Mitchell Way
Say guys, are you tired of sweltering hot days where the perspiration running off your head ruins that freshly permed $56.00 haircut? Tired of having sweat stains in your Grecian Formula leaving you looking like a leopard? Do what I did. I got the Extended Face Kit which includes extensions all the way to the back of my shoulders.
I was standing in line at the movie theater waiting to buy a ticket when I heard two twenty-somethings making comments about a slowpoke elderly man. They couldn’t mean me. There has got to be someone else in this line who is older than me. I will just casually turn around and see who they are talking about.
Nuts! It was me.
First of all, excuse me for whistling. If I don’t let the music out, my head will explode.
I am a chronic whistler, more so when I am stressed. I also constantly have a melody looping in my mind. That same tune can loop for hours until I nearly go crazy listening to it.
“When did you learn Klompendansen?” My wife asked as I came in through the back door after work.
“I don’t know Klompendansen,” I snarled. “My back is out of place. Call the chiropractor!” Sheesh, she is a smart alec when I am in pain.
My wife Cheryl walked across the gravel parkway to her school bus which sat parked partially out of the bus garage. It was a new bus to the school and hadn’t made its maiden voyage with students yet.
“Morning Sunshine,” called another driver who was walking to her bus. “Here we go again!”
All the buses had been pulled partially from the garage stalls by Arnie the bus maintenance man. The engines were all running, and the lights were turned on. This was to aid the drivers with their morning pre-trip inspections.
Sitting in the cushy air-leveling driver’s seat, Cheryl shut off the engine. With the air system fully charged, she was going to bleed the air brakes. She pumped the brake pedal repeatedly, each pump sending a blast of air to the ground under the bus.
The air pressure, which started at 120 pounds, had dropped to 90, then 60, then 30. Then . . .
Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
The bus horn went off.
“What the heck?” Cheryl screamed.
The 10 other drivers stepped from their buses and looked over at the new bus. They covered their ears to silence the dreadful sound. A flock of migrating geese flying over the bus garage split formation. One goose appeared to fall out of the sky.
Frantically trying to shut off the alarm while at the same time plugging her fingers in her ears, Cheryl’s curly platinum hair began to straighten.
Bounding up the steps into the bus came Arnie. He was wearing his noise canceling earmuffs.
“I got this! I got it!”
Cheryl jumped from the bus, the palms of her hands covering her ears. Arnie frantically pushed and pulled buttons.
“Blasted computerized buses,” he yelled. His face was red, his eyes bulged, and perspiration drops ran down his face soaking his coveralls.
The other drivers were now leaving the yard, not in their scheduled order, but more in a panicked retreat. Like getting to higher ground to avoid a tsunami wave.
The door of the office opened. Out walked the bus manager pulling on her sweater. She strolled across the parking lot toward the bellowing bus. The look on her face hinted that she thought all her drivers were morons.
Arnie was now in a state of emotional shock. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he stared blankly through the front windshield.
The bus manager climbed up into the bus and prying his hands off the steering wheel, she laid him on his back in the center aisle.
Then, restarting the bus, she allowed the air pressure to build, and the horn shut off.
“You’re late for your route,” she said to Cheryl as she pulled Arnie by the feet down the bus steps.
And so, for the first day’s morning run, there were brand new riders being picked up at new stops which caused all forms of chaos and confusion. The little kindergarten children who saw Cheryl for the first time as she opened the bus door, gasped, grinned, and ran up the bus steps to hug her and sit in her lap, mistakenly thinking she was Mrs. Santa Claus.
The radio chatter was frantic:
“Bus 201 to base. 201 to base.”
“This is base, go ahead.”
“I’ve got a puker. Mayday, Mayday. He’s at the back of the bus. Oh my gosh, he’s barfing again. It’s running down the center aisle! Mayday! Mayday!”
“Bus 201, this is base. Follow proper hazmat cleanup procedures after returning to the garage.”
“What? I didn’t sign up for this. Can’t Arnie do it?”
From somewhere in the shop Arnie yelled, “I’m not doing it!”
“Sorry 201, it’s your job. I’ll have the mop ready when you get back.”
Then, after the morning run was over, the drivers came back at 3:00 for the afternoon run to take the kids home.
“Base to bus 211.”
There was no answer.
“211, come in.”
“Base, this is 208. These route directions can’t be accurate. I’m in a housing development and the road dead ends. I’m going to have to back all the way out.”
“This is base. Don’t back into any parked cars this year.”
“Base to bus 211. Come in 211!”
“This is 270. I can hear you clearly. I’ll give him a call.”
“270, if you can hear me, he should hear me.”
“Bus 211, this is base.”
“Base this is 250. My route says to stop at 4489 Hammerhead to drop off Ginny. I see her house, but the driveway is on the other side of the creek. I’m going to have to go three miles up to cross the bridge and go to the house on another road. That’s putting me 15 minutes late. Please call the other parents.”
