Mitchell WayI’m Marty Mitchell, aka Captain Crash, the guy behind Mitchell Way. MitchellWay.com is the story of my misadventures in life and reflections on faith. ... Is Mitchell Way a state of mind? A real place? A way of life? Tough to say. You be the judge.
Highway 99: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the travel trailer Aloha. Its three-week mission: to explore strange new sites of interest between Bellingham and Chihuahua, Mexico while being pulled by a high mileage Oldsmobile sedan. To seek out new life and new civilizations. To boldly go where no Mitchell family has gone before!
The difference between the words sweety and sweaty is one small letter, but the consequences of using them wrong is catastrophic.
I had just mass-emailed a letter to various members of my church intending to say in one of my statements, “My wife is a sweety.” It was my own fault for not proofreading before sending the statement which the predictive text feature changed to “My wife is sweaty.” The responses came back almost immediately.
“Mr. Mitchell,” came a soft voice behind me.
“What is it Cam,” I whispered.
We were in a movie theater. I had taken the middle school boys from the church as a reward for their achievements during the year. Cam was sitting in the theater seat directly behind me.
Cheryl and I were sitting in our favorite lounge chairs in the living room. I was busily scanning through Facebook and reading comments on my latest post. Cheryl set her book in her lap and said to me, “I’m making borscht in the crock pot for dinner.”
He sat silently drifting on the surface of the lake. An ominous presence, scary and possibly deadly. We didn’t know. We stared at him from the shore. He gave the impression that he may be a crocodile waiting to strike. He wore sunglasses, had sunblock smeared heavily on his nose, an Army drill sergeant’s hat on his head, and a transistor radio which was playing softly from the bow seat. He didn’t smile, he didn’t speak, he just glared. Such was our introduction to Mr. Darson, the Black Mountain Waterfront Director.
It came as no surprise to me when I Googled the question, “Which side of the family does the color blindness gene pass,” that the answer was, “The back side.”
June 4th, 1988, in the maternity ward at St. Joseph’s Hospital.
I can still hear the mocking lyrics from Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones coming through the overhead speakers:
“You can’t always get what you want, yeah
You can’t always get what you want, yeah, child
You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometime, you just might find
You just might find, you get what you need, ah, yeah.”
It all happened one night, as most of these things do. My wife Cheryl and I were sitting in the TV room eating popcorn while watching a show. The other three step kids were already in bed.
She turned to me and said, “I’m pregnant.”
Very rarely listening to her while I am concentrating on watching my show, I said nothing.
She jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.
“I’m pregnant,” she said again, looking at me for a reaction.
“Huh?” I said through a mouthful of popcorn.
She pointed to her belly. “I’m pregnant.”
I later vacuumed the popcorn up off the carpet.
And so began the nine months wait, and I want to point out here that I am spelling wait, W-A-I-T.
It was an exciting time. All the family was thrilled and eager for the new child.
We went in to have the ultrasound done and were asked if we wanted to know the sex of the baby. I said, “No, maybe after its first birthday.”
The reason was, I knew that this baby was a boy. As a matter of fact, I had already named him: Caleb John-Paul Mitchell.
Caleb, for the man who Moses sent into the promised land, who said all things are possible. John-Paul which were the first names of Cheryl’s dad, and my dad, and Mitchell, just in case he wanted to live with us.
I already had plans for my son. Helping him through Boy Scouts. Showing him how to hunt and fish. Cheering him on at sporting events. It was going to be a great father and son experience.
The nine months went by quickly. It was easy for me, although Cheryl complained a lot.
We attended Lamaze classes, and I learned all the things that I shouldn’t say and do around a pregnant woman.
And then in June, we were walking through a back alley in the Fountain District to talk with my insurance agent, when suddenly Cheryl’s water broke. Naturally, there was not a section in the Lamaze class to tell me what I should do about this.
“We’ve got to get to the hospital,” she moaned.
“But we have cloth seats in the car,” I said. “Let me throw down a tarp.”
