talking!”

Later, I felt a little bad about goofing on that nice little girl doctor. Especially after my eyes stayed dilated for eight, long, bright, sunshiny days. Guess Dr. B had the last laugh!

Still Hunting--After All These Years

2009-11-04T23:06:00.000-05:00

There’s no need to look at the calendar to know it’s November in northern New England. Madison Avenue may have its Fashion Week, but up north, we have November, our Fashion Month. Just as the hardwood trees become naked and stark, and the grass turns to brown, blaze orange hats, jackets and vests emerge from nearly every pick-up truck and SUV. It’s rifle season for whitetails and the rugged men and women of the North Country dress for the occasion. Men who haven’t stepped foot into the woods in twenty years don their bright orange garb and hang a rifle in the back window of the truck…just in case.

For those who actually get out and scare some deer, there are three basic tactics― walking, sitting, or still hunting.

Walking is a good way to see deer—very briefly—but an almost impossible way to shoot one.

Sitting, or stand hunting, is a technique which involves sitting or standing in one location—ideally one in an area known for heavy whitetail traffic, (and close to camp)—in hopes of ambushing a deer on its way to feed, breed or just lie down. This can be an effective method, but requires lots of patience and a large quantity of Twinkies, Teriyaki jerky and Twix bars.

Finally, there is my favorite—still hunting—which is really a hybrid of the two previously described tactics. Still hunting involves moving slowly, and hopefully quietly, through the woods; sometimes taking a half hour or more to cover a hundred yards, in hopes of sneaking up on an unsuspecting buck.

In the early sixties, my father and uncle, (that’s two separate men, by the way), built a hunting camp in the big woods near Island Lake, about twenty miles north of Smalltown. Dad was a great hunter and my uncles were decent, too. The interior walls of our cabin are covered with twenty, or so, large racks of antlers taken from Buck Mountain. To this day, hunters drive miles out of their way to stop by the Wright Camp, just to rub shoulders with the Smalltown Boys, as we’ve come to be known.

A quarter mile down the gravel road that leads to the Smalltown Boys Camp, is the camp of our rivals, the Lebel Boys. The Lebels’ camp is covered, on the outside, by dozens of small racks, a few of which were probably taken in daylight. The Lebels are a bunch of deer poaching braggarts, and we hate them.

One cold morning, after climbing to the top of Buck Mountain, I was creeping along slowly through a thick patch of softwoods when I snuck up to within ten feet of a giant of a man before he heard me.

He was startled and embarrassed when he finally saw me and asked a foolish question. “Are you still hunting?”

“Well, I climbed all the way up this mountain; it seems silly to quit now,” I replied.

Paul Bunyan didn’t laugh. “I’m Lou Lebel. You’ve probably heard of me.”

“Nope, can’t say as I have.” I wasn’t about to give a Lebel the satisfaction of thinking their family was well known in these parts. “So Lulabelle, do you have a last name?” You see, I’m missing that filter that keeps most people from saying things that could lead to a good whoopin’.

“It’s Lebel…Lou Lebel.” He wasn’t amused. “Who the hell are you?”

“Joe Wright”

“Oh, you’re one of the Smalltown Boys,” he replied.

“Yup, I guess we’re famous around here.” I grinned and walked away, thankful for the thick woods and my 30-06.

2009-10-19T12:12:00.000-04:00

The Little Woman's Cat

The Little Woman's Cat is My Boss

2009-10-16T21:04:00.002-04:00

I’m not a cat lover, but I own one that seems to run my life; it’s true what they say “dogs have owners ― cats have staff” and I am my cat’s staff. Mind you, I don’t need a critter running my life. I have a wife for that. But, this cat (who the little woman creatively named “Kitty”) lets me know when I want to get off my comfortable sofa to let her outside — and then, a few hours later, taps on my window screen to wake me from a sound sleep so that I can let her back into the house. I’m lucky, too, because I don’t need to set an alarm clock. Kitty wakes me at five o’clock every morning because she is hungry, which would be fine, except that I work second shift and would like to sleep until at least eight. But, that’s not convenient for Winnie’s cat. Incidentally, Kitty won’t (or can’t) wake the little woman, who sleeps peacefully for eight restful, uninterrupted hours every night.

Winnie is some proud of her Kitty. Just last winter, my buddy, Warren, was over for a beer. Warren hates cats which, of course, means that Kitty was all over him like he was wearing a catnip union suit. He gave her a nudge with his foot and she ran off to another room. “Stinkin’ four legged mouse trap,” Warren muttered.

