A Love Story ~ The Romancing of Cheryl

 

There were several women I dated after Gail and I split up.  Janie was the second to last.  I was despairing.   Janie was all right, I suppose, but she was a smoker and drinker and, having gone into her house, I knew she was completely unsuitable for a long-term relationship.  After our Friday date, I dropped her off in Cleveland and slowly drove the 20 miles home to Harrisonville, knowing I would not see her again.  I had never been one to pray to the Lord for help with temporal matters; perhaps it was time.

So I prayed. I asked the Lord if it wasn’t possible to find a particular woman.  I wanted someone who was in to being a wife, a novel concept in those days.  Someone who could cook, and liked to do it.  Someone who could occasionally clean house and do the laundry.  Someone good with kids, particularly little boys since I had two.  I wanted her to be attractive and not averse to occasionally wearing makeup.  She would have to share my conservative political and world views.  I simply could not tolerate another liberal or leftist or free love woman in my life.  I wanted to find someone to love, and who would love me, whatever that was. I wanted someone who would be absolutely faithful under all circumstances. Very important for me. I wanted someone to always have my back. So, this was my very sincere prayer.  In my world in 1984, I didn’t stand a chance of coming across this person without God’s help.  I was 36 years old and running out of time.

I was very into working out at gyms in those days.  I was buff and wanted to stay that way.  Unfortunately, there was no gym in Harrisonville, the small town where I had moved  in September.  Looking around, I found a small fitness center in Butler, 25 miles to the south, and a smelly gym in Grandview, 20 miles to the north.  The Grandview gym was closer so I went up there three or four nights a week.  The gym was owned by an odd little man named Gene Wilson.  He was short and wiry, no fat at all, a stringy marathon runner.  Very friendly. His son Mark, same size, was there most nights.  New Creations Gym attracted some pretty heavy-duty guys.  Some Chiefs football players liked to work out there along with some of the Kansas City Kings basketball team players.  They made my 200 pounds look small.

That Monday night I was finishing my workout on the lat machine in the south room that held all the machines.  The north room was strictly weights.  New Creations had no women body builders at all, so it was surprising to see a couple of girls come in.  Always on the lookout, I watched them.  One was blond and a bit overweight with ok looks.  The other was brunette, slender, and, simply put, a stunner.  They stopped at the counter and visited with Gene for a few minutes.  Getting some kind of permission I suppose, they pulled out notebooks and perfume spritzers, and walked straight over to me – I was the only other person in the room.

I stopped pulling the weights to see what they wanted.  As they came up I directed my attention to the blond.  One could safely look at her, but not the brunette.  Only glances there. You know what I mean. She was simply too beautiful to look at directly.  Model quality good looks.  Unbelievable brown eyes.  No, not safe at all to look at the Brunette, not at all.  They talked with me, telling me they were students at Longview College and were conducting a study on the effect of various cologne scents when spritzed onto sweaty males.  They wanted to spritz me and personally smell the results.  Hmm.  Not wanting them to leave too quickly, I agreed to be a subject.  After spraying various parts of my arms, checking the results, and making notes, they wandered off to find other subjects.

I simply could not let that brunette get away without finding out some more about her, so after they left I inquired with Gene. I still remember that I said, “So, what’s up with those girls?”  To my surprise, Gene told me the brunette was his daughter, Cheryl Barta.  He went on to tell me she was having a really hard time right now.  She was married but had split up with her husband some months ago.  She had several kids.  Then, without my even asking, he gave me her telephone number.

I mulled it over for a week and decided to take the plunge.  Cold calls have never been my strong suit, and the fear of rejection was always present.  This Cheryl was, after all, way beyond any girl in looks that I had ever dated, and she was only 26.  This made her almost a child in my mind.  Fortunately, she had a bunch of kids, and that automatically provides gravitas to a person.  So I forced my fingers to work the phone and we visited.  It turned out she was forewarned by Gene that he had given me her telephone number, and, although she couldn’t believe he had given me her number, she was expecting a call.  I found out she wasn’t dating anyone, in fact, hadn’t dated anyone since she separated from husband Bob.  I was impressed with our conversation.  She was obviously smart as well as stunning.  What a rare combination. She would, very hesitantly, like to go out.  We agreed to a date on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  We hung up, but I had a funny feeling lingering in my chest.

I drove to Columbia for Thanksgiving with the parents on the 21^st, leaving the boys with Gail for a change.  The next day I was hanging around the kitchen talking with Mom.  Around 2 p.m. a prophetic moment struck.  I told her about this girl I had met in the gym and talked to on the phone.  I told her I planned to marry her.  Mother scoffed.  I said wait and see.  I feel this in my bones.

 I picked Cheryl up at her little red house on 165^th Street in Belton around 6 pm.  Her kids had been farmed out to the lady across the street.  My plan was a concert, and a comedy club in Kansas City.  The concert featured Ravi Shankar, the sitar player, backed by the Kansas City Philharmonic Orchestra, at the Lyric Theater.  I liked his music.  He sat on a blanket barefoot surrounded in a semi-circle by the orchestra.  I had a ‘moment’ as we were walking up the hill to the theater.  It was quite cold and Cheryl was dressed very lightly, no coat, so I put my arm around her waist. She stiffened up, clearly uncomfortable.  Well, maybe that was too familiar for a first date, although it certainly hadn’t been for the other girls I was dating.  I took it as another good sign, and not a rebuff.

After the concert, we drove out to Waldo and the comedy club, which featured Calvin Coolidge.  I must admit I had never been to a comedy club.  I had discovered Cheryl was a Mormon as we exchanged information.  When we went into the club she informed me Mormon’s did not drink alcohol, ever.  That was ok by me.  The fact she was a Mormon was intriguing, and I did not care a bit about not drinking.  In fact, I found it admirable.  Coolidge, was, however, a drunk, and got plastered during his routine.  What was worse, he cracked a slew of bad Mormon jokes.  I was embarrassed.

So, the evening of our first date ended.  I drove her home and walked her up to her door.  There was no invitation to come in, and after a few moments, I offered a very light kiss goodnight, more of a peck, really, on the cheek. Kind of stiff, she hadn’t been kissed in a very long time. I found out years later that Cheryl was expecting dinner on our date and had not eaten.  She could have mentioned that and we could have gone to dinner instead of Calvin Coolidge, but she didn’t.  As soon as I left she fixed herself something in the microwave.

Have I mentioned how gorgeous this girl was? Men stared at us, well, actually her. In addition to going to school, I had found she worked as a model for Ray LaPietra and Alaskan Furs, and did hair shows for Christoff.  LaPietra had inside connections with the Kansas City mob, and Christoff was a flaming queer.

A few days later, Cheryl voluntarily came by the gym to see me, although she didn’t know I was there for sure.   Or maybe Gene called her. We visited.

I felt it was time for the children to meet each other and the other adults.  I had never introduced my boys to the other women I dated, but I knew this was more than just me.  I needed to meet Cheryl’s children.  Jared hid under a table, but he was very shy and insecure then.  The rest of the kids got along.  Bobby was wild.  Brooke was quiet.  Brad had in-the-way-itis. Beth was an unhappy baby.  It was interesting to find Brooke and Aaron were practically the same age as were Brad and Jared.  This similarity seemed to close the 10-year age gap between Cheryl and me, but I still felt like I was closer to her father and mother in age.

I learned a lot more about her past history that night.  All about marrying her high school steady, Bob Barta.  Having her first child at 19, then three more in quick succession, all at home.  More things in common, Jared was born at home as well.  As we talked, hints of her difficulties came out.  She was trying to better herself by getting a college degree, while she worked as a model and raised four children. Since she split up with Bob he wasn’t much help.  She and Bob talked about divorce, but hadn’t done it.  She was afraid of going it entirely alone.  I couldn’t blame her.  She hadn’t dated a single guy since kicking Bob out nine months earlier.  It’s the problem with being a beautiful woman – men are afraid to approach, and being several years older than the boys in the college, and having a lot of baggage, four children, although that probably wasn’t known since no one had even tried.  Besides, she was married and a Mormon.

The Mormon thing was quite interesting.  I had attended the Presbyterian Church in Paola when I was with my first wife, and since moving was attending the Presbyterian Church in Raymore now.  I was just attending, had never been baptized.  I knew the history of the Mormons and even gone to a Mormon open house in Paola four years earlier.   Cheryl had only recently converted to the faith due to the influence of her next-door neighbors.

I also found she was very conservative and had voted for Ronald Reagan.  I admired Reagan more than any other man and still do.  The woman was certainly fitting all my requirements and then some.  She was clearly a hawk, not militarily, but in general.  There would never be anything soft spoken or retiring about Cheryl.  She knew what she wanted in life – to be a success.  She just wasn’t sure what in.  She had also decided somewhere along here that she wanted me, but she kept that to herself.

I couldn’t keep away.  I had firmly resolved that I would have this woman.  When I called her from the gym, she asked me to pick up a gallon of milk.  This became a regular occurrence.  We talked for a few hours.  She wanted me to call her when I got home, which I did, and we talked for a few more hours.  This, too, became a regular occurrence.

As with Monday, Cheryl needed a gallon of milk.  I was going to be the milkman, then.  Cheryl fixed dinner and we talked for hours again.  At some point in the evening the kids went to bed and we found ourselves on the couch, kissing.  Just passionate kissing.  She lay back on the couch and I looked into those beautiful brown eyes, and fell in. What is that song, ‘I want to know what love is’. I knew then what love is, for the very first time, and I was there.  She was too, but she did not want to admit it.

