In the last few weeks, I have come to one of those realizations in life that should be so obvious that when you finally wake up to it, it is a "duh" moment. And that moment was when I discovered what I think for me is the secret to never getting old. Oh yeah, we have to grow "older" in a chronological sense, but we don't really have to grow old in a mental and to a large extent, physical, sense. Sure, regular exercise, both physical and mental is key, but there is more to that. The secret, I think, is never, ever, give up doing the things you love to do. And to add to that, keep adding to those things you love to do. Find your passions and keep them alive. Even if those passions were things that you found when you were a kid, keep doing them.
At a recent graduation party, I was talking with a young man who said to me the best thing I could ever hear. He said, "You are my hero. I want to live my life the same way you do. I never want to stop doing what I love to do, no matter what age I am." Wow. Yeah, I might be his hero, but that guy is my inspiration! It was then that I began to look around at myself and others, and came to the realization that so many of us have passions that we hold dear, but all too often, those passions get squelched by the responsibilities of life, work, and family. I came to realize that, while unnoticed before, so many people I know say the words, "I used to love to do...., but I don't/can't/won't anymore." Why? I am sure there are many good reasons why they don't do those things they are passionate about. But it seems to me that those reasons become excuses and those people seem to get old really fast. Lose your passions, lose your youth is what it says to me. A great friend of mine, one of my best, is going down this road. Gone from being someone who was always up for doing what he enjoyed to being someone who can find any easy excuse to not to. And I can see age creeping in on him and it makes me sad. And I see it in many people I know. They sit around and talk about their passions rather than act on or live them. They talk of them in the past tense. I will not be one of them.
I fully expect to be running through the woods shooting my grandchildren with paint-ball guns. I fully expect to be gaming with the next 2 or 3 generations of gamers. I will continue to involve myself in historical reenacting and still taking my wife out on the dance floor while others only watch. My wife and I will continue to ride our motorcycles until we need new ones, and then we will ride them some more! Someday I will know more about wine than anyone else I know. And I will find new passions. I will keep all of my passions alive and encourage my family to do the same, for to do any different would be to give up and become old.
I will not give up. I will get older, but I will not get old.
Later!
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I thought Aussies had more sense....
The following are copies of letters of concern from people in Austrailia who are righting about a new (proposed?) law that would greatly increase their limits on weapon ownership and use in their nation. Apparently it will be so limiting that even re-enactors will be affected in their hobby. What I noticed in the first letter was the mention that knives cannot even be used in camping situations? How does something like that get passed? Anyway, I am just putting their concerns here as an example of what can happen when knee-jerk reactions are made into laws. This is from THE RE-ENACTOR issue 30.
More Publicity Needed.
criminal defending your own life, or have your guns etc taken from you for ever because you used these implements to defend your family. Even police officers have lost their jobs & their families because they shot & killed someone defending their lives in the course of their duties. We need some common sense here; we need the government to stop pandering to grieving families calling for a ban on this & that. Ask a gun owner who has just lost a family member in an accidental shooting if he would like to see guns banned. We know that it is not the gun; it is the person using that gun. Take our guns, swords, knives, bows, crossbows, catapults & everything else off us & we the good guys will be the only ones without them, the bad guys will always find a way of getting them because they are NOT law abiding citizens! They don‟t need a licence, they don‟t need permission.
But she won‟t be all right mate. We are talking about our right to seek a better life, our right to enjoyment & fun, and yes if that means to the expense of some poor chap who happens to get killed with a compound bow, then so be it. We cannot be held responsible for all the nutters out there who want to kill people, nor should we be held responsible because some kid gets hold of a gun, tomahawk, bow, crossbow, spear, javelin, boomerang or anything else & accidently kills or injures someone. It is NOT our fault. No matter what they ban, there will always be something that someone will use for some activity that with misuse will cause injury or death.
The sporting community, living historians, historical trekkers, historical reenactors, hunters, we all need our tools of choice to be able to enjoy our pastime/hobbies/lifestyles. It simply does not make sense to keep banning things at our expense, & it just confirms what I have always thought, that these government bodies simply don‟t give a dam. They play to the ordinary citizen who knows absolutely nothing of what we do & who we are. These people simply cannot see what it is that we like so much about sporting shooting, camping, living history & a host of other interests that involve the use of these banned tools.
Knee jerk reactions by the government in response to injuries & death involving sporting tools/weapons appears to be standard procedure & the whole thing is getting ridiculous. The banning of certain guns, a proposal to ban sporting black powder, tomahawks need a permit in Victoria, crossbows are on the dangerous weapons list in NSW, & now crossbows are banned in West Australia. Knives can no longer be carried for camping purposes in public areas. Pocket knives can no longer be carried in public areas. Even Catapults are banned! At one time flintlock muzzle-loading guns enjoyed the freedom of registration & licence in NSW. Which I thought was a good move, I mean who would bother holding up a bank these days with a flintlock, let alone use one to exterminate one‟s family. I thought of it as throwing us some crumbs, & it made sense. But it was not to last, now flintlocks are all bundled in together with modern firearms which does not make any sense, nor do I consider it fair.
The more submissions, the better, from as many different groups and states as possible
Vic 3000
GPO Box 4306
Legislative and Regulatory Branch
The address to send submissions to is
Keith H. Burgess.
I trust you will do all you can to help us & all other black powder gun clubs, historical re-enactment clubs, & living history clubs & groups in Australia. The consequences of this legislation are far reaching beyond the closure of these clubs & groups.
This is a precursor for the "National Harmonized Explosive Laws" that are currently in the pipeline for 2013. What is decided in Victoria, will not only affect Victorians, visitors into Victoria, but will impact on all states.
Yours sincerely.
1.3C or creating a sub-category that has the same requirements and storage quantities as the 1.3C classified explosives. With the adoption of the above proposal, this would have a minimal disruptive effect upon each member and our respective clubs. We hope you will view these suggestions in a positive way.
powder would be expended in their pursuit of their sport or interest per day. Hence the participants would not have sufficient quantities to be able to participate for the duration of the event due to the now proposed storage quantities and proposed transportable quantities. A majority of the firearms used by the above are ONLY designed for Black Propellant Shooting Powders. Most black powder shooting clubs are only accredited for use of Black Propellant Shooting powders. With the restrictive supply due to the transportation restrictions in the availability of compliant transport companies, transportable quantities and point of supply availability, there future becomes very unsure.
Black Propellant Shooting Powders have been classed as 1.1D Blasting Explosives. These powders are specifically used as shooting powders only as the name suggests. In accordance with the draft RIS, all black powder shooters and re-enactors will be required to obtain a blasting explosive licence to store and use their propellants in the pursuit of the sport or interest. The maximum amount they will be able to store will be 5kg as proposed. This amount penalizes them as most of these shooters would hold /store in excess of this proposed quantity. There are 8 grades of these shooting powders of which most users would possess. They are only supplied in 1Kg compliant containers so to continue shooting as they do they would need to either relinquish some of their firearms or move to a large magazine storage facility. Hence there is the potential for in excess of 2200 large scalestorage facilities to be built.
To whom it may concern
More Publicity Needed.
criminal defending your own life, or have your guns etc taken from you for ever because you used these implements to defend your family. Even police officers have lost their jobs & their families because they shot & killed someone defending their lives in the course of their duties. We need some common sense here; we need the government to stop pandering to grieving families calling for a ban on this & that. Ask a gun owner who has just lost a family member in an accidental shooting if he would like to see guns banned. We know that it is not the gun; it is the person using that gun. Take our guns, swords, knives, bows, crossbows, catapults & everything else off us & we the good guys will be the only ones without them, the bad guys will always find a way of getting them because they are NOT law abiding citizens! They don‟t need a licence, they don‟t need permission.
But she won‟t be all right mate. We are talking about our right to seek a better life, our right to enjoyment & fun, and yes if that means to the expense of some poor chap who happens to get killed with a compound bow, then so be it. We cannot be held responsible for all the nutters out there who want to kill people, nor should we be held responsible because some kid gets hold of a gun, tomahawk, bow, crossbow, spear, javelin, boomerang or anything else & accidently kills or injures someone. It is NOT our fault. No matter what they ban, there will always be something that someone will use for some activity that with misuse will cause injury or death.
