TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: A RADIO GHOST STORY

A scene from The Great American Southwest: Looking across the scrub and juniper at the south side of the Capitan Range in Lincoln County, New Mexico.

by Grant McGee

Not too long ago I woke up in the middle of the night, a doorbell jarred me out of a sound sleep.

i looked at the time on my bedside clock: 1:30. I settled back under the covers.

I don’t have a doorbell. 

I noted the time in case something happened to someone from my circle of family and friends that morning, that way I’d know they had dropped by to say goodbye. I believe in cosmic woo-woo stuff like that.

That’s happened to me twice: When my mom died a couple of years ago and when a fellow disc jockey clocked out when I lived in Arizona.

It’s been 22 years since Chris the morning disc jockey called me a half-hour after he died in a car wreck. Some might say I’m mistaken...that he called me....but that’s what I believe. 

I was operations manager for three radio stations under one roof. The boss thought I was “too country” for his country station so he made me his ops manager. I was glad, at least I got to keep a job. Chris was the morning DJ at the rock station. He was very popular. 

The last time I saw Chris he was on his way out the radio station door on a sunny Friday afternoon.  His work day was done.

“Have a great weekend, Grant.”

I looked up from writing a commercial, “You too, Chris.” I watched as the screen door closed behind him and he walked off into the afternoon sun. Later I would wish I’d said something better. I think we feel that way when someone we know is abruptly yanked off the stage of life.

Saturday morning my phone rang at 4:30. It was an automated voice. Many radio stations these days have an automated alarm system that calls a list of people when something goes wrong with the equipment. I was second on the list.

“Station three. Intruder, fire, flood.”

I hadn’t heard this message before from “station three,” the rock station. I'd gotten calls about station one and station two but not station three.  I entered a code into the phone and went back to bed. I lived a half-hour away. If something was wrong at the station the engineer, first on the list, ought to be able to handle it.

That morning after I woke up I was bothered by something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Around 10 a.m. I had an urge to call the station. Silly, I thought, it’s Saturday, no one’s there. But the urge to phone in was strong.  

The general manager answered. 

If I expected no one to be there I REALLY didn’t expect the GM to be in the building.

“What are you doing there, Ken?” 

“Grant, I need you to come in, Chris died this morning.”

“What?” I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.

“He and a friend were on their way back from a party in Tucson when his pal fell asleep at the wheel.  They ran off the road and into an embankment.  Chris wasn’t wearing his seat belt. He went right through the windshield. I’m here with a trooper going through our files trying to find next of kin.”

Ken went on to tell me he needed me and another DJ to come to the station right away and re-voice all the commercials that Chris had on the air.

“We can’t have a dead man’s voice on the air,” Ken said. “It’s not right.”

Days later when things settled down I was having a conversation with Bill, our radio engineer. “You know, I got a call Saturday morning from the alert system, ‘station three, intruder, fire, flood,’” I said.

“I was home Saturday morning, it didn’t call me. Besides, the burglar alarm isn’t wired up.”

“It didn't call you?  You're first on the list.  It called me.”

“No, that’s not logical.” Logically is how a lot of radio engineers think. If it ain’t broke they can’t fix it, if it ain’t wired up there’s no way it can work. “I’m first on the list, you’re second. It would have called me before you and I didn’t get a call. Plus station three isn’t hooked up.”

“Well I got the call.”

Bill shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

Then it dawned on me. Station three was Chris’ station. The accident happened around 4 a.m. The call came a half-hour later.

Before Chris journeyed on to wherever we journey to when it’s all over, did he drop by work to take one last look around? Did he want me to know he’d dropped by?

I think so.

It makes a good story, anyway.

-30-

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: A NEW DATE FOR DOOMSDAY

Looking across the San Pedro River Valley in Cochise County, Arizona between Bisbee and Tombstone.  The range in the distance are the Huachuca Mountains near Sierra Vista.

By Grant McGee

                It didn’t happen in 2000 with Y2K, it didn’t happen in 2011 when some church dude said it would and it didn’t happen in 2012 with the end of Mayan Calendar.

                Talking about Doomsday, the end of the world.

                Now there’s a new date for Doomsday:  January 13, 2020.

                I got the word from Georgia the other day.

                Apparently some Earth Mother type has done an astrological reading and told a small group that something will happen that day…It could be Doomsday, could be a worldwide catastrophe, whatever.

                This is apparently a pretty small group that believes this, I did an Internet search on the topic and couldn’t find a thing.

