As we near the end of a dreary, cold winter, and our spirits begin to be lifted by
the prospects of a fresh, warm spring, a young person’s thoughts naturally turn to affairs of the heart, and February 14 – a very important date. One that is filled with opportunity for romantic progress, but one also fraught with the danger of numerous pitfalls for the uninformed. Perhaps some pointers are in order to help guide young males through these treacherous shoals of time when we plant the seeds of future relationships.
Now then (ahem), where L’amour and young people are concerned, there are certain rituals in which the correct procedure must absolutely be followed to the letter. Young women are intimately familiar with the finer points of said rituals, but alas, young men are frequently misinformed or sadly ignorant of the intricacies of such rites. In many cases, the female must often feign a delighted surprise at our young male’s efforts to acquire a better understanding of such unfamiliar things as flowers, chocolates, and delicate jewelry.
Speaking of jewelry, perhaps it would be enlightening to change course with an
example of how NOT to buy a meaningful item for that special someone. To that purpose, allow me to recall an observation of one of Alva’s favorite senior citizens, Bob Reneau. Incidentally, Bob will speak with ninety years of sage experience, this
February 8.
One bright spring day quite a few years ago, Bob was looking out his jewelry store window when he spotted a young couple coming toward his store, the young man leading their way by perhaps a nose (as they say at Churchill Downs.)
The young man entered the jewelry store first, and strode forcefully (rather like
St. George parting the crowded throngs) to the store’s engagement ring display of $100, or less, blissfully unaware that the young lady had stopped at the place where Reneau had placed rings priced $500 and above. (You really ought to get Bob to tell you this story, but I’ll continue since I’ve already got you going on it.)
“Oh Charles,” she said, “look at this beautiful ring set, it’s absolutely divine.”
“How much is it?” he shot back in a challenging voice, tinged with slightly negative
overtones.
“The engagement ring is priced at only $495,” she replied (obviously trying to get past his negativity), “and it’s got a matching wedding band for only $295.”
“Five hundred dollars,” he exclaimed, “why that’s more than a pure bred Hereford cow costs!” (The reader will note that the ever practical male typically rounds off fractions so that his listener can obtain a better grasp of the economic factors involved.)
She immediately reddened, and blustered, “Then if you feel that way, you can just find a cow to put your ring on,” and departed stage left – her high heels drumming an angry staccato on the floor as she stalked out the door,leaving Bob and the young man speechless.
The two men tried not to look each other in the eye, and eventually the young chap mumbled something about the gathering storm, and slinked rather silently out the door. (On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate the young man’s initial acquisition attempt at an overly generous “two”.)
Two weeks later, Bob was again looking out his store window, when he noticed the same couple approaching, this time with the young lady out front. She came through the door (after he’d held it open for her), and he followed her in.
She went directly to the display containing the $495 dollar ring, pointed it out and said, “Charles this is a nice one.” To which he (respectfully) replied, “Indeed it is sweetheart.” There was just the slightest hint of an aroma of thoroughly cooked goose that wafted through the room as Bob wrapped up the ring, taking care to avoid the eyes of the young man.
Subbing for Aesop (ahem), allow me to summarize the moral of the story in Bob’s story thusly. The person who leads the way down the street or into your store is going to control the situation. And if you’re the one that’s going to have to deal with the situation, be ever alert for a sudden change in leadership.
To put it another way, it is a well established fact that in most households it is the man that rules the roost. But one must never forget who rules the rooster.
Mastering the art of gift giving provides the accomplished donor with a natural
grace that goes far beyond the requirements of good manners. So, of course, it
involves more than merely buying something, scribbling out a quick sentiment, and handing it over before a deadline passes.
At one time I was the coach of the NWOSU womens’ golf team. When we were traveling, I learned a little about dealing with feminine expectations where Valentine’s Day issues are concerned. As the girls patiently explained, if a valentine present is only offered as a token to meet an obligation of polite society, he can f-o-r-g-e-t i-t! For her, it is not merely a matter of receiving a gift on a birthday, Christmas, or Valentine’s day, because it tends to be “the unexpected gift at an unexpected time” that speaks to her heart and puts that matchless sparkle in her eye. Not that he can neglect her on such important dates without incurring her wrath, which will be strongly affirmed by every female within earshot.
Accomplishing some things requires patience and determination. For example,
mathematician and amateur naturalist, Roland Meyer points out that in South America, a hunter might follow quarry wounded by a poison dart from his trusty blowgun for days before they finally succumb to the small amount of toxin. In the United States, it is just possible that a neglected and unappreciated “family cook” might harbor thoughts of accomplishing the same results with twenty years of bad meatloaf.
A guy had best learn to say “thank you for loving me” at appropriate times and in meaningful ways – and it also wouldn’t hurt to keep the phone number of the local florist handy.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
“Buddy Heaton – The Original Ring Tailed Snorter”
The thing this country probably remembers most about Buddy Heaton was his riding a buffalo in President John F. Kennedy’s inaugural parade in 1961. If you knew Buddy at the time, riding a partially tamed bison down the crowded main streets of Washington, D. C. was just the thing you’d expect him to do. But you always had to wonder what he’d do next – and of course he’d always come up with something totally unexpected.
It is most unfortunate that the reader could not have this story told by Buddy, himself, because he was well known as being a person who could charm a snake out of his skin, and tell captivating tales that left an audience wondering just how much of his yarns were based in truth. But rest assured in this case, that the writer has made every reasonable effort to sort out fact from fiction.
Buddy’s formal name is Harold Lloyd Heaton. He was born in his parent’s home in Alva, Oklahoma on March 30, 1929, and at the time of the parade, he was residing in Hugoton, Kansas. The name of his buffalo was “Old Grunter”.
Mike Slater of Alva, Oklahoma recalls that sometime, during or after the parade, Buddy caused quite a stir among the White House security staff when he rode Old Grunter right up the steps of the Capitol Building. But they eventually calmed down, and later Buddy was called back to the president’s viewing stand by Vice-President Lyndon Johnson to shake hands with Kennedy.
Buddy later performed his renowned “Rodeo Clown and Burlesque Bull Fighting Act” for Kennedy two times, once in Washington and again in the biggest rodeo in the world, The Calgary Stampede in Alberta, Canada, where he was featured as the main show clown 1952 - 1954. Buddy was not one to discriminate politically, as he also performed his act for seven other presidents, Queen Elizabeth, Winston Churchill, and General Omar Bradley, among other leaders of the world.
At an early age Buddy knew he wanted to be a rodeo show clown, but was aware he would have to become an accomplished showman to make a living at it. Thus he began working with various farm animals to add variety to his act. By the age of twelve, he was jumping over full sized cars on horseback, and looked forward to doing such stunts in the rodeo arena.
As a teenager he began to ditch school from time to time, and try to get work doing odd jobs in rodeos. Then he met a promoter from Dodge City, Kansas that promised to hire him as a rodeo clown any time he could get out of school. Buddy had found his niche in life, and never looked back.
In the early days, Buddy was paid $25 for each performance, and he soon showed a unique ability to interact with a rodeo announcer and a crowd. His burgeoning reputation for an ability to ad-lib in any given situation and zany clown antics began to fill the stands anywhere he was scheduled to appear.
The limited income from rodeo clowning in small towns was only enough to sustain a Spartan type of existence, but Buddy refused to take a second job to support himself while honing his show clown skills. Occasionally for extra money, he would enter a rodeo as a Brahma bull rider or a bull dogger, but otherwise he concentrated on improving himself as a show clown. Not that he was any slouch as a contestant, as he won numerous championships including titles in bull dogging at Denver and Chicago.
The “burlesque bull fighting” part of his act was developed as an extension of one of the roles traditionally played by a rodeo clown. The role that Buddy particularly liked was getting knocked around in a barrel by a bull while he hunkered down and did his best not to get too familiar with the animal’s horns. But Buddy began to search for ways to return some of those knocks, and his pursuit in this endeavor almost got him killed.
At a rodeo in Alva, Oklahoma in the late 1940's, a challenge was issued to anyone present to fight a particularly bad tempered bull, named “El Rocco”. As there were no other takers, Buddy decided this was a rare opportunity to try his hand at the exotic sport of bull fighting.
However, unknown at the time to Buddy, this bull was not fitted with a shank which is designed to stimulate bucking while the bull is being ridden, and also restricts the animal’s movements somewhat. During the bull fight, the unshanked bull caught Buddy on his horns and tossed him into the air several times, rendering him unconscious for thirty-three days. He still carries scars from the experience on his body, the location of which are described by Buddy as “various places south of the border.”
Nevertheless, not all the memories of being in the (former) Alva hospital are unfavorable. Buddy fondly remembers sharing hard luck stories with Tom Mix when the Hollywood Cowboy got kicked by a horse, and wound up in the same hospital with a broken leg.
When Buddy recovered from his bout with “El Rocco”, he continued in his quest to find ways to improve his act. He was of the opinion that a rodeo clown should do more than merely preventing Brahma bulls from goring and stomping on thrown cowboys, and his act “needed punching up a bit.”
Even in his early clown acts, Buddy used several Houdini-like tricks. In one of his favorites, he would prepare by digging a hole in the center of the arena when no one was around, and concealing the entrance with a trapdoor. Then during the show, a phone booth prop would be placed over the trapdoor with a dummy and doctor’s white coat hidden inside.
Next, a comic emergency would be staged in the arena, and Buddy would run to the phone booth to call for an ambulance. An apparently drunken ambulance driver would respond to the emergency by driving the ambulance into the arena and careening wildly about while Buddy ducked in and out of the phone booth to narrowly avoid being hit.
The comic atmosphere of the arena would suddenly turn “tragic” when the ambulance driver lost control of the vehicle and wiped out the phone booth and the quickly substituted dummy, smashing them to smithereens. If things went according to plan, Buddy would escape through the trapdoor and into the hole just before impact.
He would then don the white coat while still in the hole, emerge from the hole when screened from the audience by the ambulance crew, help evacuate the “body” of the dummy, and depart the arena in the ambulance leaving the crowd wondering what really happened to Buddy.
“Thank heaven the ambulance driver never hit the wrong dummy in the phone booth – although several times he got a bit too close for comfort. And one time an ornery ambulance crew double-crossed me by filling my hole with water,” Heaton said with a chuckle.
Harry Herrmann of Alva, Oklahoma remembers catching Buddy’s act at a rodeo in Denver. In this event, Buddy staged an outrageous stunt in which he was struck from behind by a bull. As a result of the collision, one of the bull’s horns appeared to pass completely through the clown’s body.
The shock from the impact caused the horn to “break off” and separate from the bull’s head, and it ended up protruding grotesquely from Buddy’s chest. Then the skewered clown closed the skit by staggering around the arena in the comedic style of Red Foxx suffering “the big one” as Fred Sanford on TV. Herrmann said that he has never heard such loud and prolonged laughter in his life.
