God, Don’t Let Me Die in Louisiana – Part II

Posted on December 12, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

Not actual Family Members (Far as I Know)

  After a couple of days, I had recovered sufficiently from the horrors of swamp fishing (Part I) with my grandfather. My cousin, let’s call him J.D. (everyone else does), asked if I’d like to go fishing at the stock ponds on the farm where he sometimes worked. He said the fishing was always good, and since it was on a farm and not in the middle of a deadly swamp, I readily agreed.

  I didn’t know J.D. well (I didn’t even know what J.D. stood for; Jay Dee, maybe?), but to me he seemed a younger version of my grandfather: a fearless swamp rat, completely at ease in the backwoods of Louisiana. In any another environment, J.D. might have seemed a trifle odd, definitely out-of-place and perhaps somewhat simple. In the Louisiana outdoors, however, J.D. was a man who commanded respect; he definitely knew his way around a swamp. He was, at the time, a catfish poacher by trade (who knew there was such a thing? Apparently there are rules in place to ensure the safety of scum-sucking bottom feeders in Louisiana; it is, therefore, a good place to start a law practice). J.D. was a dangerous dude and, unlike my grandfather, who was almost eighty, less likely to fall over dead at any moment. If I were to venture out into the deadly Louisiana Wilderness again,  he was the guy I wanted to hide behind. I went along this time with the confidence of one who knows that if things were to go bad, there was someone braver and stronger who knew his place and would therefore willingly die first.
  The drive went quickly enough and the stock pond looked promising. It was small, less than an acre, in the middle of a meadow of sorts, so I wouldn’t easily be ambushed by six hundred pound feral pigs looking to gnosh on my testicles, or inbred swampbillies looking to do the same. This might actually be fun, I thought as I found a spot along the bank and cast my line into the water.
  The fishing was very good. I had a stringer of keeper sized Crappie (so named for the way they taste; I hate to admit it, but though I love to catch fish, I won’t let any part of them, no matter how cleverly prepared or disguised, anywhere near my mouth, because they still taste like, well, fish) in half an hour. I caught another and, as I lifted the stringer out of water to add the latest catch to my haul, shrieked in terror as a large Water Moccasin hung off one of the fish I had caught. Despite my girlish cries and my violent shaking of the stringer of fish, the snake would not let go. Soon J.D. ran over, along with his friend, both no doubt intrigued by the chance to save an heretofore unbeknownst woman in distress.
  “Cottonmouth!  Ah’ll show ya whut we do with one o’ them.” I already knew what you did with one of them. You left it alone. J.D. reached down and, apparently relying on the snake to maintain its focus on the fish, grabbed it just behind the head and picked it up. The Moccasin tried to bite him, but he held it fast and firm, its mouth opened wide to reveal its fangs and the white color that gives it its name. It wrapped itself around his waist and legs as he held his grasp. I stood horrified at his stupidity, yet transfixed by the battle between man and serpent. As he maintained his hold behind the snake’s head, he used the other hand to straighten its body by pulling downward from head to tail.
  Now, I am a Christian man, and as such believe in God as creator of all things; to me, that the universe (humanity aside) exists in perfect interactive balance suggests a perfect creator, and that randomness, even with the crutch of nearly infinite time, is a much sillier proposition. There is, however, something to be said for the evolutionary theory of natural selection (whereby organisms best adapted to their environment tend to survive and therefore breed more); in the microcosm of back woods Louisiana, J.D. may have been top of the food chain. Clearly, though, my cousin was an idiot and not long for this world. There would, as a result, be fewer little J.D.’s around to die prematurely in the Louisiana wilderness, and eventually this particular strain of abject stupidity would die out.
  Finally, J.D. had the snake completely stretched out; it was almost the equivalent length of his wingspan. He held the tail and began swinging the snake in a vertical circle, then snapped it like a lion tamer using his whip. The snake’s head went flying over my left shoulder; J.D. tossed the body at my feet. It wriggled for several minutes before going still; I bet that J.D. would do the same were his head snapped off in like fashion.
  “That’s what ya do with a cottonmouth.” (No, that’s what you do. I scream like a little girl until someone as dumb as you comes to help). “Stay away from his mouth; he can still bite ya even tho’ he’s dead.” Dang it! Really? I was going to put my boys in there as a personal dare.
  With that, J.D. and his buddy stripped down and went swimming in the pond. The pond that had the snake in it. unbelievable. I thought about checking his pants for his truck keys, because if either man were bitten and poison needed to be sucked out of them, they would, of course, die and I would have to drive myself out of there. I had seen enough; I gathered my things and went to wait for them in the truck. As I sat there, I wondered who the first hillbilly was that tried that little trick, and how many died before they got it right? It’s like the first fisherman that caught a lobster and decided it was edible; how hungry must he have been, and at what point did it become a food staple?
  They took some time getting back to the truck; apparently there was a four-foot alligator somewhere on the farm that they were “lookin’ ta wrassle.” They couldn’t find it.
  As we drove back home, I resolved to decline the next time I was offered a chance to fish or otherwise put myself at unnecessary risk. As if on cue, J.D. mentioned that they were going “coon hunting” and would I like to come along?Frankly, I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but either derivative didn’t appeal to me and so I regretfully declined.
  I hope I don’t come off as being too condescending. I respect J.D. for being a man’s man, and by that I mean the type of man another man sends to willingly die in his place. I admired his fearlessness; he would have made a great foot soldier. J.D., if you’re reading this, you obviously went back for more schooling. I pray that with age came wisdom; hopefully there were a couple of J.D. , Jr’s to do your back woods bidding for you.
Posted in Christianity, Family, Humor, Louisiana, Religion, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

