Tuesday

Last Tuesday (the 11th) I visited Ascension Chapter # 49, Royal Arch Masons in Donaldsonville, Louisiana.  I may have mentioned that I'm a Mason.  (I'm pretty sure I haven't yet mentioned that I like to amuse myself by restating the obvious ad nauseum, but I think you've figured that out by now.  But I'm also certain that if I don't amuse myself I won't amuse anyone.)

Anyway, I visit Donaldsonville as often as I can, and they were receiving the Grand High Priest that night.  Since I'm his Deputy in this District, I felt like I should be there.  As usual I carpooled down there with several Companions from Baton Rouge.  This can make for a late night.

After it all was over, returning to my car, I got on the Interstate to come home.  If it had sunk in (I should have known) that there was construction on the Interstate that night I could have found an alternate route.  But it didn't, there was, and I didn't.  I spent some time moving  s l o w l y   down the Interstate.

Past the construction, got moving, and a little after 11 PM I turned North onto the mile and a half of pot hole that leads to my house.  Now I generally operate under the theory that if I go over pot holes fast enough there is less shock to the vehicle.  My wife has tried to convince me otherwise, and I have begun to keep my speed down to 20 or 25.  It was late and dark and I was tired, so I was taking it easy on the last mile and a half.

Around half way (I'll have to check the odometer) I was looking at the road ahead and noticed a light colored lump (it looked sort of like a rag or sock..., but I've seen a rag like that before) on the road ahead to my left.  I slowed down, and the rag (just as I expected) got up and started to walk around in the road.  I came to a stop.  In my headlights was what I estimate to be about 2 ounces of kitten.

Maybe 6 inches long, not counting the tail.  My guess is that the pair of eyes shining at me hadn't been open much more than a day.  It was about 8 minutes after 11 PM, and I was on a country road.  I didn't want to honk my horn.  Stalemate.  Two tons of Lexus, two ounces of feline.

Now I know this kitten's experience with the world is extremely limited at this point but I did not expect it to run TOWARD me.  But it proceeded to disappear under my headlights.  (Kitten says "Check.")

So now it's 11:09 PM and I'm sitting there with a kitten under my car, I know not where.  I am not moving the vehicle with a kitten under it.  So I put on the flashers and get out of the car.  I fish my iPhone out of my pocket and I'm fiddling with the flashlight app, and a kitten runs out from under my car and under my foot.  So now I try to chase the thing out of the road.  It looks at me.  It moves back into my headlights.  I reach down and pick it up, it doesn't much care for that, and lands on its feet.  (It's a cat.)  And it runs back under the car.  Back to the iPhone, kitten runs back out.  I pick it up and carry it off the road and set it down.  I head back to the open driver's door, but there's a kitten in my headlights.

Here I am. 11:10 at night, in the middle of a country road, chasing two ounces of cat around, wearing my bright red Royal Arch blazer and tie, with my jewels dangling from my pocket.  (Okay, you non-Masons quit snickering about my dangling jewels.  Not a good idea around felines anyway.  Google it.)  I picked it up and moved it to the other side of the road.  It followed me back.  I carried it further from the road.  It was back in my headlights before I could shift into drive.

Now, if I brought another cat to this house I would be a single man.  If I brought a cat that hasn't had any shots around our cats I'd be a dead man.  It crossed my mind, but it was not an option.

I had one last trick up my sleeve.  (Well, two but I didn't have to resort to the last one.)  There were a couple of mailboxes to my right.  (I don't know why.  Every mailbox on that road is on the other side.)  They were attached to trees by 2x4s.  I picked the little feller up and placed him on the 2x4, hoping that he wouldn't figure out he could get down until I was past.  I knew it wasn't too high for him, and if he was too scared to jump someone would find him the next day.

This worked, and he meowed at me as I drove past.  If he had jumped down and run in front of me, I would have put him IN the mailbox, knowing someone would find him the next day.  Later that night I realized how hot it would get, and would have gone back with water and cat food, and would have stopped on my way to work.  But I didn't have to.