This writer has little personal knowledge of Buddy’s ability to work a crowd. I only had one opportunity to observe his clowning talents first hand when I attended a rodeo at an early age in 1950. I can recall the crowd almost holding it’s breath to catch his every word during the quieter moments between the action, punctuated periodically by wild gales of laughter when he made a comment about one of the contestants.
Years later, as a teenager, I had an opportunity to see Buddy in action as a substitute baseball announcer. In an intercity little league baseball game in Hugoton, the regular announcer had to leave the game and called for a volunteer to “spell him” while he was gone. Buddy said, “I’ll do it, get on with the game.”
One of the next batters up was Richard Fell, who currently resides in Holly, Colorado. Buddy was fond of Fell, but that didn’t necessarily bode well for Richard, who at the time carried a little extra weight.
As I recall, Richard’s time at bat was described by Buddy thusly. “The next batter is a little short for his height, but don’t let that fool you, folks. He has blazing speed down that first base line – in fact he has several times torn the cleats right out of his shoes under acceleration. Why just last week he was thrown out of a game for raising too much dust with his running ability.” Perhaps Heaton was ahead of his time as a baseball color commentator.
Buddy felt his rodeo act needed to add some animals not customarily a part of the sport to attract offers from big time rodeos. “Adding a buffalo to the atmosphere of a rodeo seemed like a perfectly logical step to take, and since no one else had tried it, I decided to give it a go.”
So in 1950, “after looking around for some time in various places”, Buddy located a buffalo owned by Jim Jordan in Four Corners, Oklahoma. And for the purchase price of “about 500 dollars”, Buddy became the proud owner of a three year old buffalo.
“Old Grunter didn’t come with a detailed set of riding instructions, and it took two years of trial and error to get the hang of riding the buffalo right side up. A good part of that time was spent sailing through the air and then having to pick my backside up off the ground. It quickly became apparent that a healthy young buffalo is not the gentlest of God’s creatures, y’know,” explained Heaton.
The buffalo, which over time acquired the stage name of “Clyde”, was gradually worked into Buddy’s act , and offers from major rodeos began to arrive. Rodeos in cities such as Denver, Cheyenne, Oklahoma City, and Fort Worth began wanting his services in the early 1950's. And then in 1952, the offer came from Calgary. It was a working relationship which lasted for three consecutive years.
Not all of Buddy’s memories of Canada are enjoyable, however. In 1952 when he tried to cross the Canadian border at Sweetgrass, Montana, the Canadian authorities insisted that Old Grunter be quarantined and neutered before he would be allowed to continue on his way to Calgary. Rodeo producer Harold Vold helped Buddy perform the required surgery, although both of them were reluctant to do so.
Twenty years later in 1972, Old Grunter would die in Dewinton, Alberta, Canada after eating some contaminated alfalfa. “Burying an old friend like Grunter was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in my life,” said Buddy. He later acquired another buffalo which he named “Harold” but the act just wasn’t the same. (The reader might note that Buddy’s proper first name is “Harold.” And the seller’s first name was “Harold”. “And so naturally, the buffalo’s name also had to be “Harold”, explained Heaton.
But while Buddy had Old Grunter, one never knew just where the two of them would show up or under what circumstances. Certainly Buddy was not one to wait on a formal invitation from anyone.
It was a spur of the moment decision by Buddy in January of 1961, to ride Old Grunter in Kennedy’s Inaugural parade. Buddy quickly reasoned that since a trick roper named “Montie Montana” had gotten some favorable publicity by roping President Dwight Eisenhower in his inaugural parade of 1953 (which, by the way, caused Eisenhower’s security to “have kittens”), he could possibly get more recognition by riding a buffalo in Washington.
However, after hauling his buffalo in a trailer for thousands of miles, Buddy found out that participation in Kennedy’s parade was only by invitation of the new President. It was not a totally unforeseeable new requirement, after Montana’s stunt with the rope, “but it did call for my having to finagle an invitation from Kennedy, or finding a way to “finesse” the D.C. boys in the parade lineup. I decided to try the latter,” said Heaton.
He managed to locate some people from Ft. Worth at the parade who’d seen him perform, and who also had the necessary invitation to participate. Then he simply fell in behind the Texas delegation with no questions being asked, and no information about his parade status being given by Buddy. As a result, it was widely reported that the media sensation who rode a buffalo in the parade was a Texan.
When Buddy and Old Grunter returned to their residence (and pasture) in Hugoton, Kansas after the inaugural parade, the town gave the two a “Welcome Home Parade” and $100. Naturally Buddy rode the buffalo in it, and this time he had an invitation from the entire home town.
As the Hugoton parade was ending, and Old Grunter neared Heaton’s familiar pickup, the buffalo unexpectedly charged up the loading ramp to the pickup bed with Buddy still aboard. The buffalo smashed into the back of the cab at considerable speed, throwing Buddy completely over the cab where he caromed off the hood and onto the pavement, ending up flat on his back. Without missing a beat, Buddy quickly explained that his new dismounting technique apparently needed some work.
From examples like the former, one can readily see that “riding a buffalo”, is much easier said than done. There are many accounts by Heaton’s neighbors, telling of just how difficult it was to prepare Old Grunter for a parade or show appearance, and then “controlling him” during a show or parade. And finding facilities to house the animal was not always easy, because of Old Grunter’s reputation for being a onebuffalo wrecking crew when he might suddenly decide that the corral containing him needed an additional exit directly through the side of the enclosure.
Some of the unexpected off-stage appearances of man and buffalo were not always appreciated. One time while in Salt Lake City, the two caused an uproar by riding the elevator up to the editor’s office of the Salt Lake City Tribune.
At other times, the pair’s unscheduled appearance would be cause for applause, and might add much color to an activity. In 1971 in Kansas, the Garden City Buffaloes high school football team had a banner year going, when Buddy got wind of it he began to haul Old Grunter to the games (at his own expense), and ride around the football stadiums to give the team the presence of an unofficial mascot. The pair was again front page news for performing mascot duty when the Garden City team managed to get to the state playoffs in Kansas City.
Buddy Heaton was never the kind of person to duck a challenge – especially if it presented unique circumstances which enhanced his reputation as an animal handler. As a consequence at the Denver Centennial Turf Club in1959, Buddy riding Old Grunter outran a horse in a 1/16 mile race. The event was covered in the August 31st issue of “Life” magazine.
In a recent interview, Buddy explained that his winning the race was determined at the start. “If you can get the buffalo out front of the horse early, the horse will not be willing to pass the buffalo because they’re afraid of them.”
Buddy’s knowledge and talent for the handling of horses is legendary. On May 13, 1952, an Appaloosa foal named “High Hand” was born on the Hugoton farm owned by Buddy and his stepfather, Fred Hagaman. By the time High Hand had matured into a young stallion, his reputation for performing tricks as a show horse was well known nation wide.
The horse was extremely intelligent and thoroughly enjoyed performing for an audience. He could mimic a broad smile on command, pull specified objects out of Buddy’s pockets or pretend to bite his backside, count a number of objects, and walk completely around an arena on his hind legs. But it was High Hand’s ability to jump into the air with all four feet simultaneously that developed into a show-stopping illusion that Buddy could lift the horse off the ground with one hand.
The show horse also competed at a championship level in rodeo events. Buddy was riding High Hand in 1957 when he won the bull dogging event at the Denver Stock Show. High Hand also worked as a roping horse on Heaton’s farm, and developed a reputation for not letting a single calf get away while he was on duty as a cutting horse.
As a sire, High Hand is on record for being among the top five registered Appaloosa horses for producing both race winners and for total race money earned. Sadly, Buddy was forced to sell High Hand in 1958 to pay educational expenses.
Being a rodeo clown is hard work, and occasionally after the day’s toil was done, it became necessary “to let the badger loose.” His routine varied a little, but it generally proceeded in the following manner: I) locate a “local water hole,” 2) consume significant quantities of Coors beer; 3) Place a $100 bill at a prominent place on the bar; and 4) announce to all present that if anyone could best him in a fight, they could have the money. It is widely reported that although many tried to earn the money according to Buddy’s terms, no one was able to do it.
A quote about Buddy from Canadian author, Judy Schultz, in her book, “Jean Pare’: an Appetite for Life”, is very enlightening concerning his tendency to engage in fisticuffs, and his relationship with rodeo enthusiast and bar companion, Clarence Lovig:
One of his (Lovig’s) favourite drinking companions was a rodeo clown named Buddy Heaton, who owned a trick buffalo. There is every possibility that the buffalo had more sense than Buddy, who was, by nature, a hard-drinking brawler.
Like Clarence, Buddy had a kind of fatal charm, and when he was sober, the Lovig kids enjoyed having a real, live clown for a friend. . . . Buddy wasn’t just fun, he was hilarious, as all good
clowns are, and he made them laugh. But when he was drunk, things got pretty crazy. During the rodeo, when Buddy was in town, no day was complete without a fight . . .”
A reasonable person might believe that everyone mellows by the time they pass beyond middle age – particularly if over the years they’ve suffered numerous major injuries to their body. However, they’d better make allowances in Buddy’s case.
A few years ago, Hugoton sheriff, Ted Heaton was having an evening meal at a local restaurant with his family when “an awful ruckus” arose outside in the street. The sheriff rushed outside to find his father jabbing one of his crutches at another person who had crawled under a pickup, trying to use it to shield himself from Buddy’s blows. Heaton’s other crutch had been splintered previously in the altercation.
When I later inquired of Buddy what the fight had been about in a recent nursing home interview, he said he’d forgotten the exact circumstances. “But the guy needed to learn some manners.”
Dick Koppitz of Hardner, Kansas remembers an incident occurring about forty years ago when he was standing in the confection stand line at an indoor rodeo in Fort Worth, Texas. Someone from behind Koppitz touched a lighted cigarette to his bare elbow. Koppitz instinctively whirled around in preparation to deck the owner of the cigarette only to find himself face to face with a broadly grinning Buddy, whom he’d known since childhood. It was typical Buddy Heaton type of humor, said Koppitz.
Later that same evening, there was an announcement over the public address system by the rodeo emcee for Buddy Heaton to report to the center of the arena. Immediately in response, there was a loud yell from high above the audience at the very back of the stadium, and some dare devil swung down on a rope anchored to the arena ceiling. The Tarzan-like entry was vintage Buddy Heaton.
With such antics, Buddy has landed several bit-parts for himself and his buffalo in the movies. One or the other of them has appeared in the movies, “Bus Stop” (with Marilyn Monroe and Don Murray), “How the West Was Won”, “Desert Sands”, “The Saga of Andy Burnett, the Buffalo Hunter”, and the TV show, “Wagon Train”.
