Twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…
oh hello, didn’t see you there. I was just flubbing around here on the old guitar trying to remember that song by that group… what was there name? They were at Woodstock. Country Joe and something. Canned Tuna?
A Tin of Tuna? Mmmm.. that sounds delicious.
Something about a fish. I forget how it goes. twang…buzz…
This guitar here, I’ve had it for over forty years. It’s the size of a baby cello. twang…bzzz...twang. Cliff, one of my friends in high school, made it in shops class. He wasn’t very good at math or deciphering scale measurements. He was more of an abstract thinker. Psychedelics I remember. I’ve been practicing this opening riff to the old Who song, “I’m Going to Explain” or whatever it was called. “I’ll Explain Later”, that’s it. Remember…Bah!…Bah-ba!… Bahhh! Bah-ba! I think they did it at Woodstock.
Oh boy, yeah Woodstock. August 1969. twang…twang…buzzzz…
This year is the 40th anniversary but it seems like it was just yesterday. Or the day before. What is today, by the way? Wow those memories come seeping back man. Three days of peace, music and mud. A lot of mud. That’s what I remember…the mud. And the music, it was something else. It was muddied too and distant but I still heard them all… Jimi, Janis, the Who, Canned Tuna, Santa Anna, the Doors, Dylan. twang…twang…hummm…
I was, let’s see, ha, the mind seems to be slipping some these days, oh about eighteen back then…. twang…twang…
I do remember looking up through my parent’s basement window and seeing my best friend, Jorge on his knees growling, “hey Desieldorfor, grab some dough and a sleeping bag. Yasgur’s farm awaits!” I was puzzled because it looked like a large cat with a rat’s face peering in at me. I had just dropped some acid. “Farm?” Okay I told him.
We took off with some guy Jorge knew from school who had wheels. I think his name was Roscoe or Rothco, something like that. Off we went on this unplanned adventure to New York and an ‘Aquarian Festival’. It was the ‘Age of Aquarian’ or some crazy thing. Remember that song?… twang…twang…hummm… it is a drowning of the age of Aqu…anyway, it was a chance to get away from the SS back on the home front there in North Dakota. The ol’ Herr Fuhrer and Frau never said anything. I don’t think they knew I was gone. I did say bye to my little brother Mark who came chasing up behind Romeo’s car with my sleeping bag. Thanks Mark. I don’t know what I’d do without you.
To tell the truth, I don’t remember much about the trip having just dropped that acid. twang…twang…twang…buzz… We dropped another tab just as we were leaving the city.
I do remember lying in a field and it was raining pretty hard. I was trapped in my mudbag, damn that cheap bag and zipper… twang… and I could hear music playing off somewhere down a hill. Mostly I recall some farmer guy plowing by in a tractor, zig-zagging around a couple of us sleepy people. He was yelling at us, “fuck hippie, git outta here!” then,“OOOOH SHIT.” The rest is foggy. Twang…twang…buzz…
I guess Woodstock was a huge happening and there were drugs and music and plenty of bands to see and a ton of them got even more famous but I didn’t see them. I didn’t see anybody. We never did get to Yasgur’s farm.
We got as far as old farmer Rawley’s potato field about five miles from my house. Appears that acid was a real mind-bender.
I remember waking up in a rather comfortable bed…my own. And there was little Mark standing beside it holding my muddy sleeping bag. He told me I had been gone a day. twang… twang…Old Rawley had called the cops. Seems he ran over Jorge in his sleeping bag. The ground was so wet and mucky; he sunk into it like a log in quicksand. He was okay. Not a dent. And apparently all that music I heard…KCSN-92.5 FM blaring from Roy’s car, which had somehow found its way into Rawley’s ditch. Man those were some crazy times but I think most of us turned out all right. Twang…twang…buzz…twang
My little brother Mark called last week and asked if I wanted to go out to New York to celebrate the 40th anniversary. A lot of things have changed since the 60’s but not Mark. He’s still looking out for me. He’s like that Who’s song, “The Kid is Alright”. He even bought me that Woodstock DVD for Christmas. He said he didn’t want me to ever forget the experience. twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…
I’m now just a regular family man and I don’t need too many drugs these days to enjoy myself. I mostly get my high at my job landing airplanes. Maybe Mark’s right. We should go to the celebration and I’ll bring along Janine and the kids too. And when they ask, “Gee, were you really here?” I’ll pull out this baby cello and twang that wonderful old riff from that Who song, “I Can Explain”.
