The Gorge Story

This is a picture of the Columbia River Gorge site taken a year or two after the incident occurred. Notice one sheet of cardboard is still hanging around. I am firmly convinced the devil lives here.

August of 2003 included one of the worst nights of my life. For the last year I had been working on developing a tire carrier intended to help tire store workers handle their multitudes of scrap and new tires more efficiently. I built and delivered some of these carriers to stores in the local area and had had fairly successful feedback. I decided that I needed two large boxes to ship each “RubRRak” out to the stores that would theoretically purchase my new invention. As usual, I had high hopes for my newest venture and in order to get a quantity discount on these cardboard behemoths, I ordered eight or nine thousand pounds of these custom boxes from a company in Portland.

One of the first RubRRaks we built. One man can easily move 35-40 tires with it.

A week after placing the order, I got a call that they were ready. I borrowed a buddy’s trailer, hooked it up to my little Toyota pickup and headed out. At the time, I was in the middle of trying to write a patent for this new “Rak.” Since I had no clue what I was doing in the legal world, I looked up a patent attorney in the phone book, called him and made arrangements to stop by and visit with him on my way to Portland. He said he would be home all morning so I said I would drop in around ten o’clock. He sounded like things were pretty low key and I got the impression it really didn’t matter when I showed up. I had a couple of hours after making the appointment to make the forty-minute trip to his place.

I hooked up the trailer and realized I was putting a two and five sixteenths inch trailer hitch on a two-inch ball that was attached to my pickup. I hunted around my disorganized holdings but couldn’t find a bigger ball. I knew this wasn’t good but I felt that since gravity was fairly dependable and there was a little weight pressing down on the tongue, I should be able to drive thirty or forty miles to town and purchase the right size ball before the trailer bounced off the ball and made its own way to town.

I headed for the big city, figuring I would make it to the high-priced lawyer right on time, even if I stopped and bought a ball first. Halfway to town, disaster struck. No, the trailer didn’t fall off. I happened upon a county construction crew that were busy resting on their shovels, alternately watching traffic back up and taking union-mandated naps. I immediately sensed that these people did not care in the least that I had an appointment, albeit a vague appointment, with a high-priced patent attorney.

Disgruntled motorists in front and behind me made U turns after waiting twenty or thirty minutes and left in search of an unobstructed road to town. I was stuck with a twenty-foot trailer balancing on my bumper and I knew I probably couldn’t get turned around without big problems so I stayed put and waited. It was a pleasant summer morning and even though I felt a little pressure to get moving, I felt all was right with the world.

Forty-five minutes later, I was starting to steam. I dialed the county engineer’s office and asked to speak to a guy, possibly the assistant engineer. Actually, Guy was the guy’s name and he was the assistant engineer. I related my plight and he feigned great concern. He can’t help but get complaints from the citizenry every couple of minutes with a road crew moving like these guys were. Another ten minutes found the great caravan of cars making forward progress.

I was late. There was no time to stop for a ball. I raced to my new advisors home and found him sitting outside on his porch swing in Bermuda shorts, sipping on a cool one while he was checking his stocks on his laptop. I was greatly relieved. He hadn’t missed any work waiting for me. I told him I was running late (it was eleven by now) because of the road crew. He said it was no problem.

I spent fifty minutes gleaning information from him and then finished. I didn’t want to go over an hour as he was charging two hundred and fifty dollars an hour. I pulled out my checkbook and was more than a little dismayed when he presented a bill for five hundred bucks. I gave the robber my goods and then hurried to my truck before he shoved another ransom note my way.

It was getting late, almost noon. I had two hundred and fifty miles ahead of me before Portland would materialize and I needed the right ball. I hurried to Walmart and ran in to their automotive section. Locating a guy with a blue coat on, I breathlessly hurried over and innocently asked: “Where’s your balls?”

He glared at me with an alarmed look on his face. “Are you looking for trailer accessories, sir?” he asked.  “Yes, I’m in a hurry!” I said with a bit of impatience. He gave me a slightly dirty look and directed me toward another gentleman behind a counter.

Feeling the pressure of the day getting away from me, I ran to the next Walmart specialist and asked “Do you have two and five sixteenths-inch balls?” I got another alarmed look. What is it with these Walmart guys? After he regained his composure, he showed me where the trailer accessories were located. Naturally, they were out of that size.

I jumped back in my truck and headed down the road. Once into Oregon, I drove through a small town, stopped at a NAPA, bought the right size ball and screwed it on. Safe at last! Or so I thought.

The temperature grew hotter as the day continued. A wreck on the freeway delayed me further and by the time I rolled into Portland and my destination which was Columbia Corrugated Box, it was close to closing time. I signed the paperwork and started directing the forklift driver on how to load the huge bundles of cardboard.

Columbia Corrugated Box where I picked up the load from Hades (definition of Hades:  a deep, gloomy part of Hades used as a dungeon of torment and suffering.

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We stacked one large pallet on the back of the pickup and put five more pallets on the trailer. I intentionally broke one bundle and stacked portions of the bundle across the top of the load, attempting to level the top of the load. This turned out to be a major mistake.

I was, as my kids would put it, like way overloaded. All my tires were essentially flat with the massive weight they had just received. I borrowed an air hose and pumped them up, far past the recommended dosage. They were still looking a little saggy. The day was hot, over a hundred degrees. I had mixed up an optimum recipe for a blowout or two on the hot asphalt leading home.

The load

I’ve neglected to mention that one of the reasons I was trying to get loaded and out of town were my taillights. I didn’t have any. The borrowed trailer had a connection that had been ground off by dragging along the road at some point. Naturally, I knew I wouldn’t get home before dark but I at least wanted to get to the shores of Washington as I’m not fond of the artificially high-priced tickets that are issued in Oregon.

