KNIT ONE PURL TWO

I am trying to write for at least an hour every day.  Some days all I can manage is a grocery list but like Stephen King said, “Sometimes you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes you're doing good work when it feels like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position.”  Believe me, most days I feel like I am following around an elephant.  Again, I digress.  I am writing with the encouragement of my quirky cousins to write then ship-it. (stops and waves to quirky cousins) So I am putting a stamp on this and shipping it.

Betty White Wants ADrink GIF from Bettywhite GIFs

Gladys climbed on the stationary bike cussing and huffing.  It was her third day at the Cardiac Rehab center.  She was feeling a little out of place, as she had not had a heart attack like the rest of these poor people, instead she had a rheumatic heart from childhood illness.  Her cardiologist wanted to get a baseline on her before she went off and killed herself exercising on her own.   Now if you have never been to a cardio rehab class let me give you a brief description of the events.   First thing you do when you get there is get your blood pressure, heart rate and blood oxygen levels.  This is done by waiting in line behind about fifty octogenarians and a dozen nonagenarians who all give you the stink eye wondering what your quinquagenarian self is doing here. It is not like Gladys is a spring chick but still those oldsters are just a little suspicious of those young whippersnapper baby boomers. Once you have your vitals you head over to stick electrodes all over your body with super glue stuck to toilet paper. 

Finally, you climb aboard one of the instruments of torture, otherwise known as the recumbent bicycle on which you are tortured for a minimum of fifteen minutes of pure agony.  Then you drag your limp and tired legs over to the next instrument of torture also known as the treadmill.  Once you have completed the Bataan death march they usher you to a machine on which you peddle up hills both ways with your hands.  Yes, it is a hand peddler.  Yes, I know, you are saying.  What the heck Gladys?  None of this is that bad.  But Gladys abhorred exercise.

The nice nurse came to her machine and dialed up a level three.  Let’s test your stamina she said.  This will be easy, she lied.  Gladys began to peddle and the more she peddled the harder it became.  The harder it became the harder she panted and puffed.  Her face turned beat red.  He hands gripped the handles as if they would save her from falling into the bowels of hell.  She began to sweat and her legs began to burn.  The faster she peddled the inertia caused her to slide down the seat causing her to have to pull herself off the floor and back up on the seat.

It was during one of these adjustments she noticed that someone had taken the seat next to her.  Not just anyone, but a small little elvish woman in a baby pink track suit with a shocking head of white hair.  She was the Betty White of cardio.  Gladys gulped air and huffed out a hello.  The little woman smiled and returned the greeting in a sweet soft voice, not at all inconvenienced by the weapon of mass destruction she was peddling.   By this time Gladys was convinced she is going to die right there with her feet in the stirrups.  She looked hopefully over at the nonagrian next to her for some commiseration only to find old Betty White wanna-be  knitting.  The woman is KNITTING while working out.  WHAT KIND OF VOODOO IS THIS?   She’s a witch!  Burn her! Burn her!  Gladys was sure this woman was not working at the same level as she.  She was probably on a level one, barely peddling so holding on tight to the handles she leaned as far over as she could without being thrown like a city slicker on a mechanical bull.  She stretched and squinted only to see that old Betty was three levels higher than she was at and was on a much harder program.  One that made her climb hills at a high incline.  Humph, Gladys thought.  She isn’t human, that has to be the explanation. 

Finally, her time on the recumbent torture machine was over and she drug her limp and lifeless body over to the treadmill where once again the not so nice lying nurse set the machine to the lowest level allowed.  The tread began to roll and Gladys stumbled and caught herself with the bar,  caught up to the cadence and began her huffing and puffing.  Just a moment or two later good old knitting Betty hopped up on the treadmill next to Gladys.  She smiled and set her machine once again to random hills at a high speed.  Then she did the unthinkable.  She reached down and grabbed her knitting and began to knit.  She began to knit while climbing Mount Kilimanjaro.  What in the love of GOD is this woman drinking?  Gladys gulped down some air and huffed and puffed praying to all things holy for the torture to end.  Betty White just knitted and smiled.  The clouds parted, the light came on and finally Gladys’ fifteen minutes were finally over.  She mustered up as much of a smile as possible, drank a half a bottle of water in one swallow and begged to go home.