I really can.
Twang…twang…buzz… Twang…twang…buzz…
Jul 11, 2009
Jun 24, 2009
Inner Sanctum
“My body is a temple.”
I’ve heard this quote a lot. Those embracing such an idea are typically young and fit, inhaling and exhaling deeply as they lightly towel off after a vivid morning workout. They have a glow about them as bright as sunshine. These saints view the body as something to be respected. They see their vessel as a holy place. They exercise daily, eat the right nourishment, and down the correct Redline Extreme drink. Their goal is to keep evil out and only the good in. I’m all for that. The problem is, my temple is in ruin. It’s starting to crumble. It’s this ‘age’ thing.
It begins when we enter the world, fresh and pliable and continues downward until we are crumbling dust. Meanwhile, there’s this lifetime; this time-chewing wild-goose chase in which we search for answers to keep the body young. It’s quite pointless. The outcome is always the same. We all end up eventually with our scrawny gooses cooked. It’s enough to make you sick. As we age, our arteries stiffen, our body fat increases and our primary organs flirt with atrophy. On the outside, we sag and wrinkle and shrink like bugs to the flame. I’ve read we should avoid direct sunlight and use sunscreens. Though I don’t aspire to live my life as a tight-skinned vampire, I do try to be conscious of the elements. No, I take that back. I rarely use sunscreen though my wife always tells me I should. I’m just lazy. My complexion is light and I burn easily but I really want that tan! I rationalize that like white bread in a toaster, burning is the quickest way. There are scores of ads that point to your “skin-care professional” for the best products for your skin. I’m not buying it. Laser treatments, injections and dermabrasions are costly, somewhat uncomfortable and can take 4-8 weeks to see a result meaning it takes 1-2 months of actual aging to look younger. No my friend, there are no instant miracles out there that can save our dilapidated and shrinking shrines. I’ve come to my own personal understanding about my own tabernacle: ‘What I put into it will eventually come out of it’, one way or the other.
My health has had its ups and downs, nothing too serious like heart attacks, strokes or major part replacements. My downs involve nature’s natural discomforts, things like stomach cramps, indigestion, joint pain, constipation and occasionally, an obscure foot bump. These ailments may be indicators of something more sinister awaiting but for now I’ll just enjoy them and be thankful I’m not at the doctor. That’s the last place I’d want to be. Ending up at the doctor means the home remedies aimed at eliminating these afflictions aren’t working. I’ll peruse the medicine cabinet in search of the standard antacids, laxatives, or pain relievers to help alleviate the discomfort. For a foot bump, (actually a Planters wart on my heel from walking around in flip flops all day), I’ll unravel a foot of silver Duct tape and wrap my ankle like a Spartan about to invade Troy. I’ve heard the glue in the tape can ‘cure’ anything, even a wart. This remedy does seem to work as the bump has receded to about half its size but I’m left wondering if I’ve absorbed unwelcome chemical toxins into my system through the tape? I mean, if it’s quietly killing that hearty wart, how’s my thymus faring?
When these traditional remedies fail to work or not quickly enough, I’ll move on to loftier remedies. As with many temple rituals, I’ll resort to prayer. It’s cheap, painless and the results vary. I’ll pray (from within my temple) that I won’t fall apart too quickly. I’ll pray that it was just a momentary glitch that has caused the discomfort in my lower bowel. Perhaps that pasta was a bit too spicy, that mayonnaise a little too far past its expiration date, that chicken frightfully undercooked. I’ll pray my organs will supernaturally heal themselves. My prayer involves revisiting a scene from Lord of the Rings where the rotting dead are attacking the kinder Muppet people. The battlefield and fiery landscape surrounding them resembles the battle raging within my lower guts. I’ll then envision Galapagos or whatever his name is, riding in on his white stead and systematically smiting them all as that evil ‘burning eye’ dissolves. Transposing these images to the inner walls of my intestine, I’ll lay calmly as the battle for my Middle-earth rages on and quietly pray that my own personal ‘ring of fire’ will extinguish itself. It’s a long shot for that kind of remedy to work but it’s a passive, positive approach and better than calling an ambulance. It’s choosing mind over matter.
