I know what a motherfucker is. A motherfucker is the guy you work for. The guy that is dumber than you but has all the money because his Daddy gave him everything. A motherfucker makes you do things you don't want to do. A motherfucking cocksucker is the guy that runs the store across the highway. He won't sell beer and cigarettes to a seven year old kid no matter how many notes his Dad writes. A motherfucking cocksucker trumps a motherfucker.
A motherfucker is a teacher who drags a boy with shitty corduroys down the hall to the principals office. She doesn't like being told she is a motherfucker. The principal doesn't like being told he is a motherfucking cocksucker while he is on the telephone trying to convince a mother to come and get her shitty son.
The stench of anger competes with shit to permeate the room. The anger fills me, makes me fat and happy like the tomcat on the back of the sofa. Not a couch, a sofa, because a couch is hard, abrupt, uncomfortable. Couch. A couch is where your sister is caught with her boyfriend and her panties around her knees. A dirty place.
Sofa. That soft cuddly place where Mom eats Almond Roca's, sips Pepsi and watches Days of Our Lives. A place where little boys get booboos kissed. But little boys must become BIG BOYS and go to school. BIG BOYS don't shit their pants and tell people they are motherfuckers and motherfucking cocksuckers. BIG BOYS MUST GROW THE FUCK UP, YOU'RE NOT A BABY ANYMORE WAIT UNTIL YOUR DAD HEARS ABOUT THIS.
Anger flops on the couch and swats the tomcat. The tomcat and the no longer a little boy scamper out the backdoor. Out with the dogs and cows and the horses. The tomcat sits on the porch rail and yawns as the big white dog happily follows the shitty little boy back to a world they both understand. Anger stays at the house.
The mare softly blows snot into my hair as her foal stalks the dog. Stiff legged the foal advances, quivering with anticipation. The dog eats a horse turd and pretends to ignore her. As the velvet muzzle touches the white tail, the dog whirls, barking happily and the foal races away, pursued by DON'T LET THAT GODDAMNED DOG CHASE THAT FILLY HOW MANY TIMES HAS YOUR DAD TOLD YOU YOU LITTLE SHIT. Anger slams the screendoor as it goes back to the daytime drama. Motherfucker. Motherfucking cocksucker.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Anger
I am angry. I feel the rage inside as a lump of lava in my gut, building, pulsing, looking for a chance to explode. I clamp down, squeezing like a sphincter to keep the excrement inside. Regardless of the thoughts of psychologists there is no healthy release for rage. When the rage bubbles over, everyone is covered in shit.
I think I have always been angry. It feels as if I am back in first grade sitting in class. The teacher is reading some interminable story, Dick and Jane are struggling up the hill while I sit and squirm in my chair, too scared to raise my hand. You have to tell her, in front of the class, number one or number two. So, I sit and squirm, scared and angry. I imagine the snickers and giggles if I raise my hand. I imagine the warmth of shit spreading through my pants, the reactions around me as the stench reaches out and slips greasily down the throats of the vacant eyed aliens that threaten my world.
The story drones on and on. The pressure builds. The big hand on the clock, placed cruelly above and behind the teacher, never moves. It hangs there. It speaks in a language I don't even understand, yet, but I know it is mocking me. I fidget. Fidgeting is not allowed, not in this world. Around me the aliens sit, both feet on the floor, hands clasped and resting on the desks, shining faces forward, mesmerised.
My right hand reaches upward, pleading. She never looks up, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, held by strings like the ones that hold my mittens to my coat in winter. Perhaps her mother is tired of her losing them and causing the family to suffer because they must be replaced. My hand flutters, so does my gut. Panic.
This is a world I don't understand. In my world of woods and fields I have never suffered. When the need arises find a bush, drop your pants and go. No different than the horses and cows and dogs, my friends.
I flee. Sliding from my desk I flee. Muscles clenched, ears burning, alien eyes tracking me as I flee. It is too late. Shit bursting forth, pouring out. Tears blinding me as shit stained corduroy pants chase me out of the room and down the hall.
My metaphor of life. I flee the smell of shit.
I think I have always been angry. It feels as if I am back in first grade sitting in class. The teacher is reading some interminable story, Dick and Jane are struggling up the hill while I sit and squirm in my chair, too scared to raise my hand. You have to tell her, in front of the class, number one or number two. So, I sit and squirm, scared and angry. I imagine the snickers and giggles if I raise my hand. I imagine the warmth of shit spreading through my pants, the reactions around me as the stench reaches out and slips greasily down the throats of the vacant eyed aliens that threaten my world.
The story drones on and on. The pressure builds. The big hand on the clock, placed cruelly above and behind the teacher, never moves. It hangs there. It speaks in a language I don't even understand, yet, but I know it is mocking me. I fidget. Fidgeting is not allowed, not in this world. Around me the aliens sit, both feet on the floor, hands clasped and resting on the desks, shining faces forward, mesmerised.
My right hand reaches upward, pleading. She never looks up, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, held by strings like the ones that hold my mittens to my coat in winter. Perhaps her mother is tired of her losing them and causing the family to suffer because they must be replaced. My hand flutters, so does my gut. Panic.