She never understands the practical side of things.
We got to the hospital and were immediately checked into a room. Two rooms down, a woman was screaming and swearing at her husband.
“Are they doing exorcisms here too?” I asked the nurse.
The labor pains began and increased through the day. Cheryl had some too. I, remembering what I had been taught about breathing techniques in the Lamaze class, began coaching Cheryl in her breathing. I was a little insulted when both she and the attending nurse started giggling. Apparently, I did a great imitation of King Louie from Jungle Book.
Late that afternoon, the dilation reached 10 centimeters and the nurse suggested that I should have my eyes checked.
With a couple of huffs and puffs, the baby started to come. He was face down. The head was a little pointy, but I figured that I could round it off again. Then came the shoulders. Fine broad shoulders. He had a strong upper body which would be good for rope swinging later on.
Continuing on out, I noticed the cute little butt. He’s taking after me I thought. So far so good. And as he continued to roll over in a front somersault, I thought I saw the indicator that I was hoping for. Joy to the World!
The nurse quickly carried the baby out to clean him up. Returning a short time later with him swaddled in a blanket, she gave him to Cheryl, and they bonded.
Then Cheryl asked, “Would you like to hold the baby?”
The nurse put him into my arms. And clumsy me, the swaddling blanket fell off, and I was totally shocked. The indicator wasn’t there. I checked the floor. In a panic I looked to Cheryl and then at the nurse. This is not what I had planned for.
From that moment on, Caleb John-Paul became Kalene Elizabeth.
And over the sound system, Mick Jagger sang, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”
I could see him from a distance. We had known each other for years and though he stops over occasionally, I have never really learned to enjoy his company.
In the early 1980s, I was determined to be an inventor. This combined with my interest in deer hunting led me to create and patent a hunting tree stand which I called the “Mitchell Limb Stand”. It was a name not unlike the name of my other inventions, since everything was the “Mitchell something.”
It started with a cow – as most stories do. I was sitting at the breakfast table eating my daily fried egg and cinnamon roll, when I noticed my Pyramidalis hedge which parallels my west property line shaking violently. What manner of beast is tearing them apart this time, I wondered. The hedge looks the way it does now because the deer seem to find it incredibly tasty in the winter and they can only reach up so high. So, I went outside to see what was going on and there I found my neighbor’s cow chewing away on the backside of the hedge.
Now here is the thing about my neighbor – he is the world’s worst rancher. There is a five-acre field which borders my property on two sides. The owners of the field live somewhere in Arizona and pay no attention, or care anything about the field or their house which they left. Therefore, since the field is up for grabs, the rancher runs his cattle on it.
Now, in the summer this is fine since the grass is growing in the field and the cows keep it mown down, but in the winter, the cows eat the grass down until there is nothing left, and they look elsewhere for something green, which lately has been my yard.
I do have a barbed wire fence around my property which is meant more as a boundary line marker than to keep animals out, but there are three strands on the fence line. The problem with hungry animals, whether cows, horses, elk, or elephants, is that they don’t care about fences when they want to eat what’s on the other side of the fence. The cows will come up to the fence, push the top wire down with their neck until it pulls the staple out of the fence post, then they will do the same with the middle wire, dropping it down. Then they merely have to step over the bottom wire, and they are in my back yard.
One Sunday morning, as we were getting ready to go to church, I raised the garage door and stepped outside. In front of the garage door were three piles of cow poop. There was cow poop down the sidewalk in front of the house and my ornamental hedges had been chewed on. To make matters worse, there had been heavy rains, and the ground was soggy. The cattle, who circled my house all night long, punched a trail into my grass. There were holes all over the yard.
Now, you would think that the rancher neighbor would do something about the mess, but calling him, he said, “Sorry about that. You need to fix your fences, so they don’t get into your yard.”
“Huh,” I said. “Let me get this straight. I must sink hundreds of dollars into my fence line to keep your animals out because you aren’t giving them enough feed and they are starving. They are your animals, why aren’t you maintaining the fence lines?” And that’s as far as it goes. My option is to be an ornery neighbor who calls the Sheriff or Humane Society and turns him in or come up with another plan.