What ultimately cures any of these ailments is time. It’s an average of five days of discomfort and lag time and then one morning, the system is restored. I’m left to reflect on the old adage – which came first, the chicken or the egg? The supernaturally answered prayer or the normal ‘my system cured itself’ result? Whatever the case, there is much self-congratulations for an ordeal well absorbed, an oath to strictly monitor what I consume and an affirmation to adhere to a better, life-changing lifestyle which will include these keys to longevity: avoid violence, drive safely, don’t drink, smoke or do drugs, ask for help when you need it and have meaning in your life. I dug these keys up from a website that caters to people like me who can’t seem to follow the simple rule of ‘if it’s hurting you, then just stop!’ None of these keys are surprising. They are common sense and you’d have to be an imbecile not to simply understand them.
My temple is quiet now. It’s amazing how the body heals, how the mind corrects and recovers, then forgets. Within 6 hours of recovery, ordering a pizza seems just the right celebratory note and later, a chocolate chip cookie or two, a comforting reward for knowing my inner sanctum is in such good hands.
I’ve heard this quote a lot. Those embracing such an idea are typically young and fit, inhaling and exhaling deeply as they lightly towel off after a vivid morning workout. They have a glow about them as bright as sunshine. These saints view the body as something to be respected. They see their vessel as a holy place. They exercise daily, eat the right nourishment, and down the correct Redline Extreme drink. Their goal is to keep evil out and only the good in. I’m all for that. The problem is, my temple is in ruin. It’s starting to crumble. It’s this ‘age’ thing.
It begins when we enter the world, fresh and pliable and continues downward until we are crumbling dust. Meanwhile, there’s this lifetime; this time-chewing wild-goose chase in which we search for answers to keep the body young. It’s quite pointless. The outcome is always the same. We all end up eventually with our scrawny gooses cooked. It’s enough to make you sick. As we age, our arteries stiffen, our body fat increases and our primary organs flirt with atrophy. On the outside, we sag and wrinkle and shrink like bugs to the flame. I’ve read we should avoid direct sunlight and use sunscreens. Though I don’t aspire to live my life as a tight-skinned vampire, I do try to be conscious of the elements. No, I take that back. I rarely use sunscreen though my wife always tells me I should. I’m just lazy. My complexion is light and I burn easily but I really want that tan! I rationalize that like white bread in a toaster, burning is the quickest way. There are scores of ads that point to your “skin-care professional” for the best products for your skin. I’m not buying it. Laser treatments, injections and dermabrasions are costly, somewhat uncomfortable and can take 4-8 weeks to see a result meaning it takes 1-2 months of actual aging to look younger. No my friend, there are no instant miracles out there that can save our dilapidated and shrinking shrines. I’ve come to my own personal understanding about my own tabernacle: ‘What I put into it will eventually come out of it’, one way or the other.
My health has had its ups and downs, nothing too serious like heart attacks, strokes or major part replacements. My downs involve nature’s natural discomforts, things like stomach cramps, indigestion, joint pain, constipation and occasionally, an obscure foot bump. These ailments may be indicators of something more sinister awaiting but for now I’ll just enjoy them and be thankful I’m not at the doctor. That’s the last place I’d want to be. Ending up at the doctor means the home remedies aimed at eliminating these afflictions aren’t working. I’ll peruse the medicine cabinet in search of the standard antacids, laxatives, or pain relievers to help alleviate the discomfort. For a foot bump, (actually a Planters wart on my heel from walking around in flip flops all day), I’ll unravel a foot of silver Duct tape and wrap my ankle like a Spartan about to invade Troy. I’ve heard the glue in the tape can ‘cure’ anything, even a wart. This remedy does seem to work as the bump has receded to about half its size but I’m left wondering if I’ve absorbed unwelcome chemical toxins into my system through the tape? I mean, if it’s quietly killing that hearty wart, how’s my thymus faring?
When these traditional remedies fail to work or not quickly enough, I’ll move on to loftier remedies. As with many temple rituals, I’ll resort to prayer. It’s cheap, painless and the results vary. I’ll pray (from within my temple) that I won’t fall apart too quickly. I’ll pray that it was just a momentary glitch that has caused the discomfort in my lower bowel. Perhaps that pasta was a bit too spicy, that mayonnaise a little too far past its expiration date, that chicken frightfully undercooked. I’ll pray my organs will supernaturally heal themselves. My prayer involves revisiting a scene from Lord of the Rings where the rotting dead are attacking the kinder Muppet people. The battlefield and fiery landscape surrounding them resembles the battle raging within my lower guts. I’ll then envision Galapagos or whatever his name is, riding in on his white stead and systematically smiting them all as that evil ‘burning eye’ dissolves. Transposing these images to the inner walls of my intestine, I’ll lay calmly as the battle for my Middle-earth rages on and quietly pray that my own personal ‘ring of fire’ will extinguish itself. It’s a long shot for that kind of remedy to work but it’s a passive, positive approach and better than calling an ambulance. It’s choosing mind over matter.