In 2005, Harold Loyd “Buddy” Heaton was inducted into the Kansas Cowboy Hall of Fame. The well deserved honor was a long time in coming.
Today Buddy resides at the Western Prairie Care Home in Ulysses, Kansas. He’s had several bouts with cancer and also had a major stroke recently, but he enjoys talking with people about the good old times. He would also like to find a writer who would be interested in writing his biography.
Anyone who would like to stop by and shoot the breeze with Buddy is welcome, and one might want to remember that he is especially fond of strawberry milk shakes. But one word of advice: if Buddy gets a roguish look in his eye, puts a $100 bill on the night stand, and tells you that you can have it if you can get it from him – I wouldn’t try to take the money.
It is most unfortunate that the reader could not have this story told by Buddy, himself, because he was well known as being a person who could charm a snake out of his skin, and tell captivating tales that left an audience wondering just how much of his yarns were based in truth. But rest assured in this case, that the writer has made every reasonable effort to sort out fact from fiction.
Buddy’s formal name is Harold Lloyd Heaton. He was born in his parent’s home in Alva, Oklahoma on March 30, 1929, and at the time of the parade, he was residing in Hugoton, Kansas. The name of his buffalo was “Old Grunter”.
Mike Slater of Alva, Oklahoma recalls that sometime, during or after the parade, Buddy caused quite a stir among the White House security staff when he rode Old Grunter right up the steps of the Capitol Building. But they eventually calmed down, and later Buddy was called back to the president’s viewing stand by Vice-President Lyndon Johnson to shake hands with Kennedy.
Buddy later performed his renowned “Rodeo Clown and Burlesque Bull Fighting Act” for Kennedy two times, once in Washington and again in the biggest rodeo in the world, The Calgary Stampede in Alberta, Canada, where he was featured as the main show clown 1952 - 1954. Buddy was not one to discriminate politically, as he also performed his act for seven other presidents, Queen Elizabeth, Winston Churchill, and General Omar Bradley, among other leaders of the world.
At an early age Buddy knew he wanted to be a rodeo show clown, but was aware he would have to become an accomplished showman to make a living at it. Thus he began working with various farm animals to add variety to his act. By the age of twelve, he was jumping over full sized cars on horseback, and looked forward to doing such stunts in the rodeo arena.
As a teenager he began to ditch school from time to time, and try to get work doing odd jobs in rodeos. Then he met a promoter from Dodge City, Kansas that promised to hire him as a rodeo clown any time he could get out of school. Buddy had found his niche in life, and never looked back.
In the early days, Buddy was paid $25 for each performance, and he soon showed a unique ability to interact with a rodeo announcer and a crowd. His burgeoning reputation for an ability to ad-lib in any given situation and zany clown antics began to fill the stands anywhere he was scheduled to appear.
The limited income from rodeo clowning in small towns was only enough to sustain a Spartan type of existence, but Buddy refused to take a second job to support himself while honing his show clown skills. Occasionally for extra money, he would enter a rodeo as a Brahma bull rider or a bull dogger, but otherwise he concentrated on improving himself as a show clown. Not that he was any slouch as a contestant, as he won numerous championships including titles in bull dogging at Denver and Chicago.
The “burlesque bull fighting” part of his act was developed as an extension of one of the roles traditionally played by a rodeo clown. The role that Buddy particularly liked was getting knocked around in a barrel by a bull while he hunkered down and did his best not to get too familiar with the animal’s horns. But Buddy began to search for ways to return some of those knocks, and his pursuit in this endeavor almost got him killed.
At a rodeo in Alva, Oklahoma in the late 1940's, a challenge was issued to anyone present to fight a particularly bad tempered bull, named “El Rocco”. As there were no other takers, Buddy decided this was a rare opportunity to try his hand at the exotic sport of bull fighting.
However, unknown at the time to Buddy, this bull was not fitted with a shank which is designed to stimulate bucking while the bull is being ridden, and also restricts the animal’s movements somewhat. During the bull fight, the unshanked bull caught Buddy on his horns and tossed him into the air several times, rendering him unconscious for thirty-three days. He still carries scars from the experience on his body, the location of which are described by Buddy as “various places south of the border.”
Nevertheless, not all the memories of being in the (former) Alva hospital are unfavorable. Buddy fondly remembers sharing hard luck stories with Tom Mix when the Hollywood Cowboy got kicked by a horse, and wound up in the same hospital with a broken leg.
When Buddy recovered from his bout with “El Rocco”, he continued in his quest to find ways to improve his act. He was of the opinion that a rodeo clown should do more than merely preventing Brahma bulls from goring and stomping on thrown cowboys, and his act “needed punching up a bit.”
Even in his early clown acts, Buddy used several Houdini-like tricks. In one of his favorites, he would prepare by digging a hole in the center of the arena when no one was around, and concealing the entrance with a trapdoor. Then during the show, a phone booth prop would be placed over the trapdoor with a dummy and doctor’s white coat hidden inside.
Next, a comic emergency would be staged in the arena, and Buddy would run to the phone booth to call for an ambulance. An apparently drunken ambulance driver would respond to the emergency by driving the ambulance into the arena and careening wildly about while Buddy ducked in and out of the phone booth to narrowly avoid being hit.
The comic atmosphere of the arena would suddenly turn “tragic” when the ambulance driver lost control of the vehicle and wiped out the phone booth and the quickly substituted dummy, smashing them to smithereens. If things went according to plan, Buddy would escape through the trapdoor and into the hole just before impact.
He would then don the white coat while still in the hole, emerge from the hole when screened from the audience by the ambulance crew, help evacuate the “body” of the dummy, and depart the arena in the ambulance leaving the crowd wondering what really happened to Buddy.
“Thank heaven the ambulance driver never hit the wrong dummy in the phone booth – although several times he got a bit too close for comfort. And one time an ornery ambulance crew double-crossed me by filling my hole with water,” Heaton said with a chuckle.
Harry Herrmann of Alva, Oklahoma remembers catching Buddy’s act at a rodeo in Denver. In this event, Buddy staged an outrageous stunt in which he was struck from behind by a bull. As a result of the collision, one of the bull’s horns appeared to pass completely through the clown’s body.
The shock from the impact caused the horn to “break off” and separate from the bull’s head, and it ended up protruding grotesquely from Buddy’s chest. Then the skewered clown closed the skit by staggering around the arena in the comedic style of Red Foxx suffering “the big one” as Fred Sanford on TV. Herrmann said that he has never heard such loud and prolonged laughter in his life.
This writer has little personal knowledge of Buddy’s ability to work a crowd. I only had one opportunity to observe his clowning talents first hand when I attended a rodeo at an early age in 1950. I can recall the crowd almost holding it’s breath to catch his every word during the quieter moments between the action, punctuated periodically by wild gales of laughter when he made a comment about one of the contestants.
Years later, as a teenager, I had an opportunity to see Buddy in action as a substitute baseball announcer. In an intercity little league baseball game in Hugoton, the regular announcer had to leave the game and called for a volunteer to “spell him” while he was gone. Buddy said, “I’ll do it, get on with the game.”
One of the next batters up was Richard Fell, who currently resides in Holly, Colorado. Buddy was fond of Fell, but that didn’t necessarily bode well for Richard, who at the time carried a little extra weight.
As I recall, Richard’s time at bat was described by Buddy thusly. “The next batter is a little short for his height, but don’t let that fool you, folks. He has blazing speed down that first base line – in fact he has several times torn the cleats right out of his shoes under acceleration. Why just last week he was thrown out of a game for raising too much dust with his running ability.” Perhaps Heaton was ahead of his time as a baseball color commentator.
Buddy felt his rodeo act needed to add some animals not customarily a part of the sport to attract offers from big time rodeos. “Adding a buffalo to the atmosphere of a rodeo seemed like a perfectly logical step to take, and since no one else had tried it, I decided to give it a go.”
So in 1950, “after looking around for some time in various places”, Buddy located a buffalo owned by Jim Jordan in Four Corners, Oklahoma. And for the purchase price of “about 500 dollars”, Buddy became the proud owner of a three year old buffalo.
“Old Grunter didn’t come with a detailed set of riding instructions, and it took two years of trial and error to get the hang of riding the buffalo right side up. A good part of that time was spent sailing through the air and then having to pick my backside up off the ground. It quickly became apparent that a healthy young buffalo is not the gentlest of God’s creatures, y’know,” explained Heaton.
The buffalo, which over time acquired the stage name of “Clyde”, was gradually worked into Buddy’s act , and offers from major rodeos began to arrive. Rodeos in cities such as Denver, Cheyenne, Oklahoma City, and Fort Worth began wanting his services in the early 1950's. And then in 1952, the offer came from Calgary. It was a working relationship which lasted for three consecutive years.
Not all of Buddy’s memories of Canada are enjoyable, however. In 1952 when he tried to cross the Canadian border at Sweetgrass, Montana, the Canadian authorities insisted that Old Grunter be quarantined and neutered before he would be allowed to continue on his way to Calgary. Rodeo producer Harold Vold helped Buddy perform the required surgery, although both of them were reluctant to do so.
Twenty years later in 1972, Old Grunter would die in Dewinton, Alberta, Canada after eating some contaminated alfalfa. “Burying an old friend like Grunter was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in my life,” said Buddy. He later acquired another buffalo which he named “Harold” but the act just wasn’t the same. (The reader might note that Buddy’s proper first name is “Harold.” And the seller’s first name was “Harold”. “And so naturally, the buffalo’s name also had to be “Harold”, explained Heaton.
But while Buddy had Old Grunter, one never knew just where the two of them would show up or under what circumstances. Certainly Buddy was not one to wait on a formal invitation from anyone.
It was a spur of the moment decision by Buddy in January of 1961, to ride Old Grunter in Kennedy’s Inaugural parade. Buddy quickly reasoned that since a trick roper named “Montie Montana” had gotten some favorable publicity by roping President Dwight Eisenhower in his inaugural parade of 1953 (which, by the way, caused Eisenhower’s security to “have kittens”), he could possibly get more recognition by riding a buffalo in Washington.
However, after hauling his buffalo in a trailer for thousands of miles, Buddy found out that participation in Kennedy’s parade was only by invitation of the new President. It was not a totally unforeseeable new requirement, after Montana’s stunt with the rope, “but it did call for my having to finagle an invitation from Kennedy, or finding a way to “finesse” the D.C. boys in the parade lineup. I decided to try the latter,” said Heaton.
He managed to locate some people from Ft. Worth at the parade who’d seen him perform, and who also had the necessary invitation to participate. Then he simply fell in behind the Texas delegation with no questions being asked, and no information about his parade status being given by Buddy. As a result, it was widely reported that the media sensation who rode a buffalo in the parade was a Texan.
