Beavis & Me, Part 3

"Look at all those dead soldiers," I said to Gene as we drove beside a pretty pasture wedged between the road and the hills. There were hundreds of hay bales just laying there.

"Alright! Let's do it," replied Gene.

We had reached a point about thirty miles southeast of Sheridan, Wyoming. Although the Bighorn Mountains still towered to the west, we were now surrounded by pure prairie near a "T" in the road called Ucross. Easing the Corvair off the highway and onto a gravel road, I entered the driveway and stopped outside an old, two-story home. With our dime store cowboy hats set low for business, Gene and I walked through the gate to the house. Before we could knock, we heard a "Can I help you?" shouted from off to our side. Walking over to the corral, we met a large man in coveralls. He had a massive head and his eyes bulged when he stared.

"What can I do for you two cowboys?" he asked

"Howdy," I smiled in my best Marshal Dillon. "We saw all that hay out there. Do you need any help putting it up?"

The man looked at me for an instant, but by his quick response it was evident that he'd already given the matter due consideration.

"Well, yes I do, now that you mention it," he stared. "How much do you work for?"

Happy just to have jobs, neither Gene or I could come up with any figure in the one second or less this man gave us to think.

"I'll give you each five bucks a day," he offered. "You can sleep in my hunting trailer back there behind that haystack...and you can eat at my table."

With the contract set in stone, we all introduced ourselves. Oscar "Windy" Carlson was his name, a big, bursting Swede who laughed and raged equally, I reckoned, judging by his great bulging eyes. He ranched sheep and horses in the spring and summer and in the autumn and winter he led hunting expeditions into the Big Horns. Mrs. Carlson ("the old lady") was in the house cleaning up after lunch, he said. Her sister and brother-in-law from California were visiting and would stay at least another week. Mr. Carlson wore a beat up cowboy hat.

"How do you like our hats?" Gene asked.

"Ha!" the big rancher laughed with a snort. "Those are dude hats. No real cowboy would be caught dead in them."

Somewhat crestfallen by this comment, we asked if there were any extra work gloves around. These were in stock aplenty. Mr. Carlson also pulled out a very small pair of old cowboy boots. Who they came from we never did learn (perhaps a child), but they fit Gene almost perfectly and they were, as of that moment, officially his. Forget Frank Sinatra; with his new footwear adding inches to his height, my buddy felt like Roy Rogers and Gene Autry combined.

And now, without any further ado, we began the earning of our keep. Having already sized us up at a glance, our new boss selected the more muscular of the twosome to do the really hard work of stacking bales of hay; the scrawnier of the litter seemed fit only for light construction and thus was given a hammer and nails and told to repair the corral. After taking my position atop an already high stack of bales, shortly Mr. Carlson returned driving a little Ford tractor. On the front was a fork with what seemed like a hundred bales of hay. After the load was dumped atop the stack, it was then my job to grab up each one and neatly stack it, much like a brick layer sets and interweaves a wall. From past experience, I estimated that these bales were some of the heaviest I had ever wrestled with and each must have weighed between eighty and ninety pounds. Hardly had I struggled one load into position, when I would look up and see the little gray tractor returning with another large installment. Had I not been fairly strong and experienced, I probably would have collapsed during the first hour under the broiling sun.

Meanwhile, at the corral, Gene was having a fine time. Through my grunts and groans, I could hear the tapping of his hammer occasionally, as well as his cheerful whistling. Every fifteen minutes, Gene's addiction forced him to take a long cigarette break in which he would sit himself atop the fence like an old ranch hand. There, he would rest, reflect and admire the scenery. Once or twice an hour he would mosey over to the haystack in his authentic cowboy boots to chat and tell me how lucky we were to actually be working on a real Wyoming ranch.

"Man, this is great...just great," he laughed. "Wait till we tell the chicks back home...they won't believe it!"

Unfortunately, I was far too busy and exhausted to be of much company for Gene. Nor did I have the time or energy to ponder how lucky I was to be working and dying on a Wyoming ranch. Unperturbed, Gene would then saunter back to the corral with a carefree smile and begin his tapping and whistling again. Obviously, ranch work suited my friend to a tee. Unbeknownst to either of us, on his numerous trips back and forth from the pasture, our new boss took note of all this. Although there was a low rumble deep down below, for the time being Mr. Carlson kept his own counsel.

Around dusk, the old man brought in what seemed like the hundredth load of the day and dumped it on the stack.

"That's it, Mike. Time to eat. Do this in the morning," he boomed above the tractor.

