Mitchell Way
It was 5:45 on a Friday night as we smoked up the North State Street hill in our 1953 Buick. My best friend, Chuck, and I were sitting in the back seat. Mom was driving. We were on our way to the Bellingham Armory for the annual Alderwood Elementary School skate night.
Outhouse synonyms: privy, commode, bog, loo, water closet, jake, garderobe, latrine, comfort station, pressure relief shed, waning crescent hotel, catalog disposal, and the snake pit. Across the world everyone has their own unique name for the building over the hole in the ground.
It was another day of summer. Neither my best friend Chuck nor I had the responsibility of having a job yet because these were the lazy days of middle school. The best a boy our age could do for money was mow lawns, and next to thinking about girls, the thought of mowing made our skins crawl. Our goal was to hold off on having jobs for as many years as possible.
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.
It has happened again — another run-in with my nemesis the seagulls at work. At this point in their lives they are almost 3/4s the size of an adult with dark gray feathers. They can flutter their wings but they can’t fly and they still rely on mom and dad for food. They nest on the upper monitor roof in my building. Between the monitor and the main roof there is a five-foot open area running the full length of my ¼ mile building. This is how the juvenile gull entered into my lower work area. His name is Jonathan.
I’ve used bicycles for a great many things. I used one for delivering newspapers. I used one to test my theory of flight. I currently ride an e-bike eleven miles each way to the gym. There are also a few things that I haven’t used the bicycle for . . . because blasted Cheryl put her foot down.
The truck and utility trailer were swung into position at the dump. I could see behind me in my rear-view side mirrors, the environmental block barrier, and the open-top garbage shipping containers. The attendant was pointing at a space between two other pickups.
“I am married to a chimpanzee.”
I could never decide if Cheryl was proud of her choice or disgusted.
Apparently, because of my impatience with reading fine print, I have caused occasional dissension in our marriage.
“Do you remember what we promised in our wedding vows?” she asked in frustration.
“Can I see a copy? I wasn’t really listening to what I said.”
I’m not proud of it, but up until a few years ago I suffered from trypanophobia. It could have started from watching my Nana run a line of stitches up her hand while she was running her treadle sewing machine. I can remember hearing her scream as she attempted to pull her hand free. It was, by the way, the same hand that she regularly got caught in the washing machine wringer. Being a Nana was obviously a dangerous business.
I am from the United States of America. I have a house, a car, a digital television with high speed 5g Wi-Fi, and basically anything I want or need.
Love is a burnin’ thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire
I fell into a ring of fire
I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns
The ring of fire, the ring of fire. (June Carter Cash, Merle Kilgore)
It was not long after we moved onto our property in 1987 that I started to plant fruit trees. Living on an old homestead in a house built in 1897, the square acre was fenced in half with one half for the house and the other for the cows. Since we did not want cows or horses, we chose to plant fruits. This was because fruit trees do not need a veterinarian and they very rarely break out of the fencing and wander down the road.
Ricky Dandelion and his wife, Venice lived not far outside the city limits of Bellingham. Along with their house, barn, and out-buildings, they owned eight acres of fenced pastureland on which they grazed cattle — six cows and a bull.
I kid you not! Some of the most embarrassing moments in my life have happened when I was in possession of a watermelon.
Winner defined: Not me.
Normally I am not what you would call the definition of a winner, in the sense that I have been playing the lotto for 40 years and I still have nothing to show for it.
Listen my children and you shall hear of the afternoon ride of Bucky the Deer. Do not turn aside and say, “Grampa is aged,” for I’ve heard that enough from my Progressive agent. Think of this tale and the facts thereof, as a warning to the perils of being in love. . .