A Nation Asleep

Photo via Pixabay

There comes a point in the evolution of any great civilization which marks the apex of its rise.  That, of course, is a good thing.  This culminating moment of pomp, glory, power, and dignity will be the standard by which its character is remembered by the historians and poets of cultures yet to become a coffee stain on the annals of history.

That also is a bad thing, because by its very definition an apex means that the top has been reached.  Even as the civilization struts, crowing and preening atop its precarious apex, the inevitable reality remains that such a civilization has nowhere left to go but down.  Great civilizations never decline, they free fall.

This being so, it would appear that if we want to preserve our way of life as we know it for ourselves and our kids, the best way to do this is to postpone the apex.  In other words, we need to slightly sabotage our country’s ascent to greatness.  Not in a big way–no revolutions or coups or anything, just annoying little things to gum up the works, so to speak, in order to fend off the impending apex.

As Pliny the Elder so eloquently phrased it, “Da country, she get too big for her britches, she gonna go BOOM!”  Of course, I was quick to tell Pliny that he had better pay attention to what he was doing and stop shouting in my ear or I was going to have to get a new barber.  The last time he waxed philosophical while he was cutting my hair, he cut one sideburn three inches shorter than the other one.  Who does he think he is?  A Roman historian?

He has point, though, as soon as we become a really great nation, we’ve had it.  Once we reach the apex, we might as well wax up our snowboards, because we are on the slippery slope now.  Bye-bye apex, hello Kleenex!  At that point we would do ourselves a favor to hunt up the nearest barbarian or Hun and hand him the title to our real estate and the keys to our SUV. 

So before we reach the lamentable apex of greatness, I urge each of my readers to make it a point of personal patriotism to nip the ascent of our civilization in the bud.  Once the dogs are eating corpses in the street, and tanks are reducing rioters to textured blacktop sealer, just about anyone can develop a touch of nostalgia for the “good old days”, but by then the point would be a bit moot.

They say that the foundation of a culture is its family unit.  Strong families make strong communities, they say, and strong communities make strong nations.  Now you cannot have a strong family without harmony and peace and all that, so here is where you can all do your civic duty to preserve our heritage. 

Let’s all make a point to undermine each other’s sleep!

That’s right.  Everyone who sleeps with a bed partner can begin this very night to sabotage your family harmony, which will then degrade the family unit, which in turn will weaken our communities and ultimately bog down our country’s mad race to greatness and its subsequent plummet into anarchy and ruin.  If you love your country and your family, then, please observe the following checklist on a nightly basis.  In advance, your country thanks you.

  1.  Always read for an hour and a half after retiring.  The glare of the bedside lamp or the EM radiation pulsing from the screen of your device, the deafening rustle of pages like the rattle of musketry at Gettysburg and the raucous guffaws or sobs evoked by the wordsmithery of your favorite author will encourage your husband or wife (who has to get up at 4:00 to leave for work) to eschew the pitfalls of indolence and lassitude.  Your spouse will rapidly begin to eschew you as well.
  2. If retiring after your bedmate is already comfy, warm, and nearly asleep, a strict bedtime regimen must be observed.  Although it requires discipline and concentration, the benefits that will be reaped in the form of weakened family ties and marital disharmony cannot be underestimated:
    • First, stomp loudly up the stairs, carefully switching on any lights your partner may have switched off.
    • Next, prolong the disrobing process, punctuating it with eloquent bodily noises and excerpts of classical chamber music played with great skill and vigor upon the hangers in the clothes closet.
    • Thirdly, set your alarm clock, allowing it to beep shrilly for two or three minutes to verify that it is still in working order.
    • Fourthly, seize the bedclothes and abruptly peel them all the way to the footboard.  It is especially important that you never neglect this step if your bedmate sleeps au natural and it is rather chilly in the bedroom. 
    • Fifthly, gathering your legs under you for maximum trajectory and impact, leap high in the air and plummet with a house-rocking crash into your side of the bed.  (Note:  If your bed happens to be a waterbed, an additional step must be inserted between steps five and six, consisting of extracting your bedmate from the mirror on the opposite side of the room where the tsunami has deposited him or her.)
    • Sixthly, recreate a Champion WWF match using the mattress, bedclothes, and both your and your bedmate’s pillows as your wrestling opponents.  Continue this step for fifteen minutes or until you are comfortably nested, whichever comes last.
    • Seventhly, decide you’d better use the restroom or remove your contacts.  Rise and do so.  Repeat steps one through six.
    • Finally, remember that you forgot to turn off the kitchen light or lock the basement door, or turn off the oven or mow the lawn.  It doesn’t really matter what you forget as long as you are careful to cajole, beg, nag and pressure your bedmate into getting up and doing it for you “…if you really love me!”  The closer they are to sleep, the better.  If they are actually fully asleep, this step alone can stave off America’s apex for at least a good thirty years.
  3. Eat plenty of chili, refried beans, or broccoli throughout the day so that the sleeping environment will be unwholesome.  After all, it was Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, who advised in Proverbs 7:17 to avoid those who say, “I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.”  Therefore, be careful to create a bedtime atmosphere as diametrically opposed to such olfactory contentment as possible.
  4. Cultivate the fine art of snoring.  No other single element is so crucial to the instability of a home and thus a family, community and civilization.  Do not be content with mundane or mediocre snores.  Strive for excellence!  No muted warbles or intermittent snorts will do.  Make your snoring an intense, incessant and exuberant endeavor.  Let the sound strike upon the hillside and echo through the river valley.  Let the anthem swell.  Let your voice be heard!  Who knows, perhaps someday an immortal poet will look back upon your dedicated service and write stirring words in homage to your selfless patriotism:

‘Neath the rude quilt that arched the bed

            Their nostrils in the breeze unfurled;

Here once lax, drooling lips were spread

            And fired the snore heard ‘round the world.

  1. Whenever it becomes necessary to roll over or shift position during the night, don’t move beneath the sheets, move with them.  Make the bedclothes an integral and inseparable part of you.  Bind them upon your forehead; wrap them about your leg.  A properly executed roll should twist the blankets around you like spaghetti on a fork or cotton candy on a stick.  Imagine yourself to be a toilet paper roll and your sheets and blankets the toilet paper.  If done correctly, you should wake up in the morning at the center of a giant convoluted cocoon of fabric.  Or, on a hot night, by carefully reversing the procedure you will be able to deposit a mountain of insulation precisely on top of your partner.  Not only will these techniques erode family harmony, but they will strengthen your bedmate’s immune system and help to nurture the qualities of sacrifice and self-denial in the one you love.
  2. In keeping with the tenets of some of the worlds most degenerate civilizations, cultivate the principle of taking from the have-nots and distributing it to the haves.  Apply this to mattress space.  A simple mathematical equation will enable you to quickly determine how much of the bed your partner should occupy.  Start by determining the age of your partner.  From this figure, subtract the number of years your partner has been alive.  The number that remains represents the percentage of mattress space that is your bedmate’s equitable allotment.  Firmly but lovingly enforce this allowance by strategically positioning extremities to block access to forbidden areas.

There you have it, my dear readers and compatriots–a manifesto for the longevity and preservation of our great nation.  Heed it, and you can rest assured that posterity will bless you.  Ignore it and the miserable, sordid collapse of an entire civilization will be your fault.  It’s up to you.  Will you rise…er, retire to the challenge? 

Sweet dreams!

Road rage

Photo by Thomas on Pexels.com

I wish someone would pass a law making it illegal for anyone to own or operate a vehicle unless their name is identical to the one on my Driver’s License.  Although at first glance, that may seem a little extreme, I am convinced that such a course of action is really the only way to get rid of all the idiots out there on the road.  Every time I take a drive, I swear that I see at least a dozen such idiots behind the steering wheels of hurtling steel and glass weapons of mass destruction.

Shockingly enough, when someone’s idiotic driving habits force me to pass them on a blind curve, frequently I’ll look over at the driver on my way past and discover that it is someone I know.  In real life, these morons appear to be completely normal, rational people, but put them behind a steering wheel and they enter their own universe, oblivious to the rules of common courtesy and civilized society. 

Whenever I can catch their eye, I mouth earnest words of admonition, pumping the air with my closed fist to demonstrate my sincerity.  It seems to have no effect.  They look sharply away and stare fixedly at the road ahead while their knuckles grow white on the top of their steering wheel.  They are obviously set in their ways and have closed their minds to any constructive criticism. 

It is in hopes of appealing to at least one idiot’s sense of shame that I offer a list of the five most common idiotic driving mistakes.  I can only hope that by reading the following list in black and white, a glimmer of understanding will be sparked that may in time persuade them to moderate the hazardous behaviors which daily place responsible drivers like me at risk.

Turn Signals

The first idiotic driving habit is the improper use of turn signals.  I don’t know how many times I have witnessed a driver dutifully activating their turn signal for the last hundred feet before their turn and then canceling it immediately upon completing the turn.  It makes me crazy!  Such drone-like thinking can get you killed!  Creativity. Improvisation.  That’s what keeps drivers alive on the highways. 

Think of the driver’s manual as a brainstorming resource.  It gives you the raw material to stimulate your thinking.  From its sketchy outline of suggestions there are limitless possibilities for expansion and customization until you have developed a driving style which is distinctive to you. 

Turn signals provide the perfect example.  Imagine the possibilities of using those under-appreciated blinking lights in a variety of scenarios.  I’ve noticed for instance that if I leave my left turn signal on after I’ve made my turn, I don’t have to worry about people passing me.  I find this technique especially useful on a gravel road, where a vehicle passing on my left might very easily throw a rock into my windshield.  An additional advantage is that I can see clearly without having to eat the dust of some idiot in front of me.  This technique significantly elevates the safety and comfort of my driving experience.

Another creative way I have found to use my turn signals is to wait until a car’s length prior to my turn before activating them.  Of course, I begin slowing down at least 1500 feet before the turn and for safety’s sake, I always like to come to a complete stop before initiating the turn, so that I can evaluate the texture of the road surface and visually note all traffic in or approaching the intersection.  I do this any time I get a bad vibe about the turn.  I don’t want to commit myself to turning until I’m absolutely sure that it’s safe. 

It’s a good thing I do, too.  You wouldn’t believe the experiences I’ve had at intersections.  It is not at all uncommon to have some idiot roar by me on the left, just after I’ve executed my pre-turn stop, but prior to activating my left turn signal.  If I hadn’t stopped when I did, there could have been a nasty collision. 

Many times when I’m decelerating to make a right-hand turn, I’ll notice a vehicle just sitting at the intersection with their car idling, staring at me.  I tell you, this world’s full of kooks!  I go ahead and do my safety stop, and begin evaluating the intersection.  At this point, the guy in the driver’s seat of the parked car frequently intensifies his stare and begins flapping his arms about, fingers spread and palms upturned.  It gives me the creeps, I tell you! 

