You Can Go Home Again (Step 1)

This has been a difficult story to write (actually rewrite) because there is so much information to include, yet I am also trying (but failing) to keep it from becoming too insanely long (my usual problem). I wrote the rough draft of this story in late 2003, which was a bad time for me to try to put anything in writing, even grocery lists. In addition to that, once I write something poorly, it is very difficult for me to change my perspective in order to rewrite it. Why? Because the poorly written version gets stuck in my head again every time I reread it in order to rewrite it. Of course, it also doesn't help that I've forgotten a lot of the finer details of the story after 30 years (I never ever thought I would forget anything when I was younger). Luckily, I still have the rough drafts of two or three letters I wrote at that time to help me out with some parts of this story (one of the few benefits of growing up as a packrat).

The Story
When last we met, I had just purchased a 1974 Mustang II. The date was April 7, 1978. The location was western Nebraska. The purchase was the result of an event that had taken place a couple of weeks earlier. This is the story of that event.

Brief Summary of 1976-1978
As previously mentioned, my family moved from "Earling County," South Dakota, to "Snobbytown," Nebraska, in July 1976, when I was 15. By the time the main part of this story takes place, I had spent two long, miserable years among the unfriendly, cold-hearted kids of this town (1).

I used to be a very stubborn person when it came to trying to make friends; therefore, it took me a long time to learn my lesson and stop trying to make friends with these kids (so no one can say that I did not try). More importantly -- as far as this story goes -- the more I tried and failed to make friends, the more unforgiving I became toward my parents for having put me in this situation without giving me any say in the matter (thankfully, a lot of parents are not like that anymore). Even worse, they refused to care that I was being treated like an outcast here. Whenever I mentioned it to them, they usually told me I was probably doing something to make them not like me (I'm sure we all remember how frustrating it was as kids when our parents didn't believe us; but aside from this one particular quirk, my parents were very decent to me). [Note: Years after I graduated from high school my dad finally admitted to me that he had hated it here as much as I had and that he had actually believed me when I told him what the kids were like here (because the adults weren't any better). I did my best (which was not very good) to restrain myself as I asked him, "Then why didn't we move!!!!???" He replied, "Because at that time I was too proud to admit that I had made a mistake and that you had been right." As frustrating as his answer was, it was also a relief to hear it because it proved that I had been right all along (I had given him two warnings that proved to be accurate even before we moved here). For the record, my dad was a master at getting along with almost everyone in those days, so if he had failed here, then I knew I had never stood a chance.]

Taking Matters into My Own Hands: The Story Begins
In the fall of 1977, when I was a junior in high school, I brazenly started making plans to go back to Earling County for a visit during spring break in March 1978. By that time, I had concluded that a short visit would be better than never going back at all. My plan, such as it was, involved a long-term psychological strategy that was designed to convince my parents to let me make the 630-mile roundtrip by myself since they refused to take me. Yes, it was quite a radical fantasy for a teenager, but I felt that I had nothing to lose by trying.

My strategy worked this way: I would simply begin acting as if I was going, no matter what, just as an adult would act. I figured if I did that on a very consistent basis over the course of the next few months, then they couldn't help but be subconsciously affected by my positive attitude, whereupon they would simply let me go. My approach to using this tactic was simple: Whenever there was a practical reason to bring up the subject, I would say in the most matter-of-fact nonchalant, subtle, mature tone of voice that I could muster, "WHEN I go back to South Dakota during spring break..."

I never said, "IF I go...," or "IF you let me go..." I always said, "WHEN I go..." (2).

I had chosen spring break because Earling County High School didn't have spring breaks, which meant I would be able to go to school every day for the entire week as a guest and see all of my old friends (and the many, many beautiful girls) in one place.

Did I really think it would work? Let's just say that I wasn't going to hold my breath; but in those days I still believed in miracles, so I went ahead with my plan full force and was determined never to give up, no matter how hopeless it might seem.

By January 1978, I was so deeply into it (mentioning my "for-sure trip" to my parents every chance I got) that I had actually convinced myself that I was going. In fact, on January 19, I wrote to an old best friend (who, coincidentally, had moved away from Earling County a few weeks after I did in 1976): "I am going to positively, absolutely go to [Earling] County on spring break (for one week)..." I wrote the same prediction to one or two other people over the course of the next month or so. My parents had given me no indication that they were even thinking about letting me go, but that was just a minor detail. I still had plenty of time to get them to say yes.

Additional Strategy: Practice Runs

On January 8, 1978, a week and a half before I wrote the above letter, I had talked my dad into letting me take his pickup, a 1971 Ford four-wheel drive (with no power steering, no power bakes, no cruise control) on a "short" excursion.

1971 Ford four-wheel-drive pickup; Pretty, isn't it? ;-)

Actually, my asking him to let me borrow his pickup for a short trip was not a terribly huge deal. He had let me borrow it several times when we lived in South Dakota (for trips of five or ten miles each). At that time I was only 14 and 15 years old. In fact, I had learned how to drive in this same pickup when I was 10 or 11 (and, no, I did not enjoy it, although it definitely paid off in the long run). On this newest occasion, I told my dad I was going in search of long-abandoned farms in Sioux County, NE, which was the truth (old-house exploration is the reason I had borrowed the pickup in South Dakota, too). But I had an additional plan that I did not mention to him. [Note: Below is a picture of me on January 6, 1978, two days before I went on my Sioux County excursion. I actually have a picture of me driving the pickup during that trip, but my chipmunk cheeks look pathetic in it, so this one will have to do (I will only leave it here for a short time, for obvious reasons).]

MW at work in the produce department of a

local grocery store. The person taking

the picture, a co-worker, was one of the

few really nice kids in the region,

hence my sincere smile, but he

attended another school.

A kid from Snobbytown High went on my Sioux County excursion with me (the only time we ever did anything together). Like my dad, he had no idea that I had an additional plan. After we had explored a couple of long-abandoned houses about 30 miles from Snobbytown (and a building that may have been an old post office), I told him that it would be "fun" to drive all the way to the South Dakota border (a distance of roughly 100 miles from Snobbytown) before returning home. He wasn't overly thrilled with the idea, but he didn't protest loudly enough to make me change my mind (probably why he never did anything with me again either ;-).

The sun was starting to set by the time we were about twenty miles from the border. At about the same time, we drove into a thick fog that was like driving into a wall. In the fog and darkness I took a wrong turn on one of the back roads (I guess my map wasn't very useful in foggy darkness ;-), and I ended up having to turn back when I was about three miles from the border (by my best guess). After we drove out of the fog again, it snowed on us all the way home; however, there was not much wind, and it was far too cold for it to stick to the highway, so I actually enjoyed the drive on that dark, nearly deserted two-lane highway. Not long after I arrived home, I bravely told my dad how far I had gone, because I wanted him to know -- for future reference -- that I knew how to "take care of myself" on the road. He took it well (at least I don't remember getting in trouble).

In fact, he was obviously so okay with it that he let me go on a similar trip two weeks later: On February 4, 1978, I convinced him to let me drive the pickup to Hot Springs, SD (map), which happens to be roughly 30 or 40 miles beyond where I had driven (roughly speaking) the first time. Once in Hot Springs, a friend of mine from school (a real rarity in Snobbytown) and I were supposed to spend the night with his grandparents before returning home the next day. The trip went very well, and we had fun being as free as adults; however his grandparents weren't home when we got there, so we ended up spending the night in the pickup in a motel parking lot, and we definitely froze our rear ends off!! (You'd think...)

