We spent most of Feb-you-wary (2014) just north of the eek!weightor. This was the furthest south on our planet I have ever been (9 – 10 deg. N) Following is a “kwykkee” sketsch. Trust you, mee, more (and not necessarily … Continue reading
(okay, I don’t have any pixures of a cat in a tree. this’ll hafta do)
It is not every morning when walking through my neighborhood I am approached by a neighbor in a threatening manner, gun in hand.
Granted, it was just before sunrise, and I was acting suspiciously on his property. Actually, it was both Betty and I at the base of a tall cottonwood tree, trying to figure out how to talk our cat into climbing down.
I let Wall-dough outside five days before (Thursday) as I left for work. I figured since it was light out, this minimized the likelihood of nocturnal predator encounters. Though for small domestic animals in our area, the threat of becoming lunch is never miniscule.
this hawk who has taken to hangin’ out atop a tree next to our house is large enough to haul off a small cat …
Waldo would invariably scamper to the house front door when I arrived home later in the day, glad to be let back inside.
Not so on Thursday. I was worried as soon as I stopped the car, and he was not immediately running to the house. I called for him and walked around the property. Darn. “Coyote lunch” was (in my mind) fairly likely. Darn ‘yotes were mostly nocturnal, but I had seen one on my property at 8:30 a.m. a few weeks prior. And it didn’t matter what time of day it was further out in the desert, I would encounter them often enough that it wasn’t unusual.
I walked around at night, head-lamp shining, calling as I patrolled our property. He could be stuck somewhere, and I paused to listen after each calling of “kitty kitty kitty.” A couple times I thought I heard a response toward the north part of the property, but found nothing.
(our liddul kitten …) :(
The initial sharp sadness of loss slowly subsided into the ocean of dull ache I feel towards and about things in general.
Tuesday morning I was bustling, or rather, bumbling around the house through my pre-work chores and rituals. I was aware of the bright flare of Venus above where the sun would rise later, and that the waning moon-crescent had been approaching ever closer the past few days. I went out on the balcony to attempt some photographs.
I was fairly sure I heard a faint “Meaoow, meow, meow … ” down and north of our house. As fast as possible, I pulled on a coat and slippers and went outside to investigate. It could be Walldough, but if not, there was a precedent. Years before I found two small kittens on the canal-road — one was hiding in a tree. The tree-kitty became mine, exclusively, a revered dignified presence in our house for a few years. The other is still my daughter’s cat.
So, it was kind of precognitive, that I might encounter another cat/kitten to fill the void of our recent departure — or instead, possibly we’d find our lost kitty.
I shuffled down the hill and across some patches of ice and snow and the canal to the property on the other side. Yes, I could clearly hear a cat calling … and after a couple minutes located the source up in a big cottonwood tree. Could I talk or cajole the thing down out of its lofty perch?
“The Tree” is the right-most one of the two in the middle
Two people with arms wrapped around the trunk probably wouldn’t have touched the other’s fingers. The trunk shot upright for about 25 feet before the first branches. I could discern the cat up above the branch. The residents of this property resided in two houses about 50 yards away and I thought that perhaps they weren’t home. This was a relieving thought — that I could attempt whatever retrieval without bothering them. Besides, though whoever it was had lived there for years, I had never met them. (I was on friendly terms with the original occupant, who had passed away almost ten years ago).
I saw where a few ‘orchard’ ladders were stored nearby, and positioned one up the trunk. I climbed more than halfway up, hoping that the plaintively-meowing presumably very-hungry-thirsty-cold creature would make some effort to meet me half-way. Not to happen. By this time it was beginning to get light enough so that I could tell that it certainly seemed to be a gray cat, about the right size, to be ours. After a few minutes of “here kitty kitty kitty” balancing on the ladder, I went back to the house. I would tell Betty about this, and if we couldn’t get the cat soon, then she would know where it was as we conjured up plan B. Besides, I really should get to work sometime today.
She accompanied me back down across the ditch to the base of the tree. As we were alternating cajoling (“come down! kitty-kitty-kitty”), hoping that it would come back down, as, after all, it had (presumably) gotten up there on it’s own accord, and discussing what other method of retrieval might work, we heard a slam of a door and some shouting from the nearest house.
(this is my little ol’ 0.22. Our angry new acquaintance had a 0.38, or bigger)
A stocky grey-haired bare-chested fellow was striding rapidly our way, his right hand brandishing a big pistol. “What the hell are you doing on my property?!” and though we tried to explain we were trying to retrieve our lost cat from his tree — he single-mindedly proclaimed that “why didn’t you ask permission first” to be there.
A few more sentences and exchanges. Betty takes a dim view of encounters like this and began walking away to go home. I realized I should leave the property, walk around it and come to the front door of his house to “officially” knock on the door and ask permission.
A few minutes later, having detoured around to the driveway and back to the other side of the house from the cat-tree, I knocked on the door. The fellow opened the door, sans-gun (I took that to be a good sign) — and I apologized for bothering him and trespassing. We introduced ourselves, I can now call him “Jim” and strangely enough, he already knew my name. His invalid wife (who I have yet to see or (re)encounter) had worked with me about 20 years before at a prior job! Jim mentioned that when he came back to his house, still fuming, his wife asked if “those people” were from the house up the hill. Somehow she knew I lived there, a former work-mate. Hmmm.
Before I could mention that I would like to continue attempts at cat-retrieval, Jim had come up with a plan. He would fire up his front-end bucket-loader
and I would be in the bucket as he lifted it up, and then I would climb up a ladder from there. I did my darned-est not to have my eyeballs roll out of their sockets … had he ever done this before? And nobody died? Again, picture a front-end bucket-loader, the bucket up as high as it can, with a person climbing a ladder from the bucket. He said that we’d do this “as soon as it warmed up.”