Had to bring milk again.  Cheryl fixed a nice family dinner.  It was good.  My first wife did practically no cooking.  If we wanted to have something besides zucchini and onions, I fixed it.  The kids kept wandering in to the table and getting food, but wouldn’t sit down.  This would have to change. I do like an orderly dinner.

Cheryl was doing some scent modeling at Indian Springs shopping center in Kansas City, Kansas, for Ray LaPietra.  In those days, it was still safe to go there in the daytime, but it was getting very dangerous for the sales girls and models to walk to their cars late.  Guards had to walk them out.  I discovered that the black guys that frequented Dillards were totally enamored with Cheryl.  This went on for years, still does.

On Thursday, Cheryl had admired some earrings, but couldn’t afford to buy them, so I did.  And, now, in the middle of December, she still didn’t have a decent warm coat, so I bought one of those she had admired, too.

The first time I went to church with Cheryl was at my old church in Paola, Kansas, the Presbyterians.  The occasion was Vespers Service, which was always really outstanding.  The church choir was practically professional, my ex-wife was the organist/pianist, and she was a professional. There were always other professional musicians as well, concert violinists, wind instruments.  I wanted Cheryl to see Gail, but at a distance.  It was a bit uncomfortable. Gail noticed us, which I didn’t mind at all.  I try not to be bitter about Gail and her choices, but I wasn’t entirely successful with this.

Judy Odem was the City Clerk at Cleveland, Missouri, my client.  Over the months I worked for the City, we had become friends.  I stopped at City Hall to visit for a few minutes and told Judy I planned to marry Cheryl.  Judy’s comment was,  “Roy, you can’t do that.  She is a Mormon and is going to hell.”  Judy was a committed Baptist.  I shrugged that off.  According to the Baptists, I was going to hell, too, for being a Presbyterian.

We took off at noon one day for an afternoon of Christmas shopping.  This was novel for me.  I never shopped with another person, much less a woman.  I was extremely nervous.  I was planning to make a really serious major move, and I wasn’t sure of myself or the possible results.  Cheryl was still married.  She had four children.  I wasn’t at all sure I could support four children and a beautiful wife. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, but I had to have her, now and forever.  God gave me this opportunity, and He wasn’t going to do it again.

I had my ring with me.  This was a favorite of mine, a heart shaped setting of rubies surrounding a cluster of diamonds.  It was the most precious thing I possessed.  I had bought it a couple of years before with the thought of giving it to Gail, but when I showed it to her, she disparaged it.  I didn’t mind keeping it.  I had bought it because it was beautiful and I loved it. If I weren’t a man, I would have worn it myself.

We had a late lunch at Victoria’s Station at 104^th and Wornall in Kansas City.  After lunch, I offered her the little box with the ring in it. Would she take it?  I didn’t know. We had met only 24 days before. It represented commitment.  It was hard for me to offer the commitment.  It was going to be hard for her to accept it. She took the ring with something inside her melting.  I could see it. I did not ask for her to marry me, then, but it was understood that our relationship was changed now.

Beverly and Jerry Aksamit were political friends of mine.  Bev was the County Collector at the time, Jerry the Mayor of Cleveland (Missouri).  I wanted to tell someone what I had done, so I told Bev.  Bev, unlike Judy, entirely approved.  A couple of hours later I had lunch with Cheryl.  She had the ring with her and put it on at the table. It fit. I guess the commitment was made.  We were engaged, sort of.  Of course, she was still married to Bob.

Cheryl was leaving Sunday for Michigan with her kids and Bob to go to her in-laws for Christmas. A tradition.  I was, frankly, terrified.  I did not see how she could spend a week away with her husband and not sleep with him.  I was sure Bob and his family would have a full court press on to stop our relationship. This could be the end of my new dream. Cheryl offered what assurances she could, and left.  I went to Columbia for the holiday.

I was in the kitchen at Mom’s house when she called.  What an unbelievable surprise. She said she had walked to a public phone, it was outside, and it was cold, and snowing.  We talked for quite a while with Cheryl freezing in the snow.  My heart sang.  This would be a Christmas to remember.

We survived our first separation and a trial of faith.  I asked her to marry me.  She demurred.

By the time we had celebrated New Years Eve, I was snowed in at Cheryl’s house.  I spent the night on the couch and went home in the morning.

One should have a special dinner on New Years Day.  One of my favorite recipes was my own version of Swiss Steak.  It involved preparation of a complicated sauce in which the steak was cooked.  I gathered up all the ingredients plus some side dishes and headed to Cheryl’s through the snowdrifts.  I think that the Swiss Steak dinner may have been the convincing factor for her. She still mentions it.  I really am a good cook as well as being a good engineer.

Late that night I again asked her to marry me.  She demurred, again.

Cheryl’s mother had, I think, decided to take a hand in the romancing of Cheryl.  It was time to meet the parents – outside of the gym – so we were invited to dinner.  It was an interesting situation.  In the first place, Gene had facilitated the romance by encouraging me to call Cheryl.  In the second place, Caroline, her mother, wasn’t all that much older than me.  Dinner was good.  Caroline was and is an excellent cook, and she laid it on for me.  I am fairly sure she noticed the expensive ruby ring Cheryl was wearing, and offered not so subtle comments about how stable and secure engineers were, particularly engineers that were in private practice.   We talked a lot.  By the end of the night I clearly had an ally in the courting of Cheryl. Saturday, I was flying to  Denver with the boys for a planned ski trip with my sister and brother-in-law.

I had to leave for the short ski trip with the boys that day.  I asked Cheryl to marry me, again, very seriously.  I told Cheryl that she had to tell me yes or no, no demurrals.  I loved her and had to marry her, or go away for good.  At 2:00 a.m., she accepted.  After a 60-day courtship, the issue was resolved.  I don’t know if it was a case of ‘the third time is the charm’, or motherly influence, or she had this in mind all along.  Later that day I left for Denver with the boys.

It was time for her to finalize her divorce with Bob.

We were betrothed, but we were also determined to be honorable and postpone conjugal relations until we were actually married.  I did not love Cheryl because she was good in bed, I loved her for who she was, and, of course, because she was beautiful.  Being older now, I knew that a marriage must begin on mutual understanding and respect, not on sexual relationship.  Besides, she was still married, and I would not participate in that old fashioned concept, adultery.  My first wife had done that and I knew the ultimate destruction that came from it.   We agreed by some means to get married April 19, quite a ways off.

I had noticed the old worn down three story Victorian house on East Pearl some months before.  It had been for sale, but then was signed as sold and with a contract pending.  The day before, Monday, Jan Copeland, local realtor, called to tell me the house was back on the market.  So, Tuesday morning, I looked at 1101 East Pearl.  It would be large enough, but it would also have to be completely remodeled from the ground up.  Cheryl called at 2:30 to ask about the house.  I had no idea how I would manage to buy it.

We just looked at rings.  They were all very expensive, and held no special meaning.  Some time later, Gene offered Cheryl the diamond from his mother’s wedding ring.  It is an old fashioned cut, so we looked for an old fashioned setting in an antique jewelry store. A week later, we found a beautiful old basket style setting ring in white gold that was perfect and had the diamond set.  As time has passed, Cheryl has received many new rings and typically wears one of them on her third finger because the antique basket setting of her wedding ring is too delicate to wear much.

In all my life, I had never asked for financial help from my parents.  Not for cars, university, anything.  I felt prompted to talk with Dad.  He quickly agreed to get me the money, although my Mother objected.  It seemed everyone was getting into this marriage to Cheryl thing.

Poor Cheryl, she had a big gig to do makeovers for a bunch of sorority brats, and try to sell them makeup.  Do to our incessant kissing, she had developed fever blisters on her lips.  It wasn’t nice.  The sorority brats weren’t interested in whatever brand of makeup Cheryl was selling, and spent their time making obnoxious comments.  This event was at the Nichols home in Mission Hills, an incredible mansion.  J.C Nichols owned most of the Country Club Plaza shopping district in Kansas City.  It was fun sitting in the kitchen with him drinking expensive wine and eating delicious cheese.  Cheryl deserved better than this.

Took Cheryl on a ski trip to Colorado.  She had never skied, in fact, had never been to the mountains.  I skied a lot, and undertook to teach Cheryl rather than putting her in ski school.  This trip probably deserves its own special story.  Cheryl picked it up pretty easily, only getting stuck with fear paralysis once on ‘Steep’, and only sliding under the ski rack at the base lodge once.  I rescued her on Steep, but I am afraid I had to sidle away when she went under the ski rack dumping about 50 pairs of skis.  Lucky she is so cute.

We stopped by the old house and started planning.  It was going to be mine in a week or so.  What an unholy mess.  The former owners had kept animals in the house, including goats.  It was a flea farm.  Ceilings were falling in.  Windows out. Plumbing didn’t work.

Somehow Dad had persuaded Mom to go along, and I got a check.  In my ebullience, I failed to notice the radar trap.

The move to the old house made me very ill, I think with nerves.  I would have a house payment now to go along with a new wife and six kids.

This week I moved all my stuff to the new old house.  It didn’t look like much at all in the cavernous space.

Cheryl carefully arranged a surprise birthday party for me, and it was a complete surprise.  Mom and Dad and Jan were there, Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill, my new in-laws to be, my new brother-in-law to be, the Aksamits, Jerry Porter, and others.  This is the first birthday party I have ever had.

Now we moved all of Cheryl’s stuff.  I was by this time paying Cheryl’s rent plus my own.  Come the end of the month, I would owe another rent payment.  Since we were getting married in less than three weeks, we decided to co-habitate.  No more driving back and forth to Belton every day, except, of course, Bobby had to stay in school until the end of the semester.

