We need more Speed Racer and less Fast and Furious.

My 3 year old has discovered the joy that is Speed Racer. Every morning when he has breakfast he starts asking for it. So I put in the DVD and Speed appears.

I was a big fan when I was younger. Then in college I got a job doing security at an empty building that had cable. I discovered it again on MTV late at night. I never missed it.

When the Fast and Furious Franchise came out I watched all of them. The acting was terrible, the driving was hilarious, the stunts were against the laws of physics, but I watched them all. It was basically a live action cartoon.

Speed was the ultimate good guy. He respected his parents. He obeyed the law. He never risked the lives of others. Even when he was racing he never cheated, never drove recklessly, and never gave up. He worked for the police. He fought evil and corruption. He was true to his girl, Trixie. He was never mean to his little brother no matter how much trouble he got in.

In short he was the complete opposite of members of the Fast and Furious gang. They were criminals. They stole. They cheated. They fought the police. They were unnecessarily cruel to others. They were completely reckless when they raced, drove, or did anything else. They were bad guys pure and simple. They destroyed most of a village in some foreign country by driving through it. And yet somehow we are supposed to root for them.

I really don't know if there is a cartoon contemporary of the Speed Racer series. However, the juxtaposition of the two shows is a view into the problems we face in this country as a whole.

We no longer root for the good guy. Cops are the enemy. Good is bad, and bad is good. Laws are to be broken. No ones life matters but your own. And the end justifies the means. Do what you want, when you want, the way you want, and don't worry about the consequences. You are entitled to whatever you think you deserve – whether you do or not.

Having the approval of those around you is the supreme justification for your actions – not right and wrong.

With this attitude we have a generation of sub humans who are so self centered they can justify murder. A police officer can, while clearly in the right, shoot a criminal who is committing a crime, and it is the officers fault because the criminal was a “good boy.”

When the word good looses all meaning the word evil does too. When evil looses its meaning then it becomes the norm.

We have websites making celebrities of people who are committing crimes. If you can get the most violent activity possible you can have the top rated video. If you have the most vile language and gore you are a shoe if for the top spot.

We have turned our backs on all that is good and become enamored with evil. It is a complete reversal of the way things should be.

F&F drivers can steal, lie, cheat, kill, and destroy – and they are the heroes. Someone as clean cut as Speed Racer would be laughed at and scoffed.

But I really believe that Speed Racer would shrug it off. He is made of sterner stuff than having to have the approval of others. He would take Trixie, rev up the Mach 5, and speed away. A man who is right and knows it doesn't need a pat on the back from everyone – he knows what he stands for.

Like I said, we need more Speed Racer and less, much less, Fast and Furious.

Speed Racer picture was taken from www.comicvine.com

Frontgaters

Today, boys and girls, Uncle Willie is going to introduce you to a new term – Frontgating. “What is that?” you say. Well allow me to explain.

I have prepared visual aids (Don't worry my doctor said they are not contagious).

Everyone knows that tailgating is when you , or someone else, drives too close to the back of another vehicle. This is a bad thing. Most states have a law that states that for every 10 miles an hour there should be one car length between you. They sometimes state it in terms of seconds, but I like the length rule. For example if you are going 10 MPH you should be 1 car length away from the car in front of you. At 20 mph- 2 car lengths and etc. At 100 MPH you should be on a racetrack or the Autobahn not a US highway.

 

However, frontgating is when someone, hopefully you are smart enough to not do this, swerves in front of you within inches of your bumper.

For example: I am driving down the interstate. I drive an 8 – 14k pound truck depending on what I am towing. I am in the right hand lane doing the speed limit. In the left hand lane is a wall of 80,000 pound semi trucks. Idiot driver comes down the on ramp matches my speed right beside my truck. IN front of me is 5 car lengths, behind me is 40 miles of clear lane. Idiot driver speeds up, swerves in front of my truck, and takes a layer of chrome off the bumper, then slows down. Idiot driver is frontgating. IT should be legal to slam into Frontgater and push him into the trees.

Another example: I am in said 8-14k pound vehicle on a 4 lane road (it doesn't matter which lane I am in). I am approaching a stop light. In front of me is enough room for me to stop and not spill my coffee and a bus load of orphan kindergarten kitten nuns (OKKN). Behind me there is enough room for a 747 to land. Idiot driver in the other lane traveling the same direction as I am roars up beside me, sees the opening between me and the bus full of OKKN and swerves in front me me causing me to lock up the brakes, spill my coffee on the windshield, and then stops short of the OKKN. It should be legal to exit my vehicle and empty my thermos full of scalding hot coffee on the heads of these frontgaters.

