Third time's not the charm

 Remember when I was laid up with my busted bones and big bruises my uncle and cousin said that when I got all better we could go dancing in the big city?  Well, we did, taking unc's Cad for the long drive to the bright lights of Gotham City, Jr.  And, indeed, we checked into the same hotel, my uncle generously paying for a suite on the top floor, the two men sharing a bedroom and I having one all to myself. This time we made sure everyone knew we would be staying overnight, so avoiding the problems we created during the previous trips.

There were no big bands playing, nor any jump blues combos or anything of that sort.  But the dance club where my uncle and I danced to a big band revival orchestra last year was having a disco Friday night, so we'd made reservations.  I love disco  -- well, essskyooze me! but I do -- and my uncle has stories of hitting the disco clubs when he was in his prime.  My mom was also a hot disco babe back in the day and she taught me a lot of dance moves, and I was looking forward to getting my groove on...is that 'seventies slang?  My cousin didn't know any disco steps so he stopped by a few evenings the week before and we practiced together.  We also watched Saturday Night Fever to get him in the spirit of things. He said he'd seen it before and especially liked the Girl Scout fight scene and I said that I liked it, too, but was it in this movie? and he said, "Oh, yeah."  Then, once we were watching it he realized the movie he was thinking of was Airplane! which we both agreed was a much more enjoyable movie. He suggested, half-kidding (I think...) that instead of practicing disco steps we practice bar brawling.

At the hotel we changed into our dancing duds, my uncle having resurrected a mustard yellow three-piece suit with fantastically wide lapels and flared pants complemented by patent-leather shoes with two-inch heels.  I took one look at them and said, "You're going to break your ankle if you try to dance in those," but he said not to worry my pretty little head about that and I called him an unreconstructed sexist pig and he said, "You bet I am, Sugar tits!" and I said, what was that again?  and he said, "Sugar bits!  I said Sugar bits!" and I gave him a look and said, "Uh, huh.  Got a head start on the adult beverages, did you?" He admitted he'd ordered a couple of beers from room service while I was getting ready.

My cousin dressed in a nice sport coat and tie.  When my uncle excused himself to "drain the lizard" as he said, I re-knotted it for him (my cousin's tie, not my uncle's lizard) so it hung strait.  He promised me he would behave himself this time  and keep an eye on unc to make sure he didn't get too frisky and I said, "Oh, rats!" and he looked surprised, saying "Huh?" and I said, "I'm just kidding!  Duh."  But he looked confused.  I patted him on the arm and said that I was relying on him to not let things get out of hand.  He promised that they would not.  But he gave me a lingering look, and I recalled my mother's repeated warnings to not ever, ever, ever joke with men about anything to do with sex.  As if I didn't know without her admonitions.  But I can't help it.  It's funny! 

I dressed in hot pants (cut-offs, actually) with pantyhose and wedgies and a jacket with a popped collar.  That's about all I could come up with in the way of disco duds.  I wasn't sure if they looked 'seventies or 'eighties, but uncle and cousin both approved.

The weather was delightful, having been in the seventies during the day and still feeling almost balmy when we left the hotel and walked to the same restaurant for dinner my uncle and I had eaten at last year.  My uncle had a rib-eye steak and a baked potato with sour cream, chives and bacon bits, washed down with a Big Sky or two.  My cousin had a gigantic burger with four patties interspersed with melted cheddar and jack cheese topped with bacon and added a large side order of steak fries.  My uncle ordered another Big Sky and slid it over to him.  No one paid any attention.  I had cheese tortellini in marinara sauce and a glass of zinfandel. It made me a little tipsy. I don't know why I ordered it, I don't even like wine, as a rule.  But alcohol reduces my inhibitions and I guess I wanted to loosen up a bit so I could push my behavioral envelope more than usual. Both my uncle and I passed on dessert, opting for coffee, both of us having it black, but my cousin ordered pecan pie topped with black cherry and walnut ice cream.  He's not fat by any means, having been doing hard physical labor on the ranch all winter and he's all sinew and muscle, but he sure has an appetite.

After dinner we walked around enjoying the long shadows and bright sunshine of the westering sun, window-shopped a bit, then strolled over to the park and fed the ducks and geese in the lake.  Just as the sun was setting, we walked to the club and got ready to trip the light fantastic.

When we got to the club it turned out they really weren't playing 'seventies style disco but 'ninetyish house music and nu-disco, which was fine by me, though my uncle was kind of hoping a young Donna Summer would have shown up and started moaning and groaning.  My cousin wanted to know who Donna Summer was and I explained that she had baked a cake but left it in MacArthur Park and it rained...and he just stared at me, baffled, and my uncle began singing the lyrics.

As had the music, the decor of the club had been changed radically since our last visit.  There was a disco ball and rotating colored lights flashing across much dimmer surroundings.  My cousin and I liked it, but my uncle seemed made uncomfortable by it.  He said it gave him a headache.  I suggested a few dances to get the blood circulating might cure that, so we hit the dance floor, which was considerably more crowded than when we were there for the big band fest. The dancers were much younger, too.  My uncle danced well, but I could tell he was not very enthusiastic.  Later, as we sat together at our table he told me that he felt out of place, just an old fossil trying to recapture his youth.  He was embarrassed to be wearing the clothes he had on and felt people were snickering at him.  After the first few dances he said he needed a rest and would dance with me again later on.  But he never did.

My cousin was much more into the vibe of the club and the music, but even he didn't seem to be really enjoying himself.  When I asked him why after our turn on the floor, he said it was because he wanted to dance with a girl -- with me, as what was available, I guess.  And by that he meant hold her, feel her respond to his lead, merge their rhythms together, be close enough to feel her breath on his cheek, be able to talk to her.  But the sort of dancing we were doing was basically two people standing somewhat close together but each dancing alone.  He might as well have been home with his ear buds dancing around by himself in his bedroom.  

Agreeing with him, I thought that the change in dance styles brought on in the 'sixties, I suppose beginning with the Twist, must have affected the relationship between the sexes.  In prior years, men and women touched when dancing, whether it was a cotillion, a square dance, waltz, foxtrot, jitterbug, tango ...whatever it was. Dancing was also a skill you had to acquire and work out with a partner.  It was a cooperative effort that established social norms -- the man led and the woman followed his lead; each learned their role in life, and that, as used to be said, it took two to tango.  But since the 'sixties, popular dancing has been largely a solo experience, often improvised and as a result -- if you asked me -- has become much less popular with the average person, and helped in the alienation of the sexes, maybe even promoted the decline in heterosexual activity and the rise and acceptance of masturbation, which used to be considered a shameful perversion on par with homosexuality -- but physical pleasure, as with so much else in life these days, is now assumed to be a solitary experience.

