Friday Night Didn't Get a Movie

This Friday was one of those bittersweet occasions; a going-away get together for a co-worker. He had been with the company for more than 15 years, and was quite popular to boot. The interesting thing was I think there were more former employees there than current ones. That says two things to me; this old boy had a lot of friends, and our company had shed a lot of people the last few years.

I also ran into some interesting conversations; things that are tracking with national data, but provided anecdotal evidence of the collapsing and retracting economy.

Saturday was busy as well, I spent the entire day helping the oldest boy redo his bathroom. More later on both topics, but right now I am late for another day Redneck Renovations.

You Sometimes Reach a Point

I ran into this story while out and about on the Internets. I think somebody has over reacted.

We can start with whether or not this guy should have taken his dog mountain climbing with him, then move into not being properly prepared to be on the mountain. 

The guy's story rings true with me. I can see who he would have made every decision he says he did, based on the situation he says he was facing. I can also see why he would cough up the bucks for the vet's bills after dog was rescued.

But then, I am a dog lover, and hated losing each of my dogs when they died. It would have been a hard decision for me  to leave a treasured companion on the mountain like he did.

So why the animal cruelty charges? Was what he did cruel to the dog? Absolutely. But it wasn't intentional.

Unless somebody believes he should have stayed on the mountain and risked his life and his companions because of the dog?

As I said, I'm a dog lover., But after all, he is an animal. There has to come a point where you weigh the value of the two lives involved, and determine that the human life is more valuable.

Treating this guy like a criminal is just adding insult to injury. Animals should be protected from abuse. And pets see too much abuse in this country as it is.

But treating this guy as a criminal abuser cheapens the real abuse.

And the picture is a couple of my dogs. The light colored one is my wife's long-haired chihuahua Bandit. He left us late last spring, and is up on the hill next to Junior. The dark one is Daisy, the Young'uns dog. And yeah; I took the picture.

Nostalgia Ain't What It Used To Be

First; I have no idea why the picture isn't right side up. I changed it; saved it; reopened it, and it was right. I load it into Blogger, and it's wrong. Must be a Blogger thing.

At any rate, (oh yeah? how about 12 and a half percent? (Sorry; that's an old George Carlin joke I just can never resist)) the other night I had glass of New Wiedemann.

I made a special trip down to Newport to Pompilios, just for a cold glass of the old days. I wasn't the only one. The bar was packed, and I saw a lot of glasses with the New Wiedemann logo on them. You would recognize Pompilios, if you have ever seen Rainman. They filmed the scene where Raymond counts the toothpicks in the dining room just off the bar.

We finally got a spot at a table in the bar and I ordered the first glass of Wiedemann I have had in probably 6 years or more.

And I was disappointed. Kind of like the picture above; you could recognize it but it just wasn't right.

First sip told this was not a real Wiedemann. The beer I remember always started real smooth; ice water smooth, especially if the beer was real cold. This beer hit you with  flavor from the beginning. it was a strong flavor, and since I wasn't expecting it, it was a bad taste; almost skunky. Old Wiede-pop would always leave your tongue with a bite; like a flush of something bitter, that would fade faster than it came, and would disappear before the end of the second can. This beer finished flat; it kind of just ran off your tongue and disappeared.

It wasn't all bad; the beer was the right shade of pale, clear yellow, and wouldn't have developed a head if you shook it like a pair of hot dice; all old friends. New Wiedemann also had a different mouth feel; almost like it was a thicker brew, which is possible. It also left me with a dry mouth feeling after half a glass; something I never got with Old Wiedemann.

All in all; it was not a bad beer, just not the beer I was expecting. It also seemed a bit pricey; 5 bucks for the 20 ounce glass and $4 for the 16 ounce.

Back in the day, I could get a pitcher of Wiede-pop for 2 bucks, and a gallon to go- bring your own jug- for $3. Those were the days. a group of good friends, sitting around a fire out in the field, swigging cold Wiedemann from a gallon jug and watching the sparks from the fire rise to join the sky full of stars.

I was hoping Wiedemann's return would also bring back those nights too, I guess.

Maybe I was expecting too much from a couple of glasses of beer.

Nostalgia Road Trip Anyone?

You of course remember the other day, when I mentioned how sometimes the littlest thing sets off my nostalgia engine for things Air Force related?

Well, a mention of North Dakota is a previous post had me pulling up a Map of Lakota, ND. I have been to Lakota. I stopped there for snacks and soft drinks when ever i was in that part of the Missile Field. You kinda had to; there was no place else to stop for 30 miles in any direction.

