A sunny morning in winter found me reading in our living room in my favorite chair. An excellent book by Frederick Buechner. His story inspires mine. I was also glancing up and watching fine, powder snow swirl in strong wind just beyond the window on my left.
It was blowing off the barn edges and up on the high hill, obscuring the 40 foot tall pine rows. It was swirling about in a Brownian movement. Circling about itself and appearing as smoke that is mostly seen as driven snow, sleething across a highway
Reading on in Frederick’s book , Listening to your life. I began following the intimate thoughts and loss of dear friends that shared poetry of life with me. An unusual chord progression or high harmonic would engender conversation, long after the shared concerto we were playing, just the two or three of us in a room. Swirling about in delight for us all. Never repeated or written down.
I miss those friends and their instruments that opened from the cases with the snap of clasps. Tuning just a bit with their 12 strings that needed constant attention. My six was in tune before theirs were. We would then start playing, slowly until the tune would catch up with us and akin to the smoky snow swirls, would indeed spin around, settle in a new mound of notes and harmonies never before heard.
As I continued reading I began to see my desire for that engaging and impromptu beauty with dear departed ones. We sat many hours and years together, also impromptu, delightfully just in time for another go at it. We were separated later in life by long lines on a map and later by eternity itself. They are together, waiting for me to join the beauty of music. King David would perhaps join in the jam session on his harp with Asaph with his beauty with words.
A vision brought to me by the gift of a perfect small snow blizzard as I sat near the parlor stove. Looking out our big windows. I could feel that beauty. Never to be repeated as every snow flake is different in uncountable numbers.
I see that hunger for communication now with others, often as old as I am. We wander about in the large parking lots and buildings or even on the opposite sides of gas pumps. There is a sign from each of us as shared events and life experiences that only are remembered by our generations. Duck and cover, the draft and several puzzling wars we all were in. I see them proudly wearing their ball caps usually with Vietnam Veteran on them. A glance and a brief nod of my head is enough for both of us. Adrift and swirling around our world and just needing that high E string tweaked. Harmony and those 12th fret harmonics signaling unity in tune with one another. I miss those friends and I know you still miss someone when all of the love was there.
I drove About 20 miles out of my way, but it was an undeniable mission. I wrote a column, Scrap yard or junkyard, and it was the scrap yard I was going to.
A few weeks before to this mission, the man that owns the yard worked on a part I needed.He extracted a seat belt assembly out of a 25 year old Ford truck. It was for our old Ford Ranger that needed one. This time it was the right one. First part did not fit at my first acquisition and the reel was locked up. Oh, got to go back and get one that fits and works!
The owner and I had a laugh the last time we were together, teasing a city man who was startled by a snake in the trunk of a vehicle he was ‘inspecting’ near where we were working. He even took a photo of it. A huge rat snake, a scary looking thing when you first meet one. Harmless to us, the smaller mammals don’t like them.
When we encountered the snake man back at the office, I made up a Latin name for the snake and the last word of my invented sentence was ‘Morte’ “It’s a two stepper..better stay clear and don’t throw anything at it again!” The owner, Harold, winked his right eye at me and we had a little smile together. Military bonding time. I paid 25 dollars for the first assembly.
I returned a few days later and told him the door sticker on the truck said 1999 built in November. The truck was actually a 2000 according to knowledgeable gear heads and I missed that small detail. Plus the reel on the first part I got from him did not work. The reel is at the bottom end of the seat belt assembly and that’s the part that allows the belt to be pulled up. If there is a crash, the reel locks up and keeps the belt tight.
Off he went to find an assembly that worked and he found one out in the yard. I heard him with the battery operated whiz wheel grinding away at the sheet metal on the door of the scrap truck. Tough extraction just from the auditory cues as I sat in his shop chair waiting for him. An old chair with stains and worn out. Obviously his chair. He returned and the reel worked. He handed it to me and declared: “twenty five bucks. I worked pretty hard”
I was hoping for a ‘warranty’ so all I had in my wallet was fourteen dollars. He looked at me and my well used truck with four ones and a ten on the seat. He accepted the money and put out his hand for a shake on the deal.
The owner of the scrap yard is older than I and he wears his age well. A Short man with runnels of wrinkles on his face and a focused gaze. He was just coming out of the side door of his home when I drove up today. A man driving a Jeep wrangler was leaning on the door jamb, chatting.