So, anyway, we sat for a while watching the other dancers, who certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.  Then, by mutual but scarcely spoken agreement, we left.  I think we were all feeling let down.  We stood outside the club for a few minutes uncertain what to do next. It was still not quite 10. Some couples passed by us going into the club and they glanced at us and we heard a few chuckles and giggles.  My cousin looked like a normal human being, but my uncle and I looked like extras in Disco Zombies 3: The Revenge of Tavares.

So we headed back to the hotel, walking slowly, pausing at store fronts, waiting at red lights even though there was no traffic.  A police cruiser passed us by and the driver glanced over at us. He must have circled the block, because a few minutes later he drove by again, but this time stopped and he and his partner got out of the car and asked us if everything was all right.  That wasn't their real question, of course.  They just wanted to open a conversation and check us out.  They especially eyed me, and I realized that away from the dance club I didn't look like a retro reveler but something entirely different.  And they were probably wondering what Goodwill Industries drop-off box my uncle had looted to acquire his get-up.  

Anyway, they asked if we minded showing them some ID, which we did, my uncle somehow pulling out both his driver's license and his blue card.  I also handed over my USID card. After that, the officers began calling my uncle "Chief" and me "ma'am," with a certain formal respect.  I thought they would check out the IDs on their computer but I guess on closer inspection we didn't look like suspicious characters after all.  We ended up having a nice chat and when we explained that we had dropped by the dance club down the street but hadn't cared for it and were now wondering where to go, they suggested a bar not too far away that had a live country-western act, some local talent.  We hesitated, looking at ourselves and considering how, in these clothes, we would be received at a good-old-boys hang-out.  But the cops said not to worry and offered to drive us over.  So we squeezed into the back seat of the cruiser and off we went.

The bar was on a back street with a neon cowboy hat sign and a couple of beer logos in the windows. Apparently, our method of arrival had been noticed because the patrons all turned to look at us as we entered, and it was not a friendly look.  After the cool night air, the bar felt hot and smelled a bit funky, a combination of roach spray, stale fried food and cheap booze.  We found a corner table and ordered beers, nobody bothering to card my cousin.  I don't like beer so I only took a sip or two.  Plus the stuff goes right through me and I didn't want to have to use their restroom. I shoved it over to my uncle and he said, "Thanks, girlie girlie."

The music was okay, I guess, but it was too loud in such a small space and it seemed pointless to just sit there feeling uncomfortable, so after my uncle and cousin finished their beers we left.  As we got up, one of the men at the next table said to me, "Oh, honey, don't leave. I'm really enjoying the view and was just about to ask you to come home with me.  You don't need these two queers."  I thought, oh, God, here we go, but my cousin didn't seem to have heard the remark and my uncle gave the creep a look that silenced him but otherwise ignored it and escorted me out with a hand lightly touching the small of my back.  You don't get to be a Master Chief (E9) without knowing how to handle men.  There were a couple of rude cat-calls as we left.  I wondered if the cops had delivered us here in all innocence or were they hoping to give us a bad experience and maybe create an incident they could respond to and make some arrests.  They could have done it just for the lulz because they were bored and wanted something to happen. Even on a Friday night, this burg was Dullsville squared.

With  nothing else to do we walked back to the hotel.  As we entered the lobby, we noticed there was an attached restaurant.  I guess it had been closed due to the Covid thing when we had been there before, but now it was brightly lit and looked inviting so we went in, found a nice comfortable booth and had some midrats.  My uncle chose a ham and Swiss cheese on a toasted artisan roll with potato salad on the side.  My cousin ordered a double bacon/ jalapeño cheese burger with sides of curly fries and onion rings. I selected a Cobb salad with the dressing on the side.  My uncle also ordered a beer but the waitress took one look at my cousin as he was about to say he wanted one, too, and shook her head no.  I thought it was interesting that she took their orders before asking me because it's usual to be ladies first, but when she turned to me she said, "Where did you blow in from, honey?" and I realized she wanted to get the boys out of the way before lowering the boom on me.  I shrugged and smiled.  She grimaced, clearly disapproving of me and my get-up.  I worked as a waitress for a time when I was an undergraduate -- $2.11 an hour plus tips -- and I would never have risked a tip by other than being friendly and engaging to my tables, and, believe you me, there were some doozies, including countless leerers, butt slappers and pinchers, propositioners and Norman Bates types. 

My thoughts were interrupted by my uncle saying, "She's my wife, darling, and this child is our youngest of eight sons and six daughters and a genuine high school graduate, although by looking at him you could never tell.  We're celebrating our Golden Wedding Anniversary by dressing the way we did the day we met."  I couldn't help but glance at him with a smile in my eyes and he winked at me.   The waitress looked from him to me and back again and said, "You met in a bordello?"  "A high class bordello, I'll have you know," Unc responded. "Did you marry her when she was in pre-school or wait till she was in kindergarten?"  she asked.  They bantered back and forth like this for a few minutes, finally the waitress poking my uncle on the arm and calling him a pretty good liar for an old goat before going off to fetch our orders. But first she turned to me with a twinkle in her eyes and seemed about to say something but didn't. As she walked away I noted how she walked, leaning a bit to one side in her worn flats, limping very slightly, varicose veins on her calves, no ring on her finger, a hard fifty-plus years on her body, and I thought, Wanda, you are one lucky soul.  Whatever you do from now on in, don't screw it up.

My cousin had observed all this with bemusement, at one point turning to whisper in my ear, "What's a bordello?"  I said I thought it was a type of hat.  He said, "Oh," then, "Huh? That doesn't make any sense."  I said, "I know."  He thought for a minute and then whispered, "What's going on?"  "He's saving the day," I said, to which he muttered, "Some day, I'll say!"  I couldn't disagree.  I'd have had more fun swamping out the stables.  Okay, that's not true.  But if we had all just stayed on the ranch and fooled around we would have had a better time and spent no money.

We lingered over our meal, chatting about this and that and it was after midnight when we went over to the front desk to get our room key.  The night clerk was the same one as had been on duty the two other times I had stayed there and he recognized me as well as my uncle and cousin.  The expression on his face was memorable but he said nothing.  My uncle told him that when he had made our reservation we had been promised a bottle of wine on arrival, but we had received none.  The clerk apologized and said he would bring one up himself, and asked if a  Gewürztraminer, one from a local winery, would be acceptable.  I thought  a what? but my uncle said it would be just fine and could he also bring along a plate of strong cheeses and maybe a baguette to go with and the clerk promised he would.  While they were talking, I idly glanced around the lobby.  It was nice, vaguely Victorian with a lot of dark polished wood, heavy furniture, a bookshelf in the corner with assorted paperbacks, a newspaper rack and a coffee server.  A couple of older men, maybe around 60 or so were sitting alone in big overstuffed chairs.  I wondered why they were up at this hour sitting in a hotel lobby.  Lonely for any kind of human contact?  Waiting for Godot?  Killing time before heading to the airport for their flight to Pago Pago? One was reading a newspaper but the other was looking at me.  I smiled at him and he smiled back, his eyes caressing every inch of me.  Then his gaze slid over to my companions and then back to me and he smiled again, giving a thumbs up.  I don't think anyone had ever actually given me a thumbs up before.  I returned his smile and turned back to my guys as Unc said, "Okay, children, let's go."

