It started as any of our other hunting trips — with high hopes and low expectations. Sturgis Fenton and I were going to spend three days hunting the hills of northeast Washington.
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Hunting With Sturgis
Tag: Misadventures
Ricky Dandelion, Whatcom County’s foremost authority on guaranteed bad luck in farming, fishing, and camping, had just caught a break. A distant relative had passed away and left Ricky a 5th wheel pop-out trailer. This was indeed an upgrade from his converted school bus camper. Both Ricky and his wife, Venice, were giddy with excitement over the thought of finally being able to camp in style.
It was not unusual for mysterious events to take place around the Mitchell neighborhood in the 1970s. It appeared, to the untrained eye, to be just another group of normal homes with average families, but this was far from the case.
When I was born, the doctor lifted me upside down by the ankles and repeatedly slapped me on the bottom. Since that moment I have had an unnatural fear of piñatas.
Ricky Dandelion walked through knee-high field grass next to his back field property line. It was mid-July, and the grass stalks were getting close to the electric fence wire.
Normally, Ricky and his lovely wife, Venice, would consider it a Saturday date by going out together into the cow field with their matching Stihl-FS131 weed-eaters and cutting the grass away from the fence line, but things were different this year.
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Qwerty and the Home Row
Poof! A chalk eraser ricocheted off the top of my head. Chalk dust settled in a cloud around my desk.
“I told you, Mitchell! I told the class that if I caught anyone looking at their keyboard, I would wing an eraser at them. There you were staring at your fingers.”
The rest of the class, afraid to look up from the test cards in front of them, nevertheless, giggled. It was after all, a timed typing test so every word counted.
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Two Speeches That Were Never Given
“Just another ripple on my lake of irritation,” I can almost hear custodian Luke muttering this as he hiked up the stairs to the third floor at Bellingham High School. For some reason the drinking fountain was plugged.
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When Santa Refused To Fly
Ho, Ho, No! You ain’t getting me into that thing! And with that, Santa left his sleigh and drove off in his car.
Dad and I stared at each other. “Huh,” he said. “I guess we go with plan B.”
It was the yearly tradition of The Santa flights.
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Catch-22
My best friend, Chuck, was sitting across from me in a booth at Bunks Drive-in. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was setting. A blonde woman’s wig lay in the center of the table between our two Cokes.
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The Jim Creek Miracle
Not all stories are embellished for a laugh. Some are 100 percent true.
When I think of a US Naval station or base, I think of battleships, destroyers and aircraft carriers moored on long piers. Jeeps shuttle sailors up and down streets lined with large warehouses filled with supplies while tugs escort submarines into the harbor. The Jim Creek Naval Radio Station shattered that stereotype.
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9
Summertime on the Nooksack River, sitting in an inner tube, floating mile after mile in the warmth of the sun. On any hot weekend in July and August the river is spotted with hundreds of floaters drifting as singles or bunched together in groups. When you are young and haven’t many responsibilities, the river is the place to go.
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Demon Possessed Appliances
Right off the bat I know that many of you will scoff at the notion that there may be a spirit world. The idea that there are good spirits as well as a slew of very unsavory ones is to some, a laughable idea. Yet the movie industry makes millions of dollars each year on movies based on the occult and the living dead.
A peanut sat on a railroad track; its heart was all aflutter. Along came a choo-choo train, choo-choo, peanut butter.
Number one: Candied Beets. (I told you). Why at Thanksgiving would you serve a dish that looks like cranberry sauce? Why would this dish not be clearly labeled “Beets”? What are you supposed to do with a large mouthful of beets while red juice leaks out of the corners of your mouth, and you are sitting around the dinner table with 15 relatives? Unforgivable!
Number two: Commercial super roll toilet paper. You know the type: two 12” diameter rolls with a mile of paper each, housed in a dark plastic wall mounted container. The paper is not the issue. The custodian leaving the roll taped up is the issue. I have literally spent a half hour spinning the roll trying to find the loose end. Somewhere a custodian is giggling. Unforgivable!
Number three: Technology. Why do they have to keep upgrading my operating system? Why do I have to invite my granddaughters over to show me how to work my phone, my TV remotes, the microwave? Why can’t Pong still be played on my computer? I really need technology to stop for about six months just so I can catch up. It’s all very unforgivable. Which brings me to my wife’s friend Becky and her Pekingese dog Ginger.
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The First Day
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.”
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