As I mentioned, the little woman thinks a lot of Kitty, and was quick to come to her defense. She must have gone on for five minutes about the positive attributes of her feline friend. She was just finishing her speech with, “Kitty never, ever, ever makes a mess,” when Kitty walked nonchalantly back into the room, made that hairball noise, and vomited an entire can of Shrimp and Salmon Gourmet Entrée onto Warren’s left shoe. Now, I have to admit, that I’d never let the truth stand in the way of a good story, but this is a true story — I swear.

The nice thing about a cat is that we can leave home for a few days and she will take care of herself. All she needs is a few cans of food, some water, a clean litter box, and she is good to go. That is not to say she is happy about being left alone for a weekend and, believe me, she lets us know when we get home that she is upset.

Upon return, Kitty will get up from the couch and greet us, near the front door, with a barrage of loud meows, the tone of which make it clear that she is not happy.

I, of course, can’t fully translate the cat-speak into English, but I am quite certain her message shouldn't be repeated in the presence of small kittens.

Need Directions? -- Get Lost

2009-09-21T14:49:00.001-04:00

It’s hard to get good directions. Last October, I was upcountry and asked a local where I might find some partridges (Yeah, I know there are no partridges up there). But, ask about grouse, and you’re sure to be instantly labeled as “one of them highbrows from down country.”

Anyway, Alton, at the Lincoln Mobil Station gave me very detailed directions as I pumped my own gas. “If it’s birds you’re lookin’ for, you wanna go to the Bent Culvert Road over to Loon Lake. Just take this here road ‘till it almost ends, then keep goin’ about two, two and a half miles.”

I was having some trouble following Alton’s directions, especially since I was so distracted by the Swisher Sweet Cigarillo he never removed from between his lips. He held it dead center in his mouth, and it bounced like a maestro’s baton during the William Tell Overture.

“Yessah, just about a quarter mile before you get to a wicked sharp right hand curve, you take a left on the Bent Culvert Road, then you go to the Y in the road, and take that left. Don’t take the right ‘cause that ain’t where the birds are. Good deer huntin’ out there, though. My uncle Royce shot a ten pointer out there in ’67 — ain’t no birds though.”

After about five minutes, I was wondering how long that Cigarillo could burn, and how much brain damage does one suffer when his only fresh air is inhaled during sleeping hours. I thanked Alton, and off I went in search of the Y on the Bent Culvert Road.

Three hours later, I was back at the Lincoln Mobil Station with 120 more miles on my truck, no birds, and no clue about the location of the Bent Culvert Road. I explained that I had taken this road two and one quarter miles past where it almost ends and the only left, which was indeed, a quarter mile before a sharp right curve, was marked with a sign that read Norton Trail Road.

Alton, sucking on a fresh Cigarillo, replied, “Yup, you found it. The state calls it Norton Trail Road, but that ain’t its real name. That’s the Bent Culvert Road. Any birds out there?”
I rubbed my face with my hand. “I don’t know.”

“You took the left at the Y didn’t ya? ‘Cause they ain’t no birds to the right, just an old culvert that was stove up by a loggin’ truck.”

“Yup, I took the left,” I lied. “Just no birds today. Maybe I’ll come back in November and go to the right to look for deer.”

Alton’s Cigarillo danced again as he offered more assistance. “Well, stop in then and I’ll tell you how to get to Bald Archie’s Cutoff. It ain’t but three miles this side of the Five Corners on Lost Indian Trail.”

I could still see Alton’s Cigarillo bouncing and his flailing hands pointing out directions as I glanced in my rear view mirror and headed for home. I made a mental note to myself: Pick up new DeLorme and GPS.

Small Town Diners

2009-09-20T23:29:00.001-04:00

Seems like every small town in America has at least one. It's a meeting place, a social center, a place where each day the problems of the town, the state, the country, and the world are solved -- the local diner.

In some towns, it’s a silver sided classic vestige of the 1950s, with a long row of vinyl covered -- often duct tape patched -- stools lined up at the Formica countertop and eight or so booths, all with matching vinyl/duct tape upholstery, along the opposite wall. At each booth, is an antique remote control which, when installed would, for a quarter, play six of your favorite Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, or Bobby Darin songs on the Wurlitzer. Now, of course, that same quarter will let you listen to any one of those same songs.

In other towns, the local diner/meeting place is not a stand-alone establishment, but part of a greater enterprise. It might be a part of the Pete’s Exxon--General Store--Catering--Restaurant and Truck Rental. Or it could be the Bargain City Department Store and Café. Either way, locals are encouraged -- no... expected – to weigh in on local, state and national issues and, furthermore; if Pete has to run over to the check out to sell a quart of milk and some roofing nails; to help out with the cooking. I've seen it happen. "Jake, if you don't want your sausage to burn, you'd better get your lazy butt off that stool and flip it over while I go out and fill Effie’s propane tank."

