The Hotel Child: A Kid's View of Death

                When you’re a kid, when you’re new in the world, you have a different view of things compared to when you’re a grown-up.

                Take death for instance.

                There were sports that, as a kid, I thought were quite deadly.

                Not surfing, not rock climbing, not even spear fishing in shark infested waters.

                The deadly sports?  Handball and golf.

                Oh, and department store dress racks were deadly things too.

                I’ll explain…

                When I was a kid my dad took a job managing a hotel in Hawai’I and we lived there in the early 60’s.

                Among the tunes my dad would play on his hi-fi stereo would be those by Alfred Apaka, the great Hawai’ian singer.

                “Who is this?” I asked my dad.  “You play him a lot.”

                “That’s Alfred Apaka,” said Dad. “The greatest Hawai’ian singer.  He died not too long ago.”

                “What happened?” I asked.

                “He had a heart attack after playing handball.”

                “What’s handball?”

                “It’s kind of like tennis but you don’t use a racquet,” he said.  “A couple of players go into a room and knock a ball around with their hands.”

                That didn’t sound like much fun.  And why would you play it if it could give you a heart attack?

                I could relate to dying of a heart attack.  My Dad had one of those a few years earlier and it gave the family quite a scare.  I may have been a kid but I knew heart attacks could kill you. 

                So if Alfred Apaka died from a heart attack after playing handball, well, handball surely must be deadly, right?

                And golf.

                Every now and then when I was a kid my dad would come back home looking kinda sad.

                “Fred dropped dead at the Jefferson Club,” he told my mom one time.  “He just finished 18 holes and he was at the 19^th hole, had a heart attack and died right there.”

                Golf was a mystery to me.  All I knew about it was it looked kind of boring.  I knew this because my dad watched an awful lot of it on TV.   Bunch of people standing around on a golf course watching Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and a bunch of other guys knock a bunch of little white balls around then the people would politely clap.  Boring.

                And apparently deadly.

                Over time I heard my dad mention other fellows he knew dropping dead on the golf course from heart attacks.

                And often at that 19^th hole.

                Which I would later find out wasn’t a hole on the golf course at all.  Oh I reckon it was a hole of sorts, a watering hole.

                It wouldn’t be til I was grown that I realized these dudes were probably out of shape or had undiagnosed high cholesterol or whatever and over-exerted themselves.  But that was as an adult…when you’re a grown up a lot of the mystery of life vaporizes like so much morning fog in the sunlight of the day.

                And about those department store dress racks…

                When I was a kid I had 3 grandparents:  My dad’s mom and dad and my mom’s father.

                “Where’s your mommy?” I asked my mom one day when I was real little.

                “Oh she died when you were just a baby,” she said.

                “Why did she die?”

                “We all die,” said my mom with a smile.  “But she was in a department store in Toledo and a clerk wasn’t looking while she was pushing a dress rack through the store and it hit your grandmother and she died later.”

                That’s all my mom thought I needed to know, I reckon.

                I had a vision of my poor old mom of my mother minding her own business, shopping at a big-city department store and along comes this dress rack and just rolls over her like some poor ol’ critter on the highway.

                It would be many years later that I came to realize that the dress rack encounter probably caused a blood clot that resulted in deep vein thrombosis and it was that that killed her.

                But for years whenever I was in a big store as a kid I would watch out for those rolling clothes racks.

                One killed my grandma.

                I didn’t want one rolling over me and squishing me like a bug.

                                                                                                -30-

Tales From the Edge of the Earth: Racists I Have Known

                                                       Pondering at the Gates of Dawn

By Grant McGee

               Where did this new wave of Neo-Nazis come from?  They seem so out of place here in the future, the 21^st century…to me anyway.

                I suppose I may have seen them coming when I heard-tell of a family out west that devoted their time, worry and resources to digging man-traps on their property in anticipation of the collapse of the United States under President Barack Obama.  But they were survivalists, not Neo-Nazis. 

                Or were they?

                I don’t know, I’m not the one who had the close encounter with them.

                I’m searching my memory and the first racists that pop up in my head are Dead Kevin and his father Dead Mr. Stimpson.

