ENCHANTING FRIENDS

I’m not sure the reason I’m sore today is because I recently drove over 1,300 miles to New Mexico and back within a 4-day period or because I laughed so much with my friends I was visiting…probably a little but of both. This past Wednesday in Santa Fe, I met up with two gal pals, Pat and Mary, and our buddy Rat, who I’ve blogged about before. We have all known each other for over 50 years. In fact, Mary, Rat, and I were in school together from 1st grade through high school graduation. Pat is a year younger. Her husband and she now live in Chapel Hill, NC, but they still have a beautiful adobe-style home on the southwest outskirts of Santa Fe. Mary is sort of back-and-forthing it from Fredonia to Santa Fe, checking in on Pat’s place periodically. Rat lives in Vermont. Anyway, we had a totally great time--well worth the long drive. I will be blogging about our escapades starting tomorrow with: “Survivor Hike.”

CRISIS INTERVENTION

Ever since my kidney stone surgery and the subsequent order to start drinking a river of water every day, I’ve had to readjust my walk/jog schedule. In spite of unloading my bladder before taking off on the 3-mile jaunt, I can’t seem to hold off the urge to pee for more than about a mile; therefore, I try to make sure there is an official pit stop along the route I take. Typically, the recreation center out by the high school is open from 6-9 PM, so Sunday night I confidently headed out, knowing that the bathroom there would save me from the embarrassment of piddling in my Hanes.

But, when I finished the first mile and approached the rec center, doom set in. The place was closed! Well, maybe I could stifle the urge and keep going. I’d do a mile around the track and then finish with the mile back home. I could do it. On the second circuit around the track, though, I wasn’t so sure. There were flag football teams of kids playing on the west and east practice fields, so I began scoping out an unofficial pit stop underneath the grandstands, out of their sights, if worse came to worse and the dam began bursting.--which it just about did during my last lap. But just as I was about to put the emergency plan into motion, one of the kids’ teams decided to move to the main field at the track, putting the brakes to my idea.

I somehow finished the second mile without floating away, giving myself a 50-50 chance of making it back home with my bulging bladder intact. And then I saw my salvation--the math teacher’s truck parked at the locked school. Hallelujah! Saved. When I got outside his room, I knocked on one of the windows. He looked up from his computer, recognized the desperate goofball peering inside, and said, “You want in?” Not only is he a brilliant mathematician; he’s also psychic.

“You wouldn’t laugh at me too much if I told you my bladder is about ready to explode, would you?”

“Meet you at the side door.”

Relief came, and not a minute too soon. Believe me, I’m sending my former teaching colleague a thank-you note this week. It’s going to be addressed to: “My #1 hero.”

(The Flaming Bore is leaving for New Mexico early tomorrow morning and will be silent for the rest of the week.)

COMING HOME

(The ol' gang at the Nut Hut--December, 1967)

Saturday was my hometown’s homecoming. This is a ritual that’s taken place the first Saturday in October since the beginning of time in Fredonia. There’s always a streetload of activities going on, including a tractor-laden parade, rockin’ car show, top notch carnival (is that an oxymoron?)…the usual. But the main business of the day is visiting. Old classmates get together to recall high school war stories, relate what’s going on with the job and family, and, as they grow older, to compare health histories. (“Let me tell you about my kidney stone….”)

This was the 41st year since my class graduated, so we didn’t throw together a parade float like we did last year, but we still had a little gathering at the gazebo on the old school grounds, which is now a grassy plot of memories. Twenty from the Class of 1967 showed up to talk and take pictures during the windy afternoon, and some of us ended the day at the nearby Altoona Nut Hut for an early dinner. I’ve written before about the Hut, aka: The Mountain Oyster Shack and A & B Tavern, so I’ll skip the description here and go straight to my role in Saturday’s venture: designated driver for The Glass Blower.

Now, the Blower is arguably the most successful guy in our class, although he’s no hotshot college grad with a fancy degree. Long ago he developed a talent for glass blowing, eventually got hooked up with a world renowned artist’s Seattle-based organization, and he has since accumulated enough Frequent Flyer Miles to travel to the moon and back…his words, not mine. The glassworks he and his colleagues create are mind blowing. Go to about any fine art museum, North America and elsewhere, and you’ll see them.

At Homecoming, though, GB was back to his small town roots, grooving on possibly more than a few beers, and enjoying life. And that’s how I became his designated driver to the Nut Hut. We were good friends growing up, even once had a date to the Valentine Party when we were 15, so I was a likely source to escort his glassy ass to the Hut. But first, I had to make a stop at Mama Bore’s house, and I certainly wasn’t going to deny her the opportunity of seeing the ol’ Glass Blower after all these years.

Back in our school days, when he wasn’t a Frequent Flyer, he was a Frequent Friend at our house and Mama Bore knew him well. So well that one time when he was over, she hightailed it to the half-empty, half-pint of cherry vodka that was in the refrigerator and filled it to the brim with water when she suspected he was sampling the goods. I don’t know why she just didn’t spirit away the spirits elsewhere, she just didn’t. But anyway, when I re-introduced GB to Mama Bore, they had a good laugh about how he was such a “little stinker” 40-plus years ago.

