Just to get this down B/4 I fergit

A POME fer the New Year. by Byron Johnston

Hope springs eternal,
so leave the infernal
where it belongs
in the bowl by the urinal.

Grandpa Jobe's handcart

I don't know why our Grandpa had this thing. I never saw him use it. It stood in the corner of the added on back-porch of their house in Platte near the pullring for the cellar door. It was metal and had two wheels on one end and a curved handle at the other. It was about a foot and a half wide and four feet long. We had been given no specific instructions about this handcart, so it seemed fair game.
I had seen my Dad use a similar thingee at his clothing store and I knew that it worked by the wheels overcoming friction and the handle to lay back the bed of it and one could thus move a larger weight than one could by carrying. Grandpa's was previously blue, but rust had nearly removed all of its paint leaving it a dull, flakey red-brown.
One day, Mikey, Diane, and I decided to see if we could work that ol' handcart to push each other around Grandpa's yard. As the oldest, I got to be first. This meant I got to be the pusher and show off my boyhood manliness before the others. Diane was a girl and, therefore a special case and will be discussed later. (Note the word discussed is made up of TWO words, "DIS" and "CUSSED").
Since Mike was the youngest of us all by two years and the lightest, I got him to step on the metal plate welded near the wheels. I tipped the cart backwards to a 45 degree angle and began pushing. I know now, that the Co-efficient of Friction and so on came into play, but we just PLAYED not thinking of all that stuff. He held on with his arms down near his knees and his butt tucked nicely between the iron pipes of the sides. Even then, I knew this handcart was a good thing and worthy of a boy's interest. Diane ran along side as I pushed and we got up a good head of steam (a word we all knew from the local train station).
At first it was nothing but fun>>>run>>>push>>>>>run faster>>>push faster>>> turn>>> try not to tip the cargo out (Mickey). He seemed to be having as much fun as Diane and I judging from his laughter.
Since Platte was on the flat South Dakota prairie, there was little to stop our progress. I ran as fast as a chubby kid could and Diane kept up easily. She was then, very svelt (skinny) and stayed the same even after 7 Mormon kids. Pretending to be a racecar driver, I made a rather strange assortment of roaring and grinding gear shifting sounds. This was SO much fun I forgot to pay attention and ran into the street. Now, the word street in a tiny town like Platte is sort of a misnomer. There were only about a thousand people in the whole place and of these, there were only about 300 families and of these, only about 250 owned cars and of these, only about a fourth would be driving around in town during a weekday (which this was). Also, there were only about ten streets anyhow..So----there was ONLY about 60 or so cars that COULD have been on our street at the time I am discussing. There were other mitigating circumstances, such as the time of day, and so on and so on, but what ten year old thinks of this stuff???
Anyhoo, I pushed Mike on the handcart out into the street with Diane running alongside behind right into the path of the worst person there could have been driving at the time. Yep!!! It was the ONE AND ONLY CONSTABLE (Small town policeman) in his black and white "COPCAR"!!! He slammed on his brakes and the sound was horrible---kind of like a pig being slaughtered.
Diane screamed the sort of high-pitched scream only a pre-pubesent girl can do which tends to peel the skin off anyone's eardrums. Mike inhaled so hard it seemed he was trying to imitate a bagpipe. I was so scared, I dropped the handle of the cart and peed my pants right there in the middle of the street. Micky fell off and both he and Diane started crying and I peed some more. Fear is a powerful diuretic!! I knew it was a BAD thing to run in front of a car. Grandpa gave me a stingbat again; the final one in the series of two and sincerely desired that I "Quit getting into trouble, whatever you do!" I promised I would try, but these things just sort of happen. He DID realize in his wisdom, that I was really a good boy and never looked for trouble---it just seemed to sort of find me. The constable was nice though, he put an itchy wool blanket around me to cover up the pee marks then he kicked dirt from the street onto the damp spot. That was nice.

