Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Monday, April 17, 2017
Wildflowers
Wildflowers
The mountain air tickled goose bumps awake on Arlene’s arms and bare calves as she felt the pull of 60’s music. The thought of living in the mountains intrigued her—but not alone. She had tired of living alone, dining alone, driving to church alone. She glanced up at blue sky and muttered a simple, selfish prayer. Not to be alone. Without her little greenhouse to keep her busy back home, Arlene would doubtless go bonkers. Her flower orders had trickled to almost nothing though, so she welcomed this excursion as a break from routine.
Arlene frowned; hoping no one saw her standing here in her grass stained pants, and with her sweat stained bonnet. Arlene and her church group had just finished the annual spring cleanup at Camp Willbright. The church had received a monetary gift from a rich parishioner and had planned some impressive camp additions: a volleyball court, fresh paths and landscaping. They even hired a new director.
“Heard that song first in San Francisco,” a voice said.
Arlene started, the tone reminded her of Ted: rumbling, substantial. She had lost him a year ago, just five months after he took early retirement as a church music director. Arlene’s goose bumps worked their way further up, and her cheeks tingled as she faced the voice’s owner.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” The stranger appeared about Ted’s age—if he were still—. This must be the new camp director. Arlene’s throat tightened and her eyes beaded with tears. The stranger’s cheeks had blushed pink in the cold air. His warm turquoise eyes beamed.
“I didn’t mean to—.
“That’s fine,” Arlene said, “I just wasn’t expecting anyone back here. I must look a mess.” Arlene fussed with the collar on her grimy Old Navy t-shirt.
The stranger smiled, and his grin spread like butter, putting her immediately at ease—like hot chocolate, warm socks, or daffodils. He appeared stately, even in his gray sweats, topped by his beige golfer’s hat with its green bill. He stepped forward, and Arlene caught his aftershave—spicy and as solid as his chin and shoulders. He must be a sportsman, because he still bore the appearance of strength. He offered his hand, and it pressed firmly in hers.Arlene felt the small place between her shoulder blades tighten. She had not been this close to a man since Ted died.
A surfer song blared from the loudspeaker. “There’s another oldie but moldy!” His eyes crinkled, lifted by his bright grin. “Beth loves that one. I tease her about it constantly.” His hand dropped after their brief touch, and he stared ground ward as if seeking lost change. “Names Ernest Caruso,” he said, over the swift opening of a melody.
“Arlene Bass. And no fish jokes!” she said.
He grinned and creased the bill of his hat. “I promise.” He crossed his heart.
“I haven’t seen you before. I thought just our church group was here,” Arlene said. “I didn’t attend last year. This is my first time—in a while.” She stepped back a tad in case she had worked up a sweat, so she wouldn’t offend.
He smiled and toed the plush campground grass with his tennis shoe, and a grasshopper flicked away with a rickety scratch of yellow wings.
Arlene smiled, smelling the sweet spring. She blushed and inside chided herself for thinking that this amazing man, with the slight graying temples, would not have a Beth, or a Roxanne or someone. Arlene stared down at the gold band on Caruso’s hand and remembered his mentioning Beth. All the good men were taken. Well, she could still initiate a friendship with him and dear Beth. It would be better than nothing. Yet, two made company—three a crowd.
“Beth like it here?” she said. Arlene looked down, as if hoping to help him find the coins his eyes seemed searching for in the grass. She felt her cheeks burn. He fidgeted with what sounded like other coins in his jacket pocket. Arlene saw a wistful expression spread across his generous face. She continued, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Oh, it’s not that,” he said. He pulled his hand from his jacket and studied the gold wedding band she noticed earlier. Twisted it. “I guess I’m a sentimental old fool, or a romantic. Still wear it. You see Beth passed away two years now: an auto accident. I miss—she always helped me give places a woman’s touch, when we arrived. I guess camp will miss her knack with flowers and such. One thing death teaches is: seize the moment. I don’t take life for granted. That’s why I took this position when it opened.” He laughed, then coughed. “I’m rambling.”