What ultimately cures any of these ailments is time. It’s an average of five days of discomfort and lag time and then one morning, the system is restored. I’m left to reflect on the old adage – which came first, the chicken or the egg? The supernaturally answered prayer or the normal ‘my system cured itself’ result? Whatever the case, there is much self-congratulations for an ordeal well absorbed, an oath to strictly monitor what I consume and an affirmation to adhere to a better, life-changing lifestyle which will include these keys to longevity: avoid violence, drive safely, don’t drink, smoke or do drugs, ask for help when you need it and have meaning in your life. I dug these keys up from a website that caters to people like me who can’t seem to follow the simple rule of ‘if it’s hurting you, then just stop!’ None of these keys are surprising. They are common sense and you’d have to be an imbecile not to simply understand them.
My temple is quiet now. It’s amazing how the body heals, how the mind corrects and recovers, then forgets. Within 6 hours of recovery, ordering a pizza seems just the right celebratory note and later, a chocolate chip cookie or two, a comforting reward for knowing my inner sanctum is in such good hands.
May 23, 2009
Driving Me Mad
I recently got a ticket for speeding. I was doing forty-four in a thirty-five MPH speed zone. Unbelievable. The cop had come over a small ridge I had just crested, floating by like a shark in a wave, his lights flashing just as I passed him and he turned on a dime. I couldn’t believe I’d been driving that fast but according to his gun, I was.
The ticket indicated that I had thirty days to pay the fine and complete traffic school, which I could do online. Several traffic school websites were cited and I picked the first one on the list. The website’s logo was a cartoon drawing of single green dollar bill with big eyes, hands and feet. I don’t know about other states, but in this one you are required by law to endure at least four hours of palm-sweating punishment. To ensure this, your sessions are timed on an official clock. Once you begin a section, the clock starts to count down in the corner of your screen like a ticking explosive. It was unnerving. To begin with, I hate tests. There is a tendency for my mind to go blank. I couldn’t even tell you my name. I panicked just minutes into the first section and quickly logged out. I had wondered what would happen if I didn’t complete this first twenty-minute section in the allotted time?
Taking a deep breath, I logged back on. The green cartoon dollar, this time sitting and waving in a cartoon car, welcomed me back. If I were in my car, I’d have run him into the trees. The clock started up again just where it had left off. I completed and answered correctly the first section in eight minutes. I saw there were still ten minutes to kill before I could move on to the next section. This is where they got you.
In kindergarten, when you break the rules, you are issued a time-out. Banished to an empty table, you are to sit and sadly wait out your time. There, you can lower your head and cry. In traffic school, you are required to do the same. Lowering your head and crying is optional. They have a method to verify your compliance. During the initial registration, I was required to answer ten questions with a ‘Yes or No’ - ‘Have you ever sky dived from an airplane?’ or ‘Can you swim?’ During the four-hour course, one of these questions would randomly pop up and you were to answer it immediately, thereby confirming your presence, thereby confining you to the spot. I sat in front of the computer and self-righteously congratulated myself for choosing to abide by the rules and taking my punishment. Quietly glowering, I started the four-hour course, ever watchful for a sudden pop-up to appear out of the blue.
I failed the final exam. I couldn’t believe it. To pass the course, thirty-two out of forty correct answers were required. I got thirty-one. I knew it was all going to be a disaster when I read the first multiple-choice question:
‘In 2004, nineteen percent of all traffic fatalities of children between 5 and 9 years old were pedestrians’- (True or False)
I got it wrong. Many of the questions were like that, vague and statistical. I thought I’d see road sign diagrams, lane change rules and speed limit situations; questions that really mattered and affected the way one drives. Instead I got, ‘How many crashes were there in Florida during the dusk in 2004?’
The good news was that I could immediately retake the test at no extra cost. Though the questions were different, I only got two wrong and passed. I was mailed a certificate of Course Completion and I ran it down to the county clerk.
