The Rogue Boy Scout Troop: Fun with Dynamite

  There was a story in the news from Connecticut about a woman losing a few fingers due to an encounter with a stick of dynamite.

  The woman and her husband had moved into a house a few months back.  A storm hit the northeast and knocked out power in the couple’s area.

  Then the woman remembered when they were moving into their new digs she saw a couple of candles on a shelf in the basement so she went downstairs to get one.

  What she lit wasn’t a wick, it was a fuse…it wasn’t a candle, it was a stick of dynamite.

  The story was never told as to why the previous homeowner had dynamite in the basement nor did we ever find out how someone mistakes a stick of dynamite for a candle.

  And I never did find out why Scoutmaster Pete* left a box of dynamite under the lodge at Boy Scout Camp instead of at his li’l ol’ farm.

  I should explain.

  The Connecticut incident brought back a memory of time spent in what I now call my “Rogue Boy Scout Troop.”  Of course back in the day I didn’t know it was a rogue Boy Scout troop then but as the years have passed it became clear I was in a troop where the leaders’ drinking whiskey and beer and getting away from their wives for the weekend was the priority as opposed to by-the-book Boy Scoutin’.

  About once a month our troop would go off on camping or backpacking trips in the mountains of western Virginia.  Lots of times we’d go on backpacking trips along the Appalachian Trail.  Sometimes we’d go to the place we called “Boy Scout Camp.”  This was a few acres of woodland in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  The camp had a three-sided lodge made out of old railroad ties, big enough to hold maybe 20 scouts and leaders in sleeping bags.  There was a running stream, there was a mountain spring and there was a freshly built pond stocked with Rainbow Trout.  Boy Scout Camp was owned by the church that our troop called home.

  Most of the work on the camp had been done by Scoutmaster Pete*.  Scoutmaster Pete had hauled in the old railroad ties to build the shelter.  Scoutmaster Pete had brought in the bulldozer to dig out the fish pond. 

  And it was Scoutmaster Pete who brought the dynamite to Boy Scout Camp.

  I really didn’t know much about Scoutmaster Pete except he worked with Scoutmaster Dick at the Big Pharma plant in town.  I knew that Scoutmaster Pete had a wife and kid and as a kid myself I didn’t give much thought to him often leaving them at home when he went on Boy Scout adventures.  As an adult I did wonder why a man would leave his wife and daughter alone while he did his scoutmastering.  I found out years later that Pete had gone to the same university as me but many years earlier, that he and his wife divorced in the late ‘70’s and he retired to Costa Rica where he died, just 65 years old.

  If Scoutmaster Pete wasn’t taking the whole troop on a weekend expedition he would often go on more rugged adventures with Scoutmaster Dick and some of the older scouts like canoeing flooded creeks or backcountry backpacking trips.

  Pete and Dick liked to mess with the locals on these trips, like the time their merry, rough-looking, fresh-from-camping band descended on the nice restaurant at Peaks of Otter Lodge on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

  The waiter came to take their order.

  Everybody at the table ordered and then it was Scoutmaster Dick’s turn.

  Dick grew up in Maine.  His family was French-Canadian.  French was his second language.

  Dick ordered in French. 

  The waiter turned to Pete.

  “What did he say?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” said Pete, “He’s a hitchhiker we picked up along the way.  We’re treating him to breakfast.”

  Scoutmaster Dick spoke some more French.

  “I don’t know what to do,” said the waiter.

  “Hell, son, go find someone who can speak whatever language he’s speaking,” said Pete.

  The waiter went on that mission while Dick stifled a laugh in his napkin.

  The waiter came back with a guy.

  “Habla Español, señor?” asked the man.

  Dick spoke more French.

  The Spanish speaker turned to the waiter.

  “This fellow is speaking French,” said the man.

  It took a few minutes but the waiter returned with a French speaker and Dick ordered his breakfast.  And on the way home they laughed and laughed.

  Anyway…

  Scoutmaster Pete brought in the railroad ties for the camping shelter, the bulldozer to scoop out the pond…

…and that dynamite.

  So one winter Monday at one of our weekly troop meetings some of the older scouts, like the ones who had driver’s licenses, asked if any of us younger scouts wanted to go on a weekend trip to Boy Scout Camp.  It was one of those months where the scoutmasters couldn’t take us on a weekend campout.

  Six of us met up at the church Friday evening.  We were going to ride to Boy Scout Camp with Eagle Scout Woody and Junior Assistant Scoutmaster Larry.  Junior Assistant Scoutmaster Larry was a nondescript kind of guy…I think he grew up to be an accountant and have a wife and 2.0 kids.  Eagle Scout Woody was what one might call a “character.”  He always seemed to be getting into trouble of one kind or another.  There was the time he had to be rescued from a country bar where he went to use his fake ID to buy beer.  Or the time he drank all of Scoutmaster Pete’s cooking wine…Scoutmaster Pete liked to pan fry his camping steaks in an iron skillet with some Mogen David wine….high class livin’, tell you what…

  Anyway, Boy Scout Camp was just an hour out of town.  Soon we were packed up and headed for the mountains.

  The older scouts drove down the forest trail in the dark and soon we were at the shelter.  Soon we had a roaring fire going, had the Coleman lanterns lit up and there we were.

  “I saw they’s havin’ a shootin’ match at the head of the holler,” said Eagle Scout Woody, “I’m goin’ up there, anyone wanna come with me?”

  “I’ll go,” I piped up.

  No one else wanted to go.

  Eagle Scout Woody grabbed his 30.06 rifle, put it in the front trunk of his beat up Corvair and soon he and I were headed on down the forest trail to the shootin’ match.