                I don’t know why folks seem to be preoccupied with the end of the world.

                I remember another time when some people thought the world as we knew it would come to an end.  It was 1997 when some “New Age” folks predicted our world would change from one made of matter to one made of anti-matter.

                There would be three days of darkness.  All machinery would stop working, except for water systems.  I thought it was interesting there’d still be tap water.  We would emerge on the other side of the darkness converted to anti-matter.  Well, everyone except those who had too many alpha particles attached to them.  Alpha particles were negative-angry thoughts and if you had too many the three days of darkness would be illuminated by folks burning up like 4^th of July sparklers.  Everyone was told to boost their good, positive thoughts, make things right with those you’re angry with, forgive… to eliminate alpha particles.

                At the time I was living in Bisbee, Arizona.  Weekly seminars on this stuff were conducted.  I had nothing else to do on Tuesday nights so I went.

                Changing into anti-matter would’ve been interesting because anti-matter didn’t deteriorate like matter does, according to the seminar teachers.  So one could live forever, walk through walls and stuff like that.  You would no longer just smell a rose bush, for instance, you could walk into the rose bush and become one with the rose bush.  That would mean The Sex would be a whole different ball game.

                The expected date came and went.  One by one folks stopped coming on Tuesday nights.   I packed it in when one of the attendees said the change was still coming because her vacuum cleaner and toaster were developing intelligence and rebelling against her.

                “My vacuum cleaner was in the living room this morning,” said the woman speaking in a hushed tone, eyeing every one of us around the room.  “I didn’t put it there.  It moved there on its own.”

                There were nods of agreement and some “oohs” and “aahs.”

                Yep, time to leave that group behind.

                I remember kicking back with some friends and telling them about the stuff discussed in the meetings.

                “What do you think the end of the world would really be like?” I asked my pals.

                There was this long silence.  You could’ve heard a pin drop.  Sideways glances were exchanged.

                Finally, one of my friends spoke up.

                “I think everyone would be really, really thirsty.”

                Hmm, something to ponder.

-30-

TALES FROM THE EDGE OF THE EARTH: FOUND NOTES AND SUCH

Actual factual grocery list I found in the parking lot of a supermarket.

By Grant McGee

“Hi Boo!  Wot u been?  2 me nuthin.  Just chillin –n- thinking bout u so bored.  Miss u yo bad azz is green.  Did u tell Cheldra sumthin bout Keyshawn –n- dnt let Nekeyla read our notes cuz all she do is tell everybody wat we be talkin bout 4 it take u so long 2 write me bac c if u can cum 2 mi hous dis weekend well mi gum hav no mo flavor so bye talk later kisses BYE BOO”

So read part of the note I found on the ground while I was out for my walk with my dogs.

There was something going on in this note but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.  Probably a little "he'n and she'n," as my boss euphemistically called The Sex, was in the air.

I like found notes.

To me, they’re a real indicator of the human condition.

I mean it’s not like reading a diary or anything.  I don’t know who wrote it and if they chucked the note to begin with what can it hurt?

I used to save such notes, I was going to write something extensive about them, but didn’t.

I remember them though.

There was the one I found in the street in Phoenix complete with a drawing of a scowling sun and a spike-collared pit bull on a chain.  Someone had written “The cop and the gangbanger,” a bit of writing devoid of punctuation that detailed a gangbanger making friends with a policeman and how the gangbanger didn’t know how to feel when the policeman shot and killed the gangbanger’s friend.

There was the grocery list written by the person who had apparently been in school the day they taught the lesson on apostrophes but may have been daydreaming when they got to the part on usage.  On the list were things like:  “Tomatoe’s, tortilla’s, hamburger bun’s,” etcetera.

One gem I found while perusing the pages of an old book at the Salvation Army Thrift Store.  A guy had written a note to his significant other explaining his need to pleasure himself because “I’m not getting enough loving from you.”  By the way the note was written apparently his significant other had walked in on him whilst he was having a “hand party.”

I’ll always pick up a note off the ground just to see what people are up to.

That is, unless, it’s covered with some weird schmutz.

                                                                                -30-

TALES OF THE SOUTHWEST: WALTZ LESSONS FROM THE OLD HORNDOG

Driving toward the extreme SW corner of New Mexico and SE corner of Arizona.  The mountains are in Arizona.

By Grant McGee

“Waltz across Texas with you in my arms.  Waltz across Texas with yooooooooo…”

The crooner with the country band was giving his best to cover the old country standard Ernest Tubb recorded years ago.