And the plan was this: I would run a strand of electric fence wire parallel to the property line barbed wire fence that the cows keep destroying. I would place it three feet out into the field so there was no way that they could get close to the barbed fence. This would cost me the materials and the power to run it, but it would keep them away from my yard.
After a trip to the farm store, I came home with fence posts, wire, insulators and a stinger box which hooks to the power. It cost a mere, well, I don’t want my wife to know. It was an easy job setting it all up with the ten cows standing behind me overseeing my work. When it was complete, I plugged in the stinger and watched with glee as the cows each tried it out. This was the fence line on the north side of my property. The cow field also borders the west side of my property, but that part was closed off so the cows couldn’t get into it, and it was overgrown with tall grass and blackberries. The rancher saw this as an opportunity though, another way to keep from feeding his cows. Last year he came over and opened up the fence into that field to let the cows roam in the tall grass.
During the summer, I noticed the west fence being pushed down. My grape arbor and the fruit trees which were mere feet from the fence line were stripped of leaves and fruit. My lawn next to the fence line was chewed short. So, I chased the animals out and closed the entrance to that field but the hungry cows, much like elephants, pushed it down and regained entry, which takes me back to my breakfast and the Pyramidalis hedges.
I already had the electric fence on the north side of the property. It would be easy enough to attach another wire to it and run a line down the west side of the property the same way I had done the north. And this is how my day started to unravel.
I keep my old farm truck parked quite aways from the house back in the trees just so people driving by don’t think that it is my main source of travel. If I was to go to the Feed Store to pick up fence posts, I needed to use it. So, I hiked back into the woods to the truck, and walking around the back of it I noticed that the license plate tabs were expired.
Huh.
No problem, I’ll walk back to the house and buy the tabs online. Getting back inside, I climbed the stairs to the office and sat down in front of the computer.
The Department of Licensing web site is easy to use but the first screen required me to provide a license plate number and my last name so they could bring up the vehicle. The last name was easy enough, but I didn’t have the license plate number. I strained my eyes at the truck through my office window but couldn’t read the plate. No problem, I’ll go downstairs and find the title in the file cabinet. It has the license number on it.
After clunking my way downstairs and finding the title, I slogged back to the office and put the license number into the computer. The web site kicked it back saying the plate number was in error. Ah! I have owned this truck for so many years, I have had to change the plates. Okay, I’ll walk back out to the truck and get the number. The upside was that I got my steps in for the day.
Luckily, the license tab renewal store was right next to the Farm Store. Taking back roads, to avoid the police, I was able to pick up the new tab and apply it to the plate. Then, walking next door, I picked up 12 fence posts only costing me a mere, well, no sense letting my wife know.
Upon returning home, I quickly set about putting the new posts into the ground in the west field, three feet from the barbed fence. Then satisfied with how the posts looked, I strung the electric wire from one end to the other. This was not happening without the full audience of cows standing around in a half circle offering advice. As I was getting to the final process of hooking the west line to the hot north line, I noticed a buckskin Jersey cow walk to the north electric fence and put an insulator with its wire in her mouth.
Huh. I wonder how long the north electric fence hasn’t been working.
Completing the wiring hookup, I went into the shed to get my voltmeter. It’s not like I go into the shed much in the winter, so when I opened the door and looked inside, I saw that all the tools on my bench were lying on their side and there were tools strewn across the floor.
Huh. What has Cheryl been looking for out here. We’ll have to discuss tool shed etiquette.
Now, the tool shed is not sealed tight and during the cold season, cats will come inside and climb up onto the plywood lying in the rafters. Sometimes, I’ll find kittens. It looked and smelled like a cat had been in my shed.
