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.

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!

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.

awg's ethnicity

Ethnicity Estimate for alan greenwood

REGION APPROXIMATE AMOUNT

Africa 0%

America 0%

Asia 0%

Europe 100%

Ireland 30%

Great Britain 28%

Scandinavia 22%

Italy/Greece 9%

Europe West 6%

    Trace Regions

    What are "Trace Regions"?

These are regions where you seem to have just a trace amount of genetic ethnicity — there is only a small amount of evidence supporting the regions as part of your genetic ethnicity. Because both the estimated amount and the range of the estimate are small, it is possible that these regions appear by chance and are not actually part of your genetic ethnicity

5%

Iberian Peninsula 4%

Europe East < 1%

The History of “The Jack of All Trades…The Master of None”

The difficulty of truly communicating

    Talkers

Sometimes you send a message

and it travels along as if passed

to an intention-ed recipient by a

code,

Or it reaches a synapses in the

transport system; sits stagnant in

some back mail room, or stuck

among a server’s bits and bytes.

How difficult it seems to vocalize

the sounds. Write, or tap the keys

that will reveal our true intent.

Easier to harvest dust from Mars,

or clone a replica of a Scottish

sheep,

than weld true communication

between two human minds.

        alan wayne greenwood

A Dime for My Thoughts

The Mercury dime is a ten-cent coin struck by the United States Mint from 1916 to 1945. Designed by Adolph Weinman and also referred to as the Winged Liberty Head dime, it gained its common name as the obverse depiction of a young Liberty, identifiable by her winged Phrygian cap, was confused with the Roman god Mercury. Weinman is believed to have used Elsie Stevens, the wife of lawyer and poet Wallace Stevens, as a model. The coin's reverse depicts a fasces, symbolizing unity and strength, and an olive branch, signifying peace. (Wikipedia)
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Little tidbits like this is what I love to come across. Interesting items about how interlaced all our lives are and how much I learn from reading books: both fiction and non-fiction. As a poet, I like to read autobiographies and biographies of poets. Upon reading the latest on Wallace Stevens I stumbled upon this jewel---for me anyway. 

Stevens will be remembered as one of our greatest American poets. It's interesting to read about his interactions with other poets of what amounts to (now) as an era over a hundred years ago. He, like many poets, could not make a living from this passion, so his main contribution to his finances was through his work as a lawyer and businessman---mainly for various insurance companies.

I'm still in this book after finishing another study, The Marginal Jew, about the historical Jesus Christ. I've read several books in this genre and they're always a challenge, because literary and historical research in the theological area seems to attract some very intelligent, high brow characters. My next fictional book is one I'm anxious to enter. I've been hearing lots of good things about it. It's called Lincoln in the Bardo by George Sanders. Up until now, he's been known and respected for his highly acclaimed short stories.

Ghosts----modern technology

Ghosts

Modern technology allows
the capturing of moments
from the outside in. Video
& audio actions seized,
then flattened in pixels
and .wav files: 1’s & 0’s.

While posing uneasily for one
quick pic, Mother stands in her
wrinkled Muumuu promptly
muttering,
“Oh, stow that damn camera.”

Through diagonal TV images, you…
Voyeur, perhaps even Gravedigger, now
reliving moments gone like lost breaths.

You pause the remote control and wish—
like Our Town’s Emily--that moments
could genuinely be re-lived, appreciating
their precious,  under-treasured passage.

But you sigh, recognizing you’ve only
captured their slight impressions on these
mechanical senses, in today’s technology.
Their spirit has evaded all the strengths
of your desires---and present science.