“Oh, no. It’s nice to hear a gentleman talk,” Arlene said. “I miss my Ted’s conversation. Where did you get the live band?” The troop of musicians below began playing Baby I’m a Want You.
“From Baltimore. They’re staying in guest cabins. I have my work cut out perking this place up. Twenty-four cabins present a challenge for one guy to refurbish, repaint and provide with new landscaping. The church wants to spiff up the place. Want to stroll down closer? Take in the music.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I’m not presentable. I must be a mess, working all day,” Arlene said. She brushed at her hair. Getting to know someone new like Ernest scared her.
“Oh, you look fine. Like a wildflower.”
A blush rose in Arlene’s cheeks. She strolled down through the close-cropped grass toward the musicians and the smiling onlookers. A flash winked in the crowd, indicating someone had snapped a picture. Caruso followed a step or two to Arlene’s right. He strode confidant, yet casual. Maybe one did not have to stay—alone. She just needed to give Ernest a chance. No she must be making too much of their encounter.
“Speaking of wildflowers…I think you could plant some along the walks over there.” She pointed. “I have several varieties in my greenhouse ready to transplant.”
“Hmmm. You know flowers then?” Ernest Caruso said.
Arlene nodded. “I own a small greenhouse.” She tried to avoid grinning like some schoolgirl she would have frowned upon as a teen, but found it hopeless.
“Well, I guess I’ve found a landscaping expert; it seems. What do you think?” He winked. “Carpe diem, seize the day, I always say. Can I interest you in a snow cone from the refreshment stand, while you share flower advice?”
Arlene relaxed. “If I know anything,” she said, “it’s flowers…and seizing the day.”
Caruso beamed that perfect smile she noticed attracted her like fresh-cut flowers. “I can see that, Mrs. Bass. I can see that.” His eyes crinkled, and he and Arlene strolled together toward the refreshments.
Arlene walked, glancing at the shape of clouds, smiling. She hesitated.
He glanced at her, puzzled. “A penny for your thoughts?”
She felt warmness spread out from her heart to her fingers and toes. The nearness of another thoughtful human being felt so right. “Nothing. I was just thinking that front wall,” she pointed, “would be a good place for wildflowers.”
Where is Alan Ginsberg?
Where is Alan Ginsberg?
I Fear a
multitude of minds wallowing in their ineptitude and madness,
who wish to build
a wall of isolationism. Who do not realize who provides
the bread for
them to butter, picks their crops, or cleans their toilets. Fat and bloated
waving their 44
ounce convenience store cups;
waving their
stars and bars, vehemently holding their god hates fags
signs and their
burning crosses; putting words in our founding fathers
mouths; rewriting
our history books promoting only a god who
tortured Galileo,
denying History that shouts its warnings to deaf ears,
warning of its
repetition when ruled by the proudly ignorant.
I fear the 21st
century minds putting dinosaurs on Noah’s ark;
future fascist
leaders providing us with our convenient common enemy;
telling us what
to think and believe; giving us the means to the absolute selfie
we desperately
seek for our fifteen minutes
though we’ve long
forgotten who Andy Warhol was, or what he warned of.
I fear we’ve
forgotten you Allen Ginsberg…
among many other things.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Another tale from the oil field...
Mr. Blister
They called him Mr. Blister, because he always showed up after the work was done. Mr. Blister is that person everyone works with, but doesn’t want to. He’s the hypochondriac who wants to tell you about his hemorrhoid operation, he’s the one who always leaves work early and comes late, he’s the boss’s relative, he’s the person who makes your job harder, and the one that steals the last donut.