[Musical Note: Shortly after we arrived back in town from the long trip and were driving through a residential area, this song, one of my favorites at the time (I still love it), played on the radio. For some reason I have never forgotten this bit of trivia. It was in the Top 40 at the time.]

By early March, my psychological tactic and my now proven ability to drive long distances seemed to be having an effect on my dad. He was still no where near letting me drive to "Earling County" for an entire week, but he did seem somewhat less resistant and less argumentative whenever I brought it up (or maybe he was just ignoring me ;-). Whatever his mindset really was, I continued my efforts with as much (or maybe even more) intensity than ever before.

Small (but Necessary?) Kink in My Plans
For some reason (maybe I was afraid to go alone? or maybe I felt empathy? or both?), I asked another kid, "Joe," if he wanted to go with me, even though we weren't friends. Joe had moved to Snobbytown from "Van Camp," SD (not its real name), the previous summer. He disliked it here as much as I did (and for the very same reasons), so I thought he might enjoy getting a chance to go home too. I told him that if he could get someone to come to Earling County from Van Camp to pick him up (a distance of 50 miles), then he could go with me. He eagerly agreed. Unbelievably, his parents agreed to let him go with me before mine had even agreed to let me go -- if they agreed to let me go. You can be sure that I used their permission for their son as ammunition in my own efforts to get my dad to let me go.

Bet 'cha Can't Guess...
I very briefly described the sequence of events in a letter to my old best friend (and maybe exaggerated a little, as only a kid would exaggerate, regarding the arguments): "In January, I asked 'Joe' if he would like to go along... He jumped [at the chance] in a second. So I made plans, worked out a schedule and got into a heck of a lot of arguments with my family on how I was to get there... Finally, on the very last day before spring break, I persuaded my dad to let me have the pickup!"

In spite of the blatantly leading title of this entry, did you honestly think my dad would really let me go? Needless to say, I was thrilled beyond words.

One of the last things my mom said to me before I received permission to go (or after?) was, "You can never go home again. Those kids probably won't care about you anymore."

I didn't believe her because I had the letters to prove otherwise.

Hot Springs Lesson: Not Learned
Being a kid, I still managed to skip one minor detail during my months-long planning. It was the part part where I bothered to inform my friends in Earling County that I might be coming to stay with them. I think part of the reason I made this error in judgment was because I was afraid no one would offer to let me stay with them, even though one of my best friends, "Kevin Patterson," had already invited me several times in his letters. The other part (actually it was the biggest part) had to do with the silly notion that I wanted to surprise them by showing up on their doorsteps after driving the whole way by myself. Or maybe I didn't want to get my friends' hopes up, just in case my parents refused to let me go.

The Day of Departure
Finally, the day of departure arrived. One month afterward, I wrote the following to my old best friend: "At 6:00 a.m., Saturday, March 18, we left!! I couldn't believe I was going! All the way there, 'Joe' and I talked like best friends. [The only difficulty] was that his first track meet of the season was to take place on Friday during spring break [back in Snobbytown]. So I said I would call him on Wednesday [to plan our return to Nebraska]. He [said he] could have cared less about the meet... It was the coach that made him nervous... At 11:30 AM, I dropped him off [at "Herron," the designated location in eastern Earling County. His friend was already there waiting to drive him to Van Camp.]"

Did I mention that I was "a bit" annoyed with Joe's last-second announcement regarding a track meet? Well, I definitely was. Joe had neglected to tell me about the meet at any time prior to our departure. I was angry that I now had to return to the miserable Snobbytown two days sooner than I had planned. I had waited two years for this trip and had been planning it for several months. I wasn't thrilled to have an unexpected, last-minute announcement shorten it. Joe should have changed his plans to accommodate me, not the other way around, especially at this late date.

First Official Stop
After dropping 'Joe' off with his friend, I drove back to "Earling," the town in which I had lived from 1970 to 1976 (ages 9 to 15). I shouldn't have stopped there at all because "Kevin Patterson," the friend with whom I hoped to stay, lived 35 miles northwest of "Earling."

My letter continues: "[In Earling, I] saw Tom working in [his parents' grocery] store. He was nicer and friendlier than ever before. I talked with him and Ken and some others until 4:00 PM. Tom asked me to go to the recreation hall (formerly the movie theater) with him that night to visit (so did Ken). [But I didn't have time for that.] I then left for 'Kevin Patterson's' farm because in his letters he was always [inviting me] to stay with him."

The "Fun" Begins
I drove 23 miles west on pavement, then I turned onto a gravel road to drive the remaining 12 miles. Due to the spring thaw, the gravel roads were very muddy, and it was very slow going. After the long drive up that very muddy road, not to mention the really long drive from Nebraska, I was very disheartened to find no one home at the Patterson farm. I later wrote to my old best friend: "I went to their place, but no one was home. I parked right at the edge of their driveway because it looked like a recently drained ocean up there. But I got stuck [anyway], and it took me twenty minutes to get out using two boards."

In order to get unstuck, I had put the pickup in four-wheel drive and then placed the boards under one or two wheels to get some traction. After several attempts, I made it back onto the gravel road.

Leaving it in four-wheel drive, I then drove a half mile north of the Patterson farm and turned east onto a roller-coaster road that consisted more of dirt than of gravel. I chose this muddy route -- very hesitantly -- because it was the shortest route to the farm of "Calvin and Charlie Nelson," twin brothers who had also been best friends of mine. By taking this road, I only had to drive five miles. If I had taken the only marginally safer route, I would have had to drive 30 miles. I took the two boards with me in case I got stuck again. A month after my visit, I wrote of my decision to take this road: "Then I was a nut and took the shortcut road between Patterson's and Nelson's."

I made it roughly one mile before I got stuck again, this time at the bottom of a small valley where the mud was much worse than it was on the slopes and peaks. I had already successfully raced through one or two or three similar muddy bottoms, but this one was the worst of the bunch, and I got stuck about half way through it. The more I spun the wheels to try to get out (and in spite of using the boards again), the pickup continued to slide ever closer to the steep ditch on the driver's side. For some reason the wheels on only one side of the pickup were working. After ten minutes of struggle, and with the driver's-side wheels now only inches away from going into the ditch, suddenly all four wheels kicked into gear. The pickup lurched free of its very precarious spot. You cannot imagine how relieved I was. It would have been terrible to have been stuck in a deep ditch thirteen miles from the nearest town and five and a half hours from my home with night approaching and neither the Pattersons nor the Nelsons knowing I was in their midst. Another farm was located near the spot where I had gotten stuck, but I didn't know the people who lived there, and I certainly didn't want to have to bother them.

I carefully nursed the pickup the remaining four miles (thankfully, all of which was flat) to the Nelson farm and happily knocked on their door. To my utter dismay, no one was home there either!

I was becoming quickly disillusioned, not to mention very nervous. Evening was rapidly approaching, and there was no one else I knew who would invite me to stay with them for a week. And I had no choice but to stay in Earling County because Joe, who was now comfortably situated in his hometown, would not have been able to return to Nebraska without me (at least not without a lot of difficulty). With just a bit of panic starting to set in, I waited for my friends to come home. I wasn't about to drive back to the Patterson farm on that terrible road, and I didn't want to drive the long way around for fear that the Nelsons would return as soon as I left and the Pattersons still wouldn't be home. After an hour of waiting, I gave up and drove the sixteen miles to "Annin" (where "Earling County High School" is located). I didn't know what I was going to do. I felt completely lost. How could I have been so stupid as to not tell anyone I was coming?