I went back to the house to tell Betty of the latest developments. I also called my boss to inform him I’d be late to work. Things must have warmed up enough within minutes, as I heard Jim’s front-end bucket-loader engine running, and he was positioning it at the base of the tree.
Fortunately there are no pictures of me standing unsteadily in the semi-circular cold steel bucket, trying to position a ladder further up the tree. I looked down and wondered how injured I could easily become. People at OSHA dream about stuff like this. Climbing more than half way up the ladder, I was still about five feet from being able to reach the darned cat. Sometimes it would run further up the tree, and sometimes briefly look as if it was considering starting to climb down.
Not to happen. I’ll spare the details, but after
many minutes of trying, Jim declared that the cat would come down on it’s own, especially if we left the ladder and a long piece of wood balanced in the bucket; and two young friends of Betty’s who could have climbed up but Jim was scared of insurance issues should something happen; and I finally left for work …
Betty called the local fire department.
There must be something about a pleading woman’s voice on the phone on a slow work day. The captain decided it was time for the department to have “a training exercise” — while emphasizing that she “should tell nobody that we did this.”
She called me just after noon to say that Walldough was safely back home, skinnier and very hungry. It was a little embarrassing to see not one but three F.D. vehicles show up — the paramedics have to periodically attend training exercises — and the deed was done.
“Big Man in The Locker Room” — kinda like BMOC. Actually, this is more like a mid-sized man in the locker room. MsMITLR, then.
If one lives, or, if not exactly “lives”, just abides or tolerates the ravages of aging and gravity and the slings of all the misfortune that time and the environment hurls at you long enough, unexpected stuff can happen.
I never, yes, never, thought (in the proverbial thousand years) that in a sports locker room I would start telling a story, and everyone (yes, everyone) would pay attention and listen.
It only took 50+ years to get to this point.
It helps if you have the stories, and you get up and gesticulate and pace back and forth to physically illustrate your point, and know when to keep it short enough to not lose your audience.
And believe you me, there are stories aplenty, and undoubtedly there is no end in sight. As long as I continue to show up to play.
I was in what we now call “middle school” when I started spending appreciable time in sports or gym-class locker rooms. This experience continued into high school, and for short intervals of time thereafter. I was almost always part of the Mouseketeer Club, or Sheriff Scotty’s posse, you know, the audience, that the Last Comics Standing, or the Big Men In The Locker Room, were pontificating to. And, like almost everyone immersed in the boy’s locker-room sub-culture, I got really proficient at snapping towells.
Again, I’m more like the medium, and not big, man. You know, the sort of person that the real BMITLRs can sometimes sit back and allow to hold court, briefly.
After a three-and-a-half year closure, our local ice arena opened back up a couple months ago. This MMITLR thing will probably be a short-lived phenomenon, and may be at or near its end already. The corps (core?) ((corpse? hopefully, not!)) of my last team is back together, but with less than half of our previous assemblage, fleshed out with new-comers, there usually isn’t enough of an established group familiarity, yet, for a good continual locker-room banter. So, I’ll just step right in and …
A good story (if YOU haven’t heard it more than once, or twice) which I can still tell with enthusiasm is how my son met his girlfriend. I tell it twice.
Sonny boy (Tom) was married, sort of happily or so he imagined and after just one year the wife tells him she doesn’t love him and never had. Of course he was crushed! And after that, he was not exactly trying to find someone else. But he did …
“How did your son meet his new girl-friend?” someone may ask.
“Oh — they were at a social gathering, got into a disagreement, started fighting, he gave her a bloody nose, they’ve been together ever since.” Yes, it might sound like we’ve raised a woman-beating monster. That is very, quite, really far from the truth.
Same story, a bit more descriptive: he was behind the opponent’s net battling for the puck with another player. Someone comes up behind him, starts pushing, jabbing, poking … Tom decides to give whoever behind him he can’t see a message. He punches backward with his right elbow, catching the guy in the chest, who falls back. Two periods later, he is again behind the other goal and trying to get the puck from an opponent. Again, he feels someone come up from behind and poke and jab and then he sees a stick coming around his skate. He thinks: “I thought I taught you a lesson last time.” (He assumes it’s the same person). He lets his elbow fly as hard as he can, and … catches HER in the nose. Tom turns around and sees this tall beautiful blond lying on the ice in a pool of blood. He feels like, you know, really really crummy and not-so-macho. He bends over to grab her hand and help her up.
“Take you out to dinner?”
“All right” she says. They’ve been together ever since. And — she is the better player and has probably more than evened the un-intended beating score. The new girlfriend: it’s like a happy co-worker of mine says — Tom (and, separately, co-worker) is (are) doing so much better this time around!
My awesome hockey ability
In describing my awesome ability I’ll re-hash how a former team summarized it. Towards the end of our Arena’s previous incarnation, we were in the locker room. The team captain pointed out a player in the corner and stated what he was good at, and a couple things he wasn’t quite so good at. He looked at the next player and noted that he was the fastest skater, and quick enough to scoot from the other goal back to ours to help defend. The next player had the most accurate shot. He paused when he got to me.
“Uh, he’s enthusiastic. Tries hard. ” “Team player,” added another. “Goes all out.”
“But … slow reaction time.” “Hardly any hand-eye coordination,” noted the captain. “Just plain slow,” chimed in someone else. A player who’d been sitting quietly concluded: “hardly any real athletic ability whatsoever.”