When Buddy and Old Grunter returned to their residence (and pasture) in Hugoton, Kansas after the inaugural parade, the town gave the two a “Welcome Home Parade” and $100. Naturally Buddy rode the buffalo in it, and this time he had an invitation from the entire home town.
As the Hugoton parade was ending, and Old Grunter neared Heaton’s familiar pickup, the buffalo unexpectedly charged up the loading ramp to the pickup bed with Buddy still aboard. The buffalo smashed into the back of the cab at considerable speed, throwing Buddy completely over the cab where he caromed off the hood and onto the pavement, ending up flat on his back. Without missing a beat, Buddy quickly explained that his new dismounting technique apparently needed some work.
From examples like the former, one can readily see that “riding a buffalo”, is much easier said than done. There are many accounts by Heaton’s neighbors, telling of just how difficult it was to prepare Old Grunter for a parade or show appearance, and then “controlling him” during a show or parade. And finding facilities to house the animal was not always easy, because of Old Grunter’s reputation for being a onebuffalo wrecking crew when he might suddenly decide that the corral containing him needed an additional exit directly through the side of the enclosure.
Some of the unexpected off-stage appearances of man and buffalo were not always appreciated. One time while in Salt Lake City, the two caused an uproar by riding the elevator up to the editor’s office of the Salt Lake City Tribune.
At other times, the pair’s unscheduled appearance would be cause for applause, and might add much color to an activity. In 1971 in Kansas, the Garden City Buffaloes high school football team had a banner year going, when Buddy got wind of it he began to haul Old Grunter to the games (at his own expense), and ride around the football stadiums to give the team the presence of an unofficial mascot. The pair was again front page news for performing mascot duty when the Garden City team managed to get to the state playoffs in Kansas City.
Buddy Heaton was never the kind of person to duck a challenge – especially if it presented unique circumstances which enhanced his reputation as an animal handler. As a consequence at the Denver Centennial Turf Club in1959, Buddy riding Old Grunter outran a horse in a 1/16 mile race. The event was covered in the August 31st issue of “Life” magazine.
In a recent interview, Buddy explained that his winning the race was determined at the start. “If you can get the buffalo out front of the horse early, the horse will not be willing to pass the buffalo because they’re afraid of them.”
Buddy’s knowledge and talent for the handling of horses is legendary. On May 13, 1952, an Appaloosa foal named “High Hand” was born on the Hugoton farm owned by Buddy and his stepfather, Fred Hagaman. By the time High Hand had matured into a young stallion, his reputation for performing tricks as a show horse was well known nation wide.
The horse was extremely intelligent and thoroughly enjoyed performing for an audience. He could mimic a broad smile on command, pull specified objects out of Buddy’s pockets or pretend to bite his backside, count a number of objects, and walk completely around an arena on his hind legs. But it was High Hand’s ability to jump into the air with all four feet simultaneously that developed into a show-stopping illusion that Buddy could lift the horse off the ground with one hand.
The show horse also competed at a championship level in rodeo events. Buddy was riding High Hand in 1957 when he won the bull dogging event at the Denver Stock Show. High Hand also worked as a roping horse on Heaton’s farm, and developed a reputation for not letting a single calf get away while he was on duty as a cutting horse.
As a sire, High Hand is on record for being among the top five registered Appaloosa horses for producing both race winners and for total race money earned. Sadly, Buddy was forced to sell High Hand in 1958 to pay educational expenses.
Being a rodeo clown is hard work, and occasionally after the day’s toil was done, it became necessary “to let the badger loose.” His routine varied a little, but it generally proceeded in the following manner: I) locate a “local water hole,” 2) consume significant quantities of Coors beer; 3) Place a $100 bill at a prominent place on the bar; and 4) announce to all present that if anyone could best him in a fight, they could have the money. It is widely reported that although many tried to earn the money according to Buddy’s terms, no one was able to do it.
A quote about Buddy from Canadian author, Judy Schultz, in her book, “Jean Pare’: an Appetite for Life”, is very enlightening concerning his tendency to engage in fisticuffs, and his relationship with rodeo enthusiast and bar companion, Clarence Lovig:
One of his (Lovig’s) favourite drinking companions was a rodeo clown named Buddy Heaton, who owned a trick buffalo. There is every possibility that the buffalo had more sense than Buddy, who was, by nature, a hard-drinking brawler.
Like Clarence, Buddy had a kind of fatal charm, and when he was sober, the Lovig kids enjoyed having a real, live clown for a friend. . . . Buddy wasn’t just fun, he was hilarious, as all good
clowns are, and he made them laugh. But when he was drunk, things got pretty crazy. During the rodeo, when Buddy was in town, no day was complete without a fight . . .”
A reasonable person might believe that everyone mellows by the time they pass beyond middle age – particularly if over the years they’ve suffered numerous major injuries to their body. However, they’d better make allowances in Buddy’s case.
A few years ago, Hugoton sheriff, Ted Heaton was having an evening meal at a local restaurant with his family when “an awful ruckus” arose outside in the street. The sheriff rushed outside to find his father jabbing one of his crutches at another person who had crawled under a pickup, trying to use it to shield himself from Buddy’s blows. Heaton’s other crutch had been splintered previously in the altercation.
When I later inquired of Buddy what the fight had been about in a recent nursing home interview, he said he’d forgotten the exact circumstances. “But the guy needed to learn some manners.”
Dick Koppitz of Hardner, Kansas remembers an incident occurring about forty years ago when he was standing in the confection stand line at an indoor rodeo in Fort Worth, Texas. Someone from behind Koppitz touched a lighted cigarette to his bare elbow. Koppitz instinctively whirled around in preparation to deck the owner of the cigarette only to find himself face to face with a broadly grinning Buddy, whom he’d known since childhood. It was typical Buddy Heaton type of humor, said Koppitz.
Later that same evening, there was an announcement over the public address system by the rodeo emcee for Buddy Heaton to report to the center of the arena. Immediately in response, there was a loud yell from high above the audience at the very back of the stadium, and some dare devil swung down on a rope anchored to the arena ceiling. The Tarzan-like entry was vintage Buddy Heaton.
With such antics, Buddy has landed several bit-parts for himself and his buffalo in the movies. One or the other of them has appeared in the movies, “Bus Stop” (with Marilyn Monroe and Don Murray), “How the West Was Won”, “Desert Sands”, “The Saga of Andy Burnett, the Buffalo Hunter”, and the TV show, “Wagon Train”.
In 2005, Harold Loyd “Buddy” Heaton was inducted into the Kansas Cowboy Hall of Fame. The well deserved honor was a long time in coming.
Today Buddy resides at the Western Prairie Care Home in Ulysses, Kansas. He’s had several bouts with cancer and also had a major stroke recently, but he enjoys talking with people about the good old times. He would also like to find a writer who would be interested in writing his biography.
Anyone who would like to stop by and shoot the breeze with Buddy is welcome, and one might want to remember that he is especially fond of strawberry milk shakes. But one word of advice: if Buddy gets a roguish look in his eye, puts a $100 bill on the night stand, and tells you that you can have it if you can get it from him – I wouldn’t try to take the money.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Money Can Make You Rich
Now then, we’ll assume that our domestic hero has been sufficiently slickered by feminine wiles and charm to attempt to improve the homestead. Logically the next step is to figure out how to pay for it.
Nothing spends quite so well as money – you just can’t afford to run out of it before you run out of project. To obtain a thumbnail estimate of the total cost, one only has to triple any estimates obtained from local craftsmen, and then allow for substantial cost over-runs. (Warning: some “sticker shock” may occur at this point.)
But one must remember that you get what you pay for. And trust me, by this measure, the craftsman will do his very best to get you a whole lot.
Once the man of the house recovers from the sheer size of the cost estimations, the only real financial barrier becomes one of arranging for the proverbial fool to part with his money and finance this very worthwhile project. After making a “hit list” of likely (well heeled) fools in the area, our hero should take care to eliminate her relatives and friends from consideration. Such a measure may keep future failures from becoming fatal to him.
If there is anyone left on the list of financial sources, he can try out his interpersonal skills forthwith. If not, he can try to ”finesse” the local craftsmen when it comes time to pay up. (Please note I did NOT say “stiff”.)
W. C. Fields furnished an example of this approach by making the offer of, “My good man, I would never insult you with cash, I’ll give you my personal IOU.” The vast majority of craftsmen will nevertheless insist on being insulted in greenbacks.
And we wind up with a poor guy being faced with a project that will cost an arm and a leg. At this point, the most important consideration in home improvement projects involves a determination involving two factors – is the cost of avoidance greater than the cost of compliance.
Because an accurate computation of the cost of avoidance involves many “qualitative factors” including such things as the risk of cold meals and the discomfort of long nights spent on the sofa (which could also trigger reprisal action from a less than impartial mother in law), perhaps it would be best to begin with the cost of compliance.
The cost of compliance consists largely of tallying: (1) the cost of materials, (2) the cost of labor, and (3) “incidental expenses”. The first two are pretty well self explanatory, but the third will require some elaboration.
For example, if the project goes reasonably well (a relative rarity in home improvements), there are additional necessary expenses such as paying for a “celebratory dinner”. And of course, there are the additional incidentals such as having professional “before and after” photographs taken of the project to be sent to all her relatives and friends. And of course one picture will be reserved for his dusty, dogeared scrapbook – if he can find it. (You’d better figure on about a thousand pics in this case – after all, no sense in getting extravagant.)
But if the project doesn’t go quite so well (true in the vast majority of domestic cases), damage control needs to be begun at the earliest possible moment. In extreme situations, our disgraced husband (who is now referred to as an “incompetent” or a “worthless bum”), should apologize profusely and consider assuming all blame for having started the project in the first place.
Then, along with the cost of destroying and removing all visible evidence of said project (preferably ASAP), he should consider buying out the entire inventory at the local flower shop to assuage Honey Dimples’ disappointment and anger. (Although some veterans of domestic debacles find that chocolate works best in such cases.)
Finally, incidental expenses will necessarily include such things as medical expenditures for mashed fingers, assorted bandages, and (if he partakes) several rounds of “liquid sympathy” at the local water hole.
By adding up all the likely expenses of a proposed project, the reader can readily determine that home improvement is not something to be undertaken lightly. For as pointed out above, obtaining a cost estimate with the degree of accuracy required will necessarily involve seeking advice from qualified experts. Fortunately the coffee shops of Alva provide copious quantities of advisors (expert and otherwise) who will render advice on any given subject matter for the price of a cup of coffee.
And so far this year by following my own advice, I haven’t made a single mistake in judgment – that I can remember. But unfortunately, at our house I know someone who can.