I found the voltmeter and started straightening up the tool bench which may have created somewhat of a racket. Then, I bent down to pick up some tools off the floor when suddenly, something of great weight hit me in the shoulders. The four sets of claws in my back told me that it hopefully was a cat. The blind-side tackle from the rafters pushed me forward through the door, out onto the lawn. Lying on my face in the grass, I turned my head to see a very large feral Tom Cat disappearing across the yard.
Huh.
Testing the old power stinger with the voltmeter proved that the unit was indeed dead, although, there was a red LED light on indicating that it was working. Liar!
It was 5:45. I didn’t know how long the Farm Store stayed open, but I thought that I must try, so I hopped in the old farm truck with the new tabs on it and sped into town.
I was able to get to the store before it closed and I purchased a new stinger for only, well, I really shouldn’t say.
Back at home, the cattle were grazing in the west field when I installed the new stinger. I checked it with the voltmeter, and it did indeed work. I watched a bull mosey over to the new wire. He stuck his head under the hot wire, eating grass next to the barbed fence. Then, he lifted it up and the back of his neck came in contact with the hot wire.
A startled bovine makes a unique sound, different from their other unique sounds. I’m sure that in cow language it is profanity. At any rate, he jerked his head back and ran into the center of the field taking the fence wire with him. The wire was stripped off each insulator of each fence post.
Huh. I wasn’t expecting that.
The rest of the herd made a strange sound. Possibly they were laughing.
Okay, try again. Luckily the wire wasn’t broken and after shutting off the power, I re-strung it. Then after repowering the system, that buckskin Jersey walked up to the north fence and stuck her nose out at the north hotwire.
“Don’t do it, Daisy,” I thought.
She did. I guess she can figure out how to get herself out of that cherry tree.
The rest of the herd made a strange sound. Possibly they were laughing.
It was starting to get dark, and the last thing to do to make sure that the fence was ready was to weed eat the tall grass which could come in contact with the hotwire and short it out. I went to the garage and brought out my weed whacker. Climbing over the west barbed fence, I started knocking down the grass in the three-foot section between the barbed and the electric fence. In the dusk sky, on the back side of the Pyramidalis hedge I turned a bit to work the whacker under the barbed fence and I accidentally stepped backwards into the electric fence.
People in the neighborhood said they saw the arc flash in the night sky and heard someone scream in possibly an Asian language. The charge only lasted a second, but like a near death experience it seemed like hours. I was able to see all the major network stations, as well as Prime and Netflix. There was a Spanish speaking show I watched but couldn’t understand a thing they were saying.
Rubbing the back of my leg after regaining my senses, I heard the semi-circle of cattle making a strange noise. Possibly they were laughing.
That though, is one sure-fire indicator that your electric fence is working.
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes
The animated version of the Disney movie, Peter Pan, was released in 1953. Disneyland theme park opened in 1955. I was born in 1955. Are you seeing the connection? I grew up in the era of Wonderland, of the lost boys, of never wanting to grow up, of wanting to fly . . . and sometimes occasionally wearing green tights.
My sister Tricia recently brought me a manila envelope which she had been keeping in storage. The envelope was stuffed with memories of my dad, Paul Phillip Mitchell. I poured the contents out onto the floor. Included in the pile were newspaper clippings of his life and his military documents from WW2.
The Boy Scout motto, which we all had to memorize to earn the Scout Rank is: Be prepared. So, I memorized it and said it to my Scout Master so I could begin earning my Tenderfoot rank. At the time, two words was about the extent of my ability to memorize.
But no one really explained to us what we were supposed to be prepared for. Did it have anything to do with bears coming into our camp? If we were indeed responsible for being prepared for any situation which would arise, I would have to spend considerably more time in the library speedreading books on every topic to get a general knowledge of what to do when a situation needed a solution, and in the fifth grade I was lucky to read through one book a year.
It was not until this year that I found out that Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of Scouts, had intended the boys to be ready for anything from a sudden accident to the defense of their country. When he was asked what they should be prepared for, he replied, “Any old thing.”
The motto has awakened me at 4:30 many mornings as I lie in bed wondering, “What am I not prepared for today?”