I hadn’t had lunch or dinner because of the time element. I grabbed a drink of water at the cardboard plant and then headed out with great trepidation. I crossed my fingers and managed to navigate out of the streets of Portland. Fifty miles later, arriving at Troutdale, I figured I better stop and see how the load was holding together. I pulled off and saw that the load had done some major shifting. I hurriedly pulled the straps tight and took off.

At Hood River I stopped and tightened things up again. I began to see that I would have been wiser to have left the last bundle together instead of breaking it apart and spreading it out across the top of the other bundles. The two hundred loose pieces, each larger than a sheet of plywood, were the culprits working loose and making me stop every fifty miles to resecure. I was not making great time because of the stops and my limited speed. The heavy load was causing the trailer and my little rice burner pickup to sway from side to side.

Even though I’m locally famous for my brisk, autobahn style driving, forty-five mph was as fast as I dared push it. At least I hadn’t had a blowout.

Another nagging problem that had cropped up was the inability to see traffic behind my first stack of cardboard. The bundle we had stacked on the back of the pickup was too wide. Vision was limited to brown cardboard in both my rear view mirrors. Looking back, I can see that many factors surrounding my pickup were starting to howl for a major calamity. They didn’t have to wait much longer.

Past The Dalles, I sensed it was time to stop and tighten straps. Traffic was hot, heavy and passing me like I was standing still, even though I was still swaying along like a drunken sailor with a shipload of cardboard at forty-five mph. The desire to stop was starting to pound in my head but there was no place to exit. A guardrail located right next to the lane I was in stretched before me for another mile. I crossed my fingers and hoped my growing premonition of disaster was false. It wasn’t.

Finally, I reached the end of the guardrail and pulled off onto the shoulder. I stepped out of the pickup and my senses were assaulted. A blast of hot gorge wind hit me from the direction I had just come from. A train was flying by on tracks located between my highway and the highway going the opposite direction. Cars and trucks were screaming by as I glanced back at my load. Since I had been traveling the same direction as the wind, my loosened up load had stayed on as there was no noticeable airspeed factor. However, as soon as I stopped, I had a forty-five mile an hour tailwind.

My last strap must have slipped off just as I looked back and VOILA!! My loose sheets of, as yet, compressed and flat boxes began peeling off the top of the trailer and flying everywhere. Even though it was over a hundred degrees, I was frozen in place. I had not yet accepted the fact that the Gorge wind was a permanent thing. I thought perhaps the train was creating the horrendous wind and as soon as it went by, all would be calm. I was wrong.

Semi trucks and passenger cars were slamming into large slabs of cardboard. Great tornados were suddenly visible behind each truck as the sheets twisted and flew in every conceivable direction. Some opened up into a form of the boxes they were meant to become and flew down the highway like box kites in a forty-five mph windstorm. Trucks and cars were dodging cardboard and other vehicles and careening down the highway. Screeching of tires replaced the sounds of the train.

As I scrambled back and crawled up on top the load, I waited for the massive pileup that was sure to occur. Cardboard was still peeling off the top like giant playing cards involved in a game of fifty-two Card Pickup. Fifty-two cards wouldn’t have been bad. As it was, more than one hundred and fifty five foot by eight foot double walled pieces had exited before I got on top of the load. I was grabbing straps and sheets like a mad dog and finally got the revolt stopped. I temporarily secured what was left and then surveyed the damage.

Unbelievably, no vehicles had wrecked. Vehicles were still sporadically hitting the boxes but at least the sheets had spread out and metallic carnage had not yet occurred. The wind was still whipping. I looked down the highway and could see some of the brown wind surfers had traveled over a half a mile. Some were lodged up against highway signs. Most had jumped the guardrail on the other side of the road and had landed in a rocky ravine between the highway and the tracks.

I counted 6 sheets suspended in the power lines overhead. They were flailing around like crazy. Gradually, they slid downwind, riding the wires like a trapeze artist. A few more lay in a suicidal-type prone position on the railroad tracks.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to die. I wanted to drive away and pretend like I had no connection to the massive mess of corrugated papyrus sheets.

However, they were mine. I had written a check for them a couple hours before. The first cop to happen upon the clutter would see the brand of cardboard and call the manufacturer. Since it was a custom size, my name would immediately become associated. Besides that, I had a lot of dough in the units flapping around that particular neighborhood. For these reasons, I stayed.

It was hot. Already I was sweating. I grabbed my phone and called my wife. It was eight pm and I had hoped to be home by ten. Our family was primed to go to a Mariner’s game in Seattle the next morning but I told her all bets were off. She asked when I would be home and I said if I was lucky, maybe around 6 the next morning. At that point, I had no idea what was in store concerning my future.

I walked across the road, climbed over the guardrail and marveled at the way the landscape had turned brown. Layers of corrugated materials stretched as far as the eye could see. Craggy, sharp boulders had covered the ravine minutes before. Now, paper products covered the rocks. Cardboard sheets hung like scarecrows from the barbwire fence next to the tracks.

I knew it was time to go to work. I ran down the road and peeled sheets off the guardrail and road markers for three quarters of a mile. Nobody stopped; they were all preoccupied with dodging my boxes. The initial shock was wearing off and reality was setting in. I was winded and worn out by the time I finished clearing the highway. I started walking back to my truck, in awe of the job ahead of me.

I got to my pickup and opened the door, intending to drive it a little farther off the road. The winds flung the door open and whipped open the file containing my patent papers. Papers flew in a whirlwind around the interior and then headed for the exterior. I slammed the door and managed to catch most of the papers that had blown out of the cab. Things had been pretty rough for me during the last half hour. I sensed they were going to get even rougher.

The wind was relentless, ruthless. I started my gathering process. Oblivious to the traffic screaming by, I began a process that lasted through the night. I walked across the highway, crawled over the guardrail and down the ravine, gathered two sheets and attempted to navigate my way back across the road. The wind whipped the boxes and it was all I could do to hold on to them. Many times the boxes flew up and hit me in the head, giving me a bloody nose at one point. I lay them on the side of the road where my pickup was parked and secured them to the ground with large rocks.