(I just noticed I left the Justice off the last frame)

Yet another example: I am piloting aforementioned large heavy truck on a 2 lane road. Ahead there is a side road intersection with a stop sign. As I approach at the speed limit (55 mph) I see a vehilce - usually an older luxury type automobile driven by someone who came of voting age during WWI or any aged person with a cell phone stuck to their head - approach the stop sign, almost stop, then slowwwwwwwwwly pull our right in front of my truck. As I leave skid marks on the blacktop, and my jockeys, they accelerate to approximately 1/3 of the speed limit and stay there. They pay no attention to the loud horn on my truck or the multiple tires on the truck and trailer attempting to peel the pavement up. These Frontgaters should be beaten with a stop sign until they understand the error of their ways.

Then there is one more class of Frontgater. He is more dangerous than the rest. I am driving the leviathan down the interstate. There is one of those super long on and off ramps to the left that is about a mile and a half long. On this on/off ramps there is a car – usually already wrecked, undoubtedly uninsured, meandering along, is a driver who does not know what mirrors are for. Nor is he capable of turning his head. He trots down the lane and gets almost in front of my truck and changes lanes. When my horn sounds ( and at that point his head is about even with it) he swerves back into his lane, accelerates slightly, then pulls out again with only the sound waves from the horn separating us – and slows down. It should be legal to run this Frontgater over, take his wallet and any loose change from his car, set the car on fire, and take his pants.

What brings these things to light. Well today I had to drive to Charlotte. Fortunately we did not have the trailer so I was right at 8000 pounds. Every single one of those examples happened during the trip.

I have a set of 150db air horns in the shop. This week they are going on the truck. Along with possibly a pneumatic ram to swat the Frontgaters off the earth.

Disclaimer:Uncle Willie does not condone road rage violence to be used in the instance of encountering a frontgater. This blog isin no means a legal document. If you attack a frontgater – no matter how satisfying it may be – you will be arrested and put in a jail cell with a guy named bubba who things you have a pretty smile. This goes for women too. Drive safely – don't be a frontgater!

Alone time

I had a music instructor that once told me that people have too much noise in their lives. Everywhere is a TV, radio, or phone begging for our attention. He was right.

I firmly believe that people have lost the ability to be quiet. They have lost the ability to sit with themselves and think.

I like the radio. I have one in my truck, but when I am by myself I rarely have it on. I would rather think while I drive.

These thoughts went through my head while I had the bittersweet joy of mowing the front yard for the last time this season. Mowing has always been my time. Time to be left alone. Time to think. Time to sing old songs and mangle the words with no one to laugh.

I have always enjoyed mowing. I think I spent most of my teenaged years behind one mower or another. I mowed about 10 yards a week. Not for the money, although the root beer and snickers fund was nice, but for the time alone.

For several hours a week my companion was a single cylinder push mower, the grass, and the fresh air. As I have gotten older my weapon of choice has moved up to a twin cylinder riding mower. It seems that my back doesn't like a push mower much now.

As I rode around in circles I was thinking to years ago when I would put on my tennis shoes, grab a gas can, my mower, and a ballcap, and head off across the neighborhood to mow yards. It was hard work. Our neighborhood was anything but flat, but I enjoyed it.

My dad always told everyone that I hated mowing. I didn't tell him I liked it for fear he would have found a way to make it harder. Maybe barefooted carrying weights. So I kept my enjoy met to myself, and somethow that made it more enjoyable. And made the time to think sweeter.

Today everyone has a personal entertainment system attached to their hips in the form of the smartphone. They have wires hanging from their ears that drain their brain. They cannot think. They have to be entertained.

To be honest I had a Walkman. And I listened to it, but not when I mowed.

As I pushed the mower around with its blade slicing through the grass, turning the tangled green blades into a smooth carpet, I could think. I was left alone.

If a child now has to mow a yard it is inhumane and social services gets called. If a child has to sit in silence they will explode. But to me it is one of life's little pleasures.

I recently made 3 trips to Mississippi. 600 miles one way. For the majority of that time the radio was off. The engine was entertaining enough. As the miles slipped under my tires I relaxed. I thought. I worked over problems. I came up with answers. I was alone with myself.

So take some advice from someone who enjoys the silence. Turn off the TV, turn down the radio, unhook the headset, and enjoy the time alone. It will be uncomfortable at first. You will hate the silence, but after a while your brain will engage and you can think.

Sit and watch the sunset. Watch it rain. Just enjoy being

alone.

Quality time.

It is pouring rain so I am in the house today. I don't feel like wading through the yard to do anything out there.

Recently my wife had been gone a good bit. She is taking special education teaching classes and is at the point where she is doing an internship at a local school. So on Mondays and Thursdays she is gone from 7:30 – 3:30 and on Tuesdays (today) she is gone from 7:30-9:00 pm. I am not complaining because it gives me lots of quality time with Heath – the 2 year old.