As I eased my body down from the stack to the ground, every bone in my skeletal system seemed alive with pain and punishment. My hands were swollen and sore, my arms and shoulders were on fire, my legs felt like noodles, and my brain was thoroughly fried. Even the lucky parts of me that weren't sore were harassed by sticking things that had fallen down my jeans. When I had finally washed the dirt and grime off and combed the hay from my hair, I joined everyone at the supper table. Gene was already there.

"What kept you?" he laughed. "We were going to start without you."

Cheerful as always, fresh as a daisy, my friend was in high spirits as he joked and jested with the Carlson's sister and brother-in-law. While Mrs. Carlson kept bringing out food, her husband sat at the head of the table, listening to the chatter, but perfectly silent.

As the various bowls and platters began moving around the table, I was unsure if I could even hold my head up long enough to eat. I tried to smile and act polite but I would have much preferred to simply crawl into bed. When the mashed potatoes came my way, I took a dab and passed the bowl to Gene. Still laughing and talking with the others, Gene (left) took enough potatoes to make up for me, and then some. I didn't bother with the gravy when it arrived but instead handed it on to Gene. My partner needed plenty of gravy for all his potatoes and poured it on thick. Mr. Carlson took note, but said nothing.

When the vegetables came, I took a little, Gene took a lot, and when the roast was passed, I simply handed it on to Gene. Perhaps it was the clean air and bright sunshine, or perhaps it was the great table conversation; whatever it was, Gene had worked up a cowboy-sized appetite and his eyes were already feasting on the meat.

"Man, that looks good!" he said with a big lip smack.

Grabbing a big chunk of roast, he flopped it down on his plate. At the head of the table, the boss' eyes began to bulge.

There was hardly any room left on Gene's heaping platter when the bread plate came around. I took a slice and passed it on. Gene grabbed two slices.

With eyes popping from his head, Mr. Carlson at last exploded.

"NOW WAIT JUST A GOD DAMN MINUTE!" he glared angrily at Gene. "NO MAN HAS EVER WALKED AWAY FROM MY TABLE HUNGRY. BUT NOBODY TAKES TWO SLICES OF BREAD!"

Everyone at the table was stunned by the sudden outburst. Gene, of course, was more startled than any. With disbelieving eyes, he stared at Mr. Carlson, a big grin still frozen on his lips.

"If a man works hard for me, he can eat all he wants at my table," continued the red-faced boss loudly, "but YOU didn't do a GOD DAMNED thing today!"

As can be imagined, by now I had forgotten my own misery and had straightened up in the chair. Poor Gene. I noticed that under Carlson's bulging glare, he was slipping ever so slowly down in his chair, still wearing the ridiculous smile.

I do not remember who broke the icy silence following this rampage. Perhaps no one did. But I do recall that Gene meekly placed the two slices of bread back on the plate. And I do remember his reaction after we finished supper in silence and retreated to our little trailer behind the hay stack.

"GOD DAMN HIM!...THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH!!" yelled Gene. "He's not going to get away with this. THAT DIRTY BASTARD!"

My friend was as hot and angry as I had ever seen him.

"I'm leaving....I'm leaving! THAT LOUSY SON-OF-A-BITCH! Take me back to Sheridan!" Gene demanded as he started snapping up his duds.

Had I not been so tired and sleepy I might have enjoyed a good laugh. The spectacle of that little squirt storming and raging about the trailer in his new hat and boots like some bantam cowboy was ludicrous, indeed.

"Gene," I moaned, "I'm not going to drive you back to Sheridan. I'm dead. I got to get up in the morning and work."

"TAKE ME BACK TO SHERIDAN. If you don't take me back, I'm walking."

"Man, you're gonna have to, ‘cause I can't make it," I said while flopping down on the little bed.

After several minutes of thrashing about the trailer, searching for a sock, cursing Carlson with every breath, Gene stopped when he heard a loud rap. When I looked up, I saw that the door had opened and Mr. Carlson was stepping in. After a few words about how tiny the trailer was and other small talk, the big, smiling Swede sat down. I noticed that the grin had returned to Gene's face as well.

"Now look, I'm sorry about that little blowup at the dinner table. I shouldn't have went off like that. It was wrong," said the boss patiently, all the terrible red in his face now drained and his eyes safely back in their sockets. "All I ask from any man who works for me is a day's work. If a man gives me a day's work, he can eat all the food at my table that he wants. Now Mike here, he worked his ass off today."

Then, looking back at Gene once more, Carlson's face started to flush.

"But YOU...," pointed the old man, his eyes beginning to bulge. "Now you know God damn good and well you didn't do a f----n' thing today! I'm sorry about tonight, but you deserved it."

Gene's smile suggested that he agreed.

"Now you two try to get some sleep. We've got a lot of work tomorrow," concluded the boss as he rose to leave.