God, Don’t Let Me Die in Louisiana – Part I

Posted on December 8, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

Whenever my family and I would visit DeRidder, Louisiana, we would stay with my dad’s father, Charles A. Peddy. To me, he was Papa (pronounced “Paw-Paw”; no doubt a function of dialect). Papa was a small man, maybe 5’5″ tall, and one hundred thirty pounds soaking wet (this is the only way people are weighed in DeRidder, at least from May through September; the humidity is just ridiculous). He had been many things during his life, from Texas Ranger to good-for-nothing shiftless bastard, depending on who you asked. Sadly, those that described him in less than reverent tones were, by and large, those that knew him best; often criticisms of him arose from praise sessions regarding his deceased wife (pronounced Maw-Maw), who by all accounts was a God-fearing, saintly woman (I barely knew her; I only remember a hug that would crack a spine). Apparently, God had tested her faith by matching her with a scallywag heathen dog. She had passed, and her reward was the kingdom of heaven. Papa, conversely, was doomed to pass through the gates of hell despite having known her. No matter; I knew him as a guy, in his late seventies, who still dragged his riding mower around on a trailer and cut the massive lawns surrounding stately colonial mansions set in and around DeRidder. To me he was tough, fearless, and as comfortable as a racoon in and around the swamps and forests of western Louisiana. Where most men his age were simply grateful for another day and used immobility to stave off death, Papa was on the go, facing life head on with the energy of a man one third his age.

Papa and I had something in common: we both loved to fish. Where I come from (Arizona), fishing is often just that: an attempt to entice a finned creature, unseen and underwater (and assumed to be in attendance), to take an offered bait, with often little or no success. In Louisiana, there was never any question of success; it could just as easily be called “catching” rather than fishing. No one gets skunked fishing in Louisiana, unless they’re so drunk they forget to bait the hook. Once, when I was eighteen, Papa offered to take me fishing on the Old River (I’m not sure if it was an official name, or if he just called it that). I jumped at the chance.

I quickly found that driving with Papa was an adventure all its own. Whenever he would point out something of interest to me along the way, he would invariably turn the wheel of his truck in that direction; on the narrow, two lane back roads upon which we traveled, we often would end up driving on the shoulder of the opposite lane. I have no doubt that the skeletal remains of several unfortunate pedestrians lay in the woods alongside roads my grandfather had used. He also suffered from Parkinson’s disease; it manifested itself in the slow, halting way in which he spoke. Combine that with the fact that he never put his teeth in (if he had any); I couldn’t understand a word he said. Our conversations, as we drove through the woods together, likely went something like this:

“So…you…scrawny…hippie. Your…hair…halfway…down…your…butt (it was). Hope…you…ain’t…a…fairy.

“I’m not sure. I think so.”

You…see…me…knock…that…guy…out…his…shoes…and…into…them…bushes?…Hoowee!You…won’t…tell…nobody…right?

“Oh, absolutely.”

Soon we came upon a little dirt road before a small bridge, pulled off into a small clearing, and backed the boat trailer into the river. We unhooked the small aluminum boat, which I held in place by rope while he parked his truck and trailer. Both of us climbed in; Papa started his small outboard motor, and off we went.

This was not a river, by any obvious definition. There was no discernible current, no gurgling sounds as water churned around jutting rocks, and no waves or surface movement in the water other than the wake caused by the boat and motor. After two or three minutes, we had already made several turns, and I was hopelessly turned around. Our safety and ability to get back to the truck was now entirely in the hands of an ancient man who, despite his penchant for living, could slump over dead at any moment. This was no river; we were in a swamp, complete with brown water, partially submerged trees and overhanging branches covered in moss, all surrounded by thick, impassable forest. If something happened to Papa, my only hope would be to be discovered by some family of inbreds who, after reenacting the rape scene from Deliverance (starring me as Ned Beatty), would have mercy on me and dump me somewhere within sight of civilization. I was getting a little nervous.

Things quickly got worse. This swamp was filled with all manner of foul creature. There were several different groups of huge, mean-looking feral pigs standing at the water’s edge or rooting in the bushes; getting out of the boat to pee was not going to be an option. We went putt-putting under several different tree branches hanging over the water; each seemed to have its own resident snake basking in the sun. A rather large snake swam in a zig-zag pattern alongside our boat for several yards; though horrified, I was somehow transfixed by its apparent lack of concern over our relative proximity.

“Water…rattler.” Muttered papa, without inflection.What the…water rattler? I thought. They’re cool with water? Are you freakin’ kidding me? Why the hell are we here, then? God, don’t let me die in Louisiana.

“Really? I didn’t know they liked water. Huh.” I managed. I hoped I’d managed to stifle the little girlish whimper that rose up in my throat before he could hear it. It was important to me that he not know I was afraid; he obviously wasn’t. It occurred to me that he might not necessarily grasp the situation; stupid people can appear brave when in fact they’re just stupid.

“This…is…a…good…spot.” Papa shut off the motor, and dumped a coffee can filled with cement and attached to a rope over the side.

  To die as any, I thought as he handed me a cane pole. It had only a few feet of line tied to it, with a hook on the end, and no reel. I had never fished this way. This guy doesn’t know what he’s doing. I can’t even cast, I thought. I decided to make the most of it, however; anything to get my mind off of everything around me. As it turns out, he did know what he was doing,  and you don’t need to cast. There’s a lot going on under the water on the Old River, even right under your boat.

Lake fishing in Arizona is without mystery. When you hook something, it’s “Oh, I got a bass”, “feels like a catfish”, or “it’s a boot with no laces.” Fishing on the Old River was like fishing off the bottom of the ocean; you never knew what you were pulling up. My first two catches were, in succession, a large snapping turtle, which looked like something from Satan’s pond (“snappers…ain’t…no…damn…good.”) and a two foot long alligator gar (are you kidding me?). Both looked decidedly evil, capable of inflicting great pain, and both stared at me through cold, soulless eyes. Furthermore, both clearly wanted a piece of me. I did catch a bunch of fish that day, probably over a dozen, but I don’t remember any of them, only these two freaks of nature. Is there any place safe on this damn river? I whined to myself.

