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Gary O
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# Posted: 18 Aug 2012 12:43 - Edited by: Gary O
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'Are ya scared?'
Cabi and I were taking our 5 and 7 year old grandsons for a walk, just up the hill, in our suburban neighborhood a few years ago.
There was a wooded glen, just off the main road.
I noticed the youngest was looking around and every once in a while quickly behind himself, eyes bulging.
'Are ya scared?'
'No stupid, we're in town.'
A lota times their conversation was like two old men, one grumpy.
Made me chuckle, as we had told them about 'the deep dark woods'.
Another time, we took them to a park in Portland, an arboretum.
With visions of playground equipment, slides, swings, and merry-go-round, the youngest kept asking, 'When are we going to the park?'
'We ARE at the park!'
'Where?'
'You....are....STANDING on it!!'
Their conversation, killer, always.
They would spend the night, and watch scary movies till they were frozen to their chairs, couldn't even go pee.
Not the youngest so much, but the eldest, he loved to be scared.
One time we were watching PeeWee's Big Adventure, and when large Marge did her sudden change over to monster Marge, he shot outta his chair like he was catapulted from a gigantic spring, landing in namaw's lap six feet away.
He loved for me to tell scary stories when we sat out on the deck on a summer night.
'Tell me another one, papaw.'
One time I told one so scary,......with eerie glowing eyes on the TV, even when it was off, and then in the window, piercing the dark,...... that he asked me to stop. I could tell that he was torn, but his terror won out.
It's funny how just a hint of the presence of something sinister is far scarier than a full description of some drooling, toothsome ogre monster.
When I was about four or five, we lived out in the country.
A sparsely populated neighborhood tucked back in the Chapman hills about twenty miles outta Scappoose.
Our place, and gramma's place, atop the hill, was separated by five acres of strawberries carved out of a thicket of fir trees.
Ever so often I'd stay at gramma's on a summer evening.
She made good pancakes....and the folks were going out.
One time I waited too long at home. There was just too much cowboy'n to do, and I'd lost track of time.
It was already twilight, and I had several hundred yards up the hill thru a couple clumps of trees to negotiate.
As I trudged thru the first glade of trees, I thought about eyes staring at me.
I'd seen lots of bear sign in my tiny travels, and some bobcat and cougar scat here and there. So, plenty to consider.
(Actually, years later, coming from town one evening, we pulled into the garage, and a big cat jumped down from the rafters and fled into the night. We just saw body and tail, but it was, without a doubt, a full grown cougar.)
Whistling seemed to rid the noises of the stillness in the dark regions of my petrified mind.
A generous moon lengthened shadows, turning stumps into animals of prey, licking their lips, fixated on my dashing form, like Tag would when I showed him the stick I was about to throw.
Ever so often I'd give a quick glance back, but the glaring, glowing eyes that were obviously there would mysteriously disappear.
The clearing, the path, the 300 yard dash.
Breathing came in gasps and pants...or was that the breath of the galloping cougar that was about to sink his teeth into my neck any minute, and tear my puny body to shreds.
The folks will wonder in the morning, 'Where's Gary?'
Then, days later, they'll find bits of Oshkosh b'goshes, right at gramma's door, and shreds of poop stained fruit of the looms, and the brim of my straw cowboy hat, the hat part that once housed my furrowed little noggin now several miles away in a steaming mound of mountain lion poopoo.
The clump of trees loomed ahead, separating me and gramma, good ol' pillowy armed gramma.....even good ol' grumpy grampa.
I heard something shriek, or was it a howl...I don't recall my feet touching the ground over the last few yards thru their back yard thicket.
I do recall gramma, and her audible laughter, her high pitched teehee, as I hung my coat in the utility wash room of the back porch.
Apparently my countenance that morphed from bug eyed terror to smiling relief in the time space of flipping a light switch sorta tickled her.
The pancakes were extra good that next morning.
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Gary O
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# Posted: 7 Aug 2013 18:53 - Edited by: Gary O
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....an excerpt from some short stories
Labor
Let's start from the beginning (or as I've been told, mine).
Mom was in a maternity ward, toiling away.
Me? I was doing all I could to stay warm, and at home.
I was quite comfy and couldn't care less about goin' anywhere.
But this indescribable force propelled me into the chute much like someone cramming dirty laundry into an overstuffed washer.
Seventeen labor filled hours later;
'Hey, ya oughta see the mutt of a baby next to ours, geeeezus, head looks like a plumb bob!'
