The Adventures of Bloggard

Been Around the Block. Got Some Stories. These are Them.

The Christmas Present

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Newport Beach, California, December 1985: Taking the Startel job was a colossal blunder. It’s very clear now, but not then. All women wish to be loved, cherished, and protected. I was married to Lori, but I failed miserably to show that I cherished her, and I failed to protect her.

And that brought me the most painful days in my life.

Do you believe that all events are foretold? I do. Lori and I had written our marriage ceremony, and when I gave it to Father Bob Cromey, he read it and said, “There’s nothing in here about commitment. That’s a mistake.”

He was referring to the lines where it said, “I will remain with you as long as it shall please you.” Father Cromey was correct, and so were my written words. I was with her as long as it pleased her.

This was back in the time of books like Open Marriage and such tripe, but I was turned on by these ideas. And although I never became involved with other women, when I began to ignore her, concentrating on work, building the Line Seizer device, working on computers … when I ceased being fun, when I ceased paying enough attention, when I ceased demonstrating cherishing … she started going out, I’m sure of it.

It started innocently enough, with Oz Koosed’s jitterbug class at the Avenue Ballroom. Lori, as tall as I, kept trying to lead. Either I wasn’t strong enough or focused enough. And when it came to a move called ‘The Drop’, I didn’t have the physical strength. This is a movie-move, where the woman, with body rigid, tips over and almost hits the floor. By strength of arms you hold her just inches above the floor. I couldn’t hold her. Big mistake.

She started going out to dance with the brother of a friend. I’m pretty sure it became the horizontal mambo. And idiot that I was, because I’d thought this openness was good, I put no stop to it. That was the beginning of the end.

One thing led to another. When Lori asked me to move out, I yielded to anger rather than handling the danger. Soon after, around my 40th birthday, I was offered and took a job working with Startel in southern California, and moved far away.

Oh, the business reasons made sense. We needed some equipment to advance the answering service we ran together. She already ran operations, and my marketing department already had a manager. I would bring in a lot of money. Blah blah blah.

I loaded our Volkswagen, which blew up in the desert heat along the way, continued in a rented car, and stayed with her folks in Covina while I began selling answering service equipment for Startel Corporation. Then I bought a Pugeot, rented the house in Newport Beach, and really shouldn’t have been so surprised, that first Christmas here in Southern California.

Because late at night on Christmas Eve, lying in the dark together in a bedroom at her parents home, she had something to tell me. I can still hear her voice in the darkness. She said that she’d fallen in love with another man.

I saw my errors crashing around me, shattering like glass, like mirrors, timeless and cruel as stone.

Law 23 of Earning Money

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This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

How much you have actually “earned” is how much you have still got.

That’s it.

Nearly all humans today are confused on this simple fact, partly because other folks wanting to sell things have confused us with bogus concepts such as “investing” in a new gadget which of course is not an investment in any sense of the word, bur rather just a way for us to lose our money to them.

If you worked for five years mowing lawns and hauling garbage to the dump, and you earned a whole bunch of money and gave every dollar to other people, what have you actually “earned” from your five years of labor?

That’s right … nothing.

By giving away those dollars, you have effectively earned nothing for five years of work.

But what if you spent all the money on cantelopes and watermelons which you stacked in the back yard? Do you have something to show for your labor?

No, because they have rotted away and are now worth nothing. You’ve still effectively earned nothing because nothing is what remains of the dollars which once visited you briefly.

But what if you spent the money not on cantelopes but on a sportscar? Well, is the sportscar still worth the number of dollars you paid for it? Could you sell it today for the same amount? No? Then the sportscar is just rotting more slowly than cantelopes, but its days are numbered, and you can count on it being worth nothing soon enough.

It is surprisingly easy to overlook this basic fact: If you obtain some dollars, and then give them away, you’ve got nothing. It is surprisingly easy to overlook what is important for what seems urgent. The urgency of our desire for glittering gadgets, fancy food, and shiny automobiles can easily outweigh something important.

What is important? Well, survival is important, and loved ones are important, and pleasure in living is important.