Now every time I come up that road, I’m reminded of my lesson learned and I watch my speed to such a fault that it could make me a dangerous driver. And as I approach that ridge, I’m even more watchful for any sudden pop-up to appear out of the blue.
The ticket indicated that I had thirty days to pay the fine and complete traffic school, which I could do online. Several traffic school websites were cited and I picked the first one on the list. The website’s logo was a cartoon drawing of single green dollar bill with big eyes, hands and feet. I don’t know about other states, but in this one you are required by law to endure at least four hours of palm-sweating punishment. To ensure this, your sessions are timed on an official clock. Once you begin a section, the clock starts to count down in the corner of your screen like a ticking explosive. It was unnerving. To begin with, I hate tests. There is a tendency for my mind to go blank. I couldn’t even tell you my name. I panicked just minutes into the first section and quickly logged out. I had wondered what would happen if I didn’t complete this first twenty-minute section in the allotted time?
Taking a deep breath, I logged back on. The green cartoon dollar, this time sitting and waving in a cartoon car, welcomed me back. If I were in my car, I’d have run him into the trees. The clock started up again just where it had left off. I completed and answered correctly the first section in eight minutes. I saw there were still ten minutes to kill before I could move on to the next section. This is where they got you.
In kindergarten, when you break the rules, you are issued a time-out. Banished to an empty table, you are to sit and sadly wait out your time. There, you can lower your head and cry. In traffic school, you are required to do the same. Lowering your head and crying is optional. They have a method to verify your compliance. During the initial registration, I was required to answer ten questions with a ‘Yes or No’ - ‘Have you ever sky dived from an airplane?’ or ‘Can you swim?’ During the four-hour course, one of these questions would randomly pop up and you were to answer it immediately, thereby confirming your presence, thereby confining you to the spot. I sat in front of the computer and self-righteously congratulated myself for choosing to abide by the rules and taking my punishment. Quietly glowering, I started the four-hour course, ever watchful for a sudden pop-up to appear out of the blue.
I failed the final exam. I couldn’t believe it. To pass the course, thirty-two out of forty correct answers were required. I got thirty-one. I knew it was all going to be a disaster when I read the first multiple-choice question:
‘In 2004, nineteen percent of all traffic fatalities of children between 5 and 9 years old were pedestrians’- (True or False)
I got it wrong. Many of the questions were like that, vague and statistical. I thought I’d see road sign diagrams, lane change rules and speed limit situations; questions that really mattered and affected the way one drives. Instead I got, ‘How many crashes were there in Florida during the dusk in 2004?’
The good news was that I could immediately retake the test at no extra cost. Though the questions were different, I only got two wrong and passed. I was mailed a certificate of Course Completion and I ran it down to the county clerk.
Now every time I come up that road, I’m reminded of my lesson learned and I watch my speed to such a fault that it could make me a dangerous driver. And as I approach that ridge, I’m even more watchful for any sudden pop-up to appear out of the blue.
Silhouettes Dancing Against A Poorly Pitched Tent
My father always liked the “idea” of camping, which was bewildering to me. My folks were not outdoor enthusiasts by any stretch of the imagination. They were hobby-less homebodies; more comfortable camped out in front of the TV than any raging campfire. The family recreational portrait was void of wild wilderness scenes: no snapshots of Dad with a leg up on the back of a surprised bull moose, surrounded by mugging sons with rifles raised above our heads; no sing-a-long moments around the campfire with Ma and sis in buckskin frying up a batch of freshly caught trout. Strangely, every summer when we traveled, it was the camping route we took.
Our sedate and pampered lifestyle was suddenly abandoned in favor of a dust-bowl family adventure with a carload of clothes, food, clanging pots and pans and squalling kids. It was like we’d dropped out of suburbia and impulsively joined the circus. This camping impulse may have come from my father’s WWII days of trudging around Europe and roughing it in a real life and death survival mode. Perhaps he wanted to give us all a taste of what it was like to endure some form of hardship, such as camping away from the civilized crowd and a flushing toilet. In reality, it may have been that a tent was a lot cheaper than a hotel when toting around a family of six.