Just a week away.  We were really going to do it.

Cheryl was so nervous on the way to the church I thought she would pass out.

What a day.  It started with Bethany falling down the back stairs and getting all bruised up.  Cheryl was incredibly nervous all day.  Her car had broken down, and we were all going to have to get to Grandview in my little truck.  Well, the kids were pretty small.  Bradley and Jared were to be ring bearers, and were not being cooperative.  Bobby and Aaron were to be candle lighters.  Brooke and Bethany were flower girls.  The last two, Anastasia and Brianna, were just bits of DNA in waiting and did not play a part.  I am not sure how, but we pulled it off.  Jared crabbed out and wasn’t much of a ring bearer.  Aaron didn’t know what to do with his lighting candle, so dropped it on the floor and kicked it under a pew.

I don’t remember anything about the reception, or even if we had one.  In lieu of a honeymoon, we were spending the weekend at the Elms spa in Excelsior Springs.  Gene gave me a hundred dollar bill to spend, which I appreciated.  Relatives took all the kids, and we were suddenly alone driving back to Harrisonville to change, Mr. and Mrs. Obermiller.  We stopped in Belton at the Thai restaurant for our wedding dinner

And so, the adventure began.

It goes on to this very day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I THOUGHT I WAS AN ENGINEER

 

1970’s

 

 

The 3500 cfm blower rattled away as the smoke bomb released its load into the sewer. What in the world was I doing here? Up close and personal examination of sanitary sewers had never been on my agenda. I recalled my junior year in high school and the PSAT – Preliminary Scholastic Aptitude Test. Those of us that wanted to take it had done so in the spring. Three grueling days of tests, all day every day until your brain wanted to explode. We never saw the scores at the time, but they were forwarded to universities all over the country. In May of that year I started receiving individually typed letters of invitation to engineering schools. I found out much later I had achieved a perfect score in the math portion of the test.

 

I selected the University of Missouri, never took the SAT or any kind of entrance exam, and after five years graduated as a full-fledged civil engineer. Before I even graduated, I was enrolled in Graduate School, Environmental Engineering. I did not realize that in the civil engineering world of 1971, I would be type cast as a Sanitary Engineer, doomed to work endlessly on water and wastewater systems. So now, for seven and one-half years, I became vastly experienced in this rather simple field. I hated it.

 

To finish this beginning, I will just tell you that the EPA – Environmental Protection Agency – had decided it needed to have extraneous water removed from all the municipal wastewater collection and treatment systems it was having built and rebuilt.   There were no design standards for this, no regulatory standards, it was an untrammeled field. In Region VII, the EPA office in Kansas City picked a premier consulting firm with a reputation for doing stellar work and über bona fides to perform the pilot work in Infiltration/Inflow Analysis, or Sewer System Evaluation Survey as it was later called. That firm was my firm. The premier engineer to grub around in the sanitary systems was…me.   This was to be my fate.

 

I conducted 10 studies for my firm over several years. Being the first in, I pioneered measurement techniques and examination techniques.   After the first few studies, I wrote the section in the EPA guidelines dealing with pressure smoke testing, although I never got a single credit for it. Not that I wanted the credit. The basic problem was how to find where surface water entered a system. This caused the most problems with overloaded pipes and drowned treatment plants. During the first study ever done, I realized several things. Spot measurement of wastewater flow did not locate the problems; neither did televising the interior of the pipes. I decided that pumping smoke into the sewers under slight pressure was the thing to do.

 

I approached Wald Fireworks under the Broadway Bridge in Kansas City for a smoke bomb with some duration that was not toxic, non-staining, and odor free – my very words.   Such a smoke bomb did not exist.   The pretty colored bombs used by the military not only had an enduring stink, but were toxic to boot. But, there was a market, and in a few months Wald came up with an appropriate smoke bomb, and I came up with a method for introducing the smoke under pressure into the systems. It was spectacularly successful.

 

So, I have a lot of tales about this aspect of my career, some of which are at least amusing, if not exactly rewarding from an engineering viewpoint.

 

 

Warrensburg, Missouri.

 

It took several months to examine a city the size of Warrensburg. When we started the smoke testing program, we put out as much notification as possible, because the bombs, you see, put out as much smoke as a large house fire, and it was likely to erupt anywhere, frequently in houses.   We equipped ourselves with a police radio and notified the fire department as each test started so that they would not be put out rushing to a non-existent fires. Of course, the residents seldom got the word, and were unduly upset when the neighborhood started burning down around them and no one showed up.

 

We were testing in the old town area one day next to the railroad tracks where there were a number of bars located in turn-of-the-century buildings. The sewers were pretty porous in this area, so we pumped in a lot of smoke. The test was rolling along, and my crew had scattered in all directions to note smoking gutters and drains and holes in the ground, when a bar just up the street suddenly erupted drunken patrons along with a tremendous gush of smoke. The last man out had his pants around his knees and toilet paper streaming out behind. We discretely shut down the blower and stood behind our truck. No point in having drunken patrons chased out of their bar chasing us down, particularly the man who was sitting on the toilet when smoke burst out through the floor around his feet.

 

In another part of town, a new multi-story building for the university was under construction. It had the plumbing in, but of course no water traps were filled. We were pumping smoke in a sewer about a block away, when the building suddenly appeared to burst into flames at multiple locations. Did I mention spectacular? Construction workers came boiling out like wasps from a kicked nest; at first thinking a giant mysterious conflagration was taking place. I sent Kenny, my smallish longhaired assistant over to explain, more as a joke than out of necessity. In moments, Kenny came running down the street hair flying pursued by hardhatted workers, clearly in danger of his life. I had to intervene, using my authority as an engineer to cow the workers.   Eventually, I convinced them it was really pretty funny. They had gotten a completely excusable break and got to scare a longhair to death.

 

It was also in Warrensburg where I did a middle of the night flow measurement at several key locations.   This was before I had automatic measuring devices, and I was forced to climb into manholes between two and five a.m., measuring depth of infiltration water in the pipes. I was in the very last manhole at about 5:30 a.m., which happened to be in someone’s backyard. I took my measurement and climbed wearily out, only to look straight into the business end of a rifle being held by a nervous youth. It took some fast talk to avoid getting shot in the head as some sort of weird pervert that climbed into the toilets from the sewer pipes.   I had to convince him to let me call the police on my radio while he covered me with the gun.

 

One last incident about Warrensburg involved some super red dye I placed in a creek to look for subsurface inflow into a major sewer that ran under it in several places. I had a bunch of these red dye cones that could easily turn a large lake red. I didn’t find any leaks, but I did find the creek ran through a pasture containing dairy cows that drank water from the creek. I don’t believe the dye hurt the cows, but it did turn all their milk pink for a day. That made quite a story, with a lot of professors from the local university trying to explain what must have happened, but not getting even close to the answer. Perhaps it was aliens. I never owned up to being the alien, but what the heck, I didn’t know there were dairy cows. So, if you ever read the story about the famous pink milk emitting from the cows in Warrensburg and wondered, now you know. I am sure the statute of limitations has run out by now.

 

 

Lee’s Summit, Missouri

 

 

Liberty, Missouri

 

Liberty is also a college town, home to William Jewell College, formerly summer training camp for the Kansas City Chiefs football team. One hot summer day we were running a smoke test on the campus near the football field. It was close to the end of the day, and 80 or so football players had retired to the locker room under the stands for showers and debriefing. As luck would have it, we pumped smoke directly into the shower room, and out came naked football players by the dozen. They ran onto the track to the delight of the news media, particularly the female news media. We were set up at the west end of the football field and quickly decided to quietly retreat. That one also made a lot of news, but the office and the City thought we should maintain a low profile. Wouldn’t want to run off the Chiefs. Unfortunately, we apparently did as they moved their training camp to Minnesota not long after that. There are probably some good photos of that smoke test still floating around newsrooms in KC.

 

Once we opened a manhole in a very old part of town, only to find an aluminum ladder in it. We removed the ladder, somewhat pitted from exposure to acidic gas, when a strange little old man came trotting up angrily ordering us to put it back. We tossed the ladder in the truck, declining to put it back, and asked the strange little man why he wanted it there anyway. He sputtered something incoherent about looking up the pipes, but then, perhaps realizing he appeared slightly insane, wandered away. I am sure we looked insane to bystanders, but at least we were getting paid for it. I kept that ladder and still have it.   It is, in fact, residing behind the door to my study where I sit typing this. I can’t bring myself to throw away a perfectly good ladder, especially one obtained for free from a sewer. It’s a memento.

 

In the same general neighborhood, we opened a really deep manhole to find most of a Volkswagen in it.   Parts really, and no engine. We had to call the City maintenance on that one to clear it out. The bug could clearly be causing some backups in the pipes, and besides, we needed to inspect those pipes. It made quite a pile on the street, and created a bit of news. Other manholes in the area were stuffed with brush and grass clippings. It was quite an interesting neighborhood. At least we didn’t come across any bodies.

 

Liberty, in the days of sailing ships, had a rope walk industry making huge hawsers used for anchor cables. These hawsers were as much as 15 inches in diameter and 300 feet long, and were made from hemp fiber.   The farms around Liberty grew a lot of hemp for the rope walks. Hemp, in today’s parlance, is Marijuana, and it is a very prolific weed. So it grows wild all around Liberty. We got very familiar with it. Kenny, being a longhair, tried smoking it once and pronounced it to be ‘ditch weed’, or non-narcotic. That didn’t stop the local and non-local hippie population from harvesting the stuff in late summer, which, of course, required a response from the local police. I discovered that the male Marijuana plants produced enormous amounts of yellow pollen, which I was allergic to. It was also practically impossible to cut the plants out of the way with our machetes, which is why it makes such good rope I guess.

