The Adventures of Conley McAnally

Games End

2018-07-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

It has been a little over a year now and Bev, Brian, Traci, Abdul, and even Ray the Raven, along with my self of course have left a mark on the Village of Devere in O'Malley County along the Lake of Mann. Our little pub called O'Brian's Black and Tan has become the focal point of friendship, culture, and village information gathering and dissemination. However everything is a game and games end or at least altered to fit the future.

Brian has decided to return to Illinois and continue in the landscaping business with his knew wife who came here a few months ago for a short visit. Traci is taking home the local Liberian, Scott, and they plan to go into business with Doris, Traci's mother, in the restaurant business. That leaves Bev and I to fend for ourselves. Abdul will continue here as a bartender basically because he does not drink and Bev has employed one of the local girls to help in the kitchen. I will continue to do what I do best and that is practice my retirement and story telling with the utmost ability.

We will return to our place in Tucson eventually but don't know exactly when, but in the mean time, if any of you ever find yourself in Ireland, in the County of O'Malley, in the village of Devere along the Lake of Mann stop in at the pub called O'Brian's Black and Tan look for the guy sitting at the end of the bar with a Raven probably on his shoulder and that will be me. The first drink will be on the house.

Lotto Luck

2018-07-18T11:45:00.003-07:00

O'Brian's Black and Tan
Our Emerald Isle – Jackpot

Diary Entry

Many of us have fantasized on what we would do if we were to win the Big One. I mean the one that would set up your family for generations to come. I mean the one that would provide your grandchildren’s grandchildren with more money than they knew what to do with. I don’t know what that amount would have to be but I am sure that lottery officials could send me in a direction to find out. But such is my luck, the lottery numbers never seem to fall my way, well not directly anyway.

The National Enquirer is not the type of newspaper you should probably base a lot of your knowledge about world affairs unless you have a desire to keep up with Elvis and UFO sightings or alien abductions of the third kind. I never read such trash and feel far superior to those who do. However now and then a headline appears that is so sensational that one has to stop and ponder the possibilities. Abdul reads the Enquirer every week and when done throws it in the trash. I just sort of happen to notice it is there every Saturday afternoon at three o’clock right behind the garbage container near the corner of our back ally in the white plastic container drawn tightly with a yellow bow. Pure coincidence you see.

The headline read “Three Women Share in Power Ball.” The sub headline stated “All were married to the same man.” Well that is certainly enough to get one’s attention if one has not much to do while dumpster diving. The first line of the article gave me a little shortness of breath. “The ladies, which live in Missouri, Oklahoma, and Airzona are scheduled to meet with lottery officials in Des Monies, IA soon.” Now what are the odds I asked. They are the same states Jan, (Dad’s first wife,) Doris, (Dad’s second wife,) and Marsha (Dad’s third and last wife) live in. Nah, it cannot happen the odds are too great.

I went back in the pub and poured my self a cup of tea. Brian came in and I casually asked him if he or Traci had spoken to their mom (Doris) lately? No he said, had I talked to my mother (Jan) Brian asked? No not for a week or so I replied. Traci walked in poured herself a cup of coffee. I asked if Traci had spoken to Marsha (step mother to all) lately? No she replied.

I sort of chuckled to myself and said listen to this, and quoted the article the best I could. They laughed along with me. Bev came out of the kitchen wondering what was so humorous. After relating the story I had read in the Enquirer Bev saw the outlandishness of the possibilities. “Besides,” Bev said, “Don’t you think one of them would have called us by now.”

Just then Abdul came through the front door with a Western Union Telegram. “I got this message yesterday. Sorry, I forgot to give it to you.”

The telegram read: “Are arriving by three o’clock cart Tuesday stop Interesting news stop prepare three rooms stop Hope there is room at the inn stop Marsha.” We had two days to get ready, for what I was not certain.

Ducks Unlimited

2018-07-12T08:06:00.002-07:00

Our Emerald Isle- O'Brian's Black and Tan
Diary Entry - Ducks Unlimited

“So you see gents, when the ice freezes over only the power of the polar bear or man using tools can break through and survive.” I was just finishing up regaling once again the throngs that hung on everyone word of my stories about the Last Frontier while indulging in their quarts and pints at our pup in Devere.

What a great job I had even if I did have to bar-tend that evening. Brian was off visiting some lady friend of his in Dublin that showed up unexpectedly from the states and of course Traci was at the library studying Irish literature she claimed. Bev and Ray the Raven along with Abdul where in the kitchen conjuring up a bisque recipe that can be made from sea weed or so Abdul claims.

Everyone seemed very impressed with my yarn except of O’Shannasey. He just stooped over his pint and ignored the whole story. Although he was the only one, it did stick in by craw a little. I said, “O’Shannasey, you don’t believe my story? ‘tis the truth, I swear by the Ferries of Banshee County.”

“Oh, I believe you mate, it is just that I am not that impressed. I think you are making a bigger deal out of it than it deserves. I mean it is fine thing to do to break the ice up for various reason but unless you are saving a life like that of a whale or changing the contour of geography for the better than it is of little consequence. I mean at least here in O’Malley County when we did have a cold spell nature and man got together and literally changed the world. Or at least that part of the world that affected Mallard County just three counties over.” So said O’Shannasey as he went back to bending over his pint.

Ok, I thought now this is a story I have to hear. “OK, O’Shannasey, you won, let me hear your story and yes, yes I know it will cost me a pint.” O’Shannasey didn’t move. “OK, Ok, make it a quart.”

“Well,” O’Shannasey began, “It was the best duck season anyone could remember. The ducks seemed to land on our lake just west of here out side of town by the thousand.”

“Wait a minute O’Shannasey, there is not lake on the outskirts of town except Lake Donnie Mann and that is east not west.”
O’Shannasey: “You want me to finish this story or not? ( I kept quiet) Like I was saying ducks were numerous but then the game warden showed up and he told us that we could not shoot the ducks anymore this year and had to wait till the following year. He said it had to do with conservation and to insure that there would be ducks for our children’s children to enjoy.

“One of the boys thought that since it was sort of a fluke that the ducks came here this summer in so many numbers why didn’t we make sure they come back next summer in fact why not fix it up so that they don’t even leave. We had a bumper crop of corn so if we just kept feeding them and provide some hay for them to nest in why would they have to leave at all. Seemed logical to all of us meaning us the duck hunters.

“So around September we started feeding the ducks corn, bread scarps and any eatable thing we thought a duck might like. They seemed to like everything especially fried green tomatoes for some reason.

“Because the ducks swam around in a circle a lot the water didn’t freeze like most winters. The kids were a little miffed to lose their ice skating place but they had little to say about it. But then it happened, it was around February I believe. It was a freak of nature. It was one of those things that animal evolution is made of. It was something that just can’t be explained but happened none the less. A bitter cold spell hit, the temperature dropped to a record level so quickly that the ice froze solid instantly. Water freezes faster than animal tissue so the ducks were trapped in the water, now ice, and the only thing they could move were beaks, necks and wings. The several thousand ducks through instincts I guess all started squawking and flapping their wings. They knew if they did not move out of the area they would freeze to death.

" As if they all had one mind, the flapping of wings became more intense and frenzied that the whole frozen lake rose as one block of ice and carried three counties away by the flapping ducks were it was warmer and the ice just melted off the duck’s legs and dropped into an area of Mallard County that needed the water to irrigate their newly planted cherry orchards.

“Unfortunately the ducks never returned in such numbers again, being no lake they were interest in you see or perhaps they were just terrified and didn’t want to take a chance of history repeating itself.” I drew another quart for O’Shannasey. I knew when I had been defeated.

Potato Day

2018-07-09T16:19:00.002-07:00

Brian and I were staying up late drinking our usual black and tan. Abdul had gone to bed much earlier due to some religious holiday he seems to come up with all the time. Bev and Ray the Raven were in the kitchen concocting some sort of special desert for tomorrow’s noon day crowd. How Ray the Raven was helping I am really not sure. Traci of course was still on her date and no telling when she would be home.

Brian and I were just about to give it up for the evening when Traci came home dragging one of the local home boys by the arm. “Brian, Snapper, you got to hear this, go get Bev she ought to hear it also.” Bev came from the kitchen wiping her hands with a dishtowel with Ray the Raven resting upon her shoulder. “Got to hear what?” I said.

“Tell’em Scott,” Traci said.

“Well it isn’t that big a deal,” Scott the home boy began. “I just happened to ask what Devere’s was planning to do this year for Potato Day.”

All but Scott had puzzled expressions. Even Ray the Raven cocked his head to one side like he knew what was being talked about and I am not sure half the time he doesn’t know. “Ok,” young man Brian said, “I’ll bite what are you talking about? Potato Day? I’ve never heard of it. What’s that, some sort of day when we all dress up like potatoes and parade up and down the street?”

It was Scott’s turn to looked puzzled. “I thought you never heard of it, how did you know? Traci, you tell them I am getting confused and crossed signals from your brother and by the looks of the rest of your family them too.”

“Oh, alright,” Traci said, “ I’ll do the explaining. While you two over protective big brothers hang around this pub of ours in the evening I have been going down to the library studying up on local history. I came across an article in the news paper archives a bout last year’s Potato Day celebration. It sounded fun but wondered if it was true or not. You know Snapper, you have always said that facts should not get in the way of a good story. Anyway I went to the head librarian, which just so happens to be Scott here, and asked him about Potato Day. He confirmed the authenticity of the piece and was surprised no one had mentioned it to us already.”

“That’s about right sir,” said Scott. “All the businesses in the village sponsor an entry and if you don’t you might find your selves being shunned regardless if you are the only drinking establishment in the village. It’s the third most sacred holiday in Devere.”

“Why is it so sacred?” Bev asked.

“According to tradition there were a band of monks that could no longer stand the dictatorial way their Abbot conducted business in the monastery. They were always being told what to do and how to do it, from the way the prayed to the way they ate. Life of a monk is hard, chaste, and full of poverty, but their religious leader was going beyond what they thought appropriate. Apparently the Irish Clan King that had established the order agreed with the Abbot and refused to acknowledge a new Abbot when a vote of the monks took place. Some of monks felt they had no choice but to leave and find a safe haven where they could practice their faith the way they felt was God’s call.

“They walked for days which turned into months and just when they had run out of provisions they were befriended by a group of Fairies. The Fairies took them in, provided shelter and fed them over the winter. They taught the monks how to grow potatoes so they would become self sufficient in the future and even helped them build a monastery which eventually became our church here in Devere.

“After the first year harvest of their first crop of potatoes a celebration of thanks was in order. As the population grew so did the celebration of thanks and like most holidays started taking on modern characteristics until it became what it is.

“On or about the fourth Saturday after the third Sunday after the first full moon in November the whole town gathers in the square. Each person dresses up like a potato and they march from the square to the church where a celebration of thanks is given. You have to figure out what you all will wear this year.” Traci concluded.

The story had a familiar ring and I tried to figure out why but my pondering was soon over taken by the practicalities of trying to figure out what kind of apparel could be made to look like a potato that wouldn’t make us all look like Mr. Potato Head. However I was sure that Bev could figure out something. As Bev was tossing out different ideas about how we would dress and what kind of potato we would dress like, Traci said that Bev did not have to concern herself with what Traci would wear or what kind of potato she would be.

Traci and Scott looked at each other with a moon struck puppy dog expression and Scott said, “Traci will be my sweet potato this year.”

Brian and I looked at each and rolled our eyes. I guess Traci will be spending a lot more time at the library from now on.

pickle Piercing

2018-07-03T08:21:00.004-07:00

Our Emerald Isle – Pickle Piercing

Abdul had learned a lot from Bev about food preparation and restaurant/pub logistics and he was very appreciative, so much so he has started teaching her the art of pickle piercing and she is making such good progress she is about to order her own pickle piercer. One cannot use another’s pickle piercer once the training is over they both tell me.

Devere recently has become known far a wide for its wonderful tasting pickles. It is a phenomena I am beginning to expect I owe to Abdul. Our pickles have a unique taste that has been written about in culinary magazines all over Ireland. I claim it is an old Irish recipe handed down generation after generation by family members, but that is really not the case. I have no real specific idea why our pickles taste the way they do and recent enlightenments have made be decide I don’t want to.