I hesitate, trying to decide if I should commit to turning so close to a driver with obvious mental health issues. I decide to risk it.  I flick on my right turn signal.  My goodness!  The faces some people can make!  I think I’ve gotten more one fingered salutes in situations like this than in any other.  Suddenly the idiot stomps his accelerator, laying smoking rubber for half a mile as he squeals out into the intersection and away!  Where are the cops when you need them?

A third technique is to not use the turn signals at all.  As an American citizen, I have a right to my privacy and in the rare situation where I want someone to know that I’m turning, I’ll use my signals.  After all, I know when I want to turn, and when I’m ready, I simply do it.  This saves wear and tear on the light bulb and effectively conceals my intentions from any credit collectors or State Troopers that might be following me.

High Beams

The second idiotic driving habit on my list  regards the usage of high beam headlights.  I can’t stress enough the importance of driving with your high beams on at all times.  Alaska is literally crawling with moose and bears and bison and hitchhikers and mailboxes ready to leap out in front of you at any moment.  The more long range visibility you have, the safer your trip will be.

And yet it never fails that while driving after dark, some oncoming vehicle will have his lights on low beam, barely dribbling a puddle of light mere feet in front of his vehicle.  That’s all fine and good.  Whatever gives them their jollies!  The really annoying thing is that inevitably the idiot starts flicking his high beams off and on—off and on.  Why can’t they make up their mind?  I try to ignore them and go about my driving, when–wouldn’t you know it?—they wait until they are almost abreast of me and then suddenly flick on a bank of fog lights that are rack-mounted on the roof of their pickup cab!  I go instantly blind and nearly drive off the road!  Don’t these people have any compassion?

Reasonable Speed

The third idiotic driving habit involves people that can’t drive a decent speed.  Literally everybody but me either drives too fast or too slow.  There are a couple of techniques for dealing with idiots like these.

If they are traveling too fast, they will come up behind you.  When you notice them gaining rapidly in your rearview mirror, simply steer to the left until your vehicle is straddling the center lane.  Stay there until you arrive at your destination, only moving back into your lane briefly to allow approaching traffic to pass.  You will find that this simple technique will encourage everyone behind you to travel at a sensible speed.

If, on the other hand, the idiot is driving too slowly, simply approach the back of his vehicle until your hood ornament obscures his license plate.  Maintain this distance until the slowpoke accelerates to a reasonable speed, or pulls off of the road.  I guarantee that you will see results within 15 miles.  If not, repeated and prolonged application of your horn should be supplemented until the desired result is achieved.

The last three idiotic driving habits may not always be relevant in much of Alaska, but seem to be chronic in the lower 48.  In the sordid realms that we Alaskans call “outside”, where you find interstate highways intertwined with vast complexes of secondary roads,  thrives a whole new breed of idiots.  Beware of them when you find it necessary to leave the comfortable frost heaves and potholes of our fair state.

Entrance Ramps

There you will encounter things called “interstate entrance ramps”.  Be not deceived.  This is merely an innocuous name for some of the most diabolical death traps ever devised by highway engineers.  The idea is for a driver to launch his vehicle off of this thing into a four lane wide, 70 mph raging river of tractor trailers and Greyhound buses.

Caution and common sense would scream at you to slowly drive to the bottom of the ramp, park, and wait for the traffic to go away before entering the interstate highway.  That’s what I do, and you will notice that I am still alive today.  I seem to be one of an overwhelmed minority, though.  You should see the idiots!  Rather than slowing down and proceeding with caution, they literally accelerate down the ramp and recklessly plunge into a tiny gap between hurtling semis!  What can I say?  The insanity speaks for itself.

Then you have what I call the “sheep factor”.  Once you successfully enter the interstate highway system, you find yourself on a road where two or three lanes are going the same direction.  It’s exactly like a one way street in Fairbanks, except completely different.  So here you are on three perfectly good lanes, with no oncoming traffic.  Where can you drive?  Come-on, folks, this isn’t rocket science.  They’re all going the same direction!  It doesn’t matter!  Pick a lane any lane, but for Pete’s sake, pick one that gives you a little reaction time, right?

Wrong!  These idiots will actually get in a row in the right lane and follow each other for hundreds of miles.  To the left of them beckon one or two inviting lanes with not nearly as much traffic, yet they continue to congest the right lane, playing follow the leader. Surreally, nobody seems to understand the potential for disaster here.  What if the guy four cars ahead of you stops suddenly?  What do you have?  The domino effect:  a multi-vehicle pileup, right? 

So here’s what I do.  I move all the way over to the left lane and I stay there.  I’m driving the same speed they are, in the same direction they are, yet without the risks.  If I wasn’t as humble as I am, I’d call myself brilliant.  An added perk is that I end up being the leader of my own string of followers.  Behind me, as far as I can see, there are two solid lines of traffic, yet before me, the highway is clear.  I usually wind up being literally the only one on the interstate that doesn’t have to worry about rear-ending the guy in front of him.  I guess not everyone has been blessed with my instincts for safety.

Four Way Stops

The last idiotic driving behavior on my list involves what they call a “four-way stop”.  This is where you have a crossroad, yet all four lanes entering the intersection display a stop sign.  How stupid is that?  Four cars arrive at the intersection within seconds of each other.   All four have a stop sign.  There they sit!  Whoever came up with that arrangement must have just crossed the thin line between genius and insanity! 

As you may have guessed, I am very safety minded in my driving habits.  That’s more than can be said of the 9 million people who are sitting at a four way stop as you read this sentence.  From my experience, they will begin to randomly proceed through the intersection.  I never have discovered a pattern to their decision process.  It’s not clockwise, and it’s not counterclockwise, it’s just willy nilly.  It’s a miracle that four way stop intersections aren’t a perpetual smoldering pile of shattered glass, twisted steel and corpses!

Being the sensible, cautions man that I am, I always let everyone else go first.  If I notice another vehicle arriving at the intersection, I wait for him, too.  It’s the only decent and safe thing to do.  You’d think the other drivers would appreciate my courtesy, but they don’t.  Sometimes they get downright rude!  They flash their lights and honk their horns and give me the one-fingered salute. 

That used to puzzle me and bother me a lot, but I finally figured out that most drivers are threatened by competency.  It shines the spotlight on their idiocy, and I guess that must be a really uncomfortable feeling.  I wouldn’t know.  I’ve never had that issue.

Well, I don’t mean to cut this short, but I’ve got to run to the store before they close.  I’m not looking forward to it.  I’d be willing to bet that while I’m en route I will encounter another vehicle.  Between that driver and myself, one of us will be driving like an idiot.  I don’t need to tell you which one.

Raul Pevere’s Ride

By George M. Hosier II 

Listen my children and you shall hear

Of the arctic ride of Raul Pevere,

In middle of winter, of seventy-five;

How the man did ever survive

Is a secret we’ll never know, I fear. 

He said to his wife, “I’m out of beer

So I’m making a run to the town to-night.”

Said his wife, “That’s madness this time of the year!

The thermometer glinting ‘neath Northern lights 

Is pegged at sixty and five below!

You leave, and you’ll never come back, you know.

Drunk as you are, I bet my right arm,

You’re setting yourself up for ruin and harm.

Please stay by the fire with me where it’s warm.” 

But he growled “Good-night!” and with teeth clenched tight

Lurched silently into the frost-laden night,

Just as the moon rose over his cache

Now starkly devoid of his alcohol stash.

But long winter nights make some men drink

And most drink more than they’d like to think.

Across the valley an all-night bar

Called Raul’s name like a siren’s song

And the cold bit deep and the wind howled strong

As he fumbled with keys to his car. 

Meanwhile, his wife with slipper-shod feet

Rushes outside, propelled by her fears

And grabs for the keys, but her husband veers–

She slips in the snow and with heavy heart

Watches him climb in the driver’s seat!

But his triumph is hollow for it appears

Cars at these temperatures don’t like to start. 

Then he burrowed frantic through hand-split birch

In the woodshed where he’d stored his sled.

He barked his knuckles and bonked his head,

And startled the ravens from their perch

On the black spruce rafters that o’er him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,–

With a trembling hand he dug and tossed

‘Til, to his relief, he came across

His snow machine, and he squealed with glee

At finding a method to guarantee

That the miles to town he now could cross. 

His bad back spasmed; and made him shout,

As he seized the Snow-go by force of will,

Drug it to the top of the hill,

And pointed it toward the snow-choked rout

That led to booze-soaked happy hour

There to bask in Bacchus’ bower.

The watchful night wind seemed to whisper,

“The road is long; the cold grows crisper.”

Yet for only a moment he felt the dread

Of the lonely tundra that stretched ahead;

For suddenly all his thoughts converge

On a shadowy need–a poignant urge

To be blowing cash in a reckless splurge

On bosom pals he’d barely met

And whose love endured while their glass stayed wet. 

Wheezing, impatient to mount and ride,

Mittened and booted with stumbling stride

To the starter cord handle Raul Pevere

All his tugging strength applied.

But the cold caused the brittle spring to shear.

Raul’s momentum flung him to earth,

Where all the weight of his ample girth

Contorted his ankle with a crunch

That nearly compelled him to toss his lunch.

Yet he rose again to pursue the fight,

Lonely and spectral and somber and white. 

And lo!  As he scans his homestead plot

A nicker, and then a quizzical trot!

He limps to the paddock, infused with hope

And after a chase, his mule he had caught

Assisted by a short length of rope. 

A hurry of hoofs on the glacial lane,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath from the permafrost, icy shards arc,

Struck out by a saturnine steed with its mane

Frozen stiff–its ice-fogged breath forms a haze.

The mule and its rider press on in a daze

And the shards struck out by that steed formed a glaze

That still in June would mark the terrain. 

It was twelve by the village clock

When they crossed the bridge just east of town.

The mule moved in a shuffling walk

And the barking of a husky dog

Failed to pierce their mental fog,

For their bodies’ cores were shutting down. 

It was one by the village clock,

When a patron at the craved saloon

Noticed them like a frosty rock

Standing stiff in the parking lot.

And Raul’s fingers clenching the frozen reins

Were hard as links of an iron chain.

His beard was set with freeze-dried snot,

And it glittered in the light of the moon. 

It was two by the paramedic’s watch

When they got Pevere pried from off his mule.

His feeble bleating for a fifth of Scotch

Brought the toughest EMT’s to tears,

But they could smell he’d had too many beers.

They gently eased the fragile fool

Out of his saddle and into a bed,

Taking great care not to let him fall,

Lest he shatter a limb or head.

Then gave his wife an urgent call. 

You guessed the rest.  In the books you have read

How drinking in winter can make you dead,–

How what you sow at 40 below

You’ll reap in spades among the snow.

Harmless stunts where palm trees thrive,

Are death traps when Jack Frost arrives.

Raul’s survival was not due to smarts,

And now he’s missing some body parts.

In the cold and the dark, I hope you will heed,

I pray you will waken and listen to hear

The staggering hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight folly of Raul Pevere.  