Nothing spends quite so well as money – you just can’t afford to run out of it before you run out of project. To obtain a thumbnail estimate of the total cost, one only has to triple any estimates obtained from local craftsmen, and then allow for substantial cost over-runs. (Warning: some “sticker shock” may occur at this point.)
But one must remember that you get what you pay for. And trust me, by this measure, the craftsman will do his very best to get you a whole lot.
Once the man of the house recovers from the sheer size of the cost estimations, the only real financial barrier becomes one of arranging for the proverbial fool to part with his money and finance this very worthwhile project. After making a “hit list” of likely (well heeled) fools in the area, our hero should take care to eliminate her relatives and friends from consideration. Such a measure may keep future failures from becoming fatal to him.
If there is anyone left on the list of financial sources, he can try out his interpersonal skills forthwith. If not, he can try to ”finesse” the local craftsmen when it comes time to pay up. (Please note I did NOT say “stiff”.)
W. C. Fields furnished an example of this approach by making the offer of, “My good man, I would never insult you with cash, I’ll give you my personal IOU.” The vast majority of craftsmen will nevertheless insist on being insulted in greenbacks.
And we wind up with a poor guy being faced with a project that will cost an arm and a leg. At this point, the most important consideration in home improvement projects involves a determination involving two factors – is the cost of avoidance greater than the cost of compliance.
Because an accurate computation of the cost of avoidance involves many “qualitative factors” including such things as the risk of cold meals and the discomfort of long nights spent on the sofa (which could also trigger reprisal action from a less than impartial mother in law), perhaps it would be best to begin with the cost of compliance.
The cost of compliance consists largely of tallying: (1) the cost of materials, (2) the cost of labor, and (3) “incidental expenses”. The first two are pretty well self explanatory, but the third will require some elaboration.
For example, if the project goes reasonably well (a relative rarity in home improvements), there are additional necessary expenses such as paying for a “celebratory dinner”. And of course, there are the additional incidentals such as having professional “before and after” photographs taken of the project to be sent to all her relatives and friends. And of course one picture will be reserved for his dusty, dogeared scrapbook – if he can find it. (You’d better figure on about a thousand pics in this case – after all, no sense in getting extravagant.)
But if the project doesn’t go quite so well (true in the vast majority of domestic cases), damage control needs to be begun at the earliest possible moment. In extreme situations, our disgraced husband (who is now referred to as an “incompetent” or a “worthless bum”), should apologize profusely and consider assuming all blame for having started the project in the first place.
Then, along with the cost of destroying and removing all visible evidence of said project (preferably ASAP), he should consider buying out the entire inventory at the local flower shop to assuage Honey Dimples’ disappointment and anger. (Although some veterans of domestic debacles find that chocolate works best in such cases.)
Finally, incidental expenses will necessarily include such things as medical expenditures for mashed fingers, assorted bandages, and (if he partakes) several rounds of “liquid sympathy” at the local water hole.
By adding up all the likely expenses of a proposed project, the reader can readily determine that home improvement is not something to be undertaken lightly. For as pointed out above, obtaining a cost estimate with the degree of accuracy required will necessarily involve seeking advice from qualified experts. Fortunately the coffee shops of Alva provide copious quantities of advisors (expert and otherwise) who will render advice on any given subject matter for the price of a cup of coffee.
And so far this year by following my own advice, I haven’t made a single mistake in judgment – that I can remember. But unfortunately, at our house I know someone who can.
Yes, Virginia There is a Response
Check out the response to the previous article at:
http://ricochetsmusings.blogspot.com/
http://ricochetsmusings.blogspot.com/
“Domestic Relations 101 – the Handy Man”
Be it ever so shabby there’s no place like home. But if a “handy man” resides therein, it need not remain shabby for very long. Perhaps during the “improvement stage”, the homestead may become a little “neglected” or “unsightly”, but if the situation is managed properly with flowers and/or chocolates in times of crisis, it seldom amounts to anything serious.
To further elucidate on the matter, let us consider a typical case situation involving a home improvement project (albeit entirely hypothetical of course.) The source of one of the strongest emotions known to modern man (scientific name hemanus domesticus) is to hear his “dearly beloved” say that she is s-o-o grateful for what he has provided through his sweat and endless toil.
In such cases his mind will, of course, begin to ease into that uniquely male mental state (a/k/a “neutral”), and he begins to drift comfortably back into a haze of sentimental thoughts. He has indeed been a good husband, and her realization of just how good is soon going to be expressed in a v-e-r-y romantic way.
Then she adds the key word that snaps him out of his dreamy trance by mentioning the word, “BUT”. The word penetrates his consciousness like an arrow hitting its mark dead center. “BUT” (emphasis added.) He struggles to regain a status of full alert. There wasn’t supposed to be any “but” in a sentence when she is handing out superlatives concerning her husband’s accomplishments, but she definitely has one stuck in the middle of this one.
Instinctively he quickly checks her eyes for clues as to where she might be going this time with her “but”. Through experience, he’s learned that if the word is said with only one bat of her eyelashes and has little irritation showing, it’s probably nothing more that an unemptied trash can or possibly a car needing a wash job. (I.e. no sweat in this case.)
Next however, she shifts into that communication overdrive gear that only women (and tobacco auctioneers) possess, and a torrent of barely understandable words pass quickly from her impeccably made up mouth in a micro-second of real time.
He is able to pick out a recognizable phrase here and there, but much of her message goes right past his straining ears. He picks out the words, “it won’t cost much” . . .and later . . “it will make the guest room so much nicer . . “ finally finishing with . . “and it will add to the value of our home.”
Her eyelashes then flit seductively in that unique female version of Morse code that signals a significant message has come his way. Further, her body language is that of a half-flirting, half-shy coquette.
He quickly assumes the classic male debating posture of non-commitment by plastering a puzzled look on his face, and mumbling a non-confrontational, “yes dear.” Another classic male tactic – backpedal and stall for time until he sorts out the situation – and in the meantime he’ll develop a viable excuse to be used if her feminine wiles have some work for him in the near future.
Then his nasal passages detect just a hint of additional perfume usage by her. It’s usually a very pleasant experience, but this time the hair on the back of his neck is standing straight up -- a sure sign of possible danger.
Quickly he checks the status of their (correction her) oven, and detects the first delicate wafts of baking pastry. His now highly sensitized taste buds begin to swell and moisten as he detects the definite aroma of fresh cherry pie – his absolute favorite dessert.
With the time and experiences of a veteran husband under his belt (and a considerable number of servings of cherry pie as well), our domesticated man will learn to proceed from the circumstances of the “baking stage” (a/k/a “trap-setting stage”) to the “hook-setting stage” of home improvement projects with cautious deliberation. But for any new boy at discovering the subtleties of domestic subterfuge, he’s mere meat on the table (a/k/a “putty in her hand.”)
There are, of course, many tried and true male tactics which can be employed once he discovers her true intentions. But he must be careful not to over use common avoidance ploys such as trick knees or scarce finances too often, or he risks much more than the loss of cherry pie for dessert.
Up next on the Coffee House Philosopher, a discussion of the finances involved whenever a home improvement project is begun. We’ll get some valuable input from some of the regular contributors of your local coffee shop, and help you turn that house into a home – or a castle if that’s your preference.
To further elucidate on the matter, let us consider a typical case situation involving a home improvement project (albeit entirely hypothetical of course.) The source of one of the strongest emotions known to modern man (scientific name hemanus domesticus) is to hear his “dearly beloved” say that she is s-o-o grateful for what he has provided through his sweat and endless toil.
In such cases his mind will, of course, begin to ease into that uniquely male mental state (a/k/a “neutral”), and he begins to drift comfortably back into a haze of sentimental thoughts. He has indeed been a good husband, and her realization of just how good is soon going to be expressed in a v-e-r-y romantic way.
Then she adds the key word that snaps him out of his dreamy trance by mentioning the word, “BUT”. The word penetrates his consciousness like an arrow hitting its mark dead center. “BUT” (emphasis added.) He struggles to regain a status of full alert. There wasn’t supposed to be any “but” in a sentence when she is handing out superlatives concerning her husband’s accomplishments, but she definitely has one stuck in the middle of this one.
Instinctively he quickly checks her eyes for clues as to where she might be going this time with her “but”. Through experience, he’s learned that if the word is said with only one bat of her eyelashes and has little irritation showing, it’s probably nothing more that an unemptied trash can or possibly a car needing a wash job. (I.e. no sweat in this case.)
Next however, she shifts into that communication overdrive gear that only women (and tobacco auctioneers) possess, and a torrent of barely understandable words pass quickly from her impeccably made up mouth in a micro-second of real time.
He is able to pick out a recognizable phrase here and there, but much of her message goes right past his straining ears. He picks out the words, “it won’t cost much” . . .and later . . “it will make the guest room so much nicer . . “ finally finishing with . . “and it will add to the value of our home.”
Her eyelashes then flit seductively in that unique female version of Morse code that signals a significant message has come his way. Further, her body language is that of a half-flirting, half-shy coquette.
He quickly assumes the classic male debating posture of non-commitment by plastering a puzzled look on his face, and mumbling a non-confrontational, “yes dear.” Another classic male tactic – backpedal and stall for time until he sorts out the situation – and in the meantime he’ll develop a viable excuse to be used if her feminine wiles have some work for him in the near future.
Then his nasal passages detect just a hint of additional perfume usage by her. It’s usually a very pleasant experience, but this time the hair on the back of his neck is standing straight up -- a sure sign of possible danger.
Quickly he checks the status of their (correction her) oven, and detects the first delicate wafts of baking pastry. His now highly sensitized taste buds begin to swell and moisten as he detects the definite aroma of fresh cherry pie – his absolute favorite dessert.
With the time and experiences of a veteran husband under his belt (and a considerable number of servings of cherry pie as well), our domesticated man will learn to proceed from the circumstances of the “baking stage” (a/k/a “trap-setting stage”) to the “hook-setting stage” of home improvement projects with cautious deliberation. But for any new boy at discovering the subtleties of domestic subterfuge, he’s mere meat on the table (a/k/a “putty in her hand.”)
There are, of course, many tried and true male tactics which can be employed once he discovers her true intentions. But he must be careful not to over use common avoidance ploys such as trick knees or scarce finances too often, or he risks much more than the loss of cherry pie for dessert.
Up next on the Coffee House Philosopher, a discussion of the finances involved whenever a home improvement project is begun. We’ll get some valuable input from some of the regular contributors of your local coffee shop, and help you turn that house into a home – or a castle if that’s your preference.