To get the best tasting pickles one has to retrieve them from the bottom of the barrel. This had always been done by dipping one’s arm into pickle vat up to the armpit and search the bottom until the pickle with just the right texture and firmness was found. Abdul thought this very unsanitary so he thought of a method to retrieve pickles from the bottom of the barrel by mechanical means.

During his days off Abdul would spend time with the cemetery care taker, Peter Peck. Sometimes Peter would ask Abdul if he wanted to pick up some extra spending money by helping him probe old cemetery plots. Peter said that the church records had been sloppily kept in years past and sometimes when digging a new grave they would come upon a vault, casket, or even a body buried with out either and would have to hurriedly find another place to dig thus wasting a lot of time and effort. Abdul had a knack for and enjoyed grave probing for some reason and quickly learned to tell if a site was occupied or not by piercing the ground with the iron rod and feeling the thud of a vault, the cracking of a casket or the squishiness of pierced dead flesh.

Abdul, always being a resourceful sort, thought the same process might work retrieving pickles from the bottom of the barrel and much more sanitary. On his own he ordered his own grave probing device, an iron device three and half feet long and one eight inch round, from the Interment Implement Company of Belfast. He made some modifications and in no time at all he could retrieve a pickle from the bottom of the barrel with out said pickle ever touching a human hand other than the person doing the ordering.

One afternoon Abdul received a phone call from the Parish Priest and told to hurry to the cemetery. The Widow Twilly had just died and they needed to put her in the ground fast and Peter Peck was suffering from the gout. Abdul went to the pickle barrel grabbed the pickle piercer and ran toward the door. I had a sickening feeling what was going to happen.

“Abdul, why don’t you leave the pickle piercer here,” I yelled, “we might need it.”

“Well might you might but not as much as the Widow Twilly might. Besides not to worry boss every time I have used it in the past I clean it up real good.”

2018-07-01T08:48:00.002-07:00

Our Emerald Isle – Fairy Tale

It was around closing time. Brian was taking inventory of the liquor and other odds and ends that had just come up while Traci was talking to one bloke, looking at another and probably thinking of someone else. Bev was in the kitchen preparing cherry humus and a couple of sack lunches, Abdul was busy sweeping and mopping the floor, and Ray the Raven was flittering around the pub snagging crumbs left by sloppy patrons. I was recovering from a busy night of socializing with the patrons and decisions that management needs to make due to unexpected events while sipping on a black and tan. All was normal, just a couple of things out of the ordinary but then again that was normal.

Just as I was thinking that my latest endeavor to help those less fortunate, meaning anyone other than my pub family, was a success, two men entered the pub. They were dressed in fedoras, trench coats belted at the waist, and very serious looking. I recognized what but not who they were. Garda. Cops look the same all over the world. The best I can describe a Garda is that they are a cross between the RCMP, State Troopers, County Sheriffs, Scotland Yard, and the FBI.

They flashed their badges while introducing themselves as Detective Sergeant Tinker and Detective Inspector Darling. They said they wanted some information. “We are looking for a couple of Fairies that are suspected of robbing the National Bank of Ireland in Hook Country yesterday, and we have followed their trail to the door of your pub. Anything ring a bell?”

“Well we get a lot of people in here but I usually know most everyone. I don’t recall specifically seeing anyone that would match a Fairies description from what I have read about them for the most part recently. Feel free to look around.” I said realizing that I had technically not told any lies to the Garda.

For those of you who don’t know about Fairies let me back up and give you a little information. First of all Fairies can change size and appear human, have green eyes and give off a slight radiance. They never age or so it seems. They are even tempered but when in a fight they like to bite. They treat nice people, places, and things nicely and bad people, places, and things badly. You never say thank you to a Fairy you just give them something that will guarantee remembrance. Some say that they are a race that went into hiding years ago and just now emerging into society and having a tough time coping with the complexities of non Fairy civilization. I feel sorry for Fairies, they must have a hard life trying to fit in a society that one time felt like they needed to be chastised and rediculed for being different. For all their difficulties a Fairy cannot lie. He may try to confuse you with words but he will never tell you a complete falsehood nor the complete truth if it is to his advantage to do so. It is an art form that those of us who have practiced politics know well. I am a law biding citizen and would never break the law unnecessarily but I have always thought that law and justice might be two different animals. I do not condone stealing as such and if someone is caught red handed in any criminal act they should be some what punished.

From what the Garda told me the National Bank of Ireland in Hook County was owned by a man named J. M .Barrie a ruthless and cunning man so I have heard across the bar. Garda Tinker and Darling said the clock was ticking and wanted to catch up with the culprits before they reached Never Landing, a swampy area just a few more leagues down the road. They said once the duo got to Never Landing they would melt into what is the largest Fairy community in Ireland and be almost impossible to apprehend because “they are all the same you know,” said one of Irelands finest..

If anyone knew the seedier side of our community I told them it would be my brother Brian. I called him from the back room and they asked him the same sort of questions I was asked. He gave the same information I had which was little and none but did it in such a slow and stuttering manner, I suspected they thought he was the village half wit.

Brian and I felt under no obligation to give the Garda more information than they had requested. We believed the Fairies to be innocent in their own way. Mr. Barrie had foreclosed on their mother’s farm while they had been fighting in the Banshee War several years ago and was a very bad man and Fairies do bad things to bad people and besides they told me they had not robbed the bank and taken all they were accused of taking. They believed Mr. Barrie took the additional amount. They were making their escape out the backdoor while the Garda were talking to Brian with his made up stammering and stuttering. Between the two of us the two Fairies, Peter and Windy, had a good chance of getting to Never Landing. I offered the two Garda a drink on the house but they declined and said they had to be on their way that it looked like rain and the Fairy dust they were following would be washed away if they did not hurry. As soon as they left our pub I told Abdul to hurry up and start washing down the ally in the direction of the north star which just so happened to be in the direction of Never Landing

Darwin Cherries

2018-06-26T15:49:00.002-07:00

Our Emerald Isle – Darwin Cherries

While out on one of my weekend walk-a-bouts I came across a grove of trees that after closer examination was an orchard. Not being one who knows one tree from another I was not sure what type of orchard it was. It was very well kept and I noticed that in between the rows of trees there were potato hills.

I sat down to rest when I noticed an old man walking between the trees and mounds straight towards me. I figured he was the owner and going to tell me I was trespassing and for me to leave. Quite the contrary. He introduced himself as Jamie O’Rilley and yes he was the owner of the orchard and the trees were cherry. He was a very nice sort of chap and talkative too.

He told me he had been developing this cherry orchard for over 20 years and it produced more cherries per tree than any other like size orchard in the country, possibly the world. I told him that I really never associated Ireland with cherry trees and he responded that is normally the case but for some reason they seemed to flourish in these parts. “Even the horticultural society in Belfast can’t explain it. But here it is.”

“Have you always grown cherries?” I asked.

“No, like most people in these parts I use to grow potatoes but like most people it was boom or bust each season. I was reading a catalogue one winter and decided to order a couple of cherry tree seedlings. Just for fun if for no other reason. I mean how excited can one get over potatoes?

“When the seedlings arrived I followed the instructions very carefully and it seems like in no time at all I had some sprouts and the next thing you knew I was able to plant some between potato rows. It was just a hobby at that point. I really never expected to see any cherries. However after a couple of years or so there were some blossoms and then the biggest reddest best looking cherries I had ever seen appeared. I was just about ready to pick my first harvest when a flock of birds swooped down and ate every last one of them cherries right off the limbs.

“Well I was a little annoyed but it was not a great loss for I had very little money tied up in the endeavor but I took it as a real challenge and decided to outwit the birds. The next winter I got a bunch of rubber snakes and hung them from the branches. I had read that birds do not like snakes and thought that my decoy of sorts would scare them off. The next spring, blossoms, cherries, bigger and better than the year before, but the birds came again. I guess that since there are no snakes in Ireland the birds didn’t know they should be afraid of them. I was not deterred.

“The next winter I hung aluminum pie plates and strips from the branches. I thought that perhaps the glitter from the constant swaying in the sunlight would confuse the birds and even create an obstacle for them to land on the branches and eat my cherries. Well as you can guess that didn’t work either.

“I decided that cherries were not in my future and I would just let the trees go to seed and fend for themselves. At least I would be feeding the birds through a natural process.

“It was around Christmas when I received a tin of popcorn from by cousin in America. It contained three different colored kinds of popcorn - yellow, caramel, and red. The yellow had a cheesy sharp cheddar taste much to my liking, the caramel as you would suspect tasted of caramel and satisfied my sweet tooth, the red would be cinnamon I assumed. When I tried the red it was cinnamon but it tasted terrible and burnt the inside of my mouth. I spit it out immediately. Who would eat this more than once was my first thought. Then on my second thought it dawned on me.

“After the last snow of the winter while the snow was a crystal white I spread the hot cinnamon popcorn, doused by a little red pepper, on the ground under the cherry trees. The birds spotted the red specks on the ground and welcomed the early food supply. However, when they started eating the red popcorn it tasted to them like it did to me but even worse. They started identifying red with a hot bitter taste which they found repugnant and looked for another food supply as it turned out.

“That spring the blossoms came the cherries came and they have been coming ever since. The birds have returned but they are attracted to the insects that can ruin a potato crop and the additional insects that are drawn to cherries and not the cherries themselves. The birds don’t leave this inexhaustible food supply of insects thus increasing the fertilization required for my cherry trees and potato plants. Not only do I now have a huge cherry crop each year I haven’t had a bad year growing potatoes for a long time.

“Each year I add a few more trees, throw out some hot cinnamon popcorn laced with red pepper, and the result is what you see. I sell most of the product under the brand name of Darwin and have made a comfortable living.”

“Darwin, Darwin Cherries, uh, why not O’Rilley, Devere, or O’Malley cherries after you or the community?”

“Oh, I don’t know the name just seemed to me like a natural selection.”

Lake Donnie Mann

2018-06-20T08:28:00.004-07:00

Our Emerald Isle – Lake Donnie Man

Lake Donnie Man is the largest lake in the County of O’Malley. As one might expect it was named after a chap called Donnie Mann some years ago but until just recently that was all I knew. Partly because I never bothered to ask.

A man will lie to his wife. He will lie to his priest. He will lie to the police. In fact a man will lie to just about anyone or anything if he thinks the truth will cause him pain or embarrassment or increase or decrease his status in the community. One person though he will never lie to is his pub keeper no more than I would fabricate my blog entries.

It was late. Devere’s Pub was about to close. The last patron was Shamus O’Malley. Outside the wind picked up and the shutters blew open. Shamus although a few cups into his own wind helped me close and secure the window shutters. For his help I drew him one more pint and we began to chat. As he was about to finish his free brew I indicated it was time to leave but felt a little bad about putting him out in the pounding wind and rain. He was feeling about the same I guess because he asked me if he could stick around a little longer. Well he looked so low I couldn’t say no so I drew another pint, which he bought by the way, and we continued our aimless conversation.

We finally got around to talking about fishing, which finally led me to ask how Lake Donnie Mann got its name, more rhetorical than anything else. I did not expect illumination let alone a saga. He hunched over his beer, looked over his shoulder like he was making sure no one was around and said, “Since you have shown me some kindness I will relate to you a story told to me by my Grandfather. It is not a secret story but no one believes it except me and I have been made fun of more than once in my telling. Grandfather was an honest man and he swore to me that what I am about to relate is a true story and I believe him. I have no children, thus no grandchildren so I might as well tell you because if I did have children they would be about your age. After hearing what I am about to tell you feel free to pass it on to whoever you want just be prepared that knowing the truth does not always free one from ridicule. Not relating the story as often I think it deserves has burnt a hole in my soul for many years. I have been afraid I would die without anyone believing me, and I sense you will.”

“Donnie Mann was a trader in salt. He would pick up a load of salt at one end of the lake and deliver it to the villages dotted around the shore. It was the custom in those days for people to name their boat after themselves and The Donnie Mann was known far and wide and so dominated the salt trade and other necessary cargo delivery that people started referring to the lake as Donnie Mann’s. Donnie Mann was a proud and arrogant man and began to think of the lake as his own and its master. However the lake had a mind of its own so it seems.