Two days later, on Thursday night, I had a York Rite meeting.  It was dark as I turned North onto the same road.  Driving slow I kept an eye out for the only two mailboxes on the right.  And there in the road were TWO PAIR of kitten eyes.  Neither one was the kitten from Tuesday.  I blinked my brights at them and, lucky me, they ran off to the side of the road.

Now I can retire in 604 days, so get off my lawn.

Esquire

I have a subscription to Esquire Magazine.  I don't know why.

No, seriously.  I have no idea why, or how, I receive Esquire magazine each month.  I haven't subscribed to a magazine in nearly a decade.

Many years ago, when I was a single man, I did subscribe to a couple of publications.  If I recall correctly they may have featured photographs of pretty girls.  I got married and, by and by, didn't bother to send a check when I received renewal notices, and they stopped appearing in the mail.

Except for one.

One of them (FHM I think) ceased publication.  I got a card in the mail listing several magazines from the same publisher, asking me to send it back so they could finish out my subscription with the one I chose.

I didn't.

Spin magazine began arriving in the mail.  Go figger.  (There may have been another magazine that appeared for a while, I'm not sure now.)  Last year I may have (not sure about this either) received a card telling me that Spin was going out of print.  Or there may have been a note with my first Esquire telling me it was fulfilling my Spin subscription.  Anyway, some time last year Esquire started appearing in the mail.

Earlier this year I moved.  An issue or two of Esquire was forwarded by the post office.  Then I got one with a note attached telling me the forwarding time for magazines was up, and I should notify the publishers of my new address.

I didn't.

The mailing label on the June/July 2013 Esquire has my current address.  Go figger.

As long as they want to keep sending magazines for free, I'm good with it.  My wife, on the other hand, knowing of my pathological inability to dispose of any printed material whatsover, ain't so thrilled.

I don't usually even open, much less read, them.  When I was thinking about writing a blog last week I looked over and saw this magazine sitting there, sealed in the mailing wrapper.  The spine reads "HOW TO BE A MAN."  I thought I might read that article and get inspired with some smartass remarks.  Turns out it's a "theme" to the entire issue.  Who has time for that?

Maybe I will in 611 days.  Until then stay off my lawn.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Last year I (unintentionally) took a 13 week hiatus from writing this blog.  I just realized that corresponds to the summer TV rerun season when I was a kid.  (Do they still have TV?)  I've been thinking I'd be better off taking another extended break than just inflicting whatever drivel happens to get from my brain to the keyboard on those of you who waste your precious time reading it.

But if this posts at 4:45 as planned I will be on my way to St. Francisville, to assist in the Friday night historic presentation at The Day the War Stopped:

http://www.daythewarstopped.net/

One Hundred and Fifty years ago next Wednesday Civility and Brotherly Love triumphed over War as Combatants on both sides set aside their hostilities long enough to pay their respects and honor the last wishes of a fallen Brother.  You can read all the details at the link above.  If you can get to St. Francisville this weekend I think you'll find it worthwhile.

And also at 4:45 I will have 618 days until I can retire.  So get off my lawn.

Blog Tartar

Okay, this may blog may not be completely raw, but it's rare.  I'm leaving in the time stamps, and still trying to think of a title.

9:36 PM 5/29/2013

I know when I saved the "first draft" of this 4 weeks ago I had something to say.  Beats me.  But it's Wednesday.  Maybe I'll think of it by the "third draft."  (Come to think of it, I could use a draft right now.)

5:05 PM 5/30/2013

Nope, nothin yet.  But since I can retire in 625 days (which is 89 weeks, rounded down,) taking out 178 for weekends, leaves 447 workdays.  That's 3576 work hours.  According to my most recent payroll statement I have 3085.484 hrs of combined Annual and Sick leave.  Does that mean I can actually retire in 490.516 hours?  (Which would be 61.3145 work days?)  Some people say I think about this too much.  Nah!  (I think it's time for the wife to send me away to that nervous hospital.  UhHuh.)