“Like a storybook ending I’m lost in your charms, and I could waltz across Texas with you…”

“That’s a waltz,” I told The Lady of the House pointing matter-of-factly to the crowd on the dance floor.

The Lady of the House and I were out on the town.  We stopped by the local senior center.  She had read in the paper that a bluegrass band would be jammin’ at the center.

“You know,” I said as we walked through the parking lot, “We’re probably going to be the youngest ones in here.”

We walked in the door and surveyed the situation.

It was all dark except for the two glittering mirror balls on the ceiling and the stage where the band was playing.

“We’re the youngest ones in here,” said The Lady of the House.

We moseyed over to a corner of the room and had a seat.

“That ain’t no bluegrass band,” I said.  “But they’re pretty good.”

The band went through a bunch of classic country tunes by Hank Thompson, George Morgan and others from that classic country era about the time she and I were born.

I sang along with a few of the tunes.

“How do you know these?” she asked.

“My first radio job back in the mountains, lots of requests for stuff like this.”

And then they were playing a waltz by Ernest Tubb.

“Ernest Tubb once pulled up beside me at a gas station in Buchanan, Virginia back when I was in high school,” I said.

“Did you get his autograph?” asked The Lady of the House.

“Naww,” I said.  “I really wasn’t into country music then.  But I knew who he was from being over at Catfish’s house and his dad would watch ‘That Good Ol’ Nashville Music’ TV show in the evenings after work.

I pointed to the people on the dance floor.

“Waltzing,” I said.  I spoke the dance steps out loud.  “1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3…”

“No,” said The Lady of the House, “it’s 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4…”

“No,” I said.  “The ‘4’ doesn’t fit in there.  It’s 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3…”

“No,” she said, “it’s 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4…”

I then invoked the name of an old friend who has since gone ‘on to Glory.’

“He taught me about waltzing, he was the authority on it,” I said.  “And he had a lot of respect for you.”

“He was an old horndog,” said The Lady of the House.

I gasped.

“My buddy?  My bro?  A horndog?” I said.  “What’s your definition of a horndog?”

“Someone who’s always flirting with women,” she said.

My old pal, a horndog?

I thought about my old buddy who caught “The Cansuh” and died.

When I came to the West I didn’t know much but over time he taught me a lot, things like when you pointing a direction you don’t point with your index finger, you point with your thumb kinda tucked in your palm so that your four fingers are pointing off to the side but the thumb is pointing in the right direction.

He taught me history, like there used to be a few brothels on the south side of the railroad tracks in Clovis, New Mexico and that’s where he experienced his…ahem…’first time.’

When he saw I couldn’t dance for shit out on the dance floor of the bar on the south side of Roswell he told me the steps for the key dances of the west:  The Two Step, The Waltz, The Cotton Eye Joe followed by The Schottische.

I never got the hang of the Cotton Eye Joe and the Schottische but I remembered two-stepping.  The two step wore me out after about three turns on the dance floor because I had to keep reciting the dance steps to myself:  “Step-touch-step-touch-walk-walk.”  Those were the instructions on how to move your feet. 

I couldn’t even carry on a decent conversation because the words kept going on over and over in my head:  “Step-touch-step-touch-walk-walk.” 

And waltzing was “1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3…”

Then I thought about my buddy, thought about some of the things I saw, some of the things he did.  I kinda thought it was sad he never wrote down all his stories.  And I thought about what a charmer he was with the ladies and…

“Well dang,” I said to The Lady of the House.  “I reckon he WAS an old horndog.”

“I didn’t say it like a bad thing,” she said.  “I was just stating fact.  Your old pal was a horndog.  And waltzing is 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4…”

“Why yes,” I said.  “Yes it is.”

“Now,” said The Lady of the House, “Why won’t they play any Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys?”

“Probably because we’re in Florida,” I said.

-30-

APPALACHIAN TALES: THAT TIME I HELPED ORGANIZE A COLLEGE PROTEST

Actual factual pic of the "Choice Rally" at Virginia Tech about 40 years ago.  I was there, man.  

By Grant McGee

                Some folks were protesting in front of the county courthouse a few days ago. 

                I like seeing folks protest.  It means that something has generally pissed them off so much they have gotten off their ass from in front of the TV, made some signs and taken their complaint out where everyone can see.

                Once upon a time, long ago and far away I helped organize a protest. 

It was something I actually stumbled upon.

