The Mind of Randall Lang

Attitude Adjustment Day

2011-08-26T23:29:00.029-04:00

Those of you who suffer through my ramblings already know that I can be a smug son-of-a-bitch. I freely poke fun at the proclivities, mental slips, bad habits, and strange mannerisms of others with some serious attitude, although the attitude is usually couched in a tongue-in-cheek manner. Much of that has to do with my lengthy life experience and the subsequent feeling that I'm prepared for whatever life throws at me. Mentally I still believe my body is 30 years old and fully capable of complying with my demands. Well today, August 26, 2011, I got one serious attitude adjustment. I have watched numerous television shows about people who were placed in life or death circumstances, and invariably they say, "I though I was going to die." To me that sounded trite and overly dramatic until I said it today. Instantly it became honest, frightening, and not one bit dramatic.

Mrs. Randall and I have for several years put aside a couple of days during the summer for a kayak trip. While that may sound adventurous for the social security set, let me assure you that our choice of kayak trips is far from being an advertisement for Mountain Dew. Instead of ''white water' kayaking, we prefer to call it 'wimp water' kayaking. We do the same run on the Youghiogheny River, a very flat water class 1 stretch that is about 6 miles long and takes 3-4 hours to complete, most of the time spent simply drifting and enjoying the scenery. Having made the same trip so many times, our main concern is sunburn and hoping we don't have to pee during the trip. The rental company provides small, moulded plastic kayaks with those double ended paddles, life jackets, and transportation to the 'put-in' or launch area. We are on our own until we finish the journey, drag the boat out of the water at the rental place, and return all gear. With familiarity comes complacency.

We had to sign a release forms that promised that we would not abuse the equipment, would not drink alcohol during the trip, and would wear a life jacket while on the water. Any of you boaters who have worn a life jacket on a hot summer day know how incredible hot and sticky they become very quickly. So we signed and returned our forms, got on the bus, and away we went to the launch point 6 miles upstream.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Youghiogheny river, it is a senic river that is too shallow for motorized boats. In fact, most of it is so shallow that becoming hung up on the rocks is a common occurance. Having made the trip so many times, I was well aware of how shallow the river is and, with my smug attitude fully in force, considered a life jacket an unnecessary burden. As we exited the bus at the launch point, I grabbed a small life jacket that I could pack away behind the seat of my kayak and out of the way. Mrs Randall carefully selected a properly fitting life jacket which she adjusted and secured. She and I launched with the group but soon left them behind to escape the chattering families and noisy teenagers.

The first 4 miles were relatively uneventful. Both Mrs. Randall and I found ourselves aground on the rocks a few times, but since the water was 12" to 16" deep, it was no problem for me to climb out of my boat and pull Mrs. Randall free. We cruised along in the clear water occasionally seeing rather large fish swimming below us. We negotiated a few 'rapids', successfully avoiding the large rocks while occasionally getting splashed as we crashed through the 'monster' 8" waves. It was all so routine. We entered a large pool of quiet water with almost no current. We seemed to just sit, unless we paddled to keep moving. Then it happened.

From my education and years of work, I know a lot about things like 'center of gravity', 'overturning forces', and 'stabilizing forces'. I know not to stand up in a boat and would not do so. I don't even know how it happened. Without warning, my boat began to rock and suddenly rolled over plunging me into the river. Somehow this event had occurred in what is probably the deepest section of the Youghiogheny River. When I hit the water, my glasses came loose and left my face just as I grabbed them with my hand. I went down for the first time expecting to simply hit bottom at 4 or 5 feet and stand up very embarrassed. Instead I found myself sinking into an abyss that could have been 20 feet deep for all I knew. After the first six feet, the rest is academic. I fought my way to the surface, struggling hard to stay above the water. My boat (and life jacket) were now 6 to 8 feet away, and my efforts at swimming were accomplishing little. Try as I may, I could not seem to make progress toward my boat and I felt like I had concrete blocks on my feet. I was in serious trouble. Of those people who said, "I thought I was going to die", you can add my name to that list. I've heard people say that their lives flashed before their eyes during a life or death experience. Had I been sinking to the bottom, who knows, but while I was still breathing, my mind was working at warp speed trying to find a way to get to that boat and the life jacket. I was rapidly running out of breath and the strength to keep swimming was fading. Suddenly my capsized boat was right in front of me. I went under and brought my head up into the air pocket beneath the boat, trying to catch my breath and hold on to the shell to rest. I spun around and saw that my life jacket was gone, instantly assuming that it had fallen out and was floating downstream. I could tell that the air under the boat was quickly being used up and knew I had to move. If I could get the boat turned over, I could cling to it until help arrived.

Help came from an unlikely source. Mrs. Randall is a short gal of roughly my age who, like me, has put on entirely too many pounds. She is far from athletic and has not done any swimming since college phys ed where she learned the basics and eeked out a passing grade. She has an artificial knee and a touch of arthritis in other joints. It is a real effort for her to get into one of the small kayaks and even more effort to get out of one. When I came out from under my boat, Mrs. Randall was there to help me turn the boat over and to slam my life jacket on my hands. The child's life jacket I had chosen did little to support me, but it was enough to keep me from drowning. Together we clung to the flooded boat.

When she saw me go under, she paddled as closely as she could. Knowing that she could not easily get out of her boat, she chose to roll her boat over, draw up her legs, and kick her boat away. That push enabled her to shove my boat the last few feet so I could reach it. I don't know how or where she found my life jacket, but she actually saved my life. I have always consider myself to be her guardian and protector but, in this time of danger, it was her who saved me.

As we clung to the boat, two people in a canoe nearby saw what had happened and came to help. Still on the verge of panic as the flooded boat hovered near sinking, I could hear a female voice calmly offering reassurance and shouting instructions. I knew from the tone of her voice that she was a nurse, and I later found out that I was right.

While we clung to the boat, she and her son gathered up our paddles and Mrs. Randall's boat, taking them ashore. When they got to us, she gave me a second life jacket (adult size) and told both Mrs. Randall and I to swim to shore while she hauled our boat to the riverbank. Abandoning our flooded boat, Mrs. Randall backstroked toward shore. I hung on to the life jackets but all of my kicking gained me no progress toward shore. With help on scene, my concern turned to my brave, loving, almost non-swimming Mrs. Randall. Frightened by any number of potential scenarios, I called to her regularly while stuck in my watery limbo. Each time I heard her voice, she reassured me that she was making progress. Finally, to my great relief, I saw her reach the slippery, muddy shore, although she slipped and fell. Soon our rescuers were with her helping her to climb into the rocking canoe. Once Mrs. Randall was safe with our grounded boats and equipment, they came back and towed me to shore.

With well-practiced skills, our savior nurse calmed us and set about reassuring us that the danger was passed. She and her son sat patiently with us until she felt we were ready to again launch into the river, with me now wearing the adult sized life jacket that she carefully adjusted and securely snapped across my chest.

The remaining trip was one of physical discomfort. Without the life jacket to prop up the back of my seat, I leaned back much too far, leaving me the choice of either looking at the sky and not being able to paddle, or sitting forward to paddle until my abdominal muscles cramped. I'm sure that Mrs. Randall was equally uncomfortable, but she bravely paddled on. Finally two wet, exhausted, sunburned, pain-filled people mercifully reached the rental company where we returned everything and gratefully headed for the car.

And so it was, on that attitude adjustment day. A day when I learned of my own mortality, my own limitations, and my own vulnerability. It is a great ego inflater to be the strong and capable protector. To be the 'master of all you survey', not needing help from others and sneering at the weak and vulnerable. Life has a way of taking that self-important image and flushing it down the toilet, leaving us to face the reality of our own limitations and the true importance of others who chose to care for us as we are rather than as we picture ourselves.

47 Years later

2011-05-26T11:47:00.058-04:00

In late Summer of 1963, just before the start of the school year, pre-season practice began for the football team of our high school. Previous teams had done well, and this was our senior year and our chance to shine. The common backfield formation of the time was called the 'straight T', which saw the quarterback (who receives the ball from the center), up against the center of the line. 2 to 3 yards behind him was the fullback with the left and right halfbacks on either side of the fullback. To those with a knowledge of football, that probably sounds like 'leather helmet' stuff and that actually is pretty close. We were among the first teams to have face guards on our helmets, although often those were simply a single curved bar at about mouth level. Careful maintenance of facial contours was not a high priority in football at a time when, "It's a long way from your heart son", was the coach's standard response to injuries.

Of the backfield for our team, the quarterback was a largely untested junior who replaced a highly skilled and awarded senior who graduated the previous year. The left halfback was a senior, more experienced, very quick, and agile. The right halfback, also a senior, was the team's star player, captain of the team, and frequently referred to as, "the fastest white man in the Ohio Valley." Between them stood your most humble and obedient servant who acquired the position more as a matter of attrition than ability. But we practiced hard and carried high hopes for the future. The thinking was that, if the rest of us could do anything that would get our right halfback into the open, we had a chance to win. The first game of the season, and the first quarter of play saw our team captain fall with a devastating knee injury that would all but end his play for that year. The left halfback stepped up and made his best effort to fill the void, but found himself being hammered regularly by opponents who easily overwhelmed our less than stellar front line. The fullback was not much of a contributing factor save for the odd block or 'three yards and a cloud of dust' play. The season quickly became a disaster with a couple of high points and many lows.

The three seniors of the backfield became close friends through all of the social events of the year as well as numerous times spent simply wasting each other's time and laughing while doing it. The culmination of that relationship was a four week trip together into Mexico that included two weeks at a small University and a week in a rented apartment in glamorous Acapulco. In the interest of decorum, the details of that trip will be omitted while leaving the reader free to imagine the escapades of three 18 year olds loose in a nation with no age limit for drinking, gambling, or other vice-laden activities. Before that trip, one or more parents, while still questioning the wisdom of unleashing their offspring upon an unsuspecting and (previously) friendly nation, took pictures of the usual suspects standing in front of the six month old 1964 Pontiac GTO that would carry them on their journey.

That trip would generate a lifetime of memories for all three, who went on to college before losing track of each other. Life has a way of supplanting those early friendships, no matter how close, with things like careers, family, mortgages, and such. So, some how, some way, 47 years slid by in the wink of an eye, leaving a trail of jobs, marriages, children, relocations, divorces, and (as much as it pains me to admit) grandchildren.

The thing called 'Facebook' may be considered as a teenager's toy where the texting generation posts inane comments about meaningless happenings in their young lives. But sometimes it can be a miracle that enables a generation who grew up with rotary telephones, black and white television, and Mom being at home to reconnect to friends long lost to the four winds. After 47 years the 'backfield' was once again together. Certainly no longer able to even get into a football stance, let alone charge an opponent. Paunchy, balding, white haired, a bit frail, and seriously medicated, three geezers rekindled the spirit of their relationship with a couple days of 'laugh and scratch', revisiting old haunts, and even a visit to a local nudie bar. It's hard to really get into the spirit of a nudie bar when the girls are younger than your children and only a few years older than your grandchildren. Instead of admiring their lovely young bodies with lusty thoughts of sexual desire, we found ourselves trying to stay awake, wondering if the girls were warm enough, and if the wooden stage hurt their knees. A far cry from the trip to Acapulco where...I'll just leave it at that.

Those 18 year old hoodlums had somehow been transformed (seemingly overnight) into grandfathers with numerous medical ailments and failing memory cells. Young bodies that had once enthusiastically smashed headlong into an opponent now bore the scars of assorted surgeries and the pain of arthritic joints. No one can ever see themselves age. The face in the mirror (at least from our perspective) is the same as it was 30, 40, 50 years ago, and mentally we're all still waiting for summer vacation at the end of the school year. But when seen through the prisim of old friends, suddenly the changes become evident. Physically we can never be the same. Those hard young bodies are long gone, victims of the process of establishing our identities in life. But the spirit of friendship and the remaining memories of times and people now gone, remain as the rock to which we cling while life attempts to sweep us away to join the dust of ages. And after a couple days with two other old farts, I can tell you, we're clinging pretty good.