Hardly had Carlson closed the door behind him and left than Gene's stiff grin dissolved into an ugly grimace.

"That son-of-a-bitch," he hissed. "God dammit, I'm leaving! If you won't take me back I'm walking."

"Gene, you can't walk back tonight. It's thirty miles...and there's wild animals out there," I groaned while laying back down. "Let's go to sleep. I'll take you in the morning."

Perhaps it was a combination of factors--not the least of which were "wild animals"--but after stalking about and cussing for an hour or more Gene did finally crawl into bed.

The following morning, after no mean amount of mighty persuasion, I coaxed Gene into the house and back to the dreaded dinner table. Surprisingly, everything went smoothly. Everyone acted as if nothing had happened at the last sitting and Mr. Carlson seemed in the best of spirits. Gene, of course, was noticeably less loquacious than on the previous eve and when the toast tray was passed around that morning, you better believe he took only ONE slice.

(continued tomorrow)

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Photo of the Day















Before stupid teenagers and bike ramps (above) were added to the show, the first episode of "Jackass" was boring and simply made no sense.

Beavis & Me, Part 2

Unfortunately, while the historic Great Alaskan Highway may have begun in Dawson Creek, British Columbia, back in 1965 the "Great Highway" part of the deal ended thirty miles north of town where the route became a rocky, wretched gravel road that stretched for hundreds and hundreds of dusty miles.

Although we were once again running short on money, Gene and I both felt that we could make it to Alaska. As ever, we slept in the car. When we were hungry for something more than candy bars, I would stop beside a river, pull out my fishing rod, and promptly catch supper. Some of the streams were so clear that I could watch the large trout and Arctic Graylings (right) as they eyed, chased and then hit the spinner. With absolutely no amenities, we would start a small fire on a gravel bar, run a green stick through the gutted fish, then place it on two forked sticks at either end of the fire. In ten minutes, we were ready to eat.
As we moved further north though, and especially after we entered the Yukon, my fishing forays became more infrequent. Although we listened with both ears wide open when locals warned us of bears-–"Oh yeah, some get to be ten feet tall. You're afraid of ‘em, eh?"–-I was far more concerned with mosquitoes. For some reason, I had always assumed that these pestiferous insects were limited to the hotter climates, of say, everything south of Canada. Not so. Indeed, the further north we went the more we were plagued by them...and the larger they grew. Some seemed as big as bats. At nights, we were forced to roll up the windows to keep from being drained dry of blood by the time morning came. Nevertheless, we could hear the high-pitched hum of the devils as they followed the warm blood-scent through the car's air vents. Fishing became almost impossible. No sooner would I plant myself beside a stream and try to cast the lure than I would be assailed by scores of the blood-sucking vampires. I once was compelled to actually dive into a creek head first when one attack became more vicious than normal. As a consequence, we ate less and less fresh fish.

Somewhere deep in the Yukon, the Corvair suddenly started coughing and sputtering. Spotting a place to pull over, I finally rolled to a stop. No matter what we amateur mechanics tried, the engine would not fire up again. Gene and I finally jumped back in the car, rolled up the windows, killed mosquitoes, and pondered our next move. A small stream flowed nearby and I could see the sign on the bridge. Appropriately, it was called "Deadman's Creek."

After drawing straws, Gene set off back the way we had come. Somewhere fifty or a hundred miles to the south we both remembered a garage. With mosquitoes and bears waiting just beyond the car to pounce, there was little for me to do while my friend was gone but read, sleep and wait. I do recall that at 11 PM that night I was startled to realize that I was still scanning the newspaper. In fact, at midnight it was light enough to see.

Sometime that next day, Gene showed up with a tow truck. After the car was hauled back to the garage, we learned that the gas line had become crimped; a common problem on the rocky Alaskan Highway, noted the mechanic. When the car was finally fixed, we drove away, minus nearly every cent that we had. With Alaska still hundreds of miles away, we abandoned our long-cherished goal on the spot and turned south. By the time we reentered British Columbia, not only were we starving, but the Corvair was down to its last tank of gas.

Although I once again pulled out my spin rod, the clouds of mosquitoes were so relentless that I was forced to flee without a fish (apparently the winged vampires had not dined since last they dined on me). Gene and I both recalled stopping at a small log store along the Peace River and both remembered how nice an old German lady had been to us. Hence, when the store was spotted again, we pulled over and asked for a job. Although she did not have nearly enough money to hire even one incompetent teenager, much less two, the sweet old woman did give us a sack of pastries instead. Next to the cherries a man in New Mexico gave me when I was hitchhiking earlier that summer, this may have been the second-best food I've eaten in all my life.