 

We were doing down-manhole pipe examinations along the Fishing River interceptor sewer running through the fields south of town one day. This task was made even more obnoxious by having to cut through thick stands of ditch weed, scattering clouds of pollen while the stalks wrapped around the machete blades. Being really unpleasant work, I assigned myself to drive the truck following the boys into the middle of a field. We located the manhole and the boys industriously cleared the weed from around it while I sat on the tailgate. Suddenly, a movement caught my eye off in the weeds. A man slowly stood up about 100 feet away and stared at us. While he was staring, a police car came into sight creeping up the trail I had made with the truck. I quickly got on my police radio and called dispatch, telling the girl where we were and what was happening. In a moment, the man standing in the field watching us put a radio to his ear, then slowly sank down out of sight again. The police car started up and slowly backed away. Of course, we had inadvertently chopped our way right into the middle of a police stakeout intended to catch those evil ditch weed harvesters.

 

Once we noticed a patch of Marijuana right along I-35. This patch appeared domestic, and just because we could and had grown to hate the stuff; we stopped, turned on our rotating lights, walked over and cut it all down. We then loaded it into the truck and took it away for dumping elsewhere. There was a well-worn path coming from the woods to the patch.   Endlessly inspecting sewers had not made us happy or forgiving people.

 

Perhaps this next incident was payback for cutting down someone’s Marijuana patch. We pumped smoke laden air into the sewers with the afore mentioned blower via an 8 inch diameter yellow slinky hose. The hose was fed into a manhole through our own custom cast iron manhole cover. I had obtained the cover and cut an 8-inch hole in it with my blowtorch for the slinky. The cover was very heavy and would not lift up under the air pressure induced in the manhole, a problem we had had with our plywood custom cover.   It was a standard 24-inch CI cover and weighed about 50 pounds.

 

We had a problem in Liberty. The old town sewer system was very old indeed. The manholes were built from brick. Some of the pipes were actually carved stone with oak strip inverts. They were full of huge roaches as well as miscellaneous objects. The covers and cover ring risers were an odd size. Our custom cover was too small to fit on the old ring risers, but, if one was careful, it could be wedged in the ring about halfway down, as the rings were slightly funnel shaped, but the rings had to be rusty to hold it in place.

 

We were about done with Liberty testing. Our last test was in old town, and our cover was wedged in the riser of the manhole.   We finished the test and were sitting around congratulating ourselves. Kenny perched on the edge of the manhole after pulling out the slinky.   He casually reached in and grasped the custom cover by the edge of the 8-inch hole while chatting. Suddenly, and without any warning, the cover slipped through the ring and plunged into the manhole. Not a problem, except Kenny held onto it with his left hand. Just as suddenly, Kenny plunged into to the manhole following the cover. It was like a magic trick. Now you see him. Now you don’t. We jumped over to the manhole, which fortunately wasn’t deep. There was Kenny, upside down on the bottom, basically unhurt, shocked, and really, really unhappy. We collapsed laughing. Kenny had to find his own way out. He refused to hand up the cover.

 

 

North Kansas City

 

North Kansas City was the last sewer system study I did for the company. In fact, it was the last project I did for the company period.   Way back in college, I had sworn to myself I would be independent by the age of 30. I had passed 30 while working in Lee’s Summit. My first child, Aaron, had come. I was breaking my word to myself. The endless study of sewer systems was a good way to convince me to leave, but of course it wasn’t giving me much useful experience. The North Kansas City study helped me out the door.

 

I spent several months doing the usual climbing in and out of manholes, looking up pipes, pumping in smoke. But I was thinking all the time about starting my own company. I ordered a cheap drafting table from Sears in the ritzy Metcalf South Mall. When it came time to pick it up, it was winter. I went in to get it wearing the ratty old coat held together with duct tape I wore when we were climbing in the manholes. Dirty blue jeans. Beat up construction boots. As I stood in line with numerous women waiting to pick up their Christmas lay-a-way items, I couldn’t help but notice the sidelong looks I was getting.   The women kept edging away until I stood in my own little clearing. I picked up the disassembled table from the clerk who gave me a look of complete distaste.   As I walked out into the cold December air, it hit me. I not only looked like a bum, I smelled like I lived in a dumpster – or perhaps a manhole.   So here was the star engineer, math wizard, who graduated with honors from a major university, almost 31 years old, and a professional sewer rat.

 

My planning to quit went into high gear. I would either go into partnership with Clem Egger in Paola, or start my own company, but I would do it. 1979 came, and I continued to work in North Kansas City. There were months to go on this project, and I felt it was the honorable thing to finish it…if I could. As summer arrived, I was measuring flow rates in key pipes running down to the riverside interceptor sewer. I had perfected the in-system measuring techniques over the years and had reduced it to a really accurate science. At key locations, I built weir structures out of plywood in the bottoms of the manholes.   I would make a template of the invert shape and transfer this to my plywood section. The section had a rectangular notch cut in it for the controlled weir, and the weir had a knife edge made of galvanized sheet metal. I measured depth of flow over the weir with either a bubbler and recorder, or a float recorder. The recorders were mounted at the inside top of the manhole, invisible from the surface and protected from theft. Over time, I discovered I needed a small trapdoor at the bottom of the plywood section that could periodically be lifted to let sediment flush out. I attached a light chain to the door so it could be lifted from above the water.

 

So, I had installed a weir in a manhole about a block downstream from the Cook Paint factory.   We sometimes amused ourselves by tossing matches into the manholes below the paint factory creating a minor explosion from the volatile gases. We never entered these manholes without continuously directing air from our blower into them and also wear gas masks. I noticed one day that the weir needed flushing, and grabbing the chain, gave a tug. To my dismay, the chain came up, having been dissolved below the water line. Flushing had to take place, so directing air into the manhole and donning my mask, I climbed in. Now, after 6 or 7 years of close contact with sanitary sewers, it didn’t really bother me sticking my hand into the water. Reaching the bottom, I reached into the water, or shall we say, liquid, and sludge, and opened the door. I held it open while the sewer flushed out, closed the door, and climbed back out.   I had noticed my arm was tingling while it was submerged. When I got out I saw why. From the middle of my left bicep on, the skin was bright pink and I had no hair.   My arm was completely naked. I guess the liquid was acidic.

 

Well. This was really the final straw. The next day I made a final decision. I would go into business on my own, without a partner. I would call my business REO Engineering. I wrote a nice professional announcement for the partners of the firm, and told them that I would be leaving in two weeks. I expressed my appreciation for all the opportunities they had offered me over the years. And I closed the book. It was time, past time, to start on my real career.

I hesitate to publish this grizzly story. If you don’t like it, please don’t read it.

A VISIT TO THE ER or The Dance of the Blue Fairy’s

Since Cheryl decided to share my visit to the ER with the world, I thought perhaps I should share the real story.

I have been developing a ‘stomach flu’ for several days. On Monday, it suddenly flowered into fruition. (Actually, not flower-like at all) My GI tract busily voided itself of everything available and then started working on the general water content of my entire body. It was amazing. I was dehydrating. By seven it was all I could do to stagger upstairs to bed, although I still had to make my way down the hall every 20 minutes or so. A tremendous tornado ridden storm was raging outside, and our guests, the Ward missionary boys couldn’t leave.I missed the storm and missed the boys leaving.

I was having a really hard time even getting up to stagger down the hall, which I still had to do every 20 minutes or less as the night wore on. Around 3:00 a.m., a really urgent spell came on. I sort of quickly tried to roll out of bed and promptly passed out, crashing into my bedside table, crunching my knee and other parts. Cheryl sprang out of bed in a panic and pulled me upright. I let her help me to the jon and leave me there.
A few hours later, after taking repeated doses of immodium to no effect at all, a chapter on dysentery from my textbook on the Biology of Polluted Waters came and displayed itself on my memory. (Graduate school ~ Environmental Engineering) Let’s see, bacterial dysentery, amoebic dysentery, viral dysentery. Amoebic dysentery can kill you in short order. Cheryl was busy having urgent phone conversations with my doctor who ordered me to the ER. It was chancy, but I decided to go, and thence the story becomes the Dance of the Blue Fairy’s.

We are known personalities in our small town. The ER manager whipped me right into an ICU. The room quickly filled up with little blue clad female children. They had badges that proclaimed them to be nurses, but I swear, the oldest couldn’t have been 25. The youngest still had acne. They were all very cute and apologetic as they took off my clothes and searched my arms for un-collapsed veins. The one working on my left arm wanted to start an IV drip ASAP, and couldn’t do it. They got a slightly older girl in from the lab to help. Eventually, with lots of whispered discussion and knitted brows, they succeeded. The lab girl said they put something called ondansetron in the drip which should calm my guts. You should see the bruises from that. Then they took lots of blood from my right arm for the lab girl because she is, after all, the lab girl. Lots more discussion, and x-ray tech girl, probably 28, and her assistant, maybe 18, came in to look at my bunged up knee. More earnest concerned faces as they set up their equipment and took a bunch of shots.

Somewhere in all this activity the duty doctor came in. To my surprise, I did not know him. We discussed things and he thanked my daughter for bringing me in. I didn’t realize I looked that bad. My ‘daughter’ was very gratified. The little blue girls kept popping in and out, then my friend Mike Kohlman came. Mike is the ER surgeon. Now the frenetic activity of the little blue girls doubled or even tripled. The patient is the chiefs friend! Not to mention they are friends with the patient’s children. They would save me no matter what.