In an ironic turn of events, the unsung hero of that near-miss international incident from 1964 has survived much better than its occupants. After 15 years of abuse, road salt, and neglect followed by 30 years sitting in a barn where the mice turned it into Club Med for rodents, the 1964 GTO has been restored into a head-turning, award winning, hearthrob. If they could just do that for people, sigh.

WHEW! That was CLOSE!

2011-03-19T21:59:00.014-04:00

I had a scare last week at my abomination station on Wheeling Island. The Ohio River has a record of flooding over 'Da' I-Lan' about every seven years on average. Let's see, last flooded in 2005, this is 2011, yep, she's due. When I acquired hedo-house in 2005, it had been flooded to the first floor in September of 2004 and again in January of 2005. The owner at the time was a widow in her eighties. Fortunately she had moved into assisted living before the flooding so she was safe, but the damage to the house was a problem for her. The electrical panels and some of the wiring had been destroyed, the water heater was destroyed, a finished room in the basement (itself a fool's project) had been obliterated, the first floor carpeting had been soaked with mud, and numerous other parts of the house had been damaged. She had some restoration work done, but her funds were limited. She eventually just put the house up for sale, 'as is', at a reduced price. Enter your most humble and obedient servant who was searching for a base of operations for his completely corrupt lifestyle.

Most of the intervening years between 2005 and 2011 had been spent in cleaning, restoring, replacing, remodeling, renovating, and a bunch of other "re's" that totalled up to a significant amount of $$$$ and a whole lot of perspiration. Other than residual flood damage, the house had not been too bad to start with, but six years of work had turned it into quite a comfortable den of iniquity. Among the improvements were the installation of a sump pump in the basement, relocating the electrical service to the first floor, and blocking up two open window openings into the basement. I didn't understand the existance of that one either but hey, "It's Da I-Lan mon', some strange thin's goin' on ober der".

When you live on an island, you have to know 'your number'. Every house has one and it's not an address, it's the river level at which water begins to come into your house. At the 'clap shack', that number is 38.3. The numbers come from river elevations as monitored and predicted by the U.S. Army, Corps of Engineers who control the system of locks and dams that prevent the catastrophic floods such as happened in the 1930's. They have a website with a 'hydrograph' and without getting too technical, it is a prediction of river level changes that will occur based upon predicted rainfall.

(right click, Open in new window)
http://water.weather.gov/ahps2/hydrograph.php?wfo=pbz&gage=wlgw2

For instance, the normal river level at wheeling is about 22', but a 3" rainfall over the huge Ohio river watershed area can result in a peak flow that reaches 40', well above the 36' flood stage. When extended rainy weather or snowmelt is predicted, Island residents with computers check the website regularly to see if emergency measures will be necessary. Those without computers monitor television and radio reports of the predicted river level.

Built in 1910, my place has a full basement with no drain. Subsequently, if a gallon of water went into the basement, it stayed in the basement until it evaporated or until an ambitious homeowner mopped it up and carried it out. What that meant to previous owners was that, if the river came up to 40' and your number is 39', you had a foot of water in your basement. Among the numerous things I failed to understand about the previous owners was why they tolerated such a condition. By locating the low point in the basement floor, digging a hole, and installing a sump pump with an outdoor discharge, water could be pumped out of the basement. The big question in my mind was, why did it take 95 years for someone to figure that out? The other question was why window openings into the basement had not been closed up. But anyway, I digress.

I had several other scares in the past. Predictions of above flood level had me making plans for quick removal of stored property and utilities from the basement, but until last week, the river crest would fall below flood stage before it reached Wheeling. Last week was different.

Two and a half days of light to heavy rain had brought surrounding creeks to above flood level and the predicted level at Wheeling was 42.7 feet. Flood level is at 36', my number is 38.3, the land around the house is at 41, the street is at 40.5, and the first floor of the house is at 45. In March of 1936, a monumental flood put water up to the second floor of my house. At 42.7, I would have 2.2 feet of water in the street, 1.7 feet around the house, and the potential for 4.4 feet of water in the basement. Time to get serious.

The good news is that flood crests can take days to travel up the Monongahela River and down the Allegheny River, meeting in Pittsburgh and travelling many miles down the Ohio. Day one was spent in preparation by sorting and packing possessions into plastic containers for easy removal. The second day saw me testing the sump pump, checking the seal around blocked up basement openings, prioritizing vehicle storage, and generally finalizing planning. The crest would hit about noon on day three. I was glued to the computer for the hourly monitoring reports and modified predictions. Typically, the predictions were conservative, predicting higher crests than would eventually occur, and I hoped for the same. The end of day two saw a revision down to 40.3 feet. This was a relief because it meant that there would probably not be water in the street. If that held, the vehicles would not have to be moved.

Especially after images of recent tsunamis, people tend to think of flooding as a giant tidal wave that sweeps over the land. In the open ocean that is true, but river flooding is more like filling a bathtub. Close the stopper on the bathtub, put some solid object at the high end, and turn on the water. The level raises slowly and steadily around it until it is innundated. On a river island, the same thing happens until the surface is covered, then the water flows with the river current, carrying mud and debris with it. The devastation of river flooding is as much the mud and debris left behind as it is the water damage.

The morning of the third day brought with it a revised level of 39.3 feet. This was a great relief for me, but it still meant flooded basements for some with lower numbers, including the Wheeling Island Racetrack and Casino. As the crest passed at approximately noon, the racetrack was flooded by about 3' of water, knocking out the ground level betting area, poker room, employee locker rooms, underground parking, and some of the lower parking lots. Fortunately they prepared well also and their damages and operational interruptions were minimal. Godfather's Gentleman's Club, next door to the Casino, never missed a beat.

I stood in my basement not knowing what to expect. Would water come gushing up through the floor, or through the stone walls? After all of the worry and careful preparations, all I finally experienced was a steady trickle of water up through cracks in the floor and slow seeps at the base of the walls. The water ran immediately to the sump pump where it was soon pumped out. The relief was glorious. Sooner or later 'the big one' will come to test my preparations and planning, but for now, WHEW, that was CLOSE!

Quest for Shangri-La

2011-02-07T14:51:00.076-05:00

Enough trains already! Well, maybe not just yet. In an effort to escape grey drizzly skies, snow flurries, biting cold, and the weatherman's twisted concept of 'partly cloudy', I made a January pilgrimage to the Gulf Coast of Florida. It was a quest to find that most elusive dream, a coastal drinking village with a fishing problem. The kind of town where you could swear that you just saw Ernest Hemmingway, and where the bar stools are occupied at 10 AM. A writers' haven filled with colorful characters who spin tales of adventure, and where even the morning coffee has an umbrella in it.

Knowing that I was only hours ahead of a monumental snowstorm that had left Kansas in the stone age, had crippled Chicago, and which had the northeast in it's cross hairs, my butt was smokin' southward. With the skies turning an angry grey, I pulled into the Amtrak station in Lorton, Virginia, the home of the Auto Train. For any who are unfamiliar with this marvel of transportation, it is one of the few remaining passenger trains, but this one has the added bonus of allowing you to take your car along. With an average of 30 multi-level auto carriers and 750 passengers in 25 passenger service rail cars, the Auto Train is the longest train in the world, extending 3/4 of a mile in length. It runs only between Lorton, VA and Sanford FL, near Orlando.

(Right click and 'open in new window')

http://www.amtrak.com/servlet/ContentServer?c=Page&pagename=am%2FLayout&cid=1246042852883

At the check-in booth near the station entrance, I received my car number and instructions as to what to do next. Guided into a temporary parking space by one of several auto attendants, I gathered up my overnight bag and ticket paperwork while my car was video-documented for pre-existing damage. With number 430 magnetically attached to the driver's door, I stood watching as my car was whisked away, up a ramp and into one of the numerous cavernous auto carriers. I could only hope that it would find a cute little compact or a brightly colored Corvette to get chummy with during the long night's journey.

Inside the station, I was startled by the number of people already there. Almost every one of the hundreds of seats was occupied, some by people with enough luggage for a two week trip rather than an overnight stay. I couldn't help but wonder where they intended to put it all, and why they felt the need for so much 'stuff'. There comes a point where you cease to look like a traveller and start to look like a refugee.

The check-in process was brief and efficient, giving me my room assignment, dining schedule, and the other general information required for the trip. After a wait of half an hour spent watching the media's panic over the approaching weather, passengers were called to board.

I have ridden trains before, starting as far back as the late 1950's. Then, my mother gathered up my brother and my pre-teen self to catch a Chicago bound train at Connellsville, PA. At that time it was a one and a half day trip, and a wondrous adventure for a kid. With a sleeping room, the trip was far less testing than it would have been in a "comfortable reclining chair" in the coach section. Many years later, in the 1990's, I took the Auto Train to Florida and was surprised to find the same room accommodations, rolling stock, and positive attitude toward customer service that I remembered from the 50's. One of my favorite features of both trains was the "observation car", a glass-domed car with elevated seats that allowed passengers to look around freely at the scenery and out over the train while it snaked through the countryside. I was to be disappointed on this trip by the absence of that car.

During that 1990's trip, a walk through the coach section during the night had shocked me. What had been an orderly place with rows of seats like an airliner had been transformed into something from a third world country. Pajama-clad children lay trying unsuccessfully to sleep across seats and in the aisle, food bags, toys, blankets, pillows, and drink bottles lay strewn about, while disheveled, exhausted adults struggled in vain to pacify their young. All that was missing were the goats and chickens. I remember wondering why AMTRAK had not reinstituted the old Pullman cars where coach passengers could sleep in upper and lower burth (bunk) beds behind privacy curtains. That would have to be better than the 'cattle car' atmosphere in the coaches. It appears that someone at AMTRAK had a similar idea, but applied it to the sleeper passenger cars instead of the coaches.

My previous trips had been in a reasonably comfortable bedroom that slept four and had a private bathroom. That was then, this is now. The new 'Superliner Sleeper Cars' have two levels of full-sized bedrooms, handicapped-accessible bedrooms, and communal toilet and shower facilities on the ends with rows of 'roomettes' in between. A 'roomette' is 3'6" by 6'6" with two single seats that convert into the lower bed while an upper bed folds down from the ceiling. It has no toilet or wash facilities. With the sliding door closed, there is room to stand and turn around, but this is no place for a claustrophobic. That being said, I found the arrangement infinitely roomy when compared to the extreme confines of airplane travel. My cubicle was on the upper level of the car, providing me a better view than those on the lower level.

(Right click and 'open in new window')

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ADlUKmUuKY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mfyciq2iiiU

(Not my videos but really cool)

Following the train's timely departure at 4 PM, I sat happily watching the miles and nameless towns fall behind. I was surprised to find absent the hypnotic 'click-clack' of the wheels on the rail joints. Apparently either the rails now have welded joints or the rail cars have dampening buffers that no longer transfer the noise. Whatever the reason, the train seemed to glide almost soundlessly along the tracks. Approaching an hour into the journey, there was an announcement that the dining car was open for the 5 PM seating. Because the dining car has limited seating, passengers must choose from 5 PM, 7 PM, or 9 PM dinners. The 7 PM session was apparently the most popular and was closed, prompting my choice of the early meal. With little red ticket in hand, I made my way along the narrow hallway and down the stairs to the dining car.

A railroad dining car has a degree of romance associated with it generated by years of books and movies. Many of those 1940's movies, with the likes of William Powell and Myrna Loy, contained scenes of romantic chat across a white table clothed table with a red rose in a silver vase, while the scenery floated by in the background. Dining cars haven't changed much. The white table cloth and red rose are still there. To a degree, the service and elegance are also still there, albeit more efficient and sterile as dictated by current times. The menu was limited by restaurant standard, but completely adequate for a hungry traveller. Entree choices of chicken, beef, pasta, or fish were accompanied by salad and choice of dessert, all served promptly and without drama. At my table were a lady from New Jersey (obvious after her first words) who was travelling to stay with her daughter; and, a man from Cumberland, Maryland who was scouting Florida's east coast for his future winter home. Not present, gratefully, were children of any age, making the twenty-something servers the youngest in the room. Actually, my displeasure with children in restaurants is not so much with misbehaving children as it is with the annoying adults who inexplicably believe that they can negotiate their disruptive darlings back into control. "The definition of insanity is...". Having a meal and peaceful adult conversation without distraction was, by itself, worth the train fare.