It was back when I was in college at Virginia Tech.  I was hauling my laundry back to my dorm room when I passed notice stuck on the wall:  “ISN’T IT TIME WE HAD CO-ED DORMS?  HELP PLAN A PROTEST EVENT!  CALL LINDA.”

I don’t know how things are now on college campuses across this great land but back in the ‘70’s there were dorms for boys and dorms for girls. 

When queried by student reporters, college administrators basically said, “What’s the problem here?  We have a co-ed dorm.”

A co-ed dorm to Virginia Tech administrators was a building called Ambler-Johnston Hall.  I don’t have the exact numbers but it was something like there was an east wing and a west wing.  Dudes were in one wing, dudettes in another.  There!  A co-ed dorm.

Now, you were allowed to have members of the opposite sex visit your room but they had to be gone by 9pm.  If the girl got caught staying past that time you got “written up.”

I had a girl come visit me in my dorm room in my freshman year.

Really.  Just visit.

Her name was  Katrina.  I don’t even know how I came to know her.  She was from the DC area but I found her interesting because she had been born back in the mountains.

So there she was in my dorm room.

And she had to use the bathroom.

And there was one bathroom for, like, 20 rooms in an all-guy dorm.

So I walked down the hall and made sure the bathroom was clear of guys then I motioned for Katrina to come on in.  She went in and I stood outside the door.

Now I never asked Katrina WHY she needed to use the bathroom but within moments it became very apparent.

There were noises.

Then more noises.

Then a bit later there was the noise of a toilet flushing and then she emerged from the bathroom.

“Let’s go for a drive,” she said.

“Sounds good,” I said.  So we left the dorm, went out to the parking lot, hopped in my car and took off for a Saturday afternoon ramble.

Later that evening back at the dorm room I had a deep discussion with my roommate Dick.

“I didn’t know girls pooped,” I said.

“WHAT?” he put down his book and looked at me.  Sidebar comment here:  Dick did an awful lot of studying in college, I did not.  This may be key as to why he graduated and I did not.

“Of course they poop, dumbass,” he said.  “Whaddya think, they save it up for a once-a-year special occasion?”

“No,” I said, holding a hand in the air as if to say ‘wait a minute,’ “I mean I KNOW they poop I’ve just never been around when they did.”

“You should think about what you say before you say it,” he said.

I then proceeded to tell Dick about Katrina’s visit.

He laughed and laughed then went back to studying.  I put on my headphones and went back to listening to music.

Anyway, I digress.

About that college protest over co-ed dorms……

                So I called Linda.  Hell yeah I wanted to help out, I told her.  Hell yeah we should have co-ed dorms!   Hell yeah!  A protest would be a blow against authority!  Most folks know I have problems with authority, but that’s another story.

Besides, I was a college student…I had lots of time on my hands.  Plus I didn’t have a girlfriend and I thought it might be a cool way to find one.

             I was the Mass Communications major on the team so it fell upon me to design snazzy notices of the upcoming protest which I then posted all over campus.

When the day came over 2,000 people showed up in the middle of the university at an open place called “The Drillfield” for what became known as "The Choice Rally."  

It was actually quite a sight.

A young reporter showed up from the TV station in Roanoke, about 50 miles away.

“Man,” he said, “If you can get 2,000 Virginia Tech students to show up on a Saturday to protest, that’s something!”

Emphatic speeches were given.

“We demand co-ed dorms!” shouted one young woman who raised her fist in the air.  There was mild applause, a few fists held high in the air in response.  I didn’t applaud, I was transfixed by the copious amount of bushy hair in her armpits.

More speeches were given.

I took notes for an article in the student newspaper.

Students with guitars strummed protest songs off key…

“Tin soldiers and Nixon coming.  We’re finally on our own…”  Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Ohio.”  I didn’t see how this song about the Kent State shootings related especially since we weren’t ringed by National Guardsmen or even the cops, but it was their moment to play and they had the guitars.

                A man with shades and a camera was strolling around taking pictures. 

                Being the Mass Communications major and wannabe ace reporter for the student newspaper I followed him.

                “Are you with the newspaper?” I asked when I caught up to him.

                “No, I’m with University Security.”

                And with that he pointed his camera at me and said, “Smile.”

                The following fall there were still no co-ed dorms.  I heard that Linda, fed up with being at what she thought was an unprogressive university, transferred to some college in California.

                I went back to classes and continued being a college student with lots of time on my hands, hanging out at the student radio station, the town music shop and taking lots of naps.