Our Mr. Blister was supposed to work derricks, but he weren’t very handy. Well, maybe at avoiding work. For him, he could squeeze 15 minutes to smoke a cigarette. Eating involved a mini-vacation. I think he would have cut off his own arm with a dull knife—if he’d been clever enough to think of it—to avoid work. Course, cutting off his arm would have been work too, so he couldn’t have accomplished that.
And Mr. Blister was a sight to behold. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith show, but without Don Knotts’ rugged good looks. I’m trying to remember if he had hands, because they were always stuck in his front overall pockets. Even the time he sported that parrot on his shoulder. Now that was a funny.
What bar urinal our driller scraped Mr. Blister from, I don’t recall. I think he was a little embarrassed to admit. Maybe he was the driller’s brother-in-law. Hell, we never knew. Ah, and Mr. Blister loved to narrate his stories. When he wasn’t complaining about his lumbago, or his shin splints, arthritis, or twenty-odd other diseases, he was barking away with some tall tale he knew.
“I embalmed my own Daddy for his funeral,” he’d said one time while I was trying to eat a ham on rye with mustard, and we were waiting for the drill pipe to circulate down hole.
“Why would you want to do that?” Jake our driller had asked.
“Hell, I wanted it done right! I used to do that, when I was younger, so’s when Pa bought the farm I told old Bishop down at the King & Sons funeral parlor he weren’t laying a hand on Pa without me. He told me, if that’s the way I was going to be, I could do it all myself. So’s I did.”
Proud? The old geezer probably wouldn’t a died if he’d knowed that. I shook my head at the time and pointed out Mr. Blister’s socks to Paul, the lead tong hand. One was black with a white stripe, and one was argyle. Paul snickered. “What’s comical about that?” Mr. Blister asked, loafing in the rig’s doghouse peeling an apple.
“Nothing, George, I was thinking of something else,” Paul answered, biting his tongue. (Mr. Blister’s Christian name—seldom used behind his back—was George).
Mr. Blister pictured himself something of a Romeo also. Remember, even Barney Fife courted Thelma Lou. But Mr. Blister even sucked the enjoyment right out of nattering about sex—which among oil field topics—attracts men like flies on manure. There was a time when sex and Mr. Blister in the same sentence rang funny though.
The crew was over at Glen’s trailer drinking beer. I know you’re thinking, man, how unusual, a drilling rig crew drinking beer! We were all feeling as jovial as tics on a fat hot. We were on six and two, and tomorrow would be the start of our days off. We’d also been drinking successfully for over two hours fore Mr. Blister found us.
“You guys forgot to tell me where the party was,” he said as he rolled out of his Ford station wagon—one of those old ones with the fake wood panels. “I had to cruise all o’r town looking for you.”
“Man!” Glen smashed a beer can into his forehead squishing it down to the size of a Copenhagen tin. “Sorry, Blist…I mean Georrrge.” Glen laughed from under his thin, red mustache. Mr. Blister sauntered on up to the yard’s white picket gate. He looked ragged—even for Mr. Blister. Like his clothes had been used as a dog blanket. And dogs were attracted to him like stink on shit, as you’ll see. Mr. Blister carried a pager so he could be contacted without calling poor unfortunate Mrs. Blister. He told her he needed it because of the odd hours his job demanded, but truth is, he kept it ‘cause he slept around a lot on Mrs. Blister.
I know what you’re thinking. It is scary enough thinking Mrs. Blister put up with his sorry ass, but it was even scarier thinking he found women to cheat on her with. You wondered if they had, say, all their faculties, body parts, or both.
“I just left Dora’s house.” He spoke of the woman everyone else called Dumpy Dora. Some people in town had bets on when Dora would bathe; nobody had won yet. “Got me some!” That image alone called for everyone to chug another round. “Didn’t even have time to change clothes.” That, we could believe.