The Old Man and the White Filly

I used to read a lot when I was a kid.  Some of my favorite stories were about horses.  Ironically, Ernest Hemingway was one of my favorite authors.  I always resented the fact that Hemingway hadn’t written more about horses, and less about more boring subjects like bullfighting and boxing and wars and fishing.  I bet if he had set his mind to it, he could have written a classic horse story.

Since he hadn’t written anything like that, though, I had to create my own equestrian adventures.  I fantasized about finding a gorgeous unwanted horse that I could tame for myself after the mean rancher guy had failed.  It would stare at me, ears perked, neck arched, nostrils flaring, expecting to be chased or beaten.  But I would be patient.  After a few days it would be eating out of my hand.  A few days after that we would be galloping bare-backed across the countryside, boy and beast melded together in a heady camaraderie of mutual respect and eternal friendship.  Every night when I knelt by my bed, I begged heaven to send a wild horse to my back yard.  Any old Lippizaner or Sorraia or Posan would do.  The truth was, though, that I would have settled for a 30 year old, toothless, worn-out draft horse.

I don’t know exactly when the dream began to fade, but once I got a job and a wife with the accompanying responsibilities, the keen yearning for a horse adventure attended me more and more infrequently.  In fact, for the past several years, I hadn’t even thought about those delicious flights of fancy.  I owe part of that to the three horses tromping around in my field.  They have acquainted me with a less romanticized perspective of equine ownership–a perspective integrally tied to my dwindling bank account. 

So I must say that the last thing I expected was to ever again experience the intensity of emotion invested in my prepubescent equine fantasies.  Yet just the other day, out of the blue, my childhood dream unexpectedly popped out of the brush beside the four-wheeler trail just a stone’s throw from my house.  There she was, wild and white, with ears perked and nostrils flaring, just like I had seen her in my daydreams.  I went to my knees, gasping with the vivid shock of longing that belted me hard in the solar plexus. 

I cannot describe what the next few minutes were like.  Papa Hemingway would have been able to describe it for you if he were still alive.  Too bad I can’t tell my story to him and let him seize your imagination in that inimitable way of his…


He was an old man who walked alone on the trail.  He had gone forty-three years now without glimpsing a wild horse.  For the first thirteen years, a boy had lived inside of him.  But after thirteen years without catching a horse, his parents had told him that he was the worst form of daydreamer, and he had better get on with his life. 

It made the boy in him sad to see the old man return from his walk each day with his dream empty.  The old man would shuffle to the barn and take the soft rope halter down from its rusty nail.  He had braided it when the boy’s hands were still smooth and pink, but it had never been worn.  These days the old man would inspect the halter with deep-creased hands and then hang it back on its nail like a flag of permanent defeat.

The old man was thin and gaunt in the shoulders with deep wrinkles in the front of his shirt where his pecs should have been.  The sodden bulge of a developing paunch strained against the shirt buttons above his belt buckle.  Everything about him seemed old and weary.   The old man knew he was living on borrowed time but his eyes were not ready to give up yet. 

There were a few leaves still hanging from the trees and the urgent wind of Alaska’s autumn made them shiver.  He thrust his fists deep into his pockets and leaned forward into that wind as it came down from the mountains.  He inhaled deeply, taking in the clean early morning smell of frost on dead fireweed stalks.  A rose hip caught his eye.  He felt embarrassed by its shriveled and misshapen tenacity, clinging to its naked branch so long after the first freeze.  He picked up a stick and tried to knock it to the ground, but its stem was anchored deeply among the thorns and refused to surrender its grip.

The stubborn rose hip reminded the old man of himself.   Why should he force it to give up?  He tossed the stick away.  From the patch of low bush cranberries where it landed four spruce chickens whirred up one after another into his face almost.  Then they veered sharply away to land in a cluster of black spruce.  From their perch they peered at the old man, heads bobbing at him in silent laughter. 

The old man didn’t blame them.  When you have lived as long as the old man had, you have a lot of fine things you can remember.  When you think back over a cup of hot coffee on the things you have loved in life, your memories should bring you pleasure.  Old men should be content with that.  But all the memories that came dancing out of the crackling flames of his wood stove at the end of the day were not enough.  He could not expect the mocking spruce grouse to understand why he could not contentedly fade away like everybody seemed to expect.  He didn’t understand it himself.  But the boy inside him knew.  He was made to catch and befriend a wild horse.  He needed that memory.  That need kept him alive.

He pushed his fists back into his pockets and began to work his way down the trail, humming the theme from “Hidalgo”.  The sun, rising thinly from behind the low mountains to the east, cast tree shadows like groping fingers against the frosted ground.  In the fall the frost was always there and he did not give it any notice.  Between the shadows the sun was warming the frost into fading tendrils of mist.  Small birds blew in the wind and the wind turned their feathers.  Fifty yards ahead something moved in the brush.  Then it stepped out onto the path.  The old man stopped in mid-stride.  There were two of them.  A big brown one and a small white one.  The old man went to his knees, gasping as the vivid shock of longing struck his stomach like a hard-fisted right hook. 

When he could breathe again, the old man eased to his feet delicately and softly, and his left hand slowly began to unclasp the buckle from beneath the bulge of his paunch.  He wished he had the bridle that hung in the barn on the rusty nail, but it was too far.  There was no time.  A belt would have to do. 

The mare swung her head around to stare at him.  The wind had backed into a little breeze that was blowing his scent away from her so that she was trying to identify him by sight.  He stood still to let her look and he took a good look at her.  He could see her long face tapering the wrong direction to a nose like a boxing glove.  Gaping nostrils drooped over her front lip.  She seemed to be made up of random parts of other animals.  She had the beard of a goat, the legs of an arthritic giraffe and the shoulder hump of a grizzly bear.  The old man couldn’t tell if she had any tail at all.  The ears that were perked in his direction belonged to a mule.  She was an exceptionally ugly horse and clearly her filly had inherited the same mismatched features.  Any decent horse breeder would have shot them both on sight to prevent them from infecting his stock. 

Yet it was just that outcast quality that stoked the fires of the old man’s boyhood fantasies.  He would befriend this ugly little white filly who had been so misunderstood and rejected.  Their souls would be joined in a mystic union of mutual respect and eternal friendship.  The white filly’s mule ears were perked and her nostrils flared just like the boy inside him had seen in his daydreams.  He had almost forgotten how much the dream could hurt.  A chill still hung in the air but the old man felt the sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

“Little white filly,” he said aloud.  “I am going to catch you.  I am going to catch you or die trying.”

He shouldn’t have spoken.  The mare flicked her ears twice and moved away across the road in a rollicking canter that was deceptively fast for such a comical gait.  The filly went along, pressed against her left flank.  The old man froze and held his breath.  In the ditch on the other side of the road the horses stopped again.  The old man exhaled softly with relief and scolded himself.  Think of what you are doing.  You must do nothing stupid.  I wish I was a boy again, he thought.  But you aren’t a boy.  You are just an old man with a belt and it is up to you.

The mare was looking in his direction again.  The old man’s thighs were cramping and his poised hand had begun to quiver with fatigue.  He looked at his hand in disgust.   What kind of a hand is that?  He willed it to stop quivering.  Cramp if you must.  Make yourself into a claw.  It will do you no good.  You will remain motionless until I am dead if I ask you to.  A raven came from somewhere behind him, tacking sideways in the wind.  The old man could see that the bird was very tired.  The raven settled in the ditch between the old man and the horses and began to strut back and forth, plumping his feathers.  That seemed to comfort the mare.  She abruptly flicked her ears again and began stripping the bark from a willow sapling.  The white filly dropped her head and nibbled at something on the ground. 

“That’s it”, the old man smiled to himself.  “Keep eating.  Don’t be shy, horses.  Doesn’t that taste lovely?  Eat it up now. ” He dropped to his hands and knees.  The high shoulder of the road rose up to hide him from the suspicious mare.  Steadily, the old man began to crawl, ignoring the rocks that tore his hands and bruised his knees.  When he had reached the spot where the horses had crossed the road he raised himself up slowly and steadily. 

The horses were just across the pavement from him now.  Their rumps were toward him and now he could clearly see that they had no tails worth mentioning.  Someone had trimmed them back until they resembled a Rottweiler’s tail.  In fact their manes were gone too.  Such human cruelty nauseated the old man.  Once he caught the filly he could fix that. With enough love and oats and time the hair would certainly grow back. 

He felt a surge of delight to be so close to his dream.  For a moment he saw himself sitting on the filly’s back smacking that white rump with a cowboy hat, but he knew she would not let him do that.  Not yet.  I must convince her, he thought.  I must never let her learn her strength nor what she could do if she took a dislike to me.  He knew that it would be hard to sneak up on her.  He would only have one chance.  The old man fed the end of the belt through the buckle to form a noose.  He let it slide, controlling the buckle with his forefinger and thumb until he had enough of a loop to throw over her head when the right instant arose. 

The old man crouched to make himself as small as possible.  He started to work his way across the road.  It was easy to tiptoe quietly on the pavement, but when his feet crunched into the gravel shoulder the mare’s head swung around.  Her ears probed and her nostrils quivered as she searched for him.  The old man was off-balance and felt himself tottering.  He had no choice but to shift his footing.  In that moment, the mare licked her lips and the hair rose along the ridge of her grizzly hump.  Then the mule ears flattened against her skull and she came at him with a rush.  The filly bawled and scooted into the brush.

The old man saw the mare rearing above him, hooves flailing.  In moments like that it is curious how a man’s mind works.  The thing that he noticed was that her unshod hooves were in bad shape.  The bottoms were deeply split all the way up to the fetlock.  He didn’t have time to notice any more details.  The hooves were coming down toward him then.  He rolled beneath her belly, aiming for the gap between her hind legs.  That was a mistake.  The hind legs danced upon him with numbing blows to his ribcage and neck.    The old man kept rolling.  He had never before seen a horse that could kick all four directions at once.  It was impossible to escape her fury.

The old man grew desperate.  At this rate he would never be able to catch the white filly.  Just then both of the mare’s rear hooves connected with his paunch.  The impact lifted him clear of the ground and he closed his eyes against the pain as he tacked in the wind like the raven had done.  He seemed to spin slowly through the air.  Now she has beaten me, he thought.  I am too old to catch wild fillies.  But I will not give up as long as I have legs to run and arms to cast a belt noose.  He had let go of the belt, though.  As it turned out, he did not need it.  He opened his eyes very wide as he felt a tremendous impact between his legs.  It was the white filly.  The old man had landed on her back.

The filly seemed to be as startled as he was.  With a braying sort of bleat she started to run.  The old man wrapped his arms around her neck and wove his fingers tightly into her dense white coat.  She moved like a runaway rollercoaster, scraping the old man against birch trunks and shredding him through willow thickets.  Still he hung on with teeth gritted, flopping against her hump.  His face cracked into the back of her skull.  He felt the cartilage sever in the bridge of his nose.  The white of the filly’s neck was suddenly covered with a rush of crimson.  A pink cloud seemed to pass before his eyes.  The cloud was full of blinking spots.  He felt something pluck at his collar.  Then the daylight contracted into a bright white dot and went out.

