The Bomb

Have you ever named a vehicle? In 1966 I was at the end of my junior year of high-school. I bought a 1950 Plymouth. It was one of those big, bulky bubble-shaped cars that you see on the old black and white movies about gangsters. I was just 16 at the time and I had already ruined a 1955 Ford. It leaked oil and I didn’t watch it closely enough, so it died of dehydration.

I had been driving since I was 14 so when I suddenly found myself without wheels, after two years of relative independence, I went through freedom withdrawals.

About 6 weeks after killing the Ford, my dad stumbled upon a buddy who owned that ’50 Plymouth. Don was a scary-looking fat, bald-headed fellow (OMG, I have become Don) who had owned the car for quite some time. It was in fairly good shape. He only wanted $75 for it, but there was a problem. I didn’t have any money.

My dad told me that he talked Don into letting me pay him off at $5 per week. Dad went on to say, “Let me warn you. Don is one mean son-of-a-bitch, and if you don’t pay him he’ll just take your car away”.

YIPPEE!!! New wheels!!!

The Plymouth may have been a minor step backwards from the Ford, as far as I was concerned, but nobody else would have noticed the difference because both cars were essentially just clunkers. It had hints of its original dark-blue paint job, but there was just as much red primer paint showing through. Every time I washed it, which was only once or twice, more blue was replaced by even more red.

Anyway, with new wheels under my way-too-heavy teenaged lead-foot I raced (relatively speaking, considering it weighed about two tons, only had a 6-cylinder engine and was 17 years old) over to my girlfriend’s house. We were both happy to have a means to escape the piercing eyes of the old people. Susan climbed into the front seat and took up the position in the middle, right next to me. She instantly, affectionately and accurately named that Plymouth, ”The Bomb.” From that day on, it had its moniker.

As that summer progressed, The Bomb slipped further and further into disrepair. It had two very bald tires, but that was no problem. In those days all tires had inner-tubes, so I just waited until the tread got so thin that the inner-tube squirted out and popped. Then I scrambled to buy another old used tire and inner-tube.

One time I took several buddies to the mountains to go tubing (In those days we tied inner-tubes together). On the way back, Lee scraped his initials into the fuzzy fabric that made up the remainder of the headliner, then everybody else had to do it.

Before long, I took The Bomb 4-wheeling and was surprised how well it did. But I bounced off a tree, so the already-ugly body had a nice new dent in the right rear fender. About that time Ivan suggested I paint a bunch of witty one-liners on the outside, but I never did do that.

To make matters worse, I tried to make day-to-day repairs myself. That was a disaster because I was completely car-dumb in 1966 (It is hard to believe, but I was even worse than I am now). The windshield was in two parts, split by a vertical frame. Somehow, the driver’s side broke, so I just took out the glass from that side. That made for some fairly interesting experiences when it rained. Both rain drops and the windshield wiper flopped around on the dash board while my legs got soaked.

Eventually the radio went out, probably from a combination of bouncing around on jeep trails and drowning from all of the rain water. No self respecting teenager can function without music so I pulled the radio out of the dash and used the mountain-sized floor-hump as if it was an operating table. I had no idea what the heck I was doing so I performed the only radio surgery I knew, which was to jiggle the wires. Oddly, that worked for a while, so I put the radio back into the dash.

A couple days later, the radio went out again, so I knew I needed to adopt a wiser tactic. I removed the radio again and jiggled the wires until it worked, just like the previous time, only this time I didn’t bother to put the whole contraption back into the dash. Why bother? It might need fixed again. So, I just left it there on the hump, and told it, “You’re on your own.” Thereafter it did a fairly good balancing act, but once in a while it tried to venture into the peddle area.

Meanwhile Susan had to find a new place to dangle her long and skinny, teenaged legs.

Before you criticize me for not maintaining The Bomb, you should take into consideration the fact that I had no money. After all I never had time to look for a job because I was too busy terrorizing the mountain roads. So, through no fault of my own, I was on a very limited budget.

That fall we went back to school and right away they held the annual Sadie Hawkins Dance, in which the girls ask the guys to go with them. One of our class-mates was named Doug. He owned a very nice and well-repaired 1957 Chevy. For some reason, known only to God himself, Susan dumped me and asked Doug to go to the dance. Humph!!!.

That winter, I nurtured The Bomb along the best I could and found the heater to be a good friend, considering there was no windshield on the driver’s side. About that time Patty and I started to see each other.

In my quest to impress her, The Bomb and I took her up a dirt road and then headed strait up a VERY steep mountain-side that had a hint of a trail, which must have been made by a tractor. I just wanted to show her how high The Bomb could climb.

I made several runs at it, each time starting out farther back so I could get more speed and climb even higher. By about the third run, Patty had enough. She “acted” like she was scared by screaming and digging her fingernails into the seat, but I knew she was bluffing; so, when she insisted that I let her out, I went even faster.