The sporting community, living historians, historical trekkers, historical reenactors, hunters, we all need our tools of choice to be able to enjoy our pastime/hobbies/lifestyles. It simply does not make sense to keep banning things at our expense, & it just confirms what I have always thought, that these government bodies simply don‟t give a dam. They play to the ordinary citizen who knows absolutely nothing of what we do & who we are. These people simply cannot see what it is that we like so much about sporting shooting, camping, living history & a host of other interests that involve the use of these banned tools.
Knee jerk reactions by the government in response to injuries & death involving sporting tools/weapons appears to be standard procedure & the whole thing is getting ridiculous. The banning of certain guns, a proposal to ban sporting black powder, tomahawks need a permit in Victoria, crossbows are on the dangerous weapons list in NSW, & now crossbows are banned in West Australia. Knives can no longer be carried for camping purposes in public areas. Pocket knives can no longer be carried in public areas. Even Catapults are banned! At one time flintlock muzzle-loading guns enjoyed the freedom of registration & licence in NSW. Which I thought was a good move, I mean who would bother holding up a bank these days with a flintlock, let alone use one to exterminate one‟s family. I thought of it as throwing us some crumbs, & it made sense. But it was not to last, now flintlocks are all bundled in together with modern firearms which does not make any sense, nor do I consider it fair.
The more submissions, the better, from as many different groups and states as possible
Vic 3000
GPO Box 4306
Legislative and Regulatory Branch
The address to send submissions to is
Keith H. Burgess.
I trust you will do all you can to help us & all other black powder gun clubs, historical re-enactment clubs, & living history clubs & groups in Australia. The consequences of this legislation are far reaching beyond the closure of these clubs & groups.
This is a precursor for the "National Harmonized Explosive Laws" that are currently in the pipeline for 2013. What is decided in Victoria, will not only affect Victorians, visitors into Victoria, but will impact on all states.
Yours sincerely.
1.3C or creating a sub-category that has the same requirements and storage quantities as the 1.3C classified explosives. With the adoption of the above proposal, this would have a minimal disruptive effect upon each member and our respective clubs. We hope you will view these suggestions in a positive way.
powder would be expended in their pursuit of their sport or interest per day. Hence the participants would not have sufficient quantities to be able to participate for the duration of the event due to the now proposed storage quantities and proposed transportable quantities. A majority of the firearms used by the above are ONLY designed for Black Propellant Shooting Powders. Most black powder shooting clubs are only accredited for use of Black Propellant Shooting powders. With the restrictive supply due to the transportation restrictions in the availability of compliant transport companies, transportable quantities and point of supply availability, there future becomes very unsure.
Black Propellant Shooting Powders have been classed as 1.1D Blasting Explosives. These powders are specifically used as shooting powders only as the name suggests. In accordance with the draft RIS, all black powder shooters and re-enactors will be required to obtain a blasting explosive licence to store and use their propellants in the pursuit of the sport or interest. The maximum amount they will be able to store will be 5kg as proposed. This amount penalizes them as most of these shooters would hold /store in excess of this proposed quantity. There are 8 grades of these shooting powders of which most users would possess. They are only supplied in 1Kg compliant containers so to continue shooting as they do they would need to either relinquish some of their firearms or move to a large magazine storage facility. Hence there is the potential for in excess of 2200 large scalestorage facilities to be built.
To whom it may concern
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
This is so good, it has to be shared...
The movie "Downfall" about the last three days of Hitler's life is a fantastic movie. In fact you should watch it just to get an idea of the emotion portrayed in this parody and it will make this all the more fun to watch. The best line in this... the line referring to all the 4th Edition players to get out of the room.
Here it is... Hilter's D&D character dies
Here it is... Hilter's D&D character dies
Monday, May 23, 2011
Memorial Day...
On May 31st, 2011 I will be the guest speaker for the Paxton Memoiral Day Service at Glen Cemetary in Paxton. I was asked by the PBL band director and former commander of Prairie Post Legion 150. I am honored to be thought of as someone who can do this for such a special day. I have worried over this for along time but have finally come up with a finished speech. I will present it here for those that may not be able to make it to the ceremony. I don't know if it is good or bad, but it was written from the heart.
NOTE; I will also be marching in the parade to the cemetary in the uniform of a Revolutionary War soldier. Hence the reference to this in the speech.
What is Memorial Day and why do we still observe it? For far too many it is merely a day off from work or school, a day to get great deals at the stores, a day to grill outdoors and gather with friends and family with little thought to the true meaning of the day. To do so without regard for the real meaning of Memorial Day, belittles it and those it is meant to honor. But for others such as all of us gathered here, it is a day to reflect, honor and mourn those that have given their lives in the line of military duty for the security of our country.
Memorial Day, established on May 5th, 1868, was originally called Decoration Day. It was a set aside from all others to adorn and decorate the graves of fallen Union and Confederate soldiers of the Civil War. From General Orders #11 General John Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, it reads;
Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.”
Since then, Memorial Day has come to memorialize and remember all American Soldiers who have fallen in combat from any war. I stand before you today in the garb of a soldier of the American Revolution so that you will remember those soldiers that gave their lives so that a new nation would be born on this continent. A nation forged in the blood of patriots that would grow to be unlike any seen before. Beside me stands the Darrel Foster family, dressed in the uniforms of soldiers from the Civil war. They too are here to remind you of those soldiers that fought and died in a conflict that threatened to rip this country apart. Those soldiers gave their lives in order that the Union of the United States would endure.
Look around you in this cemetery. Each American flag designates the grave of a person who was an American serviceman or woman. Regardless of whether they died in conflict, or went to their eternal rest, comfortably abed, they made the commitment to stand and defend this country. We may not know their stories. We may not know if they served in times of war or peace, but we know that they were ready to serve when needed.
Walt Whitman, commenting on the horrors of the Civil War, said” Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background of…the …War. The real war will never get in the books.” This could be said of any war, from any time.
Earlier this year, the United States lost its last WWI veteran. His story and experiences are now part of history, part of legend. Out of 16 million men and women who served during WWII there are fewer than 2 million still alive today. There are many with us still that have served in Korea, Vietnam and the Middle East. They all have a story to tell.
I challenge the young people in this gathering, learn about the history of our nation’s wars and to reach out to those service men and women who fought in them, engage them if they are willing, and learn their story. Learn of their experiences. From them you will find out what it is that makes an American soldier stand out from all others. From them you will find out what it is to be a real patriot; to be a hero; to be a true American.
When I was first asked to speak at the Memorial Day Ceremony I was a bit reluctant. Normally, as I have observed in the past, the guest speaker was usually a talented PBL high school student or a member of the Paxton Legion. What would I, your average Paxton citizen, and someone who has never served in the armed forces have to say about Memorial Day? But I am a student of history and I decided to look at Memorial Day from a historical aspect. I read about history, I have written about it, and I involve myself in the historical re-enactments of certain periods of history. The one thing that is revealed to me in all this is how the American serviceman, the American warrior, stands head and shoulders above all others in American History. America, for all that it is, for all that it stands for, and for all that it gives to each of us, has all come from the efforts of those who have fought and died in the service of the United States Armed forces.
Albert Einstein said that, “As long as there are people, there will be wars.” This can be taken further to state, that as long as there are governments there will be people willing to make wars. And wars cannot be fought without warriors who are willing to give their all for their government and their country. The nineteenth century German military officer and philosopher, Karl Von Clausewitz, stated in his book “On War”, that “War is regarded as the continuation of state policy by other means.” In other words, when diplomacy fails a government, soldiers, sailors and guns usually solve the matter.
Look at the history of our nation. It was born in the blood of patriots during the American War for Independence as we struggled to break free from the tyrannical rule of another nation.
The War of 1812 assured the world, that despite being a fledgling nation, Americans would continue to fight and die for our independence and sovereignty.
During the Mexican-American War, our soldiers fought and died to ensure that America could continue to grow and not be unduly constrained in its boundaries.
In that most terrible of wars, the American Civil War, where American fought American, more lives were lost in this war than all other American wars combined. The soldiers and sailors on both sides fought for a cause they believed in, but in the end it was a fight to save the union of the United States, and in the immortal words of Abraham Lincoln, “that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
During the Spanish American war, America’s warrior stepped up to defend against aggression and incursions from world powers, only to defeat them and put the United States on an equal footing with the rest of the world.