  Eagle Scout Woody pulled into the farmyard with the other cars and pickup trucks, grabbed his 30.06 out of the front trunk and moseyed inside the little farm’s barn.

  There were locals of all shapes and sizes inside the big ol’ barn.  Big fat ol’ red-cheeked farmers chewin’ tobacco, young muscular farm guys, pinch-faced old men.  Lots of Coleman lanterns lit the place up.

  “That’ll be 2 dollars, boys,” said a big ol’ man wearing bib overalls, a hand pointed at Eagle Scout Woody another hand pointed at me.

  “You didn’t tell me it was gonna cost anything,” I said to Eagle Scout Woody.

  “You ain’t got two dollars?” he asked, reaching for his wallet.

  “Well, yeah,” I said.

  “Well quit yer bitchin’ and pay the man,” said Eagle Scout Woody.

  At a shootin’ match you put your initials on the back of a target, the target is sent by pulley out to the back of the barn up against a bunch of hay bales.  You take your turn shooting at the target and if a bullet, any bullet, goes through or gets closest to your initials you win that match.  50 cents each match.

  Eagle Scout Woody strode up to take his shot.

  “You ain’t from ‘round here, are you boy,” said Bib Overalls.  “You ain’t usin’ that 30-ought-6 in my barn, you’ll blow a damn hole in the back wall.”

  Eagle Scout Woody and Bib Overalls eyeballed each other.

  Bib Overalls handed Eagle Scout Woody a .22 rifle.

  “Just use these li’l ol’ peashooters here, boy.”

  Eagle Scout Woody took his shot for five matches. 

  Fifth match he won.

  Just like all the other winners Eagle Scout Woody got a round of applause.

  Eagle Scout Woody gave a smile to all around then he turned to Bib Overalls…

  “What’d I win, boss?”

  Bib Overalls turned around, reached behind a counter and presented Eagle Scout Woody with a big ol’ five pound box of candy with a naked lady on the lid.  She was blonde, smiling, standing by a pool in the sunshine with a big bouquet of flowers held strategically below her bellybutton.

  The “Nekkid Lady Box of Candy” as it became known in troop lore occupied a place of honor next to Eagle Scout Woody’s bunk for the weekend.

  Saturday dawned crisp and cold, sun filtering through the pines highlighting spots of snow from the storm a week or so earlier.

  A fire was built, we all whipped up our own breakfasts.  Some of us had freeze-dried bacon and eggs (just add boiling water and stir!).  I made some Quaker Oats instant oatmeal…apples and cinnamon…I ate a lot of that when I was a kid.  As an older dude I learned it was not much more than high carbohydrate sugared slop.  Did I mention to you I have The Diabetes?

  “Ho, HO!” came a voice from back of the shelter, “Look what I found.”

  It was the voice of Eagle Scout Woody.

  He came around the corner from the back of the shelter with a small box marked “FRAGILE” and “DANGER” all over it.  He moseyed over to the fire pit.

  “I found Scoutmaster Pete’s dynamite stash,” said Eagle Scout Woody.

  He opened the box and we all peered inside.

  It was the first time I’d ever seen a real, live stick of dynamite…eight of ‘em.

  “Damn,” said Larry.  “You need to put that shit back where you found it.”

  “You’re such a pussy,” said Eagle Scout Woody.  “This shit can’t hurt us…no fuses…no blasting caps.”

  Us younger scouts stood around and looked at the box with wide eyes.

  “What the hell is Pete doing leaving that here?”

  “Probably to keep it away from his house,” said Eagle Scout Woody.  He took a stick out of the box.  “C’mon, let’s go have some fun.”

  “NO,” said Larry, “I outrank you and I say NO.”

  “Oh jeez, I’m so scared, Big Larry the Junior Assistant Scoutmaster is pulling rank.”

  Eagle Scout Woody went for his 30-ought-6, grabbed it out of his car trunk and headed down the road toward the fish pond.

  “WOODY!” yelled Larry, “IT’S DANGEROUS!”

  “I KNOW WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING,” yelled Eagle Scout Woody, not looking back…one hand holding his rifle slung over his shoulder like a marching soldier, the other holding the stick of dynamite.

  “Damn,” said Larry.  He looked around, picked up the box of dynamite and put it under the shelter.  “Come on guys, let’s go see what he’s up to.”

  We followed Larry down the road to the fish pond…

…where we found Eagle Scout Woody standing, the butt of his 30.06 resting on his hip, holding it with the barrel pointed in the air.

  “I knew y’all couldn’t resist.”

  “Where’s the dynamite?” asked Larry.

  Eagle Scout Woody pointed out to the middle of the frozen pond.

  There in the sunshine on the white pond ice was the lone stick of dynamite.

  Eagle Scout Woody shouldered his 30.06 and squeezed off a shot.

  BLAM!

  A hole appeared in the ice about a foot from the dynamite.

  “You mean it’ll blow up without a fuse?” asked Ronnie, one of the other younger scouts.

  “One bullet meets a stick of dynamite….KABOOM!” said Eagle Scout Woody as he slid another bullet into the rifle and handed the rifle to Larry.

  “Hell no,” said Larry crossing his arms.

  “You’re gonna kill all the fish in the pond,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “You’re fulla shit, McGee,” said Eagle Scout Woody.  “I may kill a few but not all of them.”

  We younger scouts stood and watched.

  Well, except Ronnie.

  “Lemme take a shot, Woody,” said Ronnie.

  Eagle Scout Woody looked at Ronnie sideways.

  “You think you can hit that, boy?”

  “Damn straight,” said Ronnie, puffing up his chest.