Mr. Blister stepped inside the gate. Next to avoiding work like a full-blown case of AIDS, he loved to flirt with other men’s wives. And Glen’s stood just inside the gate talking to one of the other spouses. None of us paid any mind to his flirtations. We figured if any of his bait caught fish, they weren’t worth keeping. Most times, when Mr. Blister was mentioned, Ugh! Was the first word that issued from a reasonable woman’s mouth. But this time his flirtations caught everyone’s attention, especially Farts, Glen’s beagle dog. Farts was named to emphasize the obvious?
Next to—his was about to engage in with Mr. Blister—honest to goodness farts, flatulations, were nothing. Apparently, when Mr. Blister had partaken of the prairie flower of Dumpy Dora he’d picked up a distinct aroma that TURNED FARTS ON!
I looked down, and while Mr. Blister flirted with Glen’s wife, Farts humped his leg. I mean major sex. Mr. Blister peered down. Still trying to remain cool, he shook his leg. Farts humped harder. That dog vibrated like one of those little monkeys that played the cymbals, only Mr. Blister was the cymbals. Mr. Blister shook. Farts pumped. Shake. Pump. Shake. Pump. Shake, shake. Pump, pump…shake.
Mr. Blister, unwilling to risk irritating Glen by hurting his dog, finally just shrugged and ignored Farts. By now, everyone roared in laughter. Glen’s wife laughed so hard she literally peed her Lee jeans. I guess Mr. Blister decided that the only way he was going to shake Farts was to leave; so he did. He managed back to his car with Glen’s dog still hanging from his leg. Mr. Blister developed a sailor’s walk as he carted Farts back to his station wagon, like he was trying to avoid the listing of a ship that was tilting in the waves. Farts just humped.
Then there was the day rig owner visited to check on his investment. The tool-pusher had warned us to be on our best behavior. That was his big mistake. Everyone was nervous watching the tool-pusher being nervous. Everyone that is: except Mr. Blister. Big wigs didn’t bother him. The tool-pusher noted a sleek, black Suburban cruising up to the location. He looked around, hoping probably that Mr. Blister had sensed work and was hiding out. But that wasn’t to be the tool-pusher’s luck.
Just as the owner’s vehicle drove up, Mr. Blister sauntered toward the pad (that’s the cleared area where the rig sits). He’d been out in the mesquite answering the call of nature. The rig was circulating so no one was really needed on the floor. Anyway, those free from labor had grouped around by the tool-pusher’s trailer to meet the owner. It was said he sometime gave out caps, cigars, and booze to impress his workers. So, the rig owner walks over, and right then Mr. Blister strolls up from doing his duty. In his usual boorish way, Blister crowded the owner and grabbed the man’s hand in a firm handshake. The owner stared…… Truth is, we all stared. And stared.
“Mr. Russell. It’s a pleasure,” Mr. Blister blasted before anyone else could speak. Everyone remained speechless. Why couldn’t he see it himself? Everyone else could. As Mr. Blister was talking—perched on his shoulder like a brown parrot, sat a huge brown turd. Everyone else stood like hamstrung calves. If it hadn’t been for the owner, we’d been rolling on the ground. Blister had taken down his clothes to relieve himself and crapped on his own coverall shoulder—never realizing it in his eagerness to horn in on meeting the boss—and it had stuck.
“Mr. Russell, like I said; it’s a pleasure to meet you. Why, my daddy did a little oil investing fore he died. God rest his soul!” Mr. Russell, like the rest of us, just stared at George, flabbergasted. Did that crap parrot have to squawk to raise Blister’s attention?
Actually, it probably more resembled a Bizarro Dairy Queen fudge sundae. You know the way they have that “little curl” on top when they halt pumping the ice cream. A piece of turd oozed down the front of his coveralls, and I kid you not, little yellow-bits of corn dripped down his shirtfront in the shit, but he were too involved in himself to notice.
“…well, that was before I helped embalm him. You know I helped embalm my own pap. You believe that, Mr. Russell? Right after I got back from two tours in ‘Nam.
“That so,” Mr. Russell finally managed.