That thought was answered fairly quickly when I noticed something odd along the shoreline directly across from the boat, perhaps sixty yards away. It was a clearing of sorts, like a beach. However, the beach was black in color and as I focused my eyes upon it, it appeared to move.

“Cottonmouths. Bunch…of…’em.” Papa said, matter of factly.

  Oh, yay! Sure enough, there were dozens upon dozens of water Moccasins, an extremely aggressive and venomous snake, basking in the sun at water’s edge. As if on cue, a very large representative of said species began to swim directly at the boat. Papa had a .22 rifle on board, and started shooting as it swam closer. I tried to appear calm, but as the snake came within ten feet or so and its intent to enter the boat became increasingly apparent, I dispensed with any remaining signs of feigned manhood. As I jumped to my feet and began a more than passable impersonation of Michael Flattely in Lord of the Dance, Papa tried to shoot the offending serpent as the boat rocked back and forth. Just before it reached the boat and I jumped out of it, the snake disappeared below the surface.

“Screw this!” I yelled. “I want to go. Now!”

“Heh…heh…heh.” It was obvious that my grandfather had perhaps seen through the thin facade of masculinity behind which I had attempted to hide. Papa started the motor, and we rode in silence all the way back to the truck. I was impressed that he seemed unafraid of everything in that swamp and that he knew the way back. I suppose in retrospect that it’s possible to be really stupid and still have a good sense of direction.

I was so relieved to see the truck as we rounded the final turn, but as we got out of the boat, I could tell there was trouble. There were two other trucks parked in the same clearing, and behind them stood six or seven inbred hillbilly giants (my perception at the time) laughing and drinking beer. We went about our business, putting our gear in the truck and loading the boat onto the trailer without incident. It seemed we might get out alive until Papa went to the back of the truck for something, paused and then walked straight over to the group of men.

“Which…one…you…sumbitches…stole…my…tools.” It was not a question, but a statement, and unlike everything else he had said in my presence, I understood every word. So did they.

“****(take) off, old man, nobody touched none of your ****(things).” Drawled one of the men. I quickly surveyed the situation. A decidedly old, small man, accompanied by a tall, scrawny, long-haired eighteen year old, was challenging a group of large, cow-tipping rednecks and accusing them of stealing from him. God, don’t let me die in Louisiana. I wondered if Papa’s cries of pain and anguish would haunt my days if I ran away while they pummeled him about the head and shoulders; I can’t tell you how close I came to being able to tell you now whether or not they did.

Thankfully, though, Papa went back to talking unintelligibly, and the hicks seemed to regard him with some amusement. He motioned for me to get in the truck, got in himself, muttered one last mystery phrase to the group, and off we went.

I felt bad for him then, as we rode together in silence. He’d had those tools forever, and they wouldn’t be cheap to replace; he wasn’t exactly rolling in it. I learned something about my grandfather that day: he really wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone, and good-for-nothing heathen dog or not, I told myself I’d try to be more like him in that respect. I tried to think of something to say that might make him feel better, when all at once he pointed to his left, muttered “Over…yonder…is…the…( something or someone)…place”, and we were on the shoulder of the oncoming lane and everything was back as it should be.

Posted in Humor, Louisiana, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Driving West Texas: A State Colo-rectal Exam

Posted on December 4, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

During high school and college, I would on occasion and at the behest of my father, go along on road trips from Tucson to DeRidder, Louisiana to see his family. Either my older brother, sister or both would come as well. The trip was a long one by any standard; twenty-four hours of driving, give or take, with no overnight stop. Motels were merely blips of scenery, something to gaze longingly at as we drove past. These trips were a marathon, a test of endurance and enduring stupidity. Perhaps the money wasn’t there, but more likely dad was just cheap; he would let my brother take over at the wheel, sleep a couple of hours, then take over again. Stops were for gas ( petroleum and intestinal ) and crappy food; these were brief, treasured interludes of  relief in an otherwise endless foray into monotony.

Somehow, my father managed to space these trips far enough apart for me to forget how painful they were and to allow a sense of excitement to creep in. Soon after the driving began, however, I would feel the sharp, stinging backhand of reality. We were a snail crossing a football field; it seemed we were never going to get there, and it was so boring. I liked to read, but it was hard in a car; the 1974 Ford Maverick wasn’t famous for its smooth ride (actually, wasn’t famous for anything). I’d always have to stop reading and have a look around, in case I was missing something (I wasn’t, other than some semblance of a life).

When I was twelve, I went camping with my older brothers and their friends. At the beginning of the trip I found a very naughty (and therefore instantly compelling) book entitled The Reluctant Bride under the back seat. That was the shortest, best and most educational road trip of my entire life. Unfortunately, Dad was used to my relentless whining and complaining on road trips. It was an unspoken game between us; when I was a child I would say annoying things (“When we gonna get there?”,  “I gotta pee, daddy”, “I wanna motel with a pool”) until he broke and starting flailing around the back seat with his right hand, all the while keeping his left hand on the wheel and eyes on the road. Even as an adult, I still said annoying things (“I gotta drop one”, “This trip blows”), so a book commanding my attention to that extent would arouse suspicion, and in any event The Reluctant Bride was  out of print by then.