Thirty miles north of Dawson Creek and down to our last gasp of gas, we pulled up at a clearing where lots of men were at work, judging by the trucks. Walking to a house, we were greeted at the door by an enormous fellow who walked on a wooden leg. He looked big and mean and all that was missing from the picture was a patch over his eye. He was still chewing part of his lunch. His name was Glen Powers.

"How do you do, sir," Gene wisely smiled in his best Eddie Haskell. "My friend and I was wondering if you had any jobs open?"

"Well, that depends," said the huge, dark-haired man as he stared down at us. "Either of you know how to handle a cat?"

Under normal circumstances the answer would have been two quick affirmatives; I once had a big furry tom that I loved dearly and Gene had seen enough of them to know how to pick one up and pet it. But since we both could see and hear huge yellow Caterpillar tractors in the distance bulldozing trees, we not only knew what Powers meant but knew we were out of luck.

Returning to the car disheartened, Gene and I discussed our options: A) Stay in the car and starve, or B) hitchhike until we found food and work. Choosing from category "B," we actually did go out on the Alaskan Highway and stick out our thumbs. But after walking a mile or more it was very apparent that we were never going to get a ride on a road with so little traffic. As fortune would have it, a tractor passing on the opposite direction gave us our only lift, and this back to where we had started.

Just after reaching the car, we noticed two guys about our age walking away from the ranch. From where we stood, they both looked PO'd. Without any ceremony we quickly strode to the back of the house and discovered that the two had just quit in anger. And so, less than five minutes after getting off the tractor, Powers had us in a hole digging a ditch. At one dollar an hour, plus room and board, we were wage-earners again.

"Flunkies" best describes our positions on this soon-to-be cattle ranch–-hauling brush, painting sheds, cleaning mud from the tracks of the Caterpillars that tore down the forest, doing anything and everything that anyone said for everyone seemed to be our boss. At a dollar an hour (about 80 cents, Canadian), I suppose we were paid according to our abilities. When we were loafing (which took up about half of our normal day), Gene and I were always on the look out for Powers, as was every other loafer on the spread. He had caught the two of us one afternoon playing X's and O's on the side of a shed with our brushes instead of painting it as ordered and his thundering wrath was fearful. Powers' little boy also loved to hang around us. He was a cute kid of seven or so and built like a tiny bull. When Gene had good-naturedly started wrestling with the boy one sunny day, very quickly the scrawny eighteen-year-old found himself pinned beneath the husky seven-year-old. Although Gene continued to laugh and play and act as if it were part of the script, it was very evident that he could not get up until the child got off. The boy probably outweighed Gene by ten pounds.

One day while we were piling brush, Gene managed to get a small tree over his head prior to tossing it onto the heap. The tree was not much bigger around than my arm. Perhaps Gene was exhausted. Perhaps Gene had underestimated the tree's weight. Perhaps Gene was just weak and puny. Whatever, when he tried to hurl it, his arms gave out completely and the tree came down square on his back, pinning him to the ground. I ran over and managed to get the tree off (actually, I just lifted it with my foot), but Gene was clearly in some pain. For the next three days he laid in our tiny cabin recovering.

Before we had left Kansas in May, my Mom had given us twenty stamped postcards to insure that we would write. Gene now took this opportunity during his convalescence to send his first words home.

Dear Mom and Dad,
We are working in Canada. It is a ranch. We are doing OK so far. Yesterday a tree fell on me. My back feels broken. I am in bed today. Hope you OK. Love, Gene.

As I learned later, at almost the same time that Gene's parents were receiving that postcard, my parents received this:

Dear Mom and Dad,
Well, I'm now stuck here on Deadman's creek. It is in the Yukon. The car broke down yesterday. Gene is gone trying to get help. We are almost out of money. Don't worry. Love, Mike

My Mom, of course, did worry. In fact, the woman was almost frantic when she got this, my first card. She called Gene's mom and she was frantic as well. Each could envision us both dead. In her mind, Mrs. Miller naturally imagined a giant red wood crashing to earth and crushing her son. And Mrs. Goodrich, already crazed and sleepless when she had learned from Aunt Marge that I had been hitchhiking, could all too easily see in her nightmares my bleached bones along someplace called Deadman's Creek. Dad attempted to throw some common sense into the mix when he burst out at the sobbing woman: "Why hell, he has to be alive! God damn it Evelyn, he wrote and sent the card, didn't he?"

After a month on the job, Gene and I decided to collect our wages and walk. Old man Powers was an awesome figure. One leg or not, had he chiseled us there was not one legal or physical thing we could have done about it. But in the end, the big boss paid us every cent we were worth, and then some. With our new found wealth, we headed south.