Today (5/31/2013)

This has been a total waste of your time, so at least I'll give you cats:

I was reluctant to post this, since it's a picture of my bed.  However last night I discovered I hadn't closed the bedroom door properly.  These are the two I haven't shown you yet.  That's Tipsy to your left, looking at you, and Boober to your right, just lying there.  (I'm pretty sure.  You'd think I'd know, since they look nothing alike.)  Oh, and the purple book behind Boober is Volume 1 of "The History of the Cryptic Rite."  Just in case you're interested.

Anyway, as of 4:45 PM today I can retire in 54,000,000 seconds.  (That's 1 year, 8 months, 15 days, 15,000 hours, or 900,000 minutes.)

Get off my lawn.

Killin' time

I don't feel bad about killin' time, because I know it's killin' me.

I started writing this last Friday after work, (5:06 PM) right after realizing that I had failed to click "Publish" the night before and then proceeding to post that blog for my eagerly awaiting  audience.  (Both of you.)  I was (at that time) killing time, waiting for a Masonic meeting (which I'm sure would bore you to tears, unless you're one of us) and that clever little witticism occurred to me.

I haven't written much more since then.  I notice my "Out of Context Quotations" have not turned out to be a weekly (or even monthly) feature.  I don't have one this week, but I'll continue to use them as they occur.

Since I've been trying to include an image of some kind with each post, and since I've mentioned the cats several times, here's an older picture I just ran across:

I guess I can call them the Tabby Brothers.  The one on your right is Hiram.  It's kind of hard to tell, even for me.  I know they were both less than 14 months old at the time, because Hiram only lived 14 months.  The one on your left is Solomon.  I've shown you a couple of pictures with him in them before.  (Hey, if you think you know where they got their names why don't you "like" this post on Facebook?  I'm shameless.)

Now it looks like I'll be killin' time for the next 1 year, 8 months and 22 days.

That's 632 days, so get off my lawn.

1976, Part 2

This is part 2.  (Moose out front shoulda toldja.)  If you haven't read last week's blog, go do that now.  I'll wait.

Okay, now that you've done that, I'm gonna recap anyway.  (Have to get back in the mood.)  If I recall correctly (you don't expect ME to read it again, do ya?) when I left off our regular Staff Advisor (Bob, remember him?) had commitments elsewhere for a week, and had called Stan (more on him in a second) to fill in.  Stan had jumped right into the mix by making his own Coup Stick, by the way.  Camp Zero had been painted, the Camp Director was pi... not amused ..., but had to leave camp on urgent business.  And you were on the edge of your seat waiting for me to continue.

A couple more things:  I mentioned that the crapper had been painted shut.  My good friend Russell, who happens to have been a camper in Troop Zero that year, sent me some pictures from way back then.  Brace yourself:

In case you're not familiar with the way Scout Camp latrines were constructed back then, (modern health codes having brought plumbing to the wilderness,) these were box latrines.  There was running water for handwashing, and a shower on the other side of one of the walls, but it basically consisted of a pit with a wooden box over it, with a couple of holes covered with hinged wooden lids (to keep the smell down.)  What you see here (under the paint) is the lid.  It is painted shut.  What I love about this picture (and I had forgotten until I saw this) you will notice at the bottom center that they also painted a roll of toilet paper.  I'll won't review the artwork, but if you'd like to I'll be happy to consider publishing it here.  (If I can get you to write my blog for me, so much the better.  Like Tom Sawyer, painting the latrine.)

Anyway, an atmosphere of impending doom descended upon the staff.  We started the morning programs.  I made my way down to the Archery Range and taught my morning classes.  The Camp Director was out of Camp.  The Program Director was in charge.  The Staff Advisor was there, ostensibly, in an advisory role.

The Staff Advisor ordered the Program Director to call the whole staff to the headquarters for a meeting.  Dave replied that he was not going to shut down the program.  Stan's well reasoned reply:  "You're fired."  Stan dispatched a younger staffer to the Rifle Range to tell Bill to shut it down for a staff meeting.  Bill replied that he would, after his last morning class.  David had brought a bicycle, for ease and speed of travelling about camp.  Stan saw a bike and hopped on it to go round up staff, to which Dave said: "Get off my bike."  To the best of my knowledge, Stan complied.