This is a world I don't understand. In my world of woods and fields I have never suffered. When the need arises find a bush, drop your pants and go. No different than the horses and cows and dogs, my friends.
I flee. Sliding from my desk I flee. Muscles clenched, ears burning, alien eyes tracking me as I flee. It is too late. Shit bursting forth, pouring out. Tears blinding me as shit stained corduroy pants chase me out of the room and down the hall.
My metaphor of life. I flee the smell of shit.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Getting Personal
Never having seriously considered my own mortality the words "fibro sarcoma" spoken by the doctor rocked my world. All I actually heard was "sarcoma". I knew it was a form of cancer. I am dying. But then, everyone is dying. Life can be prolonged through medical procedures but eventually we all die. So, the question is, do we die on our terms or someone Else's.
Medical professionals will line up around the block willing to tell you what you must do, as long as they are getting paid. The surgeon tells you that the tumor must be removed. Of course he gets paid to remove tumors. The radiation oncologist will tell you that you must have radiation therapy. He gets paid for providing that therapy. Everyone in the medical field has an opinion, all of which they will share with you, for a fee.
So, where do you go for advise? Family and friends, while great, offer little in the way of actual information. Everyone has a cancer story, whether it be themselves or someone they know. There are endless anecdotes about Aunt Marge and Uncle Willie who either did everything the doctors told them to or ignored all medical advise. The one thing that all the Aunt Marges and Uncle Willies have in common is that they all died, or will die.
I turned to the internet and began reading. Amazingly, there is a lot more information on soft tissue fibro sarcoma as it pertains to cats and dogs than there is about the disease in humans. No large studies have been done on humans with this form of cancer. The cancer help sites offer basic cancer information but very little about the actual disease. Mostly they link to support groups. I have no desire to hear others whine about themselves, I am doing enough whining of my own.
A biopsy of the tumor was "inconclusive". The biopsy was studied by three different pathologists, one located at Johns Hopkins University. The phrase the surgeon used was "it is probably not malignant". After the tumor was removed it was sent to three pathologists. Two of the three said benign. The third said fibro sarcoma. Terrific, even the experts disagree.
Now, every expert tells me that I need 30 radiation treatments. Five days a week for six weeks. When asked how many cases of fibro sarcoma they have dealt with every expert says "none". They have dealt with various sarcomas, just not this one. From my reading I have discovered that fibro sarcoma is thought to be a result of previous radiation therapy for other cancers. Wait, you guys want to treat a disease with the therapy that is thought to cause the disease? Perhaps there is something here that I am incapable of understanding but the logic escapes me.
After more reading I found this statement, "The use of radiation therapy following the removal of a fibro sarcoma is recommended but has not been proven to be of benefit as it relates to survival rates". And this, "the 5 year survival rate of those diagnosed with fibro sarcoma is 60%". 6 out of 10 people with this disease lived longer than 5 years after diagnosis. What is not said is how many died as a result of the disease.
Decision time. This may be the most selfish thing that I have ever done. I will not have radiation therapy. Once this huge hole in my back is healed I will return to living. I will return to work. I will once more ride my motorcycle like an idiot. I will fish and hunt and play golf, fibro sarcoma and medical experts be damned.
Regardless of when I die, be it tomorrow, next week, next month, next year or decades from now, it will not be fibro sarcoma that killed me, it will be living.
Medical professionals will line up around the block willing to tell you what you must do, as long as they are getting paid. The surgeon tells you that the tumor must be removed. Of course he gets paid to remove tumors. The radiation oncologist will tell you that you must have radiation therapy. He gets paid for providing that therapy. Everyone in the medical field has an opinion, all of which they will share with you, for a fee.
So, where do you go for advise? Family and friends, while great, offer little in the way of actual information. Everyone has a cancer story, whether it be themselves or someone they know. There are endless anecdotes about Aunt Marge and Uncle Willie who either did everything the doctors told them to or ignored all medical advise. The one thing that all the Aunt Marges and Uncle Willies have in common is that they all died, or will die.
I turned to the internet and began reading. Amazingly, there is a lot more information on soft tissue fibro sarcoma as it pertains to cats and dogs than there is about the disease in humans. No large studies have been done on humans with this form of cancer. The cancer help sites offer basic cancer information but very little about the actual disease. Mostly they link to support groups. I have no desire to hear others whine about themselves, I am doing enough whining of my own.
A biopsy of the tumor was "inconclusive". The biopsy was studied by three different pathologists, one located at Johns Hopkins University. The phrase the surgeon used was "it is probably not malignant". After the tumor was removed it was sent to three pathologists. Two of the three said benign. The third said fibro sarcoma. Terrific, even the experts disagree.
Now, every expert tells me that I need 30 radiation treatments. Five days a week for six weeks. When asked how many cases of fibro sarcoma they have dealt with every expert says "none". They have dealt with various sarcomas, just not this one. From my reading I have discovered that fibro sarcoma is thought to be a result of previous radiation therapy for other cancers. Wait, you guys want to treat a disease with the therapy that is thought to cause the disease? Perhaps there is something here that I am incapable of understanding but the logic escapes me.