The young mother, next to mine, is frowning and signaling with her head toward mom.
Apparently, my trip thru the eerie canal was a tad narrow, and my noggin had taken on the shape of a butternut squash.
And why do they say the mothers are in labor?
Seems the kid is doin' all the work.
Then again, everything is work, really.
My dad proved this to me all through my growing up years.
I don't think he ever played a day in his life.
We got a boat, a large one, a cabin cruiser.
Dad had worked day and night to get it. Actually he hadn't worked to get it. He worked around the clock no matter what we needed or wanted.
The boat just happened to be the thing that seemed would be enjoyable, for the whole family.
Only every aspect about it was made into work.
Even when we were just cruising up the river, 'Gary, you stand here and watch for dead heads, you know what a dead head is dontcha? A dead head is a log that is just barely stickin' outta the water...can't see it right away, but it will tear a hole in the boat, and we'll all drown.'
'OK'
'And tighten that life jacket.'
'OK'
'Watch out for the wakes of other boats. You can get thrown out.'
'OK'
'DON'T TOUCH THAT!!'
'OK'
'Fun, huh?'
'OK'
Years later, I invited Dad to help me knock out a couple buckets of balls at the driving range. Maybe get him away from his life of toil a bit and relax.
Heh.
He swung so hard at those evasive little dimpled eggs, I thought he'd screw himself into the ground. After watching him do several pirouettes, half the time falling down, I came to the conclusion that there was nothing under the sun he didn't work at.
Turns out, he loved work.
And he wanted me to love it too.
His frustration with me was evident when we'd go into the back yard and 'just toss the ol' ball around'.
I had better than average hand/eye coordination, and probably better than average athletic ability, so playing ball came rather easy.
I made it look easy.
No awkward moves.
A bit of flow to things.
He thought I wasn't playing hard enough.
When he caught the ball, or threw it, he'd make a little grunt.
Actually he made that little grunt just picking up the newspaper, or shaving...'See you just take little strokes, ungh, like that, ungh.'
In 'just tossing the ol' ball around', he always had a fixed, determined stare....at the ball, coupled with a grim look, like he was just sentenced to a life of breaking rocks.
I'd toss it back him and watch his countenance tighten into a grimace as the ball sailed into his out stretched glove.
If I threw a moderately wild one, and he happened to miss it, he'd scurry back to get it like Peewee Reese was stealing home.
'OK, let's see how your fast ball is doin'.'
'Hey, nice curve, you've got a natural curve ball, boy.'
('my fast ball is goin' so slow he thinks it's a curve ball')
'One more hard one.'
Four hours of 'one more hard one' into the dark of night, three hours after Mom had advised that, 'our #&*%# dinner is getting #&*%# cold', I was given permission to carry my arm inside and plop it on the table.
It was work.
I liked to play.
But this is what I've come to determine; play is just fun work.
In my very early childhood years, I had several small toy cars and trucks. These were mostly rubber with yellow wheels. Several decades later, I looked up these cars. They were made by Auburn Rubber Company. I had the '56 Plymouth wagon, the '57 Ford Ranchero, the T-Bird, and the '32 deuce coupe hot rod. I also had the red Harley, but it was larger and my early obsessions would never allow myself to incorporate it into the scheme of things.
That scheme was building towns and neighborhoods.
The whole back yard was my universe.
I did my best to make it all as realistic as possible, carving roads in the side of the hill and building tiny houses and stores out of bricks and 2x4 mill ends. Using care to keep it all in scale.
Tuna cans became swimming pools.
Weeds became landscaping.
Tag, my overgrown ogre giant dog, became a pest.
The scourge of Tiny Town.
A happy, playful scourge.
Sometimes kids would come over, and bring their cars.
Only their cars were too big. They hadn't noticed.
I preferred to just play by myself.
My very own dirt erector set.
I needed nothing or anyone else.
But
The fun was in building. Once everything was built, it was over.
If I did let a kid play with me, they'd get all wrapped up in a plot of some kind, and jabber away at who everyone was, and several scenes would be discussed. None of that did anything for me.
I did, however, in my toddler years, sit in on a couple tea parties my sister and Bessie Dodge put on.
But, they too were enmeshed in setting up scenarios. It was as though they were miniature playwrights, discussing various acts and scenes. And I, I was the best boy, or key grip, or maybe gaffer.
'OK, you were upset because Rock Hudson didn't show up, but I was happy because my handsome boyfriend, Cary Grant, was here, more tea?'