Someone driving through  far-southeast Arizona and southern New Mexico along Interstate 10 might consider the area a large rash on the bum of America. At least the rash is broken up here and there by a series of  boils jutting up from the surface; there is, however bland, something to look at. In west Texas, however, there is simply nothing in the way of scenery. Once you head east from El Paso (Spanish for “The Paso” and shortened from “I think I’ll Paso”) there is literally nothing to please the eye other than nightfall, unless you have a fetish for dirt and scrub brush. The landscape is unendingly flat and without feature. Frankly, I don’t know why dad bothered moving over to sleep; assuming the Maverick’s front end was aligned properly, he could have napped at the wheel for two hours and still been on the road when he woke up (based on personal trials, this is the only place I have found where that will work). I remember seeing a billboard for a town that laid claim to being the home of the world’s biggest piece of toast. So desperate for distraction was I by then that I almost begged for a look, but ultimately thought better of it. I sensed a trap; the billboard may have been put up by a clan of inbred mutant cannibals who knew that anyone dumb enough to go looking for big toast would never be missed. So on we went.

To give Texas some grace, after five hundred miles or so things begin to improve as one approaches San Antonio, and by Houston rocks and dirt have given way to grass and trees. My spirits would begin to lift, as by this point it was clear that progress was being made. Quickly, though, the mood would sour as we invariably hit rush hour traffic (5 a.m-10p.m.) in Houston. One time in particular, I recall, was especially awful. We were stopped dead in traffic. We might have gone a quarter-mile in an hour; my father, being a Peddy and therefore predestined to poor decision-making, invariably placed us in the slowest lane. He was doing a slow burn in the driver’s seat, and he clearly was in no mood to be trifled with.

“I gotta pee, daddy.” (Some things never change). My dad expressed with a sweeping gesture of his hands the obvious: we would need a monster truck to reach any exit.

A few minutes passed. “Dude. I gotta pee. Now.”

“Well, hold it, dammit!” Daddy was mean.

I may have threatened to roll down the window and take care of business then and there; my brother said something clever like “I used to change your diaper. Good luck with that.” Brother was mean, too. By this time I had reached the point of no return; disaster was imminent. As most of us have experienced, there are several “warnings” before an imminent peeing of the pants, when it seems that the calamitous moment has come, and then the bladder backs off; I had run out of these. I took one last desperate look around the back seat for something, anything, I could use for a depository.

After another half hour or so, traffic let up and we started moving again. To his credit, my father started to head for an exit, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. The fact that I used his change jar to relieve myself became a point of contention between us for the duration of the trip (in retrospect, I suppose I should have taken the coins out first. And the bills.).

As you continue east on I-10, the Sabine river marks the state line between Texas and Louisiana. After crossing it, DeRidder, Louisiana is a mere forty miles away. I always enjoyed this part of the trip, mostly because it meant it was ninety-nine percent  over, but also because it was pretty. Heavily wooded and evergreen, Louisiana is Eden compared to the hell of west Texas. With the border crossing came a renewed sense of adventure, and Louisiana never failed to deliver. I’ll share with you some of my favorite adventures there when I begin the series Lord, Don’t Let Me Die in Louisiana, coming sooner or later.

Posted in Humor, Louisiana, Texas, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

My First Car

Posted on November 29, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

Racy Red; mine was Grandma Gray

My first car was a two door 1971 Toyota Corolla. I paid four hundred dollars for it, which in 1981 was, I believe, four hundred dollars. Even back then, for that kind of money you took your chances. Mine was gray in color, with a couple of dents here and there, some rust, beige over peach plaid upholstery, and the right headlight aimed strangely upwards and to the right. At night it looked as though you’d shined your flashlight in the face of Billy Ray Bob as he hunted bullfrogs in the swamp. Being at the time completely ignorant of east Asian language or culture, I named her Wang (this is a Chinese name, not Japanese; it was, at least at the time, a vague reference to one’s manhood, however, and so I thought myself most clever). Being also at the time very poor, in college and devoid of any sense of responsibility,  I resolved to drive her maintenance free until she died.

Wang simply refused to quit. Sure, she had her idiosyncrasies. If she hit a bump in the road at a speed over twenty five miles per hour, Wang would start to shake violently and uncontrollably, as though she were having a grand mal seizure (judging by the horrified stares of fellow drivers, this was noticeable from outside the car as well). Once, while driving in a driving monsoon, she inexplicably turned three hundred sixty degrees, ending up in the same lane, traveling in the same direction and at the same rate of speed, as though nothing had happened; I was merely along for the ride . The gear shift shroud was torn; I didn’t notice until I hit a very large puddle at thirty five miles an hour and a two-foot geyser of water shot up between the seats. Soon after I got her, the upholstery on the driver’s seat tore; various springs and wires poked through like germinating weeds. On several occasions I was alternately gaffed scrotally or violated in other unmentionable ways; I regarded these incidents as Wang merely being playful. She was the beer-soused bar wench, drunkenly prodding you as you walked by.

Wang loved me unconditionally, though I treated her horribly.Trash soon filled the floorboards. Once, a friend pulled some newspaper from under the back seat and, pretending to read, feigned surprise and yelled, “Japs bomb Pearl Harbor!”… Well, I thought it was funny.  Wang developed a nasty goiter on her right front tire; this blight seemed to exacerbate the shaking issue. It grew and grew until one day the tire exploded, right in front of a bus stop. Wang shortened the lives of at least ten bus passengers that day; I could see some of them encouraging me with shaking fists and extended fingers as I rode on the rim to a tire shop one block up (she would never have inconvenienced me by blowing her tire in the middle of nowhere). There I made the only equipment purchase in the four years I owned that car: A used tire, decidedly cheap and of a slightly different size than the other three.

One day I took Wang to the local “Iffy” Lube for her only oil change in the four years I had her; the mechanic came into the lobby. Strangely, he seemed to instinctively know to whom Wang belonged.