The first thing I did when I got into our room was kick off my shoes and wiggle my toes.  I'd selected them for comfort (shoes not toes, duh), but still.  In about 15 minutes the desk clerk knocked politely on our door and my uncle let him in.  He rolled in a room service cart with not only the Gewürztraminer wine chilling in an ice bucket but also a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.  Alongside it was a plate with a generous selection of cheeses, Gouda, Gorgonzola, English Cheddar, and Swiss, in the center of which was a dish of assorted olives.  There were also three crusty baguettes, warmed and wrapped in a cloth and a dish of something red that I didn't recognize.  I asked what it was and the clerk said tomato jam.  That was a new one on me and I guess my face showed it, for he said it went especially well with the cheddar and he was sure that I would like it.  He opened the wine for us and offered my uncle the first sips.  He savored it and said, "Pretty good for a cowboy town. Them city boys got nothing on us, do they, son?" He tipped the clerk generously, thanking him for going out of his way for us.  As he was shutting the door, I noticed there were only two glasses.  I was about to call him back, then realized that, having brought only two glasses with the wine, as far as the hotel was officially concerned, only the two adults would be drinking it and not the teenager.  

As I was thinking this, my uncle went out in the hall and caught the clerk before he reached the elevator and invited him in to have a nightcap with us.  And he did, saying that all the hotel guests were in their rooms or had their keys and he could check the front desk security camera to see if anyone came by.  Just as he finished explaining this, he got a call, which turned out to be from our waitress.  Her shift was over and as she passed by the desk she saw he was not there and wanted to find out what was up.  As he explained his absence, my uncle, hearing him address his caller by the name of our waitress, whispered in his ear to invite her up to join us.  In a few minutes she appeared and Unc beamed at her, poured her a glass, filled a plate, and the two sat down on the suite sofa and began chatting.  Clearly, they liked each other.  If it was not quite love at first sight, it certainly was friendship.

My cousin, the desk clerk and I formed a second conversation circle and the first thing I did was explain that the elder man was my uncle and the younger my cousin and there was not and never had been any hanky-panky between us.  We had just come to the big city to go dancing.  The clerk seemed both disappointed and relieved at this news.  He may have been hoping that he was about to participate in a night to remember pr0n experience, thus the disappointment. But then, if he had, he might have been fired and dumped by his girlfriend, assuming he had one, thus the relief. Or so I surmised.

At this juncture, my phone rang.  It was el jefe from the other side of the planet so I excused myself and retired to my bedroom for a long, happy chat with my heart's desire.  Then I took a hot shower and went to bed, dead to the world till mid-morning.  

It was shortly after nine when I woke up.  To my surprise, there was a roll-away bed in my room that had not been there when I turned in.  And it had been slept in.  Whaaat?  I made my morning ablutions, dressed and went out into the suite living room to ask what had gone on last night.  But there was no one there, only a note from my uncle saying that he was having breakfast with our waitress, that she had spent the night in my room, and she was going to show him around the town.  He'd lent his Cad to my cousin, who had taken it for a spin, and he had paid for another night at the hotel, so I could relax and spend the day however I chose.

Well, crap, I thought, I want to go home.  I called my dad and he pondered for a minute, then dug out a map of the berg, studied it for a bit and then asked if I could get a car service out to a location he indicated.  I checked with the front desk. I could.  So we worked out the details of a rendezvous.  Then I ordered the most expensive breakfast on the  room service menu -- eggs Benedict with rosemary roasted potatoes and grapefruit anise salad -- left a note for unc and cuz and descended to the lobby to await my ride.  

 I went into the restaurant and looked over their bakery's display of pastries and ordered a choice selection, boxed to go, for my house apes, charging them to our room. I left them and my overnight bag with the desk clerk, who placed them behind the counter. Then I browsed through the paperbacks on the bookshelf I'd noticed the night before.  Blood in the Sand, about Viet Nam,  ballyhooed in the blurb as a shocking novel of war in the raw, the violence, the sex, the drugs.  What?  No rock and roll?  No "All Along the Watch Tower" by Jimi Hendrix?  No "I Ain't No Fortunate Son," by whoever sang that?  Next, I picked up Love Lies Bleeding, a novel, I was informed on the back cover, exposing the brutality of bull fighting, the men who lived it and the women who loved them.  Pass.  Looking at the spines of the rest, I saw Siddhartha  by Herman Hesse, read it; Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo, read it; Appointment in Samara by John O'Hara, read it; a biography of Mahatma Ghandi, Cheri and The Last of Cheri by Colette in one volume, read them; The Green Turtle Mystery by Ellery Queen; The Pelican History of European Thought, Vol. 1, and so on.  Quite an eclectic collection.

While I was browsing the titles, I became aware of a man standing next to me.  He smelled of cigarettes, coffee, fried eggs and after shave lotion. I glanced at him.  A jowly man with a paunch, he looked vaguely familiar. He smiled and said, "So, you're a reader?  Not too many of those around these days." I shrugged.  "By the way," he added, "How did your date go last night?  I've always wanted to try a threesome, and you must have had quite a time with the kid and the geezer both plowing you.  Or did the geezer just want to watch?"  I was actually at a loss for words, and even thoughts.  "Look, honey," he said.  "I've been waiting in the restaurant for you to come down.  I'm about coffeed out, believe me, but I really want to hook up with you.  I have an appointment I'm late for but I will be back this evening for sure and will pay whatever your rates are for full spectrum.  Here's my card."  He scribbled his room number on the back and handed it to me.  "Call me anytime after eight, sweetie.  I'm looking forward to seeing you --" and, looking me over with an eager lewdness, added, "All of you!"  

My suggestion to a certain accoster.

And with that he strode out of the lobby and was gone.  I hadn't said one word.  Who was this guy?  Why did he look familiar?  Then I remembered.  Mr. Thumbs Up in the lobby last night.  I looked around to see if anyone could have overheard him.  There wasn't.  Then I glanced over at the front desk.  The clerk was on the phone.  I looked at the card he'd handed me.  It was from a construction company and had a man's name and title.  His?  Or just some random card he happened to have on him?  I turned it over. There was his room number as I'd seen him write it down, but there was also an elaborately drawn dick squirting on a pair of tits.  He could have drawn it while waiting for me to appear.  I was about to toss the card away, but then thought, no, I'll keep it.  What a souvenir of this crummy trip. I was about to put it in my pocket when I had second thoughts.  I didn't want the thing. I tore it up and tossed it in a waste basket. 