Arrival in "Annin"
In my letter a month later, I described what happened (without telling my friend how terribly worried I was): "When I got to Nelson's, no one was home, so I waited for an hour. No one came, and I was starved, so I decided to go to Annin to eat. When I got there, it was 6:00 PM, so I thought I would take a look at the school before it got dark [sunset was at 6:50 PM, Central Time]. As I was coming down the [side] road [from the school] toward "Pete's" Bar [which was located on Main Street], I saw two kids running across the street into [Pete's]. One was a little slower, and I knew that it was Calvin Nelson by his gorilla walk [I was exaggerating a little, of course]. I acted like I was going to hit him with the pickup. When I got within ten feet, he finally recognized me, and all he could say was, 'MW!'"

Think about this for a moment: There were approximately 800 people living in Annin in 1978, yet I had managed to stumble into Calvin and Charlie Nelson completely by accident only one minute after I had arrived. If I had not decided -- completeely on a pointless whim -- to go out of my way to look at the school before going to the restaurant, I would not have found them. I could not believe my good fortune. My relief was immense. I quickly parked and joined Calvin. Charlie had already disappeared into the bar without seeing me. Calvin and I joined him.

Securing Lodging
I learned that Pete's was a hangout for the younger adult crowd (18 being the legal drinking age in South Dakota in those days) and minors. Underage kids were allowed to hang out in the south half of Pete's, drinking pop, eating snacks and playing pool or pinball. The City Bar, on the other hand, was generally considered the hangout for older people (it was -- is -- located one door south of Pete's, just across the side street). Calvin and Charlie and their mom, "Dora," had gone into the City Bar just as I was arriving in town (not a scandalous thing in tiny western towns where there are only one or two places for people to get together to visit). The boys had not wanted to hang out with the older crowd so they were on their way to Pete's when I ran into them. If I had driven down that road five seconds earlier or later, I would have missed them.

While we were in Pete's, Calvin and Charlie asked me what I was doing in Annin. I explained that I had come to visit for the week because it was Snobbytown's spring break. They asked me where I was staying. I explained in so many formal-sounding words that I hadn't completely made that determination yet, hoping they would take the bait. They did. They immediately "dragged" me to the City Bar, where they presented me to their mother and then proceeded to "charm" her into allowing me to stay with them. It wasn’t necessary. Dora would have said yes, no matter what, and meant it with all her heart (she had known me since I was 9). She is, and has always been, one of the most generous ladies in the United States.

I hadn’t felt such intense relief in a long, long time. I had come very close to living as a transient in the freezing March weather that night -- and maybe even for the next week (at least those were the fears that had been going through my 17-year-old mind). I did not know who else to ask to take me in for a whole week. There really wasn't anyone else that I would have wanted to stay with, or who would have invited me to stay with them (maybe Tom or Ken in Earling for a night or two, but not for an entire week; besides, I had definitely not come here to stay with them).

An hour or three later, I followed the Nelsons back to their farm. We spent the rest of the weekend on their farm having as much fun as possible. I later wrote to my old best friend: "On Sunday we had to clip cow's ears (90 head). All Calvin and I did was push a few cows into the chute [every so often] and then sit and talk for a while."

I loved every minute of being on that farm, where life was so much more fulfilling and relaxing and contented. You name it.

Going to School
On Monday, I rode to school with Calvin and Charlie. I asked the principal (who was new to me) if it was OK for me to attend classes as a guest that week. He said that was fine. In April 1978, I wrote: "Then came Monday morning, and I was as nervous as a cow. We drove into town that morning, and the first person I saw as I walked into the school was 'Lorraine' [a former classmate] who acted surprised and happy to see me (she is now married to 'K.R.M.' - they're parents) [FYI: Parenthood in high school in Earling County was extremely rare]. Then I went into the hall and saw Kristi, who was sitting on the floor. I tapped her with my foot, so she would look up, and when she did she stared a second until she recognized me, and she said, 'Well, hello! Where've you been!?' Then I saw 'Sareena' and died 10,000 deaths on the spot! She is so beautiful. I went to classes with Calvin for the first five periods; then I went to the gym to watch the girls practice track for the last two periods. Everybody, and I mean everybody, was so friendly that I never wanted to leave again. That was about all I did [for the rest of the week]."

At one point that first morning, "Sarah," a younger sister of Sareena, and upon whom I had had an unrequited crush in junior high, hurried up to me in the hallway. She had heard I was back and wanted to see for herself if it was true. After I greeted her, the first thing she said (with a hint of awe) was, "Gosh, your voice is so much deeper!" I felt honored that she had come to see me. I did, however, quickly learn that she was, after two long years, still dating our fellow classmate, "T.E." They never got married to one another, though.

Initially, Kevin Patterson didn't seem very happy to see me, possibly because I had not stayed with him. I pretended not to notice his cold-shoulder treatement and visited with him as much as possible during some free time in one class. I explained that I had stopped at his house first and that I had even gotten stuck in his driveway and then again about a mile northeast of his house. He eventually warmed up and became as friendly as ever.

What My Trip Home Was Really All About
In fact, I spent a day or more at Kevin's farm. I was very happy to discover that he still had the best sense of humor in the United States.

AND! -- and this is what the trip was really all about! -- Laughter is the best medicine. And I needed huge doses of it after living in totally humorless Snobbytown for two years (NOT an exaggeration). During the time I was around Kevin I laughed as I hadn’t laughed in ages. I laughed with great gusto and sincerity and humor until I couldn’t keep my face straight for any length of time without squeezing the sides of my mouth together with my hand. Even as I laughed continuously and uncontrollably, I was aware of just how much I needed to laugh. I felt myself "healing" (so to speak) by leaps and bounds every time Kevin uttered a syllable.

One of the most memorable moments of the entire vacation came while Kevin was driving me back to the Nelson farm on that muddy back road. Of course, as is true of reading a movie script, the following brief converation will not be funny in print, especially as written by me 30 years after the fact, but, as delivered by Kevin at the time, it was hilarious. That notorious road between the Patterson farm and the Nelson farm contains several 90-degree curves.

As Kevin approached the first curve at about 40 mph, with no indication that he was planning to slow down, I panicked and said, "The sign says ‘15 mph'!"

Kevin replied, "Aw hell. If the government had its way, they'd have us get out and push our cars around these corners."

I began laughing uncontrollably, and I couldn't quit. I think I laughed for another mile or two (at 40 mph). Eventually, I knew I had probably laughed too much according to Kevin’s standards, but I couldn't stop; so I turned my head toward the passenger window and continued to laugh silently for the remainder of the drive. With each exhalation, I laughed hysterically yet silently. As I inhaled, I could feel the next laugh not wanting to wait its turn. With each laughing breath, I felt my well being increase exponentially. Oh, how I had missed all the creative kids of Earling County!

A Rare Bit of Unrepentant Selfishness on My Part
In fact, I had missed those kids so much, and I was having such a wonderful time "recuperating" among them that I got really selfish and did what many would consider a terrible thing. I didn't call Joe in Van Camp on Wednesday, as I had promised. Instead, I called him on Friday, the very day of his Snobbytown track meet. I had made him miss it, and I didn't feel bad about it at all, which was a first for me. Until that week, I would never have considered doing such a selfish thing. However, he had made it abundantly clear during our drive to Earling County that he didn't care about the meet. It was that statement that gave me the courage to be selfish.