“It was sort of a night like tonight my Grandfather said. The wind was howling, the waves were gigantic, and it was blistering cold. Donnie Mann had one more load of salt to deliver and he sat here in this very pub with his three man crew waiting for the storm to pass. Put pass it did not. Donnie Mann became impatient. He decided to make the run across the lake to deliver his last load. He was bound and determined to leave and collect a large fee for his even larger stash of salt this trip. Every one in the pub even his crew begged him not to go. He would not listen and called his crew a bunch of cowards when they refused to accompany him. He marched down to the docks, set sale, and Donnie Mann and The Donnie Mann were never seen nor heard from again or so it was in the life time of those in the pub that night. Eventually the lake began to be called Lake Donnie Mann.”

Well I thought that was interesting but it didn’t seem much like a story others would not believe and ridicule, and I told him so.

“Me lad, that is only half the story.” He continued: “Many, many years later a fishing boat came across a drifting derelict floating aimlessly far from shore. The crew of the fishing boat realized that the boat was crewless and must have been abandoned, so thoughts of salvage took the place of fishing.

“When they boarded they searched for cargo but found none. They did not understand why the boat had been abandoned because it was in pretty good shape. Their search eventually led them to the helm where they found the ship’s log. Having a some what limited interest in books they did realize however it might help to secure salvage rights. Instead of reading the log right away they gave it to the youngest member of the crew for safe keeping. That was my Grandfather.

“They secured the boat for towing and headed towards land. It had been a clear day but from out of nowhere a northern squall appeared. It was like the lake had its own idea about salvage rights that day and did not want to give up the boat and claim it as its own. Both boats were capsized and sunk with all hands lost, save my Grandfather who was found two days later clinging to the side of an over turned dingy.

“At the formal inquest at the Maritime Court held in Dublin an investigation tried to determine what had actually happened to the fishing boat. They called my Grandfather to give testimony. They believed him about the storm, the capsizing, and the loss of the crew. When asked if there was any indication as to the name of the boat trying to be salvaged is when doubt crept into the proceedings. ‘Twas called The Donnie Mann me Lord,’ Grandfather told the Court. From that statement he would not budge although he was laughed at and threatened with imprisonment for piracy gone awry.

“More rational thought finally prevailed given my Grandfathers youth and the Court took pity on Grandfather and cleared him of any wrong doing. They did order that since The Donnie Mann had gone missing over a hundred years ago it could not have possibly been the boat in question. The poor lad must be delusional the inquest determined and he was ordered to the Saint Patrick’s Hospital for the Insane until such time as Grandfather sort fact from fiction. At that time and no sooner he could be released.

“Grandfather decided after three months of incarceration that unless he changed his story he really would become insane and decided that honesty and integrity were not that important. He petitioned the court and changed his story, saying he realized he must have been hallucinating after all. Grandfather returned to Devere took up farming and never sailed on a ship again.”

I immediately saw a flaw in his story, an inconsistency, one that did not close the loop to any great mystery. The story I decided was just a bunch of the blarney. “What happened to the Ship’s Log that was given to your Grandfather? I suspect he lost it when the ships went down didn’t he?” I was trying to give him an honorable way out of the corner he had told himself into.

“Well yes the Log was lossed. Like I said he was floating around for two days clinging to a dingy. Having been given the Log Book for safe keeping he had tied it around his neck. While he was floating around he had nothing to do so he started reading the Log. Most of the log had been ruined and he only was able to read the cover page and the last entry with any clarity and other bits and pieces. The cover had ‘Ship’s Log: The Donnie Mann.’ Captain Donnie Mann’s last entry was ‘To much salt, ship taking on water, am foundering.’ He had always heard about Donnie Mann and realized he held an answer to a mystery in his hand. He also realized that he would probably die alone at sea and his discovery concerning The Donnie Mann would never be known. He began to carve on the side of the dingy a very short version of what I just told you.

“He eventually passed out and when he awoke on a life saving trawler that happened by his saviors had no knowledge of the Log and the dingy had not been retrieved. The Log no doubt was destroyed and it and the dingy rested somewhere at the bottom of Lake Donnie Mann. It is a story that is true, Grandfather had no reason to lie about his finding but without proof he was never believed outside the family, and spent the rest of his life walking along the lake shore early in the morning just in case the dingy had broken apart and a tell tale portion drift ashore. If one did it may not have been actual proof of his story but it seemed more important to him the older he became.”

The wind and rain had calmed down. We made a little toast to Donnie Mann, The Donnie Mann, Lake Donnie Mann, and finally Grandfather and bid each other a good night.

Over biscuits and coffee the next morning I was relaying the story to Bev. She looked nonplussed but said it was a mystery but not a great mystery. “I have heard something like that before albeit off the coast of Nova Scotia. As I remember the story my Great Uncle Vinnie was smuggling a load of whiskey from Canada. He over loaded the boat and when a northern squall came up the weight of the whiskey in the casks was too much and the boat went down. Uncle Vinney and the crew survived but the loss was not made known to the authorities naturally. Some months later the boat reappeared floating about the same place where Uncle Vinney claimed it had sunk. The Coast Guard traced the registration to a corporation in Chicago but the company did not exist naturally and those listed as company executives and board members were all dead according to Cook County records. The Coast Guard was at a loss to explain anything. It was Uncle Michael who postulated among the family that the whiskey had probably seeped from cracks in the kegs while on the bottom, said cracks caused by the pounding storm, lightning the load, thus allowing the ships normal buoyancy to bring it to the surface. If The Donnie Mann was overloaded with salt the weight could have easily taken it to the bottom and when the salt eventually dissolved the ship would resurface. If The Donnie Mann’s cargo compartments were water tight, as one would expect it to be in the salt trade, dissolving could take a long time and given the coolness of the lake bottom the wood would have rotted more slowly than normal and what little wood rot that had taken place would not have prevented it floating again. The boat became lighter at the bottom of the lake ergo up she went.” Well I can always count on Bev to come up with a rational solution to any mysterious encounter I come across.

Ray the Raven and I went out for our morning walk along the banks of Lake Donnie Mann as we did every morning and as every morning we passed Shamus O’Malley doing the same. This time though we eyed each other knowingly like we shared a secret which in fact we did. I will never be able to walk the lake shore again without keeping a look out for flat pieces of drift wood that just might have come from a dingy supposedly lost many years ago.

Our Emerald Isle - A Little Vote

2018-06-14T05:59:00.002-07:00

Our Emerald Isle – A Little Vote

Two years ago an astounding thing happened in Devere, a Leprechaun was elected to the village council. This had never happened before. The Leprechaun community is not large nor were active in Devere politics before that and never seemed to agree on anything amongst themselves as a group anyway. The Catholic and Protestant majority would always court the “Little” vote as it was referred to and now and then throw a shamrock their way but all in all the “Little” vote was not considered important let alone a threat.

From out of the green however a leader arose from the Leprechaun community that was able to pull all the different “little” factions together. He was a little taller, a little less green and more educated than most Leprechaun’s. His rhetoric was superb, his ability to speak about how things should be, and the wholesomeness and kindness he projected appealed to all those historically ignored and appealed to more than just a few of the Catholics and Protestants who were normally at odds with each other anyway.

It was the first time a Leprechaun had run for office as a serious candidate and the Leprechauns along with the dwarf community voted in a block. That along with the disenfranchised Catholics and Protestants John Littleman was elected councilperson of District Two. District Two just so happens to be the district Dever’s Pub is located and Dever’s has the added distinction of being the polling place for the village. It is a great honor and I respect the fact that the sale of alcohol is not allowed until one has casts his or her vote.

After John Littleman took office it seems like he could do nothing right and was unsuccessful or least that is what the Catholics and Protestants that had not defected to John’s side contended. They had a point because every time he would introduce a village ordinance it would either be shelved or voted down. The promises he had made he was unable to fulfill and he took much abuse from those who were against his policies. Most of those who were opposed to what he espoused did so because they considered his positions radical but those who were most opposed to him, were so because he was a Leprechaun. They let those who opposed John Littleman, based on his governmental philosophy, take the lead in the vocal opposition while the anti Leprechaun forces egged the others on and financed the hate campaign hidden from critical analysis.

John Littleman was a gentleman though and took the attacks and hidden slander in stride and just chalked it all up to politics. Because of his success at least to being elected some other Leprechauns and one Dwarf decided to run for the council seats coming up for election this November.

The village council has realized that if the Leprechauns, Dwarfs, and disgruntled Protestants and Catholics voted as a group again the village “will be run by a bunch of midgets,” I have heard it said more than once in Dever’s.

To counter this threat the village council passed an ordinance that stated that milk crates would no longer be provided by the village election commission for those who happened to be too short to reach the counter of the polling booth. The ordinance went on the say however that any voter could bring their own device that would boost them vertically but only after a safety inspection certificate was provided to the election commissionaires certifying that the device used was not a hazard.

A protest was immediately made by John Littleman to the village council. He demanded to know why after all these years such an ordinance was necessary. In unison the other members of the council said nothing.

I don’t know if not having milk crates provided by village expense immediately made available for those wanting to cast a vote will hinder the Leprechaun and Dwarf turn out or not. They are allowed to bring their own the ordinance says and the people who support the measure insist it is because of the liability issue and besides “what is the big deal anyway, if one is too lazy to get their own milk crate they shouldn’t vote.”

In our weekly Dever’s Pub business meeting the matter was discussed and we thought that perhaps we could rent milk crates at the font door when people came into vote if one was needed. Then when they finished voting they could redeem the milk crate at the bar and get a “free” drink. Bev suggested that if people turned in a milk crate that we had not rented we would charge half of what we normally would and thus create a surplus of milk crates for the next election to be rented at a reduced price because of the decrease in capital expenditures. How does she come up with these ideas? Anyway I have not played politics for a long time and only getting involved now reluctantly, but the combination of doing ones civic duty and making a dollar or two is irresistible.

The Emerald Buffalo

2018-06-06T08:12:00.002-07:00

Our Emerald Isle – The Emerald Buffalo

I have seen several people who are internationally famous. I have shaken hands with a couple of senators, one president, and even a man who shook the hand of Neil Armstrong, but I cannot truthfully say I have met them let alone their being my friend. However there are many who reach the pinnacle of their profession and are icons to a small but fanatical following. I do know one of those types and even count them as a friend.

Bev and Abdul were contemplating on how the menu at the pub could be improved. We had plenty of Irish dishes, pastas, Mexican food, and schnitzels but just lacked what one might call the signature dish. While they were stewing over the matter I was reading the latest addition of Pub Weekly International. As I turned the page I saw that Dublin was holding its annual barbeque competition and saw that the featured judge was none other than the world renown barbeque extraordinaire Bill Pittman. The advertisement went on to say that he would hold a special demonstration of the finer points of barbequing using his just as famous mobile barbeque pit known the world over as The Emerald Buffalo.

Bill started his barbequing career on a regular charcoal grill. Being a fireman he had plenty of time on his hands between fires and rescuing treed cats to hone his ability and modify a discarded grill he had found at the site of a house fire. He became so proficient in his preparation and cooking technique and the charcoaling apparatus he improved on became so ingenious that he was soon doing all the cooking for the fireman at his station. Word soon spread around the other station houses and they clamored for his food. At about the same time the labor contract ran out with the city and an agreement was finally met only after Bill was given one duty free day each week to prepare barbeque for the entire department.

He continued cooking for the department in this fashion until he retired and then he started entering local competitions and winning most of them. He kept entering bigger and bigger contests and eventually won the New York City Barbeque Open, the Memphis Regional, the Atlanta Southern Invitational, and the Kansas City Royal Barbeque Masters. He got an agent, acquired some sponsors, made several endorsements, and began entering international events that were held in Europe and Australia. His crowning achievement was winning the prestigious Paris International Cuisine of Barbequing event. Bill was thus established as an icon to those who follow barbequing and to this day is treated like a rock star where ever he goes demonstrating barbequing techniques and judging those who dream of achieving the success and living the good life like Bill.

I had not seen Bill for many years and suspected he had no idea I was in Ireland or perhaps even if I was still alive or even if he had thought about me much if at all. I thought it would be great sport to show up at the Dublin event and surprise him. One thing might be a problem I thought and that was how I was going to get around the security that must follow him where ever he went, but that was a problem I would face when I got there. Tomorrow I would head for Dublin I decided and let it be known at the pub that evening.