                And still no girlfriend.

-30-

APPALACHIAN TALES: HANGIN' WITH THE PREACHERMEN

The quintessential Southern preacherman:  Jerry Falwell.  You see I remember ol' Jerry as the pastor of the Thomas Road Baptist Church in Lynchburg, Virginia...about 50 miles from my hometown of Roanoke, Virginia.  Every Sunday Jerry came on th' teevee on his "Old Time Gospel Hour" and he seemed like such a friendly fellow.  Years later he would emerge spearheading the "Moral Majority" during the Reagan years.  I would turn to people and say, "What happened to ol' Jerry?  He didn't used to be so angry and pissed off...."

By Grant McGee

Long ago and far away I used to work 7 days a week.  This was way back in the coal mining country of western Virginia, where the mountains and valleys end and you get into a territory of convoluted hills and deep "hollers."  The saying there is "It's where the sun comes up about 10 in the morning and goes down about 3 in the afternoon."

Seven days a week working in radio meant I worked from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. Saturdays and Sundays.

I got to remembering those Sundays.

Starting about 7 a.m. the preachers came in to do their preachin' shows and I was the radio dude who ran the controls for them.

I've forgotten some and I've remembered some.

Therein lay the tales.

There was the good ol' boy preacher who came in and had a friendly ol' broadcast for a half hour.  The reason I remember him is because one Sunday he said, "Anytime you say, "Gee" or "Jeez" you are STILL taking The Lord's name in vain because that’s short for ‘Jesus.’"  So if anytime I say "Gee" or "Jeez" that memory comes rushing back.

There was the preacherman who preached in an "old school" method where he shouted and punctuated every phrase with "ah-HAH."  Kind of like, "FFFFFLOCK, ah-HAH, I WANT TO TELL YOU, ah-HAH, ABOUT THE SIN AND DEGRADATION OF OUR SOCIETY, ah-HAH!...."

I remember this guy not only for his style of preaching but because of an incident that happened which on one hand was kinda sad and on the other hand kinda funny:  This particular preacherman held a day job with the county.  It was a big enough position that he had a secretary.  Well, he and his secretary were known to take long "lunches."  Apparently enough people knew that word moved through the area grapevine and made its way to the ears of the preacherman's wife.

You see, one Sunday this particular preacherman's show was replaced by another.  The next Sunday I asked a guy who I knew knew the missing preacherman what happened to our MIA radio guy.

"Oh, you didn't hear?" he said with a smile.  "You didn't hear what happened up at the county seat?  Well, preacherman and his secretary pulled up in the county parking lot after one of their "lunches" and there was preacherman's wife waiting for them.  Right quick the two women start yellin' at each other and then it's a hair pullin', nail scratchin' CAT FIGHT.  Wooo-eee."

The man started laughing more.

"And here's preacherman, he's done fell to his knees he's got his hands clasped together in prayer and callin' on The Lord to reach down with his mighty hand and bring peace to these two women."

Preacherman's secretary quit her job and preacherman gave up his Sunday preaching on the radio.

And then there were the folks who came down from the church in southern West Virginia to be on the radio.

They would file in for their Sunday morning show, sit around peaceably until their showtime.  Then the minister of their church, a man who was affected by the coal miner's condition "Black Lung" and had been in a mining accident moved up to the mic and began his steady drone of preaching.  If you weren't paying attention you'd think it was Tuvan throat singing from southern Siberia.

Once the minister got into his preaching one of the women in the group threw her head back and started speaking in tongues.  Then she fell to the floor and writhed around for the rest of the show.  Then the other people standing around the droning preacherman would hoot and holler, throwing their arms in the air.

This happened every Sunday.

I made a tape of this particular show.  I tossed it away somewhere along life's path.

Wish I'd kept it.