The DREADED "Stingbat"

Hey, thanks for the reminder. Our Grandpa was a large man. He and his brother, Warren, were among the tallest men in South Dakota . Both over 6 feet-Jobe at 6'4" and his brother at 7'2''. I never met him, but everyone said he was the tallest person they had ever met. This was much easier when the average man was only 5'7". It MAY have seemed that these given heights were a bit of fanciful folklore, but it makes a great story. I can say with certainty that My Grandpa Jobe was huge to me. He towered over everyone and had hands and arms so big he had to add two more inches of length to an ordinary expansion watchband. His fingers looked like a handful of German sausage. He was an auto mechanic and his arms were nearly too big for his shirtsleeves. I watched him have to tug the sleeves up over his bulgy muscles. It was good that such a large man was not the angry type. As a matter of fact, as a 1/8th Lakota Sioux, he was an animist in religion and a pacifist by nature. I never saw him loose his temper, but when he was upset, you knew it. When Mike, Diane and I visited Platte for the summers, he never said he was happy to have us, but he did treat us kindly. However, if we got too wild and loud, especially when he was doing the NEW YOUR TIMES crossword (in pen with NO erasures!), he would stop, put the paper down and just stare at us. If this failed to get our attention, he would cough a special cough from deep in his chest that sounded like a lion getting ready to charge. It THAT failed to make us settle down, he would say, "Come here and stand in front of me." OH, MAN!!! That was Trouble with a capital T. I can only remember this happening to me twice. I must have been dumb, because none of the other kids needed more than once.
I came to his chair where he had the paper on his lap, the pen in his pocket and fire in his eyes.
"Stand still for the Stingbat!" he said quietly. Then he closed his giant fist with only his forefinger curved outward like a hammer head. I closed my eyes and WHAM!!! I got tapped on the forehead right between my eyes. Now tapped is not the right word---it was more like a bolt of lightening if the lightening had been a solid chunk of steel. It hurt so bad, I fell to the floor and saw stars, canaries, and heard a great roar as if being overcome by a rushing flood. It was awful!!! The stingbat must have been invented by Torquemada for the Inquisition. I would have confessed to ANYTHING!!!
I opened my eyes. Grandpa had gone back to his crossword (funny how he never uttered a "cross word" to us). I got up and staggered toward the kitchen where Grandma held sway so she could comisserate with me and tell me how mean Grandpa was and so on. I moaned a bit for effect and waited for her kind words.
"You brought it on yourself."