After fifteen minutes of this ritual, I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. This was extremely hard work! I was sweating like crazy and panting for air. Every step climbing that rocky slope and guardrail was beyond the limits for this chubby bald guy. Each time I drug the boxes over the guardrail, the slats and edges would catch on the guardrail bolts. The only way to disengage this connection was to position the cardboard in the wind and make it aerodynamically fly off the bolt. When that would happen, I would say: “Houston, we have liftoff.” More than once I thought the sheets were going to take me for a magic carpet ride.

Jaywalking the highway between speeding cars and trucks was nuts but necessary! If I wanted to keep from becoming road kill, timing was all-important. I was becoming dehydrated and exhausted. I found myself praying one minute and swearing the next. If I looked at the multitude of heavy sheets scattered downstream, I became severely depressed. I soon found that the only way I could continue was to concentrate on two boxes at a time. Absolutely no more! I could barely handle two. Following this ritual, I slowly worked my way north.

Days before, I had finished reading a book about deaths in the Grand Canyon. One of the main processes of death in the Canyon is dehydration, hallucination, then expiration even though the victims are often within spitting distance of the Colorado River. I was a hop, skip and a jump away from the Columbia River. Dehydrated, hallucinating, and mentally desiring expiration.

I was gathering where no man had gathered before. After an hour of this process, I found myself still teetering on the edge between reality and hallucinations. I still had many trips ahead of me. I had only just begun. I realized I had (appropriately) been absentmindedly singing the song “We’ve Only Just Begun” by Karen Carpenter. Remembering that she was dead, I knew there was a good chance I would be singing a duet with her, at her location, before the night was over.

At one point, I thought I would try to hoist three boxes up the valley and across the road. It was not to be. Several hours into the adventure and well after dark, it was as hot as ever. The jagged rocks stretching hundreds of feet into the air must have retained the day’s heat. I continued clawing my way up and down, back and forth. Eventually, to retrieve some of the wayward boxes, I had to navigate my way through a five-strand barbwire fence and climb up to the railroad tracks.

At last, I rounded up the last two boxes that had escaped. I carried them over and piled them up in one of the many stacks I had accumulated on the far side of the highway. I could hardly believe that the job was done! It was after midnight and I was done with the hard part, or so I thought.

I walked a half-mile back to the pickup, started it up and idled up to my first stash. I got out and began trying to lift a box up and secure it to the top of the load. This was a job for Superman! The wind was still screaming and my box and I were its primary targets. I would lift a box up and it would immediately begin madly gyrating and trying to take off. Things were just not working.

Just then, I noticed red and blue lights reflecting off my pickup in the dark. I looked up and sure enough, there was a Oregon State Police car, just behind my pickup and up on the shoulder of the highway. “Why would he stop here?” I wondered. Then I noticed a car had pulled over by the side of my pickup. The cop had stopped someone speeding! What were the chances that they would end up directly at the central point of my misery?

I watched as the cop got out of his car. He hadn’t even seen me. He was giving the car he had stopped his full attention.

“Hey!” I yelled. He jumped with surprise and fear. He recovered his composure after shining his flashlight down on me and seeing I was no threat. “Are you here for them, (I pointed at the car he’d stopped) or me?”

He gave a nervous laugh. I thought I saw him put his pistol back in the holster. He responded “I’m here for them.”

I yelled back and said “As soon as you get done with them, would you come down here with your gun and shoot me in the head, please?”

He laughed again with a little more enthusiasm and said he would. Little did he know that I was serious.

An Oregon ticket and a few minutes later the trooper came down and asked what was going on. I gave him a brief synopsis of the evening and told him he should probably call the power company to come and get the boxes off the power lines across the road.

He said he would and then congratulated me for being a good citizen and cleaning up my mess. I lied and said “No problem.” He asked me if I wanted a light. The cardboard panels seemed to glow in the moonlight so I declined his offer. I asked him if the wind ever stopped in these here parts. He said not usually. Again he thanked me for cleaning up and left me alone to fight the wind.

I soon could see that a different plan was needed if I was to get the boxes back on the trailer. I decided that I needed to drive to the far end of my piles, flip a U-turn and load the truck heading back against traffic and the wind. This would make my pickup and the front end of the trailer a windbreak. It provided the only possibility of my loading up with the wind howling. I motored up the highway and after passing the last pile; I turned off the road and made a sweeping turn to head back the other way. I went slow as I still had a very heavy load on the truck and trailer.

I began to organize and assemble my emotions so I could have a good cry. With the load on my pickup and trailer, the right rear portion of my pickup was drooping substantially. Since I hadn’t had a flat on this rig before, I had no idea where the jack and wrenches were. The spare was underneath the rear of the truck, which was inches from the ground. I had no light. I had no hope. So I did what anyone in my situation would do. I called 911.

I explained my predicament and asked the dispatcher to tell the cop I could use his light now. Could she send him back so he could shed some light on my dilemma? She put me on hold for a minute and then returned to tell me that he was on a call down in Hood River. I said I could use his help if he got back up where I was. It was then that I noticed the wind had died down.

I began fumbling around in the dark, trying to find components to assist me. I found the Toyota owner’s manual and used the dome light to read up as to where all the tools were supposed to be. I lay on the rocky ground between the pickup and trailer and dug basalt with my fingernails, trying to provide enough clearance to get the spare out. I could sense that this was not a five-minute job like your usual tire change. An hour later found me still working on it. However, I must say, I did an admirable job considering the situation.

The rock of my life is on the left. The rock of my strife is on the tailgate. Sometimes it's vice versa, depending on the day.

A combination of finding tools and operating them by Braille, knowing all the tricks of the trade by having been a tire man for twenty years, and hallucinating that I was going to be victorious in climbing Mt. Everest helped me finally get the tire changed. I was tightening the last lug night and feeling like I had just conquered the big hill when the cop showed up. I had managed to get the tire changed in just over an hour.