  Eagle Scout Woody handed the rifle to Ronnie.

  Ronnie squeezed off a shot.

  BLAM!

  Another hole appeared in the ice about 5 feet away from the dynamite.

  “Damn, boy,” said Eagle Scout Woody as he took back his rifle, “You suck.”

  He eased another bullet in the lever-action 30.06.

  He offered the rifle to Larry.

  “You SURE you don’t want to take a shot, Larry?”

  The two older boys stared at each other.

  “Alright, you sonuva bitch,” said Larry and with that took the rifle and squeezed off a sh…

KABOOOOM !!!!!

  A big-assed plume of water shot skyward.

  Ronnie fell backwards on his butt.

  “Sheeeee-it,” said Eagle Scout Woody, starting to laugh.

  Larry stared out to the center of the pond and watched as the mist from the blast cleared.

  There in the middle of the pond was a big hole in the ice, maybe 20 feet across.

  And one by one motionless fish started to appear in the hole.

  “Oh hell,” said Junior Assistant Scoutmaster Larry, still holding the rifle, staring at the hole.

  Eagle Scout Woody sat down on a tree stump.  He laughed and laughed and laughed.

  And more dead fish filled up the big hole in the ice.

E P I L O G U E

  That was the last time our troop went camping without the scoutmasters. 

  I was a kid and I didn’t know all the stuff that went on with the older scouts and the adults.

  So I never heard how Pete figured out what happened.  Could have been something as simple as he drove out to Boy Scout Camp one weekend, saw all the dead fish and discovered that one of his sticks of dynamite was missing.

  Years later when I was an older scout and Pete and Eagle Scout Woody weren’t Boy Scoutin’ anymore Scoutmaster Dick told me that Pete got Larry and Woody to pay him back for all the dead fish because Pete believed the blast did kill all the fish in the pond.  Scoutmaster Dick didn’t know how much money that was.

  And I never found out why the hell Scoutmaster Pete stored his box of dynamite under the lodge at Boy Scout Camp.

-30-

*All names fictionalized…

Foreign Planes, Foreign Troops in The Southwest

  It was a long time ago.

  28 years is a long time, isn’t it?

  A sunny afternoon, my work day done.

  A folding chaise lounge.

  A huge shade tree in the park.

  A book worth reading.

  Then a sound.

  I looked up to the New Mexico sky over Roswell to see a gun-metal gray Boeing 707 fly over the city, a black German military cross on its side.

  Did that make it from The Luftwaffe?  Was it called The Luftwaffe in the late 20^th century?

  I stared at it.

  You see I was living at my groovy bachelor pad in Roswell.  And while I dug my duplex, it sat on a sun-blasted piece of real estate.  One of my favorite things to do is to relax under a shade tree and read a book.  Roswell’s Cahoon Park was an ideal location for this pastime…lots of big ol’ trees to relax under and do some reading.

  I heard that jet engine whine, a particular sound that I recognized but hadn’t heard in a long time:  A Boeing 707.

  I looked up and there was that plane…converted for military purposes, no doubt…the only windows were at the cockpit.

  “So this is what it would’ve looked like,” I muttered to myself.

  It was a thought that came to me as I imagined an alternative world where the Nazis won World War II.  I reckoned a German military jet in the American sky would be commonplace in that world.

  But this was no alternative world.

  So it flew over Roswell, and it was no big deal.

  I found out later that the Germans liked to train out of the former Walker Air Force Base (closed back in 1965 or so) because the runway is so huge and the sky is so uncluttered by other air traffic.

  One time I went to an air show at Cannon Air Force Base in eastern New Mexico where some jets were brought up from Holloman Air Force Base in Alamogordo…including some German Tornados.

  I chatted with two German Air Force guys who were hangin’ near one Tornado…how they liked living in the American Southwest, stuff like that.  One pilot said he liked the really real and really hot Mexican foods and jalapenos.  He said his country trains people at Holloman for a number of reasons, particularly the great weather of southern New Mexico.  The pilots get far more time in the air than in German skies. 

  People from different countries train and work in New Mexico…pilots and staff from Singapore were once posted to Cannon, pilots from Japan Air Lines train in flying 747s over Roswell, Germans are at Holloman and so on.

  It seems New Mexicans know folks coming here from wherever are good for the economy…they stay at motels, they eat in restaurants, they shop in the stores and so on.

  I really wonder if Arizonans feel the same way about visitors as New Mexicans do, this based on an incident that happened in the desert there back when Bill Clinton was president.

  Back then I was working at a Talk Radio station in Phoenix.  Practically every day in the summer of 1994 the radio station phones were lit up generally about one thing:  Heavily conservative Arizona was abuzz about the possibility of nationalized health insurance and all those other things that political hand-wringers felt the Clinton presidency would mean for the United States. 

  Some hot political talk of the day was United Nations were going to be brought in to oversee the transitioning of the United States into a socialist country like a number of European countries.  You know this kind of scuttlebutt…the same talk radio buzz as President Clinton was going to come for everyone’s guns, that the Clinton Administration would be rounding up conservatives and putting them in prison camps, that President Barack Obama was going to come for everyone’s guns, stuff like that. 

  Anyway, back to the Arizona desert…So a group of German airmen who were visiting Luke Air Force Base (west of Phoenix) were doing some survival training.  They had finished and were gathered around their military vehicle along U. S. 60 between Phoenix and Wickenburg.  Along came one of the top government officials of Wickenburg, driving home after doing business in Phoenix.

  If you don’t know about Wickenburg is about 60 miles northwest of Phoenix, a town of about 7,000 people.  It’s the first rural town in that direction outside the Phoenix suburbs.