Aspirations to improve to mediocrity
That was then. Now, I maintain that I aspire to mediocrity — a couple levels of ability UP from where I normally operate. Every once in a while I pull off a somewhat productive shift, and even more rarely, have a 15-minute span of time in the goal where less than a couple of pucks go in.
And … a couple games ago I stopped three (or four? I can’t remember) pucks with my head! A team-mate joked that that was by design. Yeah … right. And the game after, the play seemed to be entrenched at the other end, so I took off the gloves and put the stick on top of the goal so I could get a drink of water. A quick break ensued and I quickly tried to pull the gloves on — and didn’t have time to get the stick before the first shot came my way. Who’d a thunkkit? I stopped two, three shots with my feet and hands. “You do better without that stick” another team-mate quipped.
Marv Daley and the Team Dynamic
After the first year of the initial incarnation of our local ice venue, I was assigned to a team named the Kegerators. A mostly-established team, I was one of “the new kids.” After about a year, and three or so seasons, whatever passes for the team dynamic was pretty well ingrained. I could count on certain people to be invariably friendly. You can banter and talk with these guys and immerse yourself into the team herd mentality. And then there was one of two lawyers on the team, Marvin Daley.
Marv was by far the team #1 anal-orifice. Rude to almost all opponents, cheap talk, egging them on, and being a better player than most didn’t help. (He could have played in the league up from the Novice and held his own. Well, if he could keep his mouth shut.) Sometimes he might ask me a question, or I’d start to talk to him and usually by the second sentence he’d walk away. I could COUNT on this behavior. Part of the team dynamic. If “dynamic” ain’t applicable, well, team … vibe.
In later 2008 I was scheduled to undergo prostate cancer surgery. I would be out for several weeks, and I thought the team captain should know. I figured I should tell someone, in the event anyone counted on me or perhaps there was a game coming up where half the team couldn’t make it. “Brian,” I concluded, “don’t tell anyone.”
After the next game I left the locker room to go home. In the corridor, Marv appreared, stopped me, hand on my chest. I stepped back to the wall. “Are you okay?” he asked, intently peering into my eyes. I had to look down for eye contact, as Marv is a prime example of the Napoleon syndrome. Well, he’s just a few inches shorter than I.
“Shit” I thought. “He knows.”
We talked a bit and as I continued out to the car I felt like my perception of the team-dynamic was altered. Things were a bit … uncertain. Marv thereafter was, if not “nice,” treated me slightly better than he did most the team. He’d listen to me when I answered his questions, and we had actual conversations sometimes. The shift and new uncertainty as to what was what and who was who and how people would act was no longer the same. I could no longer COUNT on him to be the team asshole, as far as I was concerned. Five-plus years later, though on different teams, we are still on friendly terms. I told “my Marv Daley story” to my present team, while they were unanimously complaining about him a few games ago.
Different leagues, different assignments (“7, 57″)
Now, later 2013 and early 2014, the arena has been (re) opened three months now and leagues are underway. I play “out” in the regular league, as the level of play is consistently NOT “novice.” However, there is an unofficial league where I do play goalie.
A new fellow showed up to be the other goalie a couple weeks back. He hadn’t played in five years and I was impressed by how well he did. He may have had a handfull (or less) goals scored on him, whereas I let that number into the net every ten minutes or so.
We talked during a break in the game. “I’ve been playing since age seven,” Tanner said. “When did you start?”
“Fifty-seven,” I answered. He gave me look which conveyed the look one gives when they think they are being, uh, bull-shitted to. I don’t think he believed anything I said the rest of the night. Oh well …
When I started to play “out” (not goalie) I had accumulated a lot of equipment from charitable? and/or generous other players. I already had (1) a helmet!, and (2) shin guards and (3) shoulder pads from Bombers team-mates. A college player gave me his old (4) breezers (better than the ones I had!). So, I had to purchase GLOVES, among a few other things.
I bought (I’m not entirely sure!) a pair of CCMs. It was, I think, the second game later that when I got home and emptied the equipment bag I noticed the unique pair, above. It has been six or so years, and I thought I would have encountered the player with a similar pair of gloves, but so far haven’t.
During my second (of two) seasons as playing goalie for a league team, I had had just two wins during the regular season (hey! I had a couple “ties”!) and each time had taken a Vicodin before the game. We were in the double-elimination playoffs against another back-against-the-wall team. One team would go home and the other would live to fight another day.
Entering the locker room, Todd asks if I had taken a Vicodin.
“Todd”, I confess. “I was leaving the house to drive away, and realized I had not had a Vicodin. I was too lazy to go back downstairs, so instead took an aspirin and ibuprofin, chased by a shot of whiskey.”
“ALLLL RIGHT!” Todd enthused, smacking me a high five.
We won that game in an over-time penalty shoot-out.
and Other Records
I am not exactly proud of the fact that in my short and mediocre career, there were two times I played goalie against my “real” team. And I was the winning goalie each time.
And, as recently as LAST NIGHT, even though most the players were of decidedly above “novice” caliber, heck, we all had a bunch of fun. As usual. Though I allowed more goals than saves for the first half of the game, towards the end there was more than one mass frenzied whackaroonie where I ‘saved’ many goals by simply being a target. The shots reflected off of me, but of course I had to act like I intended to be in the puck’s way. It seemed most the players out on the ice were borderline-obsequiously nice to the senior citizen goalie and would exult “great save!” “You’re on fire!”
On fire? I don’t think anyone has ever said THAT to me, complimentarily, that is. (There were some campfire mishaps many years ago … oh, never mind.)
Even though it was a “no beer” night for me, I had a great, nay, better than great, time.