“Some Say That Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day”
I was in the coffee shop the other day, when I just happened to spot Ross Graham huddled with Larry Woods, Mallory Seevers, and Steve Waldschmidt around a table. This in itself was not unusual, but they also had accumulated an abnormally large mass of crumpled napkins on their table. Further, the napkins of interest were not being used to mop the customary range of various and sundry breakfast crumbs and coffee stains off their chins. But instead the napkins were being scribbled upon by one or the other of the four, and always with the rapt attention of the other three.
What’s more, Kenney Clark and Irvin Hopper were at a nearby table trying to catch glimpses of what was being drawn and discussed. And at the very minimum they were clearly not interested in the conversation at their own table.
“Aha I thought to myself, all the indicia of a new project – in the planning stage, no less. As the knowledgeable reader will recall, such signs generally begin with hushed conversations around crudely drawn blueprints on napkins or various scraps of paper. (Bingo for the first sign.) And so naturally feeling great concern for the (ahem)welfare of my fellow associates, doing the responsible thing required me to find out just exactly what (as the bard says) was “blowin’ in the wind.”
As the experienced project participant can affirm, the customary indications of architectural or mechanical activity in the infancy stages must be handled with due discretion or it might attract the attention of the ever-present I.O. or interested observer. Messrs. Clark and Hopper fill the bill in this case although the uninformed person might also include moi in a similar category.
Domestic project proponents can become victims of disaster should the details of their plan be passed directly or indirectly by an I.O. (intentionally as well as unwittingly)to the prime participant’s spouse from whom permission has not here-to-fore been obtained after full disclosure. (A word of warning – this is a disclosure which m-u-s-t include e-v-e-r-y detail and every p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e contingency.)
As unfortunate as it is to have an I.O. become involved before the project proponent has properly prepared his beloved spouse and neighbors, it can easily become worse. (For as the comedic sage, Bill Cosby, has cautioned, “Never tempt worse.”) The matter will in all cases eventually enter the territorial domain of the dreaded N.K.I.A. (Nosy Know-It-All.) And alas and alack, if this were to occur sooner rather than later . . . well let us just say that the term “catastrophe” is not adequate to describe the likely consequences.
The N.K.I.A. is the individual who feels duty-bound to spread the word, in detail, to the entire community, the fact that there is a new project underway. At a minimum his duty includes giving his “professional opinion” as to just how any new project can be expected to affect the environment and the project proponent’s family, neighborhood, and country. An N.K.I.A. is not often caught unaware by sudden events, but a urprised N.K.I.A. can be counted upon to formulate an extensive neighborhood impact statement on the spot with less than half the facts in evidence.
Woe to the project proponent that has not discussed it with his spouse prior to the time the N.K.I.A. gets wind of it. Such oversights can mushroom to a situation requiring a discussion of project details and betrayals of trust which will consequently increase the cost of the project to the proponent by the price of about two dozen roses.
Of course, the matter should be expected to arise again (perhaps many times so)in the near future, and must be smoothed out quickly each time it occurs. This is because the highly ethical NKIA will honor his code of professional conduct by informing half the town of each unfortunate development before the next sunrise. And his version of the facts may include some details that the project proponent unfortunately neglected to mention to his spouse in prior hurried confessions. (C’est la guerre.)
Anyway in the instant project, the prime contractors are reputed to be Seevers and Woods with the other parties serving as worthy advisors (or so I hear.) The terms used to describe the project include “gazebo” or “deck” and it’s rumored to have a hammock and swamp cooler for good measure.
When finished, it ought to serve as an excellent site for fine meals – just as was the case in outdoor porticos in old Rome. Come to think of it, I wonder just how long it did take to build “the eternal city.” (I also wonder if the builder cleared it with his wife first?) Maybe I’d better check with Roger Hardaway at Northwestern on this one.
Be sure to watch for future columns which will further detail the travails of the intrepid project undertaker. One can bet they will give the reader something that he or she can build upon. After all it only takes time – and money.
What’s more, Kenney Clark and Irvin Hopper were at a nearby table trying to catch glimpses of what was being drawn and discussed. And at the very minimum they were clearly not interested in the conversation at their own table.
“Aha I thought to myself, all the indicia of a new project – in the planning stage, no less. As the knowledgeable reader will recall, such signs generally begin with hushed conversations around crudely drawn blueprints on napkins or various scraps of paper. (Bingo for the first sign.) And so naturally feeling great concern for the (ahem)welfare of my fellow associates, doing the responsible thing required me to find out just exactly what (as the bard says) was “blowin’ in the wind.”
As the experienced project participant can affirm, the customary indications of architectural or mechanical activity in the infancy stages must be handled with due discretion or it might attract the attention of the ever-present I.O. or interested observer. Messrs. Clark and Hopper fill the bill in this case although the uninformed person might also include moi in a similar category.
Domestic project proponents can become victims of disaster should the details of their plan be passed directly or indirectly by an I.O. (intentionally as well as unwittingly)to the prime participant’s spouse from whom permission has not here-to-fore been obtained after full disclosure. (A word of warning – this is a disclosure which m-u-s-t include e-v-e-r-y detail and every p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e contingency.)
As unfortunate as it is to have an I.O. become involved before the project proponent has properly prepared his beloved spouse and neighbors, it can easily become worse. (For as the comedic sage, Bill Cosby, has cautioned, “Never tempt worse.”) The matter will in all cases eventually enter the territorial domain of the dreaded N.K.I.A. (Nosy Know-It-All.) And alas and alack, if this were to occur sooner rather than later . . . well let us just say that the term “catastrophe” is not adequate to describe the likely consequences.
The N.K.I.A. is the individual who feels duty-bound to spread the word, in detail, to the entire community, the fact that there is a new project underway. At a minimum his duty includes giving his “professional opinion” as to just how any new project can be expected to affect the environment and the project proponent’s family, neighborhood, and country. An N.K.I.A. is not often caught unaware by sudden events, but a urprised N.K.I.A. can be counted upon to formulate an extensive neighborhood impact statement on the spot with less than half the facts in evidence.
Woe to the project proponent that has not discussed it with his spouse prior to the time the N.K.I.A. gets wind of it. Such oversights can mushroom to a situation requiring a discussion of project details and betrayals of trust which will consequently increase the cost of the project to the proponent by the price of about two dozen roses.
Of course, the matter should be expected to arise again (perhaps many times so)in the near future, and must be smoothed out quickly each time it occurs. This is because the highly ethical NKIA will honor his code of professional conduct by informing half the town of each unfortunate development before the next sunrise. And his version of the facts may include some details that the project proponent unfortunately neglected to mention to his spouse in prior hurried confessions. (C’est la guerre.)
Anyway in the instant project, the prime contractors are reputed to be Seevers and Woods with the other parties serving as worthy advisors (or so I hear.) The terms used to describe the project include “gazebo” or “deck” and it’s rumored to have a hammock and swamp cooler for good measure.
When finished, it ought to serve as an excellent site for fine meals – just as was the case in outdoor porticos in old Rome. Come to think of it, I wonder just how long it did take to build “the eternal city.” (I also wonder if the builder cleared it with his wife first?) Maybe I’d better check with Roger Hardaway at Northwestern on this one.
Be sure to watch for future columns which will further detail the travails of the intrepid project undertaker. One can bet they will give the reader something that he or she can build upon. After all it only takes time – and money.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
“Merrily We Roll Along”
With visions of ocean waves breaking on ivory shores at sundown in beautiful Newport, Oregon, I dropped the gearshift of our trusty Expedition into drive and we were off. A mere two thousand miles of touring glorious America the beautiful, and we’d be there. And with Joan the TomTom, our now trusted GPS pathfinder pointing the way, we were (almost) certain to find our way west to seek any fortunes that lay in our pathway. That’s the nature of visions. But just between you and me, a person who wants to remain sane will allow for some minor deviations in theory vs. reality.
By now Patti and I had thoroughly put Joan through her paces and we felt reasonably comfortable in putting our welfare on the open road in her hands. But we had traced out our route on a conventional road Atlas just the same. And we had noticed interesting differences in the way men and women utilize maps and GPS devices.
Men will tend to argue with the way maps are drawn, and even much more so with the way maps are interpreted by female map readers. Full blown debates may develop when females try to give directions to a frustrated male driver from a map. The classic example is given when Lucille Ball instructs Desi Arnez (in the movie “The Long Trailer”) to “turn right here left.”
And now with the advent of 21st century technology comes a machine giving the instructions. Men readily tend to take the machine-generated instructions as gospel and women become indignant when (altogether too often) they see their own instructions challenged and criticized for being incorrect or hard to follow. This becomes (much) more of a factor the sixth time that (male) jerk becomes absolutely thrilled with how well that little machine does the little lady’s former job.
But some women manage to find a way to stay in the loop of the navigating function. For example Bill Cosby recently related the following episode on The Tonight Show. Another couple and the Cosby’s drove to a restaurant in a car for a social outing using a GPS device. The other couple sat in the front of the car, and quite naturally the man did the driving, with the woman assuming her traditional role of observer and critic. From time to time, the machine would give instructions to turn one way or another. For instance the machine might instruct. “ in 500 yards, turn left”, and later, “in 600 yards turn right.” After each machine-given instruction, the other person’s wife would carefully repeat the same instruction to him, word for word.
After they arrived at the restaurant, Cosby called the other man aside and asked if it wasn’t distracting to have each and every instruction given by the machine repeated in such a manner by his wife. To which the man replied, “what machine?”
Despite some operational glitches such as those mentioned, this type of repetitive system might tend to promote domestic tranquility when husband and wife travel together. With perhaps as many as 99+ per cent of our GPS device’s instructions being clear and accurate, the casual observer might question what could possibly go wrong (go wrong, go wrong.)
The reader should none-the-less be cautioned that maverick instructions can occasionally get into the mix. For example, in two or three cases on interstate highways, Joan has generated instructions out of the blue to “turn around when possible” for no apparent reason. And one time in Washington state while traveling next to a cliff rising 1,000 feet straight up on our right side, we were instructed to “turn right”. (Perhaps if Joan were to preface the latter instruction to first get some dynamite and a jackhammer, it might work out.) And in New Mexico when there was no intersecting road for miles, we were instructed “in 250 yards, turn left”. In our experience the maverick instructions occurred primarily in rural areas where we easily could tell that they were incorrect.
Occasionally Joan will use unfamiliar terminology. For example, when approaching an on ramp to an interstate that one needs to take, Joan might say something such as “in 250 yards turn right and then take the motorway”. We figure that “motorway” must mean something similar to freeway.
In spite of all the teething problems that could arise in working out a viable system of travel, we pulled into Brookings, Oregon about three days later. And after making certain that the Pacific Ocean hadn’t moved or dried up, we looked forward to feeding the seagulls. Patti ceremoniously threw out the first slice of bread to the first gull to greet us outside our room, and the one gull quickly attracted 30 others with its cries for more.