  His curiosity apparently aroused by the presence of military men out in the middle of nowhere, the Wickenburg fellow stopped to ask what the men were doing.

  Wickenburg dude was reportedly stunned when the men, in accented English, spoke of being German, spoke of being on a military mission, training mission and mentioned the United Nations.

  Smiles and handshakes were exchanged whereupon Mr. Wickenburg hopped in his car and batted-ass for his town to sound the alarm:  OH MY GOD!  Clinton had called in the United Nations and their troops have landed in the United States and Wickenburg, for all its strategic importance, was the beachhead.

  Newspaper articles were written, television reporters were sent to Wickenburg, radio news stories were done.  In spite of the truth revealed in the media reports, talk radio discussions were filled with questions like why’d the United Nations choose Arizona as the landing zone for an American invasion, what do we do if we’re confronted by the invaders and so on.

  When the topic came my way I’d remark how different things were in Arizona compared to New Mexico.

  “They’re Germans doing desert training, that’s it.  In New Mexico we’d welcome them because that means they’d be eating at our restaurants, shopping in our stores.”

  Such musings fell on deaf ears.  Or people would argue with me, saying I was a Clinton supporter, a “Clintonista.”

  No.

  I was just trying to be “a voice of reason and moderation in troubled times” as a talk show host in Phoenix used to refer to himself.

  I have positive thoughts for folks from other countries come to train in our wide open New Mexican skies.

  And if I get to chat with them, with a wry smile I might ask, “Have you been to Arizona?”

                                                            -30-

About Those Roadside Memorials....

A roadside shrine south of Clovis, New Mexico...

A tribute to a fellow who lost his life when his motorcycle went off the road.  

Someone takes the time to maintain it, cut the grass around it...

  
  I was 10 years old when I saw my first real-live dead people…my great aunt Winnie and uncle Les. There they were in the funeral parlor, the life knocked out of them after being rammed from behind on the interstate by a drunk driver. The collision caused them to lose control of their car, fly off the pavement, rocketing into a wide median down a hill and slamming into a tree.
  Years afterward I would travel I-81 in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and think of them, wondering where it was exactly that it all happened. I'd look into the median and wonder which tree they rammed.  There was no roadside memorial like we see so often here in The Great American Southwest.
  I really didn’t start seeing “homemade” roadside memorials until I moved to New Mexico.  At one point the state of Texas was kicking around the idea of doing away with roadside memorials. They wanted to replace the home-grown-sometimes-plastic-flower-garlanded crosses and such with homogenized, pasteurized, clean and correct signs. A family or friend who lost a loved one and wanted that spot remembered would pay the government of the Lone Star State $100 to have a sign erected. Now if they did what I saw in the Bahamas in 1969 that may be one thing, but to just put a small sign up, well that’s just kind of sterile and unfeeling unlike the sentiment and art that goes into a homemade shrine.
  I don't know if this is the way they still do it in that island nation, but back in 1969 you'd pass these black and white signs marking where someone was killed in a traffic accident: drunk driver, accident, pedestrian hit by a car. The reason I remember these things is because the sign was a skull and crossbones with the person's name, date they were killed and the cause of their death.
I prefer the home-made memorials
  I don’t know the history of roadside memorials but I’d bet my chips that they’re a Mexican or Mexican-American tradition. Some folks in other parts of the country may have picked up on this but they are most prevalent in Mexico and the American Southwest. It’s part of our regionalism. Many are works of art.  I suppose the idea is you see the memorial…you remember the people…and maybe, just maybe, you remember to use caution on that stretch of highway.
  They say…
  Wait…
  You might wonder who “They” are…the people folks are referring to when they say, “Well, you know what THEY say…..”
  These are two old women who live in a well-appointed cave in Vietnam, the entrance is up on the side of a cliff with a terrace.  Crowds await their every pronouncement.  So every now and then they pop out on their terrace and make statements about various things about life.  Then the crowd goes “Ooooo” and “Aaah” and folks say, “Well, you know what They say…”
  Anyway…
  They say that when a person experiences a quick, unexpected death the spirit lingers on Earth, not knowing they have died...and they missed their cue to head for The Light.  This is one belief in the origin of ghosts.
  So I wonder if one of the reasons people started putting up roadside memorials is to serve as notice to the departed that, “Yeah, um, you’re dead.”
  Some of the roadside memorials that stand out in my mind: there's the one on highway 467 in Roosevelt County to remember the young, hardworking ENMU student who was hit head on by a drunk driver just a few days before her 20th birthday. I think of the tragedy of it and wonder why people still think it’s okay to be drunk, get behind the wheel and hit the highway.
  There's a memorial on US 70 in Chaves County between Kenna and Roswell. It's in remembrance of three family members from Amarillo who died in 1999 when their pickup crossed the center line and slammed into an 18-wheeler just days before the two lane stretch of highway was opened up to the four lanes it is now. 
  Flash hundreds of miles away to an intersection on the outskirts of Douglas, Arizona. There are three crosses in a row with the name "Romero" spelled out in white painted stones. I don't know the circumstances of the accident so I make an assumption: three members of the Romero family died there. I think of what a blow that must've been to the family.
  South of Sierra Vista, Arizona there's a pretty white cross with a little girl's picture in the center. Sometimes there are toys around it. This was the 9 year old who was on the way to the dentist with her mother when they were sideswiped by a pickup. Only the child died. No one else.
  North of Sierra Vista there's a memorial to a former co-worker of mine who was ejected from his passenger seat when the driver fell asleep at the wheel, went flying off the pavement and slammed into a hillside. I think of him, his talent and I remember it’s good to wear a seat belt because he didn’t.
  Driving in Mexico you can tell how treacherous a stretch of road is by the number of memorials along the way.  This is the case along a stretch of Mexican Federal Highway 2 a few miles east of Cananea, Sonora.
  It’s a stretch of two-lane highway that curves and winds through some low hills.  There are roadside memorials all along the way.  I’m serious, probably about every 300 feet there’s a memorial.  I would hope that all those homemade shrines would warn folks that it isn’t exactly a safe stretch of blacktop.
  To tell you the truth the first roadside memorial that pops in my mind when the shrines cross my thoughts is one that was a few miles west of Bisbee, Arizona. Folks erected small crosses and a wood and glass box with a photo in it to remember a mother and child hit head-on by a drunk driver who did time in an Arizona prison for what he did. He and a friend had been drinking and driving all that day in October 1994 when he crossed the center line and killed the young woman and her daughter. He told the court that he lost control when the driver's seat collapsed.  The jury didn’t buy his story.
  Roadside memorials…