Heath is a unique child. I know every parent says that about their kids, but everyone says it about Heath. He likes to be by himself. When he is around other kids he finds his own place to play. And he is completely independent. I think if he could open the pantry and reach the peanut butter he wouldn't need us at all.

Today we went in the front bathroom to tend to the ducks (you don't keep 10 ducklings in your bathtub?) and Heath materialized behind me with two slices of bread. I have no idea where they came from. But after I filled the tub with water we fed it to the ducks. When I went in the kitchen the loaf of bread on the counter was still closed up. I honestly think the kid has a stash of food hidden somewhere.

A short time later I heard a sound and went to check on him. He had poured some fruit loops out on the floor and was eating them like a cat. I have no idea how he got the bag of cereal. Maybe it came out of his stash.

After the ducks had their 20 minutes of swim time I drained the tub. Heath didn't bring any food. He did help me get the water bowl back in the tub and fill the food dish. I think he would sleep in the tub with the ducks if I would let him.

A short time ago he found a pair of 3D glasses that we got out of a junk car yesterday. He thinks they are cool.

Finally I get a break – he went down for a nap. Maybe I will have time to put on some pants. I have been chasing him around in my bathrobe all morning.

Or maybe not. Just as I was looking for the publish button I heard a thud followed closely by a scream. Heath had climbed out on the bookshelf next to his crib and fallen off. He injured his pride, but is fine otherwise. I may need to hold off on the pants till he is actually asleep.

I am back, sorta

Well it had been a while since I blogged.

 I have no clue if anyone even reads my blog anymore. I only had two regular readers and I think they are both locked in an asylum now.

 Life has been interesting in the last 4 or so years. I have bought a new truck, sold both my old ones, had a child (well not actually me but my wife did – I helped) he is now 2, accumulated new friends, bought a ton of tools, and got into old garden tractors.

 Today I spent my time outside in my workshop cleaning up the mess.

 In the past few months I have bought 2 large toolboxes full of miscellaneous (spelling that word is the only thing I remember from accounting class in high school) tools and they were dumped into a pile in the floor.

After pushing the 80? Craftsman riding mower, that has been in my way for a year, out into the cold windy world I got busy cleaning. I have no idea how many screwdrivers I have now, but I think I could start a store selling them and become rich. After sorting through that pile I got sidetracked and started playing online on the shop computer.

While I was playing I found this blog again. So I will update it periodically. And someone may actually read it.

Uncle Will's plan to win any war.

1. Send all the reporters home. They aren't in America and they have no constitutional rights in a foreign country. If they want to stay there is no protection provided by the military. They are on their own.

2. If you shoot at our military you will die. So will the person standing on either side of you and the one behind you. If someone near you starts shooting at our troops you had better be moving for cover.

3. If you hide in a building to shoot at our military expect the entire building to be leveled. If you are a civilian and didn't shoot you had better hit the ground running or your dead. It doesn't matter what kind of building you are in. Church, school, mosque there is no where to hide.

4. This is a war. People get killed. Things get blown up. It is a dirty, stinking, rotten business and from time to time it must be done to keep the world safe enough to live in. War is hell – there is a reason people say that, there is nothing nice about it.

5.You have the right to complain, bad mouth, resent, protest, or otherwise dislike war, and that right will not be trampled on. But don't be surprised when your whining, sniveling, cowardly butt is scooped up in the middle of the night and dropped off in the war zone for a few days.


6. If you don't like this country, feel free to leave. We will even help you pack.

I will survive

As a child I became enamored with the World War II when I first discovered the Time Life Series on the war. In the many years since I have been privileged to talk to many men who served in that great conflict. Those who firsthand saw the triumph and agony of those years of war. Those who sacrificed their very existence to secure freedom for the rest of us. Them most poignant of my memories of these discussions were the men and women I talked to who liberated and suffered in the death camps of Nazi Germany.

The survivors tell a story of horrific survival. Stories that would, and should break the heart of the most hardened person. The liberators tell the story of the discovery of the ovens, the gas chambers, the lamps and shades made of human skin, and the emaciated children.

I have seen the marks tattooed on the arms of the survivors. The hollow stare in their eyes as they speak of the conditions and friends lost. I have heard of stories of surviving only on weak soup and small pieces of stale bread. The sorrow of retelling of the loss of loved ones that they had to bury. The cruelty of their captors.

There is nothing joyful about the stories. There is no bright spot in the darkness.

But today I came across a video that was joyful. It was hopeful. It caused me to cry. It was a video of a survivor and his family dancing to “I Will Survive” in front of former death camps, on death trains, and in front of Memorials.

There was no bright spot then, but for those who survived the world is freedom. And for all of us there is hope.

Donk-a- what?