American warriors entered into the conflicts of World Wars I and II and shed their blood so that not only American’s freedom would be assured but also the freedom of other nations by defeating oppression and tyranny around the world.
And while the wars of Korea and Vietnam were not popularly supported by American citizens, those American Service men and women committed themselves to the fight, and many died to defend what was considered a threat to our democratic ideology.
Most recently, America finds itself fighting a war, not only for our national safety, but also our ideals, and our way of life. Young men and women of the United States Armed Forces are deployed around the world, in places that most people could not find on a map. They are fighting a war like no other. Not only are they soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines, but they are also diplomats, teachers, and ambassadors representing the country they serve. They not only have to win a combat operation, but they have to win the hearts and minds of those they are fighting against, thereby trying to make friends of our enemies.
No matter what time period, no matter what historical event, no matter whether a decision to send American men and women to fight is right or wrong, popular or unpopular, there have always been those that will step up, commit themselves to the fight and defend with their lives our country, our ideals, our way of life, and our freedoms. Over 1 million, 300 thousand combat related deaths of US service men and women throughout American history attests to that.
Once more I would like to take a passage from the orders of General Logan on that first Memorial Day in 1868, for I think it sums up nicely why it was first celebrated and why we observe it still.
“What can aid more to assure this result than cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foes? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their deaths the tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.”
In closing, I ask again. What is Memorial Day? Simply put, it is a day that the living can dedicate
“To those who died securing peace and freedom; to those who served in conflict to protect our land, and sacrificed their dreams of the day to preserve the hope of our nation, keeping
America the land of the free for over two and a half centuries, we owe our thanks and our honor. It is important to not only recognize their service but to respect their devotion to duty and to ensure that the purpose for which they fought will never be forgotten.” – www.usmemorialday.org
God Bless you all, God Bless Paxton, God Bless America and God Bless our Service men and women.
Thank you all very much,
NOTE; I will also be marching in the parade to the cemetary in the uniform of a Revolutionary War soldier. Hence the reference to this in the speech.
What is Memorial Day and why do we still observe it? For far too many it is merely a day off from work or school, a day to get great deals at the stores, a day to grill outdoors and gather with friends and family with little thought to the true meaning of the day. To do so without regard for the real meaning of Memorial Day, belittles it and those it is meant to honor. But for others such as all of us gathered here, it is a day to reflect, honor and mourn those that have given their lives in the line of military duty for the security of our country.
Memorial Day, established on May 5th, 1868, was originally called Decoration Day. It was a set aside from all others to adorn and decorate the graves of fallen Union and Confederate soldiers of the Civil War. From General Orders #11 General John Logan, Commander in Chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, it reads;
Let us, then, at the time appointed gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with the choicest flowers of spring-time; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us a sacred charge upon a nation's gratitude, the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.”
Since then, Memorial Day has come to memorialize and remember all American Soldiers who have fallen in combat from any war. I stand before you today in the garb of a soldier of the American Revolution so that you will remember those soldiers that gave their lives so that a new nation would be born on this continent. A nation forged in the blood of patriots that would grow to be unlike any seen before. Beside me stands the Darrel Foster family, dressed in the uniforms of soldiers from the Civil war. They too are here to remind you of those soldiers that fought and died in a conflict that threatened to rip this country apart. Those soldiers gave their lives in order that the Union of the United States would endure.
Look around you in this cemetery. Each American flag designates the grave of a person who was an American serviceman or woman. Regardless of whether they died in conflict, or went to their eternal rest, comfortably abed, they made the commitment to stand and defend this country. We may not know their stories. We may not know if they served in times of war or peace, but we know that they were ready to serve when needed.
Walt Whitman, commenting on the horrors of the Civil War, said” Future years will never know the seething hell and the black infernal background of…the …War. The real war will never get in the books.” This could be said of any war, from any time.
Earlier this year, the United States lost its last WWI veteran. His story and experiences are now part of history, part of legend. Out of 16 million men and women who served during WWII there are fewer than 2 million still alive today. There are many with us still that have served in Korea, Vietnam and the Middle East. They all have a story to tell.
I challenge the young people in this gathering, learn about the history of our nation’s wars and to reach out to those service men and women who fought in them, engage them if they are willing, and learn their story. Learn of their experiences. From them you will find out what it is that makes an American soldier stand out from all others. From them you will find out what it is to be a real patriot; to be a hero; to be a true American.
When I was first asked to speak at the Memorial Day Ceremony I was a bit reluctant. Normally, as I have observed in the past, the guest speaker was usually a talented PBL high school student or a member of the Paxton Legion. What would I, your average Paxton citizen, and someone who has never served in the armed forces have to say about Memorial Day? But I am a student of history and I decided to look at Memorial Day from a historical aspect. I read about history, I have written about it, and I involve myself in the historical re-enactments of certain periods of history. The one thing that is revealed to me in all this is how the American serviceman, the American warrior, stands head and shoulders above all others in American History. America, for all that it is, for all that it stands for, and for all that it gives to each of us, has all come from the efforts of those who have fought and died in the service of the United States Armed forces.
Albert Einstein said that, “As long as there are people, there will be wars.” This can be taken further to state, that as long as there are governments there will be people willing to make wars. And wars cannot be fought without warriors who are willing to give their all for their government and their country. The nineteenth century German military officer and philosopher, Karl Von Clausewitz, stated in his book “On War”, that “War is regarded as the continuation of state policy by other means.” In other words, when diplomacy fails a government, soldiers, sailors and guns usually solve the matter.
Look at the history of our nation. It was born in the blood of patriots during the American War for Independence as we struggled to break free from the tyrannical rule of another nation.
The War of 1812 assured the world, that despite being a fledgling nation, Americans would continue to fight and die for our independence and sovereignty.
During the Mexican-American War, our soldiers fought and died to ensure that America could continue to grow and not be unduly constrained in its boundaries.
In that most terrible of wars, the American Civil War, where American fought American, more lives were lost in this war than all other American wars combined. The soldiers and sailors on both sides fought for a cause they believed in, but in the end it was a fight to save the union of the United States, and in the immortal words of Abraham Lincoln, “that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
During the Spanish American war, America’s warrior stepped up to defend against aggression and incursions from world powers, only to defeat them and put the United States on an equal footing with the rest of the world.
American warriors entered into the conflicts of World Wars I and II and shed their blood so that not only American’s freedom would be assured but also the freedom of other nations by defeating oppression and tyranny around the world.
And while the wars of Korea and Vietnam were not popularly supported by American citizens, those American Service men and women committed themselves to the fight, and many died to defend what was considered a threat to our democratic ideology.
Most recently, America finds itself fighting a war, not only for our national safety, but also our ideals, and our way of life. Young men and women of the United States Armed Forces are deployed around the world, in places that most people could not find on a map. They are fighting a war like no other. Not only are they soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines, but they are also diplomats, teachers, and ambassadors representing the country they serve. They not only have to win a combat operation, but they have to win the hearts and minds of those they are fighting against, thereby trying to make friends of our enemies.
No matter what time period, no matter what historical event, no matter whether a decision to send American men and women to fight is right or wrong, popular or unpopular, there have always been those that will step up, commit themselves to the fight and defend with their lives our country, our ideals, our way of life, and our freedoms. Over 1 million, 300 thousand combat related deaths of US service men and women throughout American history attests to that.
Once more I would like to take a passage from the orders of General Logan on that first Memorial Day in 1868, for I think it sums up nicely why it was first celebrated and why we observe it still.
“What can aid more to assure this result than cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foes? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their deaths the tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and fond mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.”
In closing, I ask again. What is Memorial Day? Simply put, it is a day that the living can dedicate
“To those who died securing peace and freedom; to those who served in conflict to protect our land, and sacrificed their dreams of the day to preserve the hope of our nation, keeping
America the land of the free for over two and a half centuries, we owe our thanks and our honor. It is important to not only recognize their service but to respect their devotion to duty and to ensure that the purpose for which they fought will never be forgotten.” – www.usmemorialday.org
God Bless you all, God Bless Paxton, God Bless America and God Bless our Service men and women.