I’ve known Paul for most of his life — in spite of my impending Alzheimer’s. Maybe it IS because of the Alzheimer’s. Anyhow, I remember a new-born baby ‘fresh’ from the hospital. Must have been 1956.
He was still in high school when he drove from Basalt to have Thanksgiving with Betty and I in Gunnison in 1973 or ’74. He’s much better with directions now, but when he got to Montrose, instead of taking U.S. 50 he continued south on Highway 550. I think he made it at least half-way to Durango in a blizzard before he turned around. Dinner was late that night.
He accompanied us to Mexico to join the parents for Christmas 1974. A long road trip, continual chatter, singing “she’s a pretty little hamster goes to the beach and likes to drink water” (a song about Betty). We took a break from the parents and the house and opted for a camping night out along the beach to the north. I don’t think any of us will ever forget the cowboys with their guns … (it turned out alright). & I won’t, right-off-hand, mention something else which, heh, influenced the situation …
Of the few 14-ers (about 10?) I’ve summited, he was a companion climber for more than anyone else. Grays, Uncompahgre, and Antero. Grays was a quick day-trip when we lived in Ft. Collins. He’s become a much more accomplished mountaineer than I, but I was worried when his choice of footwear for the mountain was tennis shoes. In the snow. We camped during Uncompahgre and Antero. Well, I had access to a nearby cabin for Antero. That was snowy too.
We did a successful climb of the northwest ‘Teta’ near San Carlos, Mexico. That entailed going up a cave or chimney near the top. Creaking old lumbering buzzards flew away as we emerged, annoyed that they had to move.
And those seemingly annual (probably more often) wine- bread- and cheese-fueled rock-climbing races, which he always won. I would be in good shape today if I could do half the climbs we did in one day at Vedauwoo.
Wine? — and pinochle. Seems many a night in our mutual college daze, and possibly earlier than, but definitely later than, we’d play cut-throat (3 way) pinochle, usually with a gallon or so of, usually, red wine. We’d play ’til 2 in the morning, or ’til whenever the wine ran out. Does 1500 points sound like a lot? And then …
Later, with bo-Berda, we’d play 4-way, usually NOT ’til 2 a.m. nor fueled by that much wine. My infamous and deservedly-almost-forgotten ‘pinochle dinosaur’ series of cartoons emerged during score-keeping of several of such events.
Being seven years younger, I didn’t really ‘hang out’ nor associate with him much until he was in his later teens. Betty and I moved to Ft. Collins for me to (finally) finish my collegiate studies in 1975, and Paul came up a year later. He moved in with us, of course. It was expected and convenient for all. I remember him building a bed frame in a small interior room, so large that that piece of furniture could never the leave that room unless broken apart. Another time, under the influence of our favorite illegal substance, the three of us had a jam session with ‘dime store’ instruments (a plastic melodica, a slide-whistle, kazoos, etc.) that I will always remember. The muse can manifest and exert influence regardless of the type of medium…
We were relatively serious students, but also had quite the social life. Hardly a weekend went by without a borbathlon, Joe’s Annual Picnic, three-way softball games, midnight nude high jumping, running (?) for student government, more esoteric attempts at musical jam sessions, tossing experimental frozen squash with a detour to terrify some friends from Nigeria, more drinking, and more drinking. Driving the physics department liquid helium truck to Laramie and Boulder. Stopping to climb more rocks in Virginia Dale. Oh yeah, during our joint-sojourn (don’t ask how he “signed up”) campaigning (for lack of a better werd) for student government, he announced that his platform was biodegradable. This was YEARS before thinking green was politically correct.
Our paths crossed often on the CSU campus. I probably should have just gone to sit in an occasional class he was taking. But — he must have been really bored or wanted a quiet place at a specific time of day to read the paper, and occasionally he’d wander in and sit next to me during my Psychology class lectures. What stands out is when there was an exam, he’d grab a copy of the test and answer/guess as best he could.
It was minutes before an important test, maybe the mid-term, and everyone was frantically cramming and brushing-up and doing last-minute memorization. He calmly surveyed this quiet but desperate scene and asked aloud: “What is this test about?”
Several heads swiveled to stare in disbelief. I calmly provided a one- or two-sentence answer as to what specific area of psychology we were to display our mastery of. It might have been “abnormal tendencies” or “aberrant behavior.”
At the next class the professor asked “Who is Ben Zazen? He isn’t on the roster for this class.” I went to look at the posted scores and was pleasantly surprised to see that Ben Z had scored in the mid-60′s — close to a D-. Pretty good for not taking the class.
Photographically he might still but definitely used to know his stuff. I remember a close up of a steaming freshly-deposited pile of doggy doo-doo. The pavement had to have been laid within the hour — so the steaminess was almost mystical. That photo might still win awards, not to mention serving as an occasionally appropriate screen-saver.
I was at my daughter’s high school graduation, and the so-called telephoto on my camera made her one-half-inch high instead of the speck she was at that distance. Paul took some shots which made it seem she was twenty yards away. As I typed this, a photo he took of our pet toad in Ft. Collins peers over my shoulder.
He asked me to play ‘the wedding march’ when they got married at the Colorado National Monument, summer 1982. It was my second (and last) wedding — to play at, that is.
When we moved into our house, he assisted a bunch. He sat on the stairs with some tools and took apart the heavy metal stair lift (a sort of elevator for wheelchairs) and we hauled it outside. I helped them move a few months later.
The most enjoyable/memorable part, for me, of the 2004 Peters reunion was going canoeing with him on Lake San Cristobal.
This isn’t ‘positive’ but we (with Chris) put my parents more through the (w)ringer than they had already wrrung themselves into before my sister’s wedding. That was summer, 1972.