The nurse lied again and told her just one more little machine.  No big deal.  Just peddle with your hands.  You will feel wonderful she lied, the time will fly by she said.  LIES they were all LIES.  Gladys climbed onto the seat and began hand peddling up K-2  huffing and puffing.  She peddled trying to keep her coordination going when she realized once again the knitting kitten is sitting next to her preparing to also do a little hand peddling.  Gladys couldn’t take it anymore.  She had, had enough.  She stopped and looked over at the sweet little old superhuman and said “if you start knitting with your feet while you are hand peddling, I AM DONE.”   Knitting Betty White smiled sweetly and said in her saccharine voice “oh honey, I’m good, but, even I am not THAT good.”  That is when Gladys fell off the machine…… laughing.

JOHN WAYNE SLEPT HERE ( A Trooper Bob Tale)

             It’s been awhile since I written a Trooper Bob story, in fact it’s been awhile since I’ve been here.   I could say I’ve been busy but that isn’t completely true.  I could tell you I’ve been depressed, kind of like Duane in Larry McMurtry’s Duane’s Depressed.  But I haven’t taken up walking everywhere.  I could tell you all kinds of things but the truth is, I don’t know why I haven’t been here. 

              I have been spending a lot of time with Trooper Bob lately and every now and then a story will fall out of his brain and I have been remiss in reporting them here.  I know that man has more stories than Carter has little liver pills.  If you don’t know who Carter is or what little liver pills are, well GOOGLE it! 

              I digress.  Let’s welcome back the Chronicles of Trooper Bob.

           They sat in the old stone building.  The one where John Wayne had slept, where George Patton had smoked his cigars and written in his journal.  They had gathered from all over the state.  The border was in a state of flux and there was an uprising on the horizon.  The Colonel had given the order and they had gathered with their riot gear driven hundreds of miles and now they were waiting for word.  A gaggle of men dressed in summer wool DPS uniforms in the South Texas heat, waiting.  Some played cards, some read Zane Grey novels bought at the five and dime in Brackettville but most napped.  They napped because it was smart to grab the sleep when you could.  Tomorrow was unknown.  Heck and hour from now was iffy.

 

           Trooper Deal and Trooper Bob sat talking old times and telling tales.  Waiting for others to nod off so they could play a prank or two on the unsuspecting victim.  Sometimes it was as simple as the shaving cream and feather trick which would cause the newly shaving cream covered victim to come alive spitting and cussing while the rest would scream in laughter. 

           The worst part of the detail was the waiting.  The waiting produced boredom and boredom gave them way too much time to come up with new ways in which to torment the other. 

            The shadows were getting long and another day had almost passed when the bell clanged and they shifted from leaned back chairs and legs draped over easy chair arms.  They had been waiting for something to happen and now it had.  Chow time.  Trooper Bob eased off his chair and picked up his gun belt.   Strapping it on he also stuffed something in his pocket.  He wandered close behind the others smirking just a little

            “Hey, Hutch” cried Deal “I’m so hungry I could eat the south end of a north bound cow.”

            “The way that hamburger tasted at lunch it might have been all asshole” Trooper Bob replied.

            “Well I guess you’d know what asshole tasted like, you bein one and all” Byron shot back.

            “I’ll remember you said that, I have a long memory” Bob answered.

They filed into the mess hall and pulled out the metal chairs lined along the makeshift tables.  Bob made his way around the table passed the Colonel’s chair at the head of the table pausing just a moment to notice a nice cushion placed on the chair.  Guess old lead bottom had a delicate derriere he mused.  Then he moved on. 

            Colonel Leadbottom stood at the end of the table cleared his throat and in his best imitation of George Patton he gave his speech.  How in difficult time brave men step forward to do their duty.  He droned on and the men shuffled feet and fidgeted in their seats.  Their greasy fried chicken and instant mashed potatoes grew cold on their plates the gravy congealing in puddles.  Finally, he finished up and lowered his incredibly ample ass onto the chair.   PLFFFFFTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT echoed through the stone walls. Someone in the back of the room yelled AMEN!   Leadbottom jumped to his feet huffing and puffing, he stormed around his chair.  Leaned over and with thumb and forefinger plucked a whoopee cushion from his chair.  The room erupted in laughter.   Leadbottom stormed out leaving his congealed gravy and soggy chicken.

Trooper Bob grinned knowing that the Ben Franklin sold more than just Zane Grey novels and Juicy Fruit.