Then, I hit a big bump and the trunk popped open, spilling everything, including the very bald spare tire that I had not bothered to fasten down – just like the radio. The tire was so anxious to escape it immediately stood up on its end and rolled right down that hill. It was so happy to get away it was jumping up and down as it rolled down the mountainside, eventually reaching speeds upwards of mock-two. I guess The Bomb really impressed Patty because she has been hanging around ever since.

As I reflect back, The Bomb was the most tolerant friend I have ever had. Now, I realize that I got away with a lot more than I should have. About the only thing I did correctly regarding The Bomb was make my 15 payments right on time, mostly because I feared a bald-headed dude named Don.

Many years later, I learned that my dad paid Don the full amount for The Bomb right up front and Don forwarded my payments back to my dad. Dads can be pretty cool sometimes.

Next time we can discuss "Old Blue".

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Saying Goodbye

I have come to the conclusion that my family does not understand what “Good Bye” means. My wife, for instance, must not have ever been taught that good-bye is what you say when you or somebody else is leaving. For her and others like her, good-bye is a process not a parting comment. A recent family gathering served up one of my favorite examples.

On that particular day, two of my sisters had come to town from Texas. Jeanine also brought the majority of her daughters (four of five). They were all hanging around at my aunt’s house with her and her daughter (my cousin), Genise. Patty and I went over to visit them. If you haven’t added it all up, that makes 9 females and me.

As usual, we had an enjoyable time talking about the good old days, and gossiping about people who were not there and other girly stuff like bugs, babies, recipes, wine types and home decorating. We did not discuss interesting topics like trucks, fishin’, stinky feet, football or peeing outdoors. Eventually, it was time to call it an evening.

“It” usually begins when somebody says something like, “We probably ought to be heading home.” That comment is usually met with some resistance like. “Ah gee, don’t go. We don’t get together very often.” Well, once one of the people is mentally leaving and the others are not yet done visiting, a fascinating conflict ensues.

The departing party does not want to be rude or appear like she is not enjoying herself, so she drops that matter for a while and engages in further conversation. However, the others know that the train has left the station so they wish to embrace any remaining moments together. They return to their corners, like boxers, for another half hour or so. And the conversation lives on like reruns.

The next phase is reached when someone stands up. The others follow suit and they resume the conversation for another ten minutes while standing in the exact same space that their feet were in when they were sitting down.

Eventually, someone leans toward the door and that is the point when they all realize the gathering really is winding down. About that time one of them visits the ladies’ room. The others put the conversation on hold and engage in a round of hugs. They say things like, “We have to get together more often.” When one comes back from the bathroom, another one takes her place.

Then, someone grabs the doorknob. That should end it all. Everybody has already peed, hugged and bid their farewells. But no, no, no! We still have a long way to go. They all line up, single file, and one by one they follow the leader out the door. Then the leader turns around and hugs somebody. Well, when she re-hugs one person she has to re-hug them all…again. Many others join in a new round.

We got to that stage the other day. I had already been in the front seat for about 10 minutes before my wife completed her rounds. Just when she was about to join me, my aunt asked her another question. Patty returned to the circle of hugs and a new round of discussions were under way.

By that time, I was giggling at the fact that none of them know what Good Bye means, so I thought I would see just how far they would take it. I decided to get out of the car and face my aunt with open arms. Naturally, she took the bait; and, a whole new round of affection was underway. With that event in motion, my giggles elevated to a genuine laugh. While they were wrapping up that round I was laughing so hard I could not stop. Then my cousin figured out what was going on and she started to laugh too. Then we had to explain it to everybody else and smiles consumed the group.

Patty finally got in the car. I have to admit that I had not been so entertained in quite some time and I have changed my mind, at least temporarily. If saying good-bye in their way can bring so much pleasure, it cannot be wrong.

With that, all that is left to say is good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye,

Hug Me

One of the fun things about a “Human Interest” blog is there are a broad range of topics to draw from. In my case, my large family has some interesting quirks. Hugging is right near the top of the list. That may because of the unusually high female population among the group.

I have been blessed with 6 sisters. Between them, they have had 12 daughters but only 4 sons (so far that is 18 girls to 4 boys). Patty’s core family is also loaded with girls, and so are our extended families. As you would expect, I am the oddball in this equation: I have 2 sons, no daughters.

With that many women around, you can bet there is some serious hugging going on. Women are trained for it. When they are little, they are taught to hug their dollies as well as their mommy and daddy and their siblings. Before long they are experts at hugging their immediate family and then their grandparents. From there. it spreads to other family members, their friends, their pets, other people’s babies, people at church, and eventually their spouses and then their own children, and the circle begins again. My wife even runs out to hug the mail man every day (not really).

Most men are willing participants in hug-a-thons, but they are generally less enthusiastic. My Uncle Johnnie was an exception, and so was my dear friend, Ed. He came from an Italian family where they are all hug-freaks. The men in their family even hug each other a lot. But for the rest of us fellows, I think we enjoy the “bumpers” that women bring to the embrace, as much as we enjoy the affection.