Mom and Dad had only one daughter, and were presiding over the first wedding of any of their kids. Being their only daughter, there was (as customs and society and tradition dictated) more impetus to put on ‘a good show’ than if the circumstance involved a son. I think we all can identify with that. But what they must have sensed, in the proverbial “deep down inside,” was how futile clinging rigidly to that idea ultimately was. My brothers and I were not exactly adherents to concepts such as “tradition’ nor “polite expected behavior” — heck, we were all in the phase of our lives where we didn’t even call what we were doing, day-to-day, as winging it. Yee-haw!
So … picture us pulling up at the restaurant where we were to meet the rest of the family. Mom and dad were inside at the wedding-day breakfast for (a) important wedding-day personnel, (b) anyone who happened to show up then. There was a big mirror-like window inside from which they could see us clearly. We got out of Chris’ car, long hair blowing in the breeze, a veritable avalanche of beer cans bouncing out along with us …
This too isn’t positive, but it was a hoot. When he and the ‘rents were living in Aspen in 1969 or so, he invited me to go and ride bikes. This was probably after the “bicycle ticket” event mentioned in the “Chris” section, following. I followed him, not knowing what to expect, only that something weird was up. Sure enough, after weaving and sprinting down a few blocks, a police officer in his car gave chase. I would have stopped and “given it up” but Paul took off like a rabbit. I followed. He’d tantalize the cop for maybe half a block, then dart across a yard, jump a fence (he’d get off and haul the bike over) and down an alley. After a brief series of windsprints and steeplechasing yards and fences and other obstacles we’d lose our pursuer. Only to have Paul start weaving and … soon to have either the same or another police officer give chase.
Aspen must have just inaugurated a “get tough” on bike-riding at night without lights, not in the right lane, not stopping at stop signs, policy. Again, see the “Chris” section.
Best drummer in the family — good enough to play with professional groups. Also the only one in the family to brew his own beer, used to make wine (I don’t know if he still does this), and can identify the various grasses in your lawn. Also, another thing I will never be able to do which he does well is to back up a truck with a trailer attached. And back during our mutual college daze, the “d” werd was aided and abetted by his almost-weekly batch of brownies containing an at-the-time illegal substance (but legal in our state now). Baking would occur Friday nights — we’d wake up and study the next morning with tea and brownies … until the textbooks and notes would start swimming and then we’d all (Betty too) go out to do whatever …
Professionally, work wise, I think Chris is the most accomplished. His professional architect registration nowadays takes an aspirant five years of college, then slaving away for someone(s) who will vouch for you, then you have to pass the test. And, presumably, an architect has to maintain a modicum of engineering, mathematical, and technical proficiency.
Well, Francie (professionally) is somewhat of a saint, as she has ‘fought in the trenches’ (public school teacher) during her professional life.
If Chris was reduced to living in a van down by the river, he could still get by as a musician. Though Paul is ‘polished’ and adept enough to probably play many or most styles of drumming, Chris has a knack with things with strings.
We were, allegedly, the first people ever given traffic violation tickets by the City of Aspen for erratic and illegal (and also under the influence) bicycle riding. I think this was in 1969. He looked at the ticket, handed to us by the chief of police himself, grinned ear-to-ear, saying “Thanks!”
Chris and I attempted the south, or east ‘Teta’ in San Carlos. The last pitch was sheer rock, so we sat and played harmonicas just below the summit.
Speakin’ of harmonicas — Chris used to try to include me in most the musical undertakings he was part of. I miss playing live music, but Chris gave me several more outlets and experiences than I otherwise would have had.
Chris would visit when I was a “starving artist” in Boulder. He was part of the ever-changing incarnation-of-the-week Cliff Athey’s Frank-Zappa-wanna-be band at Tulagi’s night club once. He played the fiddle.
When Deb and I would visit up in the Roaring Fork valley, we had a few hellacious multi-continent risk games — the most infamous with Mike Danelli — who built a table-top risk board with cup-holders, ash-tray spaces, and more than a dozen continents. Wherever Conan-the-Barbarian was from — THAT continent was there, also Atlantis and Lemuria I think, etc. and etc.
I believe that Chris has really, sincerely, honestly tried to steer his daughters onto a path much more straight and narrow than that which they have taken. And he’s put up fairly well with the crap the fates have dealt him, most of which is seemingly undeserved.
Now, some of what I’ll reminisce may seem derogatory, but it’s not. When my brothers and I were late teens/early twenties, we were not making our parents comfortable with our perceived (lack of) progress towards self-sustainability, etc. Francie was like a third parent, only that she would get on our cases mercilessly while the ‘rents usually held back, somewhat. Being in my early 20′s, I would refer to her as my “35-year-old younger sister.”
Then (I think it was the divorce) it was like her brain snapped. For many months, perhaps longer, it was embarrassing to go out in public with her. She’d throw food up in the air at restaurants and comment loudly without even a modicum of restraint about people who looked weirder than we.
During the transition period between a prematurely middle-aged college student to a regular college student she had a memorable, um, slip. Well, I don’t think it (the ‘slip) was intentional on her part. I was visiting / hanging out at the parent’s house in Aspen. Francie was off at a birthday party elsewhere in town. The phone rang. “Jay …” (giggle giggle) “… what’s it like to be …” (giggle) “… stoned?”
“I think you already know,” I answered.
She had eaten a piece (or two) of the birthday cake. “There are some green flecks in it. I’m leaving right now and will bring a piece home for you.” I looked forward to it. A half-hour later she completed the walk home. She had eaten most of my piece of cake, but a few crumbs remained. I scrutinized them, seeing several parsley-like green bits.