After my last morning Archery class I walked back up to the Headquarters building.  Something wasn't right.  I saw David (the Program Director) and asked him what was up.  His answer was something to the effect of "Don't ask me.  I don't work here."  Stan tells me to go down to the dining hall and tell the staff there to come up to the headquarters for a staff meeting.  Assessing the situation, I cheerfully comply.  Later in life, working in Tech Support, I have adopted the motto "Give them what they ask for, not what they want."

Mrs. Mott, I mentioned last week, was also in camp, as was their daughter and son.  Mrs. Alexander, the widow of the long-time Camp Ranger, was in charge of the Kitchen.  The two Mott ladies were working there too.  I'm pretty sure Stan wanted me to round up the boys who were setting up tables.  I figure Staff means Staff, so I went to the Staff Members in Charge.  Mrs. Alexander said, in essence, Stan can take a flying leap, I have a camp to feed.  The rest of the STAFF returned with me to Headquarters.  We go in and take our seats.

David was sulking on the porch (as I recall.)  I think Stan may have ordered him inside, but he replied that he didn't work there.  (I may be making that up.)  Anyway, Stan addressed the meeting.  He didn't seem particularly pleased that I had brought the ladies.  I think I can quote him verbatum:  "Mrs. Mott, Miss Mott, I know you weren't involved in this, you can go."  Mrs. Mott replied "Thank you, we'll stay."  I might mention here that Mrs. Mott had had some health issues that had impacted her memory.  Therefore she had developed the habit of taking accurate and detailed notes of things she thought might be important.  She had pen in hand.

Also, I had mentioned that Robin was working at least one full time job in addition to his full time job on staff (which can be done easily if you never sleep.  I wish I could remember all the sleep deprivation stories.)  Anyway, Robin had been working all night at Seven Eleven, just returned to camp, and had obviously not been on the paint crew.  Stan says "Everybody who was not involved in painting Camp Zero can leave."  Nobody moves.  Stan is not amused.  No one else seems to care.  Robin says "Mr. Stan, I don't think that's fair."  Stan's well reasoned reply:  "You're fired."  

Nothing much came of Stan's staff meeting.  The staff proceeded, en masse, to the dining hall, sat and ate.  The silence was deafening.  The tension in the air was thick.  The campers sat at their tables.  We finished lunch.  The campers finished lunch.  No one moved.  (I mentioned in part one that we did a LOT of program.  The meal programs were very popular.)  Stan stood up and dismissed the campers.

No one moved.

It was quiet.  One of the Troop leaders ..., the Leader of Troop Zero stood, and announced:  "We're not going anywhere.  We want our program."

Staff sat.

The dining hall door opened, and Mr. Mott entered, without a word.  He walked up to the staff table, right behind his wife.  Mrs. Mott lifted up her little notebook.  He glanced at it, and spoke:  "Come on Staff, let's go."  The Staff rose, en masse, and followed him out of the dining hall.

Stan was now in fine form.  "We don't need a staff.  The Professional Scouters can run this camp."  (This from a guy who can't dismiss a dining hall.)  Staff proceeds to staff camp, and begins packing.  Stan get's on the phone to the Scout Office.  (I understand the Scout Executive's response was "What's he doing there?  He doesn't work here any more.)  

Staff continued packing.  Bob reappeared.  I'm not sure whether he was on his way back anyway, or he got a call from the Scout Office, but he approached Mr. Mott in the parking lot, as he was about to put two shotguns into his car.  (Mr. Mott was a gun smith, by the way.)  He was holding two double-barrelled breach-loaders, one under each arm.  Bob approached him.  "Mr. Mott, I understand your problem...."

At this moment Stan walked across the parking lot.  Mr. Mott gestured with the shotgun under his right arm: "THERE'S our problem."  

Bob continued. "I understand that, and I promise that is being taken care of."  (Or words to that effect.  It may be that at this point Stan got into his car and left camp.  It would work into the story well that way.  Heck, I'm tellin' the story, that's how it happened.)

Bob continued, "I'd like to ask you to reconsider.  Would you and your staff stay on?  For the campers?"