“Base, this is bus 211. We’re you trying to get me?”
“Yes 211. Is Stanley Harding on your bus?”
“I don’t have a Stanley Harding.”
“Yes, you do 211. I’m staring at his name on your roster.”
“He’s not on my bus, base.”
“Base, this is bus 302. I have a flashing dash light that says, ‘Shut engine down.’ “Suggestions?”
“302, this is base. Nurse it home.”
“307 to . . . base. (Gasp) Base . . . come in . . .”
“ Go ahead 307, this is base.”
“License plate (gasp) Washington (cough) XLF3589 (gasp), Jacked up Black 4X4 (gasp) . . .He ran my stop paddle.”
“307, Why are you gasping?”
“Well, I ran after him.”
“What?”
“211 to base.”
“Base”
“Stanley Harding is on my bus.”
“211, when will you be at the corner of Tyee and Crowley to meet his grandparents.”
“This is 211. That would have been 20 minutes ago.”
Muffled grumbles came from behind the closed office door.
If she had been a smoker, she would have been a chain smoker. If she could drink on the job, she would have been plowed by 5:00, but this is the life of a bus manager.
As she closed the shop that evening and walked to her car, her right eye twitched. Her car key could not find the lock because of her shaking hand. With a few tears on her face, she sat behind the steering wheel, letting out a sigh of relief.
“Day one is over, only nine months more to go.”
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes
If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. (Origin Unknown)
Ricky Dandelion, the man, the myth, and the Whatcom County legend, sat at the kitchen breakfast table busily trying to fill letters into a New York Times crossword puzzle. It was not unusual for him to create words using only consonants. He studied the page as he tapped the pencil eraser against his forehead.
“What’s a seven-letter word for “senior helper,” Venice?” he yelled into the next room. “The third letter is a “P”
His wife, Venice, was pulling clothes out of the dryer and folding them. In her full-length cotton farm dress and her hair in a white bonnet, she almost appeared to be dancing with the long sleeve farm shirts and bib overall pants. A Bluetooth speaker filled the room with her favorite hits from the CD, The Marvelous Hollis Quince and the Yodel Aires.
“Depends,” she yelled back.
“On what? Come on, don’t play with my mind, lady.”
“The answer is, Depends. Try it.”
“Depends,” he muttered while erasing his choice of the word “repeats.” “Huh, it works. How did you come up with Depends?”
“Something just triggered when you said the third letter was, P.”
“You’re a wordplay genius, Venice. A wordplay genius.”
Today was another busy day on the Dandelion ranch. Earlier that morning, Ricky had been outside checking his garden to see what else was not coming up as expected.
Earlier in the spring, Ricky had planted three rows of green onion bulbs only to find that they flowered into daffodils mid-summer.
The cattle in the backfield had been sent to the butcher the previous fall. They were replaced by two less obnoxious animals, alpacas. I say less obnoxious if you can overlook the fact that they both spit like two ranch hands at a poker game.
This time of year, they were both given their summer shaves by Venice. She only knew one cut style, the same one she gave to Ricky. There was always the question of “Who wears it better?”
The other rescue critter they had this season was a potbelly pig who Ricky named Hammond. This was in reference to the fact that if the pig rooted up the potatoes in his garden once more, Ricky was going to turn him into Hammond Eggs.
Ricky was beginning to walk with a shuffle and a slight stoop. The elastic in his suspenders had long since rotted and until his new pair came in the mail from Temu, he was forced to manually pull his jeans up once they had dropped below his buttocks.
Today, they were both taking a ride into town for some light grocery shopping and to visit a friend at a memory care facility.
“I’ll go warm the Studebaker up, Venice,” he said as he slipped on his fall jacket and walked out the back door.
The two, ever curious alpacas stood at the fence line and watched as he shuffled up the sidewalk toward the garage. Their three identical hairstyles ruffled in the morning breeze.
“Splat!”
One of the alpacas hucked a mouthful of spit at his head. He turned to look at the animal.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, flop top.” he muttered with a grin on his face. “You’re a lousy aim.”
“Splat!”
A wad of saliva from the second animal dripped off his right earlobe.
“Dang it!” he swore, and he pulled out his handkerchief.
Venice was well rounded in every aspect of ranching life, which included sewing. Coming out the back door, Venice was followed by Hammond who this morning was wearing a pleated skirt with a floral design. He followed her up to the car and she opened the back door.
“Not the pig, Venice,” Ricky moaned.
“I see cats and dogs wandering the halls at memory care. Hammond wants to meet the residents.”
Venice climbed into the front seat and slid in her CD of Kenny Rogers and the New Christy Minstrels. Ricky fired up the Studebaker and through the blue exhaust smoke, backed out of the driveway.