I went over to the window and stared out.  Only an occasional car or pickup passed by.  No pedestrians.  Across the street, I noticed a used book store.  I glanced at the clock on the lobby wall and decided I had enough time to check it out. I felt a little chilly after the warmth of the lobby as I crossed the street, the sky overcast and a breeze blowing a paper or two along the pavement. I didn't like the look of that sky and hoped it wouldn't rain.  

I was the only customer in the store and the proprietor, for such she at the cash register was, asked if there was something in particular I was looking for.  I said I would just browse.  She looked a bit disappointed and sagged back onto her stool, picking up the book she had been reading.  But right away I found a series of books, all of them looking brand new, that I was sure my dad would love: exquisitely produced hardback histories with slick color photographic plates of BSA Twins and Triples, Triumph Twins and Triples, The Complete History of the Development of the Triumph Bonneville,  Norton Singles and Twins, and Whatever Happened to the British Motorcycle Industry? I grabbed them all and lugged them to the check out.  

The proprietress looked both pleased and surprised as she rang up the sale. "You don't look like a person interested in motorcycles, are they a gift?" she asked, and I said, oh, yeah, they are for my dad, who is a huge fan of British motorcycles and owns several. "I didn't know the British made motorcycles," she said.  "I always associate Britain with woolens, thatched-roof cottages, tea time and Sherlock Holmes."  And Spitfires, I chimed in.  Don't forget Spitfires.  "Spitfires...," she repeated, mulling over the term as if it sounded familiar but she wasn't quite sure what it was.  The Battle of Britain, I prompted, Mrs. Miniver and all that.  "Oh, yes!" she brightened.  "I loved that book!"  Me, too, I said. And the movie was pretty good, too.  "Oh, yes.  Greer Garson was really good in that.  Do you like old movies?  I love them so much.  I can't stand the ones they make today.  They're just horrible.  I don't know what's wrong with everything today."  And so we got to talking, discovering one of our favorite movies was Brief Encounter and another Rebecca, and how we loved the England that was, or at least the England that we imagined once was -- Robin Hood and All Creatures Great and Small,  Shelley and Keats and Alfred, Lord Tennyson -- All round the coast the languid air did swoon -- Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Idylls of the King, A Tale of Two Cities, The Old Curiosity Shop, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog), Wuthering Heights, Vanity Fair, Good-by, Mr. Chips, 84 Charing Cross Road,  Cider with Rosie ....  

Just as we were falling into the deepest intimate, bonding conversation, I caught out of the corner of my eye a car pull up in front of the hotel and realized it must be my ride, and so, with a pressing of my hand into hers, I bid the pleasant lady I had so enjoyed chatting with a fond adieu, grabbed my bag of books and darted across the street without looking -- no fear, no traffic -- confirmed with the driver that he was for me, dashed into the hotel for my things and hopped into the backseat of his Hyundai Elantra and hied me hence from this imitation metropolis. 

A bit puzzled, the driver dropped me off beside a vacant field at the edge of town.  He started to leave, then said he would wait until the person I expected to meet arrived.  I said that was awfully kind of him, and I thought it was; it relieved me of the worry I had of what I would do if things did not go as planned:  I'd just go back  to the hotel.

But they did.  In a few minutes we heard the buzz of a puddle jumper and our Aviat Husky appeared, circled the field once and landed with a gentle ker-flop, taxied over to me, and there was the mighty Popster waving me aboard.  I handed the driver an extra twenty in my relief, hopped into the Husky and we took off like a kite in a stiff breeze and soared into the sky.  I was back home about one, vowing that that would be the last damn time I went to that stupid burg to go dancing or do any thing else that I wasn't absolutely required to.

But on later reflection, I realized that I had enjoyed myself, the mini trip breaking up the monotony of the days, allowing me to don some hotchacha duds, which I always enjoy, dance to a live band, have some interesting conversations, get some bakery yummies for my holy terrors, see my uncle make a connection that might lead to a new phase in his life, and give my dad some books that he was really pleased to get, so all in all, it was worth it.  My poor uncle, though, pissed away a thousand bucks or so on us mooching reprobates.  I hope he thought it was worth it.  I would offer to share the cost but I knew he would not accept.  I'd have to get him a really nice birthday present.  And my cousin?  He discovered that ball-room dancing has its value and got to tool around in a Cadillac sports coupe.  Lord knows what adventures he got up to.

Crazy days

 

When I was in high school and dressed for a date with a bit too much decolletage and my dad saw me he would put the back of his hand up to his eyes and say, "Good Lord, Squirt, dim those headlights!" and I would realize I was overdoing it and go back upstairs and change into something more modest.

When the same situation occurred and my mom saw me, she would say, "And just where, young lady, do you think you are going dressed like that?" I would sass her, and she would order me to march back to my room and change into something that didn't make me look like a street walker and I would sass her again and she would inform me that I was not leaving the house dressed like that and if I didn't change right this instant I would be grounded until I was 35.  So, grumbling,  I would change into some baggy old yard-work clothes and go sulk in the kitchen.  When she saw me, she would shake her head, stare at me for a few seconds and then start laughing. I would realize I was being a jerk and go change into something sensible. 

Did I eventually learn to dress to pass inspection from the get-go?  Umm...what I learned was to stuff what I really wanted to wear into a big purse and change from my dowdy granny dress in the ladies room at my destination.  That only lasted until my mother grew suspicious about me always carrying a big purse and took a look inside.  Hoo boy. Grounded. 
What can I say? I was a teenager and boy crazy. 

My grandmother told me when I sought out her sympathetic ear that my mother had behaved the same way when she was a teen and she was just trying to see that I didn't make the same mistakes she did.  I guess I understood, but that didn't prevent me from making the same mistakes.  I suppose when my mini-me becomes a teenager we will repeat the same ritual.

So why did I immediately obey my father but resist my mother?  You don't know?  

Aborting feminists

 I was working at a place where I do some part-time consulting and patient evaluation when some chubby guy with a clipboard accosted me.  He looked like a mole -- no not that kind, the animal that lives underground...although, now that I think about it....  Anyway, what he wanted was for me to sign this petition advocating the so-called "pro-choice" position on abortion.  I was busy and brushed him off, but he persisted.  Now, I don't even like to think about abortion at all. The very thought of it repels me.  I'm not "pro-life."  I just don't want to have my nose rubbed in the subject, one way or the other.  To me, it's a very private and personal matter, and no one's business but the person or persons concerned.  I don't think any government, municipal, county, state or federal, should have anything to do with it, but if they do, okay, whatever.  Just leave me out of it if you want to argue about it.  I just really hate thinking about any aspect of it, whether it is the when does life begin question or how far along in the pregnancy is it okay to...you know....  See?  I can't even say it.