He dreamed of vast herds of wild Lipizzaners thundering across the tundra.  It was the time of their mating and they leaped high into the air and twirled in an awesome spectacle of synchronized dressage.  Then he dreamed that he danced with them under the northern lights and the herd was nuzzling him and nickering soft greetings. 

He woke with a jerk.  The jerk was his neighbor who prodded him and asked if he was all right and why was he dangling all bloodied from a birch branch by his shirt collar.  The old man felt faint and sick and could not see well.  But he kicked out at his neighbor and the motion caused him to spin in a little circle.  The spin twisted his collar onto the birch branch until he began to strangle and the pink cloud came back.  The neighbor cut him down just before the bright white dot went out.

“Don’t sit up,” the neighbor said.  He handed the old man a canteen.   

The old man took it and drank from it.

“She beat me,” he said.  “She truly beat me.”

“That was a big moose.  I saw her.  The albino calf too.”

The old man knew that the neighbor would not understand.  He spat something strange and it felt like something in his chest was broken.  He also realized that the boy inside him was dead.  The boy’s dream was dead too.

“Can you help me back to my house?” he asked the neighbor.   “I need a clean shirt and something to eat.”

Ten minutes later, in his house the old man was sleeping again.  He was sleeping on his face and the neighbor was sitting by him watching him.  The old man was dreaming of butchering horses.

Very Funny

How many Alaskans does it take to change a light bulb?  Well, that all depends on the time of year.  In the winter, it takes as many people as you can squeeze into your house, because everyone is dying for the slightest excuse to get out of the house, potluck dish in hand, in order to party the Seasonal Affective Disorder blues away.  In the summer, however, it takes zero, because everyone is busy frantically working their gardens and remodeling their houses and using their vacation time.  Besides, who needs a light bulb under the perpetual daylight of the midnight sun anyway?

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  How’d you like that joke?  Whooooheee!  Nyuk, nyuk!  I made it up all by myself!  Hardee har-har…Oh, wait!  Why is nobody laughing?  Heh, heh.  Come on, now, you’ve got to admit that was pretty good.  A side-splitter?  A real hoot?  What’s that?  Not really?  You say you’ve heard more hilarious funeral eulogies.  I see.  Fine! Be that way.  Go ahead!  Flaunt your stoic inability to register appreciation for quality humor.   I guess you’d just have to be an Alaskan sourdough with a rapier-like wit to understand it.

Good grief!  I can’t believe how many people were born with congenital malformation of the funny bone.  Even my wife harasses me for telling what she calls “corny old worn-out jokes”.  Well, I happen to like corn.  It’s one of my favorite flavors.  Secondly, she’s getting to that stage in life when it might serve her well to begin to sift the word “old” from her vocabulary—unless she finds the idea of being married to an old man romantic.  Just because I’ve been around the block a few times doesn’t make me old, and the fact that certain jokes have seen a few harvest moons doesn’t automatically mean they are “worn out”.  Can you say “classics”?  My jokes wouldn’t have survived the years if they were the effete, mediocre, listless, hackneyed, clichéd dabs at levity, she seems to imply.  Reasonable people don’t mock a fine cheese or a vintage wine or an aged cigar for being too old, but as soon as I tell a joke a couple of dozen times, my wife starts rolling her eyes and shaking her head like she’s experiencing some sort of a neurological malfunction.

It’s degenerated to the point where she has made me sign an agreement that I will number my jokes.  Then, whenever I feel the need to perceive myself as funny, I must call out a particular joke’s number, whereupon she promises to vocalize an audible laugh for at least 1.5 seconds.  In turn, I may not relate, deliver, perform, tell, narrate, or communicate that or any other joke, pun, aphorism, riddle, one-liner or humorous anecdote of any sort whatsoever, till death do us part.  If I should breach any part of this agreement, I am contractually bound to be subject to persecution to the fullest extent of her law, up to and including the immediate application of the aforementioned “death do us part” clause.

She calls it a win-win situation.  I was pretty excited about it at first.  Who wouldn’t settle for a 1.5 second audible laugh as opposed to something that resembles seizure symptoms?  Sadly, the arrangement turned out to be not nearly as glamorous as it sounded.  The first day I tried the new system it flopped horribly.  Upon feeling the familiar throb of cleverness beginning to engulf my funny bone, I reared back, and in my best stand-up-comedian style belted out, “3”!  Immediately, I noticed that my material felt a bit flat and lacking in substance.  I was used to one-liners, but one-numeralers?  Nevertheless, thanks to my improvisational genius and flawless comic timing I didn’t skip a beat.  I deftly tilted my wrist, looked at my watch, and prepared to time the audience response.

The response came quickly in such a disappointing fit of eye rolling and head shaking that I began to entertain the fantasy of force feeding her an entire bottle of Phenobarbital.  “What’s wrong?”  I shrieked.  “I thought you were supposed to laugh for 1.5 seconds!”  My devoted wife then proceeded to refer to some alleged fine print in our agreement that I had somehow overlooked.  Evidently, her contractual obligations were only binding under the condition that I called out a number which correlated to an actual joke in my personal repertoire.  Or, as she more pithily put it: “Number 3?  Very funny!  Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?  You don’t know three jokes.” 

That’s where she’s wrong, of course.  I know hundreds of jokes.  If I don’t know one appropriate to the situation, I can make a real thigh-slapper up on the spot.  I think that makes people jealous.  I say that because I’ve noticed that my wife isn’t the only one to take a dim view of my mastery of the hilarious quip.  My father-in-law is a case in point.  I had always heard that balding gentlemen were supposed to be good-natured.  But no matter how I have attempted to tailor my humor to a genre he can personally relate to, he doesn’t seem to get it.  You see, Dwight sports a thick shock of hair that flows down his back.  It’s just unfortunate that he doesn’t have any on his head.  In fact, when he wears a turtleneck, he looks like a stick of roll-on deodorant.  Naturally, when the opportunity presents itself, I use this detail as material for my humor.

“Hey, Dwight, are you getting taller?”

“I don’t think so, why?”

“Because your head is sticking up through your hair.  Ha-ha-ha-ha!  Hardy har-har-har, hee hee…”

“Very funny.  I should have known this was another one of your tasteless bald jokes.”

“Don’t denigrate yourself!  You’re not bald, you’re just taller than your hair.”

“Aaaargh!  What kind of a fool was I to let you marry my daughter!  Why do you have to be constantly making fun of my receding hairline?” 

“You don’t have a receding hairline, just an advancing scalp.”

“AAAAAARGH! Somebody please give me the telephone number of a professional hit man.  Can’t you get it through your head that there’s a difference between being bald and having a wide part?”

“Your hair isn’t parted, it’s departed.”

“It’s a part, I tell you!”

“Maybe so, but that’s the first part I ever saw with ears in it.”

“Honey, would you please fetch me my shotgun!  Why dost thou despise me, oh son-in-law?”

“Now, now!  Let’s not get riled up.  I don’t despise you.  I actually admire you.  You are clearly a shining beacon of integrity.  In fact, I think I need my sunglasses…”

“Does this train of thought have a caboose? I’m warning you…”

“No, please listen to me before you do anything rash.  The fact that you are follically challenged means nothing to me.  I don’t judge a man by his disabilities.  What I admire is character, and obviously there is less between you and heaven than most people.  Clearly God favors you.  Just look how He blessed you.   He gave you a handsome face and room for another one.”

“OK, that does it!  The gloves are coming off.  No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

“Uh, don’t you mean ‘no more Mr. Clean’?”

AAAAAAARGGGGGGG!  Didn’t your mamma ever teach you that making fun of somebody for a physical characteristic they cannot control is rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.  I get sick and tired of people making jokes about me.” 

I had never seen him sob before.  “I get sick and tired of people telling me I should grow a beard and walk around on my hands.  I get sick and tired of people always poking me in the head with billiard cues.  I get sick and tired of pilots mistaking me for a runway beacon!  I get sick and tired of ostriches always chasing me in order to try to sit on my head and hatch it! I can’t help it that I’m bald, any more than you can help it that you’re short!  How would you like it if I started making wisecracks about you being vertically challenged?”

That was uncalled for.  “Oh!  Oh!  See, now, that was uncalled for!  I was just trying to have a good time, but then you had to go and make it personal.  I am not happy!”

“Really?  Which one are you, then?  Grumpy?  Dopey?” 

“You’re going to think I’m Gimli as soon as I grab my axe from the woodshed.”

“Noooo!  Please don’t reach up and chop me on the ankle!”

“Ow!  That hurts. Such venom!  Why don’t you just spit in my face while you’re at it?”

“I would never stoop so low.”

I think this is a good place to interrupt the transcript.  I don’t see any point in subjecting you to the remainder of the content of that dialogue.  All you need to know is that it consisted of a rapidly deteriorating commentary on my diminutive size.  It was an interminable series of insults, really, thinly veiled beneath the guise of jocular banter.  Honestly, I don’t understand how somebody could be so callous!

As you can clearly see, nobody appreciates my sense of humor, especially since I have found it less traumatic to my ego to stop verbalizing my jokes out loud.  Since I’m the only one that laughs at them anyway, I just tell them to myself inside my own head.  I laugh out loud at them though.  They can’t deprive me of that right.  After all, somebody has to acknowledge my brilliant wit.

They can snub me all they want.  Someday when I’m on Saturday Night Live, or Comedy Central, they’ll be sorry.  When they get a chance to catch their breath from laughing so hard, they’ll wrinkle their brows, scratch their heads and murmur, “George Hosier…George Hosier?  Where have I heard that name before?  Hey, wasn’t that the name of that short little geek that used to wander around Delta Junction snickering and guffawing to himself?”  Then they’ll probably go jump in the Tanana River in remorse for all the weird looks they used to give me, and the times they called the Troopers on me.  That’ll be hilarious! 

Oh…one parting joke:  If you’re paddling upstream in a canoe and the wheels fall off, how many pancakes does it take to shingle a doghouse?  This is one of my favorites.  Give up?  The answer is:  “13, because bananas don’t have bones.”   Ha-ha-ha-ha!  Whoooo-hoo-hoo-heee!  Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!  Hardee har-har-har…OUCH!  Stop throwing things!


Photo by Rene Asmussen on Pexels.com

When I was a kid, I read a lot.  My Dad was a pastor, and often during the week he would take me along as he went calling on members of his flock.  I guess most kids would go crazy waiting for their father to be finished holding the hand of a bedfast octogenarian who was reciting her list of medications, as well as the names and life histories of her fifty-two great grandchildren.  Not me!  As long as the octogenarian owned a reasonably well-stocked bookshelf, I was content.  When it came time to go I would have to be coaxed out of the corner where I had retreated into the imaginary world I had discovered within the pages of my book.