eyes an

Fireworks and Demolitions

In Platte, Grandpa Jobe held that there was nothing wrong with blowing stuff up. I don't mean real stuff; just garbage and things that would be thrown away anyhow. I was born in 1941, therefore too young to remember the "WAR YEARS" when very little was thrown away, but by the time I was ten and up, there was a surplus of stuff just begging to get itself blown up.
In those days, just after the war, demolitions experts in the form of young kids were plentiful and fireworks were really SOMETHING!!! Not like the wimpy crap that they call fireworks today. We had M-8Os which we knew for sure had the explosive power of an eighth of a stick of dynamite. They could do some REAL damage and were fun. There were a wide assortment of lesser firecrackers, but the M-8O was the desire of every kid. Why go halfway?
Grandpa seemed to know a LOT about detonations for an avowed pacifist. He had missed WW1 by one day. He was actually on a ship in New York harbor when the war ended. AN officer took it upon himself to hollar out, "War's over, men! Get off this boat and go home." Grandpa says it looked like rats jumping off a sinking ship. It was years later that Grandpa got his discharge papers. He was too old for WW2.
He taught us a very valuable lesson in science--water can't be easily compressed. He got a metal basin and filled it halfway with water. On this he floated a soup can lid. While Mike or I held an inverted coffee can, Grandpa lit an M-8O, quickly placed it on the floating soupcan lid and then the coffee can was hurriedly set over this so the bottom of it rested on the bottom of the basin under the water. BLAMMMMM!!!!!!!!!! That coffee can shot up so high it nearly disappeared. Water sprayed out in all directions, and the neighbor dog forgot how to not pee in the house. What a glorious sight!! We chased after the coffee can as it fell split wide open and the end rounded perfectly by the explosion. Grandpa called this Kaiser Bill's hat.
Needless to say there was a great scavenger hunt for coffee cans and soup cans and whatever others we could adapt.
Another thing we did, and all these years later, I still think I thought it up, but memory is strange. We searched out a half-inch black metal pipe in Grandpa's basement. We could use any length from 12-16". As he was a mechanic, he had every tool known to man. Putting the pipe in his vise, we bent it at a right angle at one end forming a handle and had a pistol shape. We then flattened the handle end with a hammer against his vise. If truly inspired, we would wrap this flat handle with duck tape to form a fist fitting handle. Yes!!! It was called DUCK tape!!! Only goofs and sissies called it duct tape. This flattening also served to avoid the dreaded "blow-back" which cut down on the force transfered to the projectiles.
Then we used a metal drill bit to make a 3/8 inch hole in the long end near the handle. Next was the tricky part. we had to drop an unlighted
firecracker fuse first down the "barrel" and try to fish the fuse out the hole we had drilled. This took a lot of effort and messing around. A lesser person would have given up! Finally!! Then we had to drop in the "ball" just like in a muzzle-loader gun. What fit perfectly and every boy had a bunch of was marbles. It was too hard to come by "steelies" which were ball bearings, so we decided to use "glassies". They fit perfectly when rolled down the barrel coming to rest against the back end of the firecracker.
I held the firecracker gun straight out for safety, Mike would approach reverently with the glowing punk and light the fuse. WHOOOMPP!! The glassie shot out, hit one of the Elm trees removing a nice chunk of bark and making a very satisfying thunk.
"WOW!!!" That was great!! My turn now." Mike hollared. We repeated the routine, but this time the glassie shattered into thousands of particles and merely imbeded themselves in the tree. About nine of ten shots were like that, but the one in ten that ripped off bark was fantastic. Unfortunately, our Grandpa, while praising our ingenuity, violently (for him, the pacifist), spoke of nature's best work being destroyed. Something about Joyce Kilmer and a famous tree poem. I did learn how to carve away damaged treebark, apply a dressing of thick tar, and suffer the ultimate punishment from grandpa--the dreaded "STINGBAT." Remind me sometime to tell you about them.