  “Sir, I went to drain your oil; I pulled the drain plug, and nothing came out.” In retrospect, this may have been an attempt to embarrass me in front of the other customers.
  “Sweet. Then don’t charge me the waste disposal fee.” Keenly aware of my own poverty, I was only able to seize upon that which was most relevant (to me). I showed him. No one embarrasses me but me. Wang, faithful as always, had never complained by flashing on her oil light; she was content to make do with whatever oil she had gummed up inside her.
  Eventually, I got a newer, slightly less crappy car, and Wang was relegated to the far side of the driveway. There she sat for the next two years, until someone came to my door one day and asked if I wanted to sell her. I had to jump the battery, but when I did, unbelievably, she started. I took her for a few laps around the block and, after a few farts and shudders, I felt better and she started running the way she always had. And so to reward her for her faithfulness, I sold her for four hundred dollars which, in 1985, was still four hundred dollars.
  I think that in a way, Wang and I are a lot alike (though I’m older and weigh only slightly less). I’m getting grayer every year, I too look bad in beige and peach plaid (but I can’t wait to wear shorts of this pattern when I retire, along with long black socks and sandals); I’ve got a couple of dents here and there, and like her my upholstery is stretched to its limits. More importantly, however, like Wang, I think I’m  faithful and dependable. Though I’m down to one speed (mosey), I almost always come through for those that rely upon me, at least in my own good time. Hopefully, they’ll be more faithful to me than I was to her and won’t replace me with a newer, slightly less crappy guy.
Posted in Automobiles, Cars, Humor, Toyota, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

A Time to Give Thanks

Posted on November 25, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

It’s Thanksgiving week, and on top of that, today is our twenty-third wedding anniversary. It is proper on this holiday to remind ourselves what we are thankful for. As I sit here, belly distended, still miserably full (yet strangely content) after the four-hour unbridled assault I launched upon my innards on Thanksgiving day, I find that my anniversary (aside from being yet another reminder of my advancing age) is symbolic of that for which I am most thankful.

I met my wife in 1983, while I was a fifth-year sophomore in college. I worked at a small pharmacy delivering prescriptions, and she was a receptionist at a veterinarian’s office.  I would, on occasion, deliver vaccines and medicines to her office and never failed to notice how pretty and friendly she was.  She had a very wholesome, girl next door look about her, and it was clear that the other workers there adored her. I started to leave flowers I’d picked from customer’s bushes (“Hey! Get away from my roses! And I’m missing three pills from my prescription!”) at the front desk. After a couple of months, she stopped by work one day; we talked at our cars and started to get to know each other.

We could not have been more different: she was sweet, kind, and exceedingly good-natured. Moreover, she was a Christian. I was, at the time, decidedly not. Up to this point, my exposure to Christianity had been mostly limited to the Bible-thumping evangelists on the campus mall. This approach I found less than appealing (some spittle-launching guy, veins popping, pointing his finger at me, a complete stranger, telling me I was a sinner and doomed to the fire for eternity); I thought I was a pretty cool guy, while he was creepy and scary and possessed by a spirit of another sort. This young lady, by contrast, was an ambassador of God’s shining love; she had a calm, sweet spirit, with the quiet confidence of faith set in stone, all placed in a gorgeous package and wrapped with a pink bow. She looked and acted like no other girl I had ever known. I was sold. On the package, anyway.

Five years later, we were married; I was tenacious, she a poor judge of character. Our five-year courtship was not without its problems, however. Her parents were pretty good at character assessment, and I was very slow to come around on the issue of faith. Many of the things I did back then were in direct conflict with being a Christian man. It’s hard to let go of what has come to define you; these issues seeped into the early years of our marriage, like broccoli juice into an otherwise perfect plate of steak and mashed potatoes (if you like broccoli, your taste buds were somehow compromised and you wouldn’t understand the comparison). I’m still nowhere near where I should be, but I hope I’m a better man than I was. If I am, it’s because she made me that way.

My wife is still the same package; she’s still so pretty, still an ambassador for God. He is revealed through her in many different ways: her devotion to her children and family;  the six orphaned cats who have invaded my home; the way she kisses pictures in the newspaper (usually of an animal, child or elderly person who has touched her in some way); her love of nature and God’s creation, and her undying opposition to anything that threatens it; and her willingness to help anyone in time of need. We are the poster couple for the notion that opposites attract; where her heart is full, robust and exposed to all that might injure it, mine by comparison is shrunken, black, cold and impenetrable.

So this Thanksgiving, I give thanks that my wife is my wife. Honestly, I don’t bring much to the table; where I get breast and thigh (it’s a metaphor, filthy person), she gets neck and giblets (see?). She is a gift, my reward, though like most things He gives me, I don’t deserve it. Even better, because I got to be with her, she saved my everlasting life. There’s no question she’s gotten the short end of the deal; I hope she doesn’t often think of it. I’m pretty sure that rather than gift, I am her cross to bear; her reward will come much, much later.

Posted in Humor, Marriage | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here!, Part V

Posted on November 20, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

Gregory Peccary

Since my encounter with the rattlesnake (part IV), I’ve changed my routine when walking through the desert surrounding my customer’s homes. Before then, I had relied upon the sounds inherent in transporting my considerable girth through bushes, cacti and around exterior walls. Clearly, though, grunts, groans and exclamations (Ding-dang it, that hurt; heavens to betsy, how’d it poke me there?; sun of the beach, stupid cactus) were not enough to adequately warn foul desert creatures of my  impending arrival. I have since added exaggerated stomping and whistling patriotic tunes ( Battle Hymn of the Republic, Star-Spangled Banner) to my repertoire.  In my scraggly work garb, I look like a homeless guy mocking the trombonist at the Veteran’s Day Parade.