After more reading I found this statement, "The use of radiation therapy following the removal of a fibro sarcoma is recommended but has not been proven to be of benefit as it relates to survival rates". And this, "the 5 year survival rate of those diagnosed with fibro sarcoma is 60%". 6 out of 10 people with this disease lived longer than 5 years after diagnosis. What is not said is how many died as a result of the disease.
Decision time. This may be the most selfish thing that I have ever done. I will not have radiation therapy. Once this huge hole in my back is healed I will return to living. I will return to work. I will once more ride my motorcycle like an idiot. I will fish and hunt and play golf, fibro sarcoma and medical experts be damned.
Regardless of when I die, be it tomorrow, next week, next month, next year or decades from now, it will not be fibro sarcoma that killed me, it will be living.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
The Advantages of Literacy
There was a time when I could not read. I think it was the summer I was in the third grade that my folks realised this. My mother spent most of that summer tutoring me. Of course I hated it, but she persisted and I learned. I can never thank her enough.
Perhaps it is because I learned to read a bit later than most, but I clearly remember most of the fairy tales and other stories that we read that summer. The stories of Chicken Little, the boy who cried wolf and the boy with the new boots, were not just stories but lessons to be applied later in life.
Last night the story of the girl who painted herself into a corner came to mind. While I have never seen anyone literally paint themselves into a corner, figuratively speaking I see it every day.
Last night one of our Adseg inmates painted himself into a corner. He was complaining, loudly and belligerently, that he had a phone call coming. We looked up his file and found nothing to indicate that he did. No note from a caseworker and he was still on Disciplinary segregation, so, no phone call.
About 6:00 pm he told Sarge that he was gonna kick his door until he got a phone call. Sarge told him to go ahead, the door could take it. Then he switched gears and said he was gonna beat his cellies ass. He just backed himself a whole lot further into that corner.
Just like the robots of Robert Heinlein we have a couple of prime directives. Number 1: Protect the public. Number 2: protect the staff. Number 3: Protect the inmates.
To protect the cellie we now have to move the protagonist. He refused to cuff up. His available floor-space is shrinking exponentially. He began shouting to the rest of the wing that we would have to put a team together to remove him from the cell.
It takes an hour or so to get the 5 man extraction team together, pulling officers from their regular posts, getting them suited up in their armor, briefed on the situation and down to the housing unit. The LT showed up, talked to the guy and then began making phone calls.
I stepped outside and had a smoke, figuring to let the guy cool off a few minutes and then try to reason with him, just to save everyone the trouble of getting the team together. After my cigarette, I stepped to his cell door and asked if he really wanted to go this route. He ranted and raved about forcing us to do our job. He told me that the team didn't scare him, that he was ready to fight. Then he spilled that bucket of paint. "I am holding my cellie hostage!"
Prime directive number 3 kicked in. I informed Sarge of the hostage situation, he informed the LT, LT called the captain. The captain said " Get him out of there, now!".
Standing at his door, I directed him to cuff up, last chance. He refused and told his cellie, who was sitting on his bunk, " If you get off that bunk I will kick your ass!". We opened the door.
The look on his face was priceless. He began shouting that we weren't a team, that we couldn't touch him without a cameraman recording. He went down beneath a pile of meat. He didn't get to play with the team, he got to play with 6 officers in a hurry to get him out of the cell.
He ended his defiance with the orange paint of pepper spray on his face, not just on the soles of his shoes. Now he has time to read all those stories of our childhood. Those stories that were more than entertaining, those with life lessons hidden in the simple words.
Perhaps it is because I learned to read a bit later than most, but I clearly remember most of the fairy tales and other stories that we read that summer. The stories of Chicken Little, the boy who cried wolf and the boy with the new boots, were not just stories but lessons to be applied later in life.
Last night the story of the girl who painted herself into a corner came to mind. While I have never seen anyone literally paint themselves into a corner, figuratively speaking I see it every day.
Last night one of our Adseg inmates painted himself into a corner. He was complaining, loudly and belligerently, that he had a phone call coming. We looked up his file and found nothing to indicate that he did. No note from a caseworker and he was still on Disciplinary segregation, so, no phone call.
About 6:00 pm he told Sarge that he was gonna kick his door until he got a phone call. Sarge told him to go ahead, the door could take it. Then he switched gears and said he was gonna beat his cellies ass. He just backed himself a whole lot further into that corner.
Just like the robots of Robert Heinlein we have a couple of prime directives. Number 1: Protect the public. Number 2: protect the staff. Number 3: Protect the inmates.
To protect the cellie we now have to move the protagonist. He refused to cuff up. His available floor-space is shrinking exponentially. He began shouting to the rest of the wing that we would have to put a team together to remove him from the cell.
It takes an hour or so to get the 5 man extraction team together, pulling officers from their regular posts, getting them suited up in their armor, briefed on the situation and down to the housing unit. The LT showed up, talked to the guy and then began making phone calls.
I stepped outside and had a smoke, figuring to let the guy cool off a few minutes and then try to reason with him, just to save everyone the trouble of getting the team together. After my cigarette, I stepped to his cell door and asked if he really wanted to go this route. He ranted and raved about forcing us to do our job. He told me that the team didn't scare him, that he was ready to fight. Then he spilled that bucket of paint. "I am holding my cellie hostage!"
Prime directive number 3 kicked in. I informed Sarge of the hostage situation, he informed the LT, LT called the captain. The captain said " Get him out of there, now!".