Overcoming Adversity for Kids

When my brother, Mike, and I were about ten and eight, we had lived in a bunch of small towns in the Upper Midwest. There seemed to be a never ending variety and location of them so that, now at age 67, I tend to forget exactly which town held which adventures. I guess it really isn't the town but the adventure that were important, so I am just getting these down on paper ( OOOPPPSSS!!! this is not paper, is it??)---I am getting these adventures down on ones and zeros in this wonderful electronic age in my fantastic computer. Don't ask me how this works, exactly, but it seems to and that is good enough for me. I never really understood the workings of the radio--All I know is you turned it on and it magically sucked words out of the air and you could hear all these great shows. I just now thought--How come they were called "shows" when we weren't actually SHOWN anything? We heard stuff and had to make up the visuals in our own minds.
One thing about the radio is that a kid could be transported to far off places and not have to sit watching a screen like with TV. Kids now a days are trapped into sitting and gaining weight, whereas those of us of a certain age could do other things while listening. A lot of us DID sit and stare at the radio, but it wasn't really necessary. The best thing of all was the PORTABLE radio (BATTERIES!!) which we could take with us and still be in contact with the world while doing our own thing as THEY say.
I did gain a lot of weight as a kid, but that was from the necessary sitting while reading books which were my drug of choice; much more fun for me than listening to the radio, though I did more than my fair share of radio listening, and in the early '50s when TV came to our house, I also did more than my fair share of TV watching, too. No wonder I got fat!!!
But, I digress....Mike and I both had "new" bikes (new to us but really just refurbished into some sort of working condition). BIKES rhymes with Mikes. Some silly people tried to tell me that a nickname for Byron is BIKE, but I never accepted this goofiness. Later on as an adult, I met a man whose real name was Myron. He told me that he had been called Mike as a nickname when he was young. This was very odd to me, as my brother Michael was Mike or Mickey (like Walt's mouse). Try to bend you mind around this: Michael==Mike. Byron==Bike. Myron==Mike. Wrong!!!
I digress again. So Mike and I had a rite of passage. There were no lions to hunt, outback to walkabout in, and other such growing up things to do, but we had the sinister and foul smelling local "RENDERING PLANT". Never heard the term?? OK. A rendering plant is a place where dead farm animals that were too ill or too diseased to turn into edible products, were sent after death (or we suspected they were actually killed there) to be RENDERED into less desirable products. This ment glue from hoofs and bone, cat and dog food, hide for shoes, blood for vampires, and so on.
To make all these "products" my Dad told us that rendering meant changing from one form to another and the terrible smell issuing forth from this place was due to the slaughtering and removing the guts with their contents then boiling (rendering down) the hoofs, bones and cartilage to make the other stuff. Man!!! Was it TERRIBLE!!! This is why the place
was three miles out of town on the downwind side. Of course the wind changed directions now and then, and the town remembered the place very easily, but generally it was forgotten--except by the young boys in town. This was OUR rite of passage. We had to ride our bikes as close to the place as possible before being overcome by the horrid stench.
At that time, I never thought that there had to be actual human beings who worked INSIDE that pit of damnation, but there had to be. Dead cows and horses just don't skin and boil themselves.
Anyhoo, it was easy to get to the two mile marker outside of town, but there the smell became really noticible with just one mile to go. We could see straight down the gravel road to the two story grey brick building with its hazy smoke pooting out a tall chimney. I think they thought it would smell less if the smoke came out way up in the air and the wind that usually scoured the flat prairie would take it away. It didn't work.
This particular Summer day, Mike and I decided it was TIME!! We easily got to the last mile. Another interesting thought-- the last mile is the distance a convict walks to the CHAIR. We each knew the rules of engagement, rendering plant-wise, as we had often heard this discussed by older boys. The closer one got to the plant, the worse the smell and the "Winner" was the most manly man in any group. No-one ever would do this alone. There is no winner if there is no looser. We sat there on our bikes silently staring into the eyes of the beast as if the place were a dragon to be conquered or a castle to storm to save a damsel in distress. We liked saying
damsel, because it was as close to swearing as we could get without getting into trouble.
"GO!!!"Mike shouted and we took off like a bat-outa-Hell (MORE fun swearing) and sped up side by side. The air swirled dust around and the sun burned down. I had decided that to win I would hold my breath. Mike was huffing and puffing as he was younger than me and his bike had smaller tires so he had to work harder. It may not have really been fair, but that's the way life is sometimes. On and on we raced and even without truly inhaling, I could tell the smell was getting nearly thick enough to cut with a knife. Rotten, horrible, crappy, smell. Worse than anything I had ever encountered. God!!! I looked over at Mike and he was still going, but seemed to have slowed a bit. All I had to do was keep holding my breath and get ahead of him when he had to stop. I wanted to win SO badly it ached.
He gagged and I nearly fell off my bike. It sounded bad. I realized then that the ache I was feeling was really my body beginning to scream for air. Biking in the hot sun, as fast as a guy can is not conducive to good breath- holding. The smell was becoming overpowering seeping into every pore in my body. I thought that I may have made a bad mistake and that Mike was getting his lungs used to the smell breath by breath and I had set myself up for disaster. What would it be like when I HAD to breath??? Would it be my downfall?? It could see a literal downfall coming in which I woull slid off my bike in agony. I had fooled myself. Mike gagged and really slowed down as we had reached the halfway point. He began to swerve. I had to go onto the grass to avoid him.
"HEY!!!" I shouted at him letting out the last bit of saved air in my lungs, but then to replace it meant inhaling. I needed air!! Oh, damsel!!!
I opened my mouth thinking it would be less toxic if I avoided using my nose which is where the smell cells are located. I gasped a huge gasp and found out that my plan was no good. The smell hit me like a blivet ("Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag") as I once heard an old man say. My eyes burned, my skin burned and my lungs burned like a gas attack on a World War One battlefield. I fully expected the blue paint on my bike to start blistering and peeling. Mike fell over and lay gagging beside the road as I continued on. I was the BIG WINNER!!!! It was only about three blocks to the plant. None of the kids we had listened to had ever been able to actually reach the place and touch the bricks. I didn't just want to get close, I wanted to be the Olympic champion of rendering planting.
"Ronnie!! Mike yelled. "Stop. You'll die!!!" He turned to his side and ejected his peanut butter and jelly sandwich mixed with orange juice we had had for breakfast. I raced on, but it was absolutely horrible. The air was green and thick and getting worse. There was no grass left. The toxic odors had killed it all. I slowed more and more leaving Mike behind and then had to stop. I couldn't pedal any more. I could hardly see to steer my bike. I dropped it and walked. Only a block to go. I closed my watery eyes put my hands out in front of me and pushed on. I would touch that building if it killed me and then I had the unbelievable thought. If I did get there, I would have to turn around andgo back before all my skin melted off leaving me just a pile of bleached bones on the sand. My God, what had I done?? I started to whimper as my nose began to run and a pulsating hum ran in my head. Then I felt a roughness!!! I opened one eye a bit and saw my right hand touching the grey brick of the RENDERING PLANT. God!!! I had made it!!! I was still alive!! I gagged and made a deposit of my pb and j just as mike had, but mine splashed onto the brick like champagne baptizing a new ship. I turned and staggered back toward my fallen bike and brother. He was green and lay on his back facing backwards eyes closed and barely breathing. He moaned slightly like a nauseated puppy.
"I did it. I DID it!!! I touched the brick. I beat you...I'm the winner!" I forgot for a moment the terrible odor in my frenzied joy. He opened one eye, looked up at me and said, "I don't believe you. I didn't see you do it.
Do it again while I watch." Now, there was no way in God's green earth that I could have gone back there. I wanted to kick him. Loosers are supposed to KNOW they are loosers. Later in my life, a hole in one seemed much less important than touching the brick of that rendering plant, but like that accomplishment, no one saw it so it didn't count. Poop!! Blivet!!! and Damsel!!!