Through all of this, Cheryl is sitting out of the way with her lap top out dictating, talking to clients, and checking job approvals. She was also on facebook talking about all of this. Well, keep everybody informed of the whole grizzly episode Schatz. I might die yet. And to think, this was supposed to be international ‘Woman’s Day Off’ day or something.

Around 5:00, the blue girls unhooked me and we made our way home, stopping first at Walmart for some doctor recommended food. And that is the story. I still don’t know what is attacking me, so I guess we will have to wait it out.

DEDICATION OF THE FINAL RESTING PLACE OF

 

JAKAYLA UMMERTESKEE

 

 Our Father in Heaven, as we gather in this place we dedicate and consecrate this grave as the final resting place for the mortal remains of Jakayla Ummerteskee. Father, we ask that this be a hallowed place to which the kindred of infant Ummerteskee may come, and that at the time of the resurrection the body may again come forth reunited with the Spirit.

 

I do this by the authority of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood, which I hold, in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

 

April 22, 2006

 

The phone rang on Thursday, April 20, 2006.   It was Bishop Tracy, wondering if I could do him a favor. Could I possibly go down to Butler (25 miles south) on Saturday to attend a funeral and dedicate a grave? It seemed an infant only a few days old had died. Many of the family members were Mormon, but they did not attend church and no one seemed to know them. I really hate to loose my Saturdays, the only day I have available for my own pursuits, but I was prompted so I said sure. There was not going to be a church service, only a grave side service at a tiny rural cemetery located some miles west of town, at noon.

I had recently dedicated the grave of my father-in-law and was familiar with the process. My father-in-law was cremated, and I had typed up the dedication, which I left with his ashes in the crypt.   On that occasion, quite a number of relatives were present. Gene was a Baptist, and his Baptist minister gave the graveside service. The Spirit was not in attendance. My mother-in-law, also a Baptist, had, to my surprise, asked me, as one who holds the Melchizedek Priesthood in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, to dedicate Gene’s grave. This was the first time for me, and I had carefully prepared.

The Mormon contingent all knew I was going to dedicate the grave, and stayed after the Baptists were done. We had to wait a while for Gene’s brother to leave since he was very curious about what the strange Mormons were doing. Eventually, I was able to get down to business. On starting the prayer, the Spirit decided to come after all, and tears literally flowed down my face – but I had sunglasses on so it was ok. At least I was able to speak clearly. Everyone was very satisfied when I finished.   Clearly, I had done a holy thing; all could feel it.

That was for my father-in-law, a man I was very fond of, done in the midst of close family. This request was for someone I did not know, not the baby nor any of the family. The dedication is short, and, in spite of the rather overwhelming experience with Gene, I figured this would be OK. Cheryl could not go with me, so I drove alone to the cemetery, getting there a half hour early. No one was there yet.

Gradually, people filtered in. Some were dressed in church clothes, some looked like they had just put down their work on the farm and came straight over. The baby’s mother introduced herself. No father was evident. Grandparents were there, however, and I assume most of the other people were relatives. I kept an eye out for a preacher or minister that I could meet with briefly to go over procedure. No preacher showed up. After 50 or so people were standing or sitting on the grass on the slope above the grave-site, watching me expectantly as I stood by the coffin, it dawned on me that I would have to give a funeral service…completely extemporaneously.

This was going to be very difficult. I don’t like funerals. I hardly ever go to them. I only knew the baby’s name. I did not know the circumstances of her life or death. I did not even know exactly how old she was. I did not know anything about the father, even if there was one involved. The mother was crying tragically. Her mother was crying. Her grandmother was crying. I prayed for help, and gave a talk.

I thought a short discussion about the Plan of Salvation would be appropriate, but, of course, it doesn’t apply well to the newborn. I also wasn’t sure if my audience would get it at all without a couple of hours of buildup. Well, when in doubt, we are instructed to open our mouths and the Lord will speak through us.   So I did, and immediately tears started streaming down my face, in front of 50 complete strangers, most not even church members. Pretty soon I had all the audience crying, too.

After the requisite 18 minutes, I finished up in the Name of Jesus Christ. (All my church talks are timed for 18 minutes.) The audience was just overwhelmed and, of course, delighted. Baby Jakayla was safe and happy in the bosom of Heavenly Father. She wasn’t going to hang around haunting anyone, and they could get back to work.

I advised the mother to bury my dedication prayer with the baby. This isn’t Church doctrine, but I think it is a good idea to provide solace for the living.

 

I am an engineer, and I dislike surprises of any kind. My world is supposed to be orderly. I try to be prepared for any foreseeable difficulties that life might throw my way in a vain attempt to keep it orderly, but you just can’t think of everything. However, now I am confident I can conduct a funeral service by winging it with the Spirit.

DRIFTS

The winter of ’78 was the snowiest on record for the Midwest. So much snow and really low temperatures it sticks forever in our collective memory. I was living out in Kansas with my first wife back then, far out in the country.   I had finished building our house in ’76, and just finished building our garage/office adjacent to the house. I had installed efficient wood stoves for supplementary heat, and we cooked on a propane kitchen stove. Fortunate choices.

The snow and low temperatures started early that winter. By Christmas, the ground cover was averaging two feet and, in windy Kansas, the drifting was amazing. I dug trails to the horse corral, the chicken house , and to the wood lot. I re-supplied the wood pile every Saturday, burning a wheelbarrow full of hedge wood every day

The County worked continuously to keep the roads clear, which was appreciated as I worked 40 miles away in Kansas City. Getting through got progressively more difficult as the winter wore on. I selected routes to my house based on the elevation of the roadway. If it was on high ground, the wind scoured the snow off leaving only minor traveling drifts. These are the drifts that start on the windward side of the road right after the grader comes through, and built up to a couple of feet deep as they creep across. My truck could break those, but I took to carrying a couple of shovels to clear the tracks when necessary.

One difficult section of road running west of Sommerset had an eighth mile of four foot cut. This cut would drift full, making this, the last possible route home, almost impossible. Generally, the County kept this passable, although one night coming home after a windy snow filled day, they had not. I stopped at the rise before the cut and surveyed the situation.   No help for it. It was the only possible way to get home.

The road had been cleared many times and a heavily banked one-lane track ran through the cut. I backed up to Sommerset, figuring if I could get up enough speed, the cut banks would keep me going straight, and I could plow through. I floored it, picking up speed to 60 mph, and hit the four foot high by eighth mile long drift. Almost instantly, I couldn’t see anything through the wave of white pouring over the hood. The truck bounced back and forth and started slowing down. I kept it on the floor. At the last moment before completely bogging down, I broke through, and the engine died.

Getting out, I raised the hood and contemplated the completely snow packed engine compartment. I expected this, and got my small camp shovel out of the back. As I dug out the snow, the engine heat started melting it.   Soon enough, the tough 400 CID Ford started up again and we were off. Next, I had to turn south on Oak Grove Road, go two miles and climb the steep hill to 327th road. Easy enough since the wind blew straight down Oak Grove keeping it clear. At 327th, I turned back east for a half mile to my driveway. 327th lay just over the ridge and always accumulated a deep drift, but the County had run down it earlier in the day and the drift wasn’t too deep yet.

Finally home, all I had to do now was replenish the wheel barrow with wood, breaking a new path to the wood yard, feed the horses, breaking a new path to the corral, and check on the chickens located down the hill from the house. The wind was picking up and the thermometer was dropping rapidly. Before doing the chores, I put on my ski jacket, hat, and gloves. Getting the wood and feeding the horses took a little while with the rising wind and dropping temperature. I was concerned about the chickens. They were in their coop and completely protected from the wind, but several were molting (loosing their feathers) for some reason. With the thermometer now below zero and the wind chill maybe 60 below, I decided to move them to the garage. There were 70 bales of hay stored in the garage and the wood stove was going.

So, I donned my ski bibs along with the jacket, stocking hat, goggles and gloves, and walked directly into the teeth of that horrible wind   to the coop. Two at a time, I ferried the chickens up the hill to safety where they could sleep with the numerous feral cats hiding in the garage, stoked the stove, and I was done for the night. The tractor with blade attached was also there waiting for action in the morning.

The wind howled and snow beat on the house all night. The walls kind of vibrated from the force of the wind, but it was new, and I had built it with an eye toward just this sort of storm. In the morning the storm abated, and I ventured out to assess the drifts. The end of the driveway hooked left 90 degrees to the garage doors. A drift lay across the drive in the lee of the garage up to the eaves, but I could get out on the north side.   That snow had ended up in the huge drift.   The driveway ran up hill to 327th and wasn’t too bad. I got the tractor cranked up in the -10 degree sunshine, and went to work.

By noon, the driveway was clear up to the street. The snow was piled on the already high pack at the bottom of the drive which by now was at least 10 feet deep. A path was dug over to the corral through chest high drifts. I tossed cracked oats to the little birds along that path as I carried the grain to the horses. The birds anticipated this in the morning and crowds of them gathered round.   All my other paths were dug out, even to the chicken coop, but I left the chickens in the garage. They could hang out until it warmed up a little.

In the afternoon, I decided to saddle up my horse, Sugar, and try the road going east. He was feisty and eager to go, so we walked up the hill and started into the drifts. The snow quickly came up to his belly, then his chest, and finally the saddle. We only got about 200 feet, and he stopped, refusing to try anymore. Oh well. It was pretty cool for a few minutes riding in snow that practically buried the horse. We went back.