            Night fell and the stars shone bright over the old fort.  Ghost of Pecos Bill and Skinny Jim Wainwright haunted the halls and watched over the troopers.  Snores echoed through walls and off of the wooden beams.  All quiet on the border. 

            The next morning the word came and the big yellow school buses started pulling up in front of the Officer’s Quarters.  The men roused from their beds cowlicks standing tall and sleep still in their eyes began their preparations.  The troopers shined their boots, cinched on their Sam Browns and pinned on their badges.  There were no jokes, no grab assing.  This was serious.  This was Poncho Villa serious.  There was a border war brewing and these men were the first line of defense.  They checked their cartridges and revolvers grabbed their shields, replaced their signature Stetson hats with helmets and moved out.  

            One by one they boarded the buses; the Colonel checked the names off his roster.  They were seated side by side, ready to do or die.  The Colonel cleared his throat and gave the instructions.  “On this auspicious occasion we must remember these are civilians, Mexican citizens.  Remember no violence unless necessary.  We are here to defend our citizens, never attack.  Keep your cool don’t let them goad you into a battle.  We are here as a show of force. I know you all have trained for riots but remember this is not training, men.  This is the real deal.  Now, does anyone one have any questions?”

            The men squirmed a bit not really sure what to expect.  The colonel made it sound so ominous.  Was there really going to be violence?  Was the joking around and hijinks over and now it was all business? 

            Deal raised his hand “Colonel, sir?”

            “Yes Deal?” the Colonel replied

            “Shouldn’t somebody stay back and defend the fort?” Deal asked with a straight face.

            “Shut up Deal and put on your helmet” The Colonel shouted over a bus full of laughter.

            Trooper Deal leaned over and whispered to Trooper Bob “John Wayne would have never left the fort undefended.”

GLADYS IS THE MISS MANNERS OF CAMPING

Years and years ago my family went camping in the mountains of New Mexico.  I was probably four years old but I still remember it like it was yesterday.  All of us piled in the salmon colored Ford station wagon, our beloved daschund huddled in the back seat with the rest of us kids drinking NeHi grape soda and eating Cheetos.   Hey don’t judge until you’ve tried it.  Muck the magic wiener dog loved it.

There we were in the wilds of the Gila Mountains.  Bare cliffs to the north of us and desert to the south of us.  My brother would tell me to get down in the floor boards because there were Indians on the cliffs and they loved to kidnap little girls with frizzy hair and buck teeth.  I looked up to my big brother and believed everything he told me.  Well, almost everything. 

It was in those early days that I learned the Golden Rules of Camping.  Yes, there are RULES.  There are rules for everything and everyone.  You don’t get a pass just because you think you are special.  Trust me you’re not. 

Let’s go over some of those rules and see if you are guilty of these or if you are a happy camper.

       The standard you bring it in, you take it out.  Everything from the wrapper on your snickers to poop.  Unless of course, facilities are provided.  Nobody wants to be out trekking the wilds only to come upon a big pile of your feces.  Novices to hiking will stand around with their guide books pontificating about which animal left their scat under the elm tree.  “It could be the Puma Concolor” Biff will pose while Skip will argue that it is the Ursus Americana.  Nope it will just be the old Americana Dumbass.

2.       If camping in a camp ground be respectful of your neighbor.  Now see I believe this goes back to that golden rule of life.  Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.  What I mean is don’t take up more space than was allotted you.  Don’t be noisy and rambunctious after ten pm and don’t be that morning clatterer clanging pots and pans before six in the morning.  Be respectful. 

3.       Just because you are camping does not give you or your children permission to act like fools.  Kids will be kids but teach your kids to respect themselves as well as others.  Don’t trample through someone else’s camp site.  Don’t set up camp in the middle of walk ways and or driving lanes.  Yes, we are all thrilled this is little Psummer’s with a silent P first camping trip and that little Gailey, pronounced Hailey, just loves to play in the stream but keep an eye on them for goodness sake.  No one wants to police your kids.  That is your job.

4.       If you have a large group camping together, please for the love of all things holy, do not take over the whole camp ground.  There are other people there trying to enjoy it too and may not want to be in the middle of your Corn Hole game or listen to your Uncle Bill’s rounding rendition of Jail House Rock.