Perhaps we ate too many doughnuts each pre-noon, or too many fiesta sundaes each afternoon, but whatever the drain, by the time we arrived in Sheridan, Wyoming, we were again reaching for the bottom of our financial barrel. On the day before, we had pulled up briefly in Cody and picked out a few presents for our folks. We also bought cowboy hats for ourselves. This spending spree certainly did nothing to help our money situation but the boost to our egos after purchasing the hats was miraculous. With our new cowboy hats-–the first either of us had ever owned--we suddenly felt ten feet tall; felt that we were now destined to be more in life than ditch diggers or cherry pickers; felt that we were cut out to be cow hands and live a life on the open range.

Soon after reaching Sheridan, Gene and I proceeded posthaste to the unemployment agency and asked for work riding fence lines. As we sat there at the desk in our cowboy hats, I'm not sure how the good man kept a straight face, but let it be said, he did. When he asked if we had our own horses, we had to admit that no, we did not. When he asked if we had our own saddles, we again confessed that we had none. Tack? Gene and I could only look at one another blankly. When we walked out of the office after our record-setting "interview," it had never occurred to either us that ranches wouldn't have horses and saddles ready and waiting for two willing-to-work cow hands like ourselves. More confused than depressed, we got back in the car.

As we drove down the highway southeast from Sheridan–-me in my cowboy hat, watching the road; Gene in his cowboy hat, smoking and crooning a Sinatra song--I began to see signs that potential employment was just ahead. Along the valley floor, ranchers were beginning to bale their hay. What "tacks" and cowboys had in common, I didn't have a clue, but here was something I understood. Back in Kansas during the previous summers, I had probably put up enough hay bales to stretch to Borneo and back. It was hard, hot work and the going rate was two cents a bale. But if one had a strong back, a weak mind, and a capacity to suffer, one would not go hungry. Gene, the "city" boy from Lawrence, had never put up a bale in his life; like everything else about him though, he was willing to try. As we moved down the narrow valley, I kept my eye open for any field with lots of "dead soldiers" laying about.

(continued tomorrow)

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Death-of-the-Day

A convicted murderer lays sprawled on the ground shortly after his execution in 1894 near Wilburton, Indian Territory. Apparently, even "frontier justice" was not swift enough for this hurry-up posse. Despite a gunshot wound to the victim's heart, posse members are seen here speeding up the process by smothering the man to death.

Beavis & Me, Part 1

In 1965, just minutes after receiving a high school diploma that I most certainly didn't deserve, I jumped into my little red '62 Corvair and headed west. I was not going alone. Riding shotgun was a friend. Although Gene Miller was a year older than me (I was 17), he was a year behind me in school. Gene was without doubt one of the scrawniest kids I had ever known. He was about the size and shape of Barney Fife. The two even looked alike. Gene was an incessant smoker, which probably contributed to his puniness and his troubles in a former school. People like to identify with similar people. Since Hoss Cartwright was out, Gene identified with Frank Sinatra, bought all his records, even though the Beetles and Beach Boys were then in vogue, and even tried to croon like his idol, much to the anguish of my ears. But Gene (right) was a trooper; he loved to travel, he had an upbeat personality, and he was the only person I could find who would go with me.

For the first time in our lives we were both absolutely free with no moms, dads or coaches–parading-as-teachers to hassle us. We had no real, clear cut destination in mind, but we were going and that was all that mattered.

Unfortunately, soon after hitting the Pacific Coast and visiting a couple of old flames in Bakersfield, it occurred to us one day that we were out of cash. Although we saved money by sleeping in the car every night, even the slow Corvair, which generally ran on air, needed a little gas every thousand miles or so to keep moving. And thus, like Moses of old, we sought refuge by wandering into the desert. At Ehrenburg, Arizona, just over the Colorado River from Blythe, California, we pulled up and mooched a week or two of free eats from my Aunt Marge, a great, good, red-headed woman whose husband of half her size worked at the nearby agriculture inspection station.

At length, Gene managed to land a job at a service station in Blythe. His dad owned an Apco station back in Lawrence and thus my partner felt himself highly qualified to pump gas. Having no similar work experience, save bucking Kansas hay bales and cleaning up messes in the chemistry department one summer at the University of Kansas, I realized that my skills were limited and that I would need seek employment elsewhere. I'd heard vague rumors of jobs in the Texas oil fields. Since the name "Roughneck" appealed to the macho in me, I thought I'd give it a shot. Hence, one day shortly after Gene went to work, I packed my duffel bag, walked east through the agriculture inspection station, stood by the road and did something I had never done before-–I stuck out my thumb.