Thank you all very much,
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Monday, March 07, 2011
Get ready to LOL and Cry out loud...
Thanks to my wife for finding this site. Be sure to check the archives!!!!
OMG... tears are rolling down my cheeks!
Later.
OMG... tears are rolling down my cheeks!
Later.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Glowball....
Glowball. Mention glowball to any of my friends from my childhood and you will see a huge grin appear on their face. Glowball was an invented game that took place only on certain nights. My parents had to be gone obviously, but it had to be dark, and had to be at my parents house. Why? First because my parents house had a floor plan that allowed you to run from one room to another without having to open any doors or stopping to turn sharp corners. And it was filled with all kinds of things to hide behind. Secondly, our house had very few outside lights to shine into the windows, therefore making it very dark if you turned out all the lights inside the house. It was required that you play Glowball in as dark an environment as possible and well, my parents house fit the bill perfectly.
What was Glowball? Think hide and seek and tag mixed together but you tagged a person who was hiding by hitting them (as hard as you could) with a small, hard plastic ball that could only be found in the box of cereal called QUISP. (Anyone remember QUISP?!?!) It was a molded glow in the dark ball that was actually a replica of the moon, and if you held it under a light long enough it would glow for like 10 minutes. Longer than any other glow in the dark object we had ever seen. And since it was a solid ball, it would not break apart if it hit anything hard. (Bodies, including heads, are not hard, by the way)
What you did was you got a bunch of bored grade and high school boys together and picked someone to be the "robot" who held possession of the glowball. No one else could touch it, or you would be "it". The rest of the boys would turn off all the lights and go hide around the house. Any place in the house, excluding the basement and attic, was considered a legal place to hide. The "robot" would then place himself in the bathroom and "charge and blind" himself by placing the glowball on a light bulb thereby "charging" it, and at the same time, staring at the light buld in order to "blind" the "robot" once he left the bathroom in search of hiding victims.
The robot would go out in search of victims, usually stumbling around for about a minute as his eyes would re-adjust, all the while making silly robot or creepy noises to put the hiders on edge. Often, it was so dark that the robot would walk within inches of the person hiding, so the tension level was quite high and sometimes would result in normally "tough" boys squealing and laughing like little girls! The robot would go about the house looking for his victims by searching in all places with eyes and hands and feet.
Hiding spots were quite creative. I know of boys hiding on top of the stove, refrigerator, under couches (not just cushions, but the whole damned couch)and standing on the top of chair backs while balancing against a wall. No place was unrestricted unless it would not hold your weight.
Once the victim was found, one of two things happened.
CIRCUMSTANCE ONE: If a victim was found and said victim was out of arms reach, the glowball was thrown at the victim in an attempt to hit the victim with it and thereby making it the next robot. Often though, the throw would go wide and the would be victim would scream in terror, jump up (or down)from the hiding spot and flee around the house, slamming into, falling over, and climbing up things around the house, all while the robot tried to retrieve the glowball and follow in pursuit. The pursuit usually flushed out a few other hiding victims and so the robot would numerous possible targets, all running this way and that in hopes of avoiding the smack of a plastic glowball in the back, the legs, the head or nut sack.
CIRCUMSTANCE TWO: If a victim was found and said victim was within arms reach, the robot would, in an attempt increase his odds of hitting the victim with the glowball, deliver a mighty blow to the hiding victim. This was usually delivered to the gut or legs in an attempt to stun and immobilize them so that the glowball could be delivered with full force to the stunned victim, thereby making him the next Glowball Robot!
(Imagine the feeling of a hard plastic ball connecting with your body from a distance of about five feet, after it leaves the hand of an adrenaline crazed teenage boy, who finds a helpless victim to throw it at. Add to it that there is no recourse for the victim. He signed up for this game. Take the hit like a man, or leave the house. If you can imagine this, then you can understand the level of pain involved.)
For me, the best memory was one of my times as the robot. I came out of the bathroom, blind as a bat, looking for someone to throw this ball at. I circled the house at least once, and came back to the main living room. Still slightly blind, I did manage to perceive what I though was someones head sticking out from behind a chair back. Rather than check further, I chucked the ball at the "head" and was rewarded with a loud "THWOK!" and the glowball bounceing directly back at me as if it had hit a brick wall. I also heard a body hitting the floor and a moan of pain come from my buddy Mike, and a string of curses from him, followed by hoots and howls of laughter from everyone else hidden in the room. I admit I am not a great thrower of objects, but in the low light conditions and diminished eyesight, I must have let instinct and luck have free reign and I tagged him square in the forehead and nearly knocked him out. Someone turned the lights came on and we made sure he wasn't dead, and then proceeded to laugh ourselves silly for the next 15 minutes over his pain and my grand effort!
Thinking back on these games, I am amazed that nothing got broken in my parents house. Or nothing got broken to the point where it could not be fixed and made to look whole again. We always cleaned up after these games and it seemed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the house. We must have done well, because my parents never said anything about it. Ever. We got lucky.
I found the glowball many years ago while attending college. Looking at it, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia that this little piece of plastic produced. I don't know what ever happened to it since then, but I am glad I have lost it. If not, I would be sorely tempted to have shown it to my kids and explained what glowball was. And then, glowball would be played in my house. And that would not be good. This is one game I think that is best left in the past and resurrected in story form only.
What was Glowball? Think hide and seek and tag mixed together but you tagged a person who was hiding by hitting them (as hard as you could) with a small, hard plastic ball that could only be found in the box of cereal called QUISP. (Anyone remember QUISP?!?!) It was a molded glow in the dark ball that was actually a replica of the moon, and if you held it under a light long enough it would glow for like 10 minutes. Longer than any other glow in the dark object we had ever seen. And since it was a solid ball, it would not break apart if it hit anything hard. (Bodies, including heads, are not hard, by the way)
What you did was you got a bunch of bored grade and high school boys together and picked someone to be the "robot" who held possession of the glowball. No one else could touch it, or you would be "it". The rest of the boys would turn off all the lights and go hide around the house. Any place in the house, excluding the basement and attic, was considered a legal place to hide. The "robot" would then place himself in the bathroom and "charge and blind" himself by placing the glowball on a light bulb thereby "charging" it, and at the same time, staring at the light buld in order to "blind" the "robot" once he left the bathroom in search of hiding victims.
The robot would go out in search of victims, usually stumbling around for about a minute as his eyes would re-adjust, all the while making silly robot or creepy noises to put the hiders on edge. Often, it was so dark that the robot would walk within inches of the person hiding, so the tension level was quite high and sometimes would result in normally "tough" boys squealing and laughing like little girls! The robot would go about the house looking for his victims by searching in all places with eyes and hands and feet.
Hiding spots were quite creative. I know of boys hiding on top of the stove, refrigerator, under couches (not just cushions, but the whole damned couch)and standing on the top of chair backs while balancing against a wall. No place was unrestricted unless it would not hold your weight.
Once the victim was found, one of two things happened.
CIRCUMSTANCE ONE: If a victim was found and said victim was out of arms reach, the glowball was thrown at the victim in an attempt to hit the victim with it and thereby making it the next robot. Often though, the throw would go wide and the would be victim would scream in terror, jump up (or down)from the hiding spot and flee around the house, slamming into, falling over, and climbing up things around the house, all while the robot tried to retrieve the glowball and follow in pursuit. The pursuit usually flushed out a few other hiding victims and so the robot would numerous possible targets, all running this way and that in hopes of avoiding the smack of a plastic glowball in the back, the legs, the head or nut sack.
CIRCUMSTANCE TWO: If a victim was found and said victim was within arms reach, the robot would, in an attempt increase his odds of hitting the victim with the glowball, deliver a mighty blow to the hiding victim. This was usually delivered to the gut or legs in an attempt to stun and immobilize them so that the glowball could be delivered with full force to the stunned victim, thereby making him the next Glowball Robot!
(Imagine the feeling of a hard plastic ball connecting with your body from a distance of about five feet, after it leaves the hand of an adrenaline crazed teenage boy, who finds a helpless victim to throw it at. Add to it that there is no recourse for the victim. He signed up for this game. Take the hit like a man, or leave the house. If you can imagine this, then you can understand the level of pain involved.)