Survival means you’ve set aside money enough to take care of your true needs, including healthcare when age slows you down, and if you ever want to have love in your life, setting aside enough to take care of your sweetheart and your children. True pleasure in living does not mean the shiniest car now, but rather the leisure to leave labor behind you as your investment income grows enough to support you and your loved ones.

True luxury is having time to live, people to love, and wisdom enough to live in a way that promotes the survival and pleasure of you and your loved ones.

True luxury is obtained by living below your means, keeping some part of what you earn — this is your true “earnings” — and putting that money to work, so that in time the “earnings” from your invested money will free you from ever having to labor again.

Does this mean you will do nothing? Not at all. It means that, over time, you will have more and more choices about what you do, and how you care for your loved ones.

When you spend all the money that comes to you, you’re earning nothing. You’re not spending just the money; you’re spending your life.

Speaking plainly, it’s better to save your life!

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

Graduation Ceremony

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July, 2003, Tiburon, California: Yesterday evening I met Ron L. at the equipment room. Ron will be installing my voicemail equipment into new San Jose digs soon.

He loaded some gear to configure in his shop, and then we went to dinner. Guaymas is a snazzy mexican restaurant overlooking the bay, and from our table we watched the mob of teenagers in jackets and dresses awaiting the Ferry.

The Ferry arrived and slowly docked, a large gold banner riffling in the breeze. “Class of 2003,” it said.

Up the gangplank and onto the decks, and then sailing off for a bay cruise with lots of fun and laughter. Young people are all beautiful, and it’s great to see them laughing.

After our meal, we walked back to the cars, and a vast bellow from the Tiburon firetruck announced the parade. Cruising slowly behind the firetruck, car after car of teens in suits and party dresses, waving “Class of 2003” flags, cheering, yelling and having a blast. All the cars were convertibles. Ron claims to have counted 13 Mercedes, 15 Porches, and 16 BMWs.

So different it was in Henrietta, Texas, forty-two years earlier.

In Henrietta, seniors graduated three days before everyone else. It was a hot June day, and band was my last class. I was the snare drummer, and pretty good at it. Earlier that day, I’d unpacked one of the big field drums that you use when marching. I’d secreted it in the practice room, whose door was right behind our drum section.

Midway through class, during a pause, I stepped into that room and strapped on that field drum. When we began the next song — a march called “Barnum and Bailey’s Favorite” — I played my part on the field drum.

It has a deeper tone. Mr. Raeke, the band master, looked at me oddly, but said nothing. As the song went on, I began marching around in a circle, and then marched up the side of the band and out the door. Suddenly, behind me, I could hear the cacophany of folks choking and laughing into their horns.

Up the long corridor between bandhall and gym, with my field drum sounding louder and louder and louder. I played a drum solo called “The Downfall of Paris”. I’d learned it for contest, and it seemed appropriate.

Around a corner to the left I veered, past the girls bathroom, then quickly around a corner to the right, past the office. From the corner of my eye I saw the Superintendant skidding from the lounge, but I was past him.

Down the hallway past classrooms I marched at triple-step. That drum solo and I were moving. Only thirty feet separated me from the door, when out jumped a goblin!

Oops, I mean, out leaped Mrs. Schwend, the librarian,and she planted herself in front of me. I tried a fake and to the left but she was too good for me. Short of knocking her down, I was captured!

In the meantime, my girlfriend Carolyn, following our plan, had run from band to start my car. I could see the getaway vehicle outside, for all the good it did.

And now Mr. Kale, the Principal, had grabbed me.

“Come along, Mister,” he said.

In his office I unbuckled the drum. He said he was going to give me three licks with the paddle. I told him he couldn’t because the bell had rung and I was no longer a student.

“Don’t give me trouble,” he said. “You don’t know it, but I’m doing you a favor.”

I didn’t care. I was too jazzed up. I got the licks, and then left. Carolyn was waiting. Off we drove.