(seems I was hauled in to be the Cary Grant stand in)
The tea (tepid water), and the mud scones (mud scones) looked quite inviting, all set up on the tiny card table with frilly napkins and minute fine chinette.
After initial set up, all this became an unbearable bore. So, as interest faded, and the mud around my lips dried (yes, I actually ate the scones) I sidled away from their little playhouse setting, finding fascination with bugs and ants and a magnifying glass.
It seems, at least in the '50s, that 'play' was a bit overrated and overplayed.......I guess hyped would be the word.
TV ads would show kids eyes light up when they played with things like Tinker toys and Lincoln Logs, or (be still my heart) Lionel trains.
They would say things like 'Gee' and Gosh' and have an eternal smile pasted on their little gleeful mugs.
So, me and sis would be layin' on the floor, elbows helping our hands prop our faces up, starin' at the grey and white ads, absorbing thoughts like, 'Huh, so that's what happy looks like.'
Parents would look on, paralyzed with guilt, unable to flip the channel, mainly because that was the only one that had decent reception, let alone have to get up and turn the knob.
Come to think about it, actual play hardly existed back then.
Anticipation
Unwrapping
Putting together (by illiterate overconfident parents that abhorred reading any printed matter)
Crying
Going to bed
That's what mostly existed.
I just liked building, fun work.
Around twelve, or maybe thirteen, we moved further out of town. The neighborhood was spread out and six acres of woods, that bordered a few thousand acres of woods, was our back yard.
I scrounged some 2x4s and sheets of ply, along with some sheets of tin and fashioned myself a little hut. I loosely called it my cabin.
It was just a lean-to with homemade door and scavenged cot.
However, it was mine, my place.
Again, once it was built the fun was over.
Sure, I'd sleep in it sometimes, but it was cold, and damp, and leaked like a sieve. I learned to appreciate the finer things of life, like a house, and a proper bed, and a refrigerator, and a toilet.
That work thing that my dad was so enrapt in took on a whole new admiration.
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Gary O
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# Posted: 20 Aug 2013 22:32
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I write
I write a lot when I'm a bit troubled
Then I'm compelled to bless people with it
Forgive me
INTERESTING
Had to visit Dad yesterday. (now weeks ago)
Don't like doin' that anymore.
He's gone quite a ways downhill.
Physically, he's OK......kinda.
He's been well into the Tim Conway shuffle for some time now.
Watching him head to the restroom is like watching an arcade duck scuttle back and forth.
Mentally, he's hardly a shadow of himself.
The neurologist says he's suffered a stroke.
Seems it was during or around the time of my son's wedding a few weeks ago.
Conversation with him is different now.
Not even the same old stories.
Thing is, he no longer has any short term memory, and fractured recall of anything long term.......anything.
He's got a new word in his vocabulary. One seldom used before;
'Interesting'.
He uses it like a scientist that just stumbled onto something never considered.
'Dad, do you remember your children's names?'
'Who?'
'Your children.'
'I have children? What's their names?'
'Well, there's me.'
'I have a child named Me?'
'You have three children.'
(20 second pause from our incontinent conversation)
'Interesting...
What's their names?'
'Do you remember what gramma used to say?'
'Wait a minute, we have the same gramma?'
'No, my gramma is your mom.'
(pause)
'Interesting...'
'Saaaay, who are you?'
'I'm your wife, and this guy is your son.'
'REALLY?' (lips quivering, starting to cry)
(quickly) 'Hey Dad, who's gonna win the series this year?'
'I try to be serious.'
'I was talking about baseball.'
'I played it.'
'I know......do you keep up on the fight game?'
'I used to box.'
'I know.....do you remember any of those fights?'
'Fights?'
'You used to box.'
'Interesting...'
"Well, I better get going.'
'OK, it's been nice talking to you. You should come back when you can stay longer. I really miss you.'
The way his cognizance swings in and out really takes me off guard, as I'll chime in with what he's talking about, only to find he's already lost it.
'I'll be back in a week or two.'
(turning to his wife) 'He seems to be a nice guy.....what's his name?'
'Gary, he's your son.'
'Interesting...'
Geeeezus
today;
So, my dad has bladder cancer.
They found a cauliflower lookin' thing hangin' upside down in the upper region.
'we got it all'
Three days later...'it's spread throughout his system'
My brother and I w/be going with him to the hospital to help his wife make a decision whether or not to ply him with chemo.