Anyway, pulling up the map to see the distance between Grand Forks and Lakota had me checking the route; straight along Highway 2; right past Larimore.

I may have stopped in Lakota several times, but I spent almost every other weekend in Larimore for awhile. I had a friend who lived there, and we would spend either Friday or Saturday night at his place when we hit the local bars. If I remember correctly, at the time there were two in Larimore; The Red Dog Saloon (founded 1901) and the Larimore Improvement Association (The Imp). This was back in  '78-'79.

These two bars were next door to each other, and actually had a communicating door, so if you caused too much trouble in the one, they threw you out through the communicating door. Hell, it was 20 below outside; throwing a drunk out there was a death sentence.

The interenets is a wonderful thing. Larimore still exists. No surprise there. The Imp still exists too, as does the Red Dog. I remember the Red Dog as being on the south west corner of the main street- Towner Avenue- and The Imp being next door,  just to the south. Google Maps street view confirms my memory; right at the corner of West Front Street and Towner Avenue in downtown Larimore.

Who knew? So much has changed in the world in the last 30 some odd years. It's nice to know somethings have remained the same; right down to the PBR sign out front.

I wonder if a 30 hour road trip is too far for a couple of beers?

A couple of anniversaries past last week without notice on the blog- My Dad's birthday on the 12th and the loss of my dog Junior on the 9th. Hard to believe they both happen in the same week every year. I didn't have a chance during the week to reminiscence, but this morning I do.

There is very little to say that would be new. Reviewing the too few faded memories, worn and scratchy; like an old film played a few too many times. Trying to find a new detail in a story or image studied many times before. Or maybe just sussing out what their lives still mean to me today.

We don't get where we are by ourselves. In some respects we are all Post Turtles, balanced where we are with the help of our friends. It is that help that makes the post we seem to be stuck on disappear, so we lose that sense of not belonging where we suddenly find ourselves. Dads always help with that feeling. Hell; it's their job to set us up on the post in the first place, and then help us grow the legs to get down.

A good dog is a help there too. When you are stuck on the post, looking for a friendly hand to help you down, that hand may just be a paw. Sometimes all you need is for a push is the gentle nudge of your dog's nose against the underside of your hand.

You miss that when it's gone.

And sometimes waste the rest of your life looking for it again.

Folks look in various places. Other friends and family. Or a new dog. Maybe in religion. Or a bottle.

But the best place to look is inside. Dad didn't help you grow those legs so you could pull them up inside your shell. You are meant to use them for every post you find yourself on. And yeah, some of those posts are longer than what you have met before. So what?

You grew legs once; grow them again.

And then thank the ones who taught you how to get down.

The New Addition

We have been talking about getting a puppy since July when Junior died. We were only half-heartedly looking, because we wanted a collie shepard mix and didn't think we would be able to find one.

Then serendipity reared its ugly head.

Tuesday night the Young'un called us in tears. Her Mom and stepdad gave away her cat. The wife and I consoled her as best we could and called her Daddy and let him know if we wanted to get her a puppy, we would be more than happy to keep it for her here at the house. Son agreed, and let the Young'un know she was getting a puppy. Information she immediately shared with Mom and stepdad; information they did not appreciate.

Which made our decision even sweeter.

So Grandma immediately went to work to find a puppy. The first place she went was our local animal shelter. Where they happened to have a few puppies. Collie shepard mix puppies. And one of them has markings that reminded her of Junior. That puppy saw my wife and walked toward her, wagging its tail. She picked the puppy up and it licked her nose. The Youn'un had her puppy.

Saturday we took the Young’un to meet the puppy; to make sure they were compatible. Compatible? They were inseparable. She has decided to name the pup General Lee Daisy after two of her favorite characters from her favorite show. I am fairly sure we will be using her ‘middle name’, as the Young’un has determined Daisy to be, more often than her first. As much as I like the name, I just don’t think I could get used to calling a female puppy General Lee.

It was a strange set of events that lead us to the Animal shelter just in time to find this pup. When we were there on Saturday a few folks can in and would have taken her home except that we were there and had already put down a hold deposit. A day later than when the wife was there and she would have been gone. A couple of days earlier and she would not have been there yet.

And then the strange similarities to Junior. Her looks, especially in the face, some of her markings and the way she HATES a leash and collar. And the way she took to all of us immediately. Junior had several siblings that we got into good homes locally, so it is possible this is one of his nieces or grand-nieces. Or a granddaughter. Obviously I can’t prove that she is.

But I’ll always believe it’s so.

Good Lookin' Women and Better Lookin' Guns

Wait; did that come out right?

Anyway, I hope y'all don't read Instapundit daily (like I do), otherwise you will realize a lot of my stuff is second hand.