For me, the best memory was one of my times as the robot. I came out of the bathroom, blind as a bat, looking for someone to throw this ball at. I circled the house at least once, and came back to the main living room. Still slightly blind, I did manage to perceive what I though was someones head sticking out from behind a chair back. Rather than check further, I chucked the ball at the "head" and was rewarded with a loud "THWOK!" and the glowball bounceing directly back at me as if it had hit a brick wall. I also heard a body hitting the floor and a moan of pain come from my buddy Mike, and a string of curses from him, followed by hoots and howls of laughter from everyone else hidden in the room. I admit I am not a great thrower of objects, but in the low light conditions and diminished eyesight, I must have let instinct and luck have free reign and I tagged him square in the forehead and nearly knocked him out. Someone turned the lights came on and we made sure he wasn't dead, and then proceeded to laugh ourselves silly for the next 15 minutes over his pain and my grand effort!
Thinking back on these games, I am amazed that nothing got broken in my parents house. Or nothing got broken to the point where it could not be fixed and made to look whole again. We always cleaned up after these games and it seemed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the house. We must have done well, because my parents never said anything about it. Ever. We got lucky.
I found the glowball many years ago while attending college. Looking at it, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia that this little piece of plastic produced. I don't know what ever happened to it since then, but I am glad I have lost it. If not, I would be sorely tempted to have shown it to my kids and explained what glowball was. And then, glowball would be played in my house. And that would not be good. This is one game I think that is best left in the past and resurrected in story form only.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Snow Days
At the time of this writing, there is all kinds of warnings about heavy snowfall, freezing rain, and wicked wind speeds predicted to settle into our area and shut things down for a day or two. People are preparing by buying up milk and eggs, calling off meetings or already making notice that they might not be at work the next day. All this reminds me of those days back in grade school and high school when we had snow days. Not only did we get out of school, which was a GOOD THING, but it meant that my friends and I would have an extra day to hang out together and have all sorts of fun.
Should a snow day be declared, on the night before, phone calls would go out to make plans for the following day to meet somewhere (despite road conditions)and make the most of the frozen landscape with snowmobiles, ATV's or shovels. (We could build snow forts like no one's business)
But what I really enjoyed the most were those days when, either it was way to cold to be outside, or the idea of working that hard was not appealing, we would stay inside and play games. Classic 1970's board games geared towards boys. Games like Carrier Strike, Stratego, Chopper Strike, Tank Battle, Battleship!, Sub Search and of course, RISK. There were others too, but these are the ones that stick in my mind as the ones that made it to the game table more often than not.
We would break these games out and play for hours. If someone lost, there would be a rematch and the games would go on until satisfaction was won, or we got bored and moved on to a different game. RISK was a game that could go on for hours at a time, for as you know, there is no domination like total world domination in the classic game of RISK! Never surrender, never give up.
This was the time before video games. It was also before I discovered Dungeons & Dragons. I think this is why I love board games so much. It was such a part of my childhood that it was imprinted on my psyche that quality time equaled gaming time. There was no stigma connected to being a "gamer" at this point and we were never embarrassed to say we played games for hours on end and called it fun! We even bragged about it at school.
I know that snow days now are a high point in the school year, and kids get together to play games to celebrate it, but now they join online games connected via their computer or game console. No need to risk life and limb to get together anymore on a heavy snow day. I find it kind of sad, but it is part of the new world of technology that our kids live in. I embrace it too, but I would like to see my kids and their friends participate in a few more snow days like I used. Probably because I would like to join them...
Should a snow day be declared, on the night before, phone calls would go out to make plans for the following day to meet somewhere (despite road conditions)and make the most of the frozen landscape with snowmobiles, ATV's or shovels. (We could build snow forts like no one's business)
But what I really enjoyed the most were those days when, either it was way to cold to be outside, or the idea of working that hard was not appealing, we would stay inside and play games. Classic 1970's board games geared towards boys. Games like Carrier Strike, Stratego, Chopper Strike, Tank Battle, Battleship!, Sub Search and of course, RISK. There were others too, but these are the ones that stick in my mind as the ones that made it to the game table more often than not.
We would break these games out and play for hours. If someone lost, there would be a rematch and the games would go on until satisfaction was won, or we got bored and moved on to a different game. RISK was a game that could go on for hours at a time, for as you know, there is no domination like total world domination in the classic game of RISK! Never surrender, never give up.
This was the time before video games. It was also before I discovered Dungeons & Dragons. I think this is why I love board games so much. It was such a part of my childhood that it was imprinted on my psyche that quality time equaled gaming time. There was no stigma connected to being a "gamer" at this point and we were never embarrassed to say we played games for hours on end and called it fun! We even bragged about it at school.
I know that snow days now are a high point in the school year, and kids get together to play games to celebrate it, but now they join online games connected via their computer or game console. No need to risk life and limb to get together anymore on a heavy snow day. I find it kind of sad, but it is part of the new world of technology that our kids live in. I embrace it too, but I would like to see my kids and their friends participate in a few more snow days like I used. Probably because I would like to join them...
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death!
At some point in my childhood, near about the time when most of my friends and I had learned to ride and drive mini-bikes and small motorcycles, our feelings of immortality were reaching their peak. After all, we had just conquered learning to ride motorcycles even before stepping in to a Driver's Education course to learn to drive cars. And as was the nature with those friends of mine, riding a motorcycle was just not enough. Riding by yourself was boring, unless you were in a race, or trying to run over one of your "ground-bound" friends with said motorcycle. (I should stop right here. We did not use motorcycles exclusively for this task. We found that hitting a person had a tendency to make the motorcycle unstable, so we quickly switched over to three-wheeled ATV's for this purpose)
Anyway, at some point, it was just more fun to have your friends come along for the ride and even though you could get one person on the back, having everyone in the group come along for the ride was even better. But how do you do this with a motorcycle that you can fit only one person on? You turn to the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death.
The S.W.C of D. was a contraption that we created out of a old steel frame of some 1910 or 20's wagon that the wood components had long ago rotted away, leaving only the skeleton of welded and bolted metal to work with. I am not sure how it got there, but one day it appeared in the back part of my dad's yard, near the burn/trash pile. It was like a God-send to us boys and we immediately put it to good use!
We slapped a wooden door down on the frame, secured a back board to that and constructed a hitch of sorts that would attach to the back end of a motorcycle with out restricting the way a bike leans when turning. It all looked good in our minds and the best way to find out was to throw some people on and take it for a spin. Lo! and Behold! The damned thing worked perfectly. It took a bit of effort for the motorcycle operator to maintain an upright position on the bike due to the drag caused by the S.W.C of D. but it was not impossible to clip along at about 10 miles an hour over grass and fields with a few boys happily bouncing along behind in contraption that would eventually start to bend, bruise and almost break a number of boys in very short order.
Riding about on the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death was fine if you were on soil, but once you hit paved or gravel roads, the ride became almost unbearable. Almost. We discovered that if you were riding in the S. W. C. of D. while on a road, you had to keep your mouth tightly shut or you might bite your tongue or crack your teeth due to the jackhammering that was a result of the bare steel wheels making contact with a hard surface like the road. Some riders preferred to stand, but this made the entire balance of the cart go wonky, so seated was the only way to be able to ride. The exception was standing on the very back of the cart, holding on to the backboard and standing on part of the frame. It was a prime position and one that allowed for quick exit from the cart once the ride was over. So we would jockey for position every time we used the cart and it was a useful contraption for about, oh, a week.
I remember it being a cool fall or spring day. The grass was still green, but it was very wet, and there were no crops in the fields, so it is hard to remember was season it was. Not that it matters. What matters is that a number of us had gathered from some reason in Claytonville. Probably a game day, or a bb gun fight, or something along those lines. Those present that I can remember, were Denver, Mike, Tom, Jeff, myself and I think my brother. We had all found ourselves at the bridge that crossed over the crick (Whiskey Creek) that passed by town. We had all arrived there via motorcycle and the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. But it was time to call it a day so we gathered up and headed back to town. (Which is only about a 40-50 second ride) On the motorcycle was Tom. On the S. W. C. of D. was Denver, Jeff, Mike, myself, and again, I think my brother. Everyone was on the cart, with Mike having secured the comfy position on the back. And off we went.