I like small town diners and I have some favorites along the routes to visit family or friends at various locations in northern New England. I've noticed the same characters at Pete's every time I'm there, regardless of time of day, and I'm sorry but I'm guilty of eavesdropping on conversations about the likes of Sally's latest child and boyfriend or Percy's prostate surgery. Regulars hate to miss a day for fear they’ll become the topic of conversation. Now, I don't visit family more than twice a year, but stopping at Pete's is like watching a TV soap opera. You can miss six months, tune in, and feel like you haven’t skipped an episode.

I haven’t figured out how the hard-working folks at those shiny little diners can turn a profit, serving the likes of Jake and his buddies a three hour cup of coffee and a side of toast. They should replace the Wurlitzer remote control with a timing device kind of like those in taxicabs. The server would deliver the coffee, slap the timer, and move on to the next customer. When Jake is ready to leave, he just slaps the timer, pays his $1.75 for his coffee and toast and five cents a minute for booth rental.

Standing prior to inserting the proper coinage into the booth rental machine prompts the Wurlitzer to play a loud version of the Beatles "I'm a Loser" and moves the cheapskate named to the top of the gossip list.

Heavy Kids

2009-09-20T22:45:00.000-04:00

I was driving to work one day last winter and passed a group of middle school aged kids waiting for the school bus. What I saw there, in the group of a dozen, or so, youngsters, concerned me. I was left to wonder if our economy is even worse than I figured.

It was a chilly morning -- I spent five minutes scraping a heavy layer of frost from the windshield of my F150 -- but the young girls at the bus stop were standing there shivering in their little skirts and T-shirts. Was it possible their parents couldn't afford jackets? And the boys; they were obviously wearing hand-me-downs from their much older brothers. Their blue jeans were two or three sizes too big and had holes in the knees. Their pants were so big around the waist, that zippers and pockets were half way to their knees. Thank goodness their older brothers also left them hooded sweatshirts that were also three sizes too large. My heart ached for those poor children
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The other thing I noticed about the 12 and 13 year-olds at the bus stop was that about half of them were heavy … overweight… you know…fat. It caused me to reflect on my eighth grade class at Smalltown Elementary School. I honestly don't remember any fat kids. Some were, of course, bigger boned than others; but none were really fat.

Part of the reason for our relative physical fitness was that there was no school bus service in Smalltown. We all lived in the village, within a mile or so of the school, and walked. For me, it was a mile each way and I, like most of my classmates, walked home for lunch each day. Lunch was ready and on the table when we got there because, for the most part, moms stayed home back then. So, all told, I walked four miles a day; back and forth to school. Add another three miles a day lugging around and delivering thirty-two copies of the Smalltown News, and I burned off some Hostess Twinkies.

We didn't spend much time in the house in those days. Almost every little house or apartment was home to four or more of us rug rats, and the folks made certain we spent most daylight hours outside. I don't remember that being a problem. There was one channel on TV, and the shows were in black and white. Even the Lone Ranger looked like it was filmed in a desert snowstorm. There were no Nintendo, Atari, Xbox or PlayStation games to play. Our dads cleared a ball field in the lumber yard across the road from our home, and there were lots of neighborhood kids to make up teams for pick-up games of baseball or football. Our parents had to keep an ear towards the field because the Brown boys liked to swear, and the Ouellette boys and girls like to fight. When a fight would break out, those of us not involved in the melee would step back and enjoy the show, until my father or Uncle John would come over to break things up. Swearing was a different story. When one of the Brown brothers would let fly with a four letter expletive, all action would freeze, and all eyes would turn to the second window from the right on the second floor of the house across the street -- the window of my mother's kitchen. The warning was always clear and always the same. "You boys clean up your language or you’re going home and I'll call your mother!" That was all it would take. They knew my mother would make good on her promise.

We played hard and worked hard in those days, and few kids were fat. Still, today's kids have it all over us when it comes to the thumbs. Their thumb dexterity is nothing short of phenomenal. The facility with which they use their opposed digit to type a text message, surf through the three hundred digital TV channels, or fire off a Game Boy missile is impressive, indeed.

I'm envisioning a singles bar in the year 2020, in which a hefty young lady waddles past two guys -- each of whom is straddling two barstools. One guy turns to the other, fans himself with a beer stained paper coaster, and then says, "whoa…nice thumbs