This was something that I brought up with my best friend, Chuck, as we stood out on a sandbar, river fishing for Silver Salmon. He was about twenty feet upriver, fishing with his nine-foot rod which was now eight foot, six inches long since he chopped six inches off the tip by dropping his tailgate closed before he got his pole completely out of the back of his SUV.
“Here’s something I was thinking about,” I said as I lifted my boonie hat and swabbed the sweat from my forehead. “What would you do if I grabbed my chest and fell over on the beach?”
“You mean dead, or just fell over like you sometimes do?”
“I mean a heart attack.”
“Well, if you were dead anyway, I might swap my pole with yours and check in your tackle box to see if there’s anything I need.”
“You mean that you wouldn’t start CPR?”
“Hypothetically speaking, what if I had a fish on?”
“Would you call, 911?”
“When I got the fish on the beach.”
“You know, this is something we need to be thinking about. Neither one of us is getting any younger.”
“You are actually six months older than me.”
“When was the last time you took a CPR class? I haven’t taken one for about 15 years.”
“How old were we when we were working on our First Aid merit badges in Scouts?” he asked.
“Well, cripes! I’m signing us up for a class.”
And immediately after I had lost another three lures to a snag in the river, I went to the local fire hall and inquired about their next CPR class.
“We don’t get many men your age signing up for the class, a buff looking 20-something firefighter told me. Mostly, we get older women who are running daycares, or young kids who need it for a college class requirement. Are you physically up for it?”
“Hey,” I said, obviously offended. “If I can still use my bicycle pump to inflate my lawnmower tire, I think I can push on a chest for two minutes.”
“Yeah,” he said, slowly eyeing my out of shape muscles. “I’ll put you down for this Saturday.”
“Oh, I’ve been put down before. And put down my buddy, Chuck too. I’m relying on him to be the one to kick start me if I keel over.”
So, Saturday came, and I drug the reluctant Charles to the 9am CPR class. Just as the fireman had warned us, we were the only two “Older” men in a group of mature women and college girls.
“Thank you for attending Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation training,” the instructor said. “Let’s go around the room and tell us your first name and why you are taking the training.”
As was predicted when I enquired about the class, the older women were daycare owners or workers, and the college age attenders were taking CPR as one of the requirements for a Community College class. When it got to us, we had the classes’ attention because no one understood why two old broken down men were interested in CPR.
“My name is Marty and I worry about my partner, here. He could shut down at any time.”
“My name is Chuck and I’m six months younger than him. I doubt that I would jump start him because look at that face. I’m not blowing air into that mouth.”
Sometimes the truth hurts.
There were three adult Resusci-Anne mannequins lying on the floor and three infant Anne dolls on a table. The instructor began giving us scenarios about finding an unresponsive person and what to do if you were by yourself, or with other people helping. He showed us proper hand placement on the sternum and how deep to compress. He then produced some alcohol swabs and wiped the mouth of Anne and showed us how to tilt the head, lift the jaw, pinch the nose, and blow in, raising Anne’s chest.
“For your information, Anne holds the record for being the most kissed doll in the world. We will apply two blasts of air and then start compressions at a rate of 100-120 beats per minute. Try to think of a song that has a beat of 120 beats per minute, like Row, Row, Row Your Boat. You will alternate between two breaths and 30 compressions. Since we only have three Annes, while one person is practicing, the rest will watch and critique.”
The college age kids seemed eager to get practicing, so they gathered around one mannequin and one of the kids began. Chuck and I, and the older women were a little more hesitant to be the first to begin, so one of the women volunteered. She was a rather large woman in her late 50’s. With a little help, she lowered herself to the floor and sat on her knees next to Anne. After attempting to wake the patient, she concluded that Anne was not breathing and had no pulse. She told one of us to call 911, then, having previously swabbed the dolls mouth area, she tilted Anne’s head, brought her jaw up, pinched her nose, took a deep breath and came down on Anne’s mouth to give her the first breath of air, and . . .
“Frapp!”