Time and success has not changed him. He looks the same. He acts the same. Slight of stature. Loud of mouth---commanding our group at the Hut with nonsense: “Sometimes I work eleven days a week!” and rising in jest to tell those at the neighboring table to quiet down. He wanted me to take pictures of him…outside with the Hut sign, inside eating his Hut nuts…so he could show his metropolitan west coast pals what life in the Midwest is all about. As I drove him back to Fredonia to deposit him at his sister’s house, he spoke of the beauty of the scenery at his relatives’ digs southwest of town. This from a guy, albeit a little loaded, who has literally seen the world and could just as easily have been describing Venice or Paris.

As the old saying goes, with an alteration or two: You can take the nut out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the nut.

Great seeing you, Mike.

ROADSIDE SERVICE

When we were driving through western Kansas last Saturday evening on our way home from Colorado, Big Bore made a sudden stop on Highway 96.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“There’s a wallet in the middle of the highway back there,” he said. He has radar eyes and picks up on everything. Since there was no traffic coming from either way, he just backed the car, opened the car door, picked it up, and gave it to me.

“See who it belongs to,” he directed and resumed driving.

It was a nice brown wallet with a metal KU insignia on it, bereft of driver’s license and money but filled with current credit cards, an insurance card, and a season pass to Dighton football games. Dighton was only a few miles back, so Big Bore edged off the highway, pulled a U-turn, and away we went to turn it in to the police department there. Except we couldn’t find the cop shop in this sleepy little town, so we went to a convenient store and a customer told us it was located in the courthouse.

Well, on a Saturday night in Dighton, the courthouse is locked up and there were no signs indicating where there was a police department inside, so we stopped the next person we saw and found out we’d have to shake the front door to get the attention of a dispatcher. I was nominated for the job. Eventually, after talking to a woman through an invisible intercom, I was buzzed inside, dashed up to the second floor, and slipped the wallet through a security window. The dispatcher said she knew the owner very well…it’s a small town and everyone knows everyone…and she’d get it to him. I told her I was sorry that someone apparently took all his money and driver’s license, but maybe he’d be happy to get the credit cards back.

We got back on the road, about 20 minutes behind schedule, but that was okay. We had done our good deed for the day.

Toby R. Wilson of Dighton, Kansas, we hope you didn’t have much money in that wallet. And may the person who stole it and dumped it out on the highway be cursed forever. The Flaming Bore does not like thieves…or litterbugs!

CLANK

On our way to Colorado last week, we had to make numerous stops…Quik Trip for gas, Wal-Mart for shaving cream, Walgreen’s for dry shampoo, the old Ness County Bank for a picture, and, of course, there was the all-important food stop. This took place at a grocery store in Eads, Colorado, population 800. We asked the meat market guy/checker for directions to a park, so we could dine al fresco--Big Bore on baloney sandwiches and me on an oatmeal bar and banana.

But when we arrived at the park, just as a high school physical education class was leaving, I suddenly was no longer interested in eating. This was a park with shuffleboard and horseshoes and checkers!!! Cool! I hadn’t played horseshoes since I was a kid, and then it wasn’t at a regulation pit. This was professional, baby! While BB ate and cheered me on, I tossed away--never making a perfect ringer but coming close.

We learned from some townspeople that at first the school kids were appalled at the suggestion of having to play “old farts” games, but they quickly came to like them (probably since they didn’t involve running and doing push-ups) and became quite competitive. I really got into it, but Big Bore was more content to chow on the baloney, give me pointers, and swat flies.

Well, now that we’re home, I’m ready to turn my neighbors’ big yard into a major league horseshoe arena. I’m not sure how they’ll feel about it, but I figure the worst they can do is say, “Hell no! Have you gone crazy?” And then maybe toss me back into my own yard.

DEER HUNTING

Since I am a devoted member of the Loyal Order of Bambi Protectors, I had to take pictures of the deer we saw while on vacation. Now, I know if I lived in the country and my flowers and veggies were being their daily breakfast, I'd be cursing, "Damned deer!" But, there's just something about their gracefulness and serenity that appeal to me. So, without further ado...

My best shot.

Big Bore's best shot.

Oops! The one that got away.

Big Bore kept hoping we'd see a bear and even threatened to leave food outside the cabin to lure one into being our friendly neighbor so he could get a picture, but I made an even bigger threat to ex-communicate him if he did so. The only other so-called wildlife we saw in Colorado was a colony of prairie dogs in the foothills. Sorry, Literary Diva, no pictures of the wild life in the hot tub!

PURE GOLD

"There's gold in them thar hills!" The third week in September has never failed me when I've been in Colorado. The aspen trees are spectacular this time of year. Here are four pictures I took of populus tremuloides from our vacation. #1 (above) was taken on the ride up to Pike's Peak.

These next two pictures were taken along a country road during an afternoon drive.

This last shot was taken outside the cabin. These aspen were in various stages of green, yellow, and red.

In my opinion, their beauty is richer than gold.