It must have caused double-takes from those they drove past to see a large pig hanging its head out the back seat side window, and what looked to be an alpaca driving the car.
At the grocery store, while Venice was looking for canned goods, Ricky went back behind the produce section and grabbed an armful of rotting vegetables which he carried outside and tossed through the open window into the back seat.
“Enjoy, bacon bits,” he said smiling at Hammond.
The next stop was a short drive to the memory care facility. They parked and Venice opened the back door for Hammond.
“He looks divine in his pleated skirt. Why did you put a skirt on a boar, Venice?”
“It was too difficult getting him into his pants this morning. Come along Hammond. You too, Ricky.” And the pig in the skirt and the man, showing way too much underwear, followed her into the building.
Hammond was a crowd pleaser and easily entertained a room full of ladies having noon time tea and cookies.
Ricky and Venice went to the room of their acquaintance and sat with her for a while. Although Venice was able to communicate with the woman, Ricky couldn’t and soon became bored.
“I’m going down to get some coffee, Venice. I’ll bring you back a cup.”
He got up and shuffling down the hall with his slightly stooped posture, he headed in the direction of the dining room. As he neared the entrance, he felt an arm drape over his shoulder.
“Hello, you’re new here. I’m Nurse Jenny. Are you coming to the birthday party?”
Ricky stared angrily into her face and stood up a little straighter.
“I don’t live here,” he said.
“This is your home now. It’s all right. Let me find you a seat at the birthday party.” And she walked him into the festivities in the dining room.
“Venice!” he yelled.
An hour later, Venice walked down the hallway to look for her husband and her cup of coffee. Passing by the dining room, she looked through the double doors to see Ricky sitting at a table with three men. He was wearing a party hat and Hammond lay at his feet.
“It’s about time, Venice. We were about to play Pin The Tail on the Pig.”
They all waved as Ricky and the pig left the room.
As they drove up the driveway to their garage, the old Studebaker backfired leaving a cloud of blue smoke. Hammond, with his head hanging from the backseat window, let out a loud squeal as if to say, “We’re home mop tops.”
“I heard that porkchop,” said Ricky, who was more than just a little irritated.
Venice stepped from her car door and opened the back door for Hammond. Together they walked single file down the sidewalk past the two alpacas and entered the house.
“Huh,” Ricky muttered. “Nothing.”
He started down the sidewalk to the back door.
“Splat, splat.”
“Dang it!” he swore. Pulling out his handkerchief, he wiped the dripping alpaca spit off the side of his head.
“Venice!”
Faith Family Life Getting Older Growing Up Misadventures Music Patriotism Pets or Pests? Snips Tributes
It is estimated that Australia has over 24 million wild pigs. I was on a photo Safari in Queensland to capture on film the King Kong of feral hogs. The locals call him Jambi.
Jambi weighs over 1000 pounds and is well over nine feet long. He has a harem of 45 sows and multiple piglets. Wherever they move, they create mass destruction of the land and many a domestic animal, even humans disappear when Jambi is in the area.
It was a curving section of the county road with a posted speed of 35 mph. Farms and homesteads lined both sides of the road as did overhanging maple and alder trees.
“Slow up in the curve. Almost to . . . yep, there he is.”
“Don’t go off half-cocked!”
Have you ever wondered what that means?
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.
Welcome to the Knot Head Years. This is your Captain speaking. For those of you aged 13 through 19, please check your brain in at the door. You may retrieve it at carousel 8 upon reaching the age of 26.
The 67-year-old man walked casually into the gym carefully checking out the competition. That day there were several high school age boys and girls, senior women who had just finished their aerobics class, and middle-aged warriors working different pieces of equipment.
“Okay Mr. Mitchell, step right over here and I will lower the screen.”
“Thank you, L-A,” I said while trying figure out the name on her badge.
“It’s pronounced, Ladasha,” she corrected, like I didn’t know anything.
L-A was a Walgreens employee who worked in the photo department. I’m not sure how old she was but with her dyed hair, tattoos, and studs, I figured her to be around twenty. Her face was bright red from freckles, and she stood no more than 4’6″.
I wasn’t aware that this day would come. It wasn’t on my radar as something to watch out for, but it happened. I crossed the line. Today I had my annual wellness physical and was given the Medicare Well Visit Questionnaire to fill out.
I have been asked by many of my readers, “When are you going to put all of your stories into a book? I’d buy one.”
Track 4362 is a mainline section of railroad track owned by the BNSF Railroad which runs inside the southern perimeter of the aluminum smelter I worked at for 34 years. It ran a little over a quarter mile to the cast house where flat cars and box cars were loaded with aluminum for shipping to customers. Joining track 4362 were many side spurs which allowed railcars to be moved to other areas of the plant also.