  Some of them are elaborate.

  Some are simple.

  But all roadside memorials tell the silent stories of people who are gone and the folks who miss them.

-30-

Tales of The Southwest: The Barefoot Prophet

So The Lady of the House and I were on a road trip.  As we often do we were talking about just about anything, a rambling conversation of rambling thoughts.  Somewhere, the term “enlightenment” entered the conversation.

  With the word “enlightenment” came a memory…rushing from the back of my head to the present, a memory of one person I’ve encountered among the few I’ve considered enlightened, the memory of my encounter with a man I’ll call “The Barefoot Prophet.”

  My encounter with The Barefoot Prophet happened twenty-some years ago, six counties and a state line away in Bisbee, Arizona. 

  For the uninitiated I should explain that Bisbee is a town full of hippies, inhabitants with no visible means of support, hopeful artists and county government employees because it’s the county seat of Cochise County, Arizona.

  Barefoot showed up in town one December day in his bare feet wearing a white toga and a smile.  Here in eastern New Mexico or west Texas such a personage might catch the attention of the local constabularies…they’d probably stop to have a chat with him.  But in town of Bisbee, with its tapestry of humanity, few people gave Barefoot a second glance.  Why would he?  Bisbee is a town where a man could walk down the main street of town in a dress, matching purse and five o’clock shadow or a pointed wizard’s cap festooned with stars and quarter-moons without even being noticed.

  I had seen The Barefoot Prophet walking through town.  It wasn’t his toga, his long hair or smile that struck me as much as the bare feet.  It was downright cold that December and I wondered how he did it, he surely had some seriously callused feet.

  As fate would have it I had the chance to ask to see his feet and find out why his feet weren’t a mass of goatheads...the wicked little spiked seed pods found in The Great American Southwest.

Goatheads...The bane of bicycle riders in The Golden West...

and of folks who'd like to enjoy a barefoot walk....

  I was invited to a dinner at Mary* the Vegetarian’s house, a dinner in honor of The Barefoot Prophet.

  I really didn’t know Mary The Vegetarian but she knew that I worked at the local radio station so she figured I should be “in the know.”  I wouldn’t have minded if she’d been easygoing about her vegetarianism, but she wasn’t.  If you bumped into her at the local supermarket and you had meat in your cart she’d loudly proclaim, “Some poor animal died and you have its body parts in your cart.”  Mary didn’t have many pals.

  I got the invitation at the radio station, a message from a phone call.  Simply put it read, “Come to dinner at my house to meet a holy man.”

  And sure enough, when I walked into Mary The Vegetarian’s house there he was.  We were introduced.  I don’t remember the guy’s name but between Mary calling him a holy man and his bare feet he remained The Barefoot Prophet.

  Dinner was lo mein with a bunch of vegetables piled on top.  Mary passed around a big bottle.

  “It’s a bottle of amino acids,” she proclaimed.  “Sprinkle it on your dinner and it replaces the amino acids from meat.” 

  I did and I wished I hadn’t, it was some kind of weird, bitter concoction that reminded me of liquid wood.

  The evening progressed with Barefoot and Mary discussing various aspects of The Good Book.  I was more interested in his traveler’s tales.  As he talked I studied the calluses on his feet, I figured they were a good half-inch thick.

  Barefoot’s most interesting story was about where he’d just come from:  a Mexican prison.

  According to Barefoot he just walked into Mexico.  Anyone who’s been south of the border knows this is really no big deal.  It’s walking back in to the United States, that’s the adventure.  Anyway, Barefoot spent his time walking the streets of Tijuana sharing his views on life, The Good Book and stuff when he apparently irritated some American tourists.  Barefoot said they reported him to the authorities.  Some Federales approached him asking for his ID and what was he doing in Mexico.

  “I told them, ‘I don’t need identification, I’m a child of God’ they grabbed me and hauled me off to prison.” he said.

  Now if you don’t know, Mexican prisons are radically different than American or Canadian prisons.  By most accounts they’re rough places where prisoners are warehoused.  If you expect to get decent food or supplies, family or friends must send money or supplies to you.  Barefoot acknowledged that the first few days in the prison tested his faith, but soon he was given the protection of a prison gang leader.

  “He believed I was a holy man,” said Barefoot.  “Soon, people were sharing food and everything with me.”

  Barefoot went on to say that after a month he was brought in to the warden’s office.  From there he was rushed into a van, driven to the U.S. border and dropped off with an admonishment not to return to the Republic of Mexico.

  “And I walked all the way from California to here to share the good news with the people of Bisbee,” he said. 

  I looked at his feet again.