APPALACHIAN TALES: MRS. STIMPSON'S FLING

By Grant McGee

  It was that summer I was 18. It was between my freshman and sophomore year in college. I was too immature to be in college, but I didn’t know that at the time.
  I had an internship in the news department at the local TV station that summer. I was too immature to have an internship, but I didn’t know that at the time either.
  I had a day off so I decided to go for a country ramble in my old 1965 Ford Falcon. I was going alone, no girl by my side because I really didn’t know much about girls at that time either. For instance, I certainly wouldn’t be hanging around with that laid back hippie-type chick who was interning at the TV station with me. She and I were talking in the newsroom, the conversation was going well when I passed gas. I thought she wouldn’t notice but all of a sudden she crossed her eyes, scrunched up her face and said, “Oh my GOD.” The conversation abruptly ended, she got up and left the room. We didn’t have any more real good conversations after that.
  So there I found myself on the far west side of town on a lazy summer day when I looked up at the nearby mountaintop and remembered the tower for the TV station was way up there. From my Boy Scoutin’ days I remembered how to get to the road that wound its way to the top.
  So I followed the asphalt until it ran out, I followed the dirt road until it became a two-track fire trail through the Jefferson National Forest.
  I never gave fire trails a second thought when it came to rambling in my old Ford “Falcoon.” The Boy Scout in me would’ve rather’ve had an old Jeep or a Rambler American or an old Checker cab but I was blessed with the Falcoon and the two of us were okay in the mountains.
  Up, up, up the trail went. I was taking it slow, easing up the mountain. Around this bend, past that switchback, up, up, up.
  I rounded another bend and was surprised to see a parked car up ahead on the fire trail, here, halfway up the mountain in the middle of the national forest.
  It was a newer car than mine, a Chevy two-door. There was a woman sitting on the hood. There was a man with his shirt off standing in front of the woman between her knees. She had her arms draped over his shoulders. Even from a few hundred feet away I could see they had been locked in a kiss as I came around the bend.
  As I trundled up the fire trail getting closer and closer the man and woman remained as they were, she on the hood, he standing between her knees, her arms draped over his shoulders. And they were talking.
  I got closer and closer and realized I knew the woman.
  It was Mrs. Stimpson* from back in my grandmother’s neighborhood. Mrs. Stimpson lived right across the street from my grandmother’s house.
  With Mr. Stimpson.
  And that wasn’t Mr. Stimpson standing shirtless in front of her between her knees.
  Mrs. Stimpson was Kevin Stimpson’s mom. At that moment in time Kevin was in the Navy. Six years in the future he would be dead, shot between the eyes by another Navy guy he shared an apartment with.
  Mr. Stimpson was retired Navy, a cook. He was a grumpy old man. One day years before while Kevin and I were running our toy trucks in the dirt in front of his house Mr. Stimpson, apropos of nothing, said, “Come on boys, let’s go for a ride.” He took us down to the city jail and gave us a tour. He had access to the jail because he was a city magistrate. Why he took the two of us on a sudden, impromptu tour of the bad-ass city jail was lost on Kevin and me.  We walked by the cells getting catcalls and whistles from the prisoners.   “What did you do?” I whispered to Kevin.
  “I don’t know,” said Kevin.
  At the end of the tour Mr. Stimpson said, “Now you boys see that you never want to be in this place.”
  Then he drove us home.
  We resumed playing with our toy trucks in the dirt in front of Kevin’s house.
  Another time Mr. Stimpson yanked us in from playing outside to watch a movie produced by The Navy that warned of the dangers of taking LSD. It was like one of those junior high school health class films.  The movie was full of bright colors.  Hapless druggies came to bad ends, like the poor ol’ gal who burned her hand because in her LSD-addled mind she thought the blue flame on the gas stove was a pretty blue flower.
  “Now you boys know never to mess with that stuff,” proclaimed Mr. Stimpson.
  “Yes sir,” Kevin and I nodded in agreement.
  Then we went back outside and went on playing with our tiny trucks in the dirt in front of Kevin’s house.
  But Mrs. Stimpson never said much. She seemed to always be in the kitchen. She was a rosy-cheeked roundish woman who smiled a lot. But Mrs. Stimpson never said much.
  And here she was on the side of the mountain kissing on a strange shirtless man who was standing between her knees.
  As I drove by with my window rolled down I lifted my hand, smiled and simply said, “Hello.”
  All I could say of the look on Mrs. Stimpson’s face was that she seemed unnaturally white and her eyes seemed to be opened as wide as those big, ol’ early 1900’s-type silver dollars.
  The man turned and gave me an upward head flick of acknowledgement.
  I kept driving and said nothing else.
  I made it to the top of the mountain, to the TV station’s transmitter site and shook hands with the lone TV engineer who manned the place, but the wonder of the trip was clouded by the mystery of seeing Mrs. Stimpson in an intimate moment in the middle of the woods with a man that was not Mr. Stimpson.
  I was old enough to understand people did such things but still too immature to fully understand why.
  I never told another soul what I saw on the mountainside that summer day long ago.
  I was mature enough to know that.

                                                                      -30-
*Names changed.