franksolich has primitives for the holiday weekend. Last Thursday evening, the property caretaker, who was here cutting firewood, illuminated me that I would have guests for the weekend.
Oh no, I said; I was going to be busy all weekend long, no time to be pleasant to company.
“I didn’t mean here in this house,†he told me; “yesterday a bunch of hippies from Indiana were hanging around town. They’d stopped up at the lake for the night, but were asking around if there was somewhere ‘nicer,’ where they could set up camp for the weekend.â€
“Yeah, yeah,†I said; “they wanted to camp on secluded private property, where the sheriff and the state patrol don’t give them any problems. The lake’s state property, and we all know the rule—no alcohol on state property…..or drugs either.â€
“Well, I didn’t figure you’d mind,†the caretaker replied; “they were paying cash for everything, and they ‘sir’ed and ‘madam’ed everybody, and were kind to the old ladies. They didn’t even have any objectionable bumper-stickers on their vehicles, like RE-ELECT 0BAMA or FREE THE COP-KILLER MUMMY or ELECT STEVE DAWES or anything.
“I didn’t figure you’d mind them camping down on the river, because they looked like the type who’d leave you alone.â€
Well, whatever, I murmured. The property caretaker and his wife were joining their son and his family down in southern Nebraska for the weekend. The neighbor, his wife, and family were going down to Kansas City for the weekend. The
femme was going to spend the weekend with her sister and her family in Omaha for the weekend. The old guy across the river was still out in California visiting his daughter and her family there, and wasn’t coming back anytime soon.
“You know, I’m going to be the only person around in this half of the county over the weekend, the nearest person in town six miles away—if there’s anybody in town at all--and I’m going to be around much myself.
“I’m not worried about it, but how many are there going to be?â€
Oh, about twelve or fifteen, the caretaker guessed, “all of them hippies, but most of them look as if they’re already collecting social security.
“They shouldn’t be any bother for you.â€
Good, I said.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Friday was cool, damp, and overcast. Just before heading to the big city, I looked out back and saw that the hippies had arrived, and were setting up camp.
The river is about two football-field lengths away from the back porch, and a few summers ago, the property caretaker had found an old Sears, Roebuck mounted telescope at a garage-sale, and had installed it on a railing of the back porch (the tube part is detachable, and taken inside during the winter).
“I don’t need that,†I protested; besides, I’m not a snoop, who gets jollies out of spying on other people.â€
“It’s for your own protection,†he argued; “everybody knows you mind your own business, but it’s a good idea to once in a while check on things—how many vehicles, how many people, that sort of thing.â€
Since I was going to be away, I checked. The telescope is by no means a professional one, perhaps originally made for high-school amateurs, but it was adequate for me to take note that there were eleven of the long-hairs, and they had four vehicles; a couple of vans that looked as if from the gas-guzzling 1980s, an ancient grey Ford Taurus station-wagon, and a 1980s sedan of some indeterminate make, but a big one.
They had set up a canvas shelter with open sides.
I briefly returned yet that morning, but was gone most of the day.
Much to my non-surprise, nothing had been molested here, and the cats were cool.
Nothing ever is; I’m not sure what the property caretaker tells strangers seeking to camp on my (rented) property, but whatever it is he tells them about me, it’s effective in keeping them at arms’-length; all these years here, I’ve never been bothered, not even a single time.
Old hippies camp, do their hippie thing, clean up their mess, and leave.
Perhaps he tells them franksolich is an axe-murderer on parole, or something.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Early on Saturday, I drove out west, to see the business partner.
There was no business going on, but I desired the company. Arriving about noon, I learned he was planning to play some golf with two customers and a friend of his, and I was invited along.
I do not golf; I don’t have the patience and exactitude. I just hit golf balls, nothing more than that.
I had grown up around golfers, one of the most avid which had been my younger brother. Because we were so close in age, and because of my deafness, the parents insisted we do many things together, my younger brother looking out for me. Usually—we were both in our early teens at the time—he played with others, but on some Sandhills summer mornings, finding no one else, he insisted I come along.
As I “owed†it to him, I grudgingly went along, to idly whack golf balls around the 18-hole course, while he did his own stuff, practicing, I assume.
My ardor, already pretty much non-existent, waned further the summer he was 14 years old, and I sixteen, the one time I was paying attention to something else, and unbeknownst to me, a rattlesnake was on my trail, right behind my back.
My younger brother, seeing it and knowing I could not possibly hear it, and be aware it was there, grabbed a club with the largest end on it—it was an end made of wood, not metal—and crashed it down on the head of the malevolent reptile. I’m sure it was killed at first stroke (the back of its head), but to be sure, my younger brother kept thrashing.