For many hours afterwards I sat in the living room, mostly astonished as she talked incessantly. Often she rolled on the floor, laughing, off the couch, hopping back up on it, then more rolling. And more laughing. I am fairly sure she hasn’t indulged in illegal substances since (or rarely) but she certainly did enjoy that one experience.
Betty’s brothers and sisters are, after all, kind of like MY brothers and sister, being “in laws.” Basically I like all three of them, but one of them is a frequent challenge, and another has been an occasional challenge. Bill, however, I have a lot of respect for.
Betty says it’s because I don’t know him and his history that well, but from what I’ve personally seen and experienced and talked with, he has a good heart. He is sincere. He doesn’t wish ill on anyone.
Nobody is more pre-occupied with nor has seemingly dedicated her life for her kids more than Ann.
And Bill, Ann, and Alex used to rarely miss many family gatherings. Alex and Ann were in Grand Junction for either or both of my kid’s Bar/Bath Mitzvas. All three were at Rachel’s and Tom’s weddings — not an easy trip from the east coast for any of them. Much appreciated.
Alex was a lively participant in one of my family’s “Peters” reunions!
As far as I remember, Rick has been invariably pleasant to all of us. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say anything derogatory about any family members. Not even about Francie!
Serious about cooking, and his music. Possibly the best-est musician in the family. Certainly knows the theory! On the sad side, he is a poster child for what Jack Kerouac once postulated: that we all, ultimately, choose our own form of suicide. Rick is smoking himself to a much shorter life-span than would -a.
Haven’t thought about it much, but our dashboard lites seem sorta neat, in perspective, or contrast, or because of, maybe in spite of, the proximity of bleu whirlwindiness. Below, in a cloistered neighborhood which “goes all out” — a pond … Continue reading
Here. in the northern hemisphere, that is. nights’ve been gittin’ longer. ‘n longer, but savory sunrises, sometimes. Milli’s proclivity for arms of couches. We attended the ritualized & final farewell for Betty Cotter a couple weeks ago. Wife of a … Continue reading
IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST
A true story of adventure, betrayal, perspiration, psycho-sociological interaction, and, of course, schizophrenia
John?!, the frantic young man bellowed to another telephone’s answering machine.
Where the phughk are you? You better get down here quick! Cursing, he hung up. His anxiety increased. He hit redial on the phone, and got the answering machine again.
John, you better get your ass down here! Where the heck are you?! There’s this old guy reeking of whiskey who’ll be our goalie if you don’t get here soon!
I don’t really hate the Frozen Reservoir Dogs. I’m supposed to, I think. They are the Detroit Red Wings of the Glacier Arena novice hockey league. Things are not antagonistic between my team, the Bombers, and the other teams we play. However, it seems that there is more than just a hint of that when we play the Dogs. And, to be among them, hang out with them, to be one of them, I imagine would definitely qualify as consorting with the enemy.
Last season their previous incarnation, named the Rovers, “lit us up” two of the three regular-season times we played them. But the Bombers prevailed in the championship game.
That was last year. The new Bombers lost our first two games, which were played fairly close. The Froze Rez Dawgs had played three games already (we had a ‘bye’) and were on a roll. They beat a team which we lost to, 11-2. So, I was a little apprehensive when we played, but
things in our hockey world often were so weird that I thought we might have a chance.
No way, 11 – 1.
After that loss, and one more the following week to another winless team, I started to think the Bombers would be better off without me. I left a message with the arena hockey director, inquiring if there might be a potential goalie on the substitute list. If so, I was going to suggest that whoever he/she might be play half the remaining games. This way, I’d get an idea of how much of what appeared to be a ‘long lonely season’ was my fault.
Actually, I wasn’t feeling too guilty. Our defense was pretty porous. Quite often I faced attackers (yes, sometimes plural) alone with no teammates nearby. (This changed after game four.) The Bombers team captain called me at the same time I was trying to reach the hockey director regarding a half-replacement.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Joe began. “I know another guy who would like to also play goalie for our team.”
Before he could continue gauging my feelings, I headed him off at the pass. “I had the same idea, Joe. I called the rink to see if there were substitute goalies not with any team.”
And — the team had, of all things, a practice (!) before the next game. I met the new goalie, Brandon. Not only did he have his own pads, he had goalie skates. I had no idea that they made skates specifically for goalies! Brandon was to play the four remaining early Tuesday games, and I would be goalie for the four games scheduled at 10 p.m. on Mondays.
Our next game was the following Monday. In our previous encounter with that opponent, the game was close, a 4 – 3 loss for us. This time our defense was much quicker, and, apparently, so was our offense. We cruised to a 13 – 3 victory. After the game, I felt the closest to ‘swell-headedness’ (and walking, if not on air, then with 1 or 2% less gravitational attraction) that my short goalie career would allow. I had never felt sorry for the other team before. I also learned that, after 14 games, I’d been wearing the leg pads on the wrong leg all the while. (That isn’t really surprising. It took me several games to get somewhat familiar with putting all the stuff on. The first two times I tried to put the leg-pads on upside down!)
The following week our game was Tuesday, so I watched Brandon and the Bombers post another lopsided win.
The week after that we were to play the Frozen Reservoir Dogs again. (We play each of the other teams in our 5-team league three times each.) Based on our recent performances — plus the fact that the team we had just beat took the Dogs to overtime recently, and the Dogs lost their only game so far this season the week before — I felt that we might show them a thing or two, especially as Brandon would be our goalie.
Did I already say that “things in our hockey world often were … weird”? In my brief season-and-a-half career, strange occurrences still could, and would, emerge.