Standing at his door, I directed him to cuff up, last chance. He refused and told his cellie, who was sitting on his bunk, " If you get off that bunk I will kick your ass!". We opened the door.
The look on his face was priceless. He began shouting that we weren't a team, that we couldn't touch him without a cameraman recording. He went down beneath a pile of meat. He didn't get to play with the team, he got to play with 6 officers in a hurry to get him out of the cell.
He ended his defiance with the orange paint of pepper spray on his face, not just on the soles of his shoes. Now he has time to read all those stories of our childhood. Those stories that were more than entertaining, those with life lessons hidden in the simple words.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Getting Noticed
We all want to be noticed. We need other people to see us and acknowledge, if not our uniqueness, at least our existence. My stories and blog posts are an example of this. I need my existence to be validated by others. This is, perhaps, one of our basic human traits. But, sometimes it all goes so very wrong.
Within the prison walls where I work there are a couple of thousand guys who wish they had not been noticed. Getting noticed got them caught, convicted and incarcerated. Some of them will modify their behavior and, when they get out live out their lives quietly, being noticed only by their families and friends. Some will never learn.
Some of these poor bastards are so starved for attention or recognition that they will do or say anything to anyone. In prison, if you attract the attention of the guards it is usually negative attention. Running “cadillacs” across the wing gets the attention of our control officer.
A cadillac is anything small, usually a piece of soap wrapped in plastic, tied to a string and tossed under the door. If two offenders want to pass something, both will toss a cadillac into the wing so that they cross and then one will retrieve both, thereby establishing a link between cells. Cadillacs are used to pass notes, known as kites, postage stamps which is are used for prison currency, and contraband. The most common form of contraband in Adseg is tobacco and lighters. Smoking is not allowed in Adseg.
We have general population inmates that come into the unit as workers. Some are there to serve the meals and some perform janitorial work. Some of them are mules carrying contraband into the unit. They will compress tobacco into the finger torn from a plastic glove and then “keister”, insert into their rectum, the “bullet” and bring it into the unit. Once inside the unit, after their strip-out, they will remove the bullet and drop it and kick it beneath a cell door.
That cell has now become a store. The control officer will see a flurry of cadillac activity centered on a cell and we know we have a store in operation. Cadillacs going in contain stamps or IOU’s and cadillacs coming out have tobacco and rolling papers. The store keepers have our attention.
As soon as we know a store is in operation we go in and search it. Both occupants are stripped out before we bring them out of the cell. Most of the time one or both will have the tobacco concealed in their clothing, beneath their scrotum or between the cheeks of their butts. Sometimes they don’t both hiding it, as they know when we enter the wing that we are coming to their cell and we will find the stuff.
My wingman and I are very good at what we do. Our control officer pays attention. This past week we collected 7 disposable lighters and several pounds of tobacco. They hate us. We cost them a lot of money. The newbies coming in are being told by our long term residents that cadillacing on our shift is a good way to get bad attention.
Within the prison walls where I work there are a couple of thousand guys who wish they had not been noticed. Getting noticed got them caught, convicted and incarcerated. Some of them will modify their behavior and, when they get out live out their lives quietly, being noticed only by their families and friends. Some will never learn.
Some of these poor bastards are so starved for attention or recognition that they will do or say anything to anyone. In prison, if you attract the attention of the guards it is usually negative attention. Running “cadillacs” across the wing gets the attention of our control officer.
A cadillac is anything small, usually a piece of soap wrapped in plastic, tied to a string and tossed under the door. If two offenders want to pass something, both will toss a cadillac into the wing so that they cross and then one will retrieve both, thereby establishing a link between cells. Cadillacs are used to pass notes, known as kites, postage stamps which is are used for prison currency, and contraband. The most common form of contraband in Adseg is tobacco and lighters. Smoking is not allowed in Adseg.
We have general population inmates that come into the unit as workers. Some are there to serve the meals and some perform janitorial work. Some of them are mules carrying contraband into the unit. They will compress tobacco into the finger torn from a plastic glove and then “keister”, insert into their rectum, the “bullet” and bring it into the unit. Once inside the unit, after their strip-out, they will remove the bullet and drop it and kick it beneath a cell door.
That cell has now become a store. The control officer will see a flurry of cadillac activity centered on a cell and we know we have a store in operation. Cadillacs going in contain stamps or IOU’s and cadillacs coming out have tobacco and rolling papers. The store keepers have our attention.
As soon as we know a store is in operation we go in and search it. Both occupants are stripped out before we bring them out of the cell. Most of the time one or both will have the tobacco concealed in their clothing, beneath their scrotum or between the cheeks of their butts. Sometimes they don’t both hiding it, as they know when we enter the wing that we are coming to their cell and we will find the stuff.
My wingman and I are very good at what we do. Our control officer pays attention. This past week we collected 7 disposable lighters and several pounds of tobacco. They hate us. We cost them a lot of money. The newbies coming in are being told by our long term residents that cadillacing on our shift is a good way to get bad attention.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Newton's Third Law or...What the Hell was I thinking?
Newton’s Third Law of Motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite re-action.