Sensing something going on behind my back, I turned, but it was a dead, bloodied mess by then.
And lo, three decades later, I have yet to see a tornado or a live rattlesnake; something I share in common with surely no more than six or half a dozen native Nebraskans; even those from urban areas have seen at least one of these phenomenons, and many both of them.
So I’ve always hung around with golfers golfing, but never participated in a game. As I did this particular afternoon, I generally allow the serious golfers to get a couple of holes ahead of me, after which I begin following, aimlessly hitting the ball in the same direction.
This is the sparsely-populated Sandhills; there’s very few times a party is behind me, and if so, I courteously allow to play through, while I wait until they’re a couple of holes ahead, after which I resume.
In the meantime, the party with whom I’m associated finishes far ahead of me, but no big deal; they need to go to the clubhouse and socialize a bit, and being deaf, I don’t care much for socializing (with a group; one-on-one is something different).
It has suddenly struck me that how I “play†“golf†is the same way I live life.
--from 2009; photograph intentionally miniaturized, so as to not give primitives stalking franksolich any clues about what he looks like in real life--
This afternoon however, I was somewhat encumbered. Like my long ago-late younger brother, I have a propensity towards melanoma, and it’s a bother and a worry, having to see a dermatologist too often.
As recently as three years ago, I used to wear a simple baseball cap to keep the sun out of my face, but then the next two years, I wore a tan bush-helmet while on a golf course, but that proving inadequate, this day I was wearing a hat with a wide straight rim, as if an oversized Philadelphia Quaker hat from the times of William Penn. Whenever someone approached, it was necessary for me to quickly take that off, and jam the bush-helmet on my head.
I care very much about decorum and appearances; I’m very conscientious about trying to not look like an ass.
It has suddenly struck me a second time that how I “play†“golf†is the same way I lead life.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
The afternoon shot, the business partner and I went out to eat and chitchat, until mid-evening, when I decided I should return home.
It was dark when I got back here, but when I stepped on the back porch looking towards the river, I could see a great bonfire going. The telescope in the darkness wasn’t much help, but I could discern enough movement and action to decide it was some sort of raucous hippie festival marking the beginning of summer, or something.
Or maybe they were just drunk. Or stoned. Or something.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Just as Saturday had been torridly hot, so too was Sunday. I had not bothered yet installing the air-conditioning in the bedroom, as the weather never seemed to make up its mind to be seasonable, or unseasonably cool.
Such things are a trial in this old house, and one usually doesn’t like putting something up, or out, unless one's pretty certain it’s going to be permanent for a while. So I went to bed Sunday night, all the windows open and several fans circulating air inside. It was too hot to use even a thin sheet covering oneself.
During the night, a series of violent thunderstorms, accompanied with occasional tornadoes, passed through, but since I can’t hear, such climatic convulsions bothered me not at all. The cooler air and the high wind helped me sleep some, but after the storms passed, it got hot and muggy again.
About four in the morning, Monday morning, I got up to make coffee, which I took with me out to the back porch, reclining on the
chaise longue, smoking.
I had quit smoking last January, but then ten weeks ago during the middle of another night on the highway, I’d abruptly found myself walking in the darkness right into a sawed-off shotgun. It ended well, no harm done, but it had been, uh, rather discombobulating, and I was still waiting for my nerves to settle, before I try quitting smoking again.
There was no fire at the hippie encampment, but of course it was very early in the morning.
It was considerably cooler under the stars, and so I dozed off, on the back porch.
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Suddenly I awoke with a jerk; it was now light outside, mid-morning, and there were three hippies towering over me, staring at me. Two of them, their scraggly grey hair tied back in silver pony-tails, looked old enough to be grandfathers of adult children; the other was some guy who looked to be in his late twenties, early thirties, with a paunch.
Irritated at this rude intrusion, I sat up, and then stood up, asking who they were, and why they were here, casually drawing back my hair to show the absence of ears, hinting that there would be, uh, problems with communication.
Then remembering something else, I apologized for my state of complete undress, adding that I care very much about decorum and appearances.
“Hey dude, don’t worry about it,†one of the older hippies indicated to me; “we’re with the party down on the river, and we’re getting ready to take off. But we thought we’d check to see if someone was home, so we could thank them, because we had a fine time here.
“It’s great, all this wide-open outdoors, and nobody around, all this freedom to, uh, run around letting it all hang out and nobody the wiser.â€