“No shit!” said Mr. Blister.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Russell.
They called him Mr. Blister, because he always showed up after the work was done. Mr. Blister is that person everyone works with, but doesn’t want to. He’s the hypochondriac who wants to tell you about his hemorrhoid operation, he’s the one who always leaves work early and comes late, he’s the boss’s relative, he’s the person who makes your job harder, and the one that steals the last donut.
Our Mr. Blister was supposed to work derricks, but he weren’t very handy. Well, maybe at avoiding work. For him, he could squeeze 15 minutes to smoke a cigarette. Eating involved a mini-vacation. I think he would have cut off his own arm with a dull knife—if he’d been clever enough to think of it—to avoid work. Course, cutting off his arm would have been work too, so he couldn’t have accomplished that.
And Mr. Blister was a sight to behold. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Barney Fife on the Andy Griffith show, but without Don Knotts’ rugged good looks. I’m trying to remember if he had hands, because they were always stuck in his front overall pockets. Even the time he sported that parrot on his shoulder. Now that was a funny.
What bar urinal our driller scraped Mr. Blister from, I don’t recall. I think he was a little embarrassed to admit. Maybe he was the driller’s brother-in-law. Hell, we never knew. Ah, and Mr. Blister loved to narrate his stories. When he wasn’t complaining about his lumbago, or his shin splints, arthritis, or twenty-odd other diseases, he was barking away with some tall tale he knew.
“I embalmed my own Daddy for his funeral,” he’d said one time while I was trying to eat a ham on rye with mustard, and we were waiting for the drill pipe to circulate down hole.
“Why would you want to do that?” Jake our driller had asked.
“Hell, I wanted it done right! I used to do that, when I was younger, so’s when Pa bought the farm I told old Bishop down at the King & Sons funeral parlor he weren’t laying a hand on Pa without me. He told me, if that’s the way I was going to be, I could do it all myself. So’s I did.”
Proud? The old geezer probably wouldn’t a died if he’d knowed that. I shook my head at the time and pointed out Mr. Blister’s socks to Paul, the lead tong hand. One was black with a white stripe, and one was argyle. Paul snickered. “What’s comical about that?” Mr. Blister asked, loafing in the rig’s doghouse peeling an apple.
“Nothing, George, I was thinking of something else,” Paul answered, biting his tongue. (Mr. Blister’s Christian name—seldom used behind his back—was George).
Mr. Blister pictured himself something of a Romeo also. Remember, even Barney Fife courted Thelma Lou. But Mr. Blister even sucked the enjoyment right out of nattering about sex—which among oil field topics—attracts men like flies on manure. There was a time when sex and Mr. Blister in the same sentence rang funny though.
The crew was over at Glen’s trailer drinking beer. I know you’re thinking, man, how unusual, a drilling rig crew drinking beer! We were all feeling as jovial as tics on a fat hot. We were on six and two, and tomorrow would be the start of our days off. We’d also been drinking successfully for over two hours fore Mr. Blister found us.
“You guys forgot to tell me where the party was,” he said as he rolled out of his Ford station wagon—one of those old ones with the fake wood panels. “I had to cruise all o’r town looking for you.”
“Man!” Glen smashed a beer can into his forehead squishing it down to the size of a Copenhagen tin. “Sorry, Blist…I mean Georrrge.” Glen laughed from under his thin, red mustache. Mr. Blister sauntered on up to the yard’s white picket gate. He looked ragged—even for Mr. Blister. Like his clothes had been used as a dog blanket. And dogs were attracted to him like stink on shit, as you’ll see. Mr. Blister carried a pager so he could be contacted without calling poor unfortunate Mrs. Blister. He told her he needed it because of the odd hours his job demanded, but truth is, he kept it ‘cause he slept around a lot on Mrs. Blister.
I know what you’re thinking. It is scary enough thinking Mrs. Blister put up with his sorry ass, but it was even scarier thinking he found women to cheat on her with. You wondered if they had, say, all their faculties, body parts, or both.