It's COMING!!!!!!!!!!!!! AUGGHHHHH!!!

I mean my knee surgery. Got a call that an opening had developed at an earlier time (two days only) and would I like to move up? Sure, I said but how about letting my other two docs know so I can get all the pre-op stuff done? Sure they said. It's good that docs calling docs can get things moved when it in nearly impossible for patients. It's getting quite stresssful, as I had all the prior infection in the same knee we are going after this time and I've had three bowel operations for obstructions and subsequent infections of the incision and 14 months of treating those. As mentioned B/4 all seems OK now. We just have to hope for the best. This surgery can cure my knee pain and bring me to nearly normal OR kill me by MRSR, C- Diff, or some other rotten germ that is resistant to nearly everything.
On balance, even though it is driving me a bit nutty, I guessw I HAVE to get it fixed. Other than that and the healing bowel incision, I am in good shape. My Internist is amazed how good my heart seems after all the problems, but at least something works. If all is OK afterwards, I might be able to be a normal human being and leave off the constant health discussions.
When I was young and got to stay with Grandpa and Grandma in Platte, I must have been a whiner as Grandma called me "Poor, sensitive Ronnie." and Grandpa seemed to be constantly asking, "What set him off, NOW?"
I mentioned this to my LSW and said I was sure glad I had outgrown those tendencies. I wonder why she gave me such a prolonged and odd look when I said it? She didn't say anything, but...............

Fall is supposed to be over and Winter here!!!