I tried to dismiss the notion it was important to return whenever I had the cash to give him what he deserved. It was one of those gentle and persistent communiques from God. It’s impossible to ignore God when He does tells these things to me. I pray you have these experiences too. I walked up and stood next to the leaning man and held out a ten and a one for the scrap yard owner.
He remembered me, he remembers everything. An astonishment and a smile was given. Another hand shake of our eyes. I told him “ you deserve it for your work” I knew this was right and true.
My drive back home was relaxing. The new pavement on County B was smooth and the detour ahead signs were still up waiting for the paint caravan to finish up.
I like the results when the wood rack is full and lately, two wheelbarrows are next to it. The rack can hold plenty for a few days IF the night temperatures stay mild. The low single digits or below need more choice opportunities. Our vocabulary has evolved over the decades of burning wood , the big round logs are called ‘all nighters’.
It really is an established science to setting a fire in the beautiful wood stove. All firebrick sides, top and bottom. Heavy steel and a glass front door. Brass around the door. It is right in the middle of the house and has been on it’s hearth for over 30 years. It’s predecessor did not have firebrick nor thick steel. Julie was on her way to the bathroom when she saw a red glow from a hole in the firebox.
Quickly the research was done, a trip to the cities and the stove we have now was delivered and we even got a brass dragon that is filled with water in the winter and breaths steam out of it’s nostrils. With wood heat any humidity is welcome. Leave the bathroom door open during showers and lastly, buy a really good humidifier and use the special fluid!
How many tons of oak, birch, maple and box elder have we gone through? Some elm too (it splits stringy and tough) The woodshed is about 50 feet away down a small hill from the porch. It’s got a metal roof and plywood sides. We go through about 4 full cords a year, depending on below zero nights (or days too) Simple calculations come to 120 to 150 cords. Simple guesses really. 340 tons of wood.
That’s a few chain saws, a lot of chains and mix gas. Now we have a hydraulic splitter and that helps. It saves splitting maul handles replacement. By the way, I replaced a lot of spike mall and sledge hammer handles when I was a track worker for the railroad (gandy dancer) and after removing the stump and punching it out, you put the new handle in as tight as you can by hand and then hold it with the business end down and hit the end of the handle with another hammer! Momentum does the job. The hammer blow is faster than the heavy tool can move.
Stoking the stove is an art and Julie is an artist of renown around here. I just do the daytime fires and burn all the weird pieces length wise. I also clean out the ashes and learned not to dump them until a few days sitting in the sealed ash bucket. Fires in the brush back of the parking lot bring excitement to life.
Cleaning the chimney is a family operation. I take down the stove pipe that goes to the chimney and Soren goes up on the roof to run the chimney brush. Cleaning the creosote that comes down is fun and cleaning the pipes are too. I pull the brush back out sitting on the shop floor and hold the pipe end with my feet braced with a short 2×4 across the end to get the brush out.
You can see how much work and danger is involved. I used to do the roof job before I hit 80 and since I play the fiddle, the inevitable Teve in ‘fiddler on the roof’ joke came with the job.
There was a time in my life that I was a dedicated surfer. I moved in with the president of my old high school class (King?) and far from being the outcast weirdo in high school, now I was one to be admired. With borrowed a surfboard from a slightly older young man who lived downstairs from the apartment in Hermosa Beach. There was a bond instantly between them as they both had the same last name and were both slightly autistic and emotionally intense in various ways. Different and knowing they both were.
So, I went to the beach every day and learned how to surf. Readers of this column will remember that time in the article, ‘Super Chief’ I just loved surfing and was totally committed to it. I slept on the floor of my room with the board next to me so I would rise early without disturbing the other young men and walk a half a block down to the beach. Except for the jellyfish, it was a time in my life that means a lot to me 50 years later.
At one of the parties in the apartment, a young woman (girl) took a fancy to me and slipped into my room during the party and I offered her the other side of the surfboard to lie on. No seduction. Genuine friendship and it astonished her and there was a bond, a different young man that treated her with respect and friendship. Carrie is her name
She never forgot that and after a year or so, I was in San Diego, Navy training base. After basic, I went to A school at the same base. and was then training young Naval men radio operations. I had a background in radio from my amateur radio days and still held a general class license.