Returning to Snobbytown
I wrote to my old friend: "They didn't have school Friday (dang bust it!!). I was having so much fun that I never did call Joe in Van Camp until Friday, so he missed his meet. We left at 6:00 AM [Saturday, March 25] from "Herron" [where I picked up Joe] (which means I got up at 5:00 AM). He didn't sleep that night, and since he was mad at me, he slept all the way back. The last thing he said to me as he got out of the pickup at his house was, 'I hate Snobbytown! There's nothing nice here!' Everything I had done for him since last fall no longer mattered. He was mad because I made him miss a track meet that he didn't care about. I even told his coach that it was my fault, but he still isn't friendly anymore."

That coach was definitely mad at me (so mad that it necessary for me to transfer out of his history class to another history class for the remainder of the year!), but I didn't care about him in the least! Nor did I care whether or not Joe liked me anymore because we hadn't really been friends prior to the trip. I just knew that he had loved the "extra two days" in South Dakota as much as I had, so he shouldn't have been mad at me. If it hadn't been for me, he wouldn't have had those two extra days to remember for the rest of his life.

Conclusion
Having been completely free for one week had a major effect on me. I could never again be the dependent kid I had always been before. I wanted to continue to have control of my own life (as much as possible). On March 31, 1978, one week after returning from Earling County, I went car hunting (on my tiny motorcycle) and saw a 1974 Mustang II at a local car dealership -- the very sort of car I had long dreamt of owning. I went home and got my dad to go back with me in his pickup. The two of us then visited with the salesman. I was allowed to test drive it for a week, and I bought it on April 7, 1978, for $1,450.00.

On May 31, 1978, my parents let me drive my new car to the northern Black Hills of South Dakota to visit my old best friend (the one to whom I had written the letter I used throughout this entry). I was only able to stay for two days because I had to return to work, but it was still great to be free to go whenever I chose to do so (relatively speaking).

I shall tell you all about "Breaking Free, Step 3" this summer.

[Musical Note: I shall always associate two top 40 songs from the week of March 18-25, 1978, with my amazing visit to Earling County. This one played on the radio just as I was struggling to wake up at 5 AM to return to Nebraska (among other times). This one played one night as we were driving around the countryside talking about girls. They were both in the Top 40 at the time.] 

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Footnotes
1.) I want to make it very clear that not all kids in western Nebraska are like the ones in Snobbytown. In fact, this town even has a reputation in the region for its snobbishness. I've heard this from several people, including one just two days ago who grew up here and then lived in other places as an adult. Here is another example: In about 2001, a new teacher was hired to teach in the school where I used to work. That school is in a town about an hour from Snobbytown (also in western Nebraska). The new teacher had lived in Snobbytown since about 1991, so his two daughters, both in their early teens, had spent their entire school lives here. They had never known anything different. The first day of school that year was only a half day long. After the final class let out for the day, I was standing in the hallway with two or three teachers, including the new teacher (whom I had actually had known when he lived in Snobbytown; in fact, it was he who had convinced me to take the job at that school back in 1998). His 8th-grade daughter saw us as she got out of class and raced quickly up to us with two or three other girls in tow (her new friends). She had a huge smile on her face. Her father asked her, "So, how do you like it here?" She replied, almost shouting with glee, "I like it waaaayyy better than Snobbytown!!!"

I forgot I was an adult at that moment and let out a huge whoop of agreement! Further vindication! ;-D

P.S. Just in case you're about to ask, no, I have no [expletive] idea what I am still doing in Snobbytown. Life doesn't always work out as we would wish.

2.) Regarding my psychological strategy to get my parents to let me drive to Earling County: For some inexplicable reason, I had come to embrace the idea that you could manipulate other people's thoughts with trickery when I was 8 or 9 years old. One day in about 1969, I found a brochure on the Cosmos, a famous tourist attraction in the Black Hills of South Dakota. I was instantly fascinated. The brochure had pictures and also explained that the laws of physics do not apply there (the brochure also used words that I could understand). In the Cosmos, balls appear to roll uphill; tall people appear to be shorter than short people, etc. I desperately wanted to experience these phenomena for myself, but I knew my parents would probably say no. So, while they were not at home one day, I packed both of their suitcases for them, hoping that would make it seem "easier" for us just to get in the car and go. When they got home, I showed them their suitcases and tried my psychology on them. They were very amused and maybe even a little impressed, but they didn't take me.

After that failure, it didn't occur to me to use that sort of psychology on them again until late 1977, shortly after I saw a fascinating portrayal of that trickery in a certain landmark movie. That trickery takes place in this short exchange. ;-) Now don't laugh, because it worked for me!

Thirty Years Ago Today - Breaking Free (Step 2)

In case you're wondering, "Step 1" will follow this post. I didn't get it posted in time on its anniversary, even though I tried. In hindsight, I'm halfway okay with that because "Step 2" provides a good lead in to "Step 1."

Step 2

On April 7, 1978 -- thirty years ago today -- I bought this car:

1974 Mustang II, Mach I, Hatchback

It was my favorite type of car in those days, and, as simple and low-budget as it may look to some people, I still love it. I took this picture on April 5, 1978, while it was sitting in my driveway. By then, I had been test driving it for six days (can you believe an auto dealership would let a 17-year-old high-school student test drive a car for that long?).

I paid a grand total of $1,450 (plus interest to the bank, of course, and entirely out of my own pocket), which I thought was a pretty good deal for a four-year-old car (well, maybe five years old, since it was possibly manufactured in 1973). They even replaced that little yellow plastic "gas cap" with a real one ;-), although it only had the gray undercoating since I didn't want to pay a small fortune to have them paint it to match the color of the car.

My purchase of this car was a direct result of an event that had taken place a couple of weeks earlier. That event -- "Breaking Free (Step 1)" -- shall be the subject of my next post.

My ownership of this car also resulted in a really HUGE event -- to be known as "Breaking Free (Step 3)" -- that took place in the summer of 1978. I still find it hard to believe that such an event as "Step 3" ever got past the wishful-thinking phase. I shall tell you that story in another 30th-anniversary post.

Fast Forward to the End

Sadly, this great little Mustang breathed its last on November 25, 1981 (but not in an accident). On that day, I had just left South Dakota State University in Brooking, SD, for the 500-mile drive to western Nebraska for Thanksgiving vacation. Another Nebraska Panhandle resident, "Tim," was carpooling with me, as was "Jennie," a resident of a town in eastern Wyoming. Just twelve miles south of Brookings, on Interstate 29, something in my engine went clank, and my car began losing power. I was only able to go another mile or so before it came to a halt. A tow truck brought it -- and us -- back to Brookings, whereupon we all got in "Tim's" car (coincidentally, a 1976 Mustang) and drove to western Nebaska. This is one of those times in which one must look on the bright side: We were all extremely lucky that my car had died only 12 miles out of town instead of 150 miles out.

My car sat in the university parking lot behind my dorm for the remainder of the school year. My dad then came with his pickup and a trailer and brought it -- and me -- back to Nebraska. I had hoped to get it fixed, but everyone was very pessimistic when I described what had happened. Most of them said it would probably need a new engine. That killed my enthusiasm for taking it somewhere for a professional opinion, especially since I would have had to pull it there (my dad was already living far away in western South Dakota). So I just let it sit in a weed patch and turn to rust. Yes, I felt bad about treating it so poorly after it had done so much for me. Yet, on the other hand, it had definitely done more for me than I had ever dreamed it would, so I still feel it was worth every penny I paid for it.