In a pinch, I could read just about anything:  vintage issues of the Ladies Home Journal, Shakespeare, poetry, comic books, history, crock pot manuals, biographies, The Wall Street Journal, ghost stories, Chilton’s, the TV Guide… Once, while my Father was preoccupied with a marital counseling session, I rummaged around for reading material until I was lucky enough to discover a fascinating heart-shaped box tied with faded ribbon and full of yellowed letters. 

Boy, did that box ever shed light on the dating habits of the counselees!  It was nearly more than I could take.  It did puzzle me, however; why two people who had called each other all those embarrassingly mushy names during their courtship would now require my Father’s intervention to save their marriage.  I finally concluded that their change of heart had occurred simultaneously with the purchase of corrective lenses.  Clearly, the physical attributes by which they had described each other in the letters in no way matched the balding plump couple my father was counseling.  Once they had discovered their error, the shock must have been devastating.

At any rate, although I could read anything to kill time, my favorite genre was romantic swashbuckling adventure fiction.  Show me a shelf full of The Hardy Boys, Sir Walter Scott, or Mark Twain and I was like an alcoholic in a brewery.  When he finally found me, Dad would have to detox me by forcing me outside to ride my bike for an hour.

Of course, as strung out as my imagination was from all that reading, I never even realized I was on a bicycle.  It was a Sopwith Camel, and I was Major William “Snoopy” Barker, hammering away with my Vickers machine gun at the Red Baron as we dogfought to the death, high above Britain.  Or else the bike was a galloping destrier that I, the gallant Ivanhoe, rode with fixed lance down the list toward Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert as I strove to win the favor of fair Lady Rowena.

I experienced a phase during which I was obsessed with medieval adventures.  Pirates were cool, and cowboys were neat, but there was just something about the middle ages that sent shivers up and down my spine.  I guess it was the chivalry of it all—King Arthur and the Round Table, Sir George and the dragon, damsels in distress, knights in shining armor, looming stone castles with ivy-choked turrets where beautiful princesses were held captive…

Whenever I got an afternoon free to play with other kids, somehow we eventually wound up playing knights.  The variety of ordinary household items that can serve as an improvised sword or shield is amazing.  As the last beleaguered combatants would call a truce at the end of a backyard battle, the field of honor was frequently strewn with trash can lids, pointy sticks, hubcaps fitted with drawer-pull handles, yardsticks, pool cues, pipes, roaster lids, tire irons, sofa cushions, fireplace pokers, and an eyeball or two.

Unfortunately, mothers never appreciate the glory of such things.  They always feel compelled to meddle in a boy’s good clean fun.  One day the mother of Sir Rory of Boogerhead happened upon our battlefield before we had a chance to clean it up, sort out the eyeballs and return them to their owners.  She took one look and fled shrieking back across the drawbridge into the castle where she re-emerged shortly with reinforcements.  We rallied our troops and bravely defended our position that day, but, alas, we faced a superior force.  The bleak terms of our surrender dictated that for the rest of our lives we were forbidden to participate in any form of play that involved sword fighting, on pain of flogging and banishment to the dungeon without any supper.

As you can imagine, our ability to slay dragons, rescue fair damsels, and fend off the barbarian hordes that threatened our kingdom became significantly curtailed for a while.  For a week or so, we desultorily attempted to find something to do, but all efforts proved hollow and meaningless.  Our mothers mocked us with sneering suggestions that we play softball, or fly a kite, or play with Legos, or build a model or throw a Frisbee or something, but we steadfastly resisted their efforts to enslave us with such mundane and loathsome tasks.

At length, noble Duke Josh DeDork struck upon a solution to our problem.  “Did we not,” quoth he, “but swear to curtail our feats of armes with edged weapons?”  That was true.  “How now do we then sulk about like whipped curs, sith we be skilled, one and all, in sundry types of weaponrie?”  The guy was a genius!  Why hadn’t we thought of it before? 

Immediately there was a mad rush as knight and footman, squire and knave dove for anything that would not technically qualify as a sword.  Moments later, the delicious sound of battle rose once again above the towers of Camelot.  The pipe that had been a falchion became a mace.  The pool cue that had previously served as a claymore, now smote mightily as a quarterstaff.  The poker broadsword was a war hammer.  The tire-iron which in days of yore had cloven helm and shield as a barbarian scramasax, now struck fear into the hearts of its enemies when wielded as a spiked cudgel.

Some poet should write an epic about that battle.  More blood was spilled, “time-out-no-faired”, and spilled again, than soaked the fields of Agincourt, Crecy, Tours, Towton, Hastings, and Bannockburn combined.  Then disaster struck.  Above the shouts of battle lust and the pitiful moans of the wounded, came a horrible roar from our flank.  Both armies turned as one man to see the massed Mother infantry nearly upon us at full charge.  Overcome with terror at the spectacle, I am ashamed to admit that we cast down our weapons and fled the onslaught.

Ruthlessly, the Mother horde hunted us down and drug us from our hiding places, callously ignoring our plaintive wails.  Our calls for quarter fell on deaf ears.  The retribution they meted upon us was an awful thing to see, but more awful yet to experience.  For what seemed like years afterwards, I remained a forgotten, nameless prisoner, wasting away in the Bastille of my room.

When finally liberated, I crept out of my cell, a broken and emaciated husk of a kid.  I eventually tracked down a few other survivors of the massacre.  They, like I, were but shades of their former selves.  The spirit had gone out of them, and I could not persuade them to reconstruct our former exploits. 

There was a short-lived period, however, when I thought we might be getting back on track.  You see, although we could no longer participate in any sort of melee combat, I was able to create a mild interest among my former comrades in the development of siege weaponry.  I was even able to negotiate a truce from the Mother Alliance allowing us to explore the concept purely for “research purposes” for an alleged science project, after swearing that we would not even think of using them on each other. 

The catapult proved interesting.  When we used it to hurl the neighbor’s cat into the pond, for a moment, I thought I saw the old spark return to my comrades’ eyes.  However, we could never catch the cat again, and we only had so many rotten pumpkins in our garden.  Once they were used up the novelty faded.

Then there was the trebuchet.  It turned out to be a lot more work then we had anticipated, and the first time we tried to use it, we forgot to move Sir Jimmy the Freckles’ Dad’s new toolbox out of the way before the counterweight slammed down and crunched it.  That was the end of Sir Jimmy’s participation, and nobody else’s dad would let them use their tools.

In a last desperate gambit, I attempted to build a replica of Archimedes’ Claw.  It took a great deal of persuading to convince my friends to help me.  Enthusiastically, I regaled them with a riveting historical description of the giant crane swiveling over the walls of Syracuse to let down a grappling hook which snagged the ships of the attacking Roman fleet, capsizing them, legions and all.  Their imagination stirred at last, they assisted me.  It might have been the beginning of the long trip back to glory and honor if Sir Rory hadn’t blown it. 

As I became distracted with some calculations, he let down the grappling hook behind the Marquis de Jerry’s little brother Petey.  Then it was that Sir Rory of Boogerhead had the wisdom and foresight to raise it suddenly.  The grappling hook caught on the back of Petey’s britches, and hoisted him in the air.  It was at just that moment that the Marquis’ mother emerged from the castle to see her baby squalling like a butchered hog as he dangled eight feet in the air by a massive wedgie. 

I’m fortunate that I enjoyed reading.  It was the only thing that kept me sane in the Bastille for the next twenty-odd years or so.  I tried to build a battering ram to break out, but I couldn’t find anything with which to disassemble my bed frame.  By the time I emerged, my quests of knight errantry had receded to become vague memories shrouded in the merciful mist of history.  I didn’t mind, though.  I had developed a new interest in improvised explosives and Viet Cong man traps.

Vehicular Homicide

It gnaws at me the way a mouth full of canker sores feels when you’re eating a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips.  With each breath, I inhale the poisonous memories of treachery and betrayal.  The one I have taken in and cared for as my own has absorbed my love and given nothing but pain in return.  I dream of leaving her, but I cannot.  I am trapped.   Moonbeam is the only vehicle I have.

My suburban, Panzer, died suddenly in his sleep a couple of months ago.  I suspect that Moonbeam killed him in some way.  Why she would do that I can only guess.  I don’t see how it could have been jealousy, as much as she seems to resent belonging to me.  I suppose it was simply another way to hurt me, like she delights to do any chance she gets.  She wanted to bring me under her power—to reduce me to a position where I was dependent on her so that she could gloat in my desperation when she refused to work at the moment of my greatest need.

I hope you don’t think I’m crazy for naming my car, but once I discovered that cars are people too, we have named every car that joins our family.  It all started with Herbie, a 1970 Dodge Omni who was, of course, named after the movie star. Even though our Herbie wasn’t a VW bug with a cool racing stripe, he had a distinct personality.

Herbie had a sense of humor.  He would wait until my wife got in and had made it down the road a piece, and then the noise would begin.  It might be a whine, a clank, a whistle, a rattle, or the “1812 Overture”.  Whatever it was, it would scare my wife to death.  She would make a U-turn, and to hear her tell it, barely make it home.  Apparently, Herbie would impersonate one of those little clown cars with the square tires and the comical sound effects all the way to the driveway. 

Herbie knew when I was listening, though.  As soon as he hit the end of the driveway, he would drop the act and start purring like a kitten. This nearly drove my dear wife to tears.  She would climb out, all hot and bothered and beg me to do something before the little fella blew himself up.  Of course, I had no clue what she was talking about, so I would, according to my wife, look at her funny.

“I’m serious!” she would nearly sob.  “I could hardly keep the thing on the road.  It was all I could do to keep a hold of the steering wheel, the vibration was so bad.  And the sound was deafening—like somebody knocking over a steel cabinet full of dinner plates and accordions onto a concrete floor.  And the lights!  Every light on the dash started to flash “Mayday” in Morse code.  Please, George, I’m not driving it another inch until you fix it.”

I’d walk out to find Herbie purring as natural and nonchalant as if he were in the dealer showroom.  My wife wouldn’t be satisfied until I had changed the oil, tightened the belts, changed the spark plugs, cleaned the battery terminals, vacuumed the carpet, and washed and waxed it.  In retrospect I now see that Herbie just wanted the attention. 

For the longest time I thought my wife was hallucinating.  It didn’t help her credibility when she came home one day with a triumphant look on her face.

“Herbie was really acting up today.”

“Yeah, right!”

“I’ve got proof.”


“Yep, I was driving down the street, and I heard this huge clattering bang.  It was so loud that I knew something had broken.  I stopped and got out, and sure enough, there lying in the road was a big part that had fallen off of Herbie.  It was really heavy, but I picked it up and opened the hatchback and put it in.”

“A big, heavy part fell off?  Was it a muffler?”

“I don’t know, come look at it.” 

Look at it I did, but I wish I hadn’t.  I made her take the part back and put it in the street exactly where she found it.  I think they arrest people for stealing manhole covers.