Have you noticed lately that the trend for things has leaned to the far side of ridiculous? Everything “stylish” now seems to attempt to compensate for its owners need for attention of any kind. People are walking around with their teeth encapsulated in gold, their necks covered in gold chains. They wear outfits that look like Ray Charles picked them out of the discard pile at Goodwill. Huge sunglasses that completely obliterate any hope of peripheral vision. And they think it is cool. I often wonder what these people will grow up and become then I see that some of them are already adult aged.

But then I see something that hits close to home. I am a car nut, a gear head, a wrench slinger. If it has an engine - I love it. The different styles, designs, and brands of automobiles are a wonderful cornucopia of wheeled art to my eyes. And, to see what people are doing to these mobile Mona Lisas is deplorable.

Driving past a business in Charlotte I am tempted to close my eyes so I cannot see the bright metallic candy green 1966 Lincoln Continental sitting on 24 inch rims with rubber-band tires. It ranks right up with putting a Tyrolean hat and big nosed novelty glasses on Rodin's “The Thinker. It just isn't right.

On one web site I saw a video of some poor undereducated, disrespectful youths who had taken a rare Buick Grand National and put it on 22 inch tires and equipped it with hydraulics to make it lift up and down. My first reaction was to get a big stick and go explain to them why they should never deface my all time #1 dream car. It is bad enough to rape a Honda, or Hyundai – but the car that single handedly put Buick as the head of the performance class for General Motors in the 80's – Beyond despicable.

However, today I saw one of these “donkified” monstrosities that put a smile on my face. On I-85 in Charlotte a donked mid 80s square bodied Caprice came down an on ramp followed by a Ford Crown Victoria. The Vic was fully equipped – state trooper lettering, blue lights, and sirens. I don't know what the car was pulled over for, but I can only dream that among the charges, somewhere, the driver was cited for blatant stupidity, and ruining a great riding old car. Also, in my dream the cop wacks the driver with his baton before walking back to the patrol car.

The Wednesday Willies

I have decided to dedicate Wednesdays to the Willies. What Willies you may ask? Well if you hold out, and don't fall out, you will find out.



The first is dedicated to my wife, Stephanie. I never thought anyone would come into my life and fill it the way you have. You are truly, "An Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground". I love you even if I don't say it enough.

Racing Stripes?

We were driving along minding our own business. Driving along in the 10,000+ pound Suburban, pulling the huge trailer, and minding our own business. (Ever notice how many tales of woe start off with, “ I was minding my own business?”). The speed limit is 55 where we were on Highway 150 in Lincolnton, NC, and I had a long distance between my truck and the one in front of us. Then, in the blink of an eye, things went all sideways – literally.

There was a line of 6 vehicles in front of us – all doing the speed limit – and, as we passed a large nursing home, a car pulled out into the road and stopped. In case you haven't done the math 55mph x 10,000 pounds/ brand new B.F. Goodrich tires x 25% of new brakes = a heck of a long stopping distance. (Yes, that is a scientific formula why do you ask?) After the first 2 seconds of panic stopping I soon realized that the coefficient of friction between the rubber and the road was insufficient to haul that ponderous poundage to a stop.

So, relying on my years of experience in demolition derby and off road insanity, (otherwise known as driving in Charlotte)I turned right. Up over the curb. Onto the grass. Into the clear. That is until a Chevy Astro van about 5 cars up had the same idea. Now sliding through wet grass at 40 some odd mph is fun enough. It is even more fun when there is suddenly a large blue hunk of steel in your path. Fortunately, he saw me, and turned hard back beside the car he was avoiding.

Only problem now was that there was a crater the size of my living room about 10 feet to the right of his van and I was still going 40. So, I summoned up all my steely eyed reserve of superhuman spacial reasoning, and threaded the Beast through a hole it would not physically fit through ( it helps if you think thin).

The next daunting obstacle was that there was not enough room to stop completely before the fast approaching tree line enveloped the front of my vehicle. However, my wild cowboy side had an out. I gently turned right up the far lip of the crater and rode the bowl around to the flat, over the curb, onto the driveway of the nursing home (a 90 degree maneuver at a way too high speed for those of you following along at home) and then brought the whole mess to a shaking, hopping, lurching, bobbing, tools in the back of the truck jingling, stop. Gently pried the leather seat from the grasp of my puckered butt cheeks, peeled my wife off the ceiling, and proceeded to find a way out of the maze of a parking lot built for tiny cars with my whole 50 foot long train.

A guy in the parking lot stopped me and said, “ I bet you have racing stripes in your shorts don't ya?”

So now I am left with figuring out how to remove the claw marks that my guardian angel left on the paint of the roof. Oh yeah, and he put in for hazard pay.