This is perhaps the most important of Newton’s Laws as they pertain to our daily lives. Most everyone has seen the effects of this law by observing the recoil of a firearm when a projectile is fired. As the projectile moves in one direction the firearm itself recoils in the opposite direction. Generally, due to the difference in weight between the gun itself and the bullet, this recoil is quite manageable. Note I said “generally.
One of my Dad’s prized possessions was an old 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had been given to him by my mother’s father. This old gun rested on a set of elk antlers that hung on our dining room wall. It wasn’t really a dining room; it was actually one corner of the room that served as kitchen, living room, my parent’s bedroom and the dining room. It also saw duty as the bathroom on Sunday evenings when Mom dragged out the washtub for our weekly baths.
That shotgun watched down over our family for as long as I can remember, brought down only for the occasional cleaning and to be admired by visitors who Dad deemed worthy. I was fascinated by the gun and, even though it was longer than I was tall, would beg Dad to let me hold it anytime he took it from it’s resting place. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, it had been used hard and the stock was scarred, the bluing faded and the exposed hammers worn smooth.
Even at the age of 10 I was not unfamiliar with firearms. I received my first .22 rifle for my 7th birthday and, except for the year that it was taken from me for shooting my brother in the forehead with a friend’s BB gun, I had that rifle until I was well into my forties. So, like motorcycles, guns have always held an attraction for me.
In my 10th winter my family was raising rabbits in an attempt to stay alive. For those of you who think rabbits are cute and cuddly little buggers, they may be if you keep them as pets. Ours were livestock. They were mean, nasty little bastards that would kick, scratch and bite if given the opportunity. I didn’t like them. But, the local coyotes loved them.
The snows lay deep that winter in the mountains of Idaho and eventually the rabbit cages that were built on stilts no longer kept the rabbits safe from the coyotes. The bloody smears left from a night’s feast of marauding coyotes brought tears to my mother’s eyes and the fear that her children would spend another hungry winter.
Dad was working long hours, skidding logs and plowing snow with a bulldozer for a guy who apparently couldn’t afford to pay him very often. He left for work long before daylight and staggered home 12 or 14 hours later, chilled to the bone and worn to a nubbin. My brother, Mike, and I decided that we would protect the rabbits.
We took turns sneaking from the cabin late at night when our parents lay snoring in their corner. Mike had a little .22/.410 over and under that he carried on his nights and I had my .22. Night after night we would slide silently from the cabin and take a position in the outhouse, peering through a hole in the door, bundled against the cold, waiting for the coyotes to appear. More often than not we would awaken in the morning to find blood smeared on the snow from another kill, but we had seen nothing.
Our parents were not as unaware as it may seem. After Mike sneaked from the house one night I heard my mother whisper to Dad and he, in his bourbon and cigarette scarred voice, rasp back, “ I know, they will be ok, they are doing what they can to help although I doubt they will do much good with those popguns even if they see a coyote.”
The next night it was my turn. The full moon gleamed on the snow, lighting the cabin through the single window, as I crept from my bed. I took my time, holding my breath as I listened to the sounds of my family sleeping. My “little popgun” got the night off as I climbed onto a chair and carefully took the precious shotgun from it’s lofty perch. As all firearms in our house, it was always loaded. Out the door I slid into the cold January night. I knew that I was in trouble when I looked back and saw the flare of my dad’s lighter. He knew I had taken the 12 gauge.
I huddled in the freezing icebox of the outhouse, waiting for him to come outside. He didn’t. Eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of warm summer days and fishing the river below the cabin. I was jerked awake by the squeal of rabbits. I peered through the hole in the door. In the bright moonlight I could see rabbits spinning in their cages, drumming a warning with their hindlegs. All of the cages were in a panic.
Desperately I scanned the snow, looking for the shadow of the beast. There! I saw a shadow slink from behind a jackpine. A coyote! He was 30 feet from the cages, a hundred feet from where I was hyperventilating. I eased the muzzle of the shotgun out the hole. The coyote slipped around another tree and stopped, a cold blooded killer in the spotlight of the moon. He twitched and raised his nose in the frigid air as the hammers clicked back on the shotgun. I froze. He looked right at me.
I squeezed both triggers. The world exploded in light and sound. Fire flashed from the muzzle. A giant fist slammed my shoulder as I was tossed against the back wall of the outhouse. The wall trembled, shuddered and collapsed outward. I opened my eyes, blinded by the muzzle blast, to see a shadow fall from the sky. I rolled to my right, tangled with the shotgun and felt cold snow against my face. Something hit me in the butt.
With my ears still ringing from the double blast I heard my Dad, roaring, “JESUS CHRIST!” My mother screamed. I bawled.
I felt myself being lifted and pulled by the collar of my coat. I opened my eyes to see my Dad, naked as a jaybird, dragging me from beneath the roof of the collapsed outhouse. My mother was wrapped in a robe, hand to her mouth, eyes wide, in concern or disbelief.
I dangled from the end of his arm. At least I was alive. For now. Dad shook me, looked me over, and pronounced, “No blood, you’ll live,” and set me on my feet. He bent down, shoved aside the fallen roof and retrieved the shotgun. Then, he handed it to me and said, quietly, “This is going to need a good cleaning before you go to bed”.