Like this post. I seem to remember a young airman who was in the Air Force at the same time I was who got booted for posing semi nude (and semi in uniform, which was the real issue) for Playboy.

And now a member of The Royal Army is competing for Miss Universe.

Did I mention her nickname is Kat?

She says it was either that or Combat Barbie.

Still kinda sounds like somebody I know...

Yesterday Was A Long, Busy Day

It started with breakfast with friends at 8:00; a softball tourney that started at 8:45 (our team played 5 games; I AHed (AH is when you don’t play the field, but still get bat- ain’t this country something?!?!) for the first four and played catcher in the last one). It was a family softball tourney, and all of the teams had to be family. For us it was my four brothers and 4 of my sons (my youngest was my pinch runner, after I pulled something in my groin beating out a short infield hit)

I guess I should do a little full disclosure. I am not the world’s greatest athlete. My batting average is probably about .150 lifetime, and if I am in the outfield I will miss and chase (slowly) more than I actually catch. So, I often wonder why my younger and more athletic brothers always ask me to play ball. I figure it’s one of two reasons; they need some comic relief on the field or Mom makes them ask me. A third reason is that they are desperate, but I doubt that. I’ve seen me play. Nobody is THAT desperate.

Luckily I think my sons have inherited their grandfather’s athletic acumen. The two oldest ones seem fairly competent (both of them hit home runs yesterday, as did two of my brothers), and I think the younger two might be trainable. My youngest brother wants to field a team of just us 5 brothers and my 5 sons. My youngest is only 14, so it will be 4 more years before he can join an organized team , and I am about ready to hang up my glove (for the third time) so I don’t know if that will work out or not. But I do think that would be cool.

But anyway, the last game of the 5 we played ran until about 5:00, and then I had a get together with some friends that broke up about 11:00. By the time I got into bed it had been an 18 hour day, and I felt every minute of it.

Then this morning, unlike the old days; where after a good night’s rest I am ready to do it again, today is like a lousy sequel to a bad movie. Everything hurts, including the little burn I got on my nose. I move like the Tin Man, before he was oiled. And I don’t think oil will help me. Since it is raining, my plans for today are shot anyway.

New Plan for today: 10 heating pads, some Advil, the recliner and a movie marathon. I just need to decide: Star Wars, Harry Potter or John Wayne Westerns? Or maybe something daring: John Wayne non- Westerns?

Yeah, I know the choices sound limited, but I have never been a big fan of things I don’t understand. And at least I understand these movies!

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today would have been my Dad’s 76th birthday.

On Father’s day I tried to write something that adequately portrayed Dad, and didn’t feel I did him justice, so I’m going to try again.

The trouble is; I don’t know where to start.

Some topics are easy. They have a logical beginning and end, but people like my Dad are a little more complex.

He and I probably spent more hours together dirty than we did clean when we were both younger. We fixed cars, dug foundations by hand, remodeled the kitchen and added a wing onto the house. He was great believer in the phrase “the only way to get it done right is to do it yourself”; a credo I believe in as well. You may not get it done faster or cheaper, but it will be done your way, and that’s what makes it right.

I have a picture of me at about 12 with my shovel in the ground and me hanging on with a grin. We were starting on building our garage. We don’t have pictures of 12 year old, 5 foot tall, me at the bottom of a 24 inch wide, 4 foot deep trench as we finished the digging. He and my uncle and a couple of cousins laid all the block in the building, and I mixed all the mortar. Dad even built the windows; no sense buying what you can make.

He and I then spent many hours out there working on just about everything. Cars, lawnmowers and the old Gravely. We rebuilt motors, replaced transmissions and did everything we needed to do to keep things running. From him I got a great basic education in how things work. Not from a book or a TV show, but hands in the dirt. Find it broke, take it apart, understand what makes it tick, find out why it won’t, and replace the bad part.

He once bought an old double barrel shot gun, cheap, because only one barrel would fire. He found out the firing pin the broken barrel was worn out. So he took the pin that worked out of the gun and made a second one to match. That gun still hangs over the fireplace.

He would work on anything. After the TV repairman charged him $60 to fix the TV, he took a correspondence course in Color TV repair, and started fixing his own TVs. This was about a year before everything became solid state, and TV Repairmen basically disappeared.

He was good with his hands, and followed his mind where ever it took him. The urge would strike and he would drag out his guitar and play for hours, a skill he taught himself while riding an LST from San Diego to Japan and back. The cruise took 9 months, and stopped at Pearl Harbor and Hong Kong. I still have the silk ‘dress whites’ he had custom tailored in Hong Kong.