“I understand you need a light” he said. He must not have known that I didn't smoke.

“I’m past that point. I need a drink." I muttered. Then I remembered my religion and that I might be driving sometime soon. I decided to move past my inappropriate request.

"Have you got any water with you?” I asked.

He motioned to his car. “I’ve got a water bottle that I’ve been drinking out of. If you don’t care about that, you can have the water.”

I replied, “I don’t care if you’ve got AIDS and cancer, I’ve got to have a drink.” We made our way to his car and I quickly guzzled down his offering. A new lease on life!

I thanked the cop, he left, and I made my way back to the truck. I found the rock that had caused the damage and threw it in the back of the truck as a keepsake. I knew there was a chance my wife wouldn’t buy any of my story and I figured the rock was good hard evidence and could possibly even hold up in court.

Now, I had to finish making my U turn. I leaned down and felt around for other sharp rocks in the vicinity. I then backed up and pulled the trailer up on the highway. I could vaguely see that the boxes on the trailer had shifted with all the wacko maneuvering that had been going on. I made a big U turn across both lanes of traffic on the freeway and then stopped on the shoulder.

I did not want to get down in Paul Bunyon’s arrowhead garden again. I didn’t have another spare tire and I was pretty sure the cop wouldn’t come back again. I left my headlights off so the oncoming traffic wouldn’t freak out. I did leave the parking lamps on. At this time of night and in my state of mind, the last thing I needed was a head-on collision.

With my lights off, I gingerly pulled ahead on the shoulder to finish my U-turn and get the trailer straight behind the truck. The truck gave a sickening lurch upward and I realized I had just run over a big pile of boxes.

Walking over to the pile of cardboard, I picked the top sheet up, grateful that the wind had died down. Just then, the wind came back in full force and tore the cardboard out of my hands. I wasn’t surprised in the least. In fact, I would have been surprised if the wind hadn’t come up. Even though the hurricane-force breeze continued to make it difficult to load the boxes, having the truck in front as a windbreak was very helpful. It took another hour and I had all the boxes, torn up but back in my possession, loaded.

I made another loop across the road and started down the highway for home. It was three in the morning. I had just completed seven hours in hell. I soon had the rig back up to forty-five mph. Gratitude for finally being back on the road was rudely interrupted by the sound of a pallet falling off the top of the trailer and skipping down the road. I had traveled less than a mile. I saw a few cartons taking off in the wind. I began the prayer/swear routine all over again. I didn’t know how much more I could take.

Easing to a stop, I jumped out and climbed onto the trailer. I was beat. As before, there was no one around to hold the boxes while I tied them down. However, at least this time I hadn’t lost a zillion of the buggers. I located, carried back and prepared to reload the eight or ten boxes that had taken flight. I finally got them up and secured, maneuvering them into place once again by using standard aerodynamic principles of wind vrs. cardboard that I was thoroughly familiar with by now.

All of a sudden, I remembered the wooden pallet that I had heard fall on the road. Traffic was flying by. If somebody hit that wooden pallet, another bad experience might materialize like a motorist involved in a rollover or an inventor involved in a suicide. I sprinted back a quarter of a mile and located the pallet in the road. Dragging it back used up the last reserve of energy I had. I threw it in the back of the truck, crawled in the cab, and headed for home.

Twenty miles down the road I found a mini-mart open. Running in, I bought three large bottles of Gatorade and a forty-four-ounce cup of ice. The attendant charged me for the ice. I didn’t mind. I would have gladly paid him a hundred dollars for the ice if he had required it. I walked out, tightened my load up once again and headed for home. The gallon and a half of Gatorade and the forty-four ounces of ice were gone within 5 minutes.

The cab of my pickup after I made it home

I arrived home at six a.m. sharp, just like I had told my wife I would as I watched one hundred and fifty giant cardboard sheets take flight in the Columbia Gorge.

We made it to the Mariners game that afternoon. She drove, I slept.

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Hey, Hold That Plane!

September, 2010

So Tyler (our red-headed stepchild) and I have been batching it the last couple of weeks. My good wife Michele has been living the life of luxury and no responsibility whilst in Utah with our daughters and grand babies.

It is time she got back to the real world. You know, the world where the husband doesn't have to do the laundry and fix the meals while simultaneously fighting to keep the wolves away from the door.

Two weeks is a dang long time without a maid!

I own a little community well. While my wife was in Utah, I’d been looking around for and finally found a 120 gal water tank. I got it from my brother Brad who is generally a cheapskate but I must have caught him on a good day. He offered it to me at no charge. I understood why when I picked it up that morning.

After cleaning the mice nests, rocks, hard water deposits and rust out, I soaked it in bleach to disinfect the various contaminants that had been shacking up for years in the galvanized round steel mouse house. A company on my well system had just put in a big lawn with a sprinkling system that really taxes the well. I felt an auxiliary tank would keep the pump from cycling on and off so much.

I spent most of the morning getting it squeezed through the well house doorway, plumbed in and up to pressure. I have learned through a long and sometimes violent history of trial and error that the Basin City natives do not like their potable water AWOL. Several times Michele called me and asked when my flight was. I was under a little pressure from the downed well and being fairly certain I could hear war drums in the distance, I told her I'd call her back when I got home and could check my ticket. I was quite positive it was far off in the late afternoon.

Toward the end of the job, Michele called me once more and asked if we had mowed the lawn. Her tone was more like "That lawn better be freshly mowed when I roll back in the driveway or you may be sleeping on it for the next week."

Of course, we had mowed it twice since the Vacationer had been gone but it needed it again. When I finally got home just before the noon hour, in order to maintain marital bliss, I went out and pushed the man killer/grass clipping Toro around the patch again.

I finally finished, went in and stirred up some liquid refreshment. It was 1:00 and time for me to take it easy. I relaxed and turned on the TV. I had another hour and a half to kill before heading out. Plenty of time to lunch, shower, pack and head for the airport. I usually cut it too close when I have to catch a plane but today was different. I had oodles of time.