Would I have an abortion?  You mean kill my baby?  What about if I got pregnant as a result of rape or incest?  Incest? -- Oh, will you just get out of here!  Not in my world.  But I can grasp that there are social levels where that happens, but  that's for those people to have an opinion about the matter, not me.  Why do I have to think about or support laws regarding such people.  Let them deal with their own lives as they see fit.  And rape.  Okay. That's what morning-after pills are for, and if they are safe to use, they should be legal...I guess.  Geez, I don't know.  What I do know is that you should try to avoid any situation where rape is possible, and if it starts to happen in a situation where you didn't think it could, fight back, I guess.  Maybe that will work.  But probably not.  You don't really stand much of a chance against someone so much bigger and stronger than you are.  Even a teen-age boy can overpower you if he has no moral restraints.  And maybe the mere threat of physical injury might deter a person from fighting back.  We're not all brave.  Just endure it and hope it's over quickly and he doesn't hurt you. Or kill you.  So if you did get pregnant from a rape?  To me, that's a personal decision and nobody's business but the person concerned.  And the government should have no say.  And neither should I.  And I don't want to.

Did I sign that guy's petition?  No.  He asked if I were for women's rights and abortion is a basic women's right and as a feminist surely I must agree with that. I asked him why he thought I was a feminist. He said that because I was a degreed and certified professional in a demanding field that it was obvious that I had to be.  I then asked him what he meant by "feminist."  He began regurgitating some bafflegab so I interrupted him to ask if he was a feminist.  I assumed he would be offended or think I was making a joke.  But he asserted that he most certainly was.  I think that's the first time a man  has ever said such a thing to me.  I just looked at him. He said that if I changed my mind I could sign later.  He would be around. Well, if he is, I won't be.  

What an "undifferentiated tissue mass" becomes by and by.

A day at the office

 For some guys...

Nothing?

 

Childhood nostalgia

 You have yours, I have mine.  

The FEN audios are before my time, but close enough.  I do remember the High Flight video at the end of this post and, you know what?  So does my dad from when he was a kid.  Considering that's an F-104, it's probably from the late 1950s.  If you are an airplane buff, you'll enjoy it.  Yeah, I know it's U.S. Scare Farce, but I forgive that. Heh.  Originally, it was played when TV stations ended their broadcast day.  They'd play the Star-Spangled Banner and then this.  I don't know why.  But it's kind of nice.  

The author of the poem that's read was an American volunteer pilot in the RAF.  He was killed during the Battle of Britain in 1940.  Thinking about him, I'm reminded of Flight Lieutenant Arthur Gerald "Art" Donahue, DFC, another American who joined the RAF back then.  He wrote two books that I found in our home library and read; one was Tally-Ho!: A Yankee in a Spitfire, about his service  during the Battle of Britain, a very intimate, personal account of what it was like to be in a fighter plane engaging with a very skilled and capable enemy.  It reminded me of Bert Stiles' classic memoir of his days as a B-17 co-pilot, circa 1943, the really bad year, Serenade to the Big Bird, which was also in our home library.  Donahue also wrote a vivid memoir of his time fighting the Japanese invasion of British Malaya in 1941, Last Flight from Singapore. It was for his actions during the Japanese assaut that he won the DFC.  While the Japanese conquest of Singapore is the greatest defeat and humiliation in the history of the British Empire, Donahue did his best to prevent that, unlike a lot of the Brits, who ran like rabbits.  

Since I was living in Japan at the time, and daily saw fighter planes screaming across the sky, Donahue's Singapore story resonated with me far more than did his English story. Donahue was killed on a rodeo (RAF term for a fighter sweep) over France not long after his return to England from the Far East.  Bert Stiles was also killed in action.  

Why are these part of my childhood nostalgia?  Well, I read them as a child and I knew my dad was a fighter pilot and had been to war twice by the time I was old enough to read these -- Viet Nam and the first Iraq War -- so I kind of identified him with these men and got the notion that inevitably he, too, would be killed by our merciless enemies.  My brothers read these books as well, and vowed that they would become fighter pilots when they grew up and fight the dirty Japs and lousy  Krauts and the godless commies and the...the... well, those other bad guys, whoever they were, ugly tyrants and dictators with frizzy beards, and I worried that they would get killed, too.  I suppose it was an odd thing, but as a kid I assumed that boys grew up to be men who would fight to protect us from a world of vicious and cruel enemies, dying to save us, and so we should always respect and defer to them, try to make their lives as happy and comfortable as possible because they would not be with us long, and without them we would suffer unspeakable horrors at the hands of ruthless savages.  What a dope, huh?  Or, maybe not.  Time will tell.  

As a Navy brat you can bet that whenever the National Anthem played I stood up and placed my hand over my heart.  Well, not when I was in the car, duh.  I really enjoyed my life as a brat in an FDNF family.  I grew up in Atsugi, Sasebo and Yokosuka, Japan,  Guam, Naples and Sigonella, Italy and Rota, Spain.  But I loved Japan and Guam best.

By the way, nobody knows where the term "brat' for military children came from, but there is a reference to it in a song from a 1707 British play called The Recruiting Officer.  It was, apparently, a contraction of the phrase "barracks rat," which makes sense to me, since kids are even now often called rug rats until they can walk, at which time they metamorph  into house apes and yard apes.  But when I was a brat myself I was told it stood for, variously, born, raised and transferred, born rough and tough, brave, resilient, adaptable, tolerant (I liked that one!), or -- I know, dream on -- beautiful, rich and talented.

Service brats who don't join up themselves as adults permanently lose a part of their childhood, as they can never revisit the base housing and base schools of their youth.  But the sons and daughters of career service members do often join up themselves, as I did.  For me, it actually was a relief to don the uniform and be back aboard Navy bases and this time ships, too!  (I knew an old chief who had  "Death Before Shore Duty!" tattooed across his chest, lol.)  It was, in many ways, literally coming home.  Good old Atsugi, especially.  I was so happy there as a kid and as an adult.  We crawled around in forbidden tunnels dating from World War Two looking for the treasure the Nips had looted from all of Asia, but finding nothing much beyond some empty sake and beer bottles.  We went over to Kamiseya to fly kites and just run around whooping and hollering.