                Dead Kevin was a racist because quite simply, most of us know the old saying, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

                Dead Mr. Stimpson was angry at the world.  Even as a kid I recognized this.  As an adult I look back at Mr. Stimpson realizing he had not attained that “enlightenment” (for lack of a better term) that comes with age in that one realizes that one is where one is because of choices made.  He blamed others for his problems, particularly black people.  The source of his anger was his days spent as a cook in the military.

                I remember the 1968 election and the Stimpsons.

                “My father,” said Dead Kevin (but he wasn’t dead then, that would come in 14 years), “Is voting for George Wallace.  My father says if Humphrey wins then we’re going to have to let a [The “N” word was used here] family live in every white family’s home.”

                “What?” I asked.  I was just a kid but with what I did know about the world this bit of crap from the Stimpson clan made no sense.

                “Have to clear a room and let them move right in,” said Dead Kevin.

                If I had been a little older I would have asked who the hell said such a thing and prove it.

                As it was I went home and asked my mother about what Dead Kevin said.

                She threw her head back and laughed.

                “You’ve been hanging around that Stimpson boy again haven’t you?” and she went back to fixing dinner.

Awww….

You know what Dear Reader?

                I’m gonna just stop right here about the Stimpsons…there’s a lot more.

                Just writing about their dumbassed racism just gets my blood sugar up and fills my head with anger wishing I’d acted differently around these idiots when I first encountered them.

                There’s no damn good reason to engage in racism, prejudice, bigotry, discrimination, period.

                It’s just another tool used by one group to beat another group into submission, to try and control others…the way some people use money, ancestry, religion and such to try and make themselves superior.

                Hell, did you know that back in the 1700’s…by about 30 days after the first prisoners were dumped at the penal colony that would become Australia the people formed into classes…there were those who had done what could be termed “white collar crimes” like embezzlement and such lording over those who had done other crimes like robbery, burglary and such.

                So I really wish that back in 1977 I’d said something snarkier to the debutante from Richmond, Virginia who was in the same dorm suite as a girl I was going out with at the time. 

                For some reason the debutante said, “My ancestors are probably rolling in their graves because I’m sharing a dorm suite with a [The “N” word was used here].”

                I just stared in disbelief at her.  The girl who she was talking about was in the next room.

                “There’s a problem with that?” I asked.

                “What do YOU know?” she said with the wave of a hand, “You’re from Roanoke, oh my God.”

                Or I wish I’d had the wherewithal to rebuke the idiot construction worker on my crew in south Florida back in 1989.  He jumped into a chat I was having with another construction dude about having multiple wives.

                “For instance,” I said, “In a number of African countries there’s no problem with folks…”

                “Skewz me,” said the interloper.  This was a new guy from Alabama.  “Africans?  You mean to say [The plural “N” word was used here].”

                I was dumbfounded, caught off guard.

                “No,” I said slowly, “I was talking about Africans, folks who live in Africa.”

                “Well in Alabama they’s called [The plural “N” word was used here].”

                He and I stared at each other.

                The vibe was if I’d a-pushed it there would’ve been a fight and I would’ve got my glasses broken.

                “Gotta get back to work,” I said.

                I turned to go.  Behind me I heard Mr. Alabama snickering behind me.

                And it was at that point I resolved I wouldn’t be visiting Alabama, Mississippi or most of Louisiana in the future.  As I grew I decided I would travel in those states, I’d just be wary.

                I’ve seen perfectly good candidates for jobs passed over because of their skin color, the business owners afraid of what other business people in town might think if a minority person was out and about as a company rep.  All handled quietly with no words to make it seem as if the candidate simply didn’t qualify for the job, much in the same way I experienced age discrimination recently.

                I’ve experienced reverse discrimination…it was about a truck driving job for a western janitorial supply company.  And when I realized what had happened as I walked away from the business I chuckled to myself and thought, “So this is what it’s like.”

                It wasn’t a good feeling at all.

                Or the woman I took an interest in once upon a time long before I met The Lady of the House.

                “It’s no use,” she said while we were casually chatting one day.

                “What’s that?” I said while I was mooning over her.

                “Your interest in me,” she said.

                Suddenly I was wide awake.

                “What?” I said.