The week before, I sort of missed feeling like I was on the team. I was the dutiful mascot — taking post-game team photos and then passing out beer in the locker room. This week I considered suiting up anyway, skating around during the pre-game warm-up, then sitting on the bench with the team. And, there was the chance that one goalie (or the other) might get injured or something and I’d be there to step right in. Yes, the thought occurred that the other team might need a goalie.
Suiting up would look silly, and probably be confusing to my teammates. (Even though I know “real teams” have a spare goalie, just in case. But in our recreational leagues, I’m fairly sure nobody has a ‘spare’ goalie suit up.) I sat briefly in our locker room, noting that Brandon showed up earlier than his previous game.
I went out and talked to some members of the Dogs. Another Dog player appeared and talked to two teammates nearby. Their goalie, John, had apparently called him a few minutes ago with the news that he wouldn’t make it to the game. His grandfather had fallen seriously ill and John was on his way to Rangely, about 90 miles away, to be with him. “Sorry for the short notice.”
Apparently, none of the nearby Dogs, now about six in number, wanted to play goalie. A couple turned to me, and I volunteered just before it seemed they would have extended the offer.
“You realize I’m with the other team. Is this all right with everybody?” Everyone nearby was unanimous — and nobody wanted to be goalie. I went into their locker room and queried the few players still suiting up. No-one was opposed to the idea.
At the time I didn’t know it, but there was one player who had a problem with my being their goalie. I didn’t know this until AFTER the game.
I hurried to my car to get my stuff (helmet, breezers, skates) and continued hurrying to get a set of pads and stick from the Glacier’s storeroom. As I was hurrying to get the equipment I passed a couple of my … teammates. Yes, I’m going to sound like I’m confused. Which teammates? In this case, my usual, former, Bombers teammates … Mike (who gets my vote for Bombers “monster”) chuckled as he saw me leaving the Dog’s locker room. “Are you lost?”
“Good news. I think I’m going to be their goalie.” I figured this would cheer up the Bombers because they had our ‘good goalie,’ and the other team would have the worst goalie in the league. Not that I wouldn’t try, though.
Individually, I thought that all the Dogs were nice guys. The usual good-natured bantering in the locker room. Nothing derogatory about the team they were to play. I asked if anyone had a dark jersey, and Tim said that he had a spare. Later I asked Tim to assist me with tightening straps on the leg-pads which I couldn’t easily reach. He stayed a few more minutes to be ready to help with anything else. Finally, when it was just my helmet remaining, I thanked him and said that he could leave.
I didn’t know until a few days later that he played mandolin in the same jazz group my brother plays in. This may be just a somewhat interesting (?) bit of trivia, but I suspect he knew I was his band-mate’s brother. If so, it was just as well he didn’t say anything. He was a much-appreciated goalie-equipment assistant — a position I usually find a ‘volunteer’ from among the Bombers before each game.
I started to begin feeling … conflicted. Prior to then I had been hurrying too fast to feel much of anything. ‘Conflicted’ gave way to mild schizophrenia. However, pretty soon after this weird and strange turn of events got underway I thought that “Either way, I win.” If the Bombers win, that should be what I really want — where my allegiance lay. However, if the Dogs won, well, I would be part of the winning effort, and get another “W” in my very thin W-L column. And, I think it is just ‘human nature’ that whatever team one was on, a normal person would prefer winning to not.
- Dave, our team’s young hot-shot, and the team’s senior citizen goalie …
Betty recently started working at the Glacier. This night she was sitting at the entry/ticket counter. She knew I had shown up to watch, but got a clue that I was possibly going to play when a dark-blue-clad player rushed up to the counter. He asked, no — he probably demanded to use the phone because he had “an emergency.”
Betty told me of this incident after I got home. She said that if she wasn’t a Glacier employee, she would have told him off AND been real tempted to shove her fist down his throat.
We’ve had a few days to put things in perspective. At first she was outraged that some stranger would say disparaging things about her husband. I pointed out to her that it was probably true. She is married to an old man who smells like whiskey (“and cigars,” she was quick to add). Except the frantic Dogs player was wrong about the whiskey part. It was wine. I had had a couple glasses of wine before the game. Whiskey is for after the game.
However — if the player was so upset about the substandard replacement goalie — why didn’t he (or get someone else to) volunteer for the position? As I said, I personally heard no murmurs to the contrary.
During my previous game against the Dogs, something happened to me which hadn’t happened in a hockey game. And it was something which hadn’t happened to me in all other aspects of my life for quite some time. There was a point where I was going after a player with the intention of getting into a fight.
In the game a few weeks back, after scoring the first half-dozen points from out and away from the goal, they started bringing the puck in. The player (sometimes plural) would smash into me, we’d fall down, ending up in a heap IN the goal. A couple of them would ask if I was all right, and then they’d skate away. However, there was one guy in particular who, upon realizing he’d scored as he and I and sometimes another were lying in a heap in the goal, would start whooping it up. He would NOT ask how I was.
The last time he did this, I guess I just snapped. My immediate reaction was to go after him as he started to skate away, exulting loudly. Fortunately, I was slow in getting started. I tried to reach out after him, and also tried to trip him with my stick. Just as I had gotten on my feet and was closing in on him, I felt a hand on my shoulder.
The referee was standing behind me, wagging a “no no” with his index finger. Darn. Maybe next game, I thought.
I told Tim, and various others, about this. It was part of my schtick, the more-or-less constant commentary — to talk about something, anything, just talk. I think I also told them, as a team, that I hated them (on “general principle”). No-one seemed to pay any more attention than the Bombers would before our games together.
Like I said, each individual seemed like a nice guy.