BUT, NOOOOOOOO!!!! Just heard via the "fambleen" grapevine that Tom got a dislocated shoulder belaying Tone at the Brickyard. Heard just a very few days ago the Tom fell about 15 feet and was saved (belayed) by Tony.
I am now about as athletic as a nightcrawler, but it is getting a bit nerve- wracking to keep hearing that someone you love is apparently getting closer and closer to a serious fall. Actually it " isn't the fall that kills you: it's the sudden stop at the end of the fall." Someone famous enough to be allowed quote marks around his sentences said that, but I don't remember who---or is it WHOM? Anyhoo, the dau of the belayer got on the horn to the sister-in-law of the belayer for aid in sorting out where to send the belayer hospital-wise and assistance in what to do next, because the belayer, (TOM) kept Tony from serious injury but dislocated his shoulder doing so. I wondered if it was the same shoulder which TOM hurt and got a fractured clavicle several years ago during a bike race accident.???
Some folks need the adrenalin and testerone, but I am really beginning to be concerned that it is starting to look like hormone-reining-in time in the ol' ranch-house. Of course, no person ever likes to hear that they should be a bit less active---I myself am wondering who I would have to shoot (This is just a metaphore and poetic license, folks!!!! I DO NOT need counseling or to be locked up)' if I could not drive without hitting the stray hog or getting lost in a one mile trip in town. This isn't exactly the same, but causes loved ones concern never-the- less.
I know others read my BLOG now and then and hope that this one is taken in the most respectful and kind way in which it is offered. Love can be soft and love can be tough, and sometimes it can be hard to sort out the various kinds, but the base and main fact is the LOVE> This has and will always be there ever since the line-up with the applause on meeting him the first time.

More news from St. Cate's College

According to the newspaper today, St. Catherine's College got a new, two million dollar endowment for their College of Health Sciences which is where our Elizabeth will be going. Perhaps this great news is one of the reasons she will get a nice scholorship. I prefer to think that she got it due to her hard work, fine musicianship, church work, and placement in the top five of her HS class. They will be lucky to get her and they know it. Wait until they see what she can do!!!!!!!!
Other fambleen news is that last night we went with Anne's family of Jeff and Sylvie to hear grandson, Steven, play violin and wear soldier costume for Turtle Lake's School Winter Concert. It was fine, but two schools combined and there weren't enough chairs and many had to stand. Fortunately it was only an hour. Heard from Anne that Steven and Elizabeth plan to play their violins together for our fambleen X-mas get together. I can't wait. Love those kids!! Sylvie is gathering herself for auditioning for her middle school play, THE MUSIC MAN, soon. She was good as a "n'orphan" in ANNIE. Good voice!

We went to Winona, cultural center of the Universe

The LSW and I were invited once again to the smallish southwestern town of Winona on the mighty Mississippi river. We always get invited to hear and watch the latest concerts of our fantastic grandaughters. Elizabeth, a senior in HS, plays the violin as she has since about age 8 and has gotten so good she is first chair in the Winona HS string orchestra, and twice in the MN orchestra. She also plays for fun in the great group called the Winona Fiddlers which is all done by menory and is so much fun to hear and watch. She also got accepted with a very fine scholorship to St. Catherine's College in St. Paul for Nursing. What a girl---and such a good person, too.
The other one, Claire, who is a Sophmore is a Dancer (with a capital D). She has taken about four lessons a week for years in ballet there in Winona and we got to see her in The NUTCRACKER BALLET on that same weekend. She was a snowflake, a Russian Baba, and a Chinese dancer,soloing in two dances! She is so slim and beautiful, it nearly always brings tears to my eyes to watch her. Good thing the house lights are down and the music is loud enough to cover a proud Grandpa's sniffling. If caught, I just say it's the Winter weather. It WAS only 11 degrees.
Their parents have done such a good job of raising these two wonderful girls, that I don't think the LSW and I could have done any better!!! My wife did remind me that we had had a large hand in raising their mother and she was sort of just following through. True, but there is much more of Margaret and Tom in the girls. Without great parents who love and nuture, a child can turn out to be a skunk. I am positive we will never smell a bad odor from either of our Winona "Grands"!!!