The weight of our words

I had an odd dream last night that I was at a hospital building doing some kind of work. One of the guys who worked for me in this dream was a scrawny ill tempered guy who had a young child with him. This guy did nothing but demean and put down this child. Over and over he was heard yelling and cussing for the slightest perceived infraction committed by his off spring. Then I walked up to him and told him that unless he picked up his words and carried them away he was fired, and (as happens in dreams) there at his feet was a huge bundle of black weights. Now, I have no idea how much it weighed, but I made three guys pick it up and set it on his shoulders. As he struggled to carry his words away I told him to always consider the weight of his words because someone had to bear it.

A very profound dream to be sure. The weight of our words is a ponderous thing. Not just what we say but how we say it. I know that I have been guilty of throwing words that burden rather the bolster the recipient of them. And don't we all. I recall a book I found in my grandmothers basement many many years ago in which a dragon was the main character. On his wall he had a sign which read something like, “Sticks and stones can't break my bones; for that I'm much too scaley, but unkind words and things I've heard can break my spirit daily.” Watch your words, you never know who has to carry them.

Oh, and the dream, well, after he carried off his words - I got in a tank and drove away.

Going to the chapel

Five more days. All the free time I have left. Seconds go by like the blades of a fan. Time draws short. Things must be done. Then it will happen.

March 13, 2010 I will be attending a wedding. Specifically I will be attending my wedding. Honestly something I thought would never happen again. However, loneliness is a strong motivator to do what I swore I would never do again. That and I met the most wonderful gal in the world. Actually she met me.

See, I wasn't interested in any kind of relationship, but this little gal picked me out. We needed each other and now, we intend to spend the rest of our lives together.

What lies ahead – who knows. But the journey is more exciting than the destination. Here's to a long and happy trip.

Five more days.

Taste this!

After sitting and watching TV while it poured rain outside for the past few days I have noticed a word that really has no meaning in many commercials. Well, the word actually has a meaning, but the way it is used in the commercials it really has no meaning at all. The word is taste, or its variants – tasty or tastiest. Taste is one of those words that advertisers like to use. “Our burger has more taste than the competitors” Yeah, and I puked and it had taste too. Not a taste I want in my hamburger, but it has taste. Much more taste than I had in my mouth before I puked.

Now I realize that the word taste when used in reference to food is supposed to convey a good connotation. However, in actuality it means nothing without a little help. It can taste good, taste bad, taste bland, taste salty, or taste like barf.

My favorite is the Coors commercial where they said they had the coldest tasting beer. What does that even mean? What does cold taste like? Is it laced with liquid nitrogen? If I drink it will I get frost bite on my uvula? What if I leave it out in the sun all day, will it still taste cold?

Well, I have to stop writing now. My dinner just was handed to me. I sure hope it is tasty.

That's the power of stupidity

For years now I have been amazed by infomercials. I love how the people in them are total idiots. There is a guy who is too stupid to open a carton of juice so someone invented a little doodad to stab in the top of the carton to pour the juice. My favorite of years gone by was the woman who couldn't figure out how to operate her twisted knotted garden hose. The hose was so knotted it must have been a class project for 50 kindergarteners in knot tying class. Then the woman is given a hose reel and suddenly she can water her flowers. I always wondered where they got the ideas for the stupidity in the infomercials until last night I saw a new commercial that makes all infomercials pale in comparison.

I was watching TV and a new commercial for an insurance company that uses cartoon characters in their ads. I wont mention the name for this company for fear that they will send a platoon of clueless cartoon lawyers to my door.

It starts out with a construction worker trying to break concrete with a baseball bat until Erin the insurance girl pulls a jackhammer out of her purse ( not all that farfetched I have seen some of the stuff women carry in there) and suddenly the guy can do his job.

Next Erin finds a painter who is flinging paint on a wall until Erin reaches in her mighty “purse of wonders” and hands him a paint brush. Now I know some “professional” painters who may be so overcome with years of paint fumes that they forget their brush.

Then she finds a businessman (perhaps the CEO of the insurance company) who is so clueless that he is trying to send smoke signals to communicate. Erin rescues the poor man with a cell phone.

Then we find a woman who has left the grocery store with her purchases precariously piled up in her arms. The poor woman is in danger of being brained with a can of food until Erin whips out a bag and catches the poor womans food. Curiously enough it is not a ecologically friendly canvas bag, or even a paper bag, but it is the evil plastic handle bag that we all have 4 billion of in out kitchens. I found that an odd choice for a company that touts how ecologically friendly they are. ( Although the bag is plastered with a recycle symbol.) Perhaps with the jackhammer, paintbrush, and phone in her bag there was no room for a canvas bag.

Now even though they are trying to show how much easier their insurance will make you life, it seems to me that they are advertising to idiots. People to stupid to use the right tool for the job. Although, with the state of things today, that could possibly be the best marketing strategy of all. We cater to morons, call us today, or you just might hurt yourself.