Back in the cabin I sat at the table, cleaning the shotgun. Dad, wearing his wool longjohns , sat across from me, silently smoking a Pall Mall. The rest of the family went back to bed. He finally butted out the smoke and said, “Put some liniment on that shoulder when you finish with the shotgun. You stay home from school today and get that outhouse back together. Your mother doesn’t like squatting in the snow. Just one of those woman things, I guess.”
This is perhaps the most important of Newton’s Laws as they pertain to our daily lives. Most everyone has seen the effects of this law by observing the recoil of a firearm when a projectile is fired. As the projectile moves in one direction the firearm itself recoils in the opposite direction. Generally, due to the difference in weight between the gun itself and the bullet, this recoil is quite manageable. Note I said “generally.
One of my Dad’s prized possessions was an old 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had been given to him by my mother’s father. This old gun rested on a set of elk antlers that hung on our dining room wall. It wasn’t really a dining room; it was actually one corner of the room that served as kitchen, living room, my parent’s bedroom and the dining room. It also saw duty as the bathroom on Sunday evenings when Mom dragged out the washtub for our weekly baths.
That shotgun watched down over our family for as long as I can remember, brought down only for the occasional cleaning and to be admired by visitors who Dad deemed worthy. I was fascinated by the gun and, even though it was longer than I was tall, would beg Dad to let me hold it anytime he took it from it’s resting place. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, it had been used hard and the stock was scarred, the bluing faded and the exposed hammers worn smooth.
Even at the age of 10 I was not unfamiliar with firearms. I received my first .22 rifle for my 7th birthday and, except for the year that it was taken from me for shooting my brother in the forehead with a friend’s BB gun, I had that rifle until I was well into my forties. So, like motorcycles, guns have always held an attraction for me.
In my 10th winter my family was raising rabbits in an attempt to stay alive. For those of you who think rabbits are cute and cuddly little buggers, they may be if you keep them as pets. Ours were livestock. They were mean, nasty little bastards that would kick, scratch and bite if given the opportunity. I didn’t like them. But, the local coyotes loved them.
The snows lay deep that winter in the mountains of Idaho and eventually the rabbit cages that were built on stilts no longer kept the rabbits safe from the coyotes. The bloody smears left from a night’s feast of marauding coyotes brought tears to my mother’s eyes and the fear that her children would spend another hungry winter.
Dad was working long hours, skidding logs and plowing snow with a bulldozer for a guy who apparently couldn’t afford to pay him very often. He left for work long before daylight and staggered home 12 or 14 hours later, chilled to the bone and worn to a nubbin. My brother, Mike, and I decided that we would protect the rabbits.
We took turns sneaking from the cabin late at night when our parents lay snoring in their corner. Mike had a little .22/.410 over and under that he carried on his nights and I had my .22. Night after night we would slide silently from the cabin and take a position in the outhouse, peering through a hole in the door, bundled against the cold, waiting for the coyotes to appear. More often than not we would awaken in the morning to find blood smeared on the snow from another kill, but we had seen nothing.
Our parents were not as unaware as it may seem. After Mike sneaked from the house one night I heard my mother whisper to Dad and he, in his bourbon and cigarette scarred voice, rasp back, “ I know, they will be ok, they are doing what they can to help although I doubt they will do much good with those popguns even if they see a coyote.”
The next night it was my turn. The full moon gleamed on the snow, lighting the cabin through the single window, as I crept from my bed. I took my time, holding my breath as I listened to the sounds of my family sleeping. My “little popgun” got the night off as I climbed onto a chair and carefully took the precious shotgun from it’s lofty perch. As all firearms in our house, it was always loaded. Out the door I slid into the cold January night. I knew that I was in trouble when I looked back and saw the flare of my dad’s lighter. He knew I had taken the 12 gauge.
I huddled in the freezing icebox of the outhouse, waiting for him to come outside. He didn’t. Eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of warm summer days and fishing the river below the cabin. I was jerked awake by the squeal of rabbits. I peered through the hole in the door. In the bright moonlight I could see rabbits spinning in their cages, drumming a warning with their hindlegs. All of the cages were in a panic.
Desperately I scanned the snow, looking for the shadow of the beast. There! I saw a shadow slink from behind a jackpine. A coyote! He was 30 feet from the cages, a hundred feet from where I was hyperventilating. I eased the muzzle of the shotgun out the hole. The coyote slipped around another tree and stopped, a cold blooded killer in the spotlight of the moon. He twitched and raised his nose in the frigid air as the hammers clicked back on the shotgun. I froze. He looked right at me.
I squeezed both triggers. The world exploded in light and sound. Fire flashed from the muzzle. A giant fist slammed my shoulder as I was tossed against the back wall of the outhouse. The wall trembled, shuddered and collapsed outward. I opened my eyes, blinded by the muzzle blast, to see a shadow fall from the sky. I rolled to my right, tangled with the shotgun and felt cold snow against my face. Something hit me in the butt.
With my ears still ringing from the double blast I heard my Dad, roaring, “JESUS CHRIST!” My mother screamed. I bawled.
I felt myself being lifted and pulled by the collar of my coat. I opened my eyes to see my Dad, naked as a jaybird, dragging me from beneath the roof of the collapsed outhouse. My mother was wrapped in a robe, hand to her mouth, eyes wide, in concern or disbelief.