At a party that night, I heard from Eddy Frank that the School Board had actually had a meeting. The agenda? To consider blocking my graduation. Eddy’s father spoke against it, saying it was just youthful hijinks, but it looked likely to vote against me, when Mr. Kale the Principal stood up.

“You can’t block his graduation,” he said.

They looked at him, and Mr. Douthett asked why not.

“He’s already been punished,” said Mr. Kale.

Mumble, grumble, grumble … and acceptance. So that was it. I would graduate.

Wherever you might be, Mr. Kale … thank you.

Ronald Reagan Visits

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Wichita Falls, Texas: After high school and college, my friend Donny Burkman worked at Neiman’s in Dallas, where they taught him to ask questions of customers, “Would that look good in your home, do you think?”

He learned well. A politic and skillful fellow, his skills emerged as time advanced. He’d inherited a quiet manner from his father, a district manager for Continental Oil. One Sunday afternoon, his father, in a pickup with their tiny terrier in the back window, was leaving the Continental office near the train station, when a light aircraft made a bad mistake.

For reasons long forgotten, the pilot attempted to land on a flat stretch above the train station. He didn’t realize that the huge Continental Oil radio transmitter had long guy wires stretching across the field. The pilot was very surprised when one of his wings was suddenly torn off.

Losing all control so near the ground, he should have been killed, but somehow the plane was tossed into a stand of tough mesquite trees. The plane was a jumbled wreckage, but the pilot opened the door, and stepped free, unhurt. With great bitterness he stood gaping at the wreckage.

At that moment, Mr. Burkman pulled up in the pickup, and through the open window, said calmly, “Having a little trouble, bub?”

Donny and I thought this story astounding; we rolled on the ground.

Years later, Don told me about picking up Ronald Reagan at the airport in Wichita Falls. Reagan had been invited to speak by the Junior League, a mucho-exclusive women’s club. Don was now managing the Wichita Falls Municipal Auditorium, so it fell to him to pick up Reagan, then governor of California.

Don needed a fancy car to pick up Governor Reagan. His own vintage Pontiac was not deemed fancy enough. He’d struck out several times and was getting desparate. Finally, on the day of Reagan’s arrival, Don got a brainstorm. He remembered Hargraves Mortuary. Their long white limousines were a familiar sight to everyone in Wichita Falls, from years of carrying the families of the dear departed to and from the funeral services.

Don called them up. At first they balked, The well-known white limosine.but Don threatened Hargraves that he’d never bury another Junior League member unless that car got loaned. Don reports that the car dropped from the sky, appearing magically outside his office. And just in time to rush to the airport.

The flight was on-time, and Mr. Reagan gracious, and chatty. They were driving into town from the airport, when Reagan suddenly stopped his story, and began twisting this way and that, peering out the car windows, looking first ahead of the car and then behind. Finally he turned to Don.

“Could you tell me,” he asked, “why all the cars are pulling to the side of the road?”

The Bottle Rockets

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Near Hurnville, Texas, 1954: At my grandparents’ farm, I had firecrackers, because in town there was an old hardware and general store run by Grover Thaxton. An ancient holdover from the 1800’s, the store had a dirt floor, and glass-topped cases in a long, narrow U-shape running from the front into the dimness inside. Along the side walls, cabinets reached to the ceiling, and the goods were retrieved with a ladder.

Grover Thaxton’s store was already old when my mother’s generation was young. One Halloween long before I was born, my young mother and her pals Billie Jane and Sara Moyer sat with beers and friends in Grover’s kitchen, waiting for the annual attempt on Grover’s outhouse. “Here they come, Grover!” they whisper as they spied the hooligans creeping near.

They’d wait till the boys turned over the outhouse, and were running away, and then Grover would burst from the back door with his shotgun.

“You go**amned hooligans!” screamed Grover. He fired the shotgun over the boys heads, one barrell, then the other. It was actually loaded with rock salt, for safety, but Grover put on a great display. Terrified, the boys ran like hell.

Somewhere beyond the danger, they’d laugh and congratulate themselves. Back inside the kitchen, mom and Sara rolled on the floor with laughter. Grover was pounded on the back. Beers were opened. Every year, just the same.