However, something went terribly wrong. Somewhere in the short time it took to get from the starting position to up to speed, someone or something caused the front of the cart to lift up, taking a good deal of ground traction off of the rear tire of the motorcycle and causing Tom to lose control of the bike. At this point, Mike saw what was coming and proceeded to jump off the back of the cart, which not only brought the front end down, but also propelled the cart frame into the back of the motorcycle tire and fender, catching up underneath the fender. Tom sped up immediately to attempt to unlock the motorcycle from the frame, which it did, but it in turned jerked the remaining riders back onto the backboard, causing us to clamber for secure positions.
The rest of this story is what I remember actually happening to me, and what I remember Mike telling us all what he saw after he exited the cart.
Mike said he saw the motorcycle and cart veer off of the road and down into the ditch, which had about a 10-12 foot drop. He said that Jeff tried to jump off the cart, got caught by the wheel as he left and fell onto the road as motorcycle and all were heading down into the ditch. He said, Denver and I had grabbed on to one another like two lovers in a full hug embrace, bouncing up and down on the cart, trying desperately to stay on board. And then the cart started to roll and proceeded to throw everyone, including Tom on the motorcycle, from their seated postions, out into the ditch and accompanying field.
From my perspective, all I remember was seeing the motorcycle in front of me start to fishtail horribly, someone screaming and jumping off the cart, and noticing the cart was no longer behind, but above the motorcycle that was supposed to be pulling it! I suppose this was because the motorcycle was headed down into the ditch, with the S.W.C. of D. in full pursuit. As the cart began to tilt and roll, I attempted to jump out, but the shoulder of my army jacket got caught in the spokes of the steel wheels and it pulled me down and around, my arm actually ripping out the 2x4 that was used to support the backboard to the wood door we used as a floor. I remember seeing things upside down as I rolled on the grass, the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death flipping over, and Tom and the motorcycle also falling to the ground, to stop at the bottom of the soggy edge of the field. And I remember laughter.
Mike was laughing his ass off. He was standing up on the road, looking down at us and laughing as hard as he ever had. We all stood up, looked to make sure nothing was broken on us, and once assured of that, began the excited retelling of surviving the trip of death on our now bent and broken Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. My shoulder hurt like hell. Jeff was kind of banged up from landing on the road, and Tom was pissed because something had broken on his motorcycle. I don't recall what happened to Denver, but he survived realatively unscathed.
We limped back home to my house and my friends went their own ways, but the next day at school we had a story to tell! I don't recall was happended to the S.W.C.of D. but we never used it again. I don't even think we pulled it out of the ditch. I supposed someone drug it out and used it for scrap metal, but it, like so many other things from my childhood, was one of those things I will never forget.
Anyway, at some point, it was just more fun to have your friends come along for the ride and even though you could get one person on the back, having everyone in the group come along for the ride was even better. But how do you do this with a motorcycle that you can fit only one person on? You turn to the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death.
The S.W.C of D. was a contraption that we created out of a old steel frame of some 1910 or 20's wagon that the wood components had long ago rotted away, leaving only the skeleton of welded and bolted metal to work with. I am not sure how it got there, but one day it appeared in the back part of my dad's yard, near the burn/trash pile. It was like a God-send to us boys and we immediately put it to good use!
We slapped a wooden door down on the frame, secured a back board to that and constructed a hitch of sorts that would attach to the back end of a motorcycle with out restricting the way a bike leans when turning. It all looked good in our minds and the best way to find out was to throw some people on and take it for a spin. Lo! and Behold! The damned thing worked perfectly. It took a bit of effort for the motorcycle operator to maintain an upright position on the bike due to the drag caused by the S.W.C of D. but it was not impossible to clip along at about 10 miles an hour over grass and fields with a few boys happily bouncing along behind in contraption that would eventually start to bend, bruise and almost break a number of boys in very short order.
Riding about on the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death was fine if you were on soil, but once you hit paved or gravel roads, the ride became almost unbearable. Almost. We discovered that if you were riding in the S. W. C. of D. while on a road, you had to keep your mouth tightly shut or you might bite your tongue or crack your teeth due to the jackhammering that was a result of the bare steel wheels making contact with a hard surface like the road. Some riders preferred to stand, but this made the entire balance of the cart go wonky, so seated was the only way to be able to ride. The exception was standing on the very back of the cart, holding on to the backboard and standing on part of the frame. It was a prime position and one that allowed for quick exit from the cart once the ride was over. So we would jockey for position every time we used the cart and it was a useful contraption for about, oh, a week.
I remember it being a cool fall or spring day. The grass was still green, but it was very wet, and there were no crops in the fields, so it is hard to remember was season it was. Not that it matters. What matters is that a number of us had gathered from some reason in Claytonville. Probably a game day, or a bb gun fight, or something along those lines. Those present that I can remember, were Denver, Mike, Tom, Jeff, myself and I think my brother. We had all found ourselves at the bridge that crossed over the crick (Whiskey Creek) that passed by town. We had all arrived there via motorcycle and the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. But it was time to call it a day so we gathered up and headed back to town. (Which is only about a 40-50 second ride) On the motorcycle was Tom. On the S. W. C. of D. was Denver, Jeff, Mike, myself, and again, I think my brother. Everyone was on the cart, with Mike having secured the comfy position on the back. And off we went.
However, something went terribly wrong. Somewhere in the short time it took to get from the starting position to up to speed, someone or something caused the front of the cart to lift up, taking a good deal of ground traction off of the rear tire of the motorcycle and causing Tom to lose control of the bike. At this point, Mike saw what was coming and proceeded to jump off the back of the cart, which not only brought the front end down, but also propelled the cart frame into the back of the motorcycle tire and fender, catching up underneath the fender. Tom sped up immediately to attempt to unlock the motorcycle from the frame, which it did, but it in turned jerked the remaining riders back onto the backboard, causing us to clamber for secure positions.
The rest of this story is what I remember actually happening to me, and what I remember Mike telling us all what he saw after he exited the cart.
Mike said he saw the motorcycle and cart veer off of the road and down into the ditch, which had about a 10-12 foot drop. He said that Jeff tried to jump off the cart, got caught by the wheel as he left and fell onto the road as motorcycle and all were heading down into the ditch. He said, Denver and I had grabbed on to one another like two lovers in a full hug embrace, bouncing up and down on the cart, trying desperately to stay on board. And then the cart started to roll and proceeded to throw everyone, including Tom on the motorcycle, from their seated postions, out into the ditch and accompanying field.
From my perspective, all I remember was seeing the motorcycle in front of me start to fishtail horribly, someone screaming and jumping off the cart, and noticing the cart was no longer behind, but above the motorcycle that was supposed to be pulling it! I suppose this was because the motorcycle was headed down into the ditch, with the S.W.C. of D. in full pursuit. As the cart began to tilt and roll, I attempted to jump out, but the shoulder of my army jacket got caught in the spokes of the steel wheels and it pulled me down and around, my arm actually ripping out the 2x4 that was used to support the backboard to the wood door we used as a floor. I remember seeing things upside down as I rolled on the grass, the Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death flipping over, and Tom and the motorcycle also falling to the ground, to stop at the bottom of the soggy edge of the field. And I remember laughter.
Mike was laughing his ass off. He was standing up on the road, looking down at us and laughing as hard as he ever had. We all stood up, looked to make sure nothing was broken on us, and once assured of that, began the excited retelling of surviving the trip of death on our now bent and broken Steel Wheeled Chariot of Death. My shoulder hurt like hell. Jeff was kind of banged up from landing on the road, and Tom was pissed because something had broken on his motorcycle. I don't recall what happened to Denver, but he survived realatively unscathed.
We limped back home to my house and my friends went their own ways, but the next day at school we had a story to tell! I don't recall was happended to the S.W.C.of D. but we never used it again. I don't even think we pulled it out of the ditch. I supposed someone drug it out and used it for scrap metal, but it, like so many other things from my childhood, was one of those things I will never forget.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Story time...