                “My parents would raise holy hell because you’re white.”

                “I don’t understand.”

                “They only want me dating guys who are ‘our’ people.”

                I was stunned.

                I reckon I could write, “WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG.”

                But every time I do people think I’m an idiot, an uber-liberal, a hippie or someone who ain’t right in the head.

                And when I ask, “Why is that so stupid?” I pretty much get the same answer, “Because it is.  We’re not meant to all get along.”

                But I know this.

                Racism, bigotry, prejudice, discrimination is stupid crap practiced by stupid people.  Now I know some in that group don’t THINK they’re stupid but they are.

                And how this whole thing raised its ugly, buck-toothed, pointed head here in the 21^st century in the “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave” amazes me.

                So knock it off.

                We’re all passengers on this organic spaceship zipping around The Cosmos.

                Love one another.

                The world’s first proto-hippie uttered those words.

                                                                                                -30-

Tales of the Southwest: Shot Himself in the Dangly Bits, He Did...

Actual factual photo of my buddy Ken from a country ramble he and I took to the Guadalupe Mountains of far southeastern New Mexico 1998.

By Grant McGee

                I miss my ol’ pal Ken*, Bard of the Pecos.

                You probably know someone like Ken…more blood kin to you than your own brother or sister.

                Ken caught “The Cansuh” and died.  I remember the last thing I said to him because I had a hunch it was the last time I’d talk to him:  “You’re a great man, Ken.  You get well!”

                Well, he didn’t get well…I knew he wouldn’t. 

                He died in the spring a couple of years ago.

                One other thing I wanted to say to him but didn’t because I knew it didn’t matter, he wouldn’t do it:  “WRITE YOUR DAMN STORIES, DUDE!”

                Ken told the best stories…stories about his life.  I never understood why he never wrote a book full of his tales.  His stories, his sayings, his philosophical thoughts…that’s why I called him “Bard of the Pecos.”

                Ken was a colorful fellow, he grew up on the windswept grassy plains of eastern New Mexico in the Pecos River Valley. 

                I met Ken when I worked at a country radio station in Roswell, New Mexico.  I was the morning guy and he was the newsman.

                We became fast friends. 

                Ken was in the Navy during the Vietnam years.  Ken wrapped up his gig with Uncle Sam and came back to eastern New Mexico to get his G.I. Bill degree from the local university.   He worked for the local paper, he worked in radio news.

                And boy could Ken tell some stories:  The story of his first, ahem, “experience” in one of the  “cat-houses” south of the tracks in the eastern New Mexico town of Clovis, or talk of his pet coyote that he ended up having to get rid of because it killed his momma’s best banty rooster and so many more.

                I suppose that may have been the glue that made Ken and I good friends:  We were both bullshitters and storytellers.

                So it came as a surprise to me one morning to learn of one of his stories, what I thought was a pretty good one, that he hadn’t told me.

                It was a typical disc jockey’s country morning show, I was playing the tunes and sitting behind the control board and Ken sat across from me, reading the local news at the top and bottom of the hour.

                I really liked working at that station.  50,000 watts on the AM band, we were blasting over a full quarter of the whole state of New Mexico, even reaching down into the Big Bend country of west Texas.

                The boss even had an “800” number where people from all over the region could call in with their requests or just to shoot the shit.  Calls came from folks like the Border Patrol agent in the  Rio Grande town of Presidio, Texas.  There was the crusty sounding ol’ rancher Floyd from Van Horn, Texas.  The office worker in Albuquerque who called in amazed that I had played a country-rock tune “Chestnut Mare” by The Byrds.

                And then came the call from the county seat of Lincoln County about 75 miles or so away from Roswell.

                “Hi,” said the woman, “I’m calling from Carrizozo.”

                “Yes ma’am?” I said.

                “I wanted to know if your newsman Ken is the Ken from Portales High School class of 1962 who shot himself in the scrotum.”

                I was dumbstruck.

                I gathered my thoughts.

                “Just one moment, ma’am,” I said.

                I put my hand over the phone and looked over at Ken.  He was busy perusing the morning paper, looking over the top of his glasses.

                “Did you shoot yourself in the nuts once upon a time?”