I bought a ticket to Utah last week so I could check up on Michele and be in church for the blessing of Emma Crockett, my 5^th grand baby and actual niece of Davy Crockett. I really hadn't checked for a few days but was under the vague assumption my plane left around 4:00 pm. I figured I was doing fine on time.

It was right about then that I began receiving a prompting that maybe I should recheck the flight and much to my horror, I saw that the flight was leaving at 1:40 from Pasco. Forty minutes till the plane overcame gravity! I was a good 30 miles from the airport and the passenger-halting blockade of Homeland Security.

I freaked. Quickly weighing my options in nanoseconds, at first I figured my goose was cooked. I might as well forget the trip. I was in dirty, sweaty, lawn-stained work clothes, not packed and completely out of luck. People were without a doubt boarding the plane as I sat in my home in Basin City reading my ticket with sweat dripping down my lawn-smudged brow.

Most grown men would have thrown in the towel and called it a day. But, I’m not quite a grown man so I grabbed my dress that was in a plastic bag (actually a dress my sister Teresa gave me to take to Utah for her soon-to-be-married daughter Crystal). I frantically looked for my wallet and found it in less time than I normally do, yelled for 18-year old Tyler to lock the house up when he left to be babysat by our friends, the Hawkins. I then flew out the door. There was no time to pack. Brushing my teeth or even grabbing my toothbrush would eat up valuable time.

I jumped in the seen-better-days SHO, which has bad tires (the day before, I had noticed steel belts poking out of one of the black baldy’s) and gunned it toward Pasco, hoping there would be no blowouts for the afternoon. I hadn’t grabbed my glasses so everything was a blur. The 100+ mph made things even blurrier.

Being a religious man but still struggling a bit when it comes to obeying all the laws of the land, I began praying that the entire Franklin County Sheriff’s Office would be at Dunkin’ Donuts and nowhere near Glade Road for the next little bit. If a cop would have appeared, I wouldn’t have seen him until he turned his red and blue dreaded flashers on as he licked the doughnut jelly filling off his lips while reaching for a reckless driving ticket.

A couple of times I ended up behind people who had gotten their days mixed up and thought they were out on a Sunday drive when it was actually still Saturday. I tried to be a little more careful than I was when I drove to the hospital after I had cut my wrist with the paper cutter, but not much. However as soon as it looked safe, I would pass the lines of cars and continue to accelerate to the necessary speed required to traverse the thirty 55 mile-an-hour miles to the Pasco Airport in respectable time. Me and my Arrest Red SHO Taurus completed the journey in 15 minutes.

Up to this point, I had tried to be fairly careful and make good decisions. However, after arriving, I made a boneheaded decision. Brad had told me how he parks in the Fed Ex parking lot so he doesn’t have to pay a king’s ransom for parking at the terminal. For some reason, I thought I could run to the airport (which was probably ¾ of a mile away) from Fed Ex as fast as I could from the terminal parking lot.

The day was hot. I had already worked up a good sweat installing the water tank, mowing the lawn and playing race car driver. Now I shifted into my marathon running mode, jumped out of the car and began sprinting toward the far-away airport. I realized this cost-saving measure was ill advised after the first few steps. I should have gone back to my car and drove up to the parking lot like a normal late-for-his-plane passenger would have done.

However, I didn't. The 100 yard dash speed in 10.5 seconds I achieved decades ago at BYU was surprisingly non-existent. The extra 60 lbs I was packing under my sweaty work shirt plus the plastic sack containing Crystal’s dress was slightly impeding the travel time.

Did I mention the day was hot? Off in the distance, through the chain link fence and across the heat waves emanating from the concrete tarmac, I could see a jet with its engines churning, anxious to get going. The portable stairs were still there and the cabin door open but I would not have been surprised to see it close at any moment. I was starting to melt with exhaustion and had not even covered half the distance to the terminal.

I was sprinting full bore. Actually, at this point in my weight and life, what I would call sprinting is what others would call a limping, pathetic, hobbling crawl whilst in an upright position. Admittedly, I wasn’t covering a lot of ground.

Right about then, as in other tumultuous times in my life, I began to feel a heat stroke/heart attack coming on. In the past, I’ve read where overweight, middle-aged guys often drop dead from heart attacks while they’re out shoveling snow.

I would have loved to have been shoveling snow. The heat was a major factor in my premonition of the impending heart attack.

My gait slowed to a crawl. My lungs were burning, my osteoarthritis in my right knee was flaring up big time and my visible world was spinning like the weather vane on the airport control tower. I thought I would probably go down with my face slapping the hot asphalt and the next time I would enjoy anything even remotely cool would be in the more comfortable confines of the local funeral home.

I finally slogged my way into the airport and made my way to the desk. The two female attendants looked at me with a bit of shock. There was not another person in line. It was completely deserted.

I knew I looked like a day laborer from Death Valley. I also knew they would bet their entire life savings I would not be riding in First Class that day.

I told them I was very late for the Salt Lake flight. They told me Horizon Airlines didn’t fly to Salt Lake, and maybe I should try the Delta counter down the way. I thanked them and sprinted for the Delta desk in my own familiar running style.

The counter was deserted. I looked around, saw a buzzer and began jamming with both thumbs on it with all the energy I had left in my totally dilapidated but more than adequate and sweaty body mass.

After a bit, a guy appeared and ran me through the ticketing process. He said I might make it but I might not. I sprinted toward the heart of Homeland Security.

The first thing they wanted me to do was take my shoes off. My heart sank, I had these work boots on that required a lot more work than most shoes do to take them off. I finally got them unlaced and pulled them free and lugged them into the basket along with my keys and phone. It was at that point I noticed that I didn’t have a belt that needed to come off. Maybe that’s why I had had to keep tugging my pants up during the entire exhausting marathon run to the terminal.