This year I am going to spend more time on the old blog with stories from my childhood. And by "childhood" I mean that period of time when I was between the years of 8 and 17. I seem to recall that most of my memorable childhood stories come from that age range, but don't expect me to be able to nail down exactly how old I was in some of these stories. My childhood was a ton of fun and it all seemed to run together in terms of years. The best I might be able to do is say I was on the older range or the younger range of my childhood. I hope you enjoy these stories and maybe even share this with your child and tell he or she, "Do not do stuff like this!" Maybe someone can learn from my mistakes... but then again, I survived and still have all my parts.... almost. Over time you will come to know my best buddies and members of my family, and maybe figure out just how I managed to survive my childhood and some of what makes me tick.
OF GRILLS AND MUSHROOM CLOUDS
Life as a kid in Claytonville, Il. was one of making your own fun, because let's face it, living in town that consists of 50-60 people, of which 90% were hard working adults, could get pretty boring. And a small town located in east central Illinois,in the late 70's and early 80's, saying that modernity and "civilization" had arrived there, was stretching the truth a bit. Sure, we had heat (downstairs) in the winter, but no air conditioning in the summer. (My parents waited until every kid was out of the house before getting that.) We even had indoor running water, flush toilets and all that, so don't get the idea that it was like living on the frontier, but many modern conveniences that those living in the big cities of Paxton or Champaign took for granted, we did not have. Movie theaters, colored TV or more than three channels to watch, parks, and so forth So, as kids we made our own fun. Usually with things that exploded. Or burnt. Or melted. Or went fast or shot things. You get the idea. Here is one that everyone in my family knows about and for the most part, several members of the families of those involved.
Summers in Claytonville were fun. Jobs were easy to find if you were willing to work on a farm or outside, but work was work and that was not fun. Most of my friends and I worked only in the morning of the summer to avoid the heat of the day, leaving the rest of the day to use as we saw fit. One one particular day, we decided to beat the heat by holing up in a small copse of trees that lined a cornfield. It was your typical hedge row, with tangled Osage orange trees, horse-weeds, wild raspberry bushes and tall grasses all growing in the same small condensed area. It was located just a few hundred yards from my house, right near the railroad tracks that cut Claytonville in half, running east and west. (Debate still rages as to who lived on the right side of the tracks and who did not)
The little hedgerow had served as hideout, enemy territory, hunting ground, and a myriad of other purposes, depending on the mood and ideas of the boys using it. At this particular time, we (Tom, Mike, my brother Darryl, and myself) were using it as shade from the heat and as a private men's club, complete with manufactured luxuries, including a brick fireplace and grill. Despite the heat of summer, we stoked a fire in the tiny fireplace and were enjoying the idea of being men among men, having constructed our own man-cave where we could eat, sleep, and drink anytime we liked. Not that we slept there or ate there, but we did drink there. Soda. And lots of it! Especially root beer and Pepsi.
Empty bottles were scattered about in every direction. Neatness was not something that was high on our club's priorities. Suffice it to say that there were a number of them sitting around and eventually one of these empty bottles must have caught the attention of one of us. I am not sure who started it, but I recall that someone had acquired a bottle, filled it half full of water from a nearby mud-puddle, and had corked it with a mixture of mud and dried corncob, firmly shoved down the neck of the bottle. Said bottle was soon placed on the fireplace/grill and the fire increased until the water began to boil within the bottle, creating immense pressure that would finally result in the makeshift cork to fail and the water to fountain out of the bottle, much to the delight of those present in the little hedgerow. About 4 or 5 bottles were sacrificed in this manner before someone would take our idea on a wicked turn.
Most of the ideas that we came up with to avoid boredom were usually good at first, but then, some idiot, (always one of the usual suspects) would decide to escalate the idea to its most illogical ___________. (fill in the blank with words anything like; conclusion, explosion, concussion, piercing, collision, etc, etc.) Without fail, this is indeed what happened. The idiot in this case (or at the time and age, genius)was my best buddy, Mike.
Mike lived across the tracks and if there is someone who you will meet in these stories more often than not, it will be Mike. Mike was a good friend for me to have. He knew (as all best buddies do) how to push my buttons and made me stretch myself as a person. He dared (and sometimes forced) me to do things I probably would not have done. He was very outgoing and everyone liked him, but I got to call him my best friend.
Mike had stepped out of the hedgerow and had come back with a bottle filled to the top and well stoppered with not just mud and corncob but a hefty amount of clay, which could be found just about anywhere in Claytonville. (There used to be a brick factory that was housed on the ground were my house and outbuildings were located) He came back with almost a wild look in his eye, as he placed the bottle on the grill and added more wood and fuel to the fire. Looking back now, it was obvious what he had done, but at that time, it just did not seem like anything was wrong, at least at first. But then, we noticed, as the bottle started to show the first bubbles of boiling, that the liquid in the bottle was two toned, and that Mike was very cautiously, yet very deliberately, inching backwards AWAY from the fireplace and the bottle set upon the tiny grill plate. Normally, we would get close to things that were flaming or on otherwise about to flame up, but this time, it was different.
Call it some unseen or unspoken signal, some smell of fear, or maybe we were all realizing what might just be in that bottle that we all began moving back to a safe distance of, oh, say, 5 to 10 feet, but at the same time, still give us front row viewing for the upcoming show. And what a show it was!
At some point, the level of heat had made the "water" in the bottle reach the point where it would shoot the cork off. However, Mike had done a marvelous job at securing the cork in the bottle. So much so, that instead of shooting out the corncob cork, the bottle instead burst apart and released what, to our eyes, was essentially the god of HellFire! (There was much rejoicing.) When that bottle exploded, the water, and what ever else was mixed into it, combined with the air and created (Okay, now remember, I am trying to remember this with my child's eye and memory.) a column of fire about 6 feet around, and a resulting mushroom ball of fire and smoke that belched up through the trees (full grown) and out of the canopy for about five feet. After a cursory glance about to see if anyone was dead or bleeding, we all jumped up to survey the damage to our little club and congratulate each other on being present for such a show, much less on simply being alive and in one piece. Our fireplace and grill, and the fire within were snuffed out of existence. Dried grass on the ground and small leaves on the trees above us were still smoking, but for the most part there was little damage done. Once again, God had looked out for us and kept us safe, despite our best efforts.
It seems that Mike had traveled outside of the realm of regular mud-puddles and went to where there was a fuel refilling station that carried, home heating fuel, gas, diesel, and kerosene. This station was, like so many things, just about 150 yards from my house and about 25 yards (certainly more than safe enough distance) from where we were having our little experiment using fire and water. In huge tanks that were suspended horizontally on steel trusses, there was somewhere close to 500,000 gallons of fuel. These resided in a retaining pit, surrounded by only a grass berm, in which was an ever present pond of water that even on a good day, was about 2/3 water and 1/3 fuel mix. It was here that Mike apparently went to fill his bottle. (Thinking back on this, it is a good damned thing none of us ever took up smoking, because had we, eventually, especially with as much time as we spent in, on, or around this place, we would have dropped a lit match or cigarette in this pond of fuel mixture)
While we were excited talking about our most recent venture in to explosive experimentation, and discussing what it would take to rebuild the fireplace so we could do it again, we all heard the one thing that would make us freeze in fear, or annoyance. My mother, who normally worked during the day in the summer, happened to be home and was washing dishes in the kitchen. There is a window right next to the sink and unfortunately, that window looks right out in the direction of the fuel tanks and the hedgerow where the god of Hellfire had just appeared moments ago.
There is not a single friend of mine that will ever forget the shrill voice of my mother calling for me or my brother or any of their names from across the yard or tracks. Normally it was to call us home. This time however, it had a particular "shrillness" that conveyed both anger, fright, and concern. It only took one call from my mother for Tom and Mike to high-tail it across the track to his house to hide out and leave my brother and I to our fates.
For my brother and I, we had the unfortunate luck to have to go home after a parent had seen what had just happened and at the same time, have a the one person also in the house that for some reason, scared us more than our father. My older brother, David. He came charging out of the house and met us as we were coming back and proceeded to chew us out for doing some so dangerous and crazy. And looking back, I think he was more worried (and maybe rightly so) about the fact that we could have ignited over 500,000 gallons of fuel and in a blink of an eye, remove an entire town from the map. I would not be surprised if he didn't think that if we killed ourselves, he would have two less problems in the world to deal with.