                “Yes I did,” he said, putting down his paper and holding out his hand, “Give me that phone.”

                It was someone Ken had known long ago and far away, an old classmate.  While I kept playing the tunes they went on and talked for about 5 minutes, had a good conversation and then it was over.

                And I just stared at Ken.

                “So?” I said.

                “So what?” said Ken.

                “You gonna tell me about shooting yourself in the scrotum?”

                Ken laughed.

                “Just me being a dumbass kid,” he said.  “School was out and me and three buddies went on a camp out up at Sumner Lake Dam.

                “So we go swimming, just having a good time, one guy brought a six-pack of beer, stuff like that.  We come on back to the campsite, build a campfire and I start horsing around with this little .22 peashooter revolver I have, you know, twirling it around on my finger like they did on all the westerns.

                “Well, while I’m twirling it around my thumb catches the hammer just enough to pull it back just enough so that when my thumb’s not on it anymore it snaps back and BANG.  Bullet went through my scrotum and there was this bullet hole in my leg too, through-and-through.

                “So my buddies carry me back to the pickup and they drive me all the way back to the hospital in Portales.  That’s where the doctor told me I was a damn lucky sumbitch.  ‘Boy,’ he says, ‘If that damn bullet was over just another quarter inch it would’ve hit your femoral artery and you would’a bled out before your friends would’a got you to the truck.’

                “So there I am laid up in the Portales hospital for a few days.  And my scrotum would fill up with fluid, thing swoll up to about the size of a small cantaloupe.  So every afternoon around 3 this nurse would come in with a big ol’ syringe with a big-assed long needle and THUNK stick it in my scrotum and drain off the fluid.

                “LAWD HAVE MERCY!” I yelled out laughing.

                “And that’s about the whole story,” said Ken.  “And I never had any problems from it later, I had a lot of fun later and two kids.”

                I laughed some more.

                “Are you happy now, you sumbitch?” said Ken as he whacked me across the top of the head with the newspaper and left the studio smiling.

                Did I mention that I miss my ol’ pal Ken?

                                                                                                -30-

*Name has been changed…My old buddy Dax (not his real name either) made me paranoid about using people’s real names.  But that Dax, he always was a buzzkill.

Tales from the Edge of the Earth: Was She Wearing Any Underwear?

               
By Grant McGee

                Among the many celebrity stories of the day:  Chris Pratt, he of “Guardians of the Galaxy” fame, and Anna Faris, she of the TV show “Mom” fame, announced in that 21^st century way…via The Facebook…that they are getting a “dee-vorce.”

                Oh, and Taylor Swift is off to court in Denver, legally facing off against a disc jockey.  The DJ is the dude who wanted his day in court.  He says ol’ Taylor cost him his career.

                It seems back in 2013 Taylor was in Denver and was doing a meet-and-greet backstage at a one of her concerts and Mr. DJ was in attendance.  She says he grabbed her butt.  He says he never did any such thing.  She says he did and told the DJ’s bosses and he got canned.

                Mr. DJ is suing Taylor and Taylor is counter-suing.  He wants $3-million dollars, she wants a dollar and responsibility for the incident placed squarely on Mr. DJ.

                This is the stuff that came out as The Lady of The House and I watched the evening news.

                “I wouldn’t do that,” I said while watching the newscast.

                “What,” asked The Lady of the House, “Grope Taylor Swift on her bare butt or not wear any underwear.”

                “Not wear any underwear?” I asked.

                “Didn’t you hear that?  She says he groped her on the bare butt.  Where was her underwear?”

                Then as part of the report they played an interview Mr. DJ did on another radio show, him emphatically denying he touched the music superstar.

                “Besides,” I said, “If someone grabs someone on the butt what the hell do they hope to accomplish?”

                “If someone’s not wearing any underwear what do THEY hope to accomplish?”

                We watched the rest of the news then got up to go do a few chores around the house.

                We were putting fresh sheets on the bed.

                We were putting the fitted sheet on the mattress.

                “Well, he says he didn’t grab her butt,” I said.  “If he didn’t I wonder who did?”

                “I just want to know what was she doing not wearing any underwear,” said The Lady of the House as she straightened out the sheet.

                                                                                                -30-