Marine on St. Croix, Minnesota, May 18, 2017 — Jerry Lefevre was two grades older than me in High School. He bought a Chevrolet. It looked much like this picture, except that it just wouldn’t do.
Not according to Jerry.
The problem was the red panel. Jerry thought it was not cool.
He had the red panel painted white like the rest of the car. Therefore I cannot now find a picture to show the car. Perhaps it was the only one of it’s kind.
As was, in my eyes, Jerry.
Gravelly voice even as a teen, speaking in short bursts of [Read more…]
North Texas University, Denton, Texas, 1965. Heartbroken, after running off my high-school sweetheart, envious met her new flame, a boisterous trumpet player driving a red MGB.
Shortly thereafter when crazy Becky Jarvis said, “You ought to get a Morgan.” I said huh? And then …
I bought a Morgan Motor Car in Dallas from a garage guy named Big John, who imported them and raced them. This one was blue, with tan upholstery and black top. Three thousand dollars.
Built with a wooden frame atop a steel z-frame, whatever that might be. The whole car flexed. Weighted 1400 pounds and had a 1.5 liter engine, hopped-up Ford Cortina with Lotus modifications, Jaguar trannasaurus, ran like hell, whining high-pitched, a redline at 9000. About four inches from the ground. That would be your butt, flying above your asphalt.
The first night, driving it home, in the dark, was terrifying. It was so fast. Seemed like piloting the bolt from a crossbow, rocketing down that dark backwoods highway. Later discovered it had the wrong speedometer; and my highway trip at 65 was really around 90. It did seem sprightly.
The jack arrangement was to insert the jack through a hole in the floor. This hole normally was covered by the rubber floor mat. However, on rainy Dallas days I have seen the puddle splash up through the hole, lifting the floor mat, to spash against the windshield, on the passenger side. Kind of a defroster system.
Paul Miner drew up cartoons of our gang at that time. Mine was ‘Richard, the sports car nut’. It showed me in riding pants, saying “Of course, she won’t start on cold mornings, but at $2999, she can afford to be a little temperamental.”
Paul was right on the money. One of my proudest moments at that time was during an astounding snowstorm. On Dallas freeway and headed back to Denton, I let the air out of the tires down to about 15 pounds. Then, my 1400 pound car could walk up the icy hills where the big sedans just skidded and spun. Got me through. Good thing. That heater. I probably would have died out there.
A year or so later, living in Dallas in an apartment rented from Dunia Bean, which had a swimming pool, driving to work at the Cabana. And a fool oncoming lost it and bent my car. That was the end of the Morgan.
Regarding that swimming pool. It had an underwater light. Have you ever, at night, on LSD, opened your eyes underwater to look at a light? No?
Well, that Morgan was something.
Mount Shasta, California, Memorial Day, May 28, 2007: My cat Percy was found in the Mendocino countryside by a short-term roommate when I lived n Mill Valley. The roommate was moving and I asked to keep the kitten.
“Sure,” said the roommate.
There we lived with Morgan, my durn ol kitty, who liked the kitten, and taught him such cat wisdom as she could. Then we moved and became trailer trash in San Rafael. Percy the kitten grew quickly into a long-legged male with yellow eyes, and a short gray coat. Together they roamed the trailer park. There Percy discovered a vile enemy. Black cat.
Black cat, and Percy had many rumbles. It was a scandal.
At the end of the day, as the sun sunk slowly over Toys ‘R Us, I’d step from the trailer and whistle loudly twice. From somewhere up the way would come wandering Morgan and Percy, tired from the day’s toil, and ready for supper.
And then we moved to San Anselmo.
We’d been invited to live with Adrienne and the dog Tulip. Morgan and Percy spent three days locked in the bathroom while Tulip went ballistic outside the door. And when Tulip became used to them living in the bathroom we introduced them all around, and as expected they became fast friends. Tulip and Percy invented a complicated and fun game which involved who could get their paws around the rungs of a chair. This game made Tulip smile.
We weren’t sure how trailer-trash cats would fare in this more upscale neighborhood, but you’d never know their origins from their behavior, as if they’d always been ritzy cats.
And then in his travels around the neighborhood, Percy discovered an evil enemy. Orange cat.
There were fabled rumbles. It was a scandal.
When the sounds of battle arose, Tulip leaped up as if electrified and ran out the door, followed swiftly by myself. There, in the distance of the drive way, the two battling cats froze, as Orange cat stared in growing horror at Tulip bearing down the driveway, and at myself on the deck.