  I don’t know what happened to Barefoot.  I saw him around town for a few days after our dinner and then no more.

  “Holy men pass through here a lot,” said Willow* the Innkeeper.  Willow ran a bed-and-breakfast in the town.  “Maybe Christian, Jewish, Muslim, even Pagan.  They pass through, share a bit of wisdom and move on.”  Willow told of a holy man who showed up during a dark time in her life.    

  “He stayed here for a few days, told some stories, talked about his interpretation of The Bible and such. 

  “Then one morning at breakfast he looked right at me and said, ‘If you believe in God, why are you worried?’  It’s something I’ve always remembered,” said Willow.  “When he said it it was as if a load had been lifted from my shoulders.

  “After breakfast he walked into town and I never saw him again.  And you know, not long after that my whole life turned around.”

  Holy man?  Carefree?  A prophet?  A can short of a six-pack?  I’ll never know for sure, but The Barefoot Prophet is filed in my memory as an enlightened person.

  I don’t think we’ll get a visit from him here in eastern New Mexico though.  There are far more goatheads in our area.  I believe those things would be a challenge to even the most determined prophet with the biggest calluses. 

-30-

*Fictitious names

What Are You REALLY Angry About?

  “What are you really angry about?”

  The phrase came drifting into Tyler’s head from out of nowhere on a Sunday afternoon.  He was kicking back having a couple of brewskis and watching some syfy flick.

  “What are you really angry about?”

  It was a handy phrase to have.

  Ever since he heard it he used it to back himself out of crap that made him angry. 

  For instance there were times when Tyler was confronted by angry bosses, bosses who seemed to be way over-angry about the issue at hand.  At what Tyler thought was just the right time he would ask, “Boss, what are you really angry about?”

  Interestingly Tyler never got an answer to his question, but the boss’ ranting always came to an abrupt end.

  “What are you really angry about?”

  Tyler didn’t keep count of how many times he’d asked himself that question when something made him really angry.  The question gave him pause, helped him dismantle his rage.

  It was a long time ago when he first heard the words.

  Is 35 years a long time?

  Yes, 35 years is a long time.

  Tyler was freshly divorced and freshly done with his job back in the hills and hollows of eastern Kentucky coal country.

  Tyler rolled into the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia in his old Ford coupe towing a rental trailer with all of his crap crammed inside.  He pulled up at a gas station under a tree, went and bought a copy of the local paper, then kicked back in his car and looked over the classifieds for a place to live…a room, share a house, even a house…something.

  Tyler followed up on one ad, dropping in on a house in town, home to a Quaker mom and her young son.  He knew she was Quaker because she kept saying she was a Quaker…this seemed to be very important to her.  The only thing that seemed different about her home is that the dining room chairs hung on hooks on the dining room walls.  He didn’t know if that was a Quaker thing or just her thing.  Tyler was a bit put off by her because she seemed to be hungry for a man in her life.  It wasn’t anything she said…okay, maybe it was but he couldn’t remember…but moreover it was a vibe she gave off.  Besides, Tyler had a girlfriend.

  The other ad in the paper that caught Tyler’s eye was for a small farmhouse about 20 miles out of town.

“SMALL FARMHOUSE ADJACENT TO MAIN HOUSE.

2BR, 1BATH, KITCHEN.  PEACEFUL.  IDEAL FOR TEACHER,

ARTIST, WRITER.  $250/MONTH, $100 DEPOSIT.

20 MILES FROM STAUNTON.  CALL…..”

  Tyler pulled up to a phone booth and soon he was talking to…

  “Hello, this is Hattie June Ames*.”

  “Hello Ms. Ames, my name is Tyler Bergeron.  I’m calling about your farmhouse for rent.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Bergeron?”

  “I’m taking a new job as a advertising salesman at a radio station in town.”

  “What station?” she asked.

  Tyler told her.

  “Oh, I don’t listen to that,” said Ms. Ames, “I like the Christian station.  I’m old, I’m a retired school teacher.  That’s why I was looking for someone in the arts to rent my little house.”

  “Well Ms. Ames I am an aspiring writer.”

  “Aspiring?”

  “Yes ma’am,” said Tyler.  “You know a lot of writers held other jobs.  Cervantes, the man who wrote ‘Don Quixote’ held many jobs, he was even a slave for a bit.”

  “I KNOW about Miguel de Cervantes, Mr. Bergeron, I WAS a schoolteacher.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Where are you moving in from?”

  “I’m fresh from the coalfields of eastern Kentucky,” said Tyler.

  There was a bit of silence on the line.

  “Well,” said Ms. Ames, “Come on out…”

  She gave Tyler directions.

  In short order Tyler was winding down the road to the Ames house.  He had passed through the Shenandoah Valley many times, now he’d be living in The Valley.  The hills and hollows of eastern Kentucky couldn’t hold a candle to the tall Blue Ridge Mountains to the east and the Alleghenies to the west that bordered the vast valley.

  Tyler pulled up in front of Ms. Ames house, a two-story old place…no doubt that was the rent-house about 200 feet off to the west side of the place.

  Ms. Ames sat on the front porch of her home in a rocking chair rocking back and forth, a cane in her lap.

  She was much older than Tyler imagined.  She sat in an old house dress that came down to her ankles.

  “I was a school teacher for a long time,” Ms. Ames just said out of the blue.  “This is my momma and daddy’s house.  I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “No ma’am,” said Tyler.  “You ain’t gone on to Glory yet so it ain’t all your life.”

  There were some moments of awkward silence.

  “Oh,” said Ms. Ames, sneering, “That’s supposed to be funny.  Ha ha.”