What decision?
He's freaking 90.
I'm gonna tell 'em to let him be...until he's racked with pain.....then it's the morphine motel (he won't be stayin' long).
If my brother argues, I'll beat him like I did 50 yrs ago after I discovered he ratted me out for taking Dad's Bonneville thru a switchback sideways.
At present, I've got weightier decisions.
Whether or not to let that damn noisy Jay live or not.
Got a bead on 'im now.....one more irritating noise
...c'mon
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Gary O
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# Posted: 1 Jan 2014 02:35
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I started my resolution early.
Usually, about this time of year, I'll resolve to lose one quarter of myself.
Usually, this determined oath occurs sometime between Christmas dinner and a nap.
It's always very heart felt.
Arm outstretched.
Shaking clenched fist.
'As god is my witness!'
All 'at.
Of course it's the 25th of December, and the contest of my deep conviction starts at the stroke of midnight....five days later.
During this five day span, my mind will play little tricks on me, like; ('psst, fatso; yer gonna beeee starrrrving sooooon, better load UUUUUuuup').
So I'll gorge on anything within dimpled finger's reach.
Pre-hibernation grizzlies could take notes.
Last year I ate a large bowl of compost that was trickily staged on the kitchen counter.
Thought it was some sorta failed chili.
Wife sez, 'hey, thanks for taking out the garbage.'
Sadly, extreme hunger occurs about two hours and two poops into the morning of the first.
Football is all day that day.
So, at halftimes I've been known to be busy....like running up the hill.
If you weigh, say, 267 lbs, but should be maybe 180, you can experience a rather euphoric cardiac arrest after only 100 feet of the chubby legged dash.
But
Heh heh
I'm on it now.
Gonna break 200 by June.
That's my resolution.
Even right now, I'm gonna waddle over to the den and eyeball the tiny clothes in that closet.
Nothing in there has an 'X' on it.
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Gary O
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# Posted: 2 Jan 2014 09:44
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2014
SHEESH, twenty fourteen.
Twenty anything.
Never considered getting here.
My father is dying, but more active than me.
My woman is moving slower, but can do laps around me when we walk.
We stare, wondering what the hey each other is saying.
My grandkids are big....huge.
I mostly just wanna kick their hind ends now.
I hurt....in the weirdest places (everywhere).
My gut makes odd, possessed noises....somewhere between freight train and garbage disposal.
I itch......places I no longer can get at.
My vision is not far reaching, nor close range, so I squint with a quizzical look on my grizzled mug.
I can't smell my own farts.
My hands sleep longer than I do.
If something I need falls to the floor, I kick it over by furniture so I can hold on, on the way down.
There is no 'easing' into the lazyboy.
I drink gallons of water to keep my pee stream in the realm of pathetic.
I can't hear much of anything due to that constant freaking ocean noise. Which makes sense, because my ears are starting to resemble conch shells.
I often wondered why old folks are all grumpy and crotchety all the time.
Heh, we've earned it.
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Gary O
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# Posted: 13 Apr 2014 23:11
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Nature
Its joke on aging
T'wards the end of my 64th year.
Gonna retire in 12 months.
Takin' inventory again;
Still got everthing.
Most my hair.
More than half my teeth.
All my innards.
Ten fingers, ten toes.
Gernrly all still intact, just changing a bit.
Either my head is shrinking or my ears are growing.
My toe nails are becoming somewhat hoof like.
I now use industrial side cutters and a rasp to keep those things pared back.
Here's where nature has somehow become unfair.
Wimin tend to fight aging, tooth and nail.
Right up to, oh, say, in their seventies...maybe older.
Some don't.
My wife doesn't.
She doesn't have to.
Her god given beauty from youth is still there...just a bit different, in a relaxed elastic sorta way.
However, most battle on, losing, slowly, bravely inching back, protecting what's left.
But, there comes a time when they really should throw in the trowel, and come to grips that excess putty isn't cutting it.
Poor things, vision gone south, smearing lipstick ear to ear, plucking brows, plastering laugh lines, laugh lines from what must have been some extremely hilarious jokes, getting their sagging eye lids done, only to end up looking like a very surprised Joker's gramma.
And us guys?
We seem to go from self-esteemed Adonises, to gut baring hogs overnight.
but
For some unfair reason, we go from there to becoming 'distinguished', graying temples and all.
We become 'lovable'...'adorable'...still, in some odd doddering way, 'attractive'.