Nobody ever talks about it very much, but it is a bit weird when you hug a mom or a sister and their boobs get in the middle of it all. You don’t particularly think of them in a sexual way, but you can’t help but notice that your body is being nudged in odd places. The tall girls bump you in the chest, and the shorter ones poke you just below the rib cage. And then there are the short grandmas who have fallen victim to the long-term effects of gravity,…but, lets not even go there.

I can’t help but wonder how women secretly handle this boob-matter when they hug each other. I would expect that they try not to notice such things, but who do they think they are kidding? Women notice the smallest details about each other, right down to wedding rings, minor hair cuts and various facial expressions. They are masters at gathering information. No tidbit of information is too trivial to ignore. If they are that obsessed with the subtle and simple day-to-day things, it is hard to believe they don’t observe the mass of femininity that competes for the space in between hugs. Do the small breasted ones feel a sense of envy? Do the bigger ones kinda push each other around, like sumo wrestlers? I think I am gonna start watching their faces for telltale signals when I catch two women in the act of hugging.

There are certain situations that really lend themselves to hugging, especially among the feminine gender. Have you ever noticed the hug-fest that bonds them together at funerals and weddings, or when one of them has a baby? These are the types of events that draw out the best of their heart-felt hugs. The signals are clear. The affection flows by the bucketful. In those special moments, a simple genuine hug communicates more effectively than any words or anything else.

And then there are hug pats. Sometimes when people want to lend emphasis to their hugs, they pat the other person on the back. Other times the hug-patting sends a not-so-delicate signal that the patter is ready to terminate the hug. If you want to have fun with people like that hold your hugs an extra 10 seconds or so and watch how aggressive their patting becomes, then tell them what you are doing and tell them I put you up to it, You will both enjoy the moment.

So hugs are an important part of the American spirit. They say a lot, even though no words are spoken. Many of us start out our days with hugs and sneak a few in as the day moves along. They make us feel better. There is never a wrong time for a hug and some situations are custom-made for them…like when we say “Goodbye”.

More on that in the next article. Until then, keep hugging.

UPDATE: Our family has been blessed because one of my sisters had "another daughter" who has fallen out of the sky for us all to enjoy. Many, many years ago, Carol was forced to put Julie up for adoption, but we have been recently reunited. Guess what she told me today: "I give good hugs." It figures!

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Political Winds September

Have you seen the political poll numbers lately? The President’s numbers are poor at best and things look worse for congress. Most of the incumbents from both parties are keeping their fingers crossed. However, the Democrats in congress are doing much worse. At one time they claimed that 2010 would bring the Summer of Recovery, but the opposite has happened. On top of everything else, this week the unemployment numbers took another step backwards.

So in spite of the Democrats expectations, things just keep getting worse. Pollster has charts showing the average of all polls, and they indicated the downward trends are still gaining steam. RedState is gloating about the numbers and anxious to promote them. They are especially gleeful in their review of the voters over age 55, which is an enormous block.

The seniors have “rejected every key element of the Obama Administration’s programs” and usually by more than a 2-1 ratio. The one category that stuck out to me has to do with the President’s claims that his program will bring the deficit down. The old folks reject that argument by nearly TEN to ONE! Since they have all been around longer that Mr. Obama, you would think he would listen to them, but sometimes “there are none so deaf as those who refuse to hear”.

It seems to me that the President and his Democratic Congress have blown an incredible opportunity. All along, he has claimed that a big portion of his health care plan would be covered by eliminating waste in Medicare and Medicaid. Since runaway spending has always been the knock on their party, they had a chance to hit a homerun and probably secure the Whitehouse and Congress for another decade, or even longer.

All they had to do was put some teeth in the meat. If they had spent the first year of his Presidency finding the areas in those two bloated programs that they could actually fix (which should not be very difficult) and employ their reliable ally, the media, to brag about their progress, they would have built up priceless credibility. Since they control both houses and all of the committees, nobody could have stopped them.

Then, once they had the trust of the voters they should have submitted a bill that is not 2,400 pages and open it up for legitimate debate. By keeping everything above board they could have reversed all of the distrust the people had built up under the Bush Administration.

So, Obama and the Democratic congress could have separated themselves from Bush by being forthright and actually cutting spending, but instead they decided to differentiate themselves from Bush by making him look like a cheapskate. Can you say trillions?

A lot of citizens still like the President so he needs to use his political clout in a different way. For one thing he should do what he said before he was elected. He was a great orator who showed the ability to bridge political and racial divides, but he has not lived up to his claims. All he has to do is call a major press conference and announce he has had a change of heart. Then govern in a manner similar to how he campaigned.

If he does that he might even have a realistic chance at getting reelected in 2012, but if he remains steadfast, he may just hand the Republicans the Whitehouse for another 12-year run similar to the Reagan/Bush years. As it stands now, the Dems are poised to lose their majority in the House of Representatives plus enough seats in the Senate to render them impotent for the remainder of the President’ first term. Even Harry Reid, the Senate leader is trailing in his state’s polls. If they don’t reverse themselves quickly, I am afraid they have sealed their fate.