  “Sorry ma’am,” said Tyler, “Just my radio humor.”

  “I retired 10 years ago,” she went on.  “I moved into the little house over there when I came back from college to teach around here.  It’s where I lived until momma and daddy died.   Come on, boy, let’s go over and have a look at it.”

  Tyler walked slow so Ms. Ames could keep up, hobbling along with her cane.

  “I always thought this would be perfect for an artistic person,” said Ms. Ames.

  “Where’s Mr. Ames?” asked Tyler.

  “Oh, I never married, I have no children.  I have a lot of nephews and nieces.  I had enough children in my life being a teacher.  Go on in, the door isn’t locked.”

  Tyler walked into the little place.  Wood floors, no furniture, lots of windows with views across the overgrown fields to the mountains…The Alleghenies to the west, The Blue Ridge to the east.  He had visions of coming back to the place at night and getting to work on his writing on his typewriter.  What was he going to write?  He had no idea, but he was sure it would come to him.  Yeah, this is where his great novel would be born.

  “So you are working on a novel or something?”

  “I’m going to write,” said Tyler, “and this looks like just the kind of place that would give me some inspiration.”

  “You’re not published?” asked Ms. Ames.

  “No ma’am,” said Tyler.

  He turned and looked at Ms. Ames.  Her right eyeball wasn’t quite set right in her head and some snaggily teeth hung over her lower lip.

  Tyler pulled out his wallet and presented Ms. Ames with $350.

  “Rent and deposit ma’am,” he said.

  “Now not so fast, boy,” said Ms. Ames.  “I need some references.  Come on back to the house.”

  Back at the house Tyler wrote down some names and phone numbers of folks he knew back in eastern Kentucky.

  The next day Ms. Ames called back and gave him the “green light” to move on in.

  The new job started Monday.  It was Friday now.  Tyler met with Ms. Ames late Friday morning and was all moved in by suppertime, just in time for Darcy to roll in from Pikeville.

  Darcy flung open the door of her car, she was all jeans, peasant blouse, big smile and blue eyes. Tyler picked up Darcy and spun her round and round.

  “Isn’t this a great place?” he asked.

  “Out in the middle of nowhere,” said Darcy.  “We can make lots of noise out here.”

  Darcy was Tyler’s girlfriend.  She went to the cosmetology school in Pikeville.  In a few months she would graduate and be a hair stylist.

  They stood in front of the little farmhouse, held hands and watched the sunset.

  There was a rustling behind them.  They both turned around.

  It was Ms. Ames.

  “WHO IS THIS?” she said sharply.

  “This is Darcy Turnbaugh,” said Tyler.  “My girlfriend.”

  Darcy smiled and held out her hand for Ms. Ames to shake.

  Ms. Ames just stood, squinted her eyes and stared them down.

  She wouldn’t shake Darcy’s hand.

  “Do you think she is living here?” said Ms. Ames, jabbing her cane in Darcy’s direction.

  Tyler stood there in silence for a few moments and assessed the situation.

  “Miss Turnbaugh is visiting me this weekend.”

  “Aren’t you freshly divorced?” said Ms. Ames, now jabbing her cane in Tyler’s direction.  “Don’t you have children?”

  Tyler stood there in silence.

  “Ma’am,” he said, pausing to choose his words carefully, “I don’t see that my life in Pikeville has any bearing on our renter and landlord agreement here in Virginia.  How do you know about my children anyway?”

  “One of your references liked to talk a lot,” said Ms. Ames.

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, my personal life is none of your business.”

  Ms. Ames turned her head and spit on the ground.  With that she turned and ambled away.

  They watched her walk back to the farmhouse.

  And so Tyler and Darcy spent the weekend driving around the new territory during the day and at night doing those things that a boyfriend and girlfriend do when love is new and those frisky feelings run high.

  Sunday came.  The two lay in bed until late in the morning.

  “Well,” said Darcy, “How about I fix some brunch?”

  “A most excellent idea Miss Turnbaugh,” said Tyler.

  BAM!  BAM!  BAM!

  There was a loud knocking at the door.

  Tyler and Darcy looked at each other.  Tyler shrugged his shoulders.  He put on some clothes and went to the door.

  He opened it and there was Ms. Ames.

  She was dressed in something that looked like what a woman of the 1940’s might wear to church topped off with one of those little hats that needs a hat pin to hold it in place.

  “Mr. Bergeron I want to talk to you NOW,” said Ms. Ames.  She spun around and hobbled up to the big house.  She turned around again, “and ALONE.”

  Tyler turned around and looked at Darcy.  She shrugged her shoulders and motioned for him to go.  He put on shoes and headed up to the house.

  He got to the front screen door…

  “Come on in, boy,” Ms. Ames barked from inside.

  Tyler walked in to find Ms. Ames sitting at her dining room table.

  “Sit down,” she said, tapping the chair across from her with her cane.

  Tyler sat.

  “I want you OUT of my rental,” said Ms. Ames.  “This was a mistake.”

  Tyler sat in stunned silence.

  “Well, ma’am, you sure get right to the point.”

  “The point is, boy, people are talking.”

  “What?” Tyler said with his face scrunched up.  “What are they talking about?”

  “People in my church, they want to know why I’m allowing such goings on.”

  “Who knows what?” said Tyler, his blood starting to rise.  “How?”

  “The Gundersons live over there,” she said jabbing her cane to the west, then jabbing her cane to the east, “And the Tildens over there.  They can see, THEY CAN HEAR.”

  “Hear what?”

  “You know damn well what, boy.  That’s a loud little girlfriend you have in the night.”

  Tyler felt himself blush.