What is any good meal without continued conversation over cocktails? By moving to the lounge car, we extended our evening with the help of several greatly-overpriced beverages. The scheduled movie was Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in the 1952 classic, "Singing in the Rain". The simple mention of the movie brought groans from those present, most of whom could remember being dragged to the theater as children by their mothers for two hours of crushing boredom while mom revelled in the singing and dancing. The courteous bar steward expressed his gratitude at not having to run the movie. He responded more enthusiastically to calls for several other movies involving "Debbie" and offered to search the crew quarters where he assured us that such fare was readily available.

As the evening wore on, I found myself more and more missing the observation car. Even at night, it was fascinating to sit up high and watch the scenery go by, as if the backdrop of houses, roads, cars, and people was being presented solely for my entertainment. Cars and trucks had to stop at the crossing gates and red flashing lights while we, like some kind of royal procession, glided smoothly by. But, alas, another icon of more luxurious times has fallen to the wayside. With little else to do, it was time to retire.

It took just minutes for the car steward to convert my roomette into sleep mode. In what would prove to be a bad choice, I climbed into the upper berth to discover two disconcerting facts: 1) the upper berth was 6'2" from wall to wall, and 2) the ceiling of the car was just inches from my face. Being 6 feet tall, the additional 2" left precious little wiggle room for someone who was used to sleeping diagonally in a roomy queen size bed. Finding a comfortable position was, to say the least, challenging. Fortunately I'm not a 'back-sleeper'. In that position with eyes open, I had this irrational desire to pound on the ceiling while screaming, "I'm alive! I'm alive!". The unfamiliar on-going movement also made it difficult to sleep, but each time I felt uncomfortable, I pictured myself in the coach car trying to sleep in the midst of the chaos. Compared to that, my cramped quarters were luxurious. Eventually sleep found me. It was not a great 'matress ad morning' kind of sleep, but it was restful and adequate for this traveller.

5:30 AM has mercifully become an unaccustomed hour for me. Being nocturnal by nature, I have never understood those who eagerly shove bacon and eggs into their faces at that obscene hour, then collapse into catatonia by 8 PM. During my years at the slave ship, I learned that those early morning types run the world, and my choices were: 1) get up early,or 2) starve. Now it is usually mother nature who forces me from my comfortable bed, and so it was on the train. It was a surprise to find a line at the bathroom at that hour, but understandable given the ages of my fellow passengers. By 6 AM I found myself in line with those early riser types mentioned above for a seat in the dining car. As I shovelled in my corn flakes and downed my (fresh, cool-but-not-cold) Florida orange juice, I noticed that the scenery had changed considerably. Gone were the thick, swampy vegetation and dense deciduous trees to be replaced by sparse pine and palm trees in sandy soil. Welcome to Florida.

Florida had the look of warmth; no snow, no gloom, no misery's palette. The sky was blue; wonderfully soft blue with a few fluffy-white, harmless clouds. The kind of sky that people in the north dream about. The kind of sky that makes you want to fly a kite or take up gliding. A truly grand welcome. I felt like a prisoner who had escaped his captors and crossed the border to a free country.

By 9:30 AM I was off the train and waiting for number 430. It was just a short time of standing outdoors in the near 60 degree temperatures before my familiar car eased down the ramp to join me. It struck me as odd to see the locals bundled up in coats and jackets. My jacket had long since joined the luggage and the long sleeved shirt would be replaced at earliest convenience by its short sleeve counterpart. As I drove off, intoxicated by the fresh warm air that carried the scent of flowers and vegetation, I turned on the radio. For a moment I felt guilty about laughing at the reports of New York and New England being paralyzed under up to 24" of snow. But only for a moment.

Trips on a Train

2010-07-30T23:13:00.042-04:00

It has come to pass that Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant has finally (and hopefully permanently) separated himself from the curse of the day job. Even after retiring, it seemed as if an invisible bunji cord kept pulling me back to work "for just a couple of weeks" that went on, and on, and on, and... Believe me, there are benefits to working for a boss whom you hate. Working for one that you like leaves you vulnerable to the "do me a favor" request that you feel guilty turning down. So in classic 'toe in the water' manner, I escaped the possibility of the dreaded telephone call by running away from home even if just for two days. Only two hours from home, but beyond the reach of that most insidious of instruments, the telephone. Dashing to hide within the mountains of central West Virginia, I dedicated two days to 'training'.

From childhood I have been fascinated by trains. Perhaps it is the gigantic mass of moving machinery, or the quasi-romance associated with railroads that attracted me, but whatever it is, it's still alive within me. I would have loved to have enjoyed a career with a railroad company, but I had the misfortune to be completing college at a time when railroads were in a precipitious decline and masses of employees were being shown the exit door. Spilt milk at this point.

While doing some online research I found two excursion trains located relatively close to each other and not that far from my den of iniquity; one in Elkins WV and a second at Cass, WV. Both are the salvaged remnants of once-booming businesses that served both the logging and coal mining industries from the 1880's until the 1960's. As the lights began to go out for these railroads, a few visionaries and other dreamers jumped in ahead of the scrappers and the land merchants to snag the rusting and neglected remains of crashing railroad companies. In one case the State of West Virginia, in an uncommon burst of bureaucratic wisdom, grabbed land, buildings, & equipment, to create a state park before devastation and dispair could take over. In combination with the unbridled passion of a handful of volunteers, 'excursion' railroads were born from the ashes of economic failure to the delight of families and geezers of various ages.

DAY ONE:

There is an excitement that accompanies walking toward a restored and immaculately maintained railroad station with "1908" emblazoned on a stone tablet set high below a roof overhang. It's a chance to escape the disposability of today for a brief return to the strength, elegance, and permanence of long ago. The thrill fades a bit when faced with the 'gift shop frenzy' of children and adults pawing through pink engineer hats, multi-colored tee shirts, plastic trains, and wooden train whistles made in China. If you make an honest effort to stick with admiring the architecture, the buzz stays a bit longer. Then the building begins to shake and an ever-louder roar signals the approach of a 1500 horsepower shark-nose diesel-electric locomotive built in 1947. The blast of the horn is deafening and sends whiney children screaming back to their mothers, but sends a welcomed chill down my spine.

Stepping outside I am confronted by a huge beast that sits at thunderous idle, diesel fumes spewing from its exhaust stack. Power throbs from within it, vibrating anything nearby. It is sleek and beautifully curved, painted shiny black and emblazoned with "WESTERN MARYLAND" in bold yellow letters that seem to extend to the horizon. Like the impulse to touch a wild animal, I am filled with the desire run my hands over the smooth, curving surfaces. High above me the large glowing headlight shines like a single eye. All about the machine are wires, pipes, and conduits. A pipe railing guards workers who must stand at the front as well as inconsiderate and disrespectful tourists. High above sits the engineer in his windowed chamber, master of all that will happen on this day. There is a feeling of awe that mere men could build such a grand and powerful creature as this.

At the appointed time the mass of passengers is invited to board creating an odd exodus of humanity from the platform into the 1920's vintage railcars. The older and wiser grab the thickly padded seats in the luxury coach while the stragglers and distracted are left to the hard wooden seats of the other two coaches. After several ear-shattering blasts of the horn and a jolt, the train begins to move, leaving the station in Elkins behind.

The next three hours are a journey into history. Atop rails seeing their second century the train cruises along the almost overgrown railway. Tree limbs that defy the best trimming efforts of the volunteers reach out and occasionally brush the cars. Black powder blasted rock walls threaten to crumble onto the roadbed. A long, dark tunnel adds a degree of mystery to the trip. The cars rock steadily as the train continues on its way. The aged conductor provides an enthusiastic narration of the facts and history of the railroad. Mercifully, at the end of the line, two busloads of bored children, exhausted parents, and semi-aware seniors leave the train and return to their charter buses for a trip to yet another excursion railway, leaving only a handful of hearty souls to gather around the conductor while he spins yarns and tells the stories that would have been wasted on the busloads. Now the trip begins to have meaning, creating memories worth remembering during the three hours back to the station.

One of the things I learned was that a six hour trip is long whether by train, airplane, or bus. I was grateful to finally be on firm ground again, but I could not resist one last admiring study of the grand old engine that had served us so well. I feel a kind of kinship for anything that has spent 63 years working hard and will be back again tomorrow to do it all again. Better it than me.

DAY TWO:

Where IS this place? The four-lane became a two-lane. The two-lane became a twisting, winding, narrow monster that climbed and crashed like a roller coaster. Mapquest had been accurate in its 1-1/2 hour time estimate of the trip from Elkins to Cass, but what it didn't tell me was how much really hard driving I would encounter. Finally a valley opened up at the end of a small village of white-painted houses and other buildings to reveal a train station and a cluster of white-painted industrial buildings. The paved parking lot was wide and not crowded at all, affording me convenient parking. Welcome to Cass Scenic Railroad State Park. Fortunately the 'will call' line for pre-paid tickets was much shorter that the 'Buy Tickets Here' line where adults couldn't seem to understand phrases like, "We cannot accept personal checks" and, "Children over 12 pay adult fares". We pitied the poor ticket clerk who had to answer a stupid question with, "We cannot tell you where to put your dog, but it cannot go on the train." I got the impression that for some people, the train to common sense stopped long before it reached their station.

Ticket in hand, I carefully avoided the gift shop in favor of an old corrugated metal building labelled "Cass Showcase". Once inside I was treated to a scale model of the town as it existed in 1908, a narrated history provided by a knowledgeable gentleman, and a wonderful 10-15 minute movie. All were quite interesting, and the end of the movie was punctuated by the melodic scream of a steam whistle. When I exited the building, a huge black steam locomotive with four passenger cars sat at the depot. I would learn later that the engine before me was a 160 ton Shay steam locomotive, the second largest ever built, constructed in 1945 in Lima, Ohio. It was a magnificent creature, vastly different from the shapely diesel of Elkins and unlike anything I had ever seen.

An incredibly complicated machine, it had a boiler and a cab, but other than that it bore no resemblance to the usual steam locomotives. There are three exposed steam cylinders on each side and the cylinders drive a long crankshaft along the lower right side of the unit. This crankshaft drives gears at each of the six wheels, including two beneath the tender. Since the six wheels are rigidly connected to axles and the wheels on the other side, technically it is a 'twelve wheel drive' machine. It is the locomotive equivalent of 'all wheel drive', which was necessary to negotiate the steep grades encountered while climbing the mountains where logging operations were being conducted. As I studied it, I began to realize what an absolute marvel it is that something like this could still be in regular service after all those years. Unlike the relatively smoke-free diesel, a steady cloud of black coal smoke chugged from the stack while water leaked from the botton and steam hissed from relief valves. It was both frightening and strangly magnetic at the same time. It was like staring at a bomb with the strange compulsion to see what that large red button does.

Three of the passenger cars were open-air with a roof and continuous bench seats that faced outward, while the other was enclosed. Rather than fight for a place in the 'cheap seats', I had reserved a seat in the 'first class' enclosed car that left me in the company of about a dozen other hearty souls. It didn't take long for most of us to abandon the seats in favor of standing at a window. With the cars loaded, the steam whistle screamed again and we were on our way.

It is right that different locomotives have different styles of horns. The diesel at Elkins had a deep, badass horn that could peel the paint off of a building, but it would have been entirely wrong for a steam train. The steam locomotive had one B-I-G steam whistle, the kind that companies used to have to tell employees when the shift had started or ended. Any of you who remember company towns will also remember the big steam whistle that was the focal point of the day. It would echo through the valley and carry for miles. Like the last school bell, everyone eagerly awaited the afternoon whistle marking the end of the shift. And occasionally, an untimely whistle meant that someone's Father wasn't coming home.

The engineer on this steam train was a maestro in his own right. Rather than just the required blasts, he created staccato rhythms and sliding melodic tones as a signature in which, I'm certain, he took great pride. With whistle blowing, we started down the tracks from Cass past a line of other locomotives in various stages of restoration or dismantling. We passed various storage cars and the large shop where the old is made new again, or at least patched up for a few more days. Then we started up the mountain.