Christmas Story (continued)

I looked from my hand to his face and back a few tmes before I realized his dark wool pants hid steel leg braces. I had to get on with it or this line of visitors would go on forever.
"So, tell me what you want for Christmas." I looked up into his mother's face hoping she was listening, but she seemed too tired to care. Even if she did hear, she may not have been able to get it for him. She sure hadn't spent much on their clothes.
He put his hand on top of mine and smiled for the first time. It seemed that the whole place had gone quiet and it seemed warmer too. Then the store was gone and the sky shone where the roof should have been. He turned to face me completely and I didn't even feel the pain in my leg.
He said, "I want you to be happy and to not hurt. I forgive you."
I could almost swear that a troop of angels started in singing. He slid down off my lap, picked up his crutches, smiled up at his Mother, and left me bewildered. What had just happened? How come I didn't hurt anymore?
Next thing, Mr. Hardie was standing there holding ared and green envelope. We were alone. He put his hand on my shoulder and actually beamed at me. "Great job, Santa! I've never seen such a display. They all loved you and you have a permanent job every year and in between, too, if you want. I don't know how you changed so much, but it's been a blessing to watch."
I just shook my head and headed for the door. I had a taxi cab to catch and pay for two trips. Looking into the envelope, I saw the pay I expected plus a note. It was from Mr. Danvers, the store owner. It said, "Thank you for helping make our Christmas so merry. Please come to the Utopia Inn tonight. I have a room saved for you. I"ll come talk to you tomorrow morning. Man! What a deal! I suddenly realized I didn't hurt and had left the hospital's crutches behind the tree.

Santa's Boo-boo

A Christmas story I made up just for fun.

"Good God, Man! What happened to your leg? How can you work with all the lap sitters that wiggle so much?"
"Well, Mr. Hardie, It's really looks worse than it is. The pain, well, pain is to be expected. Life, you know?" I couldn't quit. It was the first money I'd earn in months, the store was nice and warm, and I could even eat in the employee cafeteria for FREE. They had great chicken soup.
"Show me how you can get around and not make a scene. We can't have a scene. Scare the kids and all. At least you're not inebriated and smelling like a distillery like that guy we had to fire last year."
I leaned the crutches the hospital had lent me against the wall behind the lighted tree and sort of jumpety- limped the six feet to the Santa Throne. "See! Piece of fruitcake!" I could be so clever with words. Not so
clever in avoiding that darn car that ran me down and left me in the gutter.
"O.K. but how's it going to feel with a kid bouncing up and down? You'll hurt and probably drop one and the store will get sued." His face showed the strain of the season and I could comisserate, but I couldn't just leave and go "home." It was too cold and too far. Besides, I had to get in at least a couple hours to pay the cabbie I had told, "You can trust ol' Santa. I get paid every day and I promise to repay you when you pick me up here at eight-thirty."
I put on my most winning smile hoping it showed through the itchy white beard. "Please, Mr. Hardie. I promise to do it right. No lawsuits."
He rubbed his hands together sort of like Herod washing the whole matter away. "If I see one unhappy kid or parent, you're out. Hear me?"
"Yes. Yes. I hear you. Thank you for the chance." I meant what I had said but wasn't too sure I could deliver. But, heck, I was Santa and he could really deliver. The pain pills the nurse had given me at the ER after the stitches had helped some. I had four more, but knew I was in for some serious pain later. I didn't want to take too many of them and act goofy, remembering what had happened to last years Santa.
I steeled myself noting the increasing line of "Visitors". There were dozens. The littlest ones each had an adult herding them. "Lord," I prayed (which I never did). Who prays now-a-days? "Please help me get through this and I promise to help somebody else; maybe even Louie who stole my blanket when I was out panhandling." Now that was a real promise. No one could refuse to answer such a sincere petition.
This was a real small time operation, meaning there were no Elves or anyone else to help the little lids up and down from my lap. The bigger ones had to stand. No professional photographer either. Any pictures had to be taken by the adults who may have thought to bring a camera. Just as well. Even with the "disguise" I was wearing, I felt exposed. What if somebody from the olden days recognized me?
I had passed the required Santa Clause Course and had practiced "the VOICE"--not too hearty and loud enough to let the listening parents what their little dears wanted. We were told to repeat everything in case they kids couldn't be heard by his attending adult. The mirror had shown a too tall, too slim, too old, and too tired homeless man in a poorly fitting and kind of smelly red and white suit. With the "Waistline Ajustment Device strapped on under the jacket, I looked a bit more Santa-ish. Good enough to fool most kids and if they weren't, who gives a s--- (I mean "darn!" Have to watch the language, too. I need the job.
At precisely four PM, Mr. Hardie re-appeared, pulled the fake evergreen garland off the candycane posts and said, "And here he is everyone, Santa Clause brought to you by Danver's Department Store. Step right up and visit." He glared at me in warning and stepped over near the tree. The first kid was a girl of about four. Her Mother helped her sit on my lap. Darn! so this is what it's going to be like? The pain flared in my left knee. I wiggled to get it into a better position, she wiggled to stay on my lap and Mr. Hardie and the Mom wiggled toward us in a sort of odd dance. I gritted my teeth and, using "The VOICE" asked, "And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?" She stared into my face and then whispered, "A doll that does real
people stuff and clothes and a big candy cane." She smiled and I nearly did, too, but the knee wouldn't let me. She got down and I sighed.
Only four hours and about a thousand more kids. I felt like I was in Hell or at least Purgatory. Man! I hadn't thought of purgatory since I ot kicked out of St. Francis Ctholic School years ago.
Evidently I had hidden my pain and been O.K. as Mr. Hardie turned and walked away with only one last small glare. The next few kids were too big for the lap and I relaxed. It became a little easier as the line moved along. Next there was a little boy on crutches. He swung toward me, then stopped and stared behind the tree. I had forgotten the crutches I had put
there, but it was evident that he saw them. He had such a serious look on his face. I wondered if this would be any fun for him at all. He was followed by a lady who looked like life had used her hard and had nearly given up on her. Guess the kid was tough on her. He spoke. "Hey, you're supposed to let me sit on your lap."
"Well, sonny, you're right. Let's see how that works out." He bent over and placed his crutches on the floor and the lady helped me hoist him up. WOW!!! Right onto the sore knee. It seems that the pain pills had totally worn off and it was like someone had driven a sharp, hot,serrated knife into the joint.
"You got bad legs, too?" he asked, "Ain't Santa 'posed to be perfect?"
"Um, yeah, kid. Just sit still and say your piece." I had deviated from the "Acceptable Phrases", but this was no time for the niceties. All I wanted to do was to get the little cuss off me and take a pain pill break. I put my hand down on his leg trying to hold him still and felt an unexpected hardness.