The whole staff was now standing in the parking lot.  (The CK parking lot was not very big at that time either.)  Once again, it was quiet.  Leroy stood there, with a shotgun under each arm, and looked around.  "Well, Staff?  What do you say?"

Well, I'm sure you know how it went from there.  We spent another hour UNpacking, didn't get any afternoon program at all done, and went back to the dining hall for supper.  I'm thinking we pretty much made up for the lunch program.  Mott had Stan's Coup Stick, took it to the middle of the dining room, stomped it and snapped it in half.  The Crowd went Wild.  (That pretty much wrapped up the Coup Stick game.)

Anyway, that's it.  The Great Staff Walk Out of Seventy Six.  I hope the ending wasn't too anticlimactic.  There might be a few followup anecdotes that I find amusing, (like Douglas Adams' packet of bisquets) but I won't inflict those on you now.  If you were there I'd like to hear your recollections.

I did just notice that this very evening, at this very camp, my Order of the Arrow Lodge is celebrating its 75th anniversary:  http://www.bacbsa.org/event/1229921.  I'm sorry to miss it.

But at least I can retire in 639 days.  Get off my lawn.

Memory Lane:

It was a rough night.  Stormed, thunder, and Lexi figured out how to open my bedroom door.  I had a dog beside the bed for the rest of the night.  Power went out sometime early (which reminds me, need to reset my clock, brb ..., okay, back.  Apparently it had been back on for 12 hrs and 28 minutes.  Didn't have to reset my alarm though) therefore there was no coffee.  Thought about writing this blog at work (on my lunch hour, I mean..., yeah, that's the ticket) but it slipped my mind.

I really don't feel any more like blogging than I did last week, but I feel bad not doing it.  Someone has already noticed and mentioned it, so I'm going to try to get this posted by midnight.

I also feel bad not blogging because I have topics.  I promised an old friend from Scouting that I'd tell a story (or two) from WAY back, in particular what I have come to call "The Great Staff Walk Out of 1976."  I'm not sure I can make it readable in an hour and two minutes, but here goes:

For me it starts when I decided I wouldn't apply for camp staff in the summer of '76.  I was finishing up my freshman year in college, and thought I should probably get a real job for the summer.  (Don't even ask how that worked out for me.)  

I was home for a weekend, and mowing what little grass there was in front of the place we lived, when two vehicles pulled up (a brown car [as I recall] and an infamous little red Chevy Luv pickup [about which I can, but probably shouldn't, tell more tales]) driven respectively by Bill Chamberlain and David Pressler.  They had apparently just returned from National Camping School, and were full of enthusiasm and vinegar about the summer ahead.  Dave was going to be Program Director and Bill was Field Sports Director.  They told me Mr. Mott (and at the time, I didn't have a clue who that was) would be Camp Director, and of course 38 years later I don't recall the whole conversation, but it was going to be the Best Summer Camp Ever and I needed to fill out this staff application. I was going to teach archery, and work for Bill.  (It apparently didn't matter that I couldn't, and still can't, hit the side of a barn with an arrow.)

So, I became Assistant Field Sports Director on the 1976 Camp Karankawa Summer Camp Staff.  Some other Principal Players:  Leroy Mott was Camp Director, and his family was in camp with him, employed in various useful capacities.  Robin Bashaw, a friend from my troop (who later, incidentally, became Scout Executive for that Council) was also on staff, as a Commissioner if I recall correctly.  He also maintained two regular jobs outside of camp during the season.  He did not see the need for sleep, which is also another story in itself (which I am unfortunately unqualified to relate.)  Joey Trobis was a Scout from David Pressler's troop, who was not quite old enough for Staff, but due to family medical issues, David and Leroy had agreed he could spend the summer as staff mascot, more or less.

I think that takes care of the principal cast ..., except for two.  Up to now I'm using real names.  Actually, of the names I've listed, Bill and myself are the only ones living.  I don't think Bill will mind.  If I could find him on Facebook I'd ask him.  (BTW, if anyone who was actually there reads this, correct my errors and omissions.  I know I have at least one Facebook friend whose role in this is going unmentioned as I rush to finish in 29 minutes.)