Most trains operate at a maximum grade of about 2% or two feet vertically in one hundred feet. Beyond that, their drive wheels begin to slip on the steel rails. Applying sand to the rails may help gain an extra percent or two, but that is about the limit. Almost immediately we were at 9%, a gradient that sent most people to their seats and kept them there. The ancient engine worked its mechanical heart out with clouds of bellowing smoke and flying pistons spinning the driveshaft. But up we went.

A switchback is like a landing on a long flight of stairs. You travel as far as you can in one direction, then pull into a level area, throw a rail switch, and start up again in the opposite direction to the next switchback. This continues as many times as necessary to get the huge load up the steep part of the mountain to an area where the grade flattens out. Pretty amazing stuff for 1908 and equally amazing that it is still in operation 100 years later.

Whitaker Station was a staging area where the loggers set up what they still call a 'yarder' that drags the felled logs on a cable to a central point for transport down the mountain. The cables could stretch for miles and tens of thousands of logs were removed this way. What I found interesting was the gigantic scope of the operation. This wasn't Joe Bob and Billy with a saw and a team of mules, this was dozens of teams of men who cut and moved trees 11 hours a day, 6 days a week for years. History says that the mountain was clear cut in the 1900's, then again in the 1930's, but you would never know it today. The mountain is so thickly wooded that the tree canopy is continuous as far as the eye can see. Even from the top of the mountain there are no open areas save for a handful of farms on the few flatter areas. I remember those sad old pictures from the 1900's that showed land cleared for miles around with acres of stumps and unprotected soil. They were usually accompanied by pictures of mustashioed men in front of a large train or in front of a pile of logs and shown as part of a PBS special on soil erosion. The earth is a very resilient critter.

After visiting the sites of two abandoned logging towns and a couple of engineering feats, we began our descent back down the mountain. It is disconcerting to start down an 11% grade in front of 160 tons of steel and steam on wheels. Looking through the open cars at that huge boiler, I couldn't help but hope that those 65 year old brakes would hold until we reached level ground. Despite trust in competent people, there seems to be a point where those 'Stephen King' thoughts start to pop up. But in the end, thoughts were needless as we slowly and steadily returned to the Village of Cass.

All told it was a very nice couple of days. I have grown to appreciate history and the people who comprised it. It is equally satisfying to experience the efforts of those who put their passions into action so that others may experience a bit of the times long behind us.

"Can't Get Enough of That Funky Stuff"

2010-03-27T16:46:00.031-04:00

"Hello, my name is Randall and I'm a funk addict."

"Hello Randall."

Unbeknowst to me in my childhood, I was born with a redundant rhythm chromosome. It wasn't until my early teens when the musical white wasteland of Patti Page and Julius LaRosa gave way to the likes of Wilson Pickett, Rufus Thomas, and Sam & Dave that the stirrings of something unusual began to appear. By the time Motown hit the airwaves, I was completely addicted to pulsing bass lines and a solid beat. With the discovery of James Brown and the Famous Flames, I finally came to grips with the fact that I had a deep and inescapeable sense of rhythm that would rival an atomic clock, a condition that was certainly far from typical given my race and rural upbringing. As the years went on, my insatiable lust for funky music soon meant that dancing was not enough, I HAD to PLAY that funky stuff! From the first time that drumsiticks met my hands, everything else in life became virtually meaningless. The pursuit of funky music lead me to seek out players of said funky music and finally coupled me up with a blind genius on a Hammond B-3 organ, the master of a Gibson Les Paul, and a singer whose deep voice and perfect smile could melt womens' underwear from 50' away. Life was good and VERY funky.

In 1974, a saxophone player friend said, "You have to hear these guys."

"Who are they?"

"Tower of Power...from Oakland, California."

"Oh?"

He put on a vinyl record and the most incredible music I had ever heard met my ears. It was what they called "Urban Funk", and it was a driving, solid beat, a killer bass line, chunky guitar licks, beautiful Hammond organ parts, and a horn line of trumpets and saxophones that bumped and blasted their way through each song, interspersed with the growl of a baritone saxophone. The tight, professional arrangements were performed flawlessly beneath a blues vocal line that just left me breathless. The next day I bought "Urban Renewal", still my favorite album.

Thirty five years later - Life has intervened and my music playing days are history but that annoying rhythm chromosome simply won't die. I've tried burying it, forgetting it, ignoring it, laughing at it, but nothing seems to make it go away. As a gift for Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant, Mrs. Randall secretly secured tickets for a Tower of Power concert located in Falls Church, Virginia, near Washington D.C., at a venue called the State Theater. She surprised me with an entire room and dinner package to go with the concert. For as much as I dread going anywhere near Washington, D.C., this was a bucket list item.

The State Theater is hardly an architectural landmark. It's basically one of those grand old neighborhood theaters that lost its grand many years ago. Somebody bought it and renovated it for live shows that will accommodate maybe 300 people. They added a kitchen and several bars, removed the first floor seats, and put in tables that allow patrons the flexibility of dinner seating, balcony seating, or "mosh pit" style standing between the tables and the front of the stage. Mrs. Randall, in her wisdom, had reserved a dinner table for two that turned out to be in the front row of tables and about thirty feet from the center of the stage. A 'wow' in its own right.

The band had already set up and rehearsed before we entered the theater. We were taken to our table and promptly ordered dinner as the theater began to fill. I could not resist going down onto the floor; I HAD to get closer to the stage, if only for a short time. In the dim light of the largely dark stage stood Tower of Power's equipment including David Garibaldi's drum set. I stood staring as if I were seeing a holy relic or a shrine. After all those years of listening to the true master of the instrument amaze me with his ability, there before me sat the tools with which he created his magic. I felt so unworthy.

The theater began to fill, but not with kids and not with twenty-somethings...or thirty-somethings. Forty was a starting point for most, and I couldn't help wondering how all those grey hairs were going to stand through two hours of a rocking show. I was damned glad to have our seats, and really great seats they were.

The stage lights lit up and out came the members of Tower of Power. I guess I somehow expected to see the same bunch of guys from the album covers, with open shirts, bell-bottomed pants, beads, and big afro hairdos. Out came ten guys in blue jeans, tee shirts, and ball caps; grey haired if not bald; pot bellied, and not at all looking like what my mind had invisioned. They looked more like plumbers, auto body repairmen, and high school football coaches than like musicians. I had spent much of my life around musicians and the only one looking the part was the bass player who looked like a guy fighting heroically to overcome his meth addiction. I don't know what else I had expected, but it was a bit startling. Of the two founders, one looked like Geppetto the wood carver and the other resembled a Korean dry cleaner. Pretty ordinary looking guys to compose a band I had been in awe of for 35 years. Then they picked up their instruments and the stage caught fire!

I don't know if someone who has not been involved with music can understand the level of skill and precision at which this band operates. Each member is not just a complete master of his instrument, each also plays very complicated staccato parts without missing a note. The music was all there, without variation, from 35 years ago. I have never grooved so hard. Their music swept me up so completely that my feet moved in eighth notes, my shoulders rocked in time and my head bobbed at each bump & blast. At one point I had tears streaming down my face. There are few religious experiences to rival what happened to me as my rhythm chromosome swelled to the size of a basketball.

I had to watch David Garibaldi play. I've watched some of the greatest play before and they have a way of making the impossible look easy. For years I had listened to David and couldn't believe my ears. Now I watched and couldn't believe my eyes. His bushy brown curly hair is gone now, replaced by close-cropped, tightly curled grey hair, but those incredible hands are as good now as they ever were. I remembered when I played, my body grooved along with the music I played, but the truly great players don't seem to do that. The great ones that I have seen have a "ho-hum, just another day at the office" look that always astounded me. The man is a rhythm machine playing at a level light years beyond anything I could have ever achieved, and yet his degree of dispassion is disconcerting. How can ANYONE groove that magnificently and not feel it to his very core. I sure felt it. For two solid hours and an encore my body pulsed and rocked to the magic of a bunch of ordinary looking guys who make absolutely masterful music. And I wasn't alone. 300 other geezers grooved and screamed like a bunch of fourteen year-old girls at a Jonas Brothers concert. It's a wonder that 911 wasn't flooded with heart attack calls.

As we left the theater and walked into the chilly night, I couldn't help thinking that, if I lose my hearing tomorrow, it would be all right because, as far as I am concerned, I have heard music played the way God intended and it can get no better than that.

http://www.towerofpower.com/

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7LjrCV4Gnxw

"This Is It!"

2009-11-16T00:14:00.010-05:00

So I went to see the Michael Jackson movie "This is It!". I had prepared myself for a schmaltzy memorial with a lot of family and personal history containing bits and pieces of music videos, and a few 'behind the scenes' glimpses. It wasn't like that at all. The film was a documentary of the preparations for Michael Jackson's comeback show that he called 'This Is It!'. "This Is It!" because, as far as he was concerned, that show was going to be it for him. After a world tour he figured to have enough money to pay off the money he owed and retire to a quiet lifestyle out of the public eye. Or, at least, as far out of the public eye as Michael Jackson would be able to get.

I didn't grow up with Michael Jackson, I'm more of a Beach Boys, 'Louie Louie', and Supremes/Temptations guy. Michael hit the video world about the time that my children were growing up, so he filled our television with hit video after hit video as fast as MTV could post them. Putting aside his proclivity for crotch grabbing, Michael was an amazing talent. His songwriting, singing, and performance skills were light years above his contemporaries. What I didn't realize was the true depth of his ability. Like most people I just assumed that behind the scenes were musical directors, choreographers, and a myriad of other coaches saying, "Michael sing this", "Michael do these steps", "Michael make these movements." It seemed reasonable that there were lighting consultants, special effects managers, audio experts, and a flock of other specialists who expanded a basic idea into a super-show. During the movie I learned that it was not that way.

Michael Jackson had morphed from a music star into a freak show, hounded day and night by a starving media who used any opportunity to expose his bizarre and yes, possibly criminal behavior. His Maker can be the judge of that. The media dragged his life in color photos into the sleazy tabloids so that the more curious among us could get their regular dose of strangeness. And the band played on...for years.

Your most humble and obedient servant, in his younger years, was guilty of being a musician, comic, dancer and, on a few especially forgettable occasions, singer. Those misspent but intensely enjoyable years taught me many hard truths that performers go to great lengths to disguise. Basically, that performing in public is a LOT of hard work, and the effort that goes into presenting even the simplest of shows would surprise and amaze the average audience member. Any show requires planning, skill, knowledge and perspiration before the talent can be showcased. The greater the 'wow factor' of the show, the more intense the requirement for precise organization and professional skills.

The Michael Jackson movie followed the development of "This Is It!" from the auditions of the singers and dancers through the assembly of the show and the endless rehearsals. More than just 'singin' & dancin'', the show was filled with hydraulics, pyrotechnics, computer-generated effects, specialized lighting, make-up, costumes, and mechanical systems. As it opened up, I found myself mentally wondering, "Who dreams up this stuff?". It wasn't long before I learned that Michael Jackson had dreamed up that stuff.

Yes, it amazed me too. The thought that a strange character who walked around wearing a mask and sheltering beneath an umbrella actually had the ability to create a Disney scale stage show was difficult for me to swallow. But that is how it was. The music was his and he knew exactly how he wanted it to sound. He knew what key, what volume, and what tempo he wanted. He knew every move the dancers were to make and when they should make it. He dictated when the stages, the lifts, and the rope hoists were to activate. He specified the special effects and supervised their timing. He called the lights and knew when anything was out of place. And, as if that wasn't enough, he sang every note and danced every energetic number with a 50 year old body and voice that had been away from it for many years. The much younger chorus dancers and back-up singers would stand in awe of this legendary man as he worked his magic tirelessly for hour after hour. They were inspired by his presence and stood open-mouthed and applauding as he finished each number. If you haven't guessed by now, they weren't the only ones in awe of Michael Jackson's abilities, I plead guilty also.

I always considered the 'Jackson Five' to be a 'kid band' who had no business out there competing with those of us adults who were struggling to keep the dream alive with four nights a week on stage at the Holiday Inn. Kid bands were cute and all, but they just didn't have the 'gravitas' of us 'true professionals'.