After that it was a breeze. I didn’t even bother to put my boots back on as I made my way to the Delta gate. The guy at the counter was surprised that a passenger would dare show up so tardy. For some reason, his computer wouldn’t take me at this late date.

Finally, he said something about how I wasn’t cleared but he thankfully wrote a seat number on my ticket and pointed me toward the plane.

I was aware as I began moving down the aisle that my seat was in the back of the plane. I knew that my disheveled appearance was something akin to an illegal alien who had just crossed the southern border heading north. I was also painfully aware that my body odor was similar to a Middle-Eastern camel rider who hadn’t showered for a month and had been regularly spit on by his long-legged ride. I did not enjoy the experience of making my spectacular and heavily-scented way to my seat.

I huddled down in the seat, keeping my arms tightly locked to my sides, doing my best to emit as little locker room fragrance as possible all the way to Salt Lake.

After landing, I waited until everyone else cleared the plane before I exited. Michele picked me up in the parking lot. I was surprised and even a little disappointed that she was not more excited to see me. We drove straight to Deseret Industries where I acquired an entire Sunday wardrobe for less than $20.

Emma got blessed the next day with her very well-dressed grandfather standing in the circle.

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Valentines Day Is When?!!!

      (The short version)

A big day. 1979

The first year we were married, I got off easy because Valentine's Day had already passed before we got hitched.  So, I didn't have to get her nothing. I remember Michele being in a slightly sour mood the day after Valentines which also happened to be the morning we got married. I wasn't quite sure why. The somber mood seemed to linger for many blue moons thereafter.

Ben's Geneva Tire - Luxurious location where Michele was carried across the threshold. (Notice the portable billboard revealing my great marketing savvy.)

The next big holiday was her birthday. We were living in Orem Utah at the time. We lived in an old house that was hooked directly on to a little tire shop I was running. Michele was a city girl and wasn't used to customers banging on our back door at all hours of the 168-hour work week to get a flat tire changed. 


This, coupled with the fact that there was a huge steel plant (Geneva Steel) across the street from our little industrial-zoned house didn't help. The combo prevented her from improving her mood she had acquired earlier that year (I'm thinking it was 'bout the same time as the morning of our wedding). I have no idea where she picked up the bad attitude.

Geneva Steel (A few feet from where I carried Michele across the threshold)

Like I said, her birthday is sometime in the early summer. Let me tell you about the first year we celebrated her birthday. 

On the very day (actually, it was the evening) of her birthday, I happened to notice on her calendar a notation that said something like this...M's b-day, may be the last w/ B.

Well, it took me a little bit but I finally figured out what she was saying. She wanted a present! Why didn't she just tell me? I jumped in the pickup and tore up to K-Mart. After walking the aisle and taking in all the wonderful artwork they had in stock, I bought my dear wife a masterpiece.

This wasn't just any old painting. This was a grand nighttime scene of an Italian shoreline with a beach and boats and moon and, now get this, lights of a city romantically placed in the distance. I fell in love with the picture, especially because it had a frame on it and was on sale.

I knew I'd hit a home run. Living across from dirty, grimy Geneva Steel, tire customers banging on the door, even the fact that her black cat Spook (who she claimed was her only friend) had just gotten run over...all this and more would be forgotten once she got her picture.

Spook, Michele's best friend in 1979 (Deceased that same year)

K-Mart wanted an extra two bucks to wrap it but I figured it would mean more to her if I presented it to her in person with no unnecessary frills attached.

I was wrong.

Valentines Day Is When?!!!       (The long version)

Chelsea, a niece of mine and mentor for my blog questions, told me I should write a piece for my wife for Valentines Day. Here it is:

I was looking at the calendar this morning and noticed it was getting ready to announce Valentine’s Day. This is one of my least favorite holidays because it reminds me that my wife's and my anniversary is coming on fast behind it.


If only I'd known back then what I most definitely know now. You just don't plan your anniversary anytime around Valentine's Day because it causes heaps of trouble every year. Kinda what you might call double trouble.

A little background...

Most guys are slackers (at least that's what I tell my Michele) when it comes to:

1.    The wife's birthday 

2.    Valentine's Day 

3.    Mother's Day 

4.    Christmas. 

Thank goodness these events don't come more than once a year. And I haven't even addressed the anniversary problem yet!

Now whoever figured out the calendar did a great job. (They didn't factor in anniversaries so neither do I.)


Valentine's Day is Feb 14. Mother's Day is crammed in around the middle of August and Christmas is in November or December somewhere. Add in my wife's birthday which is...I'll have to go look that one up. (I think it's sometime in early summer.) And there you have it. A holiday in each of the four seasons that forces me as a husband to step up to the plate every three months.

These are great days to have these particular holidays since they are so spread out! As busy as I am, I generally forget to get the gifts each a year until the last minute (x 4). Since we live 45 minutes away from any type of store, I am usually in trouble.

Add it up! Last minute minus 45 minutes makes a real negative number and also equals a good week’s worth of female ice box treatments sprinkled with a few chilly looks that could kill. If these holidays butted up against each other, I would have more than I could bear.

And so, up until I got married, I was never saddled with worrying about an anniversary. Of course, a week after me and my bride met, I proposed so I really didn't have to worry about any other yearly spousal celebrations up to the point of betrothal either. This kind of stuff was all new to me.

I honestly couldn't handle more than one holiday/drama per season. I must point out here that I usually have other kettles boiling over on the stove and therefore generally have to move my wife's kettle (which include the aforementioned holidays) off the burner until the other kettles get done. Priorities, you know.

Now here is where the kicker comes in. We got married on February 15. Do you have any idea how close that is to Valentine's Day? It's in the same dang month! In fact, it's in the same doggone week! No man in his right mind should have to deal with a situation like this.

Looking forward to the future fireworks with great anticipation!

I should not be held accountable for overlooking a couple of minor things on her calendar that happen to be going on in the same week. I've always felt this way so this must be an eternal principle.