As I suspected the arena Bill was to perform in was packed and security guards were surrounding the place. I went up to one security guard and told him I was a friend of Bill’s from the states and wanted to say hi. “Ya, you and everyone else, move along mate,” That was about as nice of a response as I got from all the other guards I asked.

I was just about to chalk up my trip to Dublin as a misadventure when I spotted a familiar looking face talking to one of the guards. From a distance it appeared like he was giving orders and directions so I suspected he might have some authority. As I approached him I kept trying to figure out who he was and if I really did know him. Just as I was about to tap the guy on the shoulder he turned around and cried, “Snapper? What in the world are you doing here, I can’t believe this?” As soon as he spoke I realized who I was talking to. “Well my gosh Skip this is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

Skip was Skip Coombs. He was a year behind me in school and the last I heard he had joined the Marines and gone to Viet Nam. I remembered that he and Bill had been good friends. We spent a few minutes catching up and explaining to each other why we found our selves after 45 years or so standing in front of the Civic Arena in Dublin. Not to dwell on what he was doing there but the short story is that after he retired as a financial manager he went to work for Bill as his road and business manager. I asked him if he thought it was possible for me to say hello to Bill and he said he would do better than that and escorted me to Bill’s trailer where he was preparing for the nights demonstration.

Bill was surprised to see me as you might expect but we were not able to do a whole lot of catching up right then because Bill was on in a few minutes. It was decided that I would sit with Skip and watch the demonstration and afterwards visit some more.

The presentation Bill gave was impressive and words cannot describe the skill and dexterity he displayed so I will not try. Besides, Skip told me that licensing and copyright prevented any descriptive publication.

After Bill was through we all sat around and had a drink or two and discussed the old times and all those types of thing one discusses given absences of almost five decades.

When we began to repeat stories I thought it was time to leave and Bill asked me to stay the night. I thanked him but said I needed to get back that I had a pub to run. “That’s too bad,” he said, “Bobbie will be disappointed she missed you.”

“Bobbie?” I asked puzzled.

“Yes, you remember Bobbie Martin don’t you? She travels with me a lot and acts as my on the road spiritual advisor.”

Well of course I remembered Bobbie, she had gone to high school with us also and had known Bill and Skip ever since elementary school. I asked if he and Bobbie were an item now and he said no, that she really was his spiritual advisor and kept Skip and him on a moral compass during their tours. He explained that “Paul and Ringo told me that such guidance was necessary when one toured internationally,” (I guess international icons have their own little network) “She wont be back till tomorrow morning however because she is writing a book on spirituality and doing some research at an all night Druid ceremony.”

I was disappointed but I really did have to leave. I told him to give her my best and if they had some down time to swing by Devere and stop in at the pub for a pint and a new sandwich I had just thought of. “I think I will call it the Bill Pittman.”

Bill looked a little stressed and said that he could not authorize the use of his name. “You cannot believe international copy right and licensing laws. We would both get into trouble. I do have a suggestion though.”

I stayed a little longer, we all hugged in a manly fashion of course and I started my journey back to Dever.

Bev and Abdul at last have a signature dish for the menu and the new item has proven to be a big hit at O'Brians Black and Tan. It is a barbeque pulled beef or pork sandwich called the Emerald Buffalo. Cole slaw and baked beans are extra.

2018-05-24T10:15:00.001-07:00

Our Emerald Isle – A Lot of Bull

He pranced around the arena in triumph with his head held high in a majestic pose that called out to everyone that he was superior, he was dominate, he was courageous. He was as bold as he was black.

When I was a young man I was not what you would call a good athlete but I was able to rise to the pinnacle of a mediocre career in one sport because, as my football coach said, “You don’t mind getting knocked down.” The ability to get up from a pounding can serve a person well in the journey of life but one can not play the game after a certain age. Ask any NFL player.

Now my brother Brian on the other hand was the type of young athlete that participated in the type of games that he could play into adulthood. If you were choosing up sides for almost any adult team event he would be one of the first ones picked. But regardless there comes a time when one has to hang up the jock and leave real competition to the young and think in terms of coaching or managing or just watching. There in lay the crux and subject of this muse.

Brian and I were closing down the pub one evening and he looked a little forlorn. I asked him what the problem was and he said it was getting close to October and it had just occurred to him that this past summer was the first summer in a very long time that he had not played baseball and that he couldn’t play basketball this winter due to there being no basketball court in Dever. In fact, he said, that other than an occasional dart game there was absolutely no competitive or even non competitive games taking place anywhere in the village.

I could tell he was still pondering the situation while we kept cleaning and when we were through for the evening I decided we ought to dirty two glasses. Over a black and tan or two I thought I would try to lift his spirits. It was my duty as an older brother to give guidance and solace and care to my younger and weaker siblings. (Which also brought to mind that I was going to have to have a talk with Traci-she was staying out way to late these days - but to continue about cheering up Brian.) I suggested that perhaps we could sponsor some sort of athletic event. He thought that over for a moment and then said that was an excellent idea. (Most of my ideas are excellent and I am sure I stand in front of my kin and peers while they look at me in ah.) So we started our planning process, which consisted first of drawing another black and tan. Now what kind of sporting event should it be?

Football and basketball came to mind, but neither of us could name an Irish football (perhaps with the exception of Pat O'Brian) or basketball player, must not be in the blood. Besides outfitting a team and preparing a suitable playing area would be very expensive. Baseball was out because it reminded the Irish of cricket thus reminding them of the hated English. Golf took to much room; boxing was not seriously considered due to the fact that there were enough fights on Saturday and Friday here at Dever’s and at every wake and funeral around the community; and Soccer and rugby were dismissed because we figured no one wanted to work that hard. Boat racing was a possibility because of the lake near by but the boats at the wharf were more for commercial fishing and cargo and not for sporting. Swimming?, to cold most of the year, volleyball?, too many short people due to intermarrying with the leprechaun county to the north and in the same token we both agreed that Dwarf tossing was a little insensitive and might alienate some of our customers. Horse racing might have been a possibility but those who owned horses used them to pull carts and plows. We thought we came up with a winner when chariot or plow racing sprang to mind, but the carts were old and rickety and I am not sure plow racing is even a sport. If Bev, Abdul, or Taci were at our meeting, bocce ball, camel racing, and spin the bottle would have been suggested, but they weren’t so they weren’t. Like Brian said, “Who can get excited over someone throwing big balls at a little one and most of the town wouldn’t be able to climb on a camel because they are so short and Traci would cheat.”

Brian eventually grew tired and said, “You know this is all just a bunch of bull, I am tired of wrestling with the problem.” ‘Epiphany!’ or would ‘Eureka!’ fit better?

************

It was billed as the Dever Bull Wrestling Championship. The village butcher donated an old bull just long enough for us to use it in the championship before it went under the knife. It had just arrived by cart transport which as I found out later was the standard mode of transporting a bull in rural Ireland whether it for butchering or breeding.

The bull appeared rather docile and walked around the pen like a whipped pup. He really could be lead by the nose. I think he must have been depressed because he realized that when there were no cows waiting for him in the corral, the end was near. The fight had gone out of him.

The object of bull wrestling, Brian and I decided, would be sort of like regular wrestling. The bull would be thrown on its back and made to stay there for 10 seconds one way or another. Now we realized that no one man could take down a bull by himself so keeping in the spirit of having as many as we could participate we decided that there should be teams of a 5:1 ratio - five humans to one bull. There was no particular reason for the number 5. It was selected because we had five fingers on one hand. Given that reasoning I guess it could have been 10, 15, 20 or in some cases 21 to 1 if all digits were counted and a male was doing the counting but 5 sounded about right. I know too much information.

Seven teams entered in all. All were sponsored by local entities. The Catholic Church had a team of young seminarians who “just happened” to be transferred to Devere prior to the event thus making them eligible. The police department fielded a team even though they had to use two who were serving a 30 day sentence for non support. There were thee family teams whose sons were very large. Being an election year the mayor sponsored a team that consisted of two women and even though he was applauded for his diversity it was thought he had very little chance. And of course there was a team representing Dever’s Pub.

Among the odd makers it was wagered that Dever’s Pub would finish last behind the Mayors team. They were probably right at the time because none of my regulars were in any shape to man handle a bull and those who were, were already on one of the other teams. Brian and I were not eligible because we sponsored the event, Abdul was not a citizen he claimed, and Bev and Traci just right out refused. Through guile and coercion and free drinks for a month we did manage to drum up four sods but were stymied on who would be the fifth.

We were having a training and strategy session around the bar one morning, when a stranger walked in and ordered a pint. He sat at the end of the bar and listened to our ‘going no where’ banter, which mostly consisted of trying to figure out who would be the fifth man on the team.

“Excuse me gents,” the stranger interrupted, “But I seem to understand that you are looking for one more team member. I might be able to help given some sort of consideration. I just arrived in town and know a little about bulls. You see I am a Bull Baller, the name is Sandy.”

*******

Dever’s Pub’s, team lead by its captain Sandy, having been duly elected by the team members, with a little help of a pint of two provided by the sponsor, was the last team to try their luck. All other teams had failed. No team even came close. What appeared to be a docile creature when he arrived in Dever had regained some energy when a shipment of cows were herded into the corral next to his. It sort of gave him some vim and vigor and like all lecherous old men he thought he might have one more time in him. He needed to show off some is what I guess. Typical male, but we Alpha males have no choice, it is our DNA.

I really didn’t think our team had any chance at all given the plan Sandy laid out but what did I know. As the bull was prancing about flaunting his stuff four of our team, Sandy was no where to be seen, entered the arena ever so cautiously. Instead of approaching the bull they stood by the fence separating the bull and the cows. The bull kept alternating his attention between the intruders and the cows behind them. He must have been concentrating very hard on if the new additions to the corral were a threat or perhaps he was just wishing they would get out of his way so he could gander on the cows and make his selection. Regardless he was not paying attention behind him. Sandy walked up behind him very stealthily and took the bull’s @#%& in his hand and started massaging them. It looked like he said something out loud as he fondled the bull’s @#%& and then with a nod of his head, the bulls, Sandy nodded his head and the other team members approached. Each member took a position by a different bull leg and gently bent each leg at the knee and the bull slowly sank down, first on all four knees, then on its side and eventually rolled over with a little nudging. All the while Sandy was massaging the bull’s @#%&.

All climbed on the stomach of the bull, took the 10 count and all but Sandy jumped off and walked out of the arena. Sandy positioned himself in such a manner as to make a fast get a way when he let go of the bull’s @#%& and ran towards the fence. The bull jumped up and went in hot pursuit. The bull might have gored Sandy but with great timing the butcher opened a gate leading to the cows. This immediately got the bull’s attention and must have confused him some. He looked at Sandy, then at the open gate and made a decision. Instead of running Sandy down or even running though the gate like a young bull and having his way with one of the heifers, the wizened old bull walked over to the opening, through the gate, and, how should I say, “A good time was had my all.”

During our celebration at Dever’s Pub that evening I got Sandy aside and asked him what exactly happened and how he did it.

“Well you see sir, I come from a long line of bull ballers. You not being from these parts I suspect you don’t know that when ever we transport a bull from one breeding function to another we have to do it by cart. Some bulls can get very obstinate and cause a lot of havoc, so a bull baller is hired to sit in the back of the cart, and place a bull @#%& restrainer on the bull’s @#%&. You can imagine that in and of itself that can be sort of awkward. But though a series of touches and massaging that have been handed down father to son over many years a technique has developed that enables the bull to realize that after the touch and massaging is finished one of two things are going to happen. He will either be let loose to breed with a cow or @#%& clamps are going to be put on him. If he protests the clamps come out and put on and tightened and the more he protests the tighter the clamps become. A bull as old as the one this afternoon knew the drill very well and even understands the human voice. He also knew me. When I took his @#%& in my hands he recognized the touch and I told him to behave himself, do what he was instructed and I would not get the clamps out like I had on the way down. See I was the bull baller who came into town with him. So when he noticed the cows in the pen and my hands on his @#%& he figured out that if he did behave himself he would not receive the clamp and get to visit the cows. Bulls are not stupid you know, they are like men. Both can be lead around by their nose but are much more willing to behave if some one has them by the @#%& and a woman is waiting on the other side of the fence.