If you take a look at the videos below, be sure to read the comments.  They help you understand why Atsugi was so much a part of the happiest days of our lives, child or adult.  I've lived and worked on other bases. I've mentioned Guam, of course, but there it was Guam that I enjoyed as much as Navy life, and as an adult I lived off base.  But at Atsugi I lived in base housing, a roomy and comfortable two-story town house  with my family as a brat and again as a serving adult.  Living aboard Atsugi was like living in Small Town USA in the 1950s, or so I imagined.  Safe, peaceful, pleasant, with neat, clean streets, stores and work facilities.  Think of a place where 75 percent of the general population is not allowed to even visit because they are too dumb, too maladjusted, too fat, too dysfunctional in general.  Just the A and B high school students who participated in extra-curricular activities and college grads with practical degrees. (Plus FDNF were the cream of those.) That's how it was.  I've read that things are changing throughout the armed forces, what with CRT being pushed and sensible individuals either getting out or declining to enlist, thus lowering recruitment standards -- which will only result in a lot of administrative separations by and by.  But it wasn't that way before.

Speaking of changes, CVW-5 has moved down to Iwakuni and Atsugi's going back to the Japanese navy, it seems. Well, they built it originally, so I guess it's fair.  The last kamikaze sorties and Imperial Japanese navy fighter intercepts were flown from Atsugi -- after the surrender; in fact, the last American killed in the war, a crew member of a Consolidated B-32 attacked by N1K-J Shidens on August 18, 1945, three days after the official cease fire, was the victim of fighters based at Atsugi.  The B-32 was flying a recon mission to make sure the Japs were abiding by the cease fire and keeping their warplanes on the ground.  It found out the hard way that they weren't.  Who was that last man to die?  Twenty-year-old Sgt. Anthony Marchione, photographer's assistant.  Well, you can't trust a sneaky Jap. Don't take my word for it, ask a Korean or Chinese.

Funny, though, all the Japanese I knew in Japan -- well, practically all -- were nice people, friendly, kind and helpful. Also very smart, reliable, trustworthy...basically, everything good that a person could be, they were, as far as I could ever see.  I guess war turns even the most decent of people into monsters.  So why do we keep having wars?  Don't ask me.  The will of the gods, I guess.

Anyways..., I suppose I am going through one of those phase changes that we all experience as we make our way through this life and I am now in the stage where I am realizing that a part of my life -- a big, important one -- is over.  Forever.  At first, I was relieved to have successfully negotiated my Navy career and was excited about my new life and dove into it, everything new and different and so interesting. But now....  The routine is established, and, to be honest, it's not much and kind of boring. I have obligations and concerns and all that, but it's nothing like what my life in the Navy demanded of me, and what I got used to.  As a commenter to one of the Atsugi videos wrote, "There are so many memories there, I wish I could go back and live in a time loop. Life forward deployed is so fast paced you can never stop and smell the roses."  If I'm not careful, I'm liable to unpack my old dress blues, put them on, stand in front of a mirror and start crying. Lordy.  So why don't I re-enlist?  Well, you know...let's not get crazy here.

Oh, well.  This, too, shall pass.  As everything does.  It's just a temporary funk. But, man, I would rather smell JP-5 than horse manure!

 

 

 

Old Journal

My grandfather kept a journal, or perhaps it was a diary, during his final of three wars in which he saw combat.
The first war was the Pacific War.  He was at sea when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and he served until VJ Day.  For a while, he kept a journal in which he wrote a bit about the first few months of the war as he participated in it, but then wrote nothing more.  For example, although he wrote about his first encounter with Japanese warplanes in 1942, he wrote nothing about his ship being sunk or being shot down at sea and not rescued for 37 days.  Nor did he write about anything else that happened to him during the rest of the war.

A WW2 Essex-class carrier that had been hit by multiple kamikazes.

He flew combat missions over North Korea in 1951, but wrote nothing about the experience.  From reading his logbook and the history of his ship, I learned that his airplane was badly damaged by flak on one mission and he barely made it back, but there is not a word from him about that experience.
However, when he began flying missions against North Viet Nam in 1965, he  began keeping a journal, the goal seems to have been, initially, to document some serious problems being encountered, as well as very bad procedures imposed on the Navy fliers by their civilian overseers in the Defense Dept.  But over time, the journal evolved into a diary containing his thoughts and experiences of a very personal nature.  I didn't know of the existence of this journal until recently, when my mother brought it out and suggested I might find it interesting.  I certainly have.  In fact, some parts of it have truly shaken me while at the same time making me incredibly angry and sad.  The mix of emotions has been overwhelming.

Loading Zuni rockets on an F8U.

I don't even know how to start writing about this subject, there are so many aspects to it, and every one so disturbing.  But I'll try.
One of the first things my grandfather noted was that naval aviation at the start of the Viet Nam War was based on peacetime needs and procedures, and the war that was anticipated was  nuclear  with the Soviet Union, so they were trained to attack strategic targets in the USSR using nuclear weapons in what were considered to be one-way, essentially suicide, missions.  So they weren't training to attack bridges or oil depots or river barges.  All of that knowledge had been shoved onto a back shelf.  It had to be relearned for Viet Nam.

Three of the F8Us in this photo were shot down in the spring of 1966.

All their flight suits were bright orange, since, during peacetime, if they had to eject, they would want to be easily spotted by rescuers.  But during wartime, if they were shot down over enemy territory, they needed to hide, evade and escape, until, hopefully, they could be rescued.  Trying to explain that to Navy brass stateside seems to have been an impossible task.  They just didn't get it, and when aircrew bought green dye and dyed their flight suits a dirty greenish brown they were reprimanded.  It was well over a year before they began to get khaki flight suits.

In the meantime, 20 of the ship's aircrew were shot down and listed as either KIA or MIA and another seven were known to be POWs.   Each one of these individuals shot down was personally known to my grandfather, often for years.  Many he had trained.  He knew their families and had spent time with them as part of the close-knit peacetime naval aviation community.  For each man lost he had to write to, visit and console a wife, parents, children.  It really got to him.  He noted that they were losing more pilots over North Viet Nam than they had during the Guadalcanal campaign.
They were also losing a lot of airplanes, more loses than could be sustained.  For example, total production of the A4D, a dedicated attack plane, was 10 a month.  This number supplied not only the entire Navy, but also the Marines.  But my grandfather's carrier was losing on average four A4Ds every month.  F8U loses were equally severe.  In fact, the large number of loses of F8Us led to one of the most harrowing episodes recounted in the journal.  At a pre-mission briefing, the flight leader told the pilots that Washington had insinuated that pilots were needlessly ejecting from planes that were only lightly damaged and he urged each pilot to make every effort to bring back his airplane if it were damaged by enemy action because they were just losing too many.  As luck would have it, his aircraft was hit by anti-aircraft fire and severely damaged on that very strike, but instead of ejecting after getting back over the water, where he would have been rescued, he chose to try to land aboard the carrier and in so doing crashed, his plane careening off the deck and into the sea and he was killed.  Seeing this, his wingman, his good friend and the best man at his wedding, began literally screaming in his microphone, swearing in rage and crying in grief. When he landed, he declared he would never fly another mission and he didn't.  He said he had become a conscientious objector.  The Navy brass wanted to court martial him, but finally they just let him resign his commission.