Snow

Fluffy white, beautiful, lovely, bright, treacherous, slick, and wonderful. Snow is a force to be reckoned with.

Last night we got out first serious snowfall of the winter. In a matter of a few hours we had about 8 inches piled around. Abbi, our Great Pyrenees was in heaven. I think she would have stayed out in in all night and loved it. It is funny to watch a 150 pound animal bounce around like a puppy. Leo, the Jack Russell/Italian Greyhound, wasn’t so enthused. He preferred to stay on the couch in front of the heater vent.

Fortunately, nothing was hit when an apple tree split in half and fell. Oh well, I needed to trim it anyway. Now there is only half as much to prune.

We left at around 8 pm to go to Wal-Mart and get some Fritos. I had a hankering that nothing was going to satisfy. We fired up The Beast, swept off the snow from its windows, and went on out happy way. In short order we came across what I guess was Crouse’s first crash. A kid in a Ford F-150 was driving too fast and slid into the trees and blew out his airbag. He wasn’t hurt and said he would wait for his parents. Too bad it was a company truck, the guy probably lost his job.

At Wally-world we bumped into a neighbor who is an older lady. Her son was driving her in his 4wd truck, but since he has a broken ankle we decided to follow them home. The train was across the tracks so we got to take the scenic route home. Up and down hills we meandered through Cherryville and back into Crouse. The drive up a couple of the steeper hills was fun, but we made it with no problems.

At 1am I got a call from a friend who’s brother was off in a ditch with both of his cars. So again we swept the gathering snow off of the tuck and went to get him. About halfway there they called and said a tow truck had showed up and pulled him out. Funny that the guy from Wyoming got stuck in out “sissy southern snow”. So we had the fun of driving around in the snow some more.

This morning the roads were clear, the sky was clear, and it was so bright you couldn’t bear to look out the windows. The dogs had fun running around in their pen all day. When Leo got cold he just sat on Abbi. Tonight it will refreeze and I will probably get another call to pull someone out of a ditch. Or maybe I will get to sleep till tomorrow. Then get up and watch the snow melt.

Mans best friend

There is a fundamental reason that dogs are mans best friend and cats are not. You see a dog is faithful - a cat is selfish. Dogs exist to please you - cats exist to sit in your lap, but only if there isn’t a more comfortable spot available somewhere else.

When they excavated around ancient Pompeii where there had been a volcano eruption they found a little boy who couldn’t escape the river of hot lava. They found his dog laying right next to him, staying with him to the bitter end. His cat left as soon as the tuna fish was gone.


Think about this. If you decided to walk to Madagascar to study the mating habits of native tree worms your dog would be right there with you. He would encourage you, help you, hunt for you, guard you, and support you. Your cat, however, would be back at your house smoking your cigars, drinking the good scotch, and eating your ficus. If the cat did come with you it would eat the worms.

My dog follows me to the bathroom in case there is something I may need - or maybe because she knows that I am at a convenient level for head scratching. My cat, on the other hand, was in my chair a half a second after I stood up and will be mad when I get back and move him.

If someone breaks into your home you dog will be a stalwart defender of your property. Your cat is already looking at what kind of car the robber drove in case it is nicer than yours, and if it should come down to it, will scratch your eyes out trying to get away from the intruder and save his own hide.

When my cat is inside he wants to be outside. When he is outside he wants to be inside. My dog just wants to be wherever I am.

My cat wants to be on top of whatever I am doing because he thinks he should be the center of attention at all times and nothing - not even paying taxes - is more important than he is. My dog lays beside my chair and hopes I will drop a pretzel.

The dog may dig holes in the back yard in search of bugs and a cool spot to lay, but your cat will lay in the back steps in the dark trying to kill you so it can have the house to itself.

When I call my dogs name she gets all excited and comes running. To get the cats attention I must be covered in liver pate and not mind being eaten alive. If the cat digs a hole he is probably planning to bury me in it.

If I scold my dog, he will learn from it and try to do better next time. My cat, given the same scolding, will hack up a hairball in my good shoes.

If I rattle the candy corn jar my dogs will sit up and wait patiently to receive their nightly two pieces then lay back down. If I rattle the cat treats I will be disemboweled while trying to open the can and if I only give them two each they will stare at me like I have just insulted their mothers.

A dog will live with you for its entire life. You cat may just decide to move three houses down and leave no forwarding address.

My dog will take any food I give him right from my hand with no questions. My cat must inspect the food, and know where it came from, and the expiration date, and the manufacturer, and the ingredients, and the brand of truck it was shipped in before he will consider eating.

My dog hears my truck and begins to shake with anticipation and joy that her whole world and reason for existing is home. My cat hears my truck and is irritated that it interrupted his dream.

My dog will ride in my truck anywhere I go. My cat will puke in my truck if it happens to sway when the wind blows.