What's Up Doc

2018-05-03T06:46:00.002-07:00

Brian was in the back counting money from the local poker game that no one was supposed to know about. Bev was in the kitchen experimenting with a biscuit recipe, watched over very carefully by Ray the Raven. Abdul had gone to Saturday night mass which I thought strange because he always wanted the Friday Muslim service off, along with any Christian or Jewish holidays that might come along. He claims he just wants to pay homage to all, my guess is that he is hedging his bets. Traci was in the corner whispering in the ear of some young hard body, and I was once again regaling my customers with the wit and wisdom of which I was and still am so blessed.

“So you see me fine lads, America has the best medical system and doctors in the world ” And with the word ‘world’ I slammed my glass tankard of ale down on the bar. Apparently I slammed it a little too hard because it shattered on the hard oak bar top. My hand slipped from the handle crashing the outside of my palm against the glass shards. A fountain of blood started spewing forth like a Texas oil well if in fact they still let oil wells spew.

Every one in the bar was stunned at first and I was in shock I guess because I felt no pain and was mesmerized by the blood gushing out from the side of my hand. MacDougal happened to be sitting beside me and immediately grabbed my wrist to stop the flow of blood. McDaniel, sitting on the other side, grabbed the bar rag and pressed it against my opened wound. Between the hand tourniquet and direct pressure the flow of blood slowed and then stopped altogether.

We all sat there for what must have been a short time even though in retrospect it seemed like a long time, when someone said we ought to get the doctor. Some one else said that somebody would have to go get him because his car had broken down and he hadn’t the money to pay for it until his medical subsidy came in next week. I told them it was not necessary because if we applied enough pressure long enough coagulation would set in and all would be fine. I remembered that from my Army or Boy Scout days. I couldn’t recall which exactly, not that there was that much difference in the training or application of the career. I guess the Boy Scouts did have adult leadership though.

To pass the time I called for Brian to set up a round for the house. MacDougal and McDaniel started to sweat a little, and I think I even saw a tear come to the eye of McDaniel. “What’s wrong with you two? I asked, “I am the one in harms way here.”

“Yes, we know that,” said MacDougal, “It is only that it takes both our hands to keep the blood from spewing out so you won’t bleed to death and we are just contemplating how we are going to drink our free pints. Opportunities like this don’t come around a lot you know.”

It would have been an easy fix for my sniveling two sods if we had straws available but we did not serve enough soft drinks to justify the expense. Traci suggested that she could lift the glass up to their lips but McDaniel had a harelip and the ingredients would fall on his chin thus wasting the brew and create bitterness and jealously towards MacDougal and everyone else in the pub I suspected because no one else had such a deformity that would cause the spillage.

I must admit that I became very proud of MacDougal and McDaniel when they decided that they could do without for awhile. They thought that coagulation would soon occur and they were determined to put aside their concerns for the good of the community and my hand. They both said they were of sturdy stock. They hunkered down for the duration but their commitment seemed to grow weaker by the minute, they sort of started crumbling before my eyes. You would think they were the ones to losing blood. Depression can do strange things to a person I guess.

After a few minutes we all decided that perhaps the blood had coagulated enough and my two medics slowly released the pressure from my wrist and wound, but as soon as they did the fountain of blood returned and spurt out like the water from the blowhole of Moby Dick. My two medics resumed their positions to stop the flow but more depressed than they had been for they realized it would be longer till they got some brew.

“Ok, enough is enough,” came a voice from the kitchen door. Bev had been watching all this nonsense for a while and decided that I was not going to bleed to death on her watch.

She instructed one of the boys to fetch Doc Leep and tossed him the keys to the moped. She too new that the Doc’s car was out of commission and we would all just have to endure the extra time it took to get him and drive him back. Another lad she told to fetch the water hose out back. When the water hose arrived she told Brian to depressurize a keg of beer and stick one end of the hose in it. She then took the other end of the hose slit it down the middle to a point where eventually she had two half hose bits. She then took some duct tape and card board and made two straw type looking affairs. “There now Mac and Mic, suck on these while we wait for the Doc.” The procedure immediately revived my two saviors and fortified their resolve

Doc Leep showed up later than he would have liked of course and immediately went to work. I knew he thought it was some what serious because he did not order his usual merlot prior to his stitching my hand. I must say for an Irishman without the proper American medical training, he did a pretty good job.

I asked him if being without his car caused him problems. He said just a little, but not enough to forgo the extra expense. “I really can’t afford two BMWs, I am not an American doctor you know.”

2018-04-25T14:39:00.001-07:00

Our Emerald Isle - Snakes Eyes

Some people will do or say anything for a free drink.

Traci was washing the windows and drawing her own crowd, Brian was pouring drinks, taking inventory, and flirting with one of the town lassies, Abdul was out back making some foundation repairs, and Bev was cooking up some home made gravy in the kitchen. I was doing what I do best.

“So you see my fine lads, Alaska was visited by St Patrick and just like Ireland drove the snakes out. How else can you explain that neither have none.” With that I slammed back the rest of my Black and Tan feeling quite the expert and smug about matters that my newly found neighbors and Brian's Black and Tan pup goers knew nothing about. I was fulfilling my duties as host and story teller for our establishment while providing a little educational enrichment.

Through the bottom of my glass I could see Mack O’Willy finish off his pint with a slight smirk about his face. He had just returned from Dublin where he worked in a traveling carnival. The carnival had just played our town and O’Willy decided he was tired of all that stuff and decided he would stay home for awhile. He had just quit and was grimy with dirt scattered from head to toe. Typical I thought of Carnies, having had Carnies as relatives of my own.

I was unable to attend the two day carnival affair and didn’t want to anyway because in my youth I would work for my cousin providing chickens for the geek he had employed which happened to be another cousin. I had and spent more time than one should in such places and all it did for me was to make me detest chicken prepared in any fashion. I worked the bar while Traci, Brian, and Bev sold food at one of the concessions and Abdul puttered around outside between preparing the evening meal and washing dishes. “You don’t believe me O’Willy,?” I asked

“Oh, I believe it alright, or I should say I believe you believe it, but you are way off about your facts,” O’Willy informed. “Most people believe the way you do but the facts, or I should say some of the facts like St Patrick and the snakes be not true at all, for the most part. I cannot say about Alaska having no snakes or even about our blessed saint actually making it that far west or possibly north and then dipping south or going east if had a mind to. All I know for sure is that there is at least one snake living in our beloved homeland and it being underneath the floor in the pipe crawl where we sit.”

A hush fell over my patrons and we all seemed to dip our heads and stair at the wooden floor. Then simultaneously we fixed our eyes on O’Willy.

I soon gathered my thoughts and told O’Willy that if he was so sure to put his money where his big mouth was and bet me a round on the house that he was right and I was wrong. He agreed but said he needed to tell us all a story first. The Irish are always telling a story or two to get across a point that no one else seems to understand.

“You see Pub Keeper and honored patrons,” O’Willy began, “We don’t have a lot of snakes in Ireland but the ones we do have live a long, long time. When I was just a lad my Grandfather, God rest him, woke me one night and asked me to help get rid of a snake he had seen crawling into a whole under this very pub. Well, Baba, as I called him, had seen a lot of spiders and snakes in his day due to his love of the grain so it weren’t unreasonable that he woke me at such an early hour, for he had given up long ago trying to get anyone else’s attention. How can you turn your sainted grandpa down. Besides I always liked these midnight adventures of ours. You see this was not the first time I was awoken to go on a hunt of some sort of creepy crawly or just to assure none were keeping his skin company. We never caught a snake however, in fact I never really saw one or any other wiggly a reptile or crawling arachnid on or off his body. But I came to realize then as now, it ain’t the trophy but the race.

“We made our way to the back of the pub here where Baba had seen the snake vanish into a whole. Since I was the smaller of the two, naturally, he had me bend down to see if I could see anything in the whole. Well it being night and all, all I could see was a bunch of blackness looking back at me, if in fact blackness can look at all. I mentioned such to Baba and he immediately recognized the problem so he took a cigar out of his breast pocket, lit it and puffed to get a red glow. While he was doing that I busied myself digging out around the whole to get a better view and enable me to extend me head and hand under the pub.

“When he figured he had illuminated the end of the cigar enough he handed it to me and I stuck it inside the whole along with part of my head and scanned the area. At first I could not see a thing but then in a distance I saw two little red specks moving from sided to side in tandem. It startled me and I, yes I must admit, was scared more than just a little.

“ I jerked my head and arm back out of the whole and told Baba what I had seen.

“Quick lad, let’s cover up the whole and trap the monster under the pub. That way he can’t get out and will starve to death.”

“But Baba, won’t he just find another way out or make a new whole?”

‘Heaven’s no, the owners have always believed in keeping their family foundation tight and solid and I am sure that applies to their home and pub also. Besides a snake has no arms and he can’t dig his way out. The animal will starve to death in no time at all.’ But I was not so sure, there were enough mice and soggy ground to keep anything alive and well fed and watered for many years, and if I were a betting man which it appears I am, I am sure the snake is there to this very day. Some reptiles live to be over a hundred years old you know.” O’Willy ordered another pint drained half of it and slammed the glass back on the bar.

As O’Willy finished his story I realized I had him in a trap. Everyone in the pub was going to have a free drink and I was going to make a few more Irish dollars. How could he think that he would be able to outwit me in the art of story telling.

“Alright Mr. O’Willy even if I were to believe your story you still have no proof that snakes in general and that particular snake has lived all these many years. How would you know? You never looked back into the whole did you, how could you, you covered it up, and no foundation is that strong that there wont be a crack or two during the years for a snake to slither threw. Just ask Abdul he is out back as we speak repairing a whole that seemed to materialize out of no where last night. Ah, a nice story but a story no less, no facts to back it up.” I waited for the laughter to die down and ordered a round on the house and waited for O’Willy to pay up.

“Pub keeper,” O’Willy responded, “There is away to prove my facts. Facts are a stubborn thing you know. Let us pull up a couple of these planks that make up your floor and you crawl down there with a flashlight and see for yourself. There should be no fear on your part for two reasons: There are no snakes in Ireland you say and secondly if there was one it has already left or even dead and it no way could hurt you, or scare you, if you are prone to be scared that is of a small little slithering reptile.”

Ha, I thought to myself. Me afraid of a snake, never, however crawling around a space small as crawl space below was a different matter all together. “I tell you what O’Willy, I am not going to crawl under the pub but I will stick my head between the two planks we remove and do a visual search with my flashlight.” That seemed to satisfy O’Willy.

We cleared away some table and chairs from the center of the floor and a couple of the regulars began the process of lifting the wooden floor planks in such a manner so I could get my head and shoulders under the floor. As two trusted patrons held my legs I dipped my body into the hole up to my hip region, began my visual search and as I had suspected there was no sign of a snake. I yelled back up to the crowd that was growing and was about to tell them to pull me out when I heard a noise I could not make out. It was sort of like a springing or hissing sound. I turned the flashlight in direction of the noise and there looking at me were two beady eyes, red, moving back and forth in tandem. I yelled for the men to hurry and get me out of there, they seemed like they were taking their time, but eventually they got me out of that hell whole.

I was panting and sweating. One of the boys gave me a Black and Tan that Brian had waiting for me and I told the men, “Quick, put the floor back we’ll keep the little devil there for a few more years. Some one tell Abdul to fill up the wholes around the foundation, NOW! Alright O’Willy you won. Brian, put the drinks on my tab instead of O’Willy’s, in fact make it another round.” A cheer came from the crowd. I am a poor winner but a gracious loser.

About that time Bev came out of the kitchen followed by Abdul. “What in the name of the Sicilian Gods is going on out here?” I briefly told her, sort of sheepishly though. She just stood their for awhile then bowed and shook her head. “Look out the window pub keeper.”

I could see the carnival going past and the last wagon to go by had painted on its side a picture of snake with two reddish eyes configured in such a way that its eyes seemed to move from side to side in tandem. “Reptilian bobble heads for sale” was painted in bright red letters under the picture just above the wheel wells. I turned to confront O'Willy, but he was no where to be found.

2018-04-19T09:21:00.001-07:00

Our Emerald Isle -Killer Sheep

Traci said she would do anything she could to insure that Brian's Black and Tan would be a success. She had noticed over the last several weeks that there was a lull in business before noon each Saturday and thought that if some method could be devised to get patrons in earlier that sales would i O ncrease in the early morning hours and by virtue of already being there those present would stay for lunch. Her plan worked.