I am going to change the names on the next two characters for a number of reasons:  I haven't seen either of them in 30 years or so, they were both Professional Scouters at the time, I don't know if either would want to be named herein, and one of them gets the role of "Bad Guy."  So I'm going to call them Bob and Stan.  Bob was District Executive where I lived, Stan had another professional role somewhere in the Council, but he had already taken a job elsewhere.  Bob was assigned as "Staff Advisor" to the staff.  (We considered the role "Council spy.")  But Bob was a good guy.

I'll gloss over the first few weeks.  Leroy, Dave and Bill had a lot of enthusiasm and great ideas they brought from Camp School, morale was great, the campers seemed to be having a great time.  (In case you're unfamiliar with Scouting's version of long term camping, units come for a week at a time, so we had a different bunch of campers every week.)  Leroy started a "Coup Stick" game, where any Troop, Patrol, or Individual would make their own "Coup Stick."  If it was "stolen" whoever had it could demand a "ransom" for its return.  It seemed to be a lot of fun.  (I was too busy not hitting the side of the barn with arrows.)

Then we come to the third or fourth week.  (Maybe fifth, I don't remember, it doesn't matter.)  Bob had some other committment, so he got Stan to fill in for him as Staff Advisor.  No problem so far.

Did I mention camp was going great?  Morale was high.  We had program running out our ears.  Skits, improvisation, creativity, running themes.  We had program with every meal.

A few days into this particular week, the staff left its Coup Stick in charge of a younger staff member, who in turn left it in his cabin.  A camper retrieved it therefrom.  Let us dismiss the fact that Staff Camp was off limits to Campers, leaving the Coup Stick "off limits" was also against the rules.  So (I'm gonna call 'em) Troop Zero had the Staff Coup Stick.  Big Coup.  Pun intended.

Camp WAS going great, up 'til now, with the possible exception of the swimming pool.  And of course Staff has egg on their face for losing their Coup Stick.  And now Troop Zero gets to demand their ransom:  "Thursday is Parents Night.  The flagpole in our camp site is rusty.  It would be nice to have it painted for Parents Night."  A pretty reasonable demand, if you asked me, then or now.

HOWEVER, we are dealing with adolescent males.  (When I meet a post-adolescent male, I'll let you know.)  Staff meeting:  How can we comply with the letter of the demand while grossly violating the spirit?  Many suggestions came forward.  Clear paint (my personal favorite.)  Candy stripe the pole.  I doubt if any real decision was made.

However, an expedition was dispatched to paint the flagpole.  At night.  LATE at night.  They were, apparently, not nearly as organized as it would have taken to create a peppermint flagpole, nor were they equipped with transparent paint.  But paint they had, of apparently any and every color they could locate, and brushes, and stealth.  They painted the pole (at least part of it.)  They also painted the picnic table.  And the ropes of the Troop tents (while carefully avoiding the canvas.  They were Scouts, not vandals.)  They painted the crapper.  Shut.

They didn't wake a soul.  (Okay, that's not ENTIRELY true.  I understand one young camper awoke, whispered "Oh my God, they're going to kill us," and went back to sleep.)

The next morning, the Troop awoke.  The leaders awoke.  They were furious.  (I believe they were most furious that this had been accomplished without waking the troop.  I believe they were impressed.)  

They complained, to the Camp Director.

Did I mention that things were not going exactly swimmingly at the pool?  The pump was out.  Had been for a while.  The pool was green.  Mr. Mott was a similar shade when he heard Troop Zero's complaint.  However, he HAD to go into town to pick up a new pump for the pool.  Giving his staff a look I wish I could master (and I've been told I can give some mean looks) he announced "We'll deal with this when I get back" and left to get the pump.

I knew this would be a long story.  I have five minutes to get it posted by midnight.  So I think that's a good place to end part one.  Tune in next week for part two, same bat time, same bat channel.

I can retire in 646 days.  You kids get outta my camp site!  And quit paintin' that crapper!

(Damn!  It's midnight!)