I’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.
Elwood K was the old man who lived in a small self-made home behind our house when I was growing up. I never had a grandpa after I was four so I adopted him. Everyone knew him as “Swede” which was interesting since the name is Scottish and English. He was known by the white Popeye cap he always wore. His house was full of them. Taking his lead, I wear a black Army Ranger cap which my house is also full of.
Swede was fond of four things: guns, Canadian Mist whiskey, both of which he had hidden all over his house, his yellow half ton Dodge Ram pickup and his mutt dog Digger Odell. Several times a week you could see his old Dodge driving ten miles under the speed limit using both sides of the road. Old Swede was returning from a trip to the liquor store to get his “medicine”. On the seat beside him would sit Digger, head and tongue hanging out the open window. Sometimes Digger was the designated passenger and sometimes he was the designated driver; it all depended on how Swede was feeling.
It was a time after the Vietnam War but before Operation Eagle Claw, a failed attempt by Delta Force to end the Iran hostage crisis. The years 1974 through 1978 when the average American thought the wars were over, but wars are never over. It was a time that at an undisclosed, seemingly insignificant spot in Washington I was trained to fly high risk helicopter missions and was considered by the US Government to have a license to kill. And though, some 40 years later I can now talk about it, it still haunts me of the death and destruction I caused.
I was just out in my tool shed looking through some old cottage cheese containers which I use to hold nails, nuts, washers, bolts, and screws etc. I learned of this storage technique from the old man who lived behind me named Swede. He was a course speaking old man with a temper, but I was the only person he had for a son, so he put up with me. Swede taught me many things about hunting, fishing, bee keeping, and gardening, and he kept every spare nut, bolt, and washer in cottage cheese containers in his shed. I inherited them when he died. My only complaint was that he never would wash out the containers before he would fill them with stuff and today, I am trying to find one 3/8-16 x 3.5” bolt as I hold my breath while rummaging through one rancid cottage cheese container after another.
Beak and Bill sat on the end of a dock at Lake Padden. The morning was cool, and a light fog drifted across the surface of the water.
The two met every morning during fishing season and sometimes out of season. It was not only a place to catch fish and banter the latest gossip, but it was also a place to sit quietly to let one’s mind drift before the busyness of the day began.
The time in history was the late 1800s. The place was the Wild West. A murderous outlaw known as El Indio has broken free from prison by killing his guards; and his gang is terrorizing and robbing the citizens of the region. With a price on El Indio’s head, two bounty hunters, Monco (Clint Eastwood) and Colonel Douglas Mortimer (Lee Van Cleef), come to collect the prize. Though the two men view each other as rivals, they eventually agree to become partners in their mutual pursuit of the vicious criminal.
I met a man sitting on a sidewalk bench in Lynden the other day. He had a heavy Chicago Bears sweatshirt on, and it was obvious to me that he wasn’t a local.
I had a nudge from my inner self to say “hi”. He was a nice guy, but it was hard for me to understand the inner city slang he was using. Basically, I understood that he was in the county visiting a brother who had moved out from Chicago. The brother was encouraging him to move out before he got shot in the streets.
Iris and Lincoln Stodge live at 1835 Fernhook Lane, a very long drive through fields of corn which ends at the base of the Whatcom Timber Reserve. Iris and Lincoln are fourth and fifth graders.
In the fall of 1974, at the start of my songwriting career, I was given the song for Christmas entitled “Little Baby Boy.” That was 50 years ago.
As with all the music and stories I have written, I consider them all to be gifts from God and not a talent which I have.
December of 1973, my girlfriend was killed in a sliding accident at the local ski area. The grief for an 18-year-old was beyond belief. It was because of the support of my church, Pastor, and the teens in the youth group who believed in my music that I was able to climb out of the depression. With the backing of our high school youth group, I was able to perform “Little Baby Boy” for the first time at the church in December of 1974. It has always been a favorite that has been requested through the last 50 years.
The video clip filmed in 2022 is of an old me and my wife Cheryl performing the song at Christmas. I hope you will enjoy the song too.
2022 at Northwest Baptist Church, Bellingham, Washington
Little Baby Boy (Lyrics)
Little baby boy, dressed in swaddlin’ clothes, Lyin’ in a manger, so many years ago. Little baby boy, little baby boy, how I love you so.
Little baby boy, born the highest King. Through the years we’ve turned around What Christmas morning means. Little baby boy, little baby boy, how I love you so.
We took the Christmas story, and we laid it on a shelf. We traded baby Jesus for a jolly little elf. But did Santa hang upon the cross and die for all our sins? And can he give us happiness long after Christmas ends?
Can Santa cause the blind to see and cause the deaf to hear? Can you get to heaven on a sleigh and eight reindeer? That’s why I say little baby boy, little baby boy, how I love you so.
Little baby boy, dressed in swaddlin’ clothes, Lyin’ in a manger, so many years ago. Little baby boy, little baby boy, how I love you so.
And on that Christmas morning When the church bells start to ring I’m going to celebrate that day as the birthday of the King. Little baby boy, little baby boy, how I love you so.
Little baby boy, dressed in swaddlin’ clothes, Lyin’ in a manger, so many years ago. Little baby boy, little baby boy, how I love you so.
Great Men, the ones that are few and far between. The ones that inspire you to greatness. The ones you want to emulate. How can I best honor them when they are gone?
In the early 1920s a phrase was coined which stated, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” That being the case I started thinking, “Maybe my audience includes story writers who don’t know they can write stories.” So here is my idea, I’ll post some photos and you make up your own stories of what you think happened in each photo. Then I will tell you the real story behind the photo. We’ll compare your creativity with the truth. This will save me a great deal of time that I would otherwise have had to put out for this week’s blog post. It seems like a simple exercise; let’s try it.
In 2009 my mother, Patty, decided she would like to take her family to the Big Island of Hawaii. She had time shares in a condo, so she acquired two waterfront rooms for seven days in Kona. There were four families in the group. Mom’s husband had recently experienced a heart attack and was in a rehabilitation center, so mom had a spare airline ticket. She asked her niece, Gae, to join her.