Even when Michael exploded into the music world with 'Thriller', I was still sure that he was just the front man for a giant organization who simply plugged him into position and told him what to do. How amazingly wrong I was. In reality he was a monster talent, a giant showman with capabilities that average people could never fathom. What an immense loss of talent this world has suffered.

"This Is It!" had completed production and was scheduled for dress rehearsals and the grand opening in London. It was a little over two weeks from the opening when Michael Jackson suddenly died. Months of rehearsals, millions of dollars, and the dreams of dozens of performers evaporated, the victim of a handful of mixed prescription drugs. And the world was robbed of what might have been one of the greatest stage shows of all time. Michael Jackson's wondrous legacy vaporized in an instant leaving behind the scarred images of "Wacko Jacko". His death is far more of a loss than most people will ever know. RIP "MJ".

Number 45

2009-10-25T19:17:00.017-04:00

It has been a wonderful weekend. This was class reunion weekend for your most humble and obedient servant; number 45. Years ago I couldn't conceive of even living to be 45, let alone having been out of high school for 45 years.

Friday night was the first get-together at a rented chalet in Oglebay Park near Wheeling, WV, and just walking from the car to the front door was an unnerving experience. Will I recognize everybody? Hell, will I recognize anybody? I was about to be face-to-face with 18 people, only two of whom I had seen in the past 45 years. Opening the door to the well-appointed chalet, I observed people who stood talking comfortably in several small groups. It was a good thing that I knew names because I recognized few faces. There was a predominance of white hair...when there was hair, a lot of extra pounds, lots of wrinkles, and some significant facial hair. The smiles were still there and they were still a friendly bunch although the liquor may have improved that aspect. It really didn't take long until, drink in hand, I joined them with greetings, a few old and fat jokes, and a lot of catch up stories. A lot happens in 45 years.

Our school had been small and all-male, with just 42 in this graduating class. There had been the usual groupings of jocks, nerds, over-achievers, under-achievers, and a few non-descripts. We had no 'goths', anti-socials, or psychotic weirdos as most larger schools seem to have. Those had largely been filtered out by the process of natural selection combined with strict academic requirements. It's hard to become a head-banging heavy metal freakazoid when you have a monster physics test at the end of the week. So those who remained were stable and accomplishment-oriented individuals with goals in mind and the intention to become contributors to society. And after spending an evening catching up, it appears they had indeed succeeded at both accomplishment and contribution.

In this small group, most had letters either before or after their names. Letters like MD, PhD, LLD, PE, CMDR, COL, ESQ, and some that I honestly didn't understand but I knew represented professional accomplishment and recognition. Pretty impressive for a bunch of nerdy geeks who couldn't field a winning football team. They brought with them their wives, most of 35 to 40 years or more. Mature, attractive women with winning smiles, tremendous social skills, most with advanced education, and an unshakable committment to their husbands and families. Not one blond bimbo or trophy wife among them. The evening became enjoyable very quickly.

Eventually we reflected upon those in our class who had died. Graduating from school at the height of the Vietnam War had pushed many of our number into military service, but we were fortunate that all returned. Some had even chosen to make the military a career. We had since lost only three to natural causes. The 'gorilla in the living room' was the unspoken question of how many more of us might be gone before our next reunion.

It is hard to see change in yourself, but it is easy to see it in others. Especially in a 'time warp' situation when that 17 year old buddy (chasing chicks, racing cars, and trying to get away with drinking beer) is 45 years later a renown heart surgeon...or was the commander of a guided missile cruiser...or the CEO of a world-wide corporation. We sat surrounded by luxury, a group of accomplished, respected, and apparently successful individuals who had gone their own ways and, by and large, had accomplished their goals. Yet there was no snobbery or 'competition of egos' in this group. The old cliques and social stratifications had completely broken down and a spirit of genuine camaraderie developed. By the end of the evening I couldn't help wishing that the whole bunch of old, fat, (largely) bald guys could live in a village somewhere so we could spend evenings such as we had just enjoyed on a regular basis instead of at 45 year intervals.

The next day we went on to attend school-sponsored alumni functions where speakers talked of lofty future plans while honoring us and sliding donation forms under our noses. My high school buddies and I have now become the Fathers and Grandfathers who keep the wheels of education well greased with the proceeds of our success. I guess that was inevitable. I remember being a student and watching fast-talking guides showing groups of old coots around campus and snickering at the whole drama. I don't snicker any more now that I am among that bunch of coots. Now I look at those shiny young faces and wish that we coots could trade places with them, even if it was for a short time. To once again be able to run fast and love quickly. To re-experience the newness and excitement of life through the freshness of youth. To face drama and turmoil with the knowledge that life stretches out before us like a new highway to the horizon. But that would not be fair. We had our time and now that time is past. But for one fleeting weekend that ended entirely too soon, a group of men whose highways stretch much further behind them than they do ahead, looked into faces of age and saw faces of youth.

Danny Died On Monday

2009-09-30T14:00:00.062-04:00

The panicky telephone call came about eleven PM on Monday. On the other end the woman's voice was erratic, tear choked, and hysterical.

"Can you come over? Oh God, I think he's gone!"

Throwing on clothes over pajamas, I rushed to the house next door to find Danny's wife Irma shaking, crying, and hysterical. Danny lay on the couch, eyes closed, ashen grey and not breathing. CPR had no apparent effect but was continued for the few minutes until the medics arrived to take over. After that, all that could be done was to comfort Irma and assist in making telephone calls. Within the hour a doctor at the local hospital pronounced Danny dead of apparent heart failure. A family's world fell apart.

Danny was a great neighbor. He wasn't a close friend, but he was a great neighbor. My requests to borrow tools or for help with some project were always met cheerfully. Sometimes even when I didn't ask, he would offer. I would hear a mower in the backyard and go to the window to see Danny go by on his tractor. There were no property lines, it was all just grass to Danny. He was that kind of guy.

From the covered patio of his corner house the sound of loud voices and raucous laughter frequently echoed through the neighborhood. Danny seemed to host an odd conglomeration of co-workers from the local university, neighbors, relatives, and some who were probably just 'show-ups'. The beer flowed freely as did the laughter. Eventually the locals designated him as 'The Mayor', holding court on any warm afternoon, and adding spirit to the neighborhood.

Danny only knew how to be Danny, so you could take him or leave him, suit yourself. There were no pretexts, attitudes, or attempts to impress, just a genuine hard-working man with a receding hairline, a growing belly, a gap-toothed smile, and an infectuous laugh. His language was coarse and his jokes raunchy, but that was a part of him, so if you didn't care for it, well, your feet ain't set in cement.

Danny was fifty-eight years old and leaves behind a shattered wife, three grown daughters and a son who have all lost their peculiar anchor, and several grandchildren who are trying to make sense of it all. The funeral will be crowded, and a lot of tears will be shed. The funeral procession will be long and there will be trouble finding room for all of the cars at the small country cemetery.

'The Mayor' is gone and that loss will take a while to settle over the neighborhood. There will be an unusual quiet on the corner and a lot of people will notice the difference without really understanding why. Anheuser-Busch will have to lay off half of the second shift and not understand why. Goodbye 'Mr. Mayor', we miss you already.

A Forest of Souls

2009-09-21T23:27:00.012-04:00

I had occasion to visit my poor, neglected blog and realized that it has been three months since I made a post. Other writers seem to post something to their blogs on a regular basis, even if it is just a promo for a book. My blog is more about my thoughts and impressions of life and I only write a piece when I've been inspired by some more or less monumental thought. Thoughts of the monumental variety and even those of conventional scale seem to have largely escaped me these past three months. I guess that there are just times when not a lot happens in your life and this would seem to have been one of those times. The other thing is that I have been on a virtual blog tour with Dorothy Thompson of Pump Up Your Book Promotions and I have been doing interviews and blog posts on other peoples' blogs. Dorothy Thompson is a complete and total sweetheart and a dream to work with. She has her own personal blog as the "Boomer Chick" and it is greatly entertaining.

As a part of that tour I had written a piece about one of the places I had visited while doing research for Magnificent Man. The Saguaro National Park is outside of Tucson, Arizona and is the desert equivalent of a national forest. There is a scene in Magnificent Man where Coyote takes Cassandra to visit the souls. It is his belief that the souls of the departed dwell within the tens of thousands of tall saguaro cacti. The place is hot, dry, dusty, and dangerous, but it is hard not to become caught up in Coyote's belief. I call this post, "A Forest of Souls".

***

I started to write a romance novel that took place in the contemporary American southwest. The idea was there, the plot was forming, and the story was cruising along quite nicely until I hit a wall. My characters were in the stark and beautiful desert country of Arizona, but the problem was that I had never been there. Big problem. The day I had selected to fly to Tucson began as a disaster when the air traffic control computer at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport picked THAT day to crash. So now my ten A.M. flight became eleven-thirty and eventually left around two-fifteen. Oh well, welcome to modern travel. What I was not prepared for was my five P.M. flight to Tucson from Dallas-Fort Worth finally being cobbled together out of used plane parts at nine-thirty P.M. All told, a rather dubious start to an otherwise wonderful trip. The car rental desk in Tucson had graciously stayed open to make sure I actually had a car for my research trip, so somewhere around eleven P.M. I was speeding off into the still warm night.

So began my journey of research and discovery in the Arizona desert. During the following weeks I travelled to many places and frequently stood out as an obvious light-skinned stranger among people with deeply tanned skin and facial features and clothing that greatly differed from mine. Some spoke our language with a heavy accent, while others struggled to understand my words. The people were different, their way of life was different, and the land was very different from anything I had ever experienced. I remembered the old John Wayne and Randolph Scott western movies that had been filmed in some of the places that I visited, but it was all just so...different. It was hot, even in November, and dusty, and dry. The heat shimmered like water and the wind flowed slowly as if to conserve its energy. The flat land stretched for miles before crashing head long into the steep rock buttes and mountains. There were many places and people, not in the least glamorous, but deeply imbued with history and culture. It was impressive just to be in their presence.

Among the many places that I found striking was the Saguaro National Park outside of Tucson. It is a very modest place by national park standards; just a welcome center and a lot of desert. You don't have to pay, you simply turn off of an asphalt road onto a dirt road and drive slowly to avoid choking yourself in dust. On the day I was there, very few other vehicles came along allowing me the luxury of pulling off at leisure to become absorbed in the place. Here in the east we are very accustomed to forests of trees. Great stands of pine or hardwood trees that shade the forest floor. Everywhere in this park were cacti. Much of the low growth was a variety of spiky and spiny nastiness shaped like barrels, gangly whips, Mickey Mouse ears, fuzzy coral, and some that just defy description. I was very satisfied to get no closer than I was to any of it, and was most sincerely glad to have no reason to attempt to go through it. But dominating the land for acres, if not square miles, were the famous saguaro cactus (pronounced locally as su-WAR-o). These are the tall cacti that are the state symbol of Arizona. They grow slowly and can live for as much as two hundred years. After 75 to 100 years they can start to grow the iconic arms for which they are known. There I was among tens of thousands of the saguaro in a strange forest-like setting.

In Magnificent Man, Coyote, the hero, takes Cassandra to the saguaro land and tells her the story of the souls. He explains that each tall cactus represents the soul of a departed desert native. He becomes emotional while looking out at the immense number of saguaro and picturing within each the soul of one departed. The warriors, the women, the children, all still together in this desolate and hostile place, but finally at peace. A forest of souls.

I made a video!

2009-06-19T03:28:00.009-04:00

WOW! This is really exciting! I made a video and it has Michael Jackson moonwalking, Madonna being slutty, Peter Gabriel as Sledgehammer, and Natalie Cole singing with her dead Father!

Well, not really. The reality is that it's just another book trailer, like hundreds of others out there, and the only exciting thing about it is that I did it myself. When you're as computer-illiterate as I am, just getting the damned thing to start up on any given day is an accomplishment. When you don't know a 'gigabyte' from a cheeseburger, the idea of creating an official U-Tube style video is more than a couple feet off of the radar screen. I found a program called "Windows Movie Maker" on my machine; apparently it's a standard part of Windows XP. I had never noticed it before, but then there are a dozen other programs just like it that I never noticed either. When I opened it, I found that, if you actually follow the instructions, it's a really nifty little program that is NOT all that hard to use, and you don't have to be a seventeen year-old C++code writer from New Dehli to actually get some results. It took the biggest part of a day to manipulate pictures and text into a timeline, and then to adjust them so that there is enough time for a reader to actually read the text before the picture changes.