My dog will wag her tail when she is happy. My cat will wag his tail right before he shears my left leg in two right below the ankle.

If my dog licks my hand it is to show love an affection. If my cat licks my hand it is to see how I taste today.

You see dogs have people - cats have staff.

Now you know why dogs are mans best friend, and cats sleep with their butts in your face.

My life in tucks

I had a long drive to a job last week and it allowed me time to think. We were cleaning up an old farm and to make the job go faster I put my old truck back on the road. Steph was driving it, following me to the job, and I was looking at the battered, dented 90 GMC in the mirror and my mind drifted.

The old guy who owned the farm never got rid of anything. We were pulling rusted horse drawn plows and 1920's model truck frames out of the woods. Every vehicle he had ever owned was sitting on the property. And looking at it you could see a progression of the mans life. He started with horse drawn plows and moved to tractors then started driving Lincoln Towncar’s in 1969 as he made more money up until he was put in a nursing home when he owned a 1995 Towncar.

My wondering mind went to the stages of my life and my trucks. I have owned four trucks in my life so far. The first was a little 1983 Mazda B2000. It represented realizing a dream. Since I started driving I wanted a pickup and finally I had one. It was small and noisy and I loved it. It was the first truck my son ever rode in. My ex-wife drove it and seized the engine because she didn’t check the oil like I told her. I kept it for 3 years after that and finally sold it to a man who could fix it. I didn’t have time or finances to put another engine in it.

After a bad wreck in 2000 I bought my first real truck - The WarWagon. The 1990 GMC was my first step to financial independence. I started a business, and put the truck to work. I put a camper shell on it and an over the camper ladder rack and went to work doing home repairs. It hauled lumber and tools for two years until I hit the lowest point of my life.

My wife left me, my business failed, the injuries from the wreck started causing me intolerable pain, I was diagnosed a bipolar and put on the wrong medication that had severe side effects, I lost everything I owned, and wound up living in my truck. It represented my only lifeline, my security, my shelter, my home. With a twin sized box spring and mattress, a 5 gallon water cooler, an ice chest, and a little tv, I spent two years surviving. I applied for disability and was denied - it was a fight that would go on till January of 2007. I could have moved back to TN to live with my parents but I didn’t want to leave my three children behind. At least In NC I could visit them. I read library books by the dozen to fight the boredom. I refused to go to a shelter. The WarWagon was my home and as I found out was more faithful than my ex had ever been.

During that two years I learned who my true friends are. I learned my limitations. I found a love of writing. I made new friends. I propped myself up on my cane and learned to fight the odds.

Finally, I got an apartment through a government grant. I wasn’t happy with taking the handout, but I had no pride left. It took me fifteen minutes to move in. I had nothing but the contents of my truck.

I took the camper shell off and began driving around town collecting what scrap metal I could find on the curb on trash days. The truck represented standing on my wobbly feet again. I started making some money and bought a prepaid cell phone. And I drove around looking in yards and leaving notes on doors about hauling off scrap metal and old cars. I bought an old laptop computer and started putting my thoughts and ideas down. I wrote two books that need work and may one day find a publisher.

Finally in 2007 I got the best news since the birth of my children. I was approved for partial disability and I got back pay. I found a piece of land I could afford on my disability payments. I retired The WarWagon and bought the Suburban. It represented comfort and stability.

I met my girlfriend, she moved in with me, and we started working together. The work caused pain but made me feel alive again.

I bought an 84 Chevy S-10 from my brother. He was restoring the truck when I bought it and I haven’t managed to make much more progress that he did. It has sat for a year in the barn untouched. It represents the future. Plans that are unrealized. It sits and taunts me when I see it. It reminds me of all the things I have let slip through the cracks.

And then I was looking in the mirror again. My old truck, my girlfriend coming along behind me. It represented happiness. It represented life. It represented rebuilding. It represented striving for independence. But most of all my trucks represent moving forward - no matter what the obstacle.

Dirty words

A few days ago I got an email from a girl I went to high school with. Just out of the blue this gal who I remembered as being a sweet, funny, cute gal sent me an email with the worst kind of foul language in it. I was shocked. I had never heard her use such language. I am here to tell you I was dismayed. She used such language that I am afraid to even repeat it. She said the ugly “t -r” phrase. She said it was time, please forgive me, and if you have delicate ears turn away now, it was time for the “Twentieth Reunion” Of course then she had to get really nasty and remind me that I was the oldest one in the class.

Well, after I picked myself up off the floor I got to thinking. It can’t have been 20 years. Why only yesterday it was 1989 and I was a fresh high school graduate with a 1972 Pontiac Bonneville.