“I just left Dora’s house.” He spoke of the woman everyone else called Dumpy Dora. Some people in town had bets on when Dora would bathe; nobody had won yet. “Got me some!” That image alone called for everyone to chug another round. “Didn’t even have time to change clothes.” That, we could believe.
Mr. Blister stepped inside the gate. Next to avoiding work like a full-blown case of AIDS, he loved to flirt with other men’s wives. And Glen’s stood just inside the gate talking to one of the other spouses. None of us paid any mind to his flirtations. We figured if any of his bait caught fish, they weren’t worth keeping. Most times, when Mr. Blister was mentioned, Ugh! Was the first word that issued from a reasonable woman’s mouth. But this time his flirtations caught everyone’s attention, especially Farts, Glen’s beagle dog. Farts was named to emphasize the obvious?
Next to—his was about to engage in with Mr. Blister—honest to goodness farts, flatulations, were nothing. Apparently, when Mr. Blister had partaken of the prairie flower of Dumpy Dora he’d picked up a distinct aroma that TURNED FARTS ON!
I looked down, and while Mr. Blister flirted with Glen’s wife, Farts humped his leg. I mean major sex. Mr. Blister peered down. Still trying to remain cool, he shook his leg. Farts humped harder. That dog vibrated like one of those little monkeys that played the cymbals, only Mr. Blister was the cymbals. Mr. Blister shook. Farts pumped. Shake. Pump. Shake. Pump. Shake, shake. Pump, pump…shake.
Mr. Blister, unwilling to risk irritating Glen by hurting his dog, finally just shrugged and ignored Farts. By now, everyone roared in laughter. Glen’s wife laughed so hard she literally peed her Lee jeans. I guess Mr. Blister decided that the only way he was going to shake Farts was to leave; so he did. He managed back to his car with Glen’s dog still hanging from his leg. Mr. Blister developed a sailor’s walk as he carted Farts back to his station wagon, like he was trying to avoid the listing of a ship that was tilting in the waves. Farts just humped.
Then there was the day rig owner visited to check on his investment. The tool-pusher had warned us to be on our best behavior. That was his big mistake. Everyone was nervous watching the tool-pusher being nervous. Everyone that is: except Mr. Blister. Big wigs didn’t bother him. The tool-pusher noted a sleek, black Suburban cruising up to the location. He looked around, hoping probably that Mr. Blister had sensed work and was hiding out. But that wasn’t to be the tool-pusher’s luck.
Just as the owner’s vehicle drove up, Mr. Blister sauntered toward the pad (that’s the cleared area where the rig sits). He’d been out in the mesquite answering the call of nature. The rig was circulating so no one was really needed on the floor. Anyway, those free from labor had grouped around by the tool-pusher’s trailer to meet the owner. It was said he sometime gave out caps, cigars, and booze to impress his workers. So, the rig owner walks over, and right then Mr. Blister strolls up from doing his duty. In his usual boorish way, Blister crowded the owner and grabbed the man’s hand in a firm handshake. The owner stared…… Truth is, we all stared. And stared.
“Mr. Russell. It’s a pleasure,” Mr. Blister blasted before anyone else could speak. Everyone remained speechless. Why couldn’t he see it himself? Everyone else could. As Mr. Blister was talking—perched on his shoulder like a brown parrot, sat a huge brown turd. Everyone else stood like hamstrung calves. If it hadn’t been for the owner, we’d been rolling on the ground. Blister had taken down his clothes to relieve himself and crapped on his own coverall shoulder—never realizing it in his eagerness to horn in on meeting the boss—and it had stuck.
“Mr. Russell, like I said; it’s a pleasure to meet you. Why, my daddy did a little oil investing fore he died. God rest his soul!” Mr. Russell, like the rest of us, just stared at George, flabbergasted. Did that crap parrot have to squawk to raise Blister’s attention?