                                 alan wayne greenwood

The Stolen Pens

 The Stolen Pens

alan w greenwood

originally published in Grit magazine 

            Miss Mildred Perkins had taught third grade twenty five years at Herbert Hoover Grade School in Phil Mont, Texas. She had reached the grand old age of 50 years—half a century. 350 if you counted in dog years! And Miss Mildred Perkins marked her final week from retirement on her GARFIELD DIETS calendar in red ink (a teacher’s favorite color): May 25^th was “D” day. She had circled the day several times with permanent marker. Four days until then, thirty hours, fourteen lunch duties, two fights, one bloody nose, and countless more recesses. Teaching had tired Miss Mildred Perkins. She had taught her children despite principals and superintendents, searching for parents who cared or had time to help as chaperones on trips to the zoo, or buying glue. She had trouble finding children who learned despite all their problems: bad home lives, ADD and poverty. She had lined up desk every afternoon and picked up papers and gum. And now her new Crayola felt tips…were gone. Stolen.

            Where was honesty with these modern children nowadays? This kids just didn’t have any. Kids in the 90’s…oh my gosh the 00’s; you could not trust them farther than you could toss them. She had to watch everything in her room or it would walk off and never surface again.

Miss Mildred Perkins stared up at the face of her large clock. “Children, five minutes!” She said this to the five little scoundrels serving her afternoon d-hall. She frowned and they sulked and fidgeted. One played with his belt loop. Another tapped a number 2 pencil on her desk like a metronome. A commotion buzzed in the hallway today too. Why didn’t the others GO HOME? What were they doing out there? Playing basketball? “Five minutes and you children can leave.” Mildred arched her eyebrows, displaying the look she had found could curl children’s socks. “Consuelo, did you get your arithmetic turned in? You don’t want your grade to go down.”

Consuelo nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.” Her ponytail flipped.

“Margaret, do—not—forget your jacket. It may be chilly tomorrow morning and you will catch your death of cold. You never know what this weather will do. You children never think ahead.” Also, she could not find her good scissors—the blue handled ones Mrs. Stone had given her for Christmas two years ago. Mildred started to chastise Manuel for his squirming, but did not. He squirmed some more and picked his nose.

Miss Mildred Perkin’s sister, Beth, lived near San Antonio in Texas hill country. They had prepared her a room complete with an easel and a view of the hills and nearby oaks. Perfect, she thought, no kids! Just Beth’s husband Elmer to deal with. She could handle him. Beth had made Mildred promise to call tonight and update them on her schedule. They knew she rented here, and it would not take her long to uproot from Phil Mont.

            Miss Mildred Perkins studied Manuel and Bobby sitting beside her. Was it one of them—took her pens and scissors? Probably, marking up the boy’s rest room with them, she thought. They were always doing something. She kept these particular children close, not from her fondness for them, but to manage their outbursts during class. Manuel had untied shoelaces as usual, his feet not touching the wooden floor. Work had been so different when she had first started teaching. Kids seemed nicer, more tolerable. Or had she just been younger, more enthusiastic and more naive. Was that marker ink on Consuelo’s fingertips? It looked like marker ink. Stealing! She spent enough of her own money buying supplies, lending lunch money, providing tissues for their snotty little noses. If the thief had asked, she would have given the supplies. All they had to do was ask!

            “Miss. Perkins, what you do when you don’t…teach?” Margaret asked.

“What do I do?” Mildred Perkins answered. “It’s what do I do, Margaret.”

Children couldn’t imagine teachers outside school. When she was little, Mildred thought her teacher, Mrs. Craibel, slept at her school. She had lingered once after the other children left. Peeked through the first floor window to see what teachers did when they were alone. Mildred Perkins smiled.

“Dear, I’ll paint. That’s what I’ll do when I retire next week. But with difficultly…seems someone made off with my NEW drawing pens. But I imagine no one here would know anything about that, would they.”

Several sets of brown eyes stared guiltily at their scarred desktops. Mildred Perkins grew bolder. These five were usually responsible for much of the mischief in room 17: her room for all those years of teaching. Except for the one year she taught high school, but she rushed hurriedly back to her eight-year-olds at Adams Elementary the next year. She had declined the principal’s job twice—remaining with her children.

            “They making you quit?” Bobby asked. He scratched a freckle on  nose with his pencil eraser. Miss Mildred Perkins, whimsically, imagined how he would appear with his scores of freckles joined—like connecting dots. A puzzle from Scholastic Magazine: Color Bobby’s face.