Impressionist Photography and a Musical Memory

Song Title: Back Home Again
Artist: John Denver
Date that it entered the Top 100: September 21, 1974
Peaked at No. 5 on: November 16, 1974, and remained there for two weeks.
Left the Top 100 on: December 28, 1974
Picture below taken in: August 1974 (around the time that I would have first heard Back Home Again)

Yes, at first glance, this is just a blurry, imperfectly colored, low-quality picture. At least that was my first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth impressions. I cannot tell you how disappointed I was last August when I scanned the negative and finally got to see this picture for the first time since taking it 33 years earlier (almost to the week). I had been given a once-in-a-childhood opportunity to go to the top of the tallest structure in several counties (the grain elevator) and take some pictures of the little town in which I lived.

And what did I do? Not only did I very foolishly take only one picture, but I took it with a cheap, defective camera, and I blurred it! Or maybe the shutter was defective. I don't know.

Of course, I can never go back and recapture this scene, because the past is gone, and too much of that scene is also gone, including my old home (that being the nearest building in the center foreground with my dad's blue 1971 Ford FWD pickup parked beside it; we lived in its downstairs living quarters from April 1972, to March 1975; it was torn down in the 1980s). The latter fact only made my regrets more pronounced.

Nonetheless, I wasn't about to throw this image away. No matter how flawed it might be, it still contains a lot of good memories, and disposing of good memories is a crime in my book. On the other hand, I have almost never shown off my flawed images in public either. So why am I doing it now? I'll try to explain.

Initially, for my own sake, I tried to repair as many of the hundreds of scratches and blemishes in this image as I could. Of course, in so doing, it was necessary to concentrate on every fuzzy detail. Naturally, concentrating so closely on the blurriness only increased my frustration. I was constantly punishing myself for what might have been, if only I had used used my 13-year-old head way back then and taken more than one picture. What had I been thinking wasting such a rare opportunity? Then for some strange reason, as I continued to do my repairs, my perfectionist standards began to weaken. I was beginning not to dislike the flaws as much as I once had. How could that be? Was I possibly starting to get used to it the way it is? Or was I rationalizing? Or was the surrealist in me being influenced by the spirit of some 19th-century impressionist painter? Whatever it was, the more I studied this image (and reminisced), the more I came to a particular conclusion: This is not really a snapshot of my little town in South Dakota in August 1974. Instead, it is a snapshot of my 33-year-old memory of my little town South Dakota, in August 1974. It's as simple as that, and it feels right.

Just study the specific details of this image for a while (the alley, the yard behind the hotel, the rolling hills in the background, etc.) at the largest size. If you have an open mind, you may see what I mean.

Musical Memory
On September 21, 1974, John Denver's Back Home Again entered the top 100. I was just learning to love music that year. One night when there was no school the next day, I fell asleep on the living-room floor (about 15 or 20 feet directly on the other side of my dad's pickup in the picture above). Occasionally, my parents would let me sleep there the whole night. In those days I used to listen to the radio every night in order to fall asleep (usually 1520 KOMA, Oklahoma City). I always kept the volume at about one decibel above inaudible. If it was any louder than that, it would eventually wake me up in the middle of the night in a most unpleasant way.

There were, however several songs in those days that frequently woke me up in a most pleasant way (but only if the volume was extremely low). One night when I was sleeping peacefully in a sleeping bag on the living-room floor, Back Home Again started playing. It must have been about 3 AM. It woke me up in that perfectly peaceful middle-of-the-night way that is impossible to describe. I lay there, three-fourths-asleep, and listened to the lyrics. Somehow, certain parts struck me as a perfect description of the life I was living at that time. Since I lived near Interstate 90, the particular lyrics that affected me most were, "There's a truck out on the four-lane a mile or more away..." and later, "There's a fire softly burnin', supper's on the stove..."

I lay there at age 13 and listened to that song and felt perfectly protected in my little world. It was a magically simple night that I have never forgotten.

Pop-Culture Nostalia

Fermicat unintentionally gave me the idea for this post, after I unintentionally gave her the idea for this post. For some reason, we seem to be jogging each other's memories of 1970s trivia lately. I originally compared a photo of her cat, Moxy, to the famous "Keep On Truckin'" poster of the early 1970s, which, in turn, somehow made her remember Topp's Wacky Packages trading cards (and I now see that Kathleen has an interesting story to tell in Fermi's comments section).

When Fermi wrote about Wacky Packages, I couldn't remember that name at all (and I still cannot), but I immediately remembered the look because I own a bunch of similar "packages." The only difference is that mine are in sticker form instead of trading-card form.

I have zero recollection of buying these stickers because I would normally never have wasted my money (which I earned as a three-hour-a-week school janitor) on pictures that took only five or ten seconds to enjoy before you were finished with them, and I certainly didn't like gum either (which is how these stickers were packaged). I had much more useful items to purchase with my money in those days, like comic books, camera film and an occasional 10¢ candy bar or a 25¢ bag of Dorito's chips.

Yet it seems apparent that I acquired them somehow. I have a very strong feeling that my stickers probably came free inside boxes of breakfast cereal; however, I cannot find any proof of this on the internet.

The picture below (which I just scanned today after reading Fermi's post last night) shows a few of those stickers on the front cover of my tablet from my freshman year of high school (1975-76) in South Dakota. Yes, I still have that tablet for some reason, probably because I was a nostalgic pack rat for far too many years (although I'm glad I was one/am one). Even though my tablet was used mostly during the 1975-76 school year, all of my stickers (I have just learned) are from the 14th Series, which was mostly sold between April and June of 1975.

Also, at the bottom of the tablet, you will notice my initials (with the rest of my name erased in Photoshop). The item in front of the "W" (actually, it's at the end of my first name) is a star. Also, the lone sticker at the bottom right is really on the back cover of the tablet.

I also have a relatively large sheet of construction paper somewhere in the house with a bunch of these stickers on them. They are the "originals" of each sticker. The ones on my tablet cover are duplicates (that's the only reason I would have stuck them to something where they could easily be damaged). Today I searched through about fifteen boxes of "heirlooms" for that sheet, which has constantly been IN MY WAY for many years when I didn't want it; but, naturally, now that I want it, it is nowhere to be found (if I could only tell you how often that happens, and how frustrating it is...).

Concluding editorial note: I must admit that I was ambivalent about Wacky Packages even as a teenager. I loved their concept and their look, and I had long been making up my own silly names for people and products in those days, too (still do); however, I didn't think the Wacky Packages humor was even remotely funny most of the time -- some of the time, yes, but not most of the time.

-----

P.S. As for the famous Keep On Truckin' poster, I have always remembered it for two reasons: 1.) It was advertised in every comic book in the early 1970s, and, 2.) when I was in the 8th grade, a very pretty classmate of mine named Kristi (a cheerleader) drew her own unique version of that poster for our 8th-grade basketball team. It said something like, "The Raiders Just Keep On Truckin'." For a while, it hung on the wall at the top of the bleachers in the southwest corner of the gym, and I remember staring at it a lot and being completely amazed that someone so young could have done such a professional job. It is my belief that she did not trace it because her other posters were clearly her own unique creations, and they were just as good. I could be wrong, though.

Taming a Wild Rabbit

The above photo was taken on about August 3, 1983, in front of my dad's new home, fifty miles west of Newcastle, WY (a long, long, loooonnnnggggg way from town), and five very rough, gravely miles north of the Little Thunder Cafe and Gas Station (a veritable oasis in the "desert"). This photo is probably only mildly interesting in its own right, but I have posted it here because it provides you with a view of the environment in which the story takes place. [As for that cone-shaped hill, it certainly looks man made, and it may well be -- possibly abandoned after some long-forgotten construction project; however, I saw several naturally odd-shaped buttes and hills in that desolate landscape, so one cannot jump to conclusions. I even climbed to the top of this hill, and it "felt" natural. So who knows?]