The first year we were married I got by because Valentine's Day had already passed before we got hitched.  So, I didn't have to get her nothing. I remember her being in a slightly sour mood the day after Valentines which also happened to be the morning we got married. I wasn't quite sure why. The mood seemed to linger  for many moons thereafter.

The next big holiday was her birthday. We were living in Orem Utah at the time. We lived in an old house that was hooked directly on to a little tire shop I was running. Michele was a city girl and wasn't used to customers banging on our back door at all hours of the 168-hour work week to get a flat tire changed. This, coupled with the fact that there was a huge steel plant (Geneva Steel) across the street from our little industrial-zoned house didn't help. The combo prevented her from improving her mood she had acquired earlier that year (I'm thinking it was 'bout the same time as the morning of our wedding). I have no idea where she picked up the bad attitude.

Like I said, her birthday is sometime in the early summer. Let me tell you about the first year we celebrated her birthday. 


On the very day (actually it was that evening) of her birthday, I happened to notice on her calendar a notation that said something like this...M's b-day, may be the last w/ B.

Well, it took me a little bit but I finally figured out what she was saying. She wanted a present. Why didn't she just tell me? I jumped in the pickup and tore up to K-Mart. After walking the aisle and taking in all the wonderful artwork they had in stock, I bought my dear wife a masterpiece.

This wasn't just any old painting. This was a grand scene of an Italian shoreline with a beach and boats and moon and, now get this, lights of a city romantically placed in the distance. I fell in love with the picture, especially because it had a frame on it and was on sale.

I knew I'd hit a home run. Living across from dirty, grimy Geneva Steel, tire customers banging on the door, even the fact that her black cat (who she claimed was her only friend) had just gotten run over...all this and more would be forgotten once she got her picture.

K-Mart wanted an extra two bucks to wrap it but I figured it would mean more to her if I presented it to her in person with no unnecessary frills attached.

I was wrong.





Lest the reader get the wrong idea-- Michele and I have been married for 30+ years, have 6 wonderful kids and wouldn't have it any other way. Lots of rocky roads have been traveled but because we hung in there, our life is full and complete. (Michele asked me to include this addition. I said I would if she would consider it her combined Valentine, Mother's Day, birthday and Christmas present for this fiscal year.)

Sometimes the sweetest music comes after the toughest times

I say: Hang in there! You might even end up with kids smarter than yourself.

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Not So Smooth Move

A fellow in our community just died at 102. A friend of mine asked him a few years ago what the greatest invention was that he had seen in the past 100 years. It wasn't the airplane, automobile, cell phone, computer, space shuttle, YankATank, i phone, or tv.

He testified with all sincerity that it was toilet paper. Which kinda brings me in a roundabout way to my next subject...

The last several days of moving Meg and Jake have brought back memories from years ago when I ended up with what I thought were a couple of terminal illnesses.

I know, I know! I vowed earlier that I would put these stories on the back burner for a few decades but then I realized that the experiences, remedies and cures I had gleaned from these near-death close calls could possibly benefit the entire family of man. Besides, like the old song says, When You're Hot, You're Hot!

I promise that I will get back to normal stuff after this post.

Decades ago, I developed a pain in my side that became nigh unbearable. I spent the entire night on the floor, unable to lie down, let alone sleep. It was exhausting and excruciating. At least I was already on my knees for my nighttime prayers.

The next day, Michele ambulatoried me to the hospital. They probed, x-rayed and did all the tests they thought I could afford but even after all my money was gone, they still hadn't determined the culprit that had incapacitated me. The emergency room doctor did a little research in his medical book, discovered I had insurance and suddenly prognosticated that I had a kidney stone and was still a source of income. I was immediately checked into the hospital.

I spent the next several days under medication and more tests. They fed me nothing but liquids and a watery broth through the entire stay. I guess they were thinking that if they scrimped on my food budget, they would have more of a net profit to show while I was under their care.

I was starving. I must admit I started spending less time dealing with the kidney stone pains because I was so hungry. In retrospect, they never subsided, the hunger pangs just overrode them. The nurse came in on the third day and asked me how I was feeling. Under the covers I pressed one hand hard against my stomach so it didn’t feel so empty and the other hand tightly gripped my side so as to stifle the stone pain. I was then able to smile.

“I feel much better!” I happily fibbed through gritted teeth. Whatever it took to get out of this sterile Gulag and chow down on some vittles, I was up for. The nurse stated that she had just witnessed a modern-day miracle and wrote a glowing report for the doc.

The doctor/miracle worker confidently strode in a few minutes later and said they were going to release me. He appeared to be very happy after reading his nurses accolades. He then produced a paper outlining the things that I should avoid at all costs, namely greasy and fatty foods. He also had a master menu of things listed that I could drink and eat. This master menu consisted of two items, Water and Ice. I assured him I would avoid the multitude of forbidden foods found on the first list so he signed my release papers.

My wife arrived to pick me up. They carted me out in a wheelchair and I gingerly eased myself into the car. In addition to the pain of my tender kidney-stoned side panel, I was in the throes of starvation. I instructed my wife, in no uncertain terms and over her vehement objections, to drive me Code 3 (screeching tires, red lights and siren) to Roy’s Chuck Wagon.

We spent the next hour feasting on fried chicken, ham, potatoes and gravy and all other accouterments available in a respectable western smorgasbord buffet. The pains left. I'm now of the opinion the grease dissolved the stones, or at least provided a little lubrication so they could pass on their merry way a bit easier. The pains never returned. I'm thinking greasy and fatty foods were the cure, not the culprit.

The doctor turned out not to be the miracle worker. Roy of Roy's Chuck Wagon was the real hero.

Another hero of mine is my personal dentist Dr. Lancelot who doubles as my nephew. Here he is shown making a house call to extract some barbecued chicken that didn't quite make it past my right lower molars. I think I picked Chicken Little up and compacted him into the pearly whites while at Roy's.