I spent hours looking for sound effects to match screen actions and finally selected and downloaded just the right ones. What I didn't know was that, without more sophisticated softwear (and a more sophisticated user), I couldn't blend music with sound effects to get that 'REALLY COMPLETE' feeling. In the end, I had to lose the sound effects and go only with the music, which is not bad. The only annoying feature of the resulting 'movie' is that the ending screen remains blue instead of going to black as the program was CLEARLY instructed to do. Oh well, it still came out kinda' cool.

Magnificent Man is a story that takes place in the American southwest against a backdrop of extraordinary scenery and Native American and Mexican peoples. I wanted to share as much of that feeling as I could with anyone who cares to watch my 'Cecil B. De-Mini' epic. Comments are appreciated, even the ones that say, "It really sucks." For now, I'll just sit back quietly and wait for the reviews in Variety, and start drafting my acceptance speech. "I want to thank the members of the Academy, and my parents, and all the little people who made all of this possible." Ciao Baby!

A PLACE THAT FEW HAVE SEEN

2009-06-15T01:28:00.011-04:00

For a large part of my working life, I was in places where, if God decided to kill me, my death would be considered a routine hazard of the job. Where I grew up there were many trains, and all I ever saw them carry was coal. If it were not for books and Lionel trains brochures, I would never have known that trains moved anything but coal. The Fathers of most of the children I went to school with worked in the coal mines and a few of those Fathers went to work one day and did not come home. Anyone in my part of the world who has been near a river has almost certainly seen powerful towboats churning the water as they pushed numerous barges piled high with coal. Where I grew up, the roads were slowly pounded into dust by the seemingly never-ending parade of large coal trucks. Coal is America’s real energy source and I was in the heart of coal country.

Comparatively few people have ever actually seen where that coal comes from, and I suppose that even fewer care. Geologically speaking, the coal was created when prehistoric swamps, filled with all manner of organic matter, were covered over by layers of sediments, and pushed down further and further as the land around them rose up. The final result of the tremendous pressure and ions of time was the conversion of black slimy swamp ooze into thousands of square miles of a hard, black, and shiny mineral that releases tremendous heat when burned. It is so valuable that men kill each other over its ownership and its recovery.

Most coal beds or ‘seams’ as they are more accurately called, lay very flat and are of relatively uniform thickness. The most famous seam of all, the Pittsburgh coal seam, is nine feet thick and, in general, ideal for mining. Imagine walking up to a remote and relatively steep hillside, and scraping away the earth and soft, weathered rock to expose a layer of shiny black coal higher than your arm extended over your head. So high that, after removal, you can walk upright and comfortably into the void. Now create eight openings into the coal seam, each sixteen feet wide by nine feet high, and space those openings about one hundred feet apart. Support each opening with a reinforced concrete arch. Then, continue to mine each opening back to a depth of about one hundred feet, being careful to support the roof of each tunnel using wooden posts and timber beams, or a system of six-foot to twelve-foot long steel bolts connected to expansion anchors set into drilled holes in the solid rock above the coal. Now, turn and start a tunnel at a right angle to the original tunnel, and do not stop mining until you have connected all eight of the tunnels together resulting in square blocks of coal roughly one hundred feet square. Now you have a coal mine.

Continue the process just described for thirty five years and, lo and behold, you have a network of tunnels that stretches for eight or ten miles and has honeycombed hundreds of thousands of acres while producing millions upon millions of tons of coal. For an operation this large, there will be multiple concrete-lined air shafts, eight to ten feet in diameter, and dug from the surface to the coal seam, a distance typically of six hundred to eight hundred feet. Huge mechanical fans, six to eight feet in diameter, are installed on some of the air shafts. These fans, by law, must run continuously to remove dust and toxic and explosive gases from the mine. There will also be an elaborate system of narrow gauge railroad tracks with an electrical trolley wire, similar to the old street cars. This is used to transport men and supplies into the mine and sometimes to bring the coal out. More commonly a system of conveyor belts runs continuously from the outside to the active mining area in order to transport out the mined coal. Finally, there is a network of high to medium voltage electrical cables and transformers to power everything; miles of telephone and signal wires; and, large pumps and discharge pipes to remove accumulated water. Welcome to my world; a place seen by a relative few, but whose existence contributes to the lives and economic benefit of innumerable people in some way or other.

From the first time I rode down the shaking and rattling elevator in my brand new coveralls and sporting my new miner’s cap, I knew that this was a special place. There were sights, sounds, and smells that were not duplicated anywhere on the surface. I was entranced by the steady swoosh of the conveyor belts and the click-clack of the large locomotives pulling their trains of supply cars. The smells of ‘sulfur air’, wintergreen snuff, and hot grease permeated the air. However, it was the darkness, the complete darkness broken only by the glow of a cap-mounted electric light that kept me attuned to the potentially hostile environment in which I found myself. The loss of that meager beam would render me helpless and completely blind.

In later years my accumulated certifications qualified me to make the mandated safety checks of old unused areas located miles from the active work areas and far distant from another human being. Most times I was closer to people who lived on the surface, six hundred feet above me and unknowing of my existence, than I was to another worker inside the tunnels. I don’t believe that many people have ever experience true solitude. Not just quiet house solitude or even, marooned on a deserted island solitude, but actual and complete sensory deprivation. While underground and alone, I could sit and shut off my light to experience the absolutely most complete silence and darkness that anyone can ever experience. Imagine being buried alive but knowing that you can get out. That unusual environment results in an extraordinary psychological situation in which your brain has no visual or auditory input, and it does not know how to react. Your mind screams, “Relax, this is only temporary”, but the brain does not listen. It goes into a kind of panic mode with fascinating results. Soon, in the complete darkness, clear but dim soft gray images begin to appear of what your mind thinks that you should see. Very faint, meaningless sounds soon start at a level where your mind is confused as to whether you actually hear the sounds or not. It is impossible to tell. The images are as clear but ghostly, as if they were projected in black and white onto a gray screen. I have on occasion stood up and walked, reaching out to touch the image of a post or a wooden cribbing. I could not see my hand, even though it was extended, but it was startling when my mind was expecting me to touch a solid object and yet none was there.

Imagine, as a writer, having regular access to a place such as this. Imagine the degree of freedom unleashed within your creative processes when your mind is unencumbered by the distractions of sight, sound, and movement. For me, it was a resurrection of the largely suppressed creative centers of my mind resulting in a flood of ideas and thoughts and the beginning of a writing career. Looking back, I probably should have bought a piece of that giant old mine before it closed and rented it out, by the hour, to writers and artists seeking to refresh their minds. Old Amish saying…”Too soon old, too late smart.”

"Magnificent Man" is here

2009-06-05T22:47:00.037-04:00

I believe that most people who read or write blogs are readers and writers themselves. For those who are not writers, the process of writing a book is not as simple as it may appear. Everything must start with an idea for a story. The idea must be solid and believable. Then are required characters who are capable of carrying out the idea while putting forth personalities with whom readers can identify. The reward for the characters is that they get to live exciting, bigger than life roles, although some authors will require the demise of a villian, crime victim, or innocent by-stander to generate passion in a story line. I'll bet those characters weren't happy about that. Even after the story is written and "the end" is typed, the work is but half done. Then comes the proofreading where those misspelled words and grammatical errors are extracted or corrected. Where the overused words and passive voice are replaced. Where countless hours of work are poked and probed, ripped and redone, realigned and reorganized. Then it all goes to an editor who will open up the story like a wild surgeon with a scalpel, changing, removing, rewording, deleting, and savagely tearing the story to bits while the author grits his/her teeth and hangs on the edge of insanity. After significant amounts of alcohol, medication, or some combination of the two, the author again sits to read his creation and is surprised to find a leaner, clearer, and generally much improved story than the one he/she submitted. Oh the magic of editing.

I have a LOT of words out there. The numerous erotic books I have written have made for delightfully oversexed characters in a variety of enviable situations. They were fun to write and I hope that readers enjoyed reading them. I had originally started out just to write some pseduo-pornographic meaningless stories about large breasted women and well-hung men, but somehow those quickly faded into stories with believeable and likeable characters who have extraordinary encounters during their otherwise ordinary lives. We, the more ordinary but still zestful, can envy them their pleasures.

As much as I enjoyed experimenting with the lives of trailer park people, I developed a longing to write something more acceptable...more 'mainstream'. I have always had soft spot for nobility. Not 'nobility' as in snobby royalty, but rather real nobility of a sort that is lacking today. I looked back to Cervantes and his Don Quixote de La Mancha for a model. A tired old knight, well past his prime and his time, yet still carrying within him an unfaltering spirit of faith, nobility, chivalry, and honesty. There was my hero! There was my man to stand above the crowd clinging to the values that he held unquestionable while surrounded by laughing and taunting jackals. But how do I get such a hero into today's world and where can I put him so that he won't be torn to pieces or worn down by the mass of lessers. It was solving those questions that was the keystone of my "Magnificent Man". Once those were established, the story fell into place like the last pieces of a puzzle. Then I had only to introduce a suitable heroine; a woman who had faced hardship and who had the strength to continue fighting even when the odds were against her. But she had also to be a woman capable of recognizing and respecting the special nature and anachronistic ways of a truly noble man. The meeting of these two personalities was predestined to develop into a deep and inescapable love for each other. But yet another snag! Once the loving bond is made, where do these two bonded lovers live? Do they live in her modern world, where he's considered a 'defective', a laughing stock? Or do they live in his harsh, unforgiving world where one misstep could mean death? THAT became the toughest knot of all to unravel. But in the end, it was unravelled.

But now it is done! "Magnificent Man" hit the stands today and the world has access to the defining effort of my pathetic writing career. Now it will be judged by readers and writer/readers to the tough established standards of erotic romance. Most romance and erotica is written and read by women. There is a shared point of view among women that I will simply never, by virtue of gender, be able to share. I yawn at castles and ballrooms, find no attraction to men in kilts, and pirates and vampires escape me. But I do adore women. I enjoy the sight, the smell, the sound, and yes the feel of a woman. There is a magic in the attraction between men and women and THAT is the true basis for romance. Whether male or female, that is the commonality. I long for the days of elegance in courtship. When a suitor had to prove himself worthy of the attentions of a lady or be left behind. Today the focus seems to be upon the capture or surrender when the real excitement and the genuine pleasure is in the pursuit. A taste of that, Dear Reader, you will find in "Magnificent Man". I am a believer in the Quixotic, in nobility, chivalry, honesty, and faith. And those characteristics I hope will always stand out in my romantic works.

"Magnificent Man" is now available through Melange Books at http://www.melange-books.com/authors/randalllang/randalllang.html/
/.

“I’m a ro-o-o-o-o-o-oad runner Honey!”

2009-05-26T22:46:00.008-04:00

With those words Bo Diddley launched a rock and roll song that became an anthem for a youthful generation of muscle car owners who would later become hapless commuters. During many of my many, many years of work, I was a “roadrunner”; one of those nameless, faceless drivers who twice each day choke the roads with tons of stalled metal. For those of you who don’t know, a “roadrunner” is defined as ground dwelling cuckoo bird, native to the desert southwestern U.S., and famous for its ability to run at 15 to 18 miles per hour. What is not commonly known is that this scrawny rascal eats poisonous snakes, spiders, scorpions and just about anything else that it can catch. It can be a seriously mean little dude if it wants to be. Therefore, the term “roadrunner” aptly describes both the practice and the attitude of the average long distance commuter, stuck in a vehicle and in traffic for multiple hours each day.