(I waved my arms and gibbered like a wild ape and made loud growling threats, you see.)
Flying away into the underbrush, Orange cat beat a hasty retreat.
Percy, his tail much larger than usual, stormed grouchily into the house. We told him that he was whipping Orange cat’s butt, though sometimes that wasn’t totally clear.
So we lived, and then in time packed a household into the Big Yellow Truck, and Percy into his cat carrier, and moved to Mount Shasta. He complained all the way. Morgan had left us in San Anselmo, so she couldn’t make the ride.
Percy and Tulip enjoyed the yard, and Percy discovered that the railing and the apple tree led to the roof, and like a pirate of old, he kept a weather eye on the neighborhood.
It was not long, wandering the neighborhood, before Percy discovered an dreadful enemy. Striped cat.
There were wild rumbles. It was a scandal.
He’s been happy in Mount Shasta. He likes the weather, except for the snow, which he blames on me, and he likes the water. He likes watching the birds. He leaps the gate to the fence, and comes and goes, and in the twilight can usually be found on the front porch steps, watching passers-by. When he’s not there, I whistle loudly twice, and then call his special call.
This is his name with a loud gargle in the middle, and then “What you doin, boy?” These sound wacky, and perplex the neighbors no doubt. However, the sound carries, and he comes trotting from whatever errand he had in the vacant lot woods behind George Brown’s house.
In the night, he likes to slip into my room where he snores on my chest until I fall asleep, and then, offended when I begin my own snoring, he scratched at the door so I have to wake up and let him out.
Then he goes to Adrienne’s room, and entertains her during the night.
However, no more.
Today, he appeared to have some sort of intestinal blockage, as he’s had before. He’s fifteen, which is getting on for a male cat. I found a vet willing to help us on this holiday, and so I bagged him up the carrier, and assured him that he’d be right as rain soon.
But the vet had other news. Serious and bad news. It was something else. Percy was very lethargic. In my way I asked him if he could get well. He said no.
I stayed with him while the deadly injection made its way to slow and still his breathing. Tough fellow, his heart beat on, and grew weaker. I stroked his face the way he likes, and told him how grateful I’ve been for his staying with me all these years. I reminded him of our many adventures. And finally he was gone.
The world is a smaller place without him. Percy was his name. A great warrior. My good buddy.
Medford, Oregon, March 28, 2017: A friend on Facebook was wailing about expressing her feelings, and the resulting reactions from others that didn’t go well. And it took me back, to remember …
I don’t remember where or when, or what had just happened, but I recall the exact moment, so many years ago, that I had a brainstorm, and I realized that I didn’t need to share every thought I had, every view, every observation, every opinion.
I realized that everyone else around me was busy living their own lives, and that at any given moment they had their own battles (sometimes bigger than mine, and certainly bigger to them). So there were good times for me to share my views, and (lots of times) to not share my views at all.
And I felt — But I gotta express myself! — and then realized that no, actually, I didn’t gotta, and sometimes it would be self-destructive for me to do so, or damaging or hurtful to others around me, in spite of my powerful urge to do so.
Well, my life didn’t change over night, but over years, it did.
And now I sometimes share “who I am” and sometimes I don’t. Because, really, you are who you are, but what you do — talk, express yourself, remain silent, wave your arms, sit quietly — these are just behaviors.
Who you are is an eternal truth, and only evolves over time as you learn and grow. But mere behaviors? They are within your control, to select (or not) in each moment to advance your survival, and the survival of those around you.
That’s my two cents. Maybe it might be a useful viewpoint to explore.
Or maybe not.
North Texas State University, Denton Tex 1965as, Fall: Just north of town was a super-secret Nike missile launching facility, and nobody was supposed to know about it. Here’s a picture of it —
The road at the top of the picture is “Locust Street,” or as locals called it “Missile Base Road.” Because how could you not know? I knew, and I was just an undergraduate.
You see, an engineer was brought in because it turns out that the missile pad was actually just a tiny bit too low for proper launching so as to wipe out some foreign city far away. And this guy needed to figure out how to raise is very slightly.
He stayed at the Holiday Inn, where I worked the night shift, and that’s how I know. After all, it was a secret but he told me because I was a trusted motel employee, right?
Then, a couple of days later, he came in to check out, with a huge bag of nickels. They were left-over nickels he explained. He was real happy. Turns out that the thickness of a nickel was exactly the amount they needed to raise the floor.
So he’d gone down to the bank downtown on the square, [Read more…]