“Thaxton Hardware” read the faded sign, across from the Methodist Church. I suppose once upon a time, farmers bought from this general store. The store hadn’t changed since that time. And, from one of the bins, any time of the year, we boys could buy firecrackers.

My grandmother’s front porch was about two feet above the ground, of poured concrete, with four brick and timber pillars which held the roof above. Looking out, to the right a huge Oak tree grew up from within the huge metal rim of a tractor wheel. Beyond, the wire fence to keep chickens, guineas, and coyotes out of the yard and the flower beds. And beyond, the land fell away to the creek and the wandering line of trees stretching as far as I could see.

I had firecrackers, and we boys were playing with matches. We’d light a fuse, throw the firecracker, and then thrill to the report. These were small firecrackers, woven into a package. I now know they were designed to be set off as a package, popping and jumping, but we didn’t know that. We unwove them and lit and threw them one by one.

I thought I’d scare my cousin Bobby, so I pulled a fuse off one of the firecrackers. I lit the fuse and threw it toward him. Reasonably, he panicked, and tried to roll away, but in his haste placed his hand upon the burning fuse and got a nasty gunpower burn. My trickery turned sour.

Scolded properly and with firecrackers confiscated, we boys lolled around the summer day. Evening drew closer. It was the habit of our elders that they brought us presents when they’d been away, and Uncle Esty and Aunt Rosemary were returning to reclaim Bobby and Danny. They brought fireworks.

In the dark, sparklers flashing sparks, we drew pictures in the night, spelled out words, ran like the wind with sparks trailing behind.

With roman candles, each took a turn holding the tube upright, with the colorful balls of fire blasting into the sky with a loud whooshing sound. One, then another, then two together, of red, yellow, green. Another and another and another.

And, best of all, the tiny rockets on a long red stick. Held upright by an empty Royal Crown bottle, the fuse lit by Uncle Esty, after a moment’s pause, up they soared, trailing a tail of fire, and then they burst with a clap of thunder, spreading a flower of soaring, colorful petals.

Year after year. Just like magic.

Law 23 of Importance and Urgency

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This is a simple law of nature, but one which is very handy:

It is surprisingly easy to overlook what is important for what seems urgent.

That’s it.

What is urgent usually comes to our attention in the context of other people, work in progress, deadlines, and conflicting time demands.

What is important usually comes to our attention either when we are relaxed and thinking clearly about our lives, without interruption. Or, sadly, sometimes what is important comes shockingly to mind when we’ve just lost something important, probably because we failed to think about it.

If you spend your days stamping out forest fires, because they are urgent, and neglect what is important, then life can tend to be filled with urgencies, and little of importance. Reward urgent and you get more of it. Take time for important, and you’ll have more of what you really want. And the lovely thing is that you get to choose.

Knowing this important secret of the universe, go forth and prosper.

Diplomacy

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Henrietta, Texas, 1954. Donny Burkman was my closest friend at this time, and also lived closest, just on the other corner of the block. My mother had only recently bought our little house with green siding, and I liked living there, in the north of town, near the graveyard. That may sound grim, but it was another neat place to explore.

We climbed the stone gateposts, we read the old gravestones, we walked on folks graves, we sat on the close-cut grass and drank sodas. It was a fine place.

Being ten years old, we wanted nothing to do with his younger brother, John, two years younger. And so we were dismayed, on that hot summer day, as we lounged in the shadows of my mother’s living room, when we saw John coming across the Laughon’s lawn.

My dog Bullet and John didn’t get along. Bullet rose from the cool porch, to greet John.

We were grateful, because that slowed John down. Clearly he was coming to look for us. Bullet stood his ground, growling low. John came slowly on, circling around Bullet.

“Nice Bullet,” he said. “Good doggy. Nice Bullet.”

Donny whispered, “Let’s hide.” With a sudden brainstorm, I herded Donny and myself behind the open front door. John would never think to find us there, so close. Now we could no longer see John, but we heard him drawing closer.