Important Note Regrettably, all of the pictures in the following series (not counting the next picture) were double exposed**. Luckily, the rabbit pictures were taken in the bright outdoors, so they "won out" over the darker, indoor pictures that I had previously taken on this roll. Coincidentally and ironically (and regrettably), some of the original "lost" pictures had been taken four months earlier during my only other visit to this same location. Also lost were the only photographs I ever took at the local auto-supply dealership in which I had worked as a delivery driver (etc.) from March 1980 to April 1983. In fact, some of the store's products (and my old best friend/coworker) are actually partially visible in a couple of the pictures.

The Story Begins
August 10, 1983, "Little Thunder," WY
By this time, I had been visiting my dad for about a week. During the days, I was sometimes left alone in the desolation for several hours while he went to Newcastle. I could have gone with him (he always asked), but I was enjoying the solitude of nature too much to be around people again (I was there to take a break from people). Only my dad's border collie, Belle, remained behind to keep me company. I'm not a big fan of dogs (and was even less so in 1983), but Belle was the nicest, most well behaved and well trained dog I had ever known at that time, and I really liked her.

Today, my dad went to town again. I was once again left alone in the middle of nowhere and was loving every minute of it. The temperature was about 100 degrees, as it had been almost every day since I had arrived. Luckily, there were two man-made dams about 50 feet behind the house. I had already gone swimming once or twice in the nearest dam with Belle, and I decided it was time to go again. In those days, I was a fish in water. I absolutely loved swimming.

As I rounded the corner of the ramshackle company trailer house I grabbed a decent "fetch stick" for Belle. She loved retrieving sticks from the middle of the dam. At that moment, it suddenly occurred to me that I might have even more fun if I had some sort of makeshift raft. I figured a wooden pallet might do the trick, if I could find one. Of course, a pallet wouldn't float above the water with me on it, but it would still have enough buoyancy to keep me somewhat afloat while also keeping me half submerged in the cool water. In other words, it would be a perfect raft on a roasting-hot day.

About fifty or sixty feet northeast of the house was a collection of old oil-field junk. Most of it was located on the north side of two or three huge, empty oil-storage tanks (about 20 or 30 feet tall). If there was a pallet to be found, that's where it would be. I walked around the first oil tank to start looking. Belle was not far behind. In the shade of the tanks and scattered around between the piles of junk were about thirty or forty wild rabbits. They scattered like lightening in every direction when they saw me.

All, except one...

It ran only a few feet and then stopped. I froze in my tracks to avoid scaring it away. I also turned around and quietly ordered Belle back to the house. Without hesitation, she obeyed (how many dogs would do that when there are rabbits to be chased?).

It was obviously a young rabbit. It didn't seem to have much of a problem with my presence. I just stood there watching it, surprised that it had not disappeared like the rest. Within seconds, I began talking to it very softly to let it know I wasn't a threat. Every once in a while, it would quickly hop a short distance further away, but, luckily, it never went further than two or three feet. After letting it get settled in each new spot, I would ever so slowly move closer to it again. At first I remained about eight or ten feet away from it, continuing to talk softly to it. I kept expecting it to disappear for good at any moment, and my fantasy of taming it would come to an end. Then I would continue with my original plan to find a pallet and go swimming.

But soon an hour passed, and we were both still there. Sometime during that hour, I had gotten tired of standing, so I sat on the ground and continued to talk to it. Every time it moved, I would wait a few seconds and then very slowly scoot along the ground with it. At times, it almost seemed to be enjoying my company, or, at the very least, it wasn't bothered. In fact, as you can see in the next picture, I was starting to get really close to it. [And, no, I did not use a telephoto lens in this series.]

I don't remember the timing of the events very well anymore (I used to have them memorized), but, within about ninety minutes, I was actually sitting within two or three feet of the rabbit (as you can see). Every so often, for no apparent reason, its instincts would kick in again, and it would hurriedly hop two or three feet further away from me (obviously, it was a very mild panic), and I would slowly catch up to it again. Luckily, it always remained out in the open, even though there were a lot of great hiding places under all the surrounding junk.

After about three hours of sitting there and talking to the rabbit, I knew I needed to capture this event on film. I had been wanting to get my camera for a while, but I kept putting it off, afraid that my getting up would scare the rabbit away. I also worried that it might disappear while I was gone, even though I knew it would take me no more than a minute or three to get my camera and come back. Or maybe it would finally panic as nature intended when I came around the oil storage tank a second time.

Finally, I decided I had to take the risk because I knew no one would believe me if I told them about this rabbit. I ever so carefully got up and walked at a snail's pace until I was finally out of the rabbit's line of sight. Then I ran like an Olympic sprinter to the trailer to get my camera. This may be when I very hurriedly put in the roll of film that already had about eight or ten pictures on it.

As you can see, the rabbit was still there when I returned with the camera.

I slowly sat down again and resumed my one-sided conversation with it.

I took this series of pictures while continually working my way closer to it, until...

...I was actually able to pet it.

The rabbit only allowed me to pet it for a few seconds at a time before it would hop two or three feet away again. But at least it didn't run completely away; and I was always able to approach it again (while remaining seated) and pet it again for a few seconds.

Day Two
August 11, 1983, "Little Thunder," WY
This morning, I returned to the same spot, and, to my amazement, my rabbit was still there (waiting for me?). No other rabbits were in sight.

It still only let me pet it for a few seconds at a time, but it was obvious that it was enjoying itself, no matter what its instincts may have been telling it. For example, look at its back leg in this next picture. Whenever I scratched it between its ears, its back leg would reflexively kick out to the side in obvious enjoyment.

On this second day, I also decided that I wanted to be in a picture with the rabbit, so I had a friend of my dad take this next one of both of us. I don't remembr why my dad didn't take it himself (maybe he was working or taking a nap when the idea occurred to me, and I didn't want to wait). You'll also notice the carrot I had given to it. I don't remember for sure if it ever tasted it, but it definitely wasn't interested in it (maybe it smelled too "store bought").

You can see that the rabbit is very small compared to me. Its youthfulness and inexperience probably helped to keep it from being too afraid of me; however, when there was such a large herd of rabbits, at least one or three others were probably just as young as this one, yet they all ran.

[Note: I had been feeling very poorly for about two weeks, until a few days before this picture was taken, and I still wasn't entirely over it. To the trained eye (mine), I can see by my haggard face that I still wasn't back to 100 percent. But I had decided that I was going to have a good time, no matter what, and so I did.]

Conclusion
Little Thunder, WY, August 11, 1983
Sunset on a very desolate, yet beautiful landscape. Behind me and to my right (just out of the picture) are the tanks where my rabbit was waiting for me for three days in a row. The day after I took this picture, I returned to my home in Nebraska and never saw the rabbit again.

Footnote
**Maybe you are wondering how a person can double expose a roll of 35mm film. I shall always regret this practice now (chronology fanatic that I am), but, in those days, I occasionally removed a half-used roll of film from my camera (in a very dark closet, of course) and replaced it temporarily with a new roll. At first, there was a practical reason for doing this: I was in photography class at college and occasionally needed to shoot an assignment roll of film. In this case, I did it (I now suddenly think I remember) because an old classmate in college had asked me to take pictures of her boyfriend on the basketball team (there are three pictures of that game on this roll). So I took out this roll of film and put her roll in (however, the sequence of rolls and negatives makes this theory seem wrong, though). I then forgot about this roll of film and used one or two new rolls instead over the next few months. When I finally remembered this roll of film, I had completely forgotten that it already contained the aforementioned pictures (about eight or ten in all). Instead, I decided that it contained only two or three pictures, so I forwarded the film to where I thought the unused portion began (making sure to give myself a little leeway to avoid overlap), and then I took the "Wild Rabbit" pictures.