From that point on I wouldn’t believe her stories until the day she convinced me to try something.  I felt really stupid at first, putting on an act for a car, but women can be really persuasive sometimes.  We both walked out on the front porch where Herbie could see us.  My wife had her purse in one hand and Herbie’s keys in the other. 

“Say, George,” She sang out loudly, making sure to enunciate and project for the benefit of our audience, “I need some things at the store.  I think I’ll make a quick run to town.  Do you want to come along?”

“Oh, no thank you!”  I called, feeling the hot embarrassment creep up my neck, “I am feeling quite tired now.  I believe I will take a nap while you’re gone.”

We kissed, then she climbed in Herbie and started the engine.  I waved goodbye, and made a vast show of stretching and yawning.  Then as my wife shifted into reverse, I turned and sauntered back inside.  As soon as I was out of view of Herbie, I grabbed my toolbox which I had pre-positioned, and raced out the back door.  I ducked through the back yard and sprinted to the concealed vantage point of a thick tangle of brush beside the road.

No sooner had I gotten into position when I saw Herbie pull out of our driveway.  Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as his tires hit the pavement, he began to lurch and hop and squeal like a stuck pig!  I could hardly believe my eyes.  When he drew abreast of me I leaped from the bushes brandishing a wrench.

You never saw a more surprised look on a car’s face.  His headlights opened as wide as basketballs, and he braked so hard, I thought he was going to bury his front bumper in the road.  From that time on I advised Gaylene to carry a wrench with her and show it to him whenever he tried anything. 

Not a sparkplug wrench, or an oil-pan wrench, mind you, but a great big honkin’ wrench like you would use to dismantle the transaxle, or jerk out the head gasket or something.  It seemed to work.   Herbie must have gotten the hint, because after that he settled down and became a sensible, dependable mode of transportation until the arthritis in his suspension system got so bad that we had to put him down. 

We’ve had a few colorful characters since then.  There was Oscar the K-car who liked to spit his CV joint bearings into the snow at 40 below at least 4 or 5 times a winter. There was Clifford the Nissan King Cab who hated wearing windows.  He would take any opportunity he could to find something to knock them against.  I think they made him hot and itchy.  Oh, yeah.  I mustn’t forget to mention Sylvester.  We eventually modified his name to Slyvester Stallin’.  Perhaps you can guess why he got that name.

There have been others, but I don’t think any have been as deviously malicious as Moonbeam, my current rig. You would think a blue Mercury Villager mini-van would have a sweet disposition, wouldn’t you?  Nothing doing!  Moonbeam thinks it’s funny to lock her doors when the keys are inside, but when I’m in Fairbanks and I have a load of expensive stuff, do you think she’ll lock for me?  Noooooo, of course not.

I push the electronic lock button, and she clicks it off again.  I lock again, she unlocks.  Lock. Unlock. Lock! Unlock! Click, click, click, click!  I wind up walking around and manually locking each door, and even then, half the time as soon as I get finished locking the last door—Click!  You guessed it.  She pops them all unlocked.

By sheer determination, I usually stick it out until I win.  The doors finally stay locked.  I peer at them suspiciously for several moments until I’m sure the battle is over, then turn to walk away.  “Honk!”  She just has to get in the last word.

Where the battle really rages, though is in the arena of winter starting.  Moonbeam refuses to run in the cold.  I’ve tried to winterize her, but as soon as she saw that block heater coming, she squinched up so tight there wasn’t enough clearance to install it.  So I bought a circulating heater, but I swear that she reconfigured her hoses to make it impossible to install that either. 

The other day it was a bit nippy.  40 below or so.  My wife took Moonbeam to town, squawking and protesting the whole way.  Moonbeam did some protesting too.  By the time she returned, Moonbeam seemed to have become resigned to the fact that we wanted to ride her that day.  My wife parked her.  Three hours later I decided I had better go start her and let her run a spell so that I could get to work the next day.  Wouldn’t you know it!  Moonbeam had gone on strike.  She simply refused to start.

I drained her oil, brought it in, heated it on the woodstove, and poured it back down her throat.  You would have thought she would have appreciated that.  Nope!  I covered her with a blanket and tucked an electric heater under her chin.  Nada.  I even went so far as to lay on the ground and caress her belly with a heat gun until my fingers froze solid and shattered into little shards inside my mittens.  She couldn’t have cared less.

My love was spurned, and my generosity was crushed under her tires like so much road kill.  If I didn’t need her so badly, I would just drive her into a gravel pit somewhere, drop a grenade into her gas tank and walk away.  But she has me where she wants me. I need her, and she knows it. As much as it pained me to do it, I drug out the kerosene space heater and blasted her down with hot air until she relented.

Perhaps I shouldn’t complain.  I remember the days in Moose Hole when I had to coax Herbie to start.  Every night I would disconnect the battery and carry it in by the wood stove, along with the generator.  In the morning, I’d get up two hours early, haul the generator outside, plug in Herbie, and let his circulating heater work. 

Then I’d slide a piece of stove pipe up under his oil pan and burn a weedburner in the other end until the oil on the bottom of the oil pan caught fire.  That would be my signal to douse the flames with snow, then race inside, grab the battery, hook it up before the oil reverted back to jello, and start him up.

That was a serious pain in the neck, but at least Herbie had a sense of humor about it.  You can’t really stay mad at a car when he’s grinning at you and cracking jokes the whole time.  Moonbeam, on the other hand, is pure evil.  She thinks she’s getting away with it now, but her day of reckoning will come. 

Someday I’m going to come home with a friendly vehicle.  A big vehicle.  Something with monster tires.  I’ll name him Abrams and I’ll tell him about Panzer.  He’ll make Moonbeam his personal parking lot.  Just wait and see.


The winter Olympics are commandeering a lot of news time lately.  It’s a great thing, competition and all.  Training hard, facing formidable odds, bringing home the gold for your country, abusing steroids—these are epic deeds and certainly newsworthy.  I don’t begrudge those spandex-wearing, ridiculously beautiful people their well-earned publicity.  I just feel a slight twinge of jealousy that the Moose Hole Olympics never got equal recognition back when I was a kid.

In retrospect, I suppose we wouldn’t have liked it if we had gotten it.  We wanted to maintain a low profile, we were simply innovating ways to entertain ourselves on those long winters in bush Alaska.  We may not have had teams of crack international reporters, poking several million dollars worth of electronic equipment in our faces at every move, but that didn’t stop us from pouring our very souls into astounding demonstrations of athletic prowess.

Just about anyone can strap a pair of glorified Popsicle sticks on his feet and jump off a mountain.  As long as a slippery inclined surface, gravity, and a human being converge at the same point in the space-time continuum, the person is going to wind up at the bottom of the slippery inclined surface.  It’s a law of nature.  However if you rename it “skiing” and invite other Popsicle stick owners from around the world to fall down a mountain with you, suddenly we find footage of the event being beamed around the world on prime-time television.  The participant who happens to arrive at the bottom soonest and with the most panache, gets a big gold nickel on a strap and never has to work again.  It’s a complete racket!

A much more challenging winter downhill sport is “hooding”.  If sports reporters were actually interested in recording a contest that showcases the heart-pounding adrenaline rush of fierce competition, they would have been all over Ptarmigan Knob when I was a kid.  There they would have seen it all—the indomitablility of the human spirit, dreams and aspirations transformed into triumph or tragedy by a few moments of ruthless fate and breathless skill.

Yet, in spite of those glorious exploits on Ptarmigan Knob, the term “hooding” is a micro colloquialism limited to but a handful of living humans.  Specifically, it is reserved to the vocabularies of the following:  Me; my brother, Justin; Larry Fred; the twins, Jack and Jill Smorkstini; Donna Sam; Anika Van der Veen; and “Walrus” Fahnestock.

Only we eight who smirked at death on Ptarmigan Knob 25 years ago can understand the camaraderie forged there.  For the rest of you, a little background would be helpful.  Ptarmigan Knob was the name of the tailbone of a granite spine that snaked for 15 miles from Moose Hole to the caribou birthing fields atop the windswept tundra of McCollum Plateau.  Alascom had built a microwave tower atop Ptarmigan Knob, affording Moose Holians the immense recreational advantage of an access road.

The road turned off of the highway on the floor of the Tanana River Valley at Moose Hole Lake.  From there it snaked its way through alder thickets, black spruce stands and poplar groves until it had gained a thousand feet of elevation in three miles of hairpin switchbacks.  There at the summit the road ended at a chain link fence that enclosed “The Tower”. 

You weren’t supposed to go inside the fence and mess around with The Tower.  There were imposing looking signs to that effect–at least they had been imposing prior to a decade of target practice.  Besides, The Tower was taller than it looked.  About half way up, you’d get a sudden rush of vertigo when you looked down, that nearly washed you off of the narrow steel ladder.  It was a really weird feeling…er…so I’ve been told.  But the access road provided plenty of leisure activity on its own.  ATVing, snow machining, hunting, sledding—there were lots of things to do on the Ptarmigan Knob tower access road.

However, the most memorable times of my brash youth involved activities that could only be reached by little-known trails branching off of the access road.  For instance, if you parked at The Tower fence and skirted it to the right, you would drop down off of the gravel pad into a nice little birch wood.  There was barely a trail there, but if you knew where you were going, you could walk southwest for about five minutes to a place where the trees suddenly stopped growing.

A few feet from the tree line, a massive fist of gnarled rock marked the border between a wooded ridge and the end of the Earth.  It wasn’t the end of the Earth actually, just the Southeast Face of Ptarmigan Knob.  Although it wasn’t technically a vertical drop, for the first hundred yards it might as well have been. 

We called that first hundred yards “The Bare Spot”.  Nothing grew on it except a couple of scraggly willows.  Snow didn’t even accumulate there.  It either slid to the bottom or blew away, but enough snow and ice would remain to disguise the razor-sharp warts of rock that punctuated The Bare Spot, like magnets on a wall of frozen grease.

At the bottom of The Bare Spot, where the slope abruptly flattened out to a more respectable angle, a dense wall of trees sprang up. They were big trees, stout and unyielding, with their feet planted solidly in a tangled concertina of alder and rose bushes.  It was here that the sport of hooding was practiced.

Donna Sam would be the one to give the annual signal that it was time for the opening of the Moose Hole Winter Hooding Olympics.  She lived in a cabin at the base of Ptarmigan Knob, so she was able to monitor the condition of the slope.  As soon as enough of a glaze had developed on The Bare Spot she passed the word. 

We didn’t waste much time on opening ceremonies, but it was traditional to light a bonfire on top of the gnarled rock fist before we got started.  When there was enough light to see between the bonfire and the blurred gray glow that serves as an Alaskan winter morning daybreak, the Smorkstini twins and Walrus would fade back into the brush to retrieve the hoods from where they were stashed under a pile of spruce boughs.

There were two hoods.  One came off of a ‘53 Chevy, while the genealogy of the other one was less certain.  Any logos, emblems or distinctive contours had long ago been bounced, scraped or dented away, so that it was impossible to make a positive identification.  Justin and Larry almost came to blows once arguing about it.  My brother swore that the second hood was from a ’62 Ford stepside pickup, while Larry claimed he knew the exact ’57 Cadillac Coup de Ville that it used to belong to.