Or he would drag out the crayons or colored pencils and draw something, just because the urge had struck. Or carve wooden animals out of small blocks of scrap wood. I have on my desk a lamp Dad made for me; a windmill drives a cam that causes the little man at the other end to chop wood. I don’t know where he found plans, or if he just dreamt the works up himself. My guess is this was his own design. I also have a chess set he carved and painted for me, complete with a folding board to store and carry the set. All carved with a pocket knife.

He also worked his mind, with crossword puzzles. He was ecstatic when the local paper started publishing the Sunday New York Times puzzle. He would always finish it, sometimes taking ‘hints’ from the answer key the following week, or by asking those around him questions, especially on modern pop culture issues.

I guess in some respects he wasn’t too different from a lot of men in his generation, a lot of our fathers. A life long drinker of Weidemann beer, and Southern Comfort (for medicinal purposes, and to mix with a holiday egg nog). He even had a restaurant that kept a 6 pack of Weidemann on hand, just for him. I think I saw him cry once, at his mother’s funeral. There were things he did well and things he did… not so well. But that didn’t stop him from doing them, or at least trying. We shared a lot, argued some and, once I grew up, became friends.

Hey Dad! I’d hoist a Weidemann for you, if I could find one; I guess a Sam Adams will have to do. Thanks for all you did for me, all you taught me, and all you sacrificed for me. Happy Birthday!

February 14, 1996- July 9, 2009

Writing is cathartic.

It helps to arrange your thoughts and emotions, and forces you to think both of them through.

I find it also helps with grief. I would write a little something (some nights quite a bit) almost every night after my Dad died.

I knew I had worked through my grief when the sessions became shorter and further apart.

What brings this up? Thursday I lost my dog.

We have had him since he was a pup. I helped him draw his first breath, and was there beside him when he drew his last. In between were 13 years of him being my best friend, always.

He was a true mutt. His mother (my dog also until her death 5 years ago) was an Australian Shepherd. His father was (if I remember correctly) a collie/shepherd/St. Bernard mix. His father was also a dog with a history. He too had been in the family since the day he was born, and was himself the son of a dog we had adopted when I was in high school.

It’s true what they say; dogs don’t judge. He didn’t care what I had (allegedly) done, or failed to do. He would sit beside me, where ever I was, and accept an ear scratch. Long nights when I was working in the basement he would be beside me, when everybody else was upstairs watching TV. He hated the table saw- the shop vac even worse- and would usually slink off to a corner while they ran, but otherwise he was under foot, and covered with sawdust.

If I was in the yard or the pasture he was with me. Eyes on the horizon, watching for a squirrel or a rabbit; then he was off. He was a big dog, as his breeds usually are, but he was fast and off the mark in an instant. He never caught a rabbit that I am aware of, but he sure gave several a run for their money.

He was also a great watchdog. I never worried about the house while I was gone; I knew he would defend my family to death. He sometimes protected it too well, from things he considered threats that may not have been. Like the meter readers, and the trash man.

I also swear he could talk; if you listened closely enough. I would ask “where do you want to go?” and he would answer “owtsyde”. Yeah, you had to listen closely, but he would say it. At least, I heard him say it. He also had one bad habit. He firmly believed that an ambulance was a karaoke machine, and the law required him to sing along. Long before I could hear the siren coming down the valley I would hear Junior start to howl, and he would continue until after the noise of the siren would have long faded away.

We named him Junior the day he was born, because he was the spitting image of his grandfather, so much so that in pictures of the two them it’s hard to tell which one is which. Two other things he inherited from Grandpa Champ; he hated baths and he couldn’t tolerate a car ride. He got car sick every time we put him in the car. It got to the point that the only time he got in the car was to go to the vet. So then he had a second reason to hate car rides.

The last few years I could tell he was getting older (he was 13 last Valentine’s Day). He would take a few extra seconds to get up from the cold basement floor, and he chased fewer rabbits, but he still greeted me every evening when I came home from work like the puppy he used to be. Barking and dancing in circles, he would lead me up the walk from my car to the back door. Yesterday I came home and he didn’t greet me. He was in the middle of the family, gathered by the front porch, where my wife had found him a couple of hours earlier.

We took him to the vet, and were told that based on his age, and as ill and wounded as he was that the best thing was euthanasia. It was a hard decision, and one I heartily disliked. His chances of a full recovery were slim, expensive and long term. The doctors were willing to try, but were not giving high odds.

We buried him on the hill beside his mother yesterday morning, in a spot I can see from the window beside my desk. He has his eternal rest, and I’ll probably miss him that long.