  Not more than a month or two after the snake incident, I showed up at a home in the central foothills. This was a lavish dwelling, easily 8,000 s.f., set in three acres of lush, thick desert.  As was often the case, the backyard was accessible only by walking the quarter-mile around the side of the house. It’s impossible to carry all my equipment in one trip; I credit homes such as these for helping maintain my calendar pin-up figure (DeKalb County Fair’s Best in Show, 2010).
  As I approached the first corner of the monstrous house, I became vaguely aware of a strange, musky,unpleasant odor. Smells of this nature, sadly, occasionally emanate from me (the odor of things that have attached themselves: brackish pond water, stuff I’ve stepped in – pick up after your pets, people!).  Unfortunately, I was too focused on hitting the right notes in The Halls of Montezuma to realize the significance. When I rounded the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks; my bones crackled in startled alarm. If Rich walks in the forest and no one is around to hear him (I wouldn’t be in the forest alone – creepy), do his knees make a sound? Resoundingly, yes.
  I had marched straight into a very large herd (over 20) of Javelina, a wild pig native to the Sonoran Desert. Normally skittish, they can be very fierce in defense of their young, deploying large vertical tusks on either side of the jaw to ravage their enemies. I quickly surveyed the group and saw at least four or five piglets among  them. Everyone seemed intent on flight, however, so I slowly released my cheeks and allowed my pants to sag  posteriorly as they normally do (my “ampleness” tends to flock abdominally. Six packs are for wimps; pony kegs are where it’s at. Right, ladies?…Anyone? Anyone at all?). Suddenly, I noticed a movement to my right, along the wall, and there he stood: a large male, a mere five feet away. He was easily the largest of them, the alpha male, and he had clearly stepped up to address this threat to his group. His coarse, gray hair stood on end, I assume to make himself look more formidable, as if that were necessary or possible. He reminded me of the creepy dinosaur who flared his neck flaps at Neumann before blinding him with black puke in Jurassic Park.
   The other pigs hadn’t left, but merely moved away to give him his space. It was like the knife fight in West Side Story, only it was Pigs instead of Jets, and all of my Shark gang buddies were apparently even more chicken than I and all had found something better to do. We were tied together at the wrist (hoof), ready to do battle, but I had brought only a shopvac and extension cord to a knife fight. The javelina then made a strange clacking noise with his mouth, as though he were noshing on Pinocchio’s testicles as a preview to what he had in mind for me. He stared at me with one eye and head turned sideways, and moved closer still. If the pig was fearful of me, he was showing none of it. I, on the other hand, was absolutely terrified. I could picture my two boys on display atop his tusks, like the decapitated heads perched atop poles in Apocalypse Now. While I stood, frozen, trying to decide what to do, my instincts pushed me aside and took over. In an effort to confuse the boar, my body released a scent trail, which ran warmly down the inside of my left leg. I verrry slowly backed up until I was around the corner and out of his sight, then dropped everything and ran (“ran” is a relative word; I probably looked like Quasimodo in a bit of a hurry). I expected at any second to be violated from behind, but I made it to my truck unscathed (an EKG at that moment likely would have shown otherwise).
  After about twenty minutes, the herd crossed the driveway behind my truck. I could almost hear them snickering at me as they passed. In one respect I felt somewhat emasculated having backed down from our showdown, but someone had to. Frankly, it never occurred to me to hurt the pig, or the rattlesnake before him; I was invading their space, and they were merely defending themselves. If I see wildlife in the desert from a safe vantage point, it never fails to give me a thrill; to me, it’s one of the great things about living in Tucson.
  That’s it, then; my close encounters with Arizona’s scariest and most dangerous wildlife. I’ve had others (I once tried to gently prod a Gila Monster off a roadway; the sight of a very large, poisonous lizard crawling purposefully with a four-foot piece of pvc pipe in its mouth is something few experience), but I’m sure that by now you more than get the point. If drug smuggling illegals or headless corpses strewn about the desert (Part I) won’t dissuade you, perhaps the possibility of being killed or ravaged by indigenous wildlife will keep you from coming to Arizona.
 
Posted in Arizona, Humor | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here, Part IV

Posted on November 16, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

Snakeus Triedabiteus

And now, without further ado, the most vicious creatures with which I have had direct confrontation and why, therefore, you should think before moving to Arizona:

  I was working in the desert on the northeast side of Tucson and was walking around the side of a house to get to the backyard (most of my customers, being at least average judges of character, insist I take this route). Now mind you, I’m a fairly big guy (6’2″ when I get up, 5’10” by bedtime) and a shade (of a building) over two hundred pounds. Anything that lives in Arizona’s desert can see, feel or hear me coming a mile away, which made what happened next, in my mind, a clear breach of animal etiquette.
  As I rounded the corner of the house, directly in front of me lay a large rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike (see above. Not the actual snake; mine was way, way bigger). It was six feet long if it was an inch (I don’t really get this cliche, but I assume it’s mandatory when retelling the size of something). It had to have felt the thundering vibration of my steps as I approached, but chose not to shake the maracas on the end of its tail. I found this to be decidedly unfair; had it done so, I would have simply gone back to my truck, changed my shorts, and stomped loudly (and slowly) around the other side of the house. Thankfully, God was clearly with me at this moment. Not only did he reveal to me the offending serpent, but by allowing me to fail over and over again throughout my life, He instilled in me a tendency to walk with head hung low and eyes downcast. The danger was imminent, however, and I had only time to jump as the snake struck. I have envisioned myself at this moment as the Chow Yun Fat (Yun is Chinese for “makes me”) character in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon: floating through the air in effortless grace, my arms extended, hands pointed downward, one leg slightly bent as I soundlessly landed thirty feet away. Reality was somewhat different. As I cleared the snake, I landed leaning forward, so my “effortless flight” likely included ten feet of stumbling, followed by two barrel rolls and a momentary hooking of my sac as I tumbled past some mesquite branches. I remember none of it; there I stood (ta-da!), thirty feet away, watching him slither away into the brush, feeling more alive than ever and all the more grateful for it.
  As I cleared the striking rattler, I distinctly remember him hitting my shoe, but I found no corresponding marks to record the incident (other than a spattering of my own poo). In retrospect, I probably hit one shoe with the other as I jumped. No matter; he did strike at me, and somehow he missed. I thank the Lord whenever I think of it. Though I likely wouldn’t have died, a rattlesnake bite can really wreck your world (often up to one year to recover, and possible amputation of the affected extremity; this is why I don’t pee in bushes). It can ruin you financially as well, depending on your insurance (or lack of it); the cost of care, including antivenom, can easily exceed one hundred thousand dollars. If all this doesn’t make you think twice about coming to Arizona, you must have a lot on your mind. Or you’re stupid.
  Though I wish to extricate myself from this series as much as you, I must wait until next time to tell you of my other frightful encounters with Arizona’s deadly wildlife.  If you’re like me, your attention span has its limits; I’ll likely test those limits, and your patience, in Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here, Part V.
Posted in Arizona, Humor | Tagged | 2 Comments

Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here!, Part III

Posted on November 13, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

I promised in Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here!, Part II to tell of my harrowing personal encounters with some of the most tenacious, vicious wildlife in Arizona. Though I haven’t had a terrifying personal experience with either, I would be remiss not to first mention the two perhaps most formidable creatures roaming our desert: The Mountain Lion (Puma) and the Bobcat. I have seen both in the wild, and from what I consider a safe distance (inside my truck, on a customer’s porch and the railing at the Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum). Both are terrifying in their ability to ravage someone with claws and fangs, and in the case of the Puma, to partially consume them. They are, after all, cats; anyone who has owned a cat and teased it (I submit the following logical equation: if A, then B) knows how much pain Whiskers can inflict once she gets going. And these are steroidal cats: a male Bobcat can weigh over 40 pounds, the male Puma over 200. Clearly, anyone roaming the desert with shoestrings untied or pulling a ball of yarn is asking for trouble.

Two or three years ago several Mountain Lions were spotted, over the course of a couple of weeks, hanging in and around Sabino Canyon, a popular hiking spot north of Tucson. Apparently, those in charge surmised that lions allowing themselves to be seen by more than one clumsy, dim-witted human (in nature, this describes nearly all of us) was a sign that the cats had lost their natural fear of man. They decided that the lions had to be removed, lest humanity lose another dummy.  Furthermore, they decided that tranquilizing and relocating these animals was an awful lot of work and, in any event, shooting to kill was way more fun (there are a lot of hunters in wildlife management. Hmm…). Whatever the reason, the canyon was closed and in they went, guns blazing, and came to our collective “rescue” before a single threatening hiss was heard. By now I suspect a much more stealthy and therefore dangerous group of cougars has replaced their predecessors in the canyon, having heard from survivors how mean those clumsy, dim-witted hairless canyon apes can be.

Not very long ago, two old men (let’s call them Earl and Vern)  were playing golf at a private club in the northern foothills of Tucson. As they walked onto the tee box of the seventh hole, a rabid Bobcat broke from the underbrush, jumped onto Vern and began to ravage him mercilessly.

“Well, Vern, you had a ten on that last hole, so the tee is yours.” Said Earl, his voice shaky with age and the exertion of having shuffled from cart to tee.

“Aaaaaaaaah! Mother of God, the pain! Aaaaaaah!” Answered Vern.

“Oh, ready golf? Okay then, I’ll hit.” And with that, Earl duck-hooked his drive into the patio set of a home that, along with several others, lined the left fairway.

“Aaaaaaah! Help! Somebody Help!” Apparently, Vern was in some distress.

“Relax, Vern. I got lots of balls.” After circling unsteadily three or four times in search of his tee, Earl looked up and saw the terrible event unfolding, and quickly teetered to action. He took a couple of swings at the offending beast in Vern’s defense. The effect was not what he had hoped, however, and so he waddled off to the cart for a different club (he had grabbed his 3-iron by mistake, which he had never swung particularly well; in his mind, this explained the duck-hook).

“Aaaaaaah. Gurgle…Aaaaagh..” Sputtered Vern.

Driver in hand (it had a much bigger sweet spot, and being the longest club, allowed him to engage the beast from a safer distance), Earl reentered the fray, and after a few dozen hearty swings (and a few mulligans), the bobcat lay dead on the ground. Earl helped Vern to the cart, then circled around to the driver’s side.

“Holy cow, Vern. That was something else. We gotta get you to a hospital. Sorry I hit you all those times – that booger was fast. Just hold tight. Thank God we only have two holes left.”

“Gurgle…(whimper)…uuunnnh…” Managed Vern.

The attack did happen, and the bobcat was rabid. Can you imagine the abject terror Vern experienced, at the mercy of both  brain-sizzled supercat bent on destruction and Earl, who is clearly not a good golfer? Admittedly, these are likely two of the foulest beasts native to Arizona (the cats, not Vern and Earl), and I’ve had issue with neither. But I could, which explains the adrenaline-inspired goosebumps that initialize scrotally and my sphincter bleating a spontaneous alarm whenever there’s a rustling in the bushes behind me (it’s almost always a bunny. Though they’ve scared me more often than any other creature, and after much consideration, they did not make my list). I’m Lame, you say; but wait until you hear of my close encounters, which I cross my heart and hope to die promise (the highest level of promise) to tell you about in Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here, Part IV.