I wondered if Carrie, was still at her Uncles place in Laguna Beach. I called her and she was pleased. She asked me to visit on a weekend. Since I was now on staff, I had every weekend off. I even had civilian clothes to wear. Little did I know I was in a pretty good situation right out of boot camp.
Because I washed out of the nuclear submarine service (bad color vision.) I was no longer striking for nuclear technician,so they told me I would be a radio operator. They knew my skills at being one. I trained young men in Morse code in A school and basic electronics. It was the best duty assignment I had with the Navy. Myself, I learned how to touch type listening to code. Nice thing to know when the code comes at 30 wpm
The San Diego bus to Los Angeles went right through Laguna Beach and I went to see Carrie. She picked me up at the bus stop and drove me to her Uncles place in the hills. She drove 1957 Corvette convertible, bright red and powerful with the first stock fuel injection in a sports car. Her Uncle was on an extensive art tour in Europe at that time and the car was there for her to use. A wealthy art dealer in Europe and he had a pretty good ‘duty station’ too! I never met him nor know his name.
So, I would come up every weekend and lounge around the pool that overlooked the ocean and do a little painting (with Uncles paint equipment. The brushes, canvas, tripod and acrylic paints.) Occasionally my new ‘sister’ would bring a young man home and introduce that man to me as her brother was a way of overcoming the puzzled look I got from the men. I liked that immensely. My ‘organic’ sister never liked me.
They were one-night stands and that was understood by all. A new sister that liked him, I liked that. One weekend, I called my old high school president that was living in the Hollywood hills and asked ‘sis’ if he can borrow the Corvette.
The occasional boyfriends never even got a nod with that question. She knew when they started saying “Hey Carrie can I….NO” I drove up to LA and visited my old buddies who were living large in the Frank Lloyd Wright Circular apartments. Class. The red Corvette fit right in at the curb and I got a smile nod from everyone I saw. Poseur.
That corvette was fast on the freeway!
Back at the beginning of the city of Laguna, the Greeter there gave me a wave. (The greeter was a man that stood for years at the north end of the city and waved at cars)
All in all it only lasted a season of my life and made a big difference in both of us. She shared her heart in a way nether of them thought they would do or even contemplate and it was a good start on real relationships for them both. They had no idea they were both being trained in their hearts near the ocean and some of it stuck. Carrie treasured my paintings too, she said they would be worth a lot of money when I became famous. Still waiting for that, I’ll send her my book if she is still there.
Grade School at Loring Elementary in North Minneapolis. Four blocks away from the Russell Avenue home and an easy walk. Twice. There was no lunchroom at the school and the walk home was a welcome relief for most of the students unless one of the class bullies was lurking about.
There isn’t much recall about Kindergarten ( German word derivative of ‘children’s garden’ )
I do remember 3rd grade when I boldly asked Miss Peterzaine when we would study soil cosmology or depth structure. She laughed and said that would come later.
Indicative of a precocious Asperger child. That term or diagnosis was not known at that time. It would seem I fit the profile. I was intellectually in another world and still am according to friends and family. Obsessive stimulation by silken edges on blankets, sniffing of hands and counting everything. Still do it. I got by. Glasses by 3rd grade too as there was difficulty in reading the blackboard.
I do remember the transformation of my mind when I first saw leaves instead of green blobs! It helped with the squeaky chalk writing. Dry erase still squeaks now and then but there aren’t any erasers to clap together outside. Chalk is still used in sidewalk games and art.
Thinking of softer stone and a stylus, it seems to be progress to keyboards and printers. Unless an older typewriter with the key jamming as you typed a little fast.
All of the odd things about grade school still lurk in my mind. Remember the ‘duck and cover’ when the spinning air horns would rattle the windows? Cold war or tornadoes. I embraced the image of becoming one with my desk with a nuclear attack. I liked my desk and it was comfy down there.
Home for lunch and a meeting with a war damaged Croatian boy and that was about it. Pleasant, predictable and perfect for me. I love routine. Still do. More on that later.