Humans are an adaptive species and so it is with human “roadrunners”. Being in the same place at the same time as countless others, unwritten rules of the road develop for those with IQ’s higher than chimpanzees. Thus, just as NASCAR drivers drive at 160 miles per hour just a few feet apart, so goes morning commute at a steady 60 until all reach the point of gridlock. A driver who wishes to survive the experience had better develop a sense about who to trust and who not to trust. In my experience, trust is developed from predictability. The regulars who get into their correct lanes and fall into line are trustworthy while the maniac in the black ‘Beemer’ screaming into the cell phone and failing to notice stopped traffic ahead is a danger to all. The guy who slows to let the truck into line is trustworthy while the kid in the annoying ‘rice burner’ who just went from lane one to lane three and back again to gain two car lengths is an accident looking for a victim. Even if you’re not a ‘regular’, I’m sure that you get the picture. Having freed myself from that daily insanity, I had mercifully forgotten about my fellow “roadrunners”, who know the rules and our arch nemeses, ‘the clueless’. That was until Memorial Day.

It was a coincidence that I was travelling on Monday, Memorial Day afternoon. They were all familiar roads, but suddenly the predictable had become some sort of twisted video game with me feeling like a target. Strange things were going on and it reminded me of an episode of “The Twilight Zone”. Traffic on the rural Interstate highway was reduced to 55 miles per hour and both lanes were backing up. Up ahead, one of those strange looking foreign minivans was in the passing lane beside a double tractor-trailer as the truck struggled up a long hill. The driver of the van seemed completely oblivious to the line of cars behind his rolling roadblock. Miles later when the truck had slowed enough to lose his sidecar, irritated drivers began to speed up and pass the unyielding van on the right. Because traffic was heavy, passing on the right often resulted in a near collision with a slow moving car in the right lane. I purposely hung back to observe and avoid the chaos until I could safely pass on the right. It was no surprise to me to see a New Jersey license plate on the van.

I escaped for just a short distance before again being blocked by another side-by-side combination. This time it was two more foreign cars; a station wagon from Virginia and a sub-compact from Maryland. Both cars tootled along at a gut-busting 58, their drivers apparently blind to the rapidly building lines behind them. Many years on the road had also educated me that people who drive “the world’s safest car” had probably been required to do so by law enforcement in the interest of public safety. At this point, I thought about my friend Jayha from North Carolina and her BIG Ford truck. I could practically hear her screaming out the window, “Y’all best get your li’l battery-powered, tin can, sorry pieces of shyt outta’ my way ‘for I lock up this big som-bitch and roll OVER your asses!” She’d do it too. Not just scream at them, I mean she’d DO it! You gotta’ love that southern spirit.

The normally routine one hour trip stretched into an hour and a half nightmare that mixed people who had never really learned how to drive, and people who should never have been allowed to drive, with people who had a lot of miles to cover and just wanted to get on with it. Many years ago I used to fantasize that I had a secret button on the knob of the four-speed shift of my muscle car. One push of that button would instantly vaporize the slow-moving Volkswagen beetle at the head of the line of traffic on my side of that double yellow line. I would have paid a lot of money to have that button on Monday, and I’ll bet others would have flung tens and twenties at me as they passed each smoking hole in the pavement.

After arriving home, I began to reflect upon the experience. I wondered who those strange people were and why they couldn’t grasp basic concepts such as “keep right except to pass”. Then it dawned on me that these people weren’t “roadrunners”. Holiday weekends bring to the roads hoards of people who simply don’t ordinarily drive on rural highways. They either take public transportation, live in the city where they pull from their streets onto a twelve-lane parking lot that travels at 15 miles an hour, or they just rarely drive at all. That would certainly explain driving slowly in the passing lane and not being aware of horns and lights behind them. When you spend hours travelling slowly among clueless people, I guess that you just become…clueless. There is certain logic to it. Deep down, I still believe that there is a secret training school in New Jersey where they select pathetically power-hungry people and teach them how get in their desperately underpowered little boxes and gather on the Interstate highways during busy traffic times. After training, these people receive the title of ‘DSC’, which stands for Designated Speed Controller, and launch themselves onto the roads on a self-proclaimed righteous mission to congest America’s highways. The good news is that they are once again buried deeply back into their own little worlds and probably feel smug for having exerted their authority. The roads are again property of the “roadrunners”. At least until the smart “roadrunners” go into hiding on July 3.

Tale of the Thirsty Thief

2009-05-08T23:44:00.008-04:00

I don’t know if any of you, Dear Readers, have had the misfortune to experience a break-in of your home. My guess would be that entirely too many of you have, and that is a sad commentary on our society. My home on ‘Da’ I-Lan’ was once owned by a high-volume drug dealer who is now a permanent guest of the federal government, and that alone is fodder for a future story. As you might imagine, that gentleman was greatly concerned with security, and he took a number of measures to keep both law enforcement and competitors out of his home. Those included surrounding the rear yard with a six-foot high chain link fence; a double-bolted wrought iron storm door outside of a double walled steel front door; a steel rear door; alarms on all first floor windows; and, a central alarm system with pressure switches and motion detectors that probably still appears in the sales brochures of the installing company. The only thing missing were the attack dogs and the large German guards with Uzis. Ironically, all of this was of little use in the end since, when federal agents came to discuss his unlicensed pharmaceuticals, they cut the padlock on the gate to the back yard and let themselves into the house via the rear door using a special key called a “door buster.”

When I bought the house, it had been flooded twice within a six months period (well it IS an island after all) and the alarm system operating box in the basement had been submerged and ruined. Since I had no plans for a home-based business similar to the previous owner, I saw no reason to spend a LOT of money to restore the system and pay the monthly monitoring fee.

The heavy steel rear door had been patched up enough to be useable, but that enormous dent and the sections of splintered door frame were a bit of an embarrassment since guests would assume that the law had been there for me. After a while, even the "angry husband" story became trite. I am a fan of handcuffs, but they really lose their appeal when pinched between your back and the rear seat of the police car. When I couldn’t stand it any more, I replaced the battered steel monster with a more civilized exterior door containing a nice glass window that featured operating blinds between the panes. I never got around to putting in the deadbolt lock, a procrastination that I would come to regret.

Comfortable with the remaining security measures I had left in place, I had been away for several days on a mission of corruption and abomination of some sort. I arrived home on a Friday night to find the lights blazing throughout the house. That sight immediately set off a sinking feeling in my gut. As I reached the back porch, I saw that the window in the rear door had been pried out and the door was open. Somewhere between panic and rage at this point, I crunched through the shattered glass to the phone and called police. Looking around the kitchen, I could see no damage other than the rear door. In the dining room, the doors on a small antique smoking stand had been opened and some personal mementos pulled out and dropped, but a glass display cabinet and the antique glasswear it held appeared intact. Gratefully, the hammer that I had left just across the room also lay untouched. An adjacent closet had been opened but its contents left undisturbed. In the living room, a window was left wide open, as was the front door, although the storm door was still closed and locked. Apparently my burglars couldn’t figure out the elaborate double bolt system that my predecessor had installed. A second window had been approached and unlocked but apparently couldn’t be opened.

Upstairs a few personal items had been taken out and thrown about, but the computer and peripherals were there. The rooms had been explored but everything appeared to be largely as it had been, including a few dollars in cash poorly hidden in a top drawer. Then I discovered it! Yes ladies and gentlemen, in the bathroom I found an indication of the presence of Philistines within my house. I found that the commode had been flushed! I make it a habit to shut off the water before I leave, but the commode tank remains full and is good for one additional flush. And THAT flush... (Pause for dramatic effect) had been used. Is nothing sacred? What kind of a savage breaks into a man’s home and uses the commode without asking? Well, at least they flushed. Imagine their surprise when there was no water to wash up. Snicker, snicker, revenge is sweet!

With a sense of guarded relief beginning to flow through me, I returned downstairs and noticed that the door to the basement was open and the light left on. With a year of restoration and remodeling work behind me, the basement still held hundreds if not thousands of dollars worth of power and hand tools. A trip down the rickety stairs revealed the tools to be right where they had been left; conspicuously laying in the center of the floor or thereabouts. The feeling of relief was beginning to set in rather seriously at this point.

The police were delayed in getting to my house; something about a homicide or some other trivial matter. When they arrived, we walked through. When we returned to the kitchen, a bell went off in my head. IT’S MISSING! DAMNED BANDITS!...THUGS!...VARLETS! A complete six-pack of Code Red Mountain Dew was missing from its place on the floor beside the refrigerator. I pulled open the refrigerator door to finally discover the true scene of the crime! Absent were four wine coolers, a bottle of Sangria, and a bottle of sparkling grape juice. They cleaned me out! What if I have guests this evening? What’s a host to do? I felt as if I should demand fingerprinting of the entire house. As I passionately explained my crisis to the police, they were surprisingly unsympathetic. Then I thought better and my panic subsided. If people pop in, we can always go out.

So instead of a leisurely weekend dedicated to debauchery and abomination as is customary, the time was dedicated to clean up, a trip to the lumber yard, painting, and replacing the damaged door with a similar door sporting a new double deadbolt lock. While I can’t imagine why, the police detectives never did call back or show up to investigate my crime scene. Again something about that homicide. Where ARE police priorities these days? By golly I’ll bet that William Petersen and Marg Helgenberger would have showed up if we were in Las Vegas! And me without a wine to serve.

Who the hell is 'Moondog'?

2009-04-25T23:39:00.000-04:00

My Island is a nice place to live. It takes a while to get used to the steady ebb and flow of traffic headed for the racetrack, hotel, and casino at the end of ‘Da I-Lan’, but after a while you begin to identify the cars and their destinations. For instance, the Buicks and Cadillacs are gray hairs headed to the slot machines. The brightly painted ‘rice-burners’, with their annoying ‘angry wasp’ exhausts, and the beat-up pickup trucks are headed to the poker tables. The Escalades and the Acura SUV’s with the blacked-out windows and oversized wheels are headed to the table games. The high-priced pickups and Suburbans will likely end up at the greyhound track. There is nothing carved in stone about this system, but experience tells me that it’s close. Being an area where families live, including teenagers, we also get those REALLY annoying teen-aged white boys in painted-up used cars with rap music playing on stereo systems designed for stadiums. The speakers are so badly bottomed-out that there really is no music, just a piercing, penetrating buzz that is so loud it vibrates my windows and hurts my ears inside of a closed building and forty feet away. Some day there are going to be lots of deaf young white men who finally turn their hats around and look in the mirror.

It’s starting to warm now and people are coming out of their houses. As I mentioned in an earlier piece, ‘Da I-lan’ has a lot of huge old houses that have been broken up into apartments, Those apartments are attractive to young people just starting out and working at entry level jobs. As a result, the warm weather brings out a flow of people on bicycles, couples holding hands, old people walking to the store, families and young women pushing strollers followed by toddlers whose little feet are flying just to keep up. I like seeing the families with the young father right there with his wife and their offspring. They are a family unit; the building block of our nation. I also see the young women, sometimes in pairs or groups, as they push their strollers along the street. Their animated conversations are often filled with anger and words that I’m still shocked to hear from a woman’s mouth. Where are the fathers of those children? Somewhere there is a male whose DNA matches that of their child. Are they supporting these women? And their children? If not, why not? Why are these women and their parents not screaming from the rooftops of the injustice of a ‘father-less child’. Maybe this all just goes back to a traffic accident many years ago that left me growing up without a father.

Down from the soapbox! The warm weather also breeds a variety of sights, some of which are enough to make me question my eyes. Close your eyes and imagine, shuffling down a public street, a three hundred pound shirtless man wearing what appear to be pajama bottoms and shower shoes. Yea, I opened my eyes too, just too scary.

Now picture a gaggle of young men, hats backwards, sports tee shirts, absolutely enormous baggy shorts hanging halfway off their butts exposing plaid boxer shorts. They walk along in an odd, bouncing kind of urban strut, each chattering and frantically gesturing with one twisted arm as the other hand clutches the baggy shorts to keep them off the pavement. Outfits like that must go a long way toward reducing crime since it must be impossible to run from the police when your pants fall around your ankles.

Perhaps the ‘King of the Streets’…well, at least on ‘Da I-Lan’…and after dark, is a local celebrity(?)…character(?)…oddball(?)…fill in your own word. He’s been around for years and ALL, believe me ALL of the locals know OF him, even if they have never seen him. I speak of “Moondog”, and he’s DEFINITELY not from an old Patty Duke TV series.