Actually, it probably more resembled a Bizarro Dairy Queen fudge sundae. You know the way they have that “little curl” on top when they halt pumping the ice cream. A piece of turd oozed down the front of his coveralls, and I kid you not, little yellow-bits of corn dripped down his shirtfront in the shit, but he were too involved in himself to notice.
“…well, that was before I helped embalm him. You know I helped embalm my own pap. You believe that, Mr. Russell? Right after I got back from two tours in ‘Nam.
“That so,” Mr. Russell finally managed.
“No shit!” said Mr. Blister.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mr. Russell.
Memories of Sky King!
MEMORIES OF SKY KING!
Sky King and I met on a black and white television in the 50’s in Tularosa, N.M. I met him in person later, in a compelling memory, which still brings a lump to my throat. I was one of four parachute jumpers crammed in a plane that day, but for a second, on that Las Cruces airfield, I was special. Heck, I still feel special when I think of it.
A kid growing up on the other side of the tracks in Tularosa needed heroes. Now that I’m older and wiser, I realize that dad was the greatest hero of that time, because I always had a roof over my head and I never went hungry. But that’s another story. My 50’s TV heroes were Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, Zorro, and Sky King.
I knew that when I heard, “Out of the clear blue of the western sky…comes Sky King!” I knew that for the next half hour all would be right with the world. Oh, there would be a ranch in trouble, or some such, and owl hoots might kidnap Penny. But even trouble seemed so much simpler in those days. On that 19-inch television, there was no problem to big for Sky King to handle. In the end, Sky King, played by actor Kirby Grant, would take to the air in the Songbird, and save the day. My mother got so frustrated with me saying, “Alan, don’t talk to the TV,” when I rooted for Sky King to get the bad guys!
I met Sky King again in the early 70’s. But the story is still about that little boy and that crime fighter from that earlier time. I was in college and felt the “call of the sky” myself. A jump master friend had persuaded most of us to skydive. I am still proud I was one of the few friends who didn’t break something trying Bob’s sport. Anyway, I had jumped once, but the pilot had been nervous flying jumpers, so I came away edgy from that experience. But I decided to jump at least twice: once to prove I could do “it” and a second time to prove I could do it even after I knew what “it” was.
Well, I’m glad I did. Organizers had advertised the event as the Sky King Air Show. Bob and I worked at the local radio station KGRT, so we finagled permission to join the air show as participants. Four of us would jump during the show. I was still on static line so the plane would drop me from about 2,000 feet and then the others would go up to a more impressive altitude and free fall before they opened their chutes.
We had elbows in backs; boots against thighs, the crowd clapped, whistled, and cheered in the stands and the propeller blasted the air. I was still nervous from my previous jump, but what happened next is one of those memories that never fail to give you a lump in your throat. Sky King had taken the microphone earlier in his trademark cowboy hat and was announcing the various events: planes flying upside down, belching red or yellow smoke, or wing walkers. And now, these young skydivers rolling up the runway for take off. I stare out of the plane (the door removed for jumping) to where Sky King holds the mike. I can’t hear him for all the noise, but I can see what he does next.
My childhood hero, the familiar of all the Saturday mornings, Sky King, raises his hand and, as if by magic, I’m five again. They have just cut back from a Nabisco commercial and there he stands. I can see he has a few more years on him now and he is in color. He’s a thinner, with some wrinkles. But it’s Sky King. And he’s raising his hand…he’s raising his hand and smiling—and he’s signaling me? My friend and I turn to each other with grins wide enough to cause definite wind resistance if we hadn’t been inside the cockpit. The rest of the flight has faded into history, because we were too busy
dealing with those first distance down the runway when: Sky King gave us the thumbs up! Out of the clear blue of the western sky…comes Sky King!