Every Saturday morning beginning precisely at 9:00 she would take a bucket of soapy water and sponge and begin washing the outside of the windows. Now washing windows in and of themselves would not normally draw a crowd but she had devised a method of washing three pains at the same time. Being a family type of narrative I will let your imagination conjure up how this task was performed.

There were no seats available near the windows on this one particular Saturday morning so when O’Gradey came in like he always did around 10:30 he sat at the bar and listened to me finish up a story about the time I tracked a polar bear while living in Alaska. All were very much impressed.

“So you see my friends there is not a meaner or more dangerous animal in all the world.” I concluded.

O’Gradey while hunched over his first pint of the day said that sure enough a polar bear was an animal that deserved respect but he took issue as to it being the most dangerous animal in the world. “It’s undoubtedly the meanest animal in the arctic, but not the world, that would be our Killer Sheep not found far from here in the Thickets and Hills of O’Clare.” The crowd nodded their heads in agreement.

I could not let the comment go unchallenged. “Why I have never heard of a killer sheep.”

“Well it is nothing we talk about much, it’s bad for tourism. In fact I am one of the few men alive that has ever hunted the beast and lived to tell the tale.”

This I had to hear. “And what may tell would that tale be?”

“It was a blistery cold day,” he began as the crowd gathered around, except for the young men sitting by the window pretending not to watch Traci wash the widows, “and the towns people of De’Vere realized that something had to be done. One of the killer sheep had wondered down from the mountains and had been killing pigs, chickens, and peaceful sheep. The Town Council knew that I was a veteran of the troubled times and had spent time away having found it only prudent that I leave our beloved country for awhile until things cooled down and reside in Africa.. While in Africa I took up big game hunting. The Village people knew I was the only one who could track and destroy the Killer Sheep or at least chase it back to the Thickets and Hills of O’Clare. They were right of course and I deemed it my duty to protect our town. Pigs, chickens, peaceful sheep today and our little children tomorrow, yes I would take the challenge.

“I went to the place where the last kill was reported. Near the carcass of a bonnie looking sheep I saw the tracks leading back toward the Thickets and Hill of O’Clare. I could tell by the size of the hoof prints and the stride that this was a big one and that my task was a challenge. I was not deterred, I had my spear and sling I had taken off a Zulu warrior and a trusty British Enfield I had acquired during the troubles, nothing would stop me from by task.

“I came to the first row of thickets and pressed thru, cutting my skin and tearing my clothes but on I went. I proceeded this way for an hour or so until I stepped in a bog and sunk to my hips. I struggled out of the muck but in so doing I dropped my Enfield and it was sucked down in the mud. There was no way of retrieving it. My spear and sling were looped over my shoulder so I continued my hunt.

“I clawed and crawled through the thickets that ran up hill for another hour or so. I finally came to a clearing and paused to rest. I must have dozed off for I was awoken by a sound that immediately put a shiver in my spine. I looked around to where the sound was coming from and saw the biggest Killer Sheep I had ever seen. Bigger than the one they use to keep stuffed at the terminal at the Shannon Airport until the tourism commission protested. For some reason though the Killer Sheep was not aware of my presence. I silently said a Hale Marry and an Our Father.

“Gently and quietly I rose to my feet, assembled by spear and sling and with all my might through the spear and hit the Killer Sheep right above his shoulder blade. To my horror however the spear bounced off. The Killer Sheep turned and sat its eyes upon me. It snorted like a wild hog, pawed its front hoofs like a raging bull, and charged at me like a white rhino, all of which I had seen before, but never without a weapon in my hand.

“A Killer Sheep’s speed is legendary, but this one seemed faster than legends. The closer he got the faster he got and when there was just a few yards separating us he opened his mouth wide as if to engulf me like a whale did one of my companions when I was whaling off the coast of Madagascar and continued his attack.

“I stood my ground however knowing I could not out run the beast and just as he was about to make me no more I reached inside its mouth with my right arm plunged it to the rear of the beast, grabbed its stubby tail pulled back as hard as I could turned the creature inside out and he started running the other way.”

I told Brian to get Mr. O’Gradey a quart of whatever it was he was drinking. On this day I had been out done.

the last chapter in River Road

2018-03-08T14:44:00.000-08:00

The last page of chapter 7, called Just a Whisper A Way

Her faith was strong and she had no doubts of where she was going. She said she would always be there when I needed her and I was not to shut my self off from others and become a hermit. She said that when a person dies they just go to sleep and then wake to a glorious morning where all the questions are answered, all the sadness gone, and one is surround with love. One of the last things she said to me before drifting off to that stage where she would not return was "I'll see you in the morning Dolly." Her pet name for those who she loved.

She never told me what she wanted me to do with her ashes and for several weeks I kept her in my office at home and would talk to her now and then. They were not long conversations and I did not expect a reply.

Eventually, one autumn evening, her favorite time of year, I walked down the path that we had so often walked along River Road and scattered he ashes here and there with the bulk of her remains placed gingerly around a little oak grove near a bubbling brook.

My life is moving forward and each day things get a little less painful. She rests in that corner of my mind that is reserved just for her. I still walk the path along river road just like we use to do and as I am doing. I hear the wind among the leaves and hear a faint whisper. I really can't make out what is being said but it makes no difference -we all are just a whisper away from our loved ones. I of course always respond in the same way just as I am now "I'll see you in the morning Dolly."

Family Secrets - Christmas Travel

2017-12-22T14:44:00.004-08:00

In all the years I spent in Alaska I only decided to return to the lower 48 for Christmas once. My kids were a little up set, more for me than for them I suspect. They had visions of me sitting in my little basement dwelling, watching television all alone with a little TV dinner while I cried into my eggnog. That was not the case due to nice people that always seemed to take pity on a single person around Christmas time. I always had a Christmas dinner and a New Year happening to go to. The reason I did not return more than once had a lot to do about not spending the $1000 the trip would have cost and the hassle it involved.

The coming and going from the village over Christmas vacation was always a real mental and physical hardship let alone a financial drain. Leaving from bush Alaska is not an easy task under the best of circumstances let alone over a busy holiday period.

The year I did return, my first year there, it went something like this -

Around the 20^th of December the teachers who were leaving congregated in the school office. They waited for the fifteen minute warning call from a plane that would carry them off. When the call was received all the bags were thrown into a sled attached to a snow-go and we piled on top of them and sped towards the landing strip. We hoped our timing was right so as not to miss the plane or worse yet get to the strip to early and wait in the freezing cold longer than necessary. The plane only held nine people plus baggage and it takes two and sometimes three trips in an out of the village to the regional airport, about an hour away, to get everyone on their way.

Once arriving at the regional airport, in this particular case Bethel, it was easy to transfer to a regular jet liner, seating about 50, for the trip to Anchorage. We got into Anchorage around 10:00 PM and the flight to the lower 48 took off at 6:00 AM. Going to a motel seems ludicrous so it is customary to find a soft metal bench or an even a softer portion of some indoor outdoor carpet and try and sleep.

The flight I was on was going to Seattle first where you may or not spend the night. Sometimes the flight goes to Chicago or even Houston non stop but not this time. From Seattle we went to Denver then to Chicago, my final destination that year.

After visiting that year the return trip I thought would be more relaxing due mostly to the fact I didn’t care if I got back on time or not. However it turned out to be far more taxing.

It was a direct shot to Anchorage from Chicago. What could go wrong? Well, as we were going down the runway and were just about ready to lift off for our seven hour flight the engines suddenly unwound, setting the nose back on the tarmac and the plane started heading back towards the terminal. The captain came over the intercom and explained that there was nothing serious but a light had come on indicating a pressure door was malfunctioning. It needed to be checked out. It took two hours to check the situation out and naturally we were not allowed to deplane.

We tried the takeoff again and this time met with success. The seven hour flight went smooth enough but every time we hit an air pocket I had visions of one of the doors blowing off.

Our landing in Anchorage was as smooth a landing as I had ever experienced. We parked by our gate but then it took another two hours to get the door opened. I guess they did a good job of closing it in Chicago.

By this time it was midnight and our plane to Bethel was leaving at 4:00 AM. So I found another soft metal bench and some softer indoor outdoor carpeting close to the ticket gate and settled in.

I had planned on being first in line that morning but so did everyone else and I was number 29. By the time I was number 10 an airline employee made an announcement indicating I was in the wrong line. I informed whoever would listen that I was in the line I was told to be in. I was then informed by a very polite soft spoken lady representing the airline that I was now being told to do something else and that I need not yell.

I am ashamed to say that I must have made quite a scene going to another line because two airline ticket agents came out from behind the counter and gave me special attention. I was calming down and things were going well when it was discovered that the computer did not have me listed on the flight to Bethel and there were no seats left for over twenty-four hours. Another scene arose. As I was shouting out my confirmation number a phone call was made and security guards started congregating in the area. The problem was soon rectified and I thanked the ticket agent the best I could through my hyperventilating and went off to my gate.

We took off without door problems or lights coming on and an hour later we landed in Bethel amidst a blizzard. I took a $12, three block cab ride to the air carrier that would take me to Hooper Bay in about an hour. I was informed that the flight had been delayed due to weather. Ten hours later the flight was canceled. I was put on a stand by list for the following morning.

In the mean time more teachers had arrived trying to catch a flight to the bush. They were more experienced than I about such things so I just sat back and listened to what they had to say. The terminal was closing down and the authorities would not allow anyone to stay in the terminal over night. To bad I thought because the metal benches seemed sort of comfortable. The travel pros had made tentative reservations at one of the several motels and by the time I started calling around there were no rooms at the inn. I pictured myself standing out in the cold all night when a teacher suggested I call the police to see if they had room. I was a little perplexed until he informed me that sometimes the police let stranded passengers sleep in one of the cells if one was available. I had no choice.

I made the call to the local constabulary and was told to come on over. Twenty minutes and $15 later I was placed in a cell with two other transients for the night. It was the first and only time up till now that I have ever been incarcerated as such.

The next morning I caught a taxi back to the airport, this time costing $20 and got ready for my supposedly 9:00 AM flight. Nine AM came and went and around 10:00 AM I began to hear rumors that weather was still bad in Hooper Bay and that we would be in Bethel another night. It was then that the luck of the Irish placed its charms around me.

As I was leaning against the counter listening to the pros talk about what to do next, an employee came out of the back room from behind the counter and told the Eskimo ticket agent to get nine people on a manifest to Hooper Bay and he did not care which nine they were. So much for a stand by list. I immediately turned around and said, “Give me a ticket.” The teachers began jostling and shoving their way to the counter and I got out of the way for fear of life and limb. The plane took off about an hour later.

When we landed in Hooper Bay it was 10 below and the wind chill brought the temperature down to minus 42. There was no time to delay. We hurriedly threw our bags on the sled trip to school, jumped on top and off we went towards the school about a mile away. We zoomed across the tundra at 35 mph which was fast but not fast enough into the wind and a teacher later told me that he calculated the temperature was -75 degrees with the wind chill.

The following years I made no special attempt to go home for Christmas. It was too much of a hassle. I told my family and friends not to worry about me but to instead concern themselves with those young men and women that are really spending Christmas far away from home and really have no choice. They are not teachers, I think the term used is "being in the military."

Family Secrets - Music Festival

2017-12-20T08:45:00.000-08:00

If you were there I don't have to describe it, if you were to young or not there you have perhaps heard the stories and I don't need to repeat them. If you heard it was full of nudity, public sex, and drugs-you heard right. But there is another story you might not have heard:

The local National Guard unit and those units in the surrounding area as far away as Kansas City were put on duty that weekend. We went about our business as usual. The Adjutant General of the state of Missouri visited our unit and went on a fact finding mission to the festival. He wore civilian clothes and without a huge entourage.

About 1 a.m. Sunday morning I received a phone call from my commanding officer who told me to report to the armory immediately and to ware civilian clothes. The Chief of Staff of the Army National Guard got us all together, about 100 of us, and told us that there was one drug overdose case every five minutes being taken to the the Bothwell emergency room. The concern was that there were many more that were not making it to Bothwell and needed assistance. "You are on a life saving mission, you are not there to enforce laws. You have about 10% hard core out there but the remaining 90% are just kids raising hell and having fun in their mind."