High school in 1956 and my sister was a junior and is this place, there was a cafeteria for lunch. I did OK and took every math and science class available. I was very interested in electricity and went after amateur radio in eighth grade. Being a recluse, it was easy and my dad helped me with equipment and setting up a ‘long wire’ from the house to a boulevard tree. It was up as high as a city fireman ladder can climb and it worked well. I was using Morse code to talk to other ‘Hams’ Not long after I wanted to move from Novice to General class licensing and studied electronic circuitry and perfected my code. A trip downtown to city hall came and I passed the technical exam and the 13 words a minute Morse code test. “youngest person ever to pass the test” they said. K0JMV is my call sign. Still have it.
I made friends with some other fans of radio in another high school and since I was now a general class operator, I can give them the test to become novices. We formed a little club and I have lost touch with them. They still have their call signs and I found them in a ham publication. I wrote a few of them and they never responded. I have many fond memories of them and am sad that I can’t reconnect. Isn’t that the way we are? We remember our home location and phone numbers after many decades.
I was very proud of Dad and even got to slide down the fire pole when he gave me a tour. He was a pretty stern guy at times and there were some scary moments between him and Mom.
Their bedroom was on the second floor and mine was right where the stairway began.
There was a bad argument when dad found out about mom cheating on him with a fellow fireman that lived nearby. Mom cried for help and I came out of my room and peaked into the kitchen. She was on the floor and Dad was standing over her with an angry demeanor.
One day, I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and saw Dad coming down stairs with a suitcase. He turned to the right and went through my room to the small porch and out to his car in the garage and that was the last I saw him until twenty years later. I hunched over the sink when he left and sobbed because I knew this was the end of our family. My mother and my sister stood outside the bathroom door and giggled and laughed. Odd to be separated between people you love that way. Things changed in me and those changes took decades to be brought into the light. I never forgot those moments but now they do not define who I am. It’s only light in the darkness of those things that changes them to stories rather than character.
I began to into a bit of a decline at this point. (that’s a quote from Marvin the paranoid android) It was a true condition. When my mother remarried after a short time from Dad’s departure it did not bode well for my sister and I. My stepfather moved right in after the wedding. Upstairs of course. He wound up sitting on my bed one night, completely nude, and started to touch me. I bolted up and ran out the door to the porch yelling. Not too much later, my sister told me he had braced her up against the wall asking for sex. Things were not going well. Escape seemed like a good idea for both of us. Sis got pregnant with a dentist and I left after high school for adventure in San Diego. By the way, the dentists name was Doctor Wunder and he was from Painsville, Minnesota. Seemed appropriate. They quickly married and escaped. Decades later I had him fix some bad dry sockets from wisdom teeth surgery. He was really gentle and good. He indeed, was a wonder.
Almost immediately after my high school graduation, I went with a classmate to San Diego on a whim and we got an apartment and begin to sell Encyclopedias with a reference book called a Syntopicon. We wore our graduation suits and forerunners of men in suits that also went door to door talking about their faith. We never sold one and I am always friendly to men in suits that come to my door with briefcases.
We had no money for food and so I used my briefcase to prowl the neighborhood for fruit trees and we ate a lot of oranges and grapefruit. I still love grapefruit juice. It’s hard to find in the marketplace these days and I get by with orange juice. Food memories of rescues by fruit. A classmate that was a great boxing champ years later, came out and rescued us. We tucked our suits back in the suitcases and drove home to Minneapolis in an old white Packard that burned oil. The trunk and rear bumper where not white anymore after that trip.
By that time, Mom and her fireman husband had moved north further towards the city limits and I moved into a spare bedroom with them. Quickly obtaining a job in a wood processing plant I worked hard and bought the car of my dreams. A 1961 MGA convertible. (that job is in a column on this web page titled ‘Freedoms bouquet with Tea’)
At this time, there was a war overseas in Viet Nam and the national draft was working strong. I was very 1A which means top of the list. I signed up with a Navy Recruiter to be assigned to the Nuclear Submarine force as a Nuclear Technician. They still call them Boats. I had the intellect and Electronics experience with straight A’s in math so it was a shoe in. The recruiter did not reveal two things to me: I had glasses and my color vision had some issues. This story continues in several columns: ‘Santa Fe Super Chief’ and ‘A sister in Laguna Beach’ Enjoy the stories, they are all true
Jack gators grace notes 