One of my first nights here I was still having trouble sleeping in the new place, especially with unaccustomed street sounds. Somewhere around 1 AM, I climbed from bed and walked to a window, perhaps to close it. There, on the next block was a strange sight. A single light, not bright enough to be a car or motorcycle, turned the corner and came toward me. As it passed beneath a distant streetlight, I could see large flags fluttering behind the light. When my curious apparition reached the next streetlight, I could see a man on a bicycle, battery lantern taped to the handlebars, wearing a construction worker’s helmet and a vest of bright orange with crossed reflective strips. Behind him fluttered full size American and POW-MIA flags, securely taped to the rear axle and seat of the bike. What the hell was that? Later I would learn that I had seen Moondog.

My curiosity piqued, I began to research my new discovery both in the real world and on the Internet. What I found was that, once upon a time, there was a boy named Charles who was ‘slower’ than the other children. As the years went by, he fell well behind the class and was simply left behind. As he was growing up, he got into trouble for some relatively minor infraction and may have been a guest in a juvenile facility for a short time. The records are unclear about that, as they are for many interim years. Although many mysteries persist about Moondog, he is a regular at parades through Wheeling, always marking the end of the festivities. He makes modest and usually anonymous contributions to local charities, shying away from any fanfare and instead choosing simply to make his donation wrapped in a scrawled note that states, “from Moondog”.

In an unusual public appearance, the Wheeling Nailers Hockey Team honored Moondog with his own night at the arena, and with his own bobblehead doll. I was among five thousand people standing and applauding when a painfully shy, graying man in his mid-fifties, dressed in an ill-fitting suit, that had probably been given to him for the occasion, stood fighting his instinct to run. He smiled a tortured smile as he nervously waved to the adoring crowd, all the while clinging to the new orange bicycle given to him by the hockey club. I couldn’t help but wonder what was the motivation for so many people to show such adulation to a man of no particular accomplishments. As I thought about it, I began to realize that their appreciation of Moondog was not for his accomplishments, but rather for the spirit that he represents. A man from humble beginnings, with many limitations, Charles beat the odds and became the best man that he knew how to be. He rides freely (and ever safety-conscious) without handouts. He sets his own course and lives his own life without infringing upon or asking for help from others. He does what he wants because HE wants to do it and BE DAMNED the opinions of others. And finally he holds dear his country, his city, and his neighbors, whether they know that or not. But they DO seem to know, and five thousand of them stood and applauded to tell him so. Roll on ‘Dog’!

Some Serious Spandex

2009-04-19T04:37:00.000-04:00

As I have aged, the effects of…well…age, a completely corrupt lifestyle, and the appetite and dietary habits of a sixteen-year old have combined to offer your most humble and obedient servant a couple of choices. Those were specifically: 1) exercise and lose weight, or 2) get fitted for a box and a hole in the ground. After an appropriate amount of consideration, I finally chose number one, beginning a whole new trend in my lifestyle choices. I have ridden a motorcycle for years so anything with two wheels works quite well for me. The downside is that 800 pounds of steel and chrome won’t do me a bit of good unless I powerlift it in multiple cycles each day. The futility of that fell upon me, and, in an unaccustomed flash of intellectual light, the bicycle came to mind.

In reality, I have for several years enjoyed riding a bicycle. The new bicycles are equipped with sophisticated gearing systems that allow the rider to tackle terrain from steep hills to flat roads without having to be a candidate for the Olympics. All over the country, old unused railroad beds are being renovated and surfaced with compacted crushed stone, asphalt, or concrete. Thousands of miles of these ‘rail-trails’ follow streams, skirt hills, and generally wind unobtrusively through areas where steam trains chugged along 150 years ago leaving clouds of black coal smoke. These trails are largely in scenic areas and are a joy to explore. My highly touted town of Wheeling has two very nice trails that I know well.

It’s a hard transition from a sedentary corrupt lifestyle to an active corrupt lifestyle. The bicycle is a heartless taskmaster that requires effort, perspiration, and perseverance; but will, in return, strengthen muscles, improve breathing, and head off yet another open-heart surgery. So with this in mind, recent years have seen his somewhat bloated buttocks morph into slimmer and more muscular although occasionally sore as hell buttocks as thousand of miles pedaled by. Those miles were mostly very pleasurable and as enjoyable as any other hard, physical labor can be. They also introduced me to a breed of person that anyone who regularly engages in physical activity will recognize. Allow me to introduce to you Mr. or Ms. ‘Serious About My Sport’.

We’ve all seen them. They’re the ones who have the absolutely newest equipment, clothing suitable for that sport and that sport alone, and the ability to unerringly bore to tears even the most enthusiastic among us with lengthy tales of their fierce dedication and noble accomplishments. They have ALL of the specific sport magazines; their houses are adorned with memorabilia, trophies, and souvenirs; and they LIVE for their next lesson with this coach or that. SERIOUS! They are SO SERIOUS! No one on this planet has ever built their lives so completely around one undertaking, and they just can’t wait to brighten your otherwise dull life with their story of commitment. Yep, that’s the guy (or gal).

In bicycling I’ve labeled that character as the ‘spandexer’. Those of you non-cyclists probably have not seen this creature, but he or she can be found anywhere bicycles are ridden. Comes to mind a trip along the Great Allegheny Passage, a 110-mile rail-trail between Pittsburgh, PA and Cumberland, MD. After a seventeen-mile uphill grind from Connellsville, PA to Ohiopyle, the home of the famous Frank Lloyd Wright house, Fallingwater, I stood puffing like a steam engine and sweating like a pig in my old jean shorts and wet tee shirt. Suddenly there they were, pushing their way through the crowd of unworthy. My eyes beheld a cluster of four ‘serious spandexers’, two male and two female. Their bicycles were the most expensive model of the most expensive brand, two male and two female, all glowingly spotless and equipped with fenders, front and rear; lights, front and rear; basket, tire pump, water bottle, road bars, mirrors, speedometer, air temperature and humidity monitor, heart monitor, tool kit, and an agglomeration of options whose earthy use escaped me entirely. The only thing missing were the chauffeurs’ seats. Each of the serious was wrapped head to foot in spandex, an elastic and body molding fabric, carefully color coordinated to match his/her bicycle, with spiffy color splashes that seemed to dash about their bodies. On each head was a carefully designed helmet, color coded exactly to match the bicycle, tapered to a teardrop shape, and ending gracefully in a point almost a foot after the head ended. A small mirror the size of a thumb hung suspended on a flexible rod from the edge of each helmet. My heart raced at the sight before me. As they neared, one of the males slid off his especially notched and tinted racing glasses to show the masses that he too had eyes just as they did. Then, as if coordinated by an unseen director, each rider dismounted from his or her colorful steed and, although obviously disdained by having to pass so near the unwashed, walked their bicycles to a secure area where they could be guarded by paid staff. The click of their color coordinated cleated shoes against the asphalt echoed back from the wall of the old train station as they disappeared into an area obviously off limits to sweaty plebeians such as me. I remember thinking that they had probably ridden nearly a mile, and it was good that they had stopped before perspiration occurred. It must be rough on the aging butler to have to run along side and mop each brow. Although I was comforted by the realization that they were safe and comfortable now, I just couldn’t escape that nagging fear that the champagne may have become too warm during their arduous journey.

There are younger and apparently less affluent, but nonetheless serious versions of the serious. As we wide-tire, blue-jeaned, unhelmeted riff-raff trundle along the trails, we had just bloody well yield to the cry, “Passing on your left!” lest consequences be felt. They usually travel in groups, but occasionally one will venture out alone to reassert their unquestioned authority over the trails.

I have learned to keep a keen eye in my common little rear-view mirror for the approach of a serious. I have personally heard persons who failed to yield in a timely manner called, “dumb ass”, a scalding rebuke intended to scar the psyche of a less committed, and ultimately causing them to reflect upon the purposelessness of their attempts at bicycling. Some of the weak simply pull to the side of the trail, lay down their bicycles, and walk away never to return. It’s a frightening sight to see.

I carry within me a dream that some day I too may dress myself in panty hose painted to look like a candy bar wrapper, put my head into a plastic serving bowl lined with sponges, and wear yellow Velcro golf shoes as I speed down the trail asserting my superiority over those slugs who should still have training wheels. Some day…but not this week.

So Here I Am

2009-04-19T00:41:00.000-04:00

“You should have a blog.”
“A blog? What the hell is a blog?”
“It’s a place where you write stuff.”
“But I’m a writer, I already write stuff, and I have a website.”
“You still need a blog.”
“Oh…OK”

That conversation never happened. Well, it sorta did, but only in my head. In looking around I saw that other writers have blogs, so apparently I should have one also. So I went to a website and got a blog. Having a blog is a bit like going to a pet store and buying a boa constrictor; once you have one, what the hell do you do with it? I explored around and looked at other peoples’ blogs and found out what they were doing. Basically it’s a kind of journal where you post your thoughts and ideas, and other people come to read them. Oh…ok. I guess that’s all right. Years ago a television or radio commentator, and I’ve forgotten his name unless it was Andy Rooney, used to do a commentary he called “Things I think I think”. This blog will probably be something like that.

I live on an island. Really. An island surrounded by water and connected to the mainland by bridges. When you tell people that, they automatically get an image of palm trees, sandy beaches, and natives in colorful clothing. Not this island. It’s not Greenland either where people live on a chunk of ice and rock and eat caribou meat. My island is about halfway between those scenarios. In the eastern United States, the state of West Virginia has a northern panhandle, a tapered sliver of land between Pennsylvania and Ohio. The western side of that sliver is bounded by the Ohio River, a large, very commercialized river that is formed by the joining of the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers at Pittsburgh, PA, and flows southwest to eventually join the Mississippi River. The city of Wheeling, WV sits pressed tightly between the river and a range of hills. The river is probably a half-mile wide at that point, and Wheeling Island, a large, football-shaped island, sits in the river close to the Ohio border. And you thought geography was dull.

The Island, or "Da’ I-lan" as it’s known locally, is a lovely place actually. On one end is the iconic Wheeling Island Casino, Racetrack, and Gaming Center. This complex has effectively put Wheeling on the map and is its best-known feature. Also there are Wheeling Stadium and Godfather’s Gentlemen’s Club, which are much less well known, and one of these allows aging perverts to oogle naked and perky twenty year olds without being subject to arrest. The streets are wide and tree lined, and there are many beautiful houses, some that date back to pre-Civil War. There are elegant Victorians, some American four-squares, and a collection of eclectic styles and sizes. The whole bloody island is a designated historic area, and there is a certain appropriateness that I live there. Like many older areas, a high percentage of the older houses have been broken up into multiple apartments or have fallen into disrepair. This is sad but unavoidable as repair and operating costs begin to exceed the value of the properties. Enter into this mix your most humble and obedient servant who was looking for an escape from the cultural and fun wasteland that is southwestern Pennsylvania, and a match made in heaven was consummated.

Wheeling is an old American city. Its rich history goes back to the late 1700’s and the end of the Indian Wars. Its location on the Ohio River and the construction of the National Road (US 40) provided access to raw materials and markets spawning industrial development. With the addition of railroads in the 1800’s, Wheeling became a thriving industrial center and grew like a mushroom. In the 1900’s, the glass, nail, steel, tobacco, china, and commodities businesses gradually fell like dominos and the boom times were over.

But Wheeling wouldn’t die. Like a fighter who gets up again and again, Wheeling remains a vibrant and active town that is the envy of cities twice its size. It has a thriving cultural center focused around the riverfront amphitheater called Heritage Port. The Wesbanco Center hosts minor league hockey and arena football teams between concerts, expositions, tournaments, and a myriad of other uses. Live Vaudeville theater is still presented on weekends and the famous Capitol Theater is being restored as a performance venue. More than twenty miles of paved bike trails follow the river and an old railroad bed, and are used by bikers, hikers, and skaters. The restaurants…don’t get me started. Wonderful restaurants and dance clubs where people my age (and that would be old) dance along side the kids. Shopping, movie theaters, magnificent parks, and I didn’t even get to the Casino. You might guess that I like this area, but even more so, I am captured by the life and spirit that is here. More later.