With a rapidly diminishing supply of bakery supplies on hand, we quickly deduced that we needed more, and set out to do our part to bolster the demand for inexpensive bread. By dragging main we located a grocery store known simply as Grocery Outlet. It apparently met my number one shopping goal of making economical purchases (Patti calls it being cheap) by advertising “Bargains Only”.
We bought four loaves for a total cost of a little over three dollars. As we were leaving the outlet we also noticed that the store had a wine section, and one brand in particular caught our eye. Instead of having such traditional labels as Rose’ or Zinfindel, it had the exotic name of “Smashed Grapes”, and sold for the exorbitant price of $2.99. Despite my interest, Patti didn’t seem at all impressed.
We went back to our room near the ocean where we discovered that the number of squawking gulls would swell to perhaps 100 or more whenever we tossed out several pieces of bread at once. When we threw multiple pieces the individual gull that managed to gulp down a piece or two of bread before others could devour the same morsel could expect to get pecked on the back of its head by slower disgruntled competitors. Apparently neither sportsmanship nor good table manners seemed to be a part of a gull’s dining practice.
The political affiliations as expressed were pretty evenly divided between those who were concerned that Hillary Clinton might become President and those who felt that she could not possibly do any worse than the current administration. The local residents asked about my position on the matter, and I replied that some of my friends were for Hillary and some of them were against her, and that I tended to side with my friends.
The Beachfront RV park has 180 paved RV spaces and half of then are right on the beach. All RV spaces bordering the ocean rent for $30 a night and have 30 channels of TV. The only thing that was keeping me from enjoying one of these scenic but inexpensive RV spaces by the sea was the fact that I had no RV.
I had to be careful in selecting one of my two hats from my traveling wardrobe for any one day. If I wore my customary (old) Northwestern hat, I was asked how Nebraska was doing this year. If I wore my Oklahoma Sooners hat, I was asked what in the world was a Sooner. (Apparently football doesn’t quite have the following in Oregon that it does in Oklahoma.) In the future I plan to take a fisherman’s hat or one that says “Peg’s Furniture” on the trip.
At one of the many pier facilities located nearby, Patti and I were warned that one of the local sea lions “was on the peck.” He had selected one of the narrowest parts of the dock at the marina for his afternoon nap, and would charge anyone seeking to pass by. These creatures are perhaps eight feet long, can easily weigh over a thousand pounds, and thanks to federal protection laws tend to have a free run of the place..
In the Oregon and Washington area, any kind of a private structure located on the beach will command a price approaching a million dollars. Several of the guys in Brookings offered to sell their beach house to me at the sacrifice price of $800,000. To be offered such a bargain made me feel like a million dollars – all green and wrinkled.
Coming up on the Coffee House Philosopher, our tour continues to Cape Foulweather (Captain Cook gave it the great sounding name), Seattle, and the Little Bighorn. And as Roy Rogers used to say, “until we meet again, may the good Lord take a liking to you.”
“No Matter Where You Go, There You Are”
Ah the thrill of being in a car touring on the open road. With the wind in our hair, good music in our ears (classical no less), and our trusted canine companion (Daisy) at our side, my wife, Patti, and I set out to see the world. At least we planned to see the northwest part of America.
To assist us in finding our way and not getting lost on our journey, we also had our trusted TomTom, an inanimate GPS device. Now you’ve surely heard that some (strange) people treat some of their mechanical devices as having the traits of living creatures (e.g. planes or cars) by giving them pet names. However, on this trip, Patti and I also extended the practice to our (now beloved) TomTom.
This rather innocent hint of insanity began when we had to pick a voice for our TomTom from a choice of perhaps 20 or so voices. Of course voices for both men and women were available, and naturally choosing one almost immediately became a bone of contention. Patti was outraged that voices for either Julio Iglasias or Sam Elliot were not among the choices available.
I personally would have liked to have found the unique voice of W. C. Fields among the possible choices, but alas, such was not the case. We finally settled upon a female voice that didn’t have too much of a nagging quality, and thereafter dubbed the GPS device with its pleasant female voice, “Joan”.
We first had to read and digest the (ahem) simple and easy to read instructions. (NOT!) In any case, we had a differing approach in trying to gain an understanding of how to use the handy little “gadget”. (Perhaps I should also mention that during these initial stages of acquisition, Patti derisively referred to Joan as an “expensive toy”.)
Women are said by some people to be quite different from men. It’s a total violation of the hearsay rule, but I heard that when the aforesaid “difference matter” came up before the national French legislative body, they all stood to a man and shouted, “Vive la difference.” (This is totally irrelevant, but it makes for a nifty addition to the story, don’t you think?)
For example, when trying to figure out how to use a new gadget, the two sexes employ a totally different approach. Women tend to read the instructions word for word, line by line, and attempt to make a very literal interpretation. Men, on the other hand, tend to read an absolute minimal amount until they feel confident that they can argue effectively with the person who drafted them. Then by the time that they can also swear with feeling at the new product’s drafters, they will be confident that they have acquired at least a “working knowledge” of said instructions.
Next men will proceed to “fiddle with the device” and see if they can make it work. Actually, I’ve also noticed that the less a man reads before he acquires his so-called working knowledge, the more “manly” (i.e. technically advanced) he appears to be to the masses. For example no self-respecting plumber will allow himself to be seen reading instructions of any sort, or he must not be much of a plumber.
Anyway in trying to find out how to use our new TomTom (a/k/a Joan), I made a manly scan of the afore-mentioned instructions for two full minutes before passing them over to Patti. But not before I had properly labeled the author of said instructions a cretin for writing them in such an obtuse and idiotic manner. (And also thinking to myself that they were probably written by a woman.)
While Patti studied the bewildering printed explanation of how the GPS device worked, I networked by catching Ross Graham at a local coffee shop. I figured I could gain much more by cross examining him than trying to sift through such a collection of unintelligible hieroglyphics. Ross quickly phoned his wife, Charlene, to get a few things straight before showing me some of the finer points – sort of a courtesy call you might say..
By now I was fully armed with enough knowledge to turn Joan on, so I placed the suction cup holder on the windshield and pressed Joan’s “on” button. This immediately caused Joan to pop off the windshield and thud against the floor boards whereupon she let go one (perhaps as many as five) bad words in a male voice which sounded not unlike my own. It must have been the shock of the fall that caused the sudden change in her voice. (At least that’s the version I’ve been able to sell to Patti, and at least so far . . . )
Joan next completely lost her voice and would not display the roadway layouts. Then she went stone cold dead and refused to communicate with us in any way (i.e., the progression of events was not unlike most of my prior experiences in dealing with females.)
Anyway I found the source of the problem to be that Joan’s memory chip had popped out from the fall and was LOST in the (less than expansive) environs of the floorboard of our trusty Expedition. This took place in all of about thirty seconds into our first meaningful experience with Joan.
Strange, but I could almost hear musical strains to the theme of the movie, Titanic, somewhere in the distance, and the unspoken word “disaster” weighed heavily on my mind. While whizzing along at highway speeds through such cities as Reno, Nevada and Seattle, Washington at night, we were not likely to strike an iceberg. But when we considered that we would be following the directions of a fragile TomTom named Joan that might detach from the windshield at any moment, it gave both of us pause to consider.
Therefore one safety measure we both agreed upon was to have Stan Kline at K&K body shop install a permanent dash mount which was obtained from Sight and Sound. Then with a little epoxy and a customized mounting interface device acquired from MountGuys (on the Internet), Patti and I felt prepared to turn Joan on again – if we could replace the chip on Joan’s shoulder, so to speak.
A call to the TomTom factory revealed that we could buy Joan another two Gig chip at Wal-Mart, and she’d be just as good as new once we’d downloaded the digital maps from the manufacturer’s web site. Thank heaven Patti had the foresight to store the key instructions on a disk prior to Joan’s “shakedown cruise”. (This simply provides further evidence that those &%#% unnecessarily complicated instructions were probably written by a female.)
Stay tuned for the continuing electronically enhanced (mis)adventures of Patti and myself on a tour of the west coast in future columns. We also pay a visit to the Little Bighorn in Montana to get a little historical perspective into the trip. Oh, and by the way, the catchy title for this column was a phrase coined by the illustrious Hubert Humphrey. He was a man who ran for president in 1972 and who was much admired by Bill Richardson, current Governor of New Mexico and national presidential candidate.
In the former paragraph I’ve clearly resorted to pathetic practice of name dropping to impress the reader. But in my defense, neither Hubert’s nor Bill’s voices were available as TomTom selections. It possibly involves mere oversight on the part of the manufacturer, but it could also be the workings of a right wing conspiracy. The reader can bet the farm that The Coffee House Philosopher will check it out.
“It’s Ever So Green on the Far Side of the Hill”
Ah when that ol’ wander lust strikes and we get that “itch” in our feet (some experience the itch elsewhere), we just have to scratch it by taking a trip somewhere. Some of us are forced by circumstances to be a traveler “in mind only” (like Meryl Streep in the classic movie, “Out of Africa”). But when we have the necessary coins and time, we want to actually saddle up and move out. At such time we make plans to see what’s just over the nearby hill – and beyond.
When planning a trip, we can often find it helpful to get crumpled and outdated maps out of the glove box, and nostalgically relive prior sojourns to far away places by retracing the faded lines drawn on them. It can be a very good idea to lay them out and read them north to south (or from east to west), and then practice folding them back up. It would probably not be a bad idea to cover this last step several times – but some people need a reminder that maps can never be refolded the same way twice.
One might also want to go over the details of the last truce terms that were agreed upon between spouses when not under conditions of duress. Of course this usually depends upon whether he or she was driving when the agreement was made.
Key topics which will undoubtedly arise deal with inflation in gas prices, and how far below “E” the gas gage needle can safely go before “Lizzy” will sputter to a stop. As a rule the female of the household will “not feel comfortable” any time the gas gage registers under half a tank. But the typical male attitude is that if they will just go a little bit farther down the road, gas prices will be at least 2 cents a gallon cheaper. He will also claim to have somehow noticed that the “low fuel” warning light has only been on for eleven or twelve minutes. Thus the car clearly still has a full three minute’s supply sloshing around in the tank. And besides, he can (vaguely) recall reading somewhere that the fumes alone will propel the car for a considerable ways before the motor quits altogether.
It is of course, not mannerly to stereotype a situation, but we also must remember that not all trip experiences are pleasant. For example we can visualize an apprehensive female seated in the passenger seat at night with a death grip on a poorly lighted map that she turns first one way, and then the other. He, on the other hand, is barking out conflicting orders like a manic drill sergeant who has found a seat in Captain Kirk’s command chair aboard the starship, Enterprise. (Surely a couple of centuries ago Captain Bligh had a hint of developing mutiny under similar circumstances.)