A dawn we all boarded army vehicles, given a Security T-shirt, and given sectors to patrol and a radio if help was needed to evacuate some one from the grounds. A make shift hospital was set up near the site of the fair administration building manned by army doctors and nurses flown in from a Kansas City armory.

About half way through the day I received a call that my wife had called the armory, that she needed me and I was to come home immediately. I was whisked off by a highway patro car, found my wife in labor. I took my wife to the hospital where she gave birth to our first daughter. She asked me if I was going back to the fair grounds and I said no, they can manage without me.

For the most part the Ozark Music Festival was handled just fine. I don't know if any deaths occurred or not, it has been a long time ago and far, far, away it seems.

Family Secrets - Homecomig

2017-12-17T09:32:00.002-08:00

Family Secrets - Homecoming.

I do not recall the day or any special events leading up to the time Dad got home from Korea. I am sure there must have been some discussion about Dad’s homecoming but I do not recall any single event except Christmas morning of 1954.

We had as usual put up a tree and had plenty of presents underneath. I was as excited as a second grader would be for Christmas morning. My grandfather and grandmother were not happy at all. A sadness permeated their face. I was eager to open my presents and was allowed to do so, but they told me that they wanted to wait and open theirs when Dad got home. I remember thinking why would they want to wait with all those packages just begging to be opened. I cannot recall any particular present I got that year. It would be a nice touch to this narrative for me to say the best present I got that year was Dad coming home and it was but only in retrospect.

While I was playing with whatever I got Mama and Baba just sort of went about their business trying to pass the time away and even going to the front door now and then to see who had just pulled up in front of the house. I remember Baba going out in the front yard just standing their smoking cigarettes looking up and down the street while Mama busied herself in the kitchen.

I don’t know how long it was after Christmas when Dad did arrived, but it must not have been that long, like two or three days, because I was still on vacation from school and was allowed to stay up late at night.

My grandfather was working the night shift at Westinghouse and Mama was in the kitchen when I heard the porch door open and though the window pane of our house Dad looked though the glass smiling.

I am sure that my grandmother must have cried while they hugged and the only thing I remember is Dad telling her it seemed like home had been a world away the last two years.

My Grandfather got home around midnight and they sat down and opened all the remaining presents. I even had a couple to open that Mama had hid. I was glad to get them and while they stayed up and visited I sat next to Dad on the couch and drifted off to sleep.

Family Secrets - Christians, a real minority

2017-12-14T15:25:00.002-08:00

Family Secrets - Christians a real minority

In Fairmount and especially Crisp Lake there was only one Negro named Mac who shined shoes in one of the barbershops. There were no American Indians, Jews, or Mexicans any where to be found around the neighborhood. Catholics were here and there but really could not be counted as a true minority because most of them lived north of 24 Highway. We did have one family living on Ash who it was suspected were gypsies, but no one knew for sure. No the only minority present in our little community was me.

Being raised a Christian Scientist had some advantages. First of all you did not have to take the yearly polio shot or what ever types of shots they were giving out that year at school. When it was my turn for some sort of vaccination a parent aid would whisper something to the nurse, a notation was made on a piece of paper and the next child in line stepped forward and I returned to my seat. I really felt fortunate, shots scared me and I knew they must be painful. Secondly there were not many rules involved being a Christian Scientist. No one said if you did this or did that or you didn’t do this or that you were going to suffer eternal damnation or something. Hell was not addressed as such and talk of heaven consisted of ‘passing on’ and living on in the minds of others.

If you were to ask people what they know about Christian Scientist a preponderance would say “aren’t they the ones who don’t believe in doctors?” A few might know who Mary Baker Eddy was (she founded the religion in 1875) or that there was a news paper by that name or perhaps to the truly knowledgeable of trivia, that the headquarters of the church were in Boston (or was it Baltimore) and that Alan Shepard our first man in space was a Christian Scientist. Four of the five above are true, one is a little iffy.

The idea that Christian Scientists don’t believe in doctors is not actually correct. Their doctrine allows each member to make up their own mind on how to live their life given the teachings of Jesus and the Bible as explained in ‘Science and Health with Keys to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy,’ which includes health care. Some use doctors some don’t, some take medication some don’t, it is really an individual choice. They are encouraged to obey all laws pertaining to health care and if shots are required they are to be taken. There were not many laws back then that required one to have shots unless you joined the military, ergo no shots for this kid while growing up.

For the purist in the religion or the real conservative type, Christian Scientist do have what they call Practitioners that are consulted when health matters arise. To make this concept simple let us just say that if you are ill, you talk to a Practitioner. They don’t cast spells or perform rites or anything like that nor are they licensed by the church or state as far as I know, they just help you see the truth and as it is said, “you shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.” (Another big saying that Christian Scientist have is “Devine love has always met and always will meet every human need.”)

We had Sunday School like most all churches and I got a good education about the make up of the Bible and knew and still do most of the stories from the old and new testament. Of course the healing ones depicted in the Bible were given a lot of attention.

Other churches may have and do look on Christian Science as a cult at least by definition just like they do the Mormons. By definition they might be correct. Christian Scientist do not believe in the trinity. Father, Son and Holy Spirit (Ghost back then) are part of the belief system but they are all separate entities not just one - a much easier concept to grasp. God is that indescribable concept that resides in that just as indescribable place called heaven, Jesus is his son, divine but not God on earth in the flesh, and the Holy Spirit sort of mystically runs around between humans, God, and Jesus. (I always thought it interesting that of the two major religions started in the United States, Christian Science and Mormons, neither believe in the trinity. It is probably a coincidence unless one or both religions are really the chosen people and not that other group. That is a thought that you would never hear from a Christian Scientist but probably a core belief in Salt Lake City.) There is no professional clergy, (they have a First Reader and Second Reader, one reads a Bible passage and the other reads from Science and Health explaining what was just read by the other,) no weddings, baptisms, christenings, official inductions nor funerals are performed in or by the church. There are no revivals, fund raisers, pot lucks, deviations from the script prepared by the Mother Church read each Sunday morning and Wednesday night service, nor any real fun things to do at all. It was sort of a boring church for a kid as far as I was concerned. The service and theology are more of a cerebral nature and if the truth be known eludes most adherents.

I never felt any prejudice directed towards me because of my religion but I was defiantly part of a system that others did not understand nor were interested in finding out more about and it seems like other parents always wanted me to go to church with their children when youth meetings were held because they were concerned about my soul. I usually went because they always seemed to have good treats afterwards and most were my friends from the neighborhood anyway.

Gradually I drifted away from the church and have joined different churches from time to time. I have been a Baptist, Catholic, Methodist, Lutheran, Assembly of God, Quaker, and Disciple of Christ church member in the past. All seemed about the same, some were a little more demanding on how you conducted your personal life but that really never bothered me because when it comes to religion we are all part of the same hypocrisy, picking and choosing what we believe in as we interpret the bible.

However one never escapes his early up bringing. Ideas are planted early and lay dormant but now and then blossom and grow. You try to kill them off now and then but they keep coming back. I still consider myself to be a Christian Scientist though I don’t officially or actively practice it anymore except when I become a little ill or just before my annual physical. I have to do it all by memory now because I don’t have any idea where my copy of Mrs. Eddy’s book is anymore.

The overriding beliefs taught to me in Sunday school that have stayed with me over the years and still imprinted on my mind come from my Christian Science up bringing and other than those I am not real sure about that mystery we call religion. I am pretty sure that Man is not material he is Spiritual, God is Love and when we pass on we will all be surprised.

I do have a good set of friends now that are true believers and they are very much more concerned about my salvation than I am. I appreciate that very much.

Family Secrets - Calvary Trooper

2017-12-14T15:04:00.000-08:00

Family Secrets – Calvary Trooper

When my grandfather turned 17 he thought it was about time he left home to see the world. So in 1922 he and a childhood friend of the same age took off from the only home they had ever known in Independence. They had little money but thought they could work their way across the country by doing odd jobs along the way, besides they had been in Boy Scouts together and knew how to camp and live off the land so they figured.

In February they began to hitchhike after a flip of the coin determined they would head east towards New York. I am not sure what they were thinking to leave then in the middle of the blistery cold Missouri winter especially hitchhiking in 1922. There could have not been that many motorized vehicles traveling the roads back then. However those cars or truck that were making such trips back then were probably more inclined to pick up riders than they would today.

The first day they had made it as far as Warrensburg, Missouri and stayed in a place that shall we say had less than a reputable reputation. They spent more money there than they had planned.

I don’t know how long it took them or how they managed, but a week later they found themselves wondering around the back streets of St. Louis, cold, broke, and hungry. They saw a recruiting poster with Uncle Sam pointing a finger at them telling them that he wanted them. The recruiting Sergeant befriended them, fed them, and let them sleep in his office that night. The next morning several your men arrived with their suitcases in tow to be sworn in to the U.S. Army. The recruiting Sergeant told them that if they swore they were 21 they could join too. Later that afternoon Granddad was on a train west to Cheyenne, Wyoming to be part of the 4^th Calvary. He had never ridden a horse in his life.

He never related much about how he learned to be a Calvary troop nor much of anything about basic training or the army in general. The only story he did relate to me was that one day while standing in formation the First Sergeant asked if anyone knew how to drive a tuck. My grandfather thought that would be a good job, at least he could get out of riding a horse and the other silly minutiae that was probably in store for him that day. He volunteered. The rest of the afternoon he pushed a wheelbarrow around the company area hauling gravel from one end of the compound to another.

He started keeping a journal while in Wyoming but only for a short time and even then it was no more than a one or two word entry. “went to town,” “saw Missy last night,” “twenty mile troop ride today,” “Inspection this afternoon.” There were only entries like that for about 20 days. I wonder who Missy was, or what a 20 mile troop ride must have been like, what did he do when he went to town, who were his buddies he did things with, what happened to his buddy he had joined with, I guess I will never know.

He apparently did not like the army much so after 18 months of doing whatever he was doing he sent his father a letter asking him to see if he could help Granddad buy his way out of his four year military obligation. That was standard procedure back in those days.

Some how the family managed to raise $1,500 and Granddad was a free man and returned to Independence. As far as I know he never rode a horse again.

Family Secrets - Teacher Jail

2017-12-10T12:45:00.002-08:00

Family Secrets- Teacher Jail

In September of 2003 I wrote an article for the Independence Examiner that got be in all sorts of trouble. It was a humorous article, or so I thought, of what lengths teacher's would go through or thought about going through to be able to drink alcohol in "dry" Eskimo Villages (see blog November 2010.) My intent was to make fun of us, the teachers, and not them, the Eskimos. However I hit a nerve when I mentioned that in Hooper Bay..."most native men and many women drank alcohol." It was like I dared to mention the 600 pound walrus sitting in the living room that everyone was ignoring.

Eventually the Police Chief of Hooper Bay or one of his associates became aware of the article and some how it was circulated around the village. The Police Chief was a nice person and not vindictive, so I suspect if he was the culprit he would have said something to me so the entire situation could have been straightened out right away. However no one said anything for a very long time and no telling how long the pot boiled with displeasure.

One day in April the principal informed me that the village native chief wanted to talk to me. I told him sure, send him on over to the the classroom. The Chief never showed up. A week later the District School Superintendent came to the village and told me to come see him after school.

When we met he immediately showed me a photocopy of the article I had written back in September and said he was concerned that I had written it. I asked him if there was anything in the article that was not accurate. He didn't comment directly, he just repeated that he was concerned. We sat there in silence for awhile and then he told me that the village chief had informed him that the former mayor of the village was upset and had threatened to shoot me. He went on to say that everyone knew the mayor had a tendency to get drunk now and then and that his threat should be taken seriously. The superintendent told me to pack my bags and I was to fly to the district office with him.

I was a little dumbfounded and didn't know what the big deal was. I mean how could a guy get into trouble just telling the truth. Being a history major I should have known that the truth some times stings more than a lie.

The school district headquarters was located in Mountain Village a couple of hundred miles away. They maintained a dormitory there for travelling employees. The district fixed me up with a room, provided me with kitchen priviledges, and provided me with a charge account at the local store to buy food and necessities. Other than showing me my room no administrator spoke to me for over a week.

Eventually I was given an assignment to work with a couple of local native ladies grading a district wide test. I did this for the next six weeks. The ladies and I became friends after awhile and one invited me over to her house for dinner. She asked me why I was there and I told her. She seemed sort of relieved and told me that the rumor was that I was a child molester and that I was taken out of the village while an investigation was taking place. I asked her to please put that rumor to rest.