This is looked upon by our mutually aged mates as aggravatingly disgusting.
However,
after that, we proceed to extreme oblivion.
We've all seen these decrepit hairless geriatric dudes in the malls and grocery stores.
Plodding, trudging behind their mates, mates now pert and spry, by the way.
Yeah, these old guys are still above ground, still as oblivious to their looks as they were in high school.
Hair, what wisps that are left, a bit awry.
Suspenders unhooked in the back.
Blueberry jam stain on the front of their plaid shirt, blending quite well with the ever present drool spots.
Shuffling, farting...completely unaware, as their sense of hearing and olfactory organs are long gone...hopefully it's just farting.
I'm not there yet....at least nobody has complained....not that I'd hear them.......
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Gary O
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# Posted: 16 Nov 2014 12:50 - Edited by: Gary O
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Toast
Ever notice how long it takes to make toast?
About the same amount of time it takes water to boil.
It can seem a mini eon
'Cause, if that's the only thing you are waiting for, the time shuffles by rather slowly, don't it.
Heh, and if you are in a hurry and you force the lever up, well, that ain't toast.
Making toast
If you are;
stuck (on a project, or problem)
pissed
missing someone or something
make toast
If you are;
downn hearted
in a hurry (to screw things up)
make toast
If you are;
absent minded
in a general dither
make toast
Thing is, there's a magical element of elapsed time, not even sure how long that is, but it's a span very necessary to settle the mind.
This time cannot be used in other busy forms
Most of us are not given to staring blankly into space.
However, for some inexplicable reason, if we fixate on making toast, we easily fall into Zen like states of mind.
And if you are intent on the toast, it's impossible to remain in that squirrel cage you were going nowhere in
and,
you end up with
toast.
....this can also work to remedy hunger
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Gary O
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# Posted: 10 May 2015 06:53
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I've got to dump this stuff somewhere (sorry)
Dawgs are the greatest of drinking partners;
They don't tell stupid stories.
They don't get louder.
They don't sing...unless you do.
They're not offended by the term 'bitch'.
They're not even offended by your farts. They enjoy them, taking in as much as possible, then looking into your eyes with an expression of sincere admiration that says
'good one'....and.....theirs are much much more potent.
They hang around when you pass out...especially if they are already passed out.
The snoring, twitching and air running is acceptable (they are really not bothered by whatever you do).
They have sense enough to take it outside when they feel the urge to throw up....or pee.
(I recommend drinking on the back deck for the lesser intellectual pups...or people).
But, if you happen to be the one to inadvertently blow chips, say, on the floor or deck, they don't go 'ewwwww!', but have been known to diligently clean things up....you don't even have to ask.
No training required.
and
walking sideways over to the water bowl is....HILARIOUS!
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Gary O
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# Posted: 6 Dec 2015 00:09
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Tis the season
Went to town
Stopped at McDonalds
Walked in (drive thru was jammed)
Ordered a McCoffee
Stood back in order purgatory away from the ever growing line of pseudo-beef cravers
Frantic place
Pre diabetic saccharinated preschoolers zipping from the play room to the McToilet and back.
Young McMuthers, with old eyes, trying to keep track, chasing with sanitized wipes.
The McManager is a tad over the top.
Too happy
Worn out smile
No longer actually sees individuals, just the herd.
He'll prolly go home a couple hours after his shift, trudge up the stairs to his apartment, throw his bills on the kitchen table, sit, open his McGarbage burger with stale fries, and stare....at his gun.
The trainee is doing her best to remain in the flow, the running of the McBulls.
The old hand, been there forever (two months), instinctively stabs at a handful of tiny Heinz ketchup packets for the lacking customer in the emergency queue.
An old man, squinting at the menu board, trying to decide on which delicacy would be optimal in regard to his budget and digestive tract while the assistant manager idles in high gear, eyes darting.
Good coffee
No need for a refill
Made my way to the Ronald McDonald house of poop.
Left a rather significant McTurd in McStall number 2....fitting.
Noticed the auto flush was still struggling with it as I administered a papal blessing to the McAuto paper towel dispenser.
My work is done here.
Outside, three McTrainees by the dumpster are huffing down cigarettes, texting, eyeballing the time.
I am happy
For McRetirement
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Gary O
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# Posted: 7 Feb 2020 06:52
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At the age you are now,
what would you tell your younger self?
Here's what I'd tell me;
Everthing else.....savor.....and HURRY!
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