            “No, dear, they’re not making me. It’s called retirement. You do what you really want and don’t have to work anymore when you retire.”

            “So, you don’t like teaching us anymore?” He seemed perplexed.

            “Of course I like teaching. Except when people steal things from me,” she said. Mildred Perkins raised her thin eyebrows for emphasis. Bobby shrunk down in his chair. Squirmed right and left.  Talking and scuffling issued from the hallway. Miss Mildred Perkins had finally had enough. She marched to the door to see what was brewing outside room 17. What was all the noise?

            “Surprise!” 

Miss Mildred Perkins’s mouth dropped when she looked out. Her entire third grade class crowded the hall, with several parents, and some smiling colleagues, including Mrs. Stone. One of Mildred’s students, a girl, pushed to the front with a small, carefully wrapped gift. They had tied it in a yellow bow—looked tied by a youngster. One side of the bow larger than the other. Another student carried a German chocolate cake: Mildred’ favorite desert. How had they known that was her favorite?

She heard laughter from behind and turned. Her five little prisoners held a banner they had unrolled secretly behind her. The students had scrawled WE WELL MISS YOU MISS PIRKINS! on the long white paper held stretched between Bobby and Margaret. Miss Mildred Perkins noted with humility that students had scribbled the banner with what she guessed were her Crayola markers. So that’s where those darn markers went. They had probably used her scissors also, to wrap the present.

            “Open your present!” The eight-year-olds whined. “Open—it, Miss Perkins!”

Miss Mildred Perkins’s eyes misted. She studied each of her little criminals from d-hall. Not exactly the James Gang at that. Bobby peeked around shyly from behind the banner. The hall air-conditioning popped on and set the banner to waving. 

            “We borrowed your stuff, Miss. Perkins. Sorry. We wanted to make this banner for your surprise. And we wanted to wrap your present.” His figure blurred. A smile crinkled the corners of Mildred Perkin’s mouth as she took the offered gift, clutching it to her ample bosom. Her eyes misted and she held her breath for a moment.

            “You have fun in Uvalde…not being a teacher,” Manuel added, squirming. “Open it!” The students, parents and other teachers crowded her.

“Happy retirement, Mildred,” Mrs. Stone said. Her friend smiled, clutching Mildred’s wrist warmly.

Poppycock! Kids were still the same deep down inside. What had she been thinking? What were a few pens, if they had been “borrowed”? Heck, even if a student had stolen them. She had received so much more from her teaching in the last 25 years. Much, much more. More than she could imagine giving up when she retired. Mildred unwrapped the paper ever so carefully from the gift.

            “I’ll get your stuff…your pens, Miss. Perkins,” Margaret said.

            “You just do that, Margaret. Because I will need them soon. Right here!” Everyone stared at her questioningly. Mrs. Stone grinned. She already knew what Mildred was thinking. Mildred opened her gift, the most precious one stood before her now, she reasoned. She would get a bigger retirement check for teaching five more years. She WAS only 50.

She had some talking to do—with the principal. John would see her side of it and keep her on. Heck, she had taught him when he wasn’t much bigger than a folding chair. He better! And her sister and the Texas hill country could wait…the painters could breathe a sigh of relief they would have no competition from her. She could teach five more years, and send more Bobbies and Manuels to d-hall. And make more memories.

            “Hand me those scissors kids, my blue-handled ones, young lady, so I can cut this darn ribbon. But you may want your present back—”

Everyone stared. Mrs. Stone raised her shoulders and grinned. Grabbed Mildred and hugged her. After Stone released her, Mildred grinned, snipping the present’s red ribbon. Below her, Bobby still stood holding the stolen pens, eyebrows raised in question. She’d tell them the good news later.    

Bread and Circuses

 We are living in sinister times where a minority of extremely rich and powerful people are removing rights, privileges, and advantages from the rest of us, and a vast number of those affected---not even aware they are at risk--- are allowing them and in many instances blindly cheering the situation on... falling for the old bread and circuses.

I Surrender