And what was the mission objective that led to the death of this man?  You guessed it.  A suspected truck park.
On a liberty at Hong Kong, my grandfather had taken the ferry to Macao and visited an access point to Red China.  There he had seen trucks coming in from the mainland.  They were old Studebakers, probably lend-lease from World War II days, given to the KMT, or perhaps even to the Soviet Union.  He noted in his journal that the trucks they were attacking were probably ones like these with a Blue Book value of $25 or something.  That ties in with an item I read in The Pentagon Papers, leaked CIA documents regarding the war.  The CIA had determined that for every dollar of damage our bombing raids did to North Viet Nam in 1965, it cost us $6, and in 1966 $10.

My grandfather noted that after the first two months of bombing the north, there were no more worthwhile targets.  Not that there had ever been very many.  He wrote that North Viet Nam was a bicycle and water buffalo economy with a veneer of modernity that was obliterated within weeks.  Instead of standing down, however, Robert McNamara's Defense Department ordered that the  attacks continue, but that each A4D, which was capable of carrying six 500-pound bombs, only carry one bomb on each sortie, McNamara thus being able to report to President Johnson the large number of sorties the Navy was carrying out daily. In addition, given the number of targets assigned, pilots had to fly two missions a day.  This raised the ire of McNamara, who insisted the pilots fly 1.5 missions a day.

My grandfather recorded in his diary actual results of strike missions compared to the results he was ordered to supply as official reports that would be forwarded to Washington.  A typical attack might be against what appeared to be 10 trucks moving along a road.  The fighter-bombers, forced by terrain and cloud levels to make their approach from an obvious and easily anticipated altitude and direction, faced accurate, concentrated anti-aircraft fire. They could only afford to make one high-speed pass.  So the pilots could never really be sure what, if anything, they hit.  After-mission debriefing and later bomb-damage assessment from photo reconnaissance might lead them to conclude the greatest likelihood was that they had destroyed three trucks and damaged two more.  But if that report were submitted, it would be rejected, so a completely bogus report that would be accepted  had to be fabricated -- a 20-truck convoy bombed, 12 trucks destroyed and six damaged.

The aircraft carrier he was serving on was a World War II veteran that had been struck by kamikazes, killing hundreds of sailors, starting huge fires and inflicting major damage.  The ship had been repaired, but the fires had burned out all the grease in the expansion joints and as a result the old ship creaked and groaned in large seas and an odor of burnt residue would permeate the lower passageways.  Many of the ship's crew swore the old boat was haunted and could recount tales of encounters with ghosts, my grandfather, too.  In his diary, he writes of one time having an overwhelming foreboding that he would be shot down and killed on his next mission.  He sat down at the little desk in his quarters to write a farewell letter to his wife and children.  But as he was trying to compose his thoughts, staring at the blank paper, a hand firmly gripped his shoulder and someone, speaking very clearly, told him not to worry; he would not only survive the next mission, but complete the cruise and return home safely.  My grandfather didn't recognize the voice and turned to see who it was.  But there was no one there.  He got up and looked out at the passageway.  It was empty.  

Looking at the list of combat missions he flew, I note that the least he flew in a month was 16 and the most was 28. He repeatedly writes how tired everyone is, not only the air crews but all the personnel who serviced the planes.  Most of these missions were flown in very bad weather.  During the northeast monsoon, which started in November and lasted until mid-May, the weather over North Vietnam and the Gulf of Tonkin was miserable, nothing but day after day of heavy clouds and rain. Conditions were especially challenging when a weather phenomenon my grandfather referred to as “le crachin” occurred. That's French for "drizzle," but apparently it was much more than that -- thick clouds and ceilings as low as 100 feet, in combination with fog and the persistent drizzle. 

 
Cloud cover was usually broken with some holes at about 6,000 feet with solid overcast above and scattered clouds at 4,000 feet. As my grandfather noted, to acquire the target in such weather, he had to descend through the cloud layers and fly between 4,000 and 6,000 feet, where he became vulnerable to ground fire. North Vietnamese gunners  knew the altitude of the cloud ceilings, so he and his pilots were forced to fly even lower, into the effective range of small arms, to avoid being at a known altitude. The low ceilings also required the use of horizontal or low angle glide delivery bombing, which brought aircraft even closer to AAA. The low ceilings also restricted the directions from which aircraft could attack, making North Vietnamese barrage fire more effective -- the North Vietnamese didn't usually aim their anti-aircraft fire at individual planes but, knowing the altitude and direction the aircraft would have to fly to attack the target, filled the sky along that path with a storm of shrapnel.  It was sheer luck whether a plane was hit and there was nothing that could be done to avoid the flak. And under these weather conditions, it should not be forgot, the difficult and dangerous task of landing aboard the carrier after the mission could mean disaster for the stressed-out and exhausted pilots, all too often flying damaged planes.

In addition to strikes against North Vietnamese targets, pilots had to fly what were called Barrier Combat Air Patrols.  These were needed to intercept Chinese Air Force sorties against the carrier that simulated attack profiles.  There was no way to know if these were feints or would actually be carried out if not intercepted.  So they had to be intercepted.

__________

Well, I am tired. I will continue this another time.  There is a lot more to cover.  It gets worse. 

How does it end?

 I'm in a glum mood.  I really should not pay attention to the news. 

 

I mentioned to a friend that when I had said to someone that no matter how bad things got, as an American descended from those who created this country, that I would stick it out and hope to outlast this current crash into totalitarian madness and help the recovery on the other side, only to have it pointed out to me that almost all of my ancestors had been refugees from persecution who had fled their oppressors -- German anabaptists, French Huguenots, English Quakers -- so why shouldn't I and all the others being victimized also flee, and that my answer had been okay but flee to where?  To which I got no answer.  

It's been done before.

He thought for a minute and said, if you can find no country to flee to, why not create one?  He explained that, as an example, American ex-military could travel to some out of the way country and seize control, then invite whites to emigrate from the United States to their new homeland.  He went into a lot of detail about how this could be achieved, but that was essentially the plan.  I said it sounded like the plot for a Frederick Forsyth novel.  He said so what if it does? A couple of other guys were listening in and grew increasingly interested in what we were talking about and joined the conversation.  I listened to the three of them play around with the idea, considering it seriously.  They finally decided that the country to take over would be one of no strategic importance, with no mineral wealth or anything else to attract the predator nations.  The government should be weak and corrupt and the population small and poor, but not so poor as to be a magnet for NGOs. It should.... I excused myself and left them poring over maps and fact books on their cells.  They didn't even notice my leaving.