I dangled from the end of his arm. At least I was alive. For now. Dad shook me, looked me over, and pronounced, “No blood, you’ll live,” and set me on my feet. He bent down, shoved aside the fallen roof and retrieved the shotgun. Then, he handed it to me and said, quietly, “This is going to need a good cleaning before you go to bed”.
Back in the cabin I sat at the table, cleaning the shotgun. Dad, wearing his wool longjohns , sat across from me, silently smoking a Pall Mall. The rest of the family went back to bed. He finally butted out the smoke and said, “Put some liniment on that shoulder when you finish with the shotgun. You stay home from school today and get that outhouse back together. Your mother doesn’t like squatting in the snow. Just one of those woman things, I guess.”
Monday, November 2, 2009
Newton’s Second Law of Motion or...
Does my ass make this bike look small?
Newton’s second law of motion states; Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass (of the object being accelerated) the greater the amount of force needed (to accelerate the object).
This one really needs no interpretation but for those who were actually worse students than I, here are a couple of practical applications.
Like most teenagers of my time I operated in a different time relativity continuum than my parents. That is to say, what they wanted me to do right now, I would get to, eventually or not at all if I thought they had forgotten about it.
One evening after dinner my sisters washed the dishes and bickered while my brother held the bathroom hostage and read another chapter of his Luke Short western. My parents sat on the porch enjoying the rhythmic clanging of the hammer as I tried to beat the dents out of the door of Dad’s truck. The truck was an old International pickup and the dents were caused by the front wheel of my motorcycle. I had foolishly been practicing clutch control. It should be obvious that I needed more practice.
The girls called out that they were finished and Mom told me to go inside and take out the trash. I suppose that I must have sighed in exasperation as 13 year olds often do. Dad took exception to my attitude and strongly suggested that I get my ass in gear. I seem to recall mumbling, “If you don’t like the gear my ass is in now, you are going to hate the other choice”.
I don’t know what force propelled Dad from the porch to the driveway but, I do know what caused my sudden acceleration toward the kitchen. That was the amazingly accurate placement of his logging boot directly between the cheeks of my already ample butt. Acceleration was virtually immediate due to the amount of force acting on the mass of said ass. Lesson learned.
The second example is more directly related to my lifelong interests in motorcycles. At age 16 I was an aspiring motocross racer. I had traded the old 100 Twin Yamaha for a Yamaha 360 MX. But, here again, I was plagued with the time relativity problems of my early teen years. I was slow. Of course, I rationalized my slow starts by telling everyone that there was no point in joining the crowd at the first turn and crashing, so I just killed the bike at launch time and let everyone get strung out before I joined the fray.
Toward the end of the season I had given up any thought of actually winning a race. If I could only beat the one armed kid on the Suzuki I would be happy. Even that hope was dashed in the final race of the season when the duct tape and baling wire holding the clutch lever to the handlebar fell off during the first moto and I had forgotten to bring more of either.
Then my friend suggested that I ride his brand new Honda 125 Elsinore. I laughed because I was racing in the open class for bikes over 250 cc’s. Keep in mind that this was in 1973 in western Montana and that none of us had ever seen a two stroke Honda before that time. My buddy was a novice and had never raced but, his folks had money and he had a shiny new bike that scared the crap out of him.
After I was caught trying to steal a hose clamp for my clutch lever off the one armed racers Chevy pickup I relented and said that I would ride the Honda if no charges were filed. The one armed guy wanted to see the fat guy on the little bike get run over. So did everyone else. The cops took the handcuffs off and I got ready to ride.
I imagined I heard the Elsinore groan as all 240 pounds of me climbed aboard. I could feel my ears turning red inside my helmet as the crowd laughed and pointed at the Shriner clown on the mini-bike. All I needed was a fez with a tassel.
The tiny two stroke shrieked as I held the throttle wide open with the front tire against the gate. No need to kill this bike to hang back from the crowd to the first turn, I would be lucky to get there before I was lapped, or so I thought. The gate dropped. I popped the clutch.
Somewhere, deep inside that little engine, an atom split. An atomic bomb went off between my meaty thighs. I screamed. And held on. The knobby tire hooked up in the dirt and we launched. Down the straight that little bastard shrieked like a berserker headed to battle. I shrieked like a little girl. And held on. Somewhere before the first corner I finally got my feet on the pegs and speed shifted to second while standing on the rear brake. That would have worked better if I had rolled off the throttle. The bike screamed and the back tire slid out as the brakes locked up. Then the nuclear reactor overcame the brake in a cloud of blue smoke, the rear tire caught just as I dabbed the dirt with my left foot.
The only bike ahead of me into the turn was an old Bultaco. I had a bird’s eye view of it as I high sided and was launched over the top of him. The rider’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he looked up and watched me fly. They got even bigger as I landed directly in front of him. The Bultaco went airborne after using me for a ramp and exited the track.
I rolled into a ball like a possum and waited for the next collision with my eyes closed. It never came. I heard crashing, screams of pain and some new curse words. As silence settled over the track and the crowd held a collective breath, I opened my eyes. The atomic bomb had exploded. Bikes and parts of bikes lay strewn everywhere. The Elsinore was dead.