Those standing around critiquing took a step back and looked at each other, not knowing what to do. In all fairness, she was able to fill Anne’s lungs also.
The next woman up was a thin woman also in her late 50’s. She took the position on the floor and after concluding that Anne was not just sleeping, she filled the doll with two blasts of air and began the chest compressions. After cycling through the process twice, she stood to let the next person in the group try. She faced the group with a smile on her face, as if to say, “That wasn’t so hard.”
The group’s reaction was, “Whoa!” She had blown so hard into Anne’s mouth that she broke a blood vessel in her right eye and the white of that eye was dark red.
“The old group ain’t doing so good,” Chuck mumbled.
“The next thing we are going to introduce into the mix is the AED unit,” the instructor announced. “The acronym AED stands for Automated External Defibrillator. More and more businesses, churches, and schools are buying them, so you should be familiar with how to use them.”
He went through the attaching process, which included removing the clothing from the chest area where the electrodes would be placed.
“Using an AED requires no previous training because the pads are marked to show you where to place them and an audio voice will give you instructions. Chuck and Marty haven’t done their CPR practice yet, so you guys get on the floor. One of you will be doing the CPR and the other will apply the AED pads, then you will switch.”
Using a chair, we lowered ourselves onto our knees. The crackling of the joints made me worry that we might not be getting up again. I was in position for the CPR. We ascertained that our victim had no heartbeat and was not breathing.
“Okay, call 911 and see if you can find an AED,” I told him, “but first take her shirt off.”
“Whoa, hold on! I’m not taking any female’s top off. My wife would kill me.”
“As soon as the paramedics arrive, her top is coming off anyway,” the instructor commented.
There was much grumbling as we removed her sweatshirt. I then began CPR as Chuck applied the shock pads to her chest and we followed the instructions given to us by the AED box. After swapping out positions, we had reached the limit of our ability to sit on our knees on the floor and both needed chairs to pull ourselves up to a standing position.
The last demonstration of the morning was dislodging obstructions in infant and adult windpipes. The J-Stroke, or Heimlich Maneuver, to be used on an adult, was done by pairing up the class. One person stood behind the other, made a fist, and visualized the upward thrust from a spot above the navel to the breastbone.
When I placed my arms around Chuck and made a fist in the center of his belly I asked, “Should I try one thrust so you can see what it feels like?”
“Not unless you want a wad of tobacco in that woman’s hair,” he said.
“This is a lot like giving the Heimlich to a very pregnant woman.”
He ground my foot lightly into the carpet with the heel of his steel-toed work boot.
Dislodging an obstacle from a baby required holding the baby in one arm face down, and hitting it between the shoulder blades, five times. If you can’t then see the obstacle in its mouth, lay the baby on its back on one of your arms and slap its chest five times. If that doesn’t dislodge it, start again on the back. This seemed like excessive beating of the baby and because our doll was old, its head kept falling off.
At 11:30, the instructor was satisfied that we could all perform CPR, and he said that our certification cards would be in the mail within the week. Returning once again to the sandbar, Chuck cast his lure out into the center of the river. I watched as he stepped deeper and deeper into the swiftly flowing current. He was still complaining about the morning of fishing lost to a CPR class.
“Here’s something I was thinking about,” I said. “What if I fell into the river and was being carried downstream. When was the last time you took a junior lifesaving class?
His next cast swung wide over my head and his lure snagged my boonie hat and carried it out and into the far side of the river.
He did that on purpose. I’ll be checking into Lifesaving classes at the YMCA tomorrow.
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes
Inner tube rolling
The act of wedging oneself in the inside diameter of a tractor inner tube and vertically rolling.
Although I had proven the idea ineffective for long distance travel, I was curious if it could become a competitive competition.
“Dave! Did you hear that? Can you feel the earth shaking?”
“It sounds like a spooked, slobbering horse,” Dave remarked nervously as he looked around the edge of the building we were standing next to. “Cripes! It’s getting louder. It’s coming this way!”