I went outside.  It finally felt like spring was on the way, the sun shining, melt water trickling through the mud.  I took a walk.

Old ways, new ways

 I've mentioned line shacks in some of my posts.  They are, as a rule, basic shelter for those working too far out on the range to get back to the main ranch. Unless they are in really rugged terrain that requires supply by pack horse, they are pretty well equipped.  There is no electricity of course, nor indoor plumbing, aside from a hand pump raising water from a well.  But there are kerosene space heaters, stoves, lamps and even kerosene-powered refrigerators.  Most of these appliances are many decades old, but they still work just fine.  In the old days things really were built to last.

In some of the older shacks, instead of a kerosene space heater, there is a wood or coal-fired stove. We also use the so-called pot belly stoves to heat the main ranch workshop, bunkhouse, cookhouse, school and church.  They are of different brands and vintages -- US Stove, Ball, Red Cloud, Station Master -- and most are well over 100 years old, having been bought new except for a few of the Balls, which were acquired when Ft. Keogh was disestablished after WWI and some of the Station Master and US Stoves, which were acquired from auctioned-off caboose and railroad station furnishings, I would guess probably in the 1950s and '60s.  They burn coal which we get free by occasionally driving out to where the coal trains take a curve and always spill some. We know several spots like that you can get to in a 4wd. In a couple of hours we can gather enough loose coal to fill a pickup truck bed and trailer.  
I read somewhere some guy saying he had seen a pot belly stove glowing cherry red and putting out so much heat you couldn't get close to it.  I wonder about that.  I've never seen any of these stoves glow cherry red.  I think that would shorten their life and certainly be a waste of fuel.  You can definitely get close enough to them to get toasty warm, pull up a chair and prop you feet up. Some of the stoves have a ring around the  belly where you can rest your feet or -- what I think they are designed for -- place boots or other things to dry.
You always try to burn the minimum fuel and not waste it producing excess heat.  Coal is heavy; you can fill a big old coal bucket, one of those that looks sort of like a pitcher, not round like a water bucket, with about 40 pounds of coal, enough to keep the stove going for a day, depending on how cold it is. Of course, you have to shovel that into the bucket from the coal shed and carry it into the shack, and you really don't want to do that any more often than you have to, especially in winter weather. And then you have to empty the ashes and clinkers and put them in the ash can, a tiresome, messy job you don't want to do any more often than you have to, either.  And then you have to haul the ash can away and empty it.
Coal also costs money if you buy it (duh!), as much as $200 a ton in truckloads. Of course, if you buy it in those little bags at the feed store, it's considerably more.  Fortunately, we don't have to buy it.  If we did, we'd might stop using the pot belly stoves and use kerosene space heaters like we do in most of the line shacks.  But kerosene is expensive at about $10 a gallon, and the space heaters burn about a quart or so per hour.  Plus, of course, we'd have to buy the space heaters.
A ton of coal will last a potbelly stove pretty much through the worst of the winter, a couple of tons will usually last all winter and see some left over you can use next year.  You can't keep kerosene more than a few months so you have to buy fresh every season.  We can pile up coal as we have the time to send somebody out to get a load, so we always have plenty on hand.  The main advantages of kerosene are that it is compact compared to coal and easy to transport and it is much cleaner, both to handle and to burn.  You can also use it as a solvent for cleaning paint brushes and so forth.
We do have some wood burning pot belly stoves and cook stoves in some of the remoter line shacks that can only be gotten to on horseback or foot.  The crew cuts their own firewood and stacks it.  Naturally, to avoid as much of this hard work as possible, they only burn enough wood to cook with and take the chill off the shack. A roaring fire uses too much wood. And wood for the cook stove has to be cut to a size that fits the fire box, plus you have to split kindling, and nobody wants to do that any more than absolutely needed, especially if you are dead beat from working outdoors in winter weather all day and just want to get warm, clean up, chow down and hit the hay.

A triple-wide mobile home --!

In the large acreages we added to our ranch that I mentioned in an earlier post we are putting in some new line shacks, although they are really a lot more than shacks.  One of them is a triple wide that will be trucked in in sections.  It will have a septic tank and indoor plumbing, and a deep well supplying plenty of fresh water.  It will also have electricity, supplied by solar panels, a wind turbine and a diesel generator, allowing for hot water, central heating and air conditioning.  It will also have satellite TV and internet.  The kitchen will have all-electric appliances.  In addition to the shack, or, really, house, there will be a pre-fab steel building housing a fully-equipped work shop and garage to shelter heavy equipment and other vehicles.  There will of course be a stable and corral.  There is a long-term plan to upgrade all the line shacks to modern standards, most likely by simply replacing them with prefabs or mobile homes. We'll be doing some road improving, too, especially on the newly acquired properties, which were long neglected.

It's necessary to upgrade the line shacks because, increasingly, trustworthy, reliable, hard-working men won't put up with the primitive living conditions of the old shacks.  If we want to keep such men, we have to provide decent accommodations. 

Why mention all this?  I guess for me, although I recognize the need to do this, I regret the replacing of the old with the new.  All those old line shacks, many over 100 years old, some probably almost 150 years old, but always maintained and still fit for purpose after all these years, mostly equipped with original, or certainly quite old, furnishings -- stoves, lamps, beds, tables cupboards and cabinets -- to me maintain an important link to the past and all those who have lived and worked this land for so many generations.  To see them all replaced and abandoned --they'll either be torn down or simply left to fall into ruin -- seems a crime against history.  I know progress is inevitable, but still....

A Boost For Modern Methods

In some respects the old days were perhaps ahead of these,
Before we got to wanting wealth and costly luxuries;
Perhaps the world was happier then, I'm not the one to say,
But when it's zero weather I am glad I live to-day.
Old-fashioned winters I recall—the winters of my youth—
I have no great desire for them to-day, I say in truth;
The frost upon the window panes was beautiful to see,
But the chill upon that bedroom floor was not a joy to me.
I do not now recall that it was fun in those days when
I woke to learn the water pipes were frozen tight "again."
To win once more the old-time joys, I don't believe I'd care
To have to sleep, for comfort's sake, dressed in my underwear.
Old-fashioned winters had their charms, a fact I can't deny,
But after all I'm really glad that they have wandered by;
We used to tumble out of bed, like firemen, I declare,
And grab our clothes and hike down stairs and finish dressing there.
Yes, brag about those days of old, boast of them as you will,
I sing the modern methods that have robbed them of their chill;
I sing the cheery steam pipe and the upstairs snug and warm
And a spine that's free from shivers as I robe my manly form.

~ Edgar Guest