My friend sat beside the track and wept as I scoured the dirt gathering all the pieces of his bike. I borrowed empty beer cases from the spectators and loaded the parts into them. I lightheartedly suggested that we bury them in the infield. He stopped sobbing as I bent to retrieve the shift lever. The force of a boot against my ass accelerated me face first into the dirt. It reminded me of something but I wasn’t sure what. Then I got it. Newton got it right.
Newton’s second law of motion states; Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass (of the object being accelerated) the greater the amount of force needed (to accelerate the object).
This one really needs no interpretation but for those who were actually worse students than I, here are a couple of practical applications.
Like most teenagers of my time I operated in a different time relativity continuum than my parents. That is to say, what they wanted me to do right now, I would get to, eventually or not at all if I thought they had forgotten about it.
One evening after dinner my sisters washed the dishes and bickered while my brother held the bathroom hostage and read another chapter of his Luke Short western. My parents sat on the porch enjoying the rhythmic clanging of the hammer as I tried to beat the dents out of the door of Dad’s truck. The truck was an old International pickup and the dents were caused by the front wheel of my motorcycle. I had foolishly been practicing clutch control. It should be obvious that I needed more practice.
The girls called out that they were finished and Mom told me to go inside and take out the trash. I suppose that I must have sighed in exasperation as 13 year olds often do. Dad took exception to my attitude and strongly suggested that I get my ass in gear. I seem to recall mumbling, “If you don’t like the gear my ass is in now, you are going to hate the other choice”.
I don’t know what force propelled Dad from the porch to the driveway but, I do know what caused my sudden acceleration toward the kitchen. That was the amazingly accurate placement of his logging boot directly between the cheeks of my already ample butt. Acceleration was virtually immediate due to the amount of force acting on the mass of said ass. Lesson learned.
The second example is more directly related to my lifelong interests in motorcycles. At age 16 I was an aspiring motocross racer. I had traded the old 100 Twin Yamaha for a Yamaha 360 MX. But, here again, I was plagued with the time relativity problems of my early teen years. I was slow. Of course, I rationalized my slow starts by telling everyone that there was no point in joining the crowd at the first turn and crashing, so I just killed the bike at launch time and let everyone get strung out before I joined the fray.
Toward the end of the season I had given up any thought of actually winning a race. If I could only beat the one armed kid on the Suzuki I would be happy. Even that hope was dashed in the final race of the season when the duct tape and baling wire holding the clutch lever to the handlebar fell off during the first moto and I had forgotten to bring more of either.
Then my friend suggested that I ride his brand new Honda 125 Elsinore. I laughed because I was racing in the open class for bikes over 250 cc’s. Keep in mind that this was in 1973 in western Montana and that none of us had ever seen a two stroke Honda before that time. My buddy was a novice and had never raced but, his folks had money and he had a shiny new bike that scared the crap out of him.
After I was caught trying to steal a hose clamp for my clutch lever off the one armed racers Chevy pickup I relented and said that I would ride the Honda if no charges were filed. The one armed guy wanted to see the fat guy on the little bike get run over. So did everyone else. The cops took the handcuffs off and I got ready to ride.
I imagined I heard the Elsinore groan as all 240 pounds of me climbed aboard. I could feel my ears turning red inside my helmet as the crowd laughed and pointed at the Shriner clown on the mini-bike. All I needed was a fez with a tassel.
The tiny two stroke shrieked as I held the throttle wide open with the front tire against the gate. No need to kill this bike to hang back from the crowd to the first turn, I would be lucky to get there before I was lapped, or so I thought. The gate dropped. I popped the clutch.
Somewhere, deep inside that little engine, an atom split. An atomic bomb went off between my meaty thighs. I screamed. And held on. The knobby tire hooked up in the dirt and we launched. Down the straight that little bastard shrieked like a berserker headed to battle. I shrieked like a little girl. And held on. Somewhere before the first corner I finally got my feet on the pegs and speed shifted to second while standing on the rear brake. That would have worked better if I had rolled off the throttle. The bike screamed and the back tire slid out as the brakes locked up. Then the nuclear reactor overcame the brake in a cloud of blue smoke, the rear tire caught just as I dabbed the dirt with my left foot.
The only bike ahead of me into the turn was an old Bultaco. I had a bird’s eye view of it as I high sided and was launched over the top of him. The rider’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he looked up and watched me fly. They got even bigger as I landed directly in front of him. The Bultaco went airborne after using me for a ramp and exited the track.
I rolled into a ball like a possum and waited for the next collision with my eyes closed. It never came. I heard crashing, screams of pain and some new curse words. As silence settled over the track and the crowd held a collective breath, I opened my eyes. The atomic bomb had exploded. Bikes and parts of bikes lay strewn everywhere. The Elsinore was dead.
My friend sat beside the track and wept as I scoured the dirt gathering all the pieces of his bike. I borrowed empty beer cases from the spectators and loaded the parts into them. I lightheartedly suggested that we bury them in the infield. He stopped sobbing as I bent to retrieve the shift lever. The force of a boot against my ass accelerated me face first into the dirt. It reminded me of something but I wasn’t sure what. Then I got it. Newton got it right.
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