Just as Justin was about to bash Larry in the head with a burning spruce stick from the bonfire, Anika stepped between them and suggested that if they were real hooders, they would settle this the honorable way.  With a malevolent grunt, Larry grabbed the hood in question and drug it to the nearest knuckle of the rock fist, while Justin poised himself on another with the Chevy hood.  They teetered there for a moment, hoods held back by Jack and Walrus while Jill counted down.

Upon Jill’s shout of “go”, Jack and Walrus released their grip.  The competitors leaned forward and shot out of sight.  The rest of us rushed to the edge and peered over to witness the results.  Larry was still airborne, his scream of terrified delight drifting back to us on the crisp breeze.  Justin, however had caught one of the hidden rock warts with the edge of his hood, and was now spinning madly down the slope like a drunken top. 

It turned out to be a draw, because although Larry reached at the bottom first, the hood arrived on top of him rather than the other way around.  Justin was only a split second behind, his Chevy hood impacting a granddaddy cottonwood tree with a “clang” that pitched him face first into an enormous thicket of rose bushes.  He was so dizzy from spinning that he wallowed around in them for several minutes before his equilibrium returned sufficiently for him to extricate himself.

That was one of the more unremarkable one-on-one hood races.  Sometimes kids got hurt.  Not all hooding events pitted single riders against each other, however.  More frequently, hooding challenges pitted team against team.  I wasn’t terribly fond of the team races because I inevitably got paired up with Walrus Fahnestock.  It would be me and Walrus on one hood, and everybody else on the other one. 

You see, when Walrus was on a hood, there was only room for one other person, and the girls and I were the only ones small enough to qualify.  The girls absolutely refused to ride with him because he didn’t have running water at his house, and by the smell of things, no soap either.  After I got used to his smell, I found out that teaming up with him was a really good experience half of the time, and a really bad experience the other half.  It all depended on whether I landed on him, or he landed on me at the termination of our descent.

We never did tell our parents about our hooding forays.  We sort of had an instinctive premonition that they wouldn’t understand.  Even when one of us got hurt, we never divulged the actual cause of our injuries.  The time Donna broke her leg hooding, we all said that Larry had run over her with a snow machine.  When Jack and Jill both fractured their skulls in a collision with a rock, we claimed that they had been helping Walrus haul water up a hill, and that Jack fell down and broke his crown, and Jill came tumbling after.

I don’t think I’d have the nerve to go hooding again at my age, but last summer I hiked to The Bald Spot just for old time’s sake.  The Chevy hood is still there, rusted and battered, and home to a family of weasels.  I stood on the fist and gazed downward.  A lot of brush has grown up to shrink The Bald Spot, but not much else has changed in 25 years.   I can still see the rock where Anika lost her finger, and the big scar is still visible on the bark of the tree where “The Great Pileup” occurred that destroyed the controversial hood and the bridge of Larry’s nose.

Yep, for all the glamor and glitter, I haven’t seen anything at the Winter Olympics that can come close to the adventure and competition that the Magnificent Eight experienced on Ptarmigan Knob.  I’ve thought about suggesting that they add hooding to the roster of events at the official games, but I don’t think it would be the same.  By the time they got finished establishing safety protocols for the sport, there would be helmets and seat belts and spandex leotards.  I don’t even want to think about seeing Walrus in spandex leotards.

Blood Brothers

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The Alaska State Birds seem to be extra friendly around my house this year.  Cute little fellows, aren’t they—and so musical too?  At least once a day I can’t resist being a captive audience to one of their concerts.  It fascinates me how tame they are.  You’d think that as wild creatures, they’d be shy of people, but they seem to crave human companionship. 

As soon as I step outside, a whole choir of them gathers to greet me with a falsetto serenade like a million little flying Vienna Choir Boys with wedgies.  Some of them hover around my head, while others perch on my upper body.  I haven’t quite figured out which sections of my anatomy are the soprano, tenor, alto and bass sections, but they evidently have it well choreographed.  It’s enough to give a guy goose pimples.

The mosquito band considers me to be one of their favorite gigs.  Most likely it’s because I always clap vigorously, frequently and loudly during their performance and provide the performers with unlimited drinks on me.  We have a cozy symbiotic relationship.

Not everyone recognizes the valuable niche mosquitoes fill in our delicate ecosystem.  To be frank, I’ve heard some pretty derogatory comments about them–right to their face, too.  These much maligned insects, however, are crucial to preserving the Alaska we all know and love.  They weed out the riff raff.  I’ve witnessed their amazing work with my own eyes. 

A few years back when I was a petroleum transfer engineer for my Dad at Moose Hole Lodge, a Lincoln Continental with Illinois plates purred up to the gas pumps.  The tinted driver’s side window slid down with an electronic whir, and a manicured hand emerged to snap its 24 karat gold ringed fingers.

“Fill it up with unleaded supreme, check the fluids, clean my windows and scrub my whitewalls, boy.  Hurry, I don’t have all day!”

My brow crinkled in confusion.  I scratched myself thoughtfully and spat at a bug crawling on his fender.  “We only got one kind of gas, we’re fresh out of motor oil, and what’s a whitewall?”

The driver vocalized something that sounded like a hog choking on a corncob, and little smoke rings shot out of his ears.  After a period of time, his noises grew intelligible: “That’s what’s wrong with this godforsaken place.  You people are just a bunch of hicks who haven’t figured out that it’s the twentieth century!  You ought to be thankful that there are entrepreneurs like me who are willing to invest some capital in this giant wasteland you call a state.”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but it certainly did seem important to him.  “That’s great, mister, so you’re investing in our state, are you?  I sure do wanna thank you for that.  What line are you in?  Gold mines, tourism, fishing fleet, or logging?”

 He darted a glance at me like I had just dropped his best hunting rifle in the Tanana River.  “No,” he sneered, “Real estate.  Night clubs and shopping malls, specifically.  Not that you would know what those are.  I haven’t seen either one for the last 2000 ghastly miles!   Now do you think you could manage to get some of that gas in my tank? I have an appointment with a contractor in Fairbanks who recognizes the beauty of the word ‘smog’.”

I know the customer is supposed to be always right, but this guy was starting to rub me the wrong way.  I briefly considered pouring a cup of sugar in his gas tank or accidentally dropping a roofing nail under each of his tires, but I restrained myself.  I pumped his gas for him and even managed to smile politely as he handed me his credit card. 

Well, I guess Heaven was paying attention to my self control and decided to reward me for it.  The next words out of the annoying customer’s mouth were one of the most blessed gifts I have ever received.

“Do you have a public restroom around here?”

As a matter of fact we did.  We were pretty proud of it too.  Dad had installed it about five years previously, and the locals were still marveling about it each morning over their traditional cup of 35 cent coffee and one of Mom’s cinnamon rolls.  Prior to that, our customers had been obliged to answer nature’s call in the honey shack out back.

It was way out back, actually—about a hundred and fifty yards across the muskeg.  To get there, customers used to have to follow a narrow moose trail chiseled out of the sphagnum moss.  Along the way, black spruce branches reached out to snag their hair and wild rose bushes clutched at their sleeves.  The most memorable part of the experience, though, was the mosquitoes.

There must have been millions of the little darlings living and breeding in the tangled black spruce thickets on each side of the outhouse path.  At each step, a squadron of them would squirt out of the moss, rise up and call our customers blessed.  Our customers called them something in return, but it wasn’t blessed.  By the time they dove through the narrow door with the crescent moon-shaped cutout in it, the customers usually had looked and sounded like a churning, low lying fast-moving thundercloud.

But for five years now, the old outhouse had sagged lonely and abandoned in the mosquito thicket.  Nobody had ventured down the trail since we had put in the real restrooms.  By my calculations, the mosquito population should be pushing the multiple quadzillion mark.  They probably had the entire works of Mozart, Pink Floyd, and Michael Jackson mastered and were pining for an appreciative audience. 

Coincidentally, the annoying customer who wanted to turn Alaska into a concrete jungle obviously needed to learn to appreciate the more rustic charms of our state.  I pointed him down the outhouse trail.  As I watched him go, I pulled a bottle of Muskol out of my pocket and crossed myself with it.  Old habits die hard.

Shortly after the ancient alders at the mouth of the trail swallowed him up I began to hear his voice.  He was using some colorful terminology and seemed to be addressing the local fauna in that characteristically earnest way of his.  I expected him to re-emerge immediately with great alacrity, but he evidently wasn’t joking when he said he needed to go.

After a good fifteen minutes I saw a tiny creature covered with dense fur stumble into the open from the direction of the honey shack.  It was making faint squeaking noises and feebly waving some sort of upper appendage.  Then it fell forward and lay still.  I thought maybe it was a muskrat.  As I watched, it shrunk to about the size of a shrew and then stopped twitching. 

Curiously, I walked over and poked it with a stick.  As I did so, its fur began to buzz, separated from its body and rose drunkenly into the air.  Only then did I realize that the fur was, in fact, a dense layer of blood-gorged mosquitoes, and the little creature was what used to be the city slicker from Illinois.  He didn’t look so good.  He kind of reminded me of a prune. 

I scooped him up on a spatula and called the Medical Life Flight chopper people.  I hear they were able to revive him with a massive blood transfusion, but the experience had psychologically shattered him.  He never returned to Alaska.  He never even sent anybody for his Lincoln.  We parked it behind the Lodge for a while and eventually wound up trading it to a guy for a pair of four-wheelers, a river boat, and a dozen quarts of rose hip jam.

Yes, indeed; those misunderstood bugs are invaluable defenders of our way of life here in the last frontier.  They test the mettle of a man like nothing else can.  I’ve seen brawny, hard-fisted, steely-eyed construction workers reduced to a blubbering lunatic by a medium sized swarm of Alaskan mosquitoes.  You can hardly pry them out of the fetal position to get their straitjacket on them.

You can always tell how long somebody has lived here by the way they react when the choir arrives.  Cheechakos are the sprinting people in shorts and tank tops with heads jerking in wild-eyed panic and arms flailing like a windmill.  They have the skin complexion of a raspberry, and frequently knock themselves out cold, bashing at a second soprano that happens to land on their forehead.

Those who survive the first wave, stagger out to buy a 55 gallon drum of Off.  They keep a can in each hand and continuously hose themselves down with it while maintaining a running monologue of sailor talk.  They buy a mosquito magnet for their yard and operate it nonstop until a snowdrift buries it.  That is the “inexperienced” stage and can last for up to two years.

Somewhere around that time frame, a sourdough takes pity on them and whispers the term “DEET” in their ear.  At first the inexperienced Alaskan will cite reams of environmental toxicology studies, but their resolve eventually crumbles and they try a few drops of 100% DEET.  Suddenly, a whole new world opens up to them!  For the first time they have discovered a repellant that the mosquitoes don’t regard as a condiment.  For the next couple of dozen years they don’t go anywhere without a little bottle of Muskol or Ben’s tucked into their pocket or purse.  They have officially graduated to “sourdough” status.