But in the end, I cannot really recall what our punishment was for being part of the fireball incident, probably because I was so incredibly psyched up about being so close to something so cool. I think my brother and I got grounded, but being grounded in a small town is not really much of a punishment so it was kind of a wash and I as you will find out, no lesson was learned, except on how to make bigger fireball.
OF GRILLS AND MUSHROOM CLOUDS
Life as a kid in Claytonville, Il. was one of making your own fun, because let's face it, living in town that consists of 50-60 people, of which 90% were hard working adults, could get pretty boring. And a small town located in east central Illinois,in the late 70's and early 80's, saying that modernity and "civilization" had arrived there, was stretching the truth a bit. Sure, we had heat (downstairs) in the winter, but no air conditioning in the summer. (My parents waited until every kid was out of the house before getting that.) We even had indoor running water, flush toilets and all that, so don't get the idea that it was like living on the frontier, but many modern conveniences that those living in the big cities of Paxton or Champaign took for granted, we did not have. Movie theaters, colored TV or more than three channels to watch, parks, and so forth So, as kids we made our own fun. Usually with things that exploded. Or burnt. Or melted. Or went fast or shot things. You get the idea. Here is one that everyone in my family knows about and for the most part, several members of the families of those involved.
Summers in Claytonville were fun. Jobs were easy to find if you were willing to work on a farm or outside, but work was work and that was not fun. Most of my friends and I worked only in the morning of the summer to avoid the heat of the day, leaving the rest of the day to use as we saw fit. One one particular day, we decided to beat the heat by holing up in a small copse of trees that lined a cornfield. It was your typical hedge row, with tangled Osage orange trees, horse-weeds, wild raspberry bushes and tall grasses all growing in the same small condensed area. It was located just a few hundred yards from my house, right near the railroad tracks that cut Claytonville in half, running east and west. (Debate still rages as to who lived on the right side of the tracks and who did not)
The little hedgerow had served as hideout, enemy territory, hunting ground, and a myriad of other purposes, depending on the mood and ideas of the boys using it. At this particular time, we (Tom, Mike, my brother Darryl, and myself) were using it as shade from the heat and as a private men's club, complete with manufactured luxuries, including a brick fireplace and grill. Despite the heat of summer, we stoked a fire in the tiny fireplace and were enjoying the idea of being men among men, having constructed our own man-cave where we could eat, sleep, and drink anytime we liked. Not that we slept there or ate there, but we did drink there. Soda. And lots of it! Especially root beer and Pepsi.
Empty bottles were scattered about in every direction. Neatness was not something that was high on our club's priorities. Suffice it to say that there were a number of them sitting around and eventually one of these empty bottles must have caught the attention of one of us. I am not sure who started it, but I recall that someone had acquired a bottle, filled it half full of water from a nearby mud-puddle, and had corked it with a mixture of mud and dried corncob, firmly shoved down the neck of the bottle. Said bottle was soon placed on the fireplace/grill and the fire increased until the water began to boil within the bottle, creating immense pressure that would finally result in the makeshift cork to fail and the water to fountain out of the bottle, much to the delight of those present in the little hedgerow. About 4 or 5 bottles were sacrificed in this manner before someone would take our idea on a wicked turn.
Most of the ideas that we came up with to avoid boredom were usually good at first, but then, some idiot, (always one of the usual suspects) would decide to escalate the idea to its most illogical ___________. (fill in the blank with words anything like; conclusion, explosion, concussion, piercing, collision, etc, etc.) Without fail, this is indeed what happened. The idiot in this case (or at the time and age, genius)was my best buddy, Mike.
Mike lived across the tracks and if there is someone who you will meet in these stories more often than not, it will be Mike. Mike was a good friend for me to have. He knew (as all best buddies do) how to push my buttons and made me stretch myself as a person. He dared (and sometimes forced) me to do things I probably would not have done. He was very outgoing and everyone liked him, but I got to call him my best friend.
Mike had stepped out of the hedgerow and had come back with a bottle filled to the top and well stoppered with not just mud and corncob but a hefty amount of clay, which could be found just about anywhere in Claytonville. (There used to be a brick factory that was housed on the ground were my house and outbuildings were located) He came back with almost a wild look in his eye, as he placed the bottle on the grill and added more wood and fuel to the fire. Looking back now, it was obvious what he had done, but at that time, it just did not seem like anything was wrong, at least at first. But then, we noticed, as the bottle started to show the first bubbles of boiling, that the liquid in the bottle was two toned, and that Mike was very cautiously, yet very deliberately, inching backwards AWAY from the fireplace and the bottle set upon the tiny grill plate. Normally, we would get close to things that were flaming or on otherwise about to flame up, but this time, it was different.
Call it some unseen or unspoken signal, some smell of fear, or maybe we were all realizing what might just be in that bottle that we all began moving back to a safe distance of, oh, say, 5 to 10 feet, but at the same time, still give us front row viewing for the upcoming show. And what a show it was!
At some point, the level of heat had made the "water" in the bottle reach the point where it would shoot the cork off. However, Mike had done a marvelous job at securing the cork in the bottle. So much so, that instead of shooting out the corncob cork, the bottle instead burst apart and released what, to our eyes, was essentially the god of HellFire! (There was much rejoicing.) When that bottle exploded, the water, and what ever else was mixed into it, combined with the air and created (Okay, now remember, I am trying to remember this with my child's eye and memory.) a column of fire about 6 feet around, and a resulting mushroom ball of fire and smoke that belched up through the trees (full grown) and out of the canopy for about five feet. After a cursory glance about to see if anyone was dead or bleeding, we all jumped up to survey the damage to our little club and congratulate each other on being present for such a show, much less on simply being alive and in one piece. Our fireplace and grill, and the fire within were snuffed out of existence. Dried grass on the ground and small leaves on the trees above us were still smoking, but for the most part there was little damage done. Once again, God had looked out for us and kept us safe, despite our best efforts.
It seems that Mike had traveled outside of the realm of regular mud-puddles and went to where there was a fuel refilling station that carried, home heating fuel, gas, diesel, and kerosene. This station was, like so many things, just about 150 yards from my house and about 25 yards (certainly more than safe enough distance) from where we were having our little experiment using fire and water. In huge tanks that were suspended horizontally on steel trusses, there was somewhere close to 500,000 gallons of fuel. These resided in a retaining pit, surrounded by only a grass berm, in which was an ever present pond of water that even on a good day, was about 2/3 water and 1/3 fuel mix. It was here that Mike apparently went to fill his bottle. (Thinking back on this, it is a good damned thing none of us ever took up smoking, because had we, eventually, especially with as much time as we spent in, on, or around this place, we would have dropped a lit match or cigarette in this pond of fuel mixture)
While we were excited talking about our most recent venture in to explosive experimentation, and discussing what it would take to rebuild the fireplace so we could do it again, we all heard the one thing that would make us freeze in fear, or annoyance. My mother, who normally worked during the day in the summer, happened to be home and was washing dishes in the kitchen. There is a window right next to the sink and unfortunately, that window looks right out in the direction of the fuel tanks and the hedgerow where the god of Hellfire had just appeared moments ago.
There is not a single friend of mine that will ever forget the shrill voice of my mother calling for me or my brother or any of their names from across the yard or tracks. Normally it was to call us home. This time however, it had a particular "shrillness" that conveyed both anger, fright, and concern. It only took one call from my mother for Tom and Mike to high-tail it across the track to his house to hide out and leave my brother and I to our fates.
For my brother and I, we had the unfortunate luck to have to go home after a parent had seen what had just happened and at the same time, have a the one person also in the house that for some reason, scared us more than our father. My older brother, David. He came charging out of the house and met us as we were coming back and proceeded to chew us out for doing some so dangerous and crazy. And looking back, I think he was more worried (and maybe rightly so) about the fact that we could have ignited over 500,000 gallons of fuel and in a blink of an eye, remove an entire town from the map. I would not be surprised if he didn't think that if we killed ourselves, he would have two less problems in the world to deal with.
But in the end, I cannot really recall what our punishment was for being part of the fireball incident, probably because I was so incredibly psyched up about being so close to something so cool. I think my brother and I got grounded, but being grounded in a small town is not really much of a punishment so it was kind of a wash and I as you will find out, no lesson was learned, except on how to make bigger fireball.
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