Another dicey subject which might arise involves the infamous topic of stopping to ask for directions. It’s been alleged to be a matter of male ego that he prefers driving around in circles, trying to spot something familiar instead of stopping to get directions from a stranger. Actually the female faces a dilemma in that while she is undoubtedly aware that service stations have desirable (and necessary) bathrooms, but the male of the species has a propensity to get in an argument with the attendant as to which is the best route to go (e.g. the fastest, shortest, safest, cheapest, etc.).
But now modern technology has perhaps provided a better way. It is also one which has the potential to eliminate some of the less than civil “discussions” held whenever the family sedan unexpectedly reaches a road sign which reads “DEAD END”. Traditionally these impromptu conversations have been conducted at 150 decibels (or higher) around partially shredded paper maps. And the female can frequently be expected to shed copious quantities of tears when she acquires the questionable blame for causing the couple to become lost on a lonely road on a dark and stormy night.
Enter (Ta-daa!) the modern GPS device for cars. For those who’ve been under a rock for the past 20 years, it’s called a Global Positioning System. By using such gadgetry, the average work-a-day family has the opportunity to replace the centuries old cartographer’s product with modern space age technology. But it’s not always a good idea to totally chuck all your old maps, because gadgets have been prone to malfunctions of various sorts (including mis-programming don’t y’know.) Besides, glove boxes need to be stuffed with something that can be wadded up or folded.
Next, there needs to be a decision reached as to the brand and model of GPS to be acquired. It’s engaging in stereotyping again, but acquiring gadgets is generally recognized to be within a man’s sphere of family influence (with the possible exception of cell phone selection.) Women tend to be affected too much by emotional factors in their purchasing motives, and besides, we men like our gadgets with plenty of gages and dials with blinking lights and stuff.
Let’s see now, let’s get properly scientific in making a selection here. Ross Graham has a Tom-Tom. Steve Waldschmidt has a Tom-Tom. Larry Woods has a Tom-Tom. Ditto for Kenny Clark. I thought long and hard, and decided it was a Tom-Tom for me. (Radio Shack, here I come.)
It’s refreshing to be so logical and be able to use a little science in acquiring the “best” equipment. So next thing on the list was to be certain that my decision was cost effective and commercially practical.
“Networking” is a recently coined term in business which includes gaining useful knowledge from the collective experience of prior users. Steve Waldschmidt, being mechanically inclined, was near the top of my list of previous users to contact. He related that early on, he had established the practice of “allowing” his wife, Diana, to read the instructions and pre-program the GPS device in advance of their trips. He also exhibited good management and policy procedures by having Diana check with Betty Mantz for additional pre-programing tips.
When I actually had our very own GPS device in hand, I met with Ross Graham for tips on how to input instructions to the device itself. He quickly reinforced my confidence in the networking process by getting on the phone to his wife, Charlene, who naturally had a ready copy of the instructions close by. By this time I had a pretty good idea of how Larry Woods and Kenny Clark probably used their Tom-Toms.
Stay tuned for a future article which will detail our family’s first-hand experience of field testing the Tom-Tom on a trip to the west coast. Ah one can almost hear the Christy Minstrels belting out their once very popular refrain of, “Green green, it’s green they say on the far side of the hill . . . “
Monday, November 26, 2007
“The Best Gender to Reattach a Wiper Blade”
An incident happened the other day involving a minor defect in a key auto part. Both men and women labored nobly to make it non-defective, and at the same time, they sought to settle an age-old question as to whether men or women were the more capable and resourceful of the two genders. It is of course up to you, the reader, to make a judgment on the matter.
It all began in the fashion of the typical American nightmare – a failure of essential automotive equipment, in broad daylight, in front of plenty of I.O.s (interested observers), who have little to do but watch for the occasional embarrassing action that might arise among the usual patrons of what Dub Garnett used to call “the Breakfast Club”. The time: mid-morning on a weekday. The place: the center of crowded McDonald’s/Daylight Donut parking lots in Alva. The identity of the I.O.s: the breakfast crowd that specializes in coffee consumption and substantial “air temperature enhancement” (idle chatter commonly known as “shooting the breeze.”)
The central figure in this particular bit of drama was none other than Sir Irvin Hopper (frequently the case at McDonald’s.) He had just arrived for a bit of his customary jousting with the members of the Breakfast Club in his white charger and was switching the motor off when the left windshield wiper blade “just fell off.”
It was not too dramatic at first – just a little metallic “click”, and the offending device was on its way to the pavement where it alit with a muffled thud. The whole incident might have gone largely unnoticed except that one of the more alert I.O.s called in a loud voice, “Hey Irvin, your windshield wiper blade fell off.”
In a very short time, this scene became the focal point of a growing crowd in the center of the two parking lots. Both genders were represented in the initial group of “early responders” to this developing crisis. Fawn Kingcaid and Annette Schwertfeger (of the fairer sex), were returning from a morning “scurry” to the Daylight Donut Shop. Not only had they sought to assuage their own affliction (known as “having a sweet tooth”), but they had also loaded themselves down with pastries purchased for other members of the NWOSU business office.
Kingcaid and Schwertfeger both have well established reputations for keen hearing (and an unsurpassed talking ability, but this is subject matter for another day.) The first sounds of the developing crisis had hardly died away before the two intrepid females rushed up to Hopper and inquired whether anyone at the scene required CPR or other first aid. After quickly determining that the situation called for a mechanical remedy rather than a medical one, Kimcaid called for someone to hold their treasured armload of pastries and announced that she and Schwerteger could handle this little emergency themselves.
By this time the two girls had over a dozen I.O.s to choose from in selecting a qualified pastry holder. But in their haste to effect the needed repairs to Hopper’s vehicle, they failed to notice: (a) the identity of their assistant good Samaritan and (b) the fact that he was drooling all over the transferred sacks of donuts and rolls. The interim pastry holder was none other than Breakfast Club kingpin, Kenny Clark.
Be that as it may, the two women were soon hard at work, and (naturally) were discussing the best way to proceed. “You just snap this little thingy on there and it holds that gadget in place like that . . . .No Annette, that won’t work . . . . . see it came off again . . . hmmmmm . . . Well some of these men think they could do a better job – so let them try.”
Steve Waldschmidt was the next participant to have a try at attaching “the unattachable blade.” The fact that he used to run an auto repair shop seemed to carry no weight with the (now) highly critical crowd. He began to try to attach the severed device to the object vehicle – but after several innovative attempts, had no more success than the two women experienced. However he received substantially more criticism than the women, and far more derision. In fact Kingcaid and Schwertfegger had become the loudest of the critics of Waldschmidt, making a joke of how many men it takes to change a wiper blade.
The scene shortly thereafter degenerated into a vigorous argument between males and females as to which gender is the most mechanically inclined. As a general rule, the men took the position that since the time the pyramids were built, men throughout history have been the most mechanically adept. And the women pointed out that the female gender was just beginning to show its mechanical aptitude, stressing the fact it was a woman who had designed the recent Mars robotic rover . . . . .)
In the meantime a person (generally thought to be Jim Rhodes or an unidentified woman) slipped forward, deftly snapped the wiper blade in place, and disappeared into the crowd before the debate could produce a winner of the argument. Fawn Kingcaid angrily snatched the sacks of pastries from Kenny Clark’s arms, and shortly thereafter began accusing him of causing a sizeable shortfall in the contents of the bags. Clark’s sincere denials would have been much more convincing if he had first wiped the icing off his lips and not smacked them so loudly accompanied by annoying slurping sounds.
And the debate as to gender superiority goes on and on . . . .
Monday, November 19, 2007
Danger and Destruction in Alva
Life in a small town is supposed to be devoid of undue excitement. But recently the usual peace and tranquility of the local McDonalds restaurant was shattered by the sound of metal being demolished and the screeching of tortured tires by near-death circumstances.
Mallory Seevers, retired oil-and-gas energy professional and current youth transportation specialist, was entering the McDonalds parking lot when his vehicle was struck and torn asunder by a car being operated in the reverse mode by former hair fashion stylist and current real estate mogul, Sir Kenneth Clark. It was reported by scientists on the west coast that the tremendous impact of the resultant collision registered a record teeth-jarring 9.5 on the Richter scale. And corroborating eye witnesses estimated the closing speed of the two vehicles at two to three miles per hour and further, forensic experts were able to detect measurable skid marks and crash debris with the aid of an ordinary electron microscope.
When the dust cleared, it was readily apparent that Seevers needed help in extricating himself from the tangled wreckage of his vehicle. It is unclear at this time whether his many rescuers were trained paramedics or nosy busybodies who didn=t have anything better to do.
Seevers complained of bruises, lacerations, and contusions over 99 per cent of his body. Seevers can be seen in the accompanying photograph entering McDonalds restaurant on the following day with the aid of an ambulatory walker and a hemmoroidal pillow. Not shown are the extensive injuries to his teeth and bridgework. He is reported to have accused Clark of being completely blind, and Clark reportedly replied, ABlind? I hit you didn=t I.@ [This is an example of an excited utterance in legal circles.]
A law enforcement official trained in the investigation of complex automotive crash scenes was clearly required before excessive deterioration occurred in the quality of critical physical evidence. Therefore a priority request was sent out for an expert in the determination of crash scene causal factors, and due to the close proximity of the Daylight Donut Shop, his arrival time was expected to be minimal.
As is usual in a case of this type, some confusion and misinformation occurred when the officer began a reconstruction of the crash sequence and all contributing factors. He interviewed every credible eyewitness, and eventually settled upon Alva=s very own Ross Graham to provide valuable insight as to the salient facts of the case. Graham was quoted as saying, AI saw Kenney ditch his beer can out of his driver=s side window. It beats me as to what happened to Mallory=s. You know those two get downright mean and surly when they=re drunk.@
The officer inquired of Seevers as to whether the experience had been so traumatic as to cause his whole life to flash before his eyes. Graham, however, quickly interjected that the flash had most likely been that of a Coors Light beer can.
The investigating officer broke several pencil points in his notebook before departing the crash site muttering that he should have become an astronaut. It is understood that the matter is still under intense investigation. Hypnotically enhanced questioning of Graham has been suggested, although Graham has said that higher witness fees are more likely to get the job done B as a matter of Afact@ that his testimony will definitely favor the highest bidder.
Preliminary negotiations are rumored to have begun as to the movie rights to the story with Stephen Spielberg reportedly showing some interest if he can get Tom Cruise to play the part of Seevers and Brad Pitt to play Clark. But the chances of finding stunt doubles who are willing to duplicate the dangerous conditions of the relevant car crash are admittedly slim. And the cost of casting the many patrons of McDonalds and the Daylight Donut Shop may be prohibitive. C=est la vie in a small town.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