Won't get into the folly of that week-long hitchhiking misadventure here, of burning days, of freezing nights, of starvation, rattlesnakes, and an eye-opening side trip South of the Border; but for the first few days, see "The Hitchhiker," 9.22.06, and "Thumbs Up," 12.16.06.

Ten days after my ignominious return to Blythe, Gene and I once more packed up the Corvair and struck off. As we both agreed, it was time to get the hell out of Hell. My friend had somehow managed to get fired from the gas station job and tossed out of his rented room, all within twenty-four hours. And as for myself, one week of stoop labor in the 120 degree heat of a local melon field was more than enough for me. We both now had a little money and we'd heard that hard-working he-men were wanted in Alaska, where an earthquake had leveled Anchorage the year before.

On our circuitous trip north, I found myself almost involuntarily stopping for every hitchhiker that I saw. Until my recent experience, I'd never given much thought to these thumb bums but now whenever I saw one I saw myself. Late one day, we stopped in the Nevada desert and gave a lift to an old black man. He was weathered and gray and bundled in clothes dirtier and greasier than any rag I had ever thrown away. When, just before we were to let him out, he hit on us for a couple of bucks, I thought we might strike a deal. Spotting a liquor store, I gave him four dollars. And so, when he came back to the car with his cheap wine, he also brought a six-pack of beer for Gene and me. After we let him out at a fork in the road on the edge of town, I looked in my mirror and saw the old man ease down an embankment and walk under a low bridge.

"That is definitely not the way I want to end up," I thought to myself.

After picking cherries for a week near Salem, Oregon, Gene and I once more hopped back in the Corvair and continued our journey north. We followed the Columbia River until it eventually led us into Canada. Since I was already a seasoned international traveler in 1965 after having spent less than twenty-four hours in a Mexican border town, I was not nearly so impressed by crossing another national frontier as Gene. A few things were perplexing though, even to me. Both my friend and I were a little confused when we exchanged our greenbacks for the Canadian "monopoly" money and they actually gave us back more than we had given them. Also, we two ketchup fiends were more than a bit surprised when we saw many of the locals dashing vinegar on their french fries. Although the folks we met spoke English, both Gene and I were somewhat mystified when most of the inhabitants ended questions to us with a simple "eh?" Gas was more expensive but since we were getting five quarts with the imperial gallon, we were happy. Forget Marlboros and Luckies; we switched to Players and Sailors. Also, like many Canadians, I started rolling my own. I got so good at it in fact, that I could roll a cigarette with one hand and drive with the other. Kilometers Per Hour remained a mystery to both of us but since the Corvair even at full tilt was going nowhere in a hurry we figured we were always under the speed limit, KPH or not.

With Alaska still our goal, we steered the little red car north through Osoyoos, Kelowna, Kamloops, Quesnel, and other British Columbian towns whose names we couldn't begin to pronounce. When we reached the very verbal town of Dawson Creek after several days of travel, we knew we were finally getting somewhere. The place had the look and feel of a frontier outpost and it seemed that everything--hotels, gas stations, out houses--were made of logs. Here too began mile one of the Great Alaskan Highway.

(continued tomorrow)

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Death-of-the-Day









Justice was usually swift in the West. Sometimes those accused of capital crimes "escaped up trees." When trees were not available, men were run up telegraph poles and died of "altitude sickness."

Nature's Wake Up

A bird outside our window woke me up this dark dawn. Cardinal. Over and over, on cue, the same beautiful refrain. Lovely notes that they were, a dripping tap could not been more effective in keeping me awake. Over and over. And so, in my stupor, I thought: Is this bird happy, or what? Then I thought: Maybe not. Maybe just the start of another work day for him in the Gene Wars. He's letting the feathered world know--over and over, and loudly too--that he is available; if some cute cardinalette out there wants to pass on the best cardinal genes possible, then he's their bird.

As I lay, this thought in turn carried me back to my life in Greece. Our good friends and neighbors had a canary. I loved that bird. All day would his beautiful notes brighten our already bright world. One assumes that a singing bird is a happy bird. Maybe they are but I suppose that is like assuming a human is happy simply because they are talking. When our friends made their monthly treks to Athens to visit relatives, we took care of the canary. After our friends had left, and after securing the shutters, I would always let this little bird out to fly and walk wherever he chose. He didn't fly much, of course, because his tiny wings didn't get much use in a cage. But he hopped about considerable, exploring everything he could. No child on a new playground ever was more excited than this little bird exploring our living room. Anyway, I soon noticed that when "Canary Yellow" (as I called him) was out of his cage, he didn't sing. He was too busy exploring or flapping up to my desk to visit with me. That's when it occurred to me that his singing while in the cage was not from happiness, but loneliness. He sang for attention; for a friend; for freedom; for a life. He could see very clearly from his little enclosure that there was a world out there, a world of freedom, and he wanted to taste some. Later, after I had returned to the U.S., I was saddened to learn that our friends had left the little canary in the sun too long one day and he had simply died.