All stuffed predators are posed this way

Posted in Humor | Tagged | 1 Comment

Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here!, Part II

Posted on November 10, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

So. Let’s get right to it; a truly creepy reason for not coming to Arizona, carelessly strewn headless corpses, skeleton-faced Governor and drug runners (see part I) aside: …well, first, I feel it’s important to dispel the notion that Arizona’s desert is barren wasteland, all thorny cactus, dirt and rocks. That’s Phoenix’s desert, and we don’t go there. The desert around Tucson is thick and lush, as deserts go. Sure it’s hot sometimes, and there’s not a lot of water around (the latter feature, I would think, is where the “desert” distinction is earned). A great deal of it, however, is a unique and freakish forest of sorts: lots of native trees and bushes, with towers of stately saguaros standing guard throughout, all scattered around washes, hills, and impressive canyons spiked with generous outcroppings of rock. The predominant color, as you look down upon the Tucson valley from the mountains that surround it, is green. It’s actually quite beautiful. Fortunately, the freeway that affords most people who pass through their only view of the city, shows Tucson on hands and knees, under the kitchen sink. Even the hottest plumber (who might that be? There should be a contest.) looks nasty with butt crack exposed. Were it not for I-10 skirting the near-west and south sides (Tucson’s armpit and anus, respectively), we would be overrun.

So, that being said, a really terrifying reason for avoiding Arizona, and the Tucson area in particular, is this: our aforementioned desert, with all its lushness and inherent quality as effective cover, is teeming with all manner of vicious, fanged, razor-clawed and unfairly quick beasts capable of ensuring your demise in most agonizing fashion. Add to this already formidable repertoire a complete lack of any sense of morality, guilt, or the natural order of things (i.e., man as master of all, top of the food chain), and you have a recipe for disaster. Now toss into this bubbling stew of impending death a sprinkling of some of the wealthiest among us, who plop a custom home into the most pristine areas available to avoid having to look at or live near those of us less fortunate. These are the people, by and large, for whom I work (I co-own a business that builds, services and maintains custom water features). I work outdoors, obviously, and have therefore become fodder for all that hide in the undergrowth surrounding these homes, waiting in silent ambush. As a result, I am ninja; all senses fine-tuned, ever vigilant.

Now, you may be thinking that I sound a bit like a big sissy who fears his own shadow(which varies in appearance, depending on the time of day, from dairy truck to elongated bowling pin). I submit to you that I fear no man; even the largest and most insane of them have the same natural weapons and vulnerabilities as I. I have engaged them before, and while I haven’t always won, I never felt like I didn’t have a chance (I’m sure that more than once, those in attendance might have disagreed) and at least I had a say in the matter. Not so with all these wild animals. Who knows what they’re capable of? What are their weaknesses? Do they have any? If attacked by a male, can I kick him in the sac with the same debilitating result? In most cases, he’s four-legged and not affording me the proper angle. Even if I get lucky and nail him, will it have the desired effect? These guys run around with the boys fully exposed all the time and probably whack them on all sorts of things. And the lack of any moral compass; when he gains the upper hand (inevitably), will he stop? Or am I to be ravaged beyond recognition? When I hike with my family, they chide me for my constant warnings to stay vigilant. Well, when the attack occurs, who do we all defer to? Yeah, that’s right. It’s a huge responsibility and very stressful knowing that fleeing in the face of danger is afforded me only after all the others have already employed it. And I’m the slowest!

I’m certain I’ve convinced you that I’m not being irrational. In the event that I haven’t, I have had a number of personal encounters with some of the worst the desert has to offer, which I will share with you. The fact that I am still here is ample testimony to both God’s love for me and my own keen, ninja-like sense of survival. Unfortunately, I’ve blathered on for too long once again, and so I promise to tell you of my near-death experiences battling Arizona’s most dangerous animals in Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here!, Part III, coming sooner or later.

Posted in Humor | Tagged | 2 Comments

Scary Arizona – Don’t Come Here!, Part I

Posted on November 7, 2011 by Thestrugglershandbook

Artist's Rendering - Governor of ArizonaThanks to our wonderful ambassador of goodwill, Governor Jan Brewer, who looks like a Dio de los Muertos( Day of the Dead )Barbie doll, Arizona is already known to be too dangerous to even visit, much less reside in.  According to her, our desert is littered with headless corpses. As if that weren’t bad enough, every immigrant crossing said desert has drugs strapped to their backs. You would think an abundance of the former might dissuade an influx of the latter; apparently our illegal immigrants aren’t good about warning the others back home. Then again, it’s hard to warn someone when you’re a headless corpse. Just think of all the free drugs out there, if you don’t mind prying them off a decomposing, maggot-ridden body. I think I could do it, but even though it sounds like they’re everywhere, you’d most likely have to hike around to find one( hardly any roads, and the ones lying next to roads are probably already picked over ). This sounds like a lot of work for someone of my girth and, in any event, I am of course a law-abiding citizen and would have no use for them. By “them”, naturally, I mean the drugs, not the bodies( as far as I know, there is no secondary market for decomposing, maggot-ridden, headless corpses).

But I digress. This particular post isn’t about Arizona’s Governor. By the way, she has a book out, entitled  Scorpions for Breakfast( I can picture her sitting at her table in the morning, with the creepy arachnids crawling in and out of her eye holes, mouth and sleeves). It is also not about how Arizona’s otherwise pristine Sonoran Desert is riddled with rotting Mexicans lying on top of bundles of marijuana, cocaine, heroin and methamphetamine( clearly, I am out of the loop, drug culture-wise; these are the only ones I can think of). No, this post was to have been about another, even creepier reason for avoiding Arizona altogether; unfortunately, it will have to wait until next time, because I’ve spent entirely too much time rambling on about Governors, drugs and headless corpses.

In closing, please understand that I make no assertions as to the general quality of our state’s leadership; this is not a political blog, and as I have mentioned before, I do not keep up on current events, particularly those of a political or generally relevant nature. I feel comfortable saying, however, that the present administration may have had a negative effect on the tourism and housing industries in Arizona. Though my business depends entirely upon the improvement of the latter, conscience dictates that I share perhaps the scariest reason for avoiding Arizona at all costs. Again, it will have to wait until next time.

Posted in Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged | 1 Comment