Yesterday, well, maybe a few yesterdays ago. Back when the internet was in its infancy and CD’s were modern technology. Back when my old pickup hadn’t even been built yet. Granny boots were fashionable. Flipped up collars were cool. The Fresh Prince was still in Philadelphia. Portable computers weighed 80 pounds. Boom-boxes were huge shoulder carried monsters. Portable CD players were super expensive. Digital applied to watches not televisions. Home computers had less memory than my cell phone does now. And speaking of cell phones they were the size of our
metal lunchboxes and were carried around in bags. Russia was still the enemy.



1989, just yesterday.

I went to a small school. In my graduating class there were only 7 of us, and I was the only guy. Don’t get me wrong there were advantages of being the only guy. I got to lift all the heavy things, kill all the creepy things, and dispose of all the disgusting things. But the 7 of us were fairly close as you could imagine. We talked of all kinds of subjects that a larger class would have probably prevented. And since most of us went to church together we saw each other seven days a week. ( There was usually a church activity on Saturdays.)

It is funny that as close as we were then, that most of us have drifted off and have not seen each other much since graduation. We got married, went to college, got jobs, or some other endeavor that pulled us away from our little group. In the intervening time we grew apart.

Some got as far away from Springfield, TN as hundreds of miles, and a some never left. And now we have drifted, ebbed and flowed, traipsed, lollygagged, sidetracked, hobbled, wobbled, and somehow made it 20 years into the future. Yesterdays future.

1989’s future.


But, I still cant believe she said those dirty words to me.

Arrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhh

Monday last week a I was sitting at a redlight minding my own business. I was driving my bright red Chevy Suburban and pulling a 30 foot flatbed trailer when a kid with his head stuck up his butt plowed into the trailer. (Ouch my poor back just what it needed was more trauma) This thing pulled straight as an arrow at 80 mph before the wreck with a ton of weight on it. Now I cant get up to 55 with a small car on it without the trailer trying to pass me on the left.

The insurance company sent an adjuster out this morning and he said, " it cant be bent unless the welds are broken, and the welds are fine."

It took all my self control to not beat the guy with my cane. I asked him if he actually meant you couldnt bend a piece of steel without breaking a weld. He again said yes. Well after a good amount of yelling and nearly bending the adjuster - without breaking his welds - he admitted that it could be bent.

So now I have to find a place that repairs trailers to take a look at it.

Why couldnt the guy just look where was going?

The doc has me on muscle relaxers and I cant stand for a long period of time. Great fun.

Strange days

Have you ever had a day that was just strange. Not necessarily bad, or even good, but just strange. One of those days when you sit back in the evening and review the day in your head and say, “ man that was weird” Well Friday and Saturday were like that for me.

Friday started out normally enough. We took a car the scrap yard and ran a couple of errands then headed up to Charlotte for one final stop before we headed to Tennessee for my nieces birthday party. Coming up Wilkerson Blvd we saw what we thought was a police car with someone pulled over. However, as we got closer we realized it was an unmarked patrol car with its blue lights on sitting behind one of those radar signs that tells you how fast you are going. When we got closer still we saw that the patrol car was buried in mud. So being the good citizen that I am I offered to pull the car out, and a few short moments later we had the little Impala back on solid ground and headed off to our destination.

About a hour later we started back toward home we nearly got broadsided by a rescue vehicle that was making a u-turn in the middle of highway 74. Two miles later we found out why. The entire road was closed off to a bad wreck. So after taking a handful of back roads we were on I-85 and sailing along again.

We made a quick stop to fill up the truck and since the gas station we use offers a discount if you get a car wash, we got a car wash. Only when I started to pump I noticed we didn’t get our discount. SO after dragging the manager out in the unbearable heat every thing was rectified and then some. He refunded the price of the car wash and then gave up a free carwash. So instead of saving $7.99 we saved $15.98. Not a bad deal at all.

After all that weirdness was over we embarked on our journey to Tennessee. We successfully made it half way there and decided to stop for the night. Enough weirdness for one day.

Saturday had its own special breed of strange circumstance. The kind that could have gotten someone killed.

About 2 hours outside of Nashville I noticed a red pickup driving erratically behind me. I noticed it when it nearly rear ended my truck. Thinking the driver was drunk I got on the phone with 911 and made a report and told the dispatcher that I was going to slow down and see if I could get the truck stopped because it was all over the place. After it nearly rear ended me twice more it darted down an off ramp so I headed through the grass to catch it again and finally cut the truck off and got it stopped.

The driver wasn’t drunk - she was in insulin shock. She was diabetic and out of insulin. Almost as soon as I got her stopped a city officer arrived and I told him that I would drive the woman to where she was going and Steph could follow me in the beast. So he said to go ahead and do it, and we did. After the initial shock and fear of being stopped by a large hairy man she was very appreciative and gave us both a big hug. Hopefully, she made it back home with no problems.

Then we encountered the real weirdness - I arrived at my family’s house. And we all know how weird family can be…