There was no sign of the County grader that day or the next, but then he came along, heading east into the deep snow. I walked up the hill to catch a ride with him and experience the removal operation.   The operator had both rear axles locked and chains on all four tires. He had the blade set as high as it would go and sharply canted. The removal process proceeded with the grader pushing the top of the drift off until it bogged down in a couple of hundred feet, then backing up, lowering the blade, and doing it again, removing more snow until he reached the gravel.   With good traction, he would charge into the drift with the blade up high and repeat the process. He would do this all day. He never did get all the way to 69 Highway as those drifts were 11 feet deep. That waited a couple of months and was finally cleared with a rubber tired loader. Eventually I could drive straight over to the highway with snow piled up higher than my 11 foot whip antennae on either side.

The entire winter was like this. I thought it would never end.   The snow pile at the end of my driveway didn’t completely melt away until late June. Irises grew up through the snow pile and bloomed. Of course, it was much worse up in Nebraska where entire herds of cattle froze to death under the snow. We did not go skiing in Colorado that winter, but contented ourselves with ‘water’ snow skiing, being towed behind my International Scout around the roads and over the buried fences.

There were a whole series of winters similar to the one of ’78, but this was the worse, or most impressive if you will. In spite of the fears of ‘global warming’ it will happen again, and again, until the snow fails to melt away in the summer and the next ice age begins. It was a wild time.

THE POLITICALLY CORRECT CAMPGROUND

 

 

It was the summer of 1989 and we were on vacation. Seven children, a 26-foot camper, and a 15-passenger van equipped with a television and VHS tape player. The TV and tape player made our long trips possible. The kids brought Play Station games as well and between movies and Mario Brothers everyone was entertained on the long drives. We were firm believers in family vacations to far away places, and the kids had to go along.

 

1989 was the trip to a place in South Carolina called Edisto Island. This is a State Park located on the barrier dunes on the Atlantic coast, and a three-day drive from Kansas City.   Along the way to South Carolina we stopped at interesting and entertaining places such as Dollywood, which happens to be just like Silver Dollar City at Branson, Missouri. If you have been to one, you can skip the other.   We camped in a great little RV park right next to the City wastewater treatment plant, enjoyed the fragrant atmosphere for two nights, and kept the little kids from playing in the convenient, foamy, receiving stream, sorry, engineer lingo, then drove on through the beautiful Smokey Mountains into the Carolina’s.

 

We got to Edisto late in the day and couldn’t get in. The ranger directed us to an overflow campground located just up the road in a swamp. No services, so we couldn’t have air conditioning, but that was ok. It was just for one night. Then the no-see-ums found us. You probably don’t know what no-see-ums are. Let me tell you. They are tiny tiny mosquitoes. So small they crawl right through screens, and, of course, with no air conditioning, all the doors and windows had to be open. No-see-ums bite like crazy. The boys quickly abandoned the out-of-doors and retreated to the van, rolling up all the windows. The girls and us stayed in the camper providing dinner to thousands of no-see-ums. The next day after a sleepless night we found there wasn’t a square inch of our exposed skin that wasn’t covered with little red mosquito bites.

 

The next day we headed back to Edisto with some trepidation, but the ranger told us there were no mosquitoes on the beach and that was where we would be camping. The park at Edisto, selected by Cheryl the vacation planner using some secret means we have never figured out, was really cool. The camper spots had brackish water hookups, electricity, and no sewer.   But it was well worth it. We were just behind the barrier dune and only100 feet from the ocean. We quickly forgot about the no-see-ums. This was the first time the kids had been to the ocean. It was fascinating. We swam, netted crabs, swam, collected sand dollars, swam some more, surfed and got thoroughly sunburned. We ate the crabs. Brooke, my oldest daughter got some perverse enjoyment from dropping the little critters into boiling water and listening to their high-pitched screams. There is not much meat on these tropical crabs, but after you get over listening to them boil to death, they are pretty tasty. After a few days, the holding tank filled up clear into the toilet and it was time to go.

 

We wanted to visit CJ Martin, the son of friends from back home, who had joined the military and was stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, so we headed that way. We drove our camper right up to his barracks unannounced and had a picnic lunch with CJ and about 50 other kids who quietly gathered around to savor this remarkable taste of home. It was very moving and we hated to leave, but it was at least 100^o with 99% humidity, and we needed to get the air conditioning going. The next stretch we planned was driving up the Appalachian Trail until we hit I-64 where we would head west toward home. Off we went, and I am sure the Appalachian Trail was very beautiful. Unfortunately, it was entirely fogged in and we could barely see the road, much less the beautiful scenery.

 

Late in the day we arrived at I-64, desperate to find a place to stop for the night. We headed west on the interstate. Surely we would find a KOA soon. So we thought. We didn’t realize Senator Bird didn’t allow KOA’s or any other commercial campgrounds in West Virginia. Only State campgrounds. After an hour or so we saw a sign for Beech Fork State Park, advertising camping and a general store. It was some 10 miles south of the highway, but that general store looked mighty attractive. We could replenish our supplies, now running pretty low, and have a good dinner. It was dusk when we turned onto Route 152 and headed south.

 

The highway was a narrow blacktop running up and down hills and twisting along the ridges of the foothills. We were getting close when we came to the top of a really steep drop into a valley. I could see the road climbing up the other side and had a worrisome sinking sensation. It didn’t look like the van could climb that hill. There was no way to turn around, so I instructed the kids to start a power chant to encourage the engine, and off we went, peddle to the metal, GO…GO…GO…resounding from the back. Down we went, picking up speed, then up the other side. Somehow we made it, crawling over the top at five miles per hour, and started down an even steeper grade.   This grade twisted back and forth and I couldn’t help but notice the scarred up guard rails on either side.   It got even steeper, but after one last hairpin curve with battered guardrails, brakes smoking, we hit the bottom and coasted into Beech Fork State Park. I made a mental note, and underlined it. Do not attempt that hill in the morning. I would just add to the guardrail scarring. I would not make it back up that hill.

 

The park was beautiful.   Surrounded by steep hills and mountains, a cold stream running through it, and geese strutting around. At one end was the rustic general store, and we had our pick of campsites. Being a state park, it was aimed primarily at tent campers, and did not have hookups for RV campers, just electric, but that was ok. We weren’t even going to unhook the camper from the van. So the boys jumped out and in their usual frenetic way, put the jacks under the corners of the camper and set up their awning tent. Cheryl and I strolled around with Anastasia (Nana), then three years old, letting the days’ tension drain away.

 

The geese followed us.   Nana liked that and wanted to feed them, so Cheryl got her some pieces of bread to toss, and we walked to the general store. At the store we were met by a rangerette, complete with green uniform, severely tied back hair, no makeup, grim look, and a military-like hat. Cheryl started up a friendly conversation.

 

“What food do you have here?”   She asked.

 

“None.” Answered the rangerette.

 

“But the signs on the highway said you had a general store.

”

“We are out of food.”

 

“Well, that is really too bad.” Said Cheryl, eying the shelves full of food.

The rangerette was obviously thinking, “What are you worthless RV camper people doing here in my campground?”

“We have been on the road for days and really needed to shop for dinner tonight.”

 

“Can’t you see this park is for real people who camp in tents and don’t pollute the environment.”

 

“We don’t have any facilities for RV’s.” Commented the rangerette.

 

“That’s OK, we are self-contained.” I replied. At least I am containing myself – barely.

 

Cheryl said, “I noticed a sign coming in that offered Pizza, delivered”

 

“They are in Huntington, 10 miles away. They don’t come here.”

 

“Do you mind if I use your phone?”

 

“Suit yourself.” OMG, these worthless middleclass flyovers are going to order pizza.

 

Five minutes later the pizza was ordered and would be delivered in 45 minutes. As a peace offering Cheryl said,

 

“You have really friendly geese here. They were following us around. My daughter asked for some bread so she could feed them.”

 

“You can’t feed the geese bread. It sours in their stomachs and can kill them.”

 

“Oh. Well, Anastasia is only 3 years old and didn’t know that.”

 

“I could have her arrested for that!”

 

“She is only three!”

 

“Well, I won’t arrest her, but the birds have to be protected. From yokels like you.

 

Sometimes Cheryl has a mean streak.

 

“Have you heard the Jeff Foxworthy joke about the minute rice?”

 

“No.”

 

“In Atlanta they had to ban the throwing of rice at weddings. It seems the sparrows eat it and after a while it swells up in their little stomachs and they explode.”

 

What horror is this!!!

 

“I’d pay good money to see birds exploding.”

 

“I wonder what happens if you feed them minute rice? Do you suppose they explode in a minute?”

 

“That is NOT funny. I am an environmentalist you know.”

 

You mean environmentalist whacko, right?

 

“I thought it was.”

 

Well, that was a thoroughly disgruntled politically correct rangerette, but I had to get some information from her. I asked her if there was another way out of the campground on account of I didn’t think I could pull that hill we came down getting in here. I got directions.

 

“Sure. Just go toward the mountain there and when you get to the fork in the road keep right.”

 

We walked back to the camper, noticing various tent campers tossing dishwater on the grass. Well, what is good for the goose is good for the gander. At the camper, I took the spare tire that we had to carry inside, and rolled it around to lean up against the side blocking the view of the sewer hookup. Then I opened the drain to the kitchen and bathroom sinks. That would make things much easier. Later that evening, the rangerette drove by several times with her flashlight peering at the spare tire, but she couldn’t see anything and didn’t have the guts to actually stop. After all, it is well known that flyover camper people all carry illegal guns with them.