Out of the locker room, feeling stranger than usual. Probably due to the dark blue (think ‘Darth Vader’), rather than cheery yellow (Bombers) jersey.
Before I joined “my team,” — the Dogs, I did my usual stumbly skate around the arena. Stumbly because when I first get on the ice, it’s like my skate bottoms are banana peels. I attempted a half-assed shot at the Bomber’s goalie, Brandon, and we bumped into each other, acting tough for a few seconds. The frivolity continued as I skated through the Bomber’s half of the ice, doing faux checks hits and bumps into a few until-this-game teammates. Chris came at me with his stick across his chest, gave me a light whack, and skated away.
The Dogs had a shot-on-goalie ritual which in itself was much more organized than anything the Bombers do. The Bombers have no pre-, during, or post-game rituals.
They stood in a semi-circle, each with a puck, about 15 yards out. They were waiting for my acknowledgment. I pointed at the player on the left, and he dutifully skated a few glides towards me and shot the puck. Then I pointed at the next player, and he either shot from where he stood or came in a few yards before shooting. I stopped most the shots.
An interlude of skating around our half of the ice, then back to practicing stopping shots in the goal, and the ‘game on’ buzzer sounded.
I feel the same at the start of any game. Surreal. Apprehensive. A slight bit scared. Of course. This game, so far, was no different in those regards. But, of course this was different. I was more, for lack of a better word, schizophrenic than usual.
A couple of the defensemen assured me early on that they’d do their darnedest to deflect all the shots and threats they could. They adhered to this promise pretty well. Tenacious. The Dogs scored the first goal, and the Bombers seemingly tied the game a short while later. That goal, scored by Bomber ‘monster’ Mike, was discounted. Another player in the crease, I think. Of course Mike complained.
The Dogs kept it up, and at the end of period one the score was 4 – 1. I may have had five or so saves, and the Dogs defense continued their assurance that they would keep me out of trouble.
Things got a bit more interesting in the second period. A few minutes into the next round of play, a player from each team got whistled for a mid-rink altercation. The Bomber player dutifully went to the box, while the Dogs player skated away as if it didn’t concern him.
Within seconds of the brief fight, I went to the Dogs guy to just chat — but my intention was to defuse him from whatever aggravation he might still have to vent. I congratulated him on a spectacular save he had made a few minutes earlier. I was completely out of the goal and the Bombers made an on-ice slap shot which Mr. Fighter stopped by sliding on his side with his stick extended at arm’s full-length — the very tip of the stick stopping the puck.
My calming-influence chat did not accomplish the desired effect. When the Dogs player realized he also had to go to the box, he skated by the Bomber’s bench. Bomber Rich “pulled one of the oldest tricks in the book” and said something derogatory to Mr. Dog as he skated by. Incensed, Mr. Dog tried to dive into the Bomber bench to attack Rich, and the refs intervened. This time was expulsion from the game AND a 5-minute major penalty.*
“Oh great,” I thought. What a thing to do to the team. We’re a player down for three minutes (remember, the Bombers had a guy in the box for the next two minutes). The Bombers put one in during the penalty time. There was another Bomber goal later on and the scoreboard read 5 – 3 at the start of period three.
Well, now, as usual, I’m sweating. In more ways than the usual. Actually, I start perspiring as the pads and jersey come on in the locker room. I sweat all through the game. Thanks to the contacts, I don’t have glasses to wipe nor slip off, and maybe ’cause of the contacts the sweat doesn’t sting my eyes.
And, my sense of self-identity has been subsumed into the universal void. I’m integrated into the Dogs. I’m one of them, now. In the Belly of the Beast.
The Bombers continued to close the gap. The Dogs defense, which was stingy earlier in the game, started to fray. Bomber Mike in particular capitalized on some one-on-ones with the goalie. After every goal, a couple Dogs defenders would skate over to me and apologize. The Bombers rarely, if ever, did that! “My bad.” “I should-a stopped that.” “Sorry.” Even if I felt that a goal was, indeed, my fault, they still apologized.
With two minutes to go, the score became 5 – 5. The intensity of play increased. After an icing call there was a face-off just to my left. Bomber Chris, waiting for the puck drop, looked right into my eyes. I remember the captain of the other team in my previous win this season, doing the same thing. It was as if each guy was gauging me. Telegraphing. Part of picturing the puck in the goal?
I avoided being scored on in that instance, and a couple more. And, I thought: “I don’t want to do overtime. Somebody score.”
The Dogs put one in, and the 6 – 5 stood at the end of the game. I felt somewhat elated but also a little guilty. Post-game hand-shake. Most the Dogs congratulated me. Then and later, some of the Bombers claimed that they had never seen me play so well.
The Dogs were mildly jubilant in the locker room. Some of them turned to me and asked how I now felt about them. I thought a short while, then stated: “I still hate you guys.” I think everybody laughed.
I went in the Bombers locker room. I guess it was force of habit, but they really were (and are) MY TEAM. It seemed everyone booed and threw trash and wads of tape at me. I held my middle fingers up, jeered back at them, and left.
Things were back to normal the following week. The Bombers (and I) were “run over” by the next team we played.
* “Mr. Fighter” is/was one and the same as the fellow who was apprehensive about the substandard goalie. Of course I didn’t know this until after the game.
(It took a couple years AFTER the Bombers-Goalie era, but I finally acquired ALL my own stuff. Although, rarely is there a cat out in the game … )
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so sez an THE ONION headline a few years back. Can anyone argue with that? This probably goes for you Canadians, and Europeans, as well! I was at a home office work function/meeting a couple years back, and usually try to … Continue reading
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