Technical Assistant

When I retired a year ago, I attempted to examine my habits and decide which ones to keep, modify or add. My explosion of free time felt like living childhood over again without the direction of parents. One of the first habits to go was wearing a wrist watch. No need to know the time, if it didn't matter what time it was.

Then I started splitting wood. That changed everything. If you have a grueling job, add thousands of insects, in addition to heavy humidity, ceasing operations becomes your focal point. It turned out I didn't know when to quit. As Huxley wrote, "Time Must Have a Stop."

Lucky for me, I knew where to find my much needed technical assistant. Strapping that watch on my wrist again felt like I had just discovered the wheel.

Fog In

In July '62, I had just graduated from high school, and ready to hit the road with my new freedom.

West coast USA was the goal with the lure of the Seattle World's Fair thrown in for a specific target. My friend Chris and I were hitchhiking, but we had the luxury of one hundred dollars in Travelers Checks stashed for backup. We each had a suitcase with a blanket so that we could sleep in fields along the way. No sense trying to camp if you don't have camping gear.

We got to the World's Fair with time to spare. One phone exhibit, ATT allowed anyone in line to make a phone call for three minutes to anywhere in the United States free! Not inclined to long lines, I declined the opportunity. Besides that, Phones had limited utility anyway.

While coming back to Michigan along route 101, the coastal California highway, Chris and I ran into a snag of sorts. We were walking along the road, the surf was pounding on the rocks below, and to the right, the mountain climbed straight up. Not much room to maneuver. The one thing that we did have for consolation in our imagination was the dense fog that amplified the surf hitting the rock below.

We are walking, talking, hoping while moving down the road, but the prospects did not look good at this point. Content in our ignorance and armed with the ability to whistle in the dark, we continue to move down the road thinking that this might last all night. We were seeing America, why rush anyway?

Then, a new element appears behind us, slow moving lights. This seems unnatural. A car trailing two walkers. We know we are close to Big Sur, but not sure how far away it might be.

This continues for awhile, but the car never passes. Then we come upon a small inn nestled on the mountain. Chris decides this is our shot in the dark and we are determined to take it. We go inside, but it is hard to hang loose and pretend we're looking for casual coffee.

A Swiss immigrant, who happens to be the cook, befriends us. He is working here hoping to make a break through into mime. Neither Chris or I ever ran across any mimes in Keego, but we take him at his word, since he is the only one talking to us. When his shift is finished, he drives us further up the mountain in his old '39 Chevy and feeds us bread and cheese. We decline the wine as we don't view ourselves as continental just yet. We're working on it, but it probably means that we have to turn eighteen to be qualified. Next morning, the sky was clear as we traveled down the mountain, and we were on the road again.

Odds and Eggs

Scurrying around searching in three cookbooks, I am attempting to find the recipe to boil eggs. Doesn't seem like it would be that hard of a task, but I've used three cookbooks before and one of the recipes turned out well. I would love to find that one again! Paul, working on the red checkered dining room table, is intently slamming thousands of tunes into his new laptop. In frustration with the endless search, I interrupt Paul. "Paul, how do you boil eggs?" He takes the question in stride, turns half way around, with an over the shoulder answer, "Boil 'em 'til one cracks."

This is the missing piece of information! Google in the next room. If I had only thought to ask earlier, quicker results could have been mine. Thirty minutes later, my fine brown eggs are looking good but still not cracking. Confident, I invoke the statute of limitations, and turn off the burner. Best boiled eggs I ever had, and they lasted for days.

Not red and white

Jan's house is up for sale now for the fifth year. To date, not a soul has ventured to check it out.

Brother Paul was completing some restoration work on January's ceiling. It looked pretty ragged from a regular viewer's point of view, even I knew something had to be repaired.

While Paul is on the job, he discovers a round oak table with classic bronze gears. Apparently, this classic table came from the Outpost. He is trying to convince me to take it back home so that it is saved from St. Vincent de Paul. In fact, he is pleading with me. "I'll restore it, this oak will shine, let me do it!" I say, "Ok, ok.... apparently, you have strong feelings in this matter."

When my wood-splitting task is done for the day, I head for Houghton Lake to look for a plastic, red and white checkered tablecloth to cover my table. The concept here is to re-enact a picnic in the kitchen everyday. It seems that even with the vast resources of Walmart, I am years too late. In the end, I stumble upon a black and red plastic tablecloth and am quite happy to pick it up for a song.

First Generation

Bill in his earlier days. Perhaps when he was still boxing. Firm 1G foundation.

Fishing Trip

My jaw dropped as he said it. "Archie, I want you to go down to Kmart and buy some gold fish." It was snowing outside the Bat Cave. Wm T. and I were roommates in Pontiac. This rather odd arrangement occurred as Hope thought it would be good for the family. Bill and I had just spent the afternoon at the kitchen table discussing "God, & Man & Law" along with a few beers to solidify the mix. The alcohol had convinced me that we had achieved parity. I was only nineteen, but I was paying half the rent and doing the other things dictated for my share.

William T. was taking a drag off his cigarette and glancing at the floor as he inhaled. With rhetorical flourish that continued the speculative nature of our earlier conversations, I said, "What if I don't do it?" Without even looking up, he said in a supremely calm voice, "Honey, I'll dazzle you with footwork." Instantly, my mind reeled back to the proper balance of father and son, and I replied with enthusiasm, "Yes, Sir!" . This predated Nike's famous dictum, "Just do it."

Hung Jury

In mulling over my acceptance reaction to jury duty, I am struck by several discordant notes in the "summons". It is riddled with threats. Phrases like, "contempt of court", "show cause", "mandatory" along with the final stinger, "appropriate dress is required". What is "appropriate dress" in Crawford County where protective service is the number one employer? Wm T. used to say, "You can't hang a man for his judgement", but I believe it happens everyday. The system doesn't even know me, yet they are treating me like a would be criminal. It seems they should meet me first before making that judgement. Our country has only four percent of the world's population, yet we have twenty-four percent of that population in jail. Perhaps something in our core culture needs to be examined and modified in our pursuit of "Justice."