Sky King and I met on a black and white television in the 50’s in Tularosa, N.M. I met him in person later, in a compelling memory, which still brings a lump to my throat. I was one of four parachute jumpers crammed in a plane that day, but for a second, on that Las Cruces airfield, I was special. Heck, I still feel special when I think of it.
A kid growing up on the other side of the tracks in Tularosa needed heroes. Now that I’m older and wiser, I realize that dad was the greatest hero of that time, because I always had a roof over my head and I never went hungry. But that’s another story. My 50’s TV heroes were Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, Zorro, and Sky King.
I knew that when I heard, “Out of the clear blue of the western sky…comes Sky King!” I knew that for the next half hour all would be right with the world. Oh, there would be a ranch in trouble, or some such, and owl hoots might kidnap Penny. But even trouble seemed so much simpler in those days. On that 19-inch television, there was no problem to big for Sky King to handle. In the end, Sky King, played by actor Kirby Grant, would take to the air in the Songbird, and save the day. My mother got so frustrated with me saying, “Alan, don’t talk to the TV,” when I rooted for Sky King to get the bad guys!
I met Sky King again in the early 70’s. But the story is still about that little boy and that crime fighter from that earlier time. I was in college and felt the “call of the sky” myself. A jump master friend had persuaded most of us to skydive. I am still proud I was one of the few friends who didn’t break something trying Bob’s sport. Anyway, I had jumped once, but the pilot had been nervous flying jumpers, so I came away edgy from that experience. But I decided to jump at least twice: once to prove I could do “it” and a second time to prove I could do it even after I knew what “it” was.
Well, I’m glad I did. Organizers had advertised the event as the Sky King Air Show. Bob and I worked at the local radio station KGRT, so we finagled permission to join the air show as participants. Four of us would jump during the show. I was still on static line so the plane would drop me from about 2,000 feet and then the others would go up to a more impressive altitude and free fall before they opened their chutes.
We had elbows in backs; boots against thighs, the crowd clapped, whistled, and cheered in the stands and the propeller blasted the air. I was still nervous from my previous jump, but what happened next is one of those memories that never fail to give you a lump in your throat. Sky King had taken the microphone earlier in his trademark cowboy hat and was announcing the various events: planes flying upside down, belching red or yellow smoke, or wing walkers. And now, these young skydivers rolling up the runway for take off. I stare out of the plane (the door removed for jumping) to where Sky King holds the mike. I can’t hear him for all the noise, but I can see what he does next.
My childhood hero, the familiar of all the Saturday mornings, Sky King, raises his hand and, as if by magic, I’m five again. They have just cut back from a Nabisco commercial and there he stands. I can see he has a few more years on him now and he is in color. He’s a thinner, with some wrinkles. But it’s Sky King. And he’s raising his hand…he’s raising his hand and smiling—and he’s signaling me? My friend and I turn to each other with grins wide enough to cause definite wind resistance if we hadn’t been inside the cockpit. The rest of the flight has faded into history, because we were too busy
dealing with those first distance down the runway when: Sky King gave us the thumbs up! Out of the clear blue of the western sky…comes Sky King!
Sunday, April 2, 2017
Four Room School House
Four Room School House
In the mid-sixties, before Socorro
consolidated it schools
I attended the four room, gray school
house in Lemitar, NM.
With teachers like Mrs. Otero—later I
would drive her poor
husband crazy in high school—karma that
has definitely been
returned to me over my over twenty years
as a teacher myself—
Mr. Luna and Mr. Saiz.
The lunchroom ladies with delightful,
nutritious, “home cooked”
meals. I ran through the whole series of
the “I Was There” or was it
“You were there” books that were written
from the point of view
Of someone involved in a particular
important event like traveling with
Louis and Clark or being involved in the
Manhattan Project.
This is where I was when Mr. Luna sent us
home after word was released
that president Kennedy had been shot in
Dallas. I remember walking home
by myself uneasy—reacting to the event
that for many of us Boomers first made
us realize the fragility of our world.
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