  “You two were all the talk in church this morning.  I was mortified.”

  “That’s mighty CHRISTIAN of those folks now isn’t it,” said Tyler bitterly.

  “Now you just…”

  Tyler held up his hand, a sign for Ms. Ames to stop talking.

  “Ma’am, it’s best I excuse myself for about an hour and I come back and we finish this talk,” said Tyler.  “I can’t think straight right now.  This is quite a surprise.  I know this much, if having visitors is a problem you should’ve said something when I handed over my money.”

  Ms. Ames stared at Tyler.

  “Very well,” she said.

  Tyler stood up and walked out the door to the rent house.

  There was Darcy fixing bacon and eggs.

  “C’mon babe,” said Tyler.  “Turn off the stove.  Sorry it’ll mess up breakfast.  Something’s come up.  I need to take a drive and I need you to come with me.”

  Tyler grabbed her by the hand and lead her out the door to his old Ford.  He fired it up and tore out for the highway.

  “GOD DAMMIT,” he yelled, slamming his fist on to the dashboard.

  Darcy jumped and leaned back into the passenger door, eyes wide.

  “Umm,” she said slowly as the car rocketed down the two-lane, “you haven’t told me what’s going on.”

  55…65…75 miles per hour on the speedometer.

  “THE OLD BITCH WANTS ME OUT OF THE PLACE,” Tyler yelled, slamming his fist onto the dash again, a chunk of black plastic went flying.

  80…85…

  “Tyler,” said Darcy in a soft tone, “slow down.  At the least you might get a ticket, at most you’re gonna wrap us around a tree.”

  Tyler slammed his fist on the dash again.  Another chunk of plastic went flying.

  And now there was a gash on his hand.

  70…65…60 miles per hour.

  “Now,” said Darcy, putting her hand on his arm, “I’m going to say something to you and I want you to think about it.”

  Tyler stared straight ahead.

  Darcy could see the muscles in his face tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing over and over again.

  Blood oozed down the right side of the steering wheel.

  “Tyler, what are you REALLY angry about?”

  60…55…50 miles per hour.

  Tyler slowed down even more and eased the Ford to the side of the road, a little pull-off under a big old oak tree.

  He turned the car off.

  Tyler hung his head.  Then he looked at his hand.

  “We have any paper towels?  It looks worse than it is.”

  Darcy opened the glove box and pulled out some napkins they saved from some fast food joint.

  “What am I REALLY angry about….damn good question,” said Tyler as he wiped the blood from his hand, then the steering wheel.

  “I learned it in family therapy,” said Darcy.

  Tyler turned to Darcy and smiled.

  “I didn’t know you’d been in therapy,” he said.

  “I don’t talk about it much,” said Darcy.  “It was about me and my mom.  At least she wanted to better herself.  At least she realized she had a problem.”

  Tyler turned and looked out the side window at the Blue Ridge Mountains off in the distance.

  “I’m pissed because I have to load up all my shit again, find a place to live again.”

  He turned and looked Darcy in the eyes.

  “I’m tired, I’m battle weary, I lost my ass in that divorce,” he said.

  “Ummmm, HELL-O…I KNOW,” said Darcy.

  “Yeah,” said Tyler, smiling.

  “And I don’t have to leave this evening,” said Darcy.  “I’ll help you pack your shit up again, load it again…good thing you didn’t take that trailer back yet…and I’m betting by noon tomorrow we’ll have you in another place.”

  Tyler leaned back in the seat, looked up and let out a big sigh.

  His hand had stopped bleeding.

  Tyler fired up the Ford, whipped around and headed back to the Ames place.

  In a few minutes they were pulling up in front of the rent house. 

  Tyler turned off the car.

  “I’m going to go talk to her,” said Tyler.

  “I’ll start packing,” said Darcy.  “And I’ll have something for you to eat when you get back.”

  In moments Tyler was at the front door knocking politely.

  Ms. Ames came to the door and opened it.

  “Come in, Mr. Bergeron,” she said.

  Tyler walked through the house and stood by the ancient wooden dining room table.  Ms. Ames was making her way across the room.

  “I want all of my money back,” said Tyler.  “Like I said, if you had brought up the subject of visitors on Friday I would’ve found someplace else.”

  “It’s not about visitors per se,” said Ms. Ames as she sat, “You two are not married.”

  “Just give me my money, 350 dollars,” said Tyler holding out his hand.

  “And the children, you should think of the children.”

  “Ms. Ames, my personal life is none of your business, seriously, it isn’t.  Most of all you don’t know my story, don’t assume that you do because you don’t.”

  “I’m just telling you what I’ve seen in life, children of broken homes.”

  “My money please,” said Tyler, still holding out his hand.

  Ms. Ames pulled her purse to her from across the table, opened it and pulled out a wad of bills.  She passed the dollars to Tyler.

  “It’s all there,” she said.

  Tyler took her at her word.

  “And the rental agreement,” said Tyler.  “That needs to be torn up too.”

  “Yes sir,” said Ms. Ames, reaching for some typewritten pages laying on the table.  She got them and tore them up.

  “We’ll be off your property by sunset, if not sooner,” said Tyler, walking to the door, not looking at the old woman.  “Good fortune to you in the rest of your life’s journey, Ms. Ames.”

  “You as well, Mr. Bergeron,” said Ms. Ames.

  Tyler was out the door.

  It slammed behind him.

  Walking back to the rent house Tyler smiled.

  He felt better.

  Everything was going to be okay.

  “What are you REALLY angry about?”

  Great words.

  But best of all…

  …he wasn’t angry now.

-30-

  *All people’s names in this story are fictitious.