Eventually, however, they wind up spilling a bottle of DEET in their purse or tackle box.  Upon discovering that the stuff has eaten their fishing line or turned their lipstick into lumpy pudding, they stop using repellants altogether.  This is the final stage and the one which distinguishes a sourdough from a true Alaskan “institution”. 

An institution chooses to ignore the bites and enjoy the music.  He finds that if he doesn’t wave his arms, he doesn’t attract as much insectoid attention.  When bitten, he lets them suck, because to kill them before they are done dining will leave their anticoagulant remaining in the bite and lead to intense itching episodes.  The only concession an institution makes to thwart the little singers is to tuck a leafy branch in his hatband.  Since the critters tend to hover around the highest point, they circle the branch instead of his face.

Institutions take great glee in watching a cheechako’s expressions of incredulity upon seeing them serenely sit amid a swirling maelstrom of flying pests.  Institutions enjoy slightly embellishing a few anecdotes to enhance the amazement.

“What, these puny little fellers?  Why, they ain’t so big.  You shoulda seen the ones we had back when I was a kid.  We had to carry a chainsaw in a belt scabbard as self-defense against mosquito maulings.  Matter of fact, if you chopped their legs and suckers up into firewood lengths, one mosquito can heat your cabin for a week.  And their wings?  Why a couple of tanned mosquito wings stitched together will make you the warmest sleeping bag you ever seen!”

I admire those institutions.  Someday I aspire to be one.  In the meantime I secretly pack a bottle of Muskol, and when no one’s looking I have been known to sprint around, bouncing off of trees, jerking my head in wild-eyed panic and flailing my arms like a windmill.  I guess I’ve never been able to expunge the memory of that real estate developer from Illinois.  I have a secret phobia of waking up in a hospital bed, reduced to a human prune.

Bachelor Pad

It is with a solemn heart that I must report some troubling news.  I have been abandoned!  My wife left me!  She took our son, walked out the door, got on an airplane and went home to Mommy.

She warned me that this was coming, but I didn’t think she’d have the gall to go through with it, because it’s been years since she was away from me longer than a day and a half.  It wasn’t until she actually started packing, that it became evident that she wasn’t joking.  As that realization sunk in, a surge of emotions overwhelmed me. 

Dropping my veneer of machismo I plunged into the most persuasive speech of my life.  I begged.  I cajoled. I flirted.  I blustered. I blubbered.  I vowed everything from a foot massage, to a candlelit champagne dinner for two at A Belle Époque near the Champs-Elysées.  I even took off my shirt and did my Arnold Schwarzenegger pose for her.  Alas, cruel womanhood!  She spurned me like a stale Dorito.  Callously she turned away, her chin set—her eyes cold—her arms crossed.

“Absolutely not!”  she snapped,  “You can’t get rid of me that easy.  I’m staying for exactly two weeks, and then I’m coming home.  Nothing you can say is going to persuade me to extend my visit, and that’s final. You won’t know what to do with yourself as it is, and I know the house will be a pigsty when I get back.”

I could see that she would be really disappointed if I spoiled her plans, so I graciously accepted her request.  “Fine!  If two stupid weeks is all the chill time you’re going to let me have, then I guess this conversation is over.”  I stomped to the door and let it slam eloquently behind me.  Instantly, I spun around to re-enter.  Boy was it cold outside!  I had forgotten that I was impersonating Arnold Swarzenegger.

The doorknob resisted my efforts to turn it.  It seemed locked.  Then my wife’s face appeared in the window, red and bobbing with laughter.  I hammered on the window, kicked the door and wept, bellowing for her to let me in, until a fine white fur of hoarfrost began to creep over my chiseled concave pecs and the sculpted mound of my abs.  Then the door gave way, and I fell inside.  Through the pulsating red fog that blurred my vision I sensed wife leaning over me.  Adopting a gravelly Austrian accent, she intoned, “I’ll be bahk!”

End of discussion.  I just wish she had been a little more reasonable.  I could have used the extra chill time.  It isn’t that I don’t love my wife.  It’s just that…well, you know how women can be sometimes.  “George, you stink.  Go take a shower.”  “George, can you explain to me why you would throw your dirty socks on the floor three feet from the clothes hamper?”  “George, If you’re going to dump the dregs of your cereal bowl in the kitchen sink, could you at least rinse it down the drain before it turns into stucco?”  “George, this.”  “George, that.”  “George, blah blah blah!”

I just get a little tired of it, that’s all.  When I was single, it didn’t bother me the tiniest bit to open my dresser draw and not find my underwear folded up into a row of compact little cubes the size of a pack of cards.  As a matter of fact, I don’t ever recall opening a dresser drawer at all when I was single.  They were already open.  What’s the point of shutting something that you’ll just have to open again when you need some clean underwear next month?  I didn’t feel the obsession to wipe my whisker trimmings off of the bathroom mirror, as long as I could see into it. I never felt obligated to rupture my larynx trying to hold in a belch that needed to come out.  Life was simple and carefree.  Now, I am clean and neat and smell pretty, but I’ve got ulcers and a tic in my eyelid, and white hairs in my beard. 

When I realized my wife was absconding to Kentucky with my son, leaving me alone, I began to fantasize about the ramifications.  It was going to be like my bachelor days!  It seemed that I could almost smell the nostalgic tang of an organic restroom where the pristine air hung thick with a primal musk, or see the patina of a tabletop burnished to a glossy sheen by the patient application of pepperoni oil from a hundred pizzas.  I anticipated the carefree giddiness of all night video games and corny vintage sci fi flicks.  I craved the pure sensual satisfaction of feeling potato chips being kneaded into the carpet beneath my bare toes.

I could feel the blanket of oppression lift as soon as my wife walked out the door!  I immediately put on a muscle shirt and grungy pair of sweat pants and retired to the couch, just for the principle of the thing.  I had barely gotten propped up in a nice comfy nest of pillows when Vazhneya, my big guard dog cavorted to the door, jabbed her nose against it significantly, then swung her head around to make unmistakable eye contact.

“Vazh wants to go outside.”  I sang out instinctively, before I realized that I had neither son nor wife to respond to the call.  Grumbling, I climbed out of my nest, slipped my feet into a pair of slippers and threw on a coat.  “Come on, you stupid mutt!” I snarled as I reached for the leash.  Vazh snarled back, so in a more subdued tone I inquired after her health and expressed my honor and delight at being selected to accompany her on an outing.

You see, Vazneya isn’t a mutt actually.  She is Russian royalty.  Her registered name is “Thunderhawk’s Lupine Empress”, and her common name means, roughly, “Boss”.  When we acquired her as an adorable little fuzz ball, it seemed exotic to be the owner of a descendent of the mighty bloodline who once guarded the Kremlin.  The Caucasian Owcharka is a rare breed highly prized for their fierce family loyalty and intuitive guard instincts. 

We had eagerly signed the contract to take possession of her, even though we couldn’t actually read it ourselves, since it was in Cyrillic. However, the owner of the kennel was a Bulgarian who insisted on reciting it to us in the original tongue.  According to his translation, if we ever allowed the animal to be unconfined or off leash, a biochip implanted between her shoulder blades would activate a homing beacon.  Within 25 seconds a black helicopter would appear above her location, and a crack Spetznaz team, armed with Krinkovs would fast rope down.  While half of them would secure the animal for transport, the other half would neutralize the delinquent owners.

Now, at 30 below, with nothing but a pair of sweatpants on my legs and a lunging behemoth attempting to dislocate shoulder of the arm in which I gripped the leash, the exotic glamour was but a faded memory.   As soon as I stepped out onto the porch, Vazhneya ecstatically did a triple pass around my legs and then radar locked onto an intruder at the end of the driveway.  Like a MiG 29 she roared on a vector toward it.  The three loops of leash cinched like a noose at my ankles and my feet lifted off, enabling my posterior to collect an assortment of splinters from the rough cut lumber of the porch floor.  Helplessly, I whipped in her jet stream until she throttled back and touched down at her destination.

The alarmed destination bobbed its head, spread its white wings and fluttered to safety in the lower branches of a black spruce.  As I spat the snow out of my mouth, I was disconcerted to find that as soon as my momentum slowed, I automatically popped upright as if I were spring loaded.  It turned out that my sweat pants were packed with snow to the point of bursting, making me resemble one of those inflatable punching bags with the sand in the base that pops back up every time you smack it.

Vazhneya was diligently attempting to join her object of her interest on the spruce bough, probably to demonstrate her culinary peccadilloes.  That complicated my efforts to extract the snow from my pants and disentangle my legs from the leash.

“Easy, Vazh!  It’s just a ptarmigan.  How many ptimes have I ptold you pto ptake it easy when you ptrack or ptree a ptarmigan?”

By the time I was able to make it back to the couch, Sheila, the puppy, had become jealous of the attention I was lavishing on Vazhneya.  As I sat down, I found her statement of protest seeping defiantly into my sweat pants from the sofa cushion.  That was only the beginning.  Now it appears that the puppy has embarked on a Star Trek mission.  She seeks out uncharted corners to boldly go where none have gone before!  I finally filled a bucket with concrete and held her hindquarters in it until it solidified.  That solved that problem.  However, for every problem I solve, three more pop up.  It’s amazing how cocky 14 animals can become when the Alpha female is away. 

The ferret burrows madly and deafeningly through her litter box every night from 10:00pm to 6:30am.  The cat patrols the windowsills and counters, sending nick knacks, swags and glasses cascading to the floor.  The outside dogs split their time between howling an interminable canine ballad in three-part harmony, and worrying at their kennel fencing until they create a hole through which they wriggle.  Then they bound off to chew gleefully on the goats.  Insulted, the goats respond by leaping over their fence and playing king of the mountain on my new truck.  Evidently, the rules of the game stipulate that players on the ground must butt the door and fenders until the king on the roof falls off.  Then they take his place and the cycle repeats.  This greatly saddens me.

The other day, the horses, inspired by the goats’ great escape, chewed their way through the paddock fence and ingested 500 dollars worth of my neighbor’s hay before I found them.  I spend so much time fixing my critters’ messes that I am getting 750% less leisure time now than when my wife and kid were home.  Thus my solemn heart as reported at the beginning of this article.  I am starting to long for my wife to return so that I can get some chill time. 

Of course, you can bet that the animals will flip into instant angel mode as soon as they see her.  They’ll purr and wag and nicker all cute and wide-eyed and junk, while she talks  in baby talk, kissing and petting and hugging on them.  I’ll never be able to convince her that the state of chaos that stretches from one end of the property to the other is purely the result of a diabolical conspiracy by our domesticated fauna.  I can see her now, hands on hips surveying the squalid debris-choked landscape.  “I knew it, George.  Didn’t I tell you that the house would be a pig-sty when I got back?”  If she only knew!