-ology Survey

It's time for some meaningless writing. I took this survey from Fermicat (and a couple of others in her big circle of blogging friends). It's quite long, as usual, but it's pretty shallow and frivolous in spots, so that should help.

MOUTHOLOGY

Q: What is your salad dressing of choice?

A: No favorites. I like most of them, although I'm not much of a salad eater. The best salad I ever made (and the first one I ever liked) was when I put almost everything on my lettuce that was on the salad bar (I mean all the stuff that is meant to go on lettuce, that is), including several different dressings. I blame my experimentation that night on the hard construction work I had just completed (I was starved) and the two or three strong beers I had just drank. I've never been able to duplicate that perfect salad since then, even though I have tried many times.

Q: What is your favorite fast food restaurant?

A: I don't have a particular favorite anymore (used to be Burger King and Arby's). Most of them (even the pathetic McDonald's) tend to hit the right spot at one time or another. But then on some days I regret having eaten fast food as soon as I'm finished. Oh, for the record, I can definitely say that I don't like KFC and Long John Silver's (especially the latter).

Q: What is your favorite sit down restaurant?

A: By that, I assume the surveyor means "relatively formal." I've been to very few formal restaurants in my life (not counting the relatively high-class one in which I worked for 18 months as a bartender/waiter), so my opinion is probably not the best informed. I ate at an Olive Garden in 1999 for the first time, and I was in awe of my seafood pasta plate, so much so that I dreamed all year long of going back again, and I did (when our school group went back to another technology conference). But Olive Garden is not a realistic option for me. There are only three of them in Nebraska, and all of them are at the opposite end of the state (the location of those conferences). Another one is in Rapid City, SD, four hours north. The closest two, according to Switchboard.com and Google Maps, are in two different towns in Colorado, both of which, coincidentally, are EXACTLY 149 miles away.

Q: On average, what size tip do you leave at a restaurant?

A: It varies, depending on the quality and friendliness of the service. Having once been a bartender/waiter myself who went to great lengths to be fast, courteous and sincerely friendly (in a restaurant that, I am proud to say, excelled at that sort of thing), I know first hand what I might reasonably expect of the people who wait on me. People shouldn't get tipped simply because they are wearing a waiter's or waitress's uniform. I don't care how little actual salary they make. They have to earn those tips. That's what tips were originally supposed to be all about.

Q: What food could you eat every day for two weeks and not get sick of?

A: French fries.

Q: What are your pizza toppings of choice?

A: I like all of them, except green peppers, which once gave me terrible indigestion for two days straight. They don't do that anymore, but I will never be able to forget the awful aftertaste I had for those two days.

Q: What do you like to put on your toast?

A: Butter, jelly, peanut butter, honey.

TECHNOLOGY

Q: What is your wallpaper on your computer?

A: Right now it is the default OS X Tiger background (various shades of blue with a few subtle curving lines). Until last week, it was plain blue. I used to love to set photos as my desktop pictures, but two or three years ago I decided that seeing the same pictures day after day diminished my feelings for them. I also don't like cluttered patterns or photos that have many contrasting parts because that tends to make reading icon titles difficult. They may also be subtly distracting when working with photos in Photoshop.

Q: How many televisions are in your house?

A: No fair. More than two, but only because they became mine by default, not because I wanted them. Except for a few Turner Classic Movies and repeats of "Everybody Loves Raymond," "Andy Griffith," "The Simpsons," "Stargate SG-1" and the most outstanding new series in over a decade, Pushing Daisies, I hardly watch TV anymore. [P.S. It's ironic that the writer's strike occurred at the same time that my favorite new show in over a decade premiered. -- P.P.S. If you haven't seen Pushing Daisies, you will be lost if you tune in now (assuming it comes back on this season). You need to watch all the episodes from the beginning, in order. However, that link above is still well worth a look.]

BIOLOGY

Q: Are you right-handed or left-handed?

A: I'm Left-handed, but I am also fairly ambidextrous because I broke my left arm in 6th and 8th grades and an important bone in my left hand when I was a college sophomore. The latter required me to wear a cast for about three months, believe it or not.

Q: Have you ever had anything removed from your body?

A: Yes.

Q: When was the last time you had a cavity?

A: My teeth are mostly healthy; nonetheless, for all I know, I probably have one or two cavities.

Q: What is the last heavy item you lifted?

A: A full-fledged, heavy living-room chair. I lifted it up onto a storage bench in the garage that is as high as my chest. It was the only practical place to store it so that it would be out of the way (aside from the city dump) while waiting for a family member to come and get it (which probably won't happen).

Q: Have you ever been knocked unconscious?

A: No, but in junior high school I made myself pass out on purpose by holding my breath in a certain way. My cousins taught me how to do it, and, regrettably, I was successful. That was a very stupid game. Not only did it make me lose part of my most recent memories when I woke up, but it also made me nauseous.

BULLCRAPOLOGY

Q: If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?

A: No way (although it would provide the necessary incentive to get ones affairs in order and to make sure some very spoiled cats wouldn't end up with the wrong people).

Q: If you could change your name, what would you change it to?

A: This is an alien concept to me. I cannot imagine having such a desire. I am, however, grateful to my parents for some of the names that they didn't name me.

Q: What color do you think looks best on you?

A: Possibly blue, since I have inadvertently accumulated tons of clothing that contains blue; but I honestly don't know the answer to that question for sure. That's an objective question, not a subjective one, at least as far as I'm concerned

Q: Have you ever swallowed a non-food item by mistake?

A: Probably, but I guess I didn't consider such an event worthy of storage in my long-term memory, because I don't remember. This is all that comes to mind: I think I accidentally swallowed a loose tooth while eating when I was a kid, and I know I swallowed part of another tooth (an already weak tooth) when I was in my 30s because it broke while I was eating either some corn nuts or ice.

Q: Have you ever saved someone’s life?

A: I honestly don't remember for sure because I tend to forget scary memories on purpose. Some distant memory of such an event seems to be way back in there somewhere, but I may just be imagining it.

Q: Has someone ever saved yours?

A: I would have to say yes, but not in a dramatic way. A doctor simply stopped a minor thing from becoming a major thing.

DAREOLOGY

Q: Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?

A: Nope. I'm not "enlightened" enough to do that. But more power to anyone else who chooses to do it.

Q: Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?

A: No, I'm not that desperate. My dad accidentally cut off about a quarter inch of his little finger in shop class when he was in high school, and I seriously doubt he would ever have repeated the procedure for money if someone had asked him.

Q: Would you never blog again for $50,000?

A: Hey, I would even cancel my internet account for $50,000.

Q: Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000?

A: You should have asked me that when I was in my 20s or early 30s. I almost certainly would have said no, but at least I would have been more open to considering it than I am now. Personally, I don't have a high regard for the artistic or aesthetic qualities of the male body (to put it mildly), not even my own when it was in peak condition.

Q: Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?

A: Yes, since there is no stipulation on how quickly one has to drink it.

Q: Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?

A: Not in 1,000,000 years (to the power of 20,000).

DUMBOLOGY

Q: What is in your left pocket?

A: There is nothing in either of my front pockets because I hate having things in them, especially keys and change. When I worked at the school, I had a master key because I needed to get into every room in the building to work on computers. I had to carry it everywhere with me. Most people seem to put their work keys on their keychain with their home keys. Not me. I didn't even put it on a key ring all by itself. I just kept it all by itself in one of my front pockets, just like Barney Fife keeps a single bullet in his shirt pocket. ;-) I kept my car and house keys in a drawer at work during warm weather and in my coat pocket during cold weather.