 

The next day we cleared out early. Following the directions of the rangerette, I headed to the fork in the road. When we got there I quickly decided I must have misunderstood the directions. Keeping right would take us straight to the unclimbable hill. Keeping left the road took off up the mountain but on a more reasonable grade. I turned left. After going around the side of the mountain we descended into the valley and followed the creek, eventually regaining the interstate. We had thwarted the revenge of the rangerette, and were glad to escape from West Virginia.

 

I was a little ticked off and amazed at the rangerette, and decided I was done with camping for this trip.   I drove straight through to Kansas City, arriving home at 2:30 a.m. No politically correct anything at our old house. Just a comfortable bed.

 

END

Christmas Messages from our family to yours.

 

Santa Claus is real. And this is his true story.

2009 years ago Christ was born.

1729 years ago, not too long after the days that Jesus Christ walked the earth, A boy called Nicholas was born to wealthy parents in the tiny village of Patara in the country we today call Turkey.

Nicholas was a child of wealthy parents. He was raised a Christian and at a very young age was devoted to the faith.

Nicholas’ parents died while he was a boy. Not knowing what to do with himself or the fortune he inherited, he turned to his Bible and in Matthew 19:21 read the words of admonishment that Christ gave to a wealthy man: “Sell all thou hath and give it to the poor and follow me”.

Nicholas went to his village priest, repented of his sins and expressed the desires of his heart. He wished to become a priest.

Because he was an orphan, the priest took him in. And soon he found that Nicholas was no ordinary boy. Legend tells the story of a young Nicholas visiting the Holy Land with his village priest. On the return voyage, over stormy waters, their ship was cast about and all aboard feared for their lives. Nicholas steadfastly prayed for the safety of the passengers and crew. Abruptly, the storm ended and the waters calmed. Nicholas’s story of faith began.

The village priest loved of Nicholas. But he knew Nicholas lacked the education and the credentials necessary to become a priest. He would need a miracle if it was to happen. And a miracle is just what he got.

In the not too distant city of Myra, the Bishop of the church passed away. As the authorities of the church assembled to consider his replacement, Nicholas was there. The man considered wisest amongst the authorities had a dream and was visited by a heavenly messenger. He inquired of the angel “Who should the new Bishop be?”. The angel said that if the gathered authorities would just wait by the door of the church they should select the first person to walk through the doors. In walked Nicholas. The church authorities had their answer, and Nicholas had his miracle and was named the youngest bishop of the church ever on record. And he wasn’t even a priest first.

As a young Bishop, Nicholas was fearless in his defense of the faith. He became known as an outspoken caretaker of the people of his flock and as one very close to God. Once, when the citizens of Myra came to him to complain of a difficult tax burden, he approached the Emperor for relief. The Roman emperor Diocletian, who was not Christian and who had previously cast Nicholas into prison for his vigorous public defense of Christianity, was moved to write a decree lowering the tax due to Bishop Nicholas’ pleas on behalf of the people.

Nicholas was beloved of the people of Myra for his kindness, most especially to children. One such deed became a legend that has survived for centuries and is celebrated even now in a variety of cultures. In his town where he presided, Bishop Nicholas once gave an anonymous gift to a man with three daughters. The family was very poor. The custom of the time was that each daughter would need to be provided with a dowry or money in order to marry. Because they were poor, the father of the three daughters could not provide dowry’s, and was contemplating selling his daughters into slavery since he couldn’t afford to keep them.

Bishop Nicholas heard of their plight and on a dark night soon after the eldest daughter came to marrying age, he tossed a small bag of gold through an open window of the poor man’s house ( some say he tossed it down the chimney), providing her dowry and sparing her a life of misery.

As the second daughter came of age he repeated the deed, again doing so anonymously.

As the third daughter came of age the father waited up nights to catch the gift-giver in order to express his gratitude. His persistence paid off as he caught Bishop Nicholas in the act, and the story was told.

This story is recounted in many lands, although some of the details change from one telling to another. Some say it was not bags of gold but rather balls of gold that Nicholas left. Some say he tossed them into the chimney where they landed in the hanging stockings or the drying shoes of the unmarried girls. That is why some, to remember this event even to this day, celebrate Christmas by placing an orange in the toe of children’s stockings.

Nicholas was known for many such deeds. Many miracles were attributed to the Bishop of Myra because of his great faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

So famous did Nicholas become that no other name in the church, save Jesus only, was so widely known or respected. More than 2000 churches in the Old World bore the name of Saint Nicholas. And his legend only grew as the centuries passed.

Bishop Nicholas died on December 6, 343 AD, in Myra.

About this same time, the Roman Emperor Constantine, the first Christian emperor, established December 25 as the recognized birthday of Jesus Christ, although it was known this was not the correct day. The Romans already had a feast day on the 25^th, and the new Christian Romans were anxious to place special Christian days over the old pagan feast days. The 25^th also happened to coincide with the Yule celebration of the northern Europeans.

Over the centuries, St. Nicholas celebrated the birth of Christ by the giving of gifts to children, on December 6. This custom became well established in the Germanic countries of Europe. Children hung their stockings over the fireplace on December 5, and St. Nicholas would, if they were good children, fill them with treats and toys. In some countries, like Holland, children set their shoes out to be filled instead. Saint Nicholas would frequently slip into the house through the chimney.

In the 16^th century during the reformation, newly created Protestants were uncomfortable celebrating saint days, and the stories and traditions about St. Nicholas became unpopular. But children still wanted presents, and since December 6 is close to December 25, the custom of giving gifts to children gradually moved to Christ’s birthday. On the 24^th of December, Christmas Eve, gifts were now brought by the Christ Child, or Christkind, or Kris Kringle, in Germany, Father Christmas in England, Pere Noel in France, or Sinterklaus, which is Dutch for Saint Nicholas, in the Netherlands.

Now, you may not know that the Dutch people of the Netherlands are descended from the Norwegian Vikings. As we all know, Norway is inhabited by a lot of elves and fairies. At Christmas, the Norwegians liked to have their feasts undisturbed by their animals, so they enlisted the aid of elves known as Nisse to watch over their animals in the barn. On Christmas Eve, the Julenisse helped out by bringing presents to the children. The Nisse, being elves, must always be paid for their services with a special food treat, risengrynsgrøt, or rice porridge, which is left in the barn for them. If you don’t leave them the special treat, you will be considered naughty and the Julenisse might play tricks on you like giving you a lump of coal for a present.

In Norway there is a lot of snow and winter is very cold. For many months of the year, the Norwegians had to use sleighs to get around instead of wagons. Horses can’t live so close to the North Pole, but, of course, the Norwegians also had, and still have, reindeer to pull their sleighs.

When the Dutch settled New Amsterdam, later called New York, in the Americas, they brought their Christmas customs with them. Christmas trees and Sinterklass.   Sinterklass was later anglicized to Santa Claus as we know him today.   From old Norwegian Dutch custom, he is a jolly old elf, dresses in red furs, and rides around in a magic sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer. In 1808, Henry Livingston described Saint Nick, or Sinterklass, from a chance meeting on Christmas Eve. He even managed to get the names of the reindeer, which are both Dutch and English. In 1823, Clement Clark Moore wrote a famous poem about this event called the ‘Night Before Christmas’.

Santa Claus, as all children know, lives in reindeer country near the North Pole during the off-season. Probably near the village of Nordkapp or North Cape, just off E69 at the northernmost tip of Norway.

It is still generally considered a good idea to leave a special food treat for the old elf on Christmas Eve, but today it is cookies and milk, not porridge.

The birth of Jesus Christ created Saint Nicholas. Saint Nicholas became Sinterklass who became Santa Claus, and Santa Claus became an American. He is recognized as the Christmas gift giver around the world, along with his counterparts, the Christkind, Kris Kringle, Father Christmas and Pere Noel. And every child under the age of 5 knows he is real.

So children, if you want that special visitor to come to your house on Christmas Eve, the safest thing for you is to do as the Savior would have you do, all year if you can.

And you older children and moms and dads, never doubt that Santa is real. He is the embodiment of Jesus Christ, the greatest of all gift givers.

Christ came bringing Heavenly Father’s gospel, or good news, to mankind. He brought us the gifts of baptism and repentance. He brought us the gift of the atonement.   He brought us the supreme gift of life everlasting.

Deep in our souls, we all want to be like Christ, and on his birthday, we too want to bring gifts to those we love and those we do not know, because we are charged with loving all our brothers and sisters. Whenever we give in celebration of Christmas, we also are also giving to our eldest brother, Jesus Christ.

Be generous this Christmas.   Santa is real. He lives in all of us, and he will never leave us.

DRIVING THE MERCEDES

 

 

My daily driver is a Mercedes s600.  It is a rather remarkable car, doing things normal cars just can’t do.

 

I spent the day working on Cheryl’s cabin cruiser at Stockton Lake 120 miles south of home.  It was a busy day painting the pilot house and doing some other miscellaneous things.  At 6:00 I wore out and headed for home.  Before setting out, I swallowed a No Doz tablet to keep me alert on the longish drive.  I do not consume caffeine so the No Doz is guaranteed to keep my eyes open.  I have a distressing tendency to drift off on long drives.

 

I travel Route J north from the town of Stockton for 23 miles until it reaches Highway 54.  Route J is an Ozark blacktop.  It twists and turns, goes up and down sharp hills, and is very scenic.  There is only one passing zone along the entire stretch.

 

The caffeine pill worked its way into my bloodstream, and I started getting really into the road.  I drove faster and faster, hitting the sharp curves hard.  My car has the capability of driving however I want.  It has a computer brain worthy of its price tag.  After just a few fast corners and lateral G’s, the car decided I wanted to have fun.  Abruptly it shifted from ‘c’ for comfort to ‘s’ for sport. I am not sure I told it to do that, but the car knows it’s master and I am it.  Several adjustments were quickly made.