“Good doggie,” he said, somewhere near the porch.

“Nice Bullet,” he said, backing onto the porch.

“Good doggie,” he said, opening the screen door. He was just on the other side of the front door, behind which we hid. “Nice doggie,” he said, backing into the room, “Good Bullet.”

He closed the screen door.

“Stupid dog,” he said.

The Panther

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Denton, Texas, 1964: In my latter year in college, working as night auditor at the Holiday Inn, I finished my work, then studied or dozed till the morning shift. This particular night, around two in the morning, the lobby was deserted, and I was reading a small book of ghostly stories. It was to prove a mistake.

This particular story was about a panther. I remember nothing except that the last page scared the hell out of me, and, with an oath, I threw the book across the lobby.

The panther had been a totem for me even earlier. When I was a bellman, I took to wearing sunglasses at night, and told my roommates that I was to be addressed as “I. J. Panther.” For some reason, I didn’t want people to see my eyes. Or perhaps I was just trying to find an excuse to wear them, really just trying to look cool.

At that time the Holiday Inn tried an experiment. Liquor is illegal in Denton County, so our “bar” couldn’t operate in the usual way. So they made a “private club”, to which you had to bring your own bottles, and the bartender would make up mixed drinks for you.

My roommate Pat frequented the bar. At this time, he also claimed to be nerval, and excital, and altogether schitzy. His words. To prove it, he had a prescription for Valium. On an evening not long after, off work, I visited with Pat in this bar. He offered me a Valium. Like a fool I took it.

Soon the effect of alcohol and Valium made itself felt, strangely so. Since I felt really wierd, I went home and went to bed. That night my first dream was textured like a Turkish mosque. Not just a wall, but a carven eternity. Not just a cup but an elaborate goblet. But in my second dream, the panther appeared.

In this dream, I was walking across the lawn of my Uncle Doc’s house, when I saw the panther stalking across the lawn toward me. Terrified, I edged toward the safety of the porch, and then heard a woman’s voice saying, “I will teach you how to fight a panther.”

The panther had vanished. Near at hand a tall woman with long black hair stood, dressed in a white flowing robe. She then showed me a judo move with a sidestep. As I turned around, she’d vanished, and the panther sprang!

I ducked and did the sidestep, and the panther had missed me. And had again vanished. The woman in white stood upon the lawn, and showed me another move. In judo, this is called a ‘Hip Throw,” and you grab your opponent, load your opponent on your back, then duck your shoulders and raise your hips, throwing your opponent over your head.

Just as I had the woman in white loaded onto my back, I suddenly realized that the lady in white was actually the panther!

In a shuddering fit of terror, I threw her off, and it was the panther, which crept toward me. I backed onto the porch, and reaching behind me, opened the round doorknob of the screen door. It opened.

Still reaching behind me, I opened the front door, then leapt backward into the room, slamming the door. Uncle Doc’s wife, my aunt Margaret, was there. I told her to make sure the kids were safe in the house, to close all the doors and windows.

On my knees, panting with fear, I slowly raised the windowshade of the window to my left, to peer out. And found myself looking directly into the panther’s eyes. I saw there no intelligence, but only a burning rage, a lust to destroy.

Shaken, I jerked back, and then heard a terrible sound. Something was opening the screen door. An animal couldn’t open a round door knob. The panther was supernatural.

Still on my knees, holding desperately to the doorknob of the door, I looked up. At the top of this door were three tall and narrow windows, and suddenly I realized that the uppermost had no glass, for there I saw the black paw.

The black paw stretched down, and down, and down toward the doorknob, growing longer, longer than a paw could be, and longer, and longer …

I awoke in my dark room with my eyes clamped shut. I knew it had been a dream, but terror shuddered me. For an eternity, I could not make my eyes open.

I was afraid.

In evenings that followed, when I worked the late nights at the Holiday Inn, sometimes I heard a soft patter, but nothing was there. Sometimes I saw a movement from the corner of my eye.

But nothing was there.

Nothing that I could see.

 
 

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