Q: Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?

A: A qualified, yet resounding, yes. This movie is really impossible to categorize. I came very close to hating it at times while I was watching it, yet I was so intrigued that I couldn't quit watching. It is nothing like I had expected when I had first learned about it. It is completely real and accurate in so many ways, yet so weird and unfairly insulting in others (especially of people who enjoy fantasizing about time travel ;-). Nonetheless, the insults, depending the recipient, are so right on target that you cannot help but laugh (even though you fear that you may be unfairly laughing -- just a teeny little bit -- at yourself). In a couple of places, I laughed a good old-fashioned hysterical laugh, the sort of laugh that continues for hours and days afterward, every time I remembered what it was that had first caused me to laugh. So, to sum up: I came close to hating the movie while I was watching it, in spite of how often and how hard I laughed. It was only in hindsight that I truly started to appreciate it. On the rare occasions that a short clip of the movie has been played on some TV program, I couldn't help but smile a smile of affection at A.) the characters, B.) the verisimilitude of the plot and C.) the memory of how hard I had laughed while watching it -- in spite of myself.

Q: Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?

A: Carpet.

Q: Do you sit or stand in the shower?

A: Unless you are a 7-foot-tall basketball player, what on earth would be the point of sitting in a shower? To me, that would be a hindrance, not a benefit, especially with the water hitting you right in the face. As for most infirm senior citizens, don't they usually take baths? Besides, I have an aging, bare-bones metal shower stall. It would be very unpleasant, completely impractical and somewhat humiliating to sit in it.

Q: Would you live with roommates?

A: Yes, depending on who they are. I had roommates, off and on, until I was 31.

Q: How many pairs of flip flops do you own?

A: None, I hate that piece of leather or rubber that goes between your toes. The ones that do not attach at all, I hate even more. They are pointless and impractical for me. I find them to be more of a chore than a comfort, like eating with chop sticks. Related note: I accidentally uprooted my big toenail in college so that it was sticking straight up in the air from the very back end of the toenail (yes, it @#$%ing HURT!!!!!). This happened only a couple of hours after I had broken the aforementioned mentioned bone in my hand in a separate accident (yes, when it rains on MW, it pours on MW). The next day I went to the doctor's office (both accidents happened on Memorial Day, so sleeping that night had been quite an ordeal). He gave me a localized pain killer -- AT MY VERY VOCAL DEMAND -- before I allowed him to touch my toenail (because it hurt like crazy even when the wind from a fly's wings touched it). After getting it removed (and getting my arm put in a cast), I had to wear sandals for a few weeks. They were OK, but not enough to make me stick with them once my toe was back to normal.

Q: Last time you had a run-in with the cops?

A: What does "run-in" mean? Does that include traffic stops? The last time I remember getting a warning ticket for speeding (which was totally inadvertent on my part because I had sworn off speeding in the early 1980s) was in the fall of 1993 for going 63 in a 55 zone. My only other warning had come in April 1979, for going 61 in a 55 zone. As for actual "run-ins" with cops, I've only had two. The first time was in July 1976 (at age 15). My best friend and I were at the Fish Hatchery in Spearfish, SD. He was fishing legally on the neighboring creek, and I was in the hatchery trying to touch some of the fish with my hand (I don't like fishing). Without my knowing it, my friend threw his line into the hatchery from his spot by the creek (there was a semi-secluded opening into the hatchery from the creek). He thought he was being really sneaky (he had certainly fooled me), but the manager caught him and dragged both of us to his headquarters. He made us stand there while he called the police. I defended myself vigorously because I was innocent (I didn't even have a fishing pole!), but he didn't believe me. I also defended my friend vigorously because I still thought he was innocent. I was really angry at being treated that way and was very loud and irate and obnoxious. I had always been a very self-righteous, law-abiding kid, and I didn't appreciate being treated like a criminal. The manager thought I was nuts, and my friend, who naturally wasn't about to confess to the guy, told me several times to be quiet. I complained even as the cops put us in their car and took us straight to......... my friend's parents' Winnebago camper at the campground outside of town (that was before this country became a police state). Only then did my friend confess to me. He and his family had a good laugh at my expense. I must admit that I had gotten carried away, in part, because I had frequently fantasized about defending myself against an unjust accusation some day. The second "run-in" was a lot scarier. It took place in on a quiet Sunday in July 1983. That same friend and I and several others went swimming next to the Big Bend Dam on the Missouri River at Fort Thompson, SD. We were diving/jumping off of the spillway retaining walls (at the far end of the dam in the picture at the link) and sliding down the moss on the closed spillway slope (I still shudder at the thought of what would have happened if they had opened the spillway gates while we were on that slope). As we were returning to my car, a reservation cop was waiting for us (thankfully, he had not actually seen us swimming or sliding). He said, with a long pause for dramatic effect in the middle, "I'm going to have to arrest you boys................, if you don't leave right now." We didn't argue with him. We thanked him very kindly and left.

Q: Who is number 1 on your Top 8?

A: Which Top 8 are you talking about? I never mix my Top 8s together.

LASTOLOGY

Q: Last Friend you talked to?

A: Beth.

Q: Last person who called you?

A: Beth.

Q: Last person you hugged?

A: One of my aunts, I think, last June.

Q: Last person to stick their foot in your face?

A: I have no idea.

FAVORITOLOGY

Q: Number?

A: 13.

Q: Season?

A: Fall.

CURRENTOLOGY

Q: Missing someone?

A: Sometimes, but only when I get lazy and let my thoughts wander a little too freely.

Q: Mood?

A: I try to avoid them if I can help it (big "if").

Q: Listening to?

A: Nothing.

Q: Watching?

A: Nothing.

Q: Worrying about?

A: This dreadful temporary job I will be having for the next three months (in a financial/tax-return place, of all places, thanks to my friend Beth, who works there). I don't know how I got myself into this situation. The two of us just kept digging my hole deeper and deeper. She is thrilled. I'm not. There is still a remote chance that it might not happen, but it isn't looking good.

RANDOMOLOGY

Q: First place you went this morning?

A: Nowhere.

Q: What can you not wait to do?

A: Move away from here, but only when it is realistic and practical.

Q: What's the last movie you saw in a theater?

A: The newly re-mastered edition of Gone With the Wind in the fall of 1998 (yes, it was that long ago) at the Eagle Theater in Chadron, NE. My old professor friend talked me into going with him even though I didn't want to. I fell asleep about 60 times throughout the movie. No matter how hard I tried, I could not keep my eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time (I was very uncomfortable, too). I remember almost none of the movie. Prior to that, I had not been in a theater in about five years or more. The last movie I may have seen in a theater was City Slickers while on a date with a girl I soon regretted knowing. I could be forgetting one movie in that span of five years, but it hasn't come to mind after years of trying to remember what it might have been.

Q: Do you smile often?

A: I used to smile almost all the time, and with the utmost sincerity. Now, not so much, unless I am with people I really like (a real rarity around here). I still laugh a lot, though (at humor on TV, at my cats and at my own sarcastic humor).

Q: Are you a friendly person?

A: Absolutely. I consider friendliness to be extremely important. Even so, in the last few years I have been finding it easier not to maintain my usual high level of friendliness. The only other time I had trouble being friendly to strangers was when my love of my life and I had to part ways through no desire of our own. Yet, at the same time, I became twice as friendly (sincerely) to all of my friends because I truly appreciated them for being there for me.