The seat adjusted the air cushions for a tighter grip on my body.  The cornering wings on the seat deployed on every corner keeping me totally supported laterally as the car intended.  It doesn’t want the master to slip around any.  The suspension tightened and lowered the whole car an inch to obtain a better center of gravity, keeping it totally flat on the corners.   The shift points on the six speed transmission changed, decreasing the number of available gears.  The twin turbos increased boost to the 12 cylinders, increasing available torque to 650 foot-pounds, and making massive acceleration available on demand. The handling system engaged ready to keep lateral tire slippage under control and eliminating any tendency to understeer or oversteer in corners.

 

The Command System muttered ‘Ich bin fertig’.  No, it really didn’t say that.  Even though the car speaks 10 languages, I typically select English, my native tongue.  I only occasionally have it speak German to me.  So it said ‘I am ready’.  It meant it, too.  Whipping through the corners and powering the short straights, the one-man race was on.

 

We crested a sharp hill and Command warned me of slow traffic just ahead with two loud warning beeps.  The distronic radar spied a truck, calculated our closing speed, and started slowing the car before I could even react.  I did not want to follow a 45 mph truck, and promptly changed lanes and floored it.  Command did not like that and hesitated for an ‘augenblick’ until the radar gave it an all clear.  Then all hell broke loose.  It was a very short passing stretch, dangerous on a travelled road, but no one travels on J.  Command applied all 650 pounds of torque and 530 hp.  The yellow triangle warning light flashed a few time indicating loss of complete traction, but then the car got control.

 

I probably scared the behootees out of that truck driver.  All he saw was a silver flash and we were gone.  The speedo jumped from 45 to 130 and I had to get on the brakes for the next corner.  The distronic can’t sense corners, just objects.  Well, in a few seconds we reached the crossroad of Hwy 54.   Heartbeat slowing down, it was time to be a sedate sedan again.

 

Just for the record, the excellent German engineers in Stuttgart put their best into their top of the line s600.  The owner’s manual, on – line only, is 740 pages. They have a special training school in Stuttgart for owners. I can’t remember all the things my car will do, but I know I haven’t done them all in the three years I have owned it.  I have not, for instance, tried a true speed run, contenting myself to watching the car accelerate to 180 mph on a U-tube video.  My tires are rated 150 mph and I haven’t gone over that, yet.  I have occasionally skunked a few fast cars that see the v12 marker on the side and want a challenge.  Mostly, I just enjoy the incredible comfort of driving this ultimate hot-rod luxury car.  Very patient, but always ‘bereit zu gehen’, ready to go.

Good Friday Tornado, Saint Louis, Missouri – April 22, 2011

 

 

Cheryl and I walked out of the St. Louis LDS Temple around 6:00 pm (18.00 hrs) on Friday into obvious tornado conditions.  It is always obvious to those of us who grew up in ‘Tornado Alley’.   Hot air pulsing air. High humidity. Shifting winds. Uneasy clouds. A storm front was moving into the eastern part of the State. We quickly left heading west on I-64 toward Wentzville, 25 miles away, straight into the green/gray clouds, and gusty, fitful rain.  The best thing to do in these conditions is to get away from them.

 

At Wentzville, we stopped at QT for fuel.  When I got out of the car the City tornado sirens were wailing and the police cars were out with their sirens on. Bad news. Everyone at the gas station was anxiously scanning the roiling clouds for signs of the funnel.  We turned on the radio to KMOX but, since there was a Cardinals baseball game that night, the announcers could pay no attention to a possible tornado. Cheryl got on weather.com on her laptop and found that a tornado was sighted 8 miles south of Warrenton, and it was heading east at 50 mph.  Maybe 10 minutes away and coming right at us.  Tennis ball sized hail was associated with this storm.  A panicky woman at the next pump island asked me what was going on? She was from Indiana and had no idea. I quickly explained and advised her to finish up and get on her way. Probably a mistake since she was heading east along with the tornado. The clouds suddenly turned emerald green. Really bad news.

 

Cheryl was getting excited and urged me to hurry with the gas. In another two minutes we were heading back to I-70 west, hoping to get through the storm quickly. We no more than got onto I-70 when enormous hail started hitting the car. It was so huge the car, a big SUV, was actually shuttering from the impacts. I thought we might loose the windshield and told Cheryl to close her laptop and put down the sun visor to block flying glass chips.  At the next exit we jumped back off the highway and parked under the gas island canopy at a truck stop, along with every other car and truck that could squeeze in.  Safe from the giant hail, maybe, but this was not getting away from the tornado.  The weather radar now had it right on top of us.  So, the instant the hail dropped in size to 1/2 inch, we headed back to the highway, battling terrific winds and tremendous rainfall.  The few small cars on the highway were barely able make headway, but we pushed on through in the Expedition. Suddenly the sinking sun was shining under the cloud through the downpour, making it almost impossible to see, but incredibly beautiful. The end was in sight, and in three more miles we ran out from under the cloud into sunshine.

 

We looked back. The cloudbank behind us to the east was a roiling maelstrom shot through with lightening.  We did not know until Saturday that this tornado developed into an F4, coming down in the suburb of Bridgeton near I-70 and I-270, completely destroying 40 houses and severely damaging another 60. It then crossed Lambert Field, the Saint Louis international airport, doing considerable damage to the terminals and large jet planes, and closing the airport completely. It lifted after the airport, doing lesser damage to homes in Florissant, including my relatives.

 

Miracle of miracles on this Good Friday before Easter, not a single person was seriously injured.

HARTSBURG AND THE TEMPERED GLASS

 

 

Shortly after World War II, Dad and Uncle Fred started their own business – Obermiller Brothers Amusement Company. They owned and operated coin-operated machines such as juke boxes, pinball machines, pool tables, slot machines and the like. All of us kids, Freddy, Nancy, Jan and I, worked at various times for Dad and Uncle Fred. I loved the business, the shop, the ‘locations’, fixing pin games, running routes, even counting thousands of dollars in coin by hand and wrapping rolls.   From my earliest days of roaming until I entered graduate school I worked for Dad. I had many, many adventures in this connection, from brushes with strong-arm robbers and run-ins with the mob, to fending off hordes of Stevens College girls on Saturday morning while filling candy machines.   This is a short lesson in life story from the tiny town of Hartsburg.

 

The Hartsburg story occurred when I was about 18. Hartsburg is a tiny river town south of Columbia on the Missouri.   The town consisted of a general store, a church, some houses, and, of course, the tavern. Obermiller Brothers had a jukebox and a single pinball machine in the tavern. During the winter or school year I ran a candy machine route at the girls college. In the summer, I went where I was sent to service machines. Generally this was to the little rural towns such as Hartsburg. This summer I had a problem.

 

Saturday night is, of course, the big night in the rural taverns. The tavern at Hartsburg would fill up with farmers, river men, and red necks. As the evening wore on, the tavern patrons would get rambunctious. One particular young man played pinball as he consumed his beer. After some time, he would loose enough dimes that he would loose his temper. For several weeks in a row, he finished his last losing game by slamming his fist down on the pin game glass, breaking it. The tavern owner would call in the problem and I would be sent out to replace the glass.

 

Now, a pinball machine glass cost several dollars and sending me out to replace one every week cost several dollars. It doesn’t take too many dollars to eat up the rather meager profit gleaned from a pinball machine that is only played on Saturday night and then only for a couple of hours until the local yokel breaks it. Uncle Fred ran the pinball’s and we had a discussion.   He decided I should go down to Hartsburg on Saturday and observe the proceedings. As no one in Hartsburg cared or perhaps even knew about the legal drinking age, this was all right by me. The tavern owner and I were well acquainted and as long as I was there on business I could drink all the beer I wanted. (It is amazing how that worked.   I drank beer in numerous taverns all over central Missouri for years before I turned 21, but only when I was at the places alone and on business fixing machines.) I watched the guy play the game. He was really big – like 6’-2” and heavy – like 250 lbs., with a ½” beard and long greasy black hair. He drank six or seven beers while he played. He liked to bang the machine to help the balls move (this doesn’t really help but everyone did it) and frequently tilted ending the game.   After a while he would be too drunk to win and with a last tremendous shake, tilt the game and slam his fist down on the glass, breaking it. Now, it is not easy to break a pinball glass. It takes quite a blow with a fist to do it, but the yokel was big enough and was very proud of his accomplishment.

 

So I reported to Uncle Fred. The next Saturday morning, some new pingame glass was delivered to the shop. Fred unpacked one and leaned it against the wall.   “Come over and kick this,” he ordered.   I demurred, not knowing why he wanted me to smash a new glass. “No, kick it and kick it hard,” he said. OK. I got in position and gave it my best karate kick. The glass bent, rebounded, and almost broke my knee.   This was tempered glass, a new concept to me and quite expensive. Fred told me to load it up, run down to Hartsburg, and put it on the machine…and do it before patrons came into the tavern. Watch what happens and report back.

 

Well, I went down around 5:00 pm and did as directed.   Later the tavern started filling up and my game was being played. Around 8:30, the yokel showed up and promptly commandeered the machine. The scenario played out as usual and by 10:00 he was clearly wearing out. Losing one last game, he picked up the machine a couple of inches, tilting it, and slammed it down. And now it was time for the big moment. Raising his fist over his head, he slammed it down on the glass. Like my foot earlier in the day, his fist rebounded into the air. The glass wasn’t fazed, but the guy let out a howl. He had broken his hand. I left later, taking the expensive tempered glass with me, and feeling enormously satisfied.