5.       Pets.  Can we talk about your pets?  I love dogs, cats, ferrets and birds of all flavors but if you can’t control your animal then don’t bring it with you or at the very least keep it on a leash.  I know you love Fluffy and could not stand to be a minute away from the hairy little fuzz ball but remember Pete Puma loves Fluffy too.  Fluffy tastes just like chicken.  Also remember all animals do not instantly get along.  Dog fights are unpleasant, a kitty being terrorized by Fido is awful and your ferret burrowing into your neighbor’s camper is rude so keep your pet under control at all times.

OK, I’m gonna stop preaching here and leave you with a few thoughts.  Some people LIVE in their RV’s.  It is their home.  They go from place to place enjoying this wonderful country of ours.  Most of them are good at what they do.  They enjoy meeting new people and new faces.  So, when you're camping and someone says Good Morning or Good Afternoon, don’t be an ass.  Smile and return the greeting.  It will make you a better camper.

The Incident of the Shabby RV at Night

So, this happened...

Last week my Kahuna had travel out of town which meant he had to leave extra early.   We drag ourselves out of a nice comfortable slumber as the alarm screeched at us.  This was around 3:30 in the morning.  As is my pattern I rose and made him coffee and packed his lunch and breakfast.  We said our goodbye at the door.  I noticed an older shabby motorhome had parked across from us in the middle of the night. Odd but not alarming.

 Let me explain a little.  We are living in a motor home in a very nice R.V. Park at a Native American Casino.  Lots of nice rigs in a very quiet park.   

I went back to bed but traveling with a little dog you never get to sleep in.  I got up around six to let Bozz out to pee.  Which is when I noticed that there was a young man in a Kia parked across from me at the shabby RV. 

 Ok Odd but still not alarming. I mean people wait for people all the time, right?  I got ready to go to the store at about ten a.m. and the Kia was still parked in front of RV with the guy still sitting there. You know that feeling in your gut when something just doesn’t seem safe?  Yeah, I had that.  I needed to go grocery shopping and got in my car but still felt apprehensive about both the RV and the man waiting in front.  As I was leaving the park the ranger pulled in. I stopped and told him what spot I was in and what I had witnessed. He told me thanks and I went on my way.

 I got back to my RV around noon and low and behold the little Kia pulls in shortly after I did. This crack head looking guy got out of Kia ran into RV and then came back out and took off in a hurry. About an hour later I took Bozz for a walk and came back to sit outside and again another car pulled up to RV, guy gets out ran into RV and then out and sped off. This happened all afternoon. It was like watching a revolving door.  Car would pull up, person get out ran into the RV, door would fly open, off they would speed. 

 I walked to the office and told the girl at the desk what I had seen. I told her something just seemed sketchy. She asked what spot and I told her. She jumped up and told me that there is no one in that spot. Ummm Yeah there is.  She called the ranger who informed her he has stopped by there twice on suspicious vehicle calls, but had observed nothing. OK... I go back to RV.

Within minutes of me sitting down in my chair and opening my book a car sped up to RV. A girl jumped out and started pulling the hook-ups. It was like Mario Andretti’s pit crew.  She had water, sewer, power and cable pulled and in the RV in seconds flat.  They fired up the rig and drove off down the road, WITH SLIDE-OUTS STILL OUT.  Yes, that is what I said.  The slide outs were still fully extended.  They pulled up the road a little and I watched as four scruffy looking young men ran through the bushes and hopped into the shabby RV.  They goosed the diesel engine and in a cloud of bluish-black smoke they sped rocking and swaying out of the park, WITH SLIDES STILL FULLY EXTENDED. 

The girl from the office sped toward the listing RV she took the first corner on two wheels of her golf cart followed by the Tribal Police and the Park Ranger.  They convened in front of the vacated spot.  I stood and yelled to them “You just missed them.  They just rounded the corner in a cloud of smoke, but I don’t think they will get far”.  Ranger Tom called back “Why not?”  I laughed “THEIR SLIDES ARE STILL OUT”.   Ranger Tom and TPD Officer Brent sped off in pursuit of the shabby RV with its slides extended.  The girl from the office checked to make sure nothing had been damaged in the expedited exit of said RV. 

Later I spoke with the front desk and they told me that they had indeed caught the shabby RV down the road trying to suck in their slides and that they had been apprehended and dealt with.  And yes, to answer the big question in the spirit of Jesse Pinkman and Walter White it was indeed a meth RV.