And as I lay in bed this morning still listening to the red bird out my window and thinking of our little yellow canary in Greece, my thoughts then drifted for some reason to a movie I had tried to watch night before last. Young Guns of Texas. Really bad movie, "starring" the son of Robert Mitchum, the son of Joel McCrea, the son of Gary Cooper, the son of Hopalong Cassidy, the son of Sam, the sons of Guns, and so on. Whatever, this "son of" ploy might have worked with teenage girls, but no one else, that's clear. It was almost as if they were making up the film and writing the script as they went along. I never did discover what the story line was. But anyway, one of the characters in this dopey thing was named "Martha Jane Canary." Since she had an edge, I suppose the character was ever-so-loosely based upon "Calamity Jane;" but again, since the movie was so bad, I never found out.

Thinking of the above bad movie led me to the decent-to-good flick Deb and I watched last night. Somehow, since its release, I missed The Missing. Tommy Lee Jones joins his daughter to recover their granddaughter/daughter, stolen by Apaches to be sold in Mexico. Val Kilmer made a perplexing cameo as an army lieutenant. Directed by "Opie" (Ron Howard), the film does err on the side of political correctness, but if one can swallow that camel, Missing is a feast of sights and sounds. New Mexico, where it was filmed, is glorious.

And then I was back to my cardinal again. Over and over, his beautiful refrain. Since he seemed determined to hold his spot in the bush near our window, I decided to arise in the semi-darkness and deal with the spring day ahead. I might have shooed him away, I suppose, but song birds are gifts from god. And knowing that, there are much worse ways to wake up.

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Debbie Daily

New Mexico-Friday night, March 23, marks the date of the opening reception at the Hubbard Museum of the American West's exhibit, "Wyatt Earp goes to the Movies: Hollywood Myth & Reality." The show runs through Aug. 12. The exhibit itself will consist of some of the firearms belonging to Peter Sherayko, who played "Texas Jack" in the film Tombstone. Not only the pistol that actor Michael Biehn ("Johnny Ringo") twirled in the memorable "cup" scene with Val Kilmer ("Doc Holliday"), but also the same long-barreled "single action army" inscribed to Wyatt Earp from the "grateful citizens of Dodge City" will be there. Additionally, the museum has collected numerous other artifacts and graphics from Tombstone for the exhibit. Sherayko will be present to sign copies of his book, Tombstone: The Guns and Gear. There will be lectures and shows through the course of the exhibit, including an appearance by Wyatt Earp himself (right), a genuine relative of Wyatt of O.K. Corral fame. Mr. Earp performs a one-man show about his famous forebear at 4 p.m., Sunday, March 25. For more information on how to become a member and to receive an invitation to the opening, call the museum at 505-378-4142.

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Check out Deb's New Blog at...

Mason-Dixon Wild West



Give the Girl a Whirl!
Give the Lass a Pass!!
Give the Broad a Nod!!!
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Babe-of-the-Day

Scams, Shams and Flim-Flams

A bit back I wrote about those folks, those featherless bipeds, who claimed that they were something that they certainly were not ("Fakes," 3.10.07), be it Jesse James, Billy the Kid or the "sole survivor" of something. Generally, I have less problems with these fakers and frauds than the gullible stooges who so eagerly snap up the silly swill they are serving. Let me touch upon another side of the historical hustle.

Throughout my research, I have always been amazed by the number of individuals who tried to turn a buck on someone else's bad luck. Other than the obvious ethical questions involved, I usually have no problems with those who want to get ahead. Many/most of the hucksters led/lead a hand-to-mouth existence and again, it was/is the willing saps who fall for such corn that busts my budget.

Take Lincoln: His corpse had hardly cooled when a booming industry sprang up around the remains. Indeed, mere moments after the dead president was removed from the Peterson House, where he breathed his last, the inmates began cutting up the bloody shirt, sheets and towels to sell. Hairs snipped by surgeons to reveal the mortal wound were swept up and counted, one by one. These, in turn, were quickly sold, one by one, to people who quickly framed them (right). The mania to own a Lincoln artifact was so strong that when the original stock was exhausted the peddlers never even blinked--any hair and any blood would do. When the doors of the home itself were later opened to the clamorous public, old man Peterson grew rich at fifty cents a head.

"I also send You Enclosed in this letter a piece of the Shirt Bosom worn By the President on the Night of his Murder," wrote one excited young treasure hunter who loved the upper case. "I wish you to give a piece of it to Billy Denver and Tom Greene, I could Sell every inch of it for $5."

When Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth, was himself assassinated two weeks later, a great mystery existed over what the government had done with his body. Since it was rumored that it had been dumped into the Potomac, for days men in boats could be seen dragging the river. Why? Ha, ha! Apparently, not one, but THREE, bodies were fished up for that is the number of mummies that soon began touring the country. And there, for only a nickel, the dull and the dim could gaze upon the remains of J. W. Booth, the "greatest arch-fiend of the age."

Another who turned calamity into cash was a farmer near Petersburg, Virginia. After the war, the old man, on whose property the horrific "Battle of the Crater" had been fought in 1864, charged curious tourists 25 cents each to gaze in wonder at the big hole.

Closer to home: After Jesse James was killed by that cowardly and treacherous wretch whose name is not worthy of mention here, brother Frank (above) and mother, Zerelda, reportedly sold small stones off his grave to ready tourists for ready cash. When the crowds had gone for the day, Frank quietly replenished the stock each night from the nearby creek. Today, the creek is muddy for all the missing rocks.

I've already mentioned Bonnie & Clyde's death car in another blog ("Outlaws," 2.26.07) and how that perforated Ford sedan, from its original home here in Topeka, toured the country for millions of miles making millions of dollars.

Certainly, there are just a ton of such examples and I suppose one could go on and on. But the point is clear: "Country folks can survive," as Hank, Jr., might croon. Demand and Supply. And again, I have less problems with the pitchmen and hucksters who shave the hicks closely than I do with we gullible goofs who so eagerly give it up for such stuff; after all, I, me, myself, and mine have stood in line and paid money just like the other gullible goofs to see each and every one of the above. Ah, the human condition! Let's hear it for morbid curiosity!

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Debbie Daily

New Mexico--Have I found the shopping site for you! The Museum of New Mexico supports itself and its artists and artisans through purchases at www.newmexicocreates.org. They have a stunning collection of handcrafted jewelry, Native American art work, Spanish Colonial folk art, Hispanic crafts, art glass, and textiles. You can't always be in the American Southwest, but you can always have a part of it with you! Arizona--One more reason to move to Arizona--no Daylight Savings Time! They fought the Feds and won! Yeah, they tried it, back in 1967. ‘‘You had to wait until 10 o'clock to start a ball game. You go to the drive-in theater--they couldn't start the movie until 9:30 or 10 p.m.,'' Bob Scott, a retired newsman for Phoenix radio stations told Associated Press.The state Legislature quickly changed course in 1968 when lawmakers reported for their annual session. They put the state back on standard time year-round. Then in 1973, when the Feds tried to mandate DST in order to save energy, Arizona asked for, and got, an exemption. The only other state not following DST (since Indiana recently caved in) is Hawaii. Oh, why, why does the "Aloha State" tempt us like this? They're already close enough to paradise, but after a week of the time-change kicking my butt, I'm ready to move anywhere that keeps the same clock year round, and if it just happens to be paradise, I'll make the sacrifice. Illinois--For the 296th time, Tom and I watched Tombstone last night. We surf the channels and when Tombstone is playing, we just can't get past it. So there we sat, saying the lines right along with the cast and reveling in the rich scenes we knew were coming up. But it's the perfect way to get in the mood to wish a happy birthday to the "founder of our feast," Wyatt Earp, who was born on this day in 1848, in Monmouth. The "birthplace" (above) is privately owned and is open for tours. Apparently, the town of Monmouth did not get excited about Wyatt's being born there until the popularity of the television show starring Hugh O'Brian made Wyatt's name a household word. Then they started arguing over which house it might have been, and that Wyatt's mother may have been staying with relatives when he was born, etc. (Don't you just love it when hysterians get hold of an issue?) I can't help but wonder what Wyatt would have thought of all the hullabaloo. PS--Another famous resident of Monmouth was Ronald Reagan. They really raise Westerners there, don't they?

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Pick-A-Caption






1) News Item: Polyglot, New Zealand (AP). In bid to gain Guinness Book of World records, bookkeeper, Benny Twiddle, enters third hour of breath-holding marathon.

2) "I'll come out Ollie...but you promise you won't hit me?"

3) News Item: Washington, D.C. (UPI). U.S. Navy researchers believe they have finally developed a life-jacket to replace the outdated "Mae West," in use since World War II. Here, a young seaman demonstrates the new preserver, which Pentagon spokesmen have unofficially dubbed, the "John Holmes."

4) News item: Bamburg, Germany (AP). With time running out, retired school teacher, Horst Schlitz, still has hope that a donor with a healthy stomach can be found for the transplant needed to save his life.