None of the administrative staff really talked to me about what to expect or when I could return or what my status was or would be. I had learned many years ago that when you come to an impasse in any situation the one who seems most anxious to reach a conclusion is the one who talks first and the one who talks first usually looses. I said nothing to anyone. The administration and I were playing a waiting game. I knew they could not fire me because I had done nothing to break the contract. If I had lost my temper and just left then I would have forfeited my pay and be in breach of our contract and certainly would not have been employed by them again or any other district in Alaska. I had signed a contract a couple of months earlier with the district but did not know if it had been certified by the board. It was hard to make plans for the next year and I must admit I was stressed about the whole thing.

One day about a week before school was out, the Human Resource Director, whom I had known for a few years and were friends with somewhat, stopped me in the hall and asked me if anyone had shown me my contract for next year. He then pulled out my file showed me the contract that had been approved two days before I was exiled to Mountain Village. I did not mention the fact that I knew I had a job the next year to any of the administrators but did walk around with a smirk on my face for awhile. I had won.

They flew me back to Hooper Bay and I mailed my stuff to the school I would be at the next year. Most of the teachers had already left and all but three of the villagers ignored me. Three men came by whom I had befriended and them me the last couple of years, part of the maintenance staff, and each shook my hand. That meant a lot to me.

I was very bitter for awhile but as time passed I thought perhaps I should have been a little moor sensitive about making fun concerning the use of alcohol in the village. Alcohol is a problem in every village I lived in and nothing I said in the article was not true. However somethings should just be left unsaid I guess.

Family Secrets - The Wreck

2017-12-04T09:27:00.003-08:00

Family Secrets - The Wreck

Mom and Dad had been dating for less than a year. It was drizzling rain when he picked her up from her home in Kansas City, Kansas and they went to a dance at William Chrisman High School. After the dance they decided to stop by a local drive-in and take the long way back to her house. While at the drive-in Dad and another guy got into an argument as to who had the fastest car. There was no drag strip in those days for the argument to be settled but there was always Kentucky Road just outside of Sugar Creek where such matters were easily delt with.

The two cars met at the appropriate place. A crowd had gathered and one of the two antagonist’s mutual friends gave the signal for the race to begin.

Dad did not win the race due to the fact that he hit a slick spot on the road, turned the car in a one eighty and went over an embankment. He was thrown against the steering wheel, bruised his chest and suffered some minor lacerations. Mom’s head went through the windshield.

By the time the on lookers got to the site, blood was every where, mostly Mom’s. One of the guys said they needed to take mom to the hospital immediately and there was a momentary hesitation as to whose car she should go in. “She’ll get blood all over my car,” one guy reportedly said. One of the larger of the group took charge and put mom in the closest car and sort of dared anyone to complain.

They arrived at the hospital where dad’s parents were called and he was immediately treated for his injuries. Mom’s mother was called but mom’s stepfather was hard of hearing and did not understand that they were supposed to come to the hospital and give permission for the doctors to treat mom since she was under age.

Dad’s mom and dad waited and waited, mom was kept from bleeding to death by basic first aid but no procedures were given to help her further. My grandmother decided she would sign the papers to commence doing whatever was needed to be done when finally Mom’s mom showed up, having realized what had happened via a second phone call that she answered.

Mom had a minor concussion and a slashed cheek. It took several hours to sew her up. She asked the doctor later how many stitches she received and the doctor told her, “Honey I stopped counting at 350.”

Mom had a terrible scar for the rest of her life. I never noticed anything out of the ordinary though because it was just part of the only her I had ever known. The scar was still visible if you knew where to look when I kissed her on the cheek the night she died. Wrinkles and sagging facial muscles had made it all but disappear to everyone else.

Family Secrets - With a Very Happy Ending

2017-12-03T16:21:00.003-08:00

a yearFamily Secrets – With a Very Happy Ending

One day while in Arizona I went to the mail box and found a letter addressed to me but with my mother’s address. I opened it and it was from this lady who said she was trying to solve a puzzle. She asked me several questions about events that had happened many years ago and if any of those events sounded familiar. At first I was not real certain what she was asking. She did say she was not a stalker or wanted a kidney, in fact the letter was quite entertaining and funny in most respects, but the tenor of the letter was serious. She asked if I would write or call her and help her figure out the answers to some questions she had.

I let my mother read the letter and she picked up on it right away. She said for me to throw the letter away. I said I needed to think about this for awhile. My mind ran the gambit of what the letter was really asking and if the person writing this letter was legitimately wanting to know a certain fact or two or trying to set me up for something far more sinister . I asked a close friend of mine to do some internet stalking to see what he could find. His results found that indeed she was a real person, lived where she said she lived, and her bio seemed to be non threatening. She had suggested that perhaps I was her biological father but without coming right out and saying it.

Some well meaning friends told me not to contact her and others said for me to contact a lawyer before I did anything. I ignored both sets of advice. I figured that if I was or was not her bio father she had a right to know, and so did I. I called her.

We chatted on the phone for awhile, really for more than a while and we both sort of figured out that I was probably who she thought I was. I will never forget what she said, “I have wondered what this day would be like for over 20 years” I asked her if it was what she thought it would be. She told me it exceeded her wildest expectations. I was elated for reasons that might seem odd.

However, there were still some mysteries remaining. I was not sure of the circumstance of her birth. I was not sure who her biological mother was or even could have been. I am ashamed to say that I could not remember anything happening or that I thought might have happened to cause this with anyone particular girl, but on contemplating the situation I narrowed in down to three possibilities.

She sent me a copy of some information that she had been able to collect over the years, with some pictures of her biological mother, half sister, and herself. After reading the contents I figured out who the bio mother was from my past and the interlude that ended up causing the recent enlightenment. Those circumstance are not really important. Let’s just say that it was 1968, One Block West was the place to go and meet girls, and one could go and have a great time for a week or two without regards to consequences, or so we thought back then.

I had no idea that the girl I met and hung around with for a week or two got pregnant. No one informed me, no one even suggested that such a thing had taken place. I even new her sisters in college, but they never uttered a word.

Her folks would have none of it. They sent her to a home that unwed mothers went to in those days and she was forced, so to speak, to give up the baby girl. It had to be heart wrenching for her. I have known several young ladies, some very close friends that had similar situations happen to them and some who took more drastic actions, and they all say you never quite get over it and never forget it and wonder how the child’s life turned out or might have.

Well in my bio daughters case it turned out well. She was raised by a mother and father who loved her and she loved them, was a cheer leader in high school in a small town, she went to college on a scholarship, and now has a successful career helping others. She has three children of her own, a nice husband and 4 step children and a recent grand baby. Believe me if I had been involved in her early life when I was young and more stupid then I am now, her life would not have turned out so well.

She has met my other children and we even took a “family” type of picture. When I am asked how many children I have I always say 5 and seldom have to go into the entire story of where the 5^th one is. In fact I am just as proud of her as my other children and sort of relish relating the story about her doggedness of searching for me for over 20 years.

I realize that I am not her father, he is the one who set up with her and nights and guided her into adulthood. She calls me Conley and that is how it should be. She met my mother, who seemed just as thrilled as me to have her presence known and mom gave her a family heirloom. I have informed her of what her McAnally roots were and I told her I would be as little or as much a part of her life as she wished me to be. I told her I had no right to expect anything from her. We keep in contact via phone, facebook, and email. She lives in western Kansas but I manage to go by and see her a couple of times .

Family Secrets - Oregon or Bust

2017-12-02T08:58:00.001-08:00

Family Secrets – Oregon or Bust

My grandmother on my father’s side was born to a tenant farmer in the back woods of Tennessee. She was the seventh child out of what would become nine children in all. For reasons not known to me her father decided to uproot the family and head for Oregon where I guess he assumed that life would be better. They must have looked like the Beverly Hillbillies when they all loaded into a pickup truck and headed west.

They got as far as Platt County Missouri when the truck broke down and his wife decided to have their ninth child in the back of the pickup. Out of money and vehicle and with another mouth to feed, plus a sickly wife he got a job on a farm for less than the going wage but a house was thrown in to the mix. He thought according to what my grandmother could remember that he would only be there just long enough to scratch some money together to fix his truck and continue their westward migration. However his wife was bitten by a brown spider and given the medical treatment available at the time and an already sickly condition due to her last child being born under less than desired circumstance she died. He was left with nine children ranging from ages 10 years old to three months. His dream of Oregon had busted.

It soon became obvious that he was not going to be able to take care of them all and with the help and guidance from the local child welfare agency of Platt County the children were placed in foster homes, no two children being placed with any one family.

Except for the youngest three, my grandmother included, all the brothers and sisters lost track of each other for several years there after. My grandmother and her two youngest sisters some how managed to keep in contact and given their very young ages it is remarkable to me that they were able to do so. I guess they had the same case worker and he or she stayed on top of things.

While the two youngest children seemed to have been placed in stable homes, my grandmother bounced from one foster home to the next for the next several years. By the time she was entering the sixth grade at Mt Washington Elementary School,( the same school I went to years later,) she had moved in with one of her older sisters who had left the foster care system and married.

Times were tough and when grandmother was in the seventh grade her brother-in-law told her that she was going to have to drop out of school, get a job and help pay her own way if she wanted to continue to live with them.

The next day the school principal, Mr. Ritter, noticed that Tennessee, my grandmother’s name then and the cause of much teasing by classmates, was up set. She told him about her having to drop out of school. With the help of the principal at Sugar Creek, Mr. Stone, and the county welfare agency they placed her in another foster home. Her new foster parents were pretty well-to-do and it just so happened that the foster family was also named Stone, the lady of which was always referred to as Mother Stone when I would be told a story or two growing up. Others in the family called her Nono, a name apparently given her by my dad.

Her new home came with a new foster sister, a foster cousin, her own bedroom, and a new name, Marie.

Given the fact that she was now in an upper middle class well-to-do family that thought education important, her future looked bright. She continued her schooling for a few more years but then my grandfather showed up. He had just returned to Independence from his time in the army and he was a dashing blade. He jauntily wore a round straw hat, a blue blazer, and white trousers and had a job. He was considered to be quite the catch among the local females looking for husbands at the time. He zeroed in on Marie against the wishes of Mother Stone but like in most cases the wisdom of adults was no match for the passions of youth. They were married two years later.

Family Secrets - Mr. Truman

2017-12-01T11:18:00.004-08:00

Family Secrets – Mr. Truman

When I tell people I come from Independence, depending on their age, they always say something like, “Ah, yes the home of President Truman. I always say yes. I tell them that Independence is famous for Harry Truman, Jessie James, and Joseph Smith and “there was not much difference between two of them, take your pick.” That always got a laugh.

I go on to tell them about how often I saw Mr. Truman, (as those of us in the know refer to him) and they are always thrilled by my accounts. When they return to wherever they are from I suspect they tell everyone they met this guy who seemed like he and President Truman were best friends.

The truth of the matter is that I only saw Mr. Truman one time and that was in a limousine he was riding in with President Johnson the day he (Johnson) signed the Medicaid or Medicare Bill at the Truman Library and then just briefly.

I did know a lot of people who knew him very intimately and their stories about him were the foundations of mine. My grandfather did get Mr. Truman to sign my Masonic membership card via the bodyguard and I did drive by his house many times. I was also once the Executive Officer of his old Battery D artillery unit, but that was about the size of his involvement with the “Old Man (the name used by the local politicians when referring to him.) My mother on the other hand had a much more interesting contact with him.

Mom and Mr. Truman lived on the same street. She would walk south along

Delaware street

to catch the bus down town and most every morning he would go on his famous walks north along Delaware. They would pass and he would always tip his hat and say, “Good morning mam.” She would nod and say, “Good morning Mr. President.”

One day he stopped her and said that he had been passing by her almost every morning for the last several months and wanted to know where she was always going and what she did. She told him she was a telephone operator in Kansas City and she caught the bus each day on Truman Road by his house.

There was an awkward silence and mom said “And what is you do now?” He responded, “Not much really.”

Every morning there after when they passed one another Mr. Truman would tip his hat and say, “Good morning telephone lady,” and then she would respond, “Good morning Mr. Truman."