WOW!! I got an unsolicited request to turn my BLOG into a real memoir and even a real book!!!

The request was from my dau, ANNE (with an E). I know she respects my writing abilities and it's not just that she wants something to remember me after I'm gone--JEEEZZZZ!! What a bad thought that is!! Anyhoo, I started thinking about it and decided to look up the word memoir so I could do it right and got sidetracked by the phone then getting the mail. In glancing at the new Readers' Digest, there was an article about memoire writing!!
Our local paper-St. Paul Pioneer Press-- has a local write-in section aptly called BULLETIN BOARD. It often has people telling about recent and very satisfying BMs they have had.. Originally I thought this really strange, until I found out the letters BN don't stand for what most people think they do---- BM in the BULLETIN BOARD means a Baader/Meinhoff Experience; explained as the occurrence within a 24 hour period of reading (or seeing or hearing or sensing in some way) a factoid, license plate, word or whatever that is totally NEW to you and within the original 24 hours of chancing upon that same fact, cord or whatever AGAIN!!. It's rather like a Deja Voodoo (Now, folks, I just made up this word combination so don't go trying to steal it BUT if any of you hear it in the next 24 hours, let me know for a BIG prize and we can both send it in for a truly satisfying and mystical BM. I also just got to wondering if a person should begin to carry little plastic bags around with them to collect these BMs so we can leave them later on the doorstep of the Pioneer Press and run away after we ring the bell. Speaking of which, remind me sometime to tell you about the fish guts in Platte.