My own personal dentist, what a luxury! The only complaint I have is the way he groans and balks when I tell him I'm ready to be pampered with a good flossing, brushing, dome wax and ear/nose hair shampoo.


Several years after the kidney stone experience, I bought tickets to go to Spokane with my wife and relatives to see Styx and REO Speedwagon, two bands that were popular in the 70’s and 80’s. In the days leading up to the concert, I had stayed very focused on delivering propane and setting tanks. However, I noticed a slight pain in my abdomen that increased over time until it was very painful to work. It was a little like the kidney stone pain I’d had years before but was in a slightly different spot.

By the time the day of the concert rolled around, I was in agony. I couldn’t stand to wear anything that put pressure on my abdomen. Even underwear was unbearable. I could hardly walk. I was torn whether to try to make the concert or not. However, I have always hated to be a party pooper so I committed to make the 120-mile trip to Spokane.

The only apparel I could stand to wear was some very loose fitting sweat pants. I had to hike them up so there was no pressure whatsoever on my lower tummy. Instead of heading out for a music fest, I felt like I should be heading for an operating room. Even though I was dressed like a jock with the sweat pants and tennis shoes, I think at least some of the visual athletic effect was lost for onlookers. This was due to the fact that I had to wear the sweats hiked up to just below my nipple line in order to keep the tie cord from putting any undue pressure on my painful abdomen.

I remember my wife commenting several times that I should pull my pants down a bit as it looked like I was preparing for a flood or being raised in a helicopter sling. I was wearing ultra high-water dark sweat pants with the bottoms of the legs 2 or 3 inches above the top of my white tube socks. I must say that through that entire evening, I had no concerns whatsoever regarding my outward appearance.


We arrived in Spokane early. Everyone wanted to grab a bite to eat except me. But like the sport I am, I dealt with the pain and hobbled into the restaurant with my kin. I remember my brother-in-law Todd had a huge, horrific looking boil on his lip. I felt sorry for him but was absolutely certain he was in less pain. He was ugly outside. I was ugly inside.

The concert was probably good but all I remember was trying to get comfortable in my seat for 3 hours. I was never successful. The strongest memory I have of the evening was afterward trying to walk back to the car in the parking lot. I was bent over and hanging on to the coat tails of my brother Brent since it was too painful to look up. I limped with both legs every step of the way. I thought we'd never get to the car. We should have parked in the handicapped zone that night, I would have gladly paid the ticket.

Something was definitely haywire in my innards.

It so happened that the next morning we had been planning to head for Utah to visit Michele’s parents. I had a terrible night and told her the next morning that there was no way I could make the trip. We decided that she and the kids would drive down without me. However, just before they left, I came up with a solution.

I would ride into town with them. We would visit a clinic, find a solution, get something for my pain and then make the long trip to Utah. We pulled out the back seat in the Suburban and I lay down in the most comfortable position I could find with my head resting on the spare tire. All the kids were crammed up front with Michele.

Arriving at the clinic, we found they were booked up and couldn’t see me for 3 hours. We called several other clinics and got the same story. It was late in the morning and there was still over 600 miles to cover before the Promised Land appeared. A very long drive was shaping up for one in the shape such as I. I decided to take one for the team and told Michele to drive on.

Several times on this most memorable trip, Michele would call out “Who needs to use the restroom?” I wanted to join in with the kids chanting “I do! I do!” I felt kinda like I really did need to but also knew the pain of my as yet unknown malady would prevent success. So I stayed in the least painful fetal position I could find while screaming in agony every time Michele ran over a piece of gravel or center-line stripe.

I bounced around in the back of the Sub all the way to Utah, wondering if I could continue taking the abuse. As we passed through Salt Lake, we called Mitch’s folks in Orem and got the number of a clinic (I call Michele Mitch when I’m feeling particularly needy.) The clinic told me they closed at 10 pm. I told Mitch to hit the gas and stay off the brakes.

We pulled into the clinic parking lot at 9:58 pm. I clinched my teeth and found my way inside. I was dying. The nurse handed me a clipboard with an introductory multiple choice quiz with several hundred questions concerning exotic diseases I wouldn't have been caught dead with. I'm not a fan of these questionnaires and I sure wasn't in the mood to take a written test on this particular evening. I handed the quiz to Michele and then bent back over the counter. The doctor came out and after glancing at my pale face, took me in and immediately ordered a series of x-rays to try to find out what insidious monster had attacked my system. A few minutes after the x-rays, he walked back in the room while hiding a smirk and asked me when I had last had a bm?

I was a little taken aback. At that particular time in my life, I hadn't been keeping a written record of such incidents and didn't think I had a problem in that neck of the lower woods. In my mind, I thought I had been fairly regular. I was therefore inclined to think it was a waste to talk about my waste when my waist was so pained. I was sure I had appendicitis or stones or cancer…something a little more glamorous than a non-bm.

He got this know-it-all look on his face. Pulling out an x-ray, he clipped it on the lighted panel. My pain lessened as I gazed at the board. I gravitated from insolence to embarrassment and finally, at last knowing what the problem was, I became, you might say, basically relieved. Well, not really relieved.

My intestines looked like they were packed to the max. I could tell I had missed an important opportunity about a week earlier. He handed me a bottle of laxatives and bid me goodbye. He said something like "Adios, mucho pacto' senor".

My wife was incredulous, mad and laughing at me for the next few days.Incredulous that I hadn't known what my body was up to. Mad that I had been such a baby, made her drive all the way to Utah, and spend a few hundred just so a doctor could tell me to hit the head. Laughing because..., well, I don't know for sure why she was laughing.

Anyway, she shifted back and forth between these emotions for a good week. That's about how long it took me to get the pipes back in shape.

I have since found that if I start approaching the threshold of irregularity, it pays to cinch the belt up a couple of notches past the comfort zone. This, coupled with two or three hundred sit-ups usually breaks up and gets rid of the problem.

The longer you live, the more you learn about yourself.