My father purchased a good-sized one for these occasions. It was a framed work of art, the heavy canvas shellacked with a clear varnish that turned a brownish- pocked stain when it rained. Sometimes it looked like a monochromatic Jackson Pollack painting; other times as if gibbons with fluid fecal evacuations had let loose upon it. We were all part of this painting also; crudely drawn silhouettes rushing to set up a campsite as the sky darkened overhead. ‘Boy’s Rapidly Pounding Stakes’ or ‘Family Next To A Highway’ would have been appropriate titles for such a painting. ‘Silhouettes Dancing Against A Poorly Pitched Tent’ would have been perfect. It’s amazing our whole family slept in the damn thing, boxed in like a pack of cigarettes, four sleeping bags lined up vertically across the back of the tent and two horizontal at the door like smokes that had fallen over. The tent was sprayed with some form of a DDT defoliant to kill off the mosquitoes and you’d be either high as a kite or unconscious within minutes in the hot-bong sleeping chamber. There was only one chance to pee before you were zipped in for the night so with flashlight in hand, we’d seek out the campground’s outhouse that was never hard to find because of the damp path that led up to and circled it. Most of the time, we’d pee in the bushes close by and avoid going in it all together.
Once settled in and snug in our sleeping bags, we’d listen to the cars and big rig trucks rushing by just a few hundred yards away from the little COA rest stop. I used to think how easy it could have been to have our entire family wiped out in one fell swoop by some pill popping sleep-deprived trucker.
“Go to sleep,” my mother said from the front of the tent, her face not more than a foot away from your foot.
“I’m not tired,” someone would say, “what time is it?”
“It’s eight-thirty,” from my father, “now get to sleep!”
The constant hum of the highway eventually sent you off and then promptly woke you in the morning. Poking your head out into the fresh cold air, you were greeted with my mother cooking up runny eggs and Spam on a Coleman gas stove and my father shaving out of a metal bowl.
Yes, the folks may have been cheap and the accommodations inexpensive but all those memories were surely priceless.
Our sedate and pampered lifestyle was suddenly abandoned in favor of a dust-bowl family adventure with a carload of clothes, food, clanging pots and pans and squalling kids. It was like we’d dropped out of suburbia and impulsively joined the circus. This camping impulse may have come from my father’s WWII days of trudging around Europe and roughing it in a real life and death survival mode. Perhaps he wanted to give us all a taste of what it was like to endure some form of hardship, such as camping away from the civilized crowd and a flushing toilet. In reality, it may have been that a tent was a lot cheaper than a hotel when toting around a family of six.
My father purchased a good-sized one for these occasions. It was a framed work of art, the heavy canvas shellacked with a clear varnish that turned a brownish- pocked stain when it rained. Sometimes it looked like a monochromatic Jackson Pollack painting; other times as if gibbons with fluid fecal evacuations had let loose upon it. We were all part of this painting also; crudely drawn silhouettes rushing to set up a campsite as the sky darkened overhead. ‘Boy’s Rapidly Pounding Stakes’ or ‘Family Next To A Highway’ would have been appropriate titles for such a painting. ‘Silhouettes Dancing Against A Poorly Pitched Tent’ would have been perfect. It’s amazing our whole family slept in the damn thing, boxed in like a pack of cigarettes, four sleeping bags lined up vertically across the back of the tent and two horizontal at the door like smokes that had fallen over. The tent was sprayed with some form of a DDT defoliant to kill off the mosquitoes and you’d be either high as a kite or unconscious within minutes in the hot-bong sleeping chamber. There was only one chance to pee before you were zipped in for the night so with flashlight in hand, we’d seek out the campground’s outhouse that was never hard to find because of the damp path that led up to and circled it. Most of the time, we’d pee in the bushes close by and avoid going in it all together.
Once settled in and snug in our sleeping bags, we’d listen to the cars and big rig trucks rushing by just a few hundred yards away from the little COA rest stop. I used to think how easy it could have been to have our entire family wiped out in one fell swoop by some pill popping sleep-deprived trucker.
“Go to sleep,” my mother said from the front of the tent, her face not more than a foot away from your foot.
“I’m not tired,” someone would say, “what time is it?”
“It’s eight-thirty,” from my father, “now get to sleep!”
The constant hum of the highway eventually sent you off and then promptly woke you in the morning. Poking your head out into the fresh cold air, you were greeted with my mother cooking up runny eggs and Spam on a Coleman gas stove and my father shaving out of a metal bowl.
Yes, the folks may have been cheap and the accommodations inexpensive but all those memories were surely priceless.
Apr 22, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
