franksolich comes to the aid of a primitive

[franksolich]

franksolich comes to the aid of a primitive.  Last night, Saturday night into very early Sunday morning, when nary a creature was stirring out here in the sub-zero Sandhills of Nebraska, the cats slumbering in various warm corners of the house, suddenly they all scurried through the darkness and pounced upon me in bed.

Something was amiss.

I grabbed a 1-3/8” S/K adjustable wrench, and when walking through the darkened living room, noticed the silhouette of a rather hefty long-haired guy trying to peek through the picture window.  Of course, he couldn’t see anything, as the window (and all the other windows here) is currently covered by two sheets of webbed heavy-duty plastic to keep the heating bill low, which obscure.

I opened the door to the front porch, and let him inside.  He was a stranger to me, but given his saggage, and given that we were both standing on a non-slippery surface, he looked as if I could handle him, if he tried anything.   About 400 pounds, and about half a head shorter than me.  Long, stringy hippie hair, and he was shivering as if there was no tomorrow.

After his teeth stopped chattering, he identified himself, saying he was from Sioux City, Iowa, and that his car had run out of gasoline on the main highway two miles north.  I arched my eyebrows; this was no fit weather for man or beast, and his chances of finding gasoline during the middle of the night way out here in the middle of nowhere were zilch.

However, he’d hit the jackpot; he’d come exactly to the place that had gasoline, out in the garage.

Because of the weather, though, I didn’t want to just give him a can of gasoline and have him walk two miles out into the cold again.  Being a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can hope to meet, I insisted that he warm up here, with some coffee and toast, while I took care of the matter for him.

I contacted, as I am supposed to, the ranch-hand “on call” this particular weekend, to come out, pick the guy up, and take him to his car.  It’s a six-mile drive for the ranch-hand, but all during his watch, he’s up and dressed anyway, ready to go, and besides, his boss gets all upset and bent out of shape when I try to handle strangers all on my own.

That done, I told the visitor there was a full 5-gallon can of my gasoline in the garage, and that he could have it, so as to have an uninterrupted trip the rest of the way to Sioux City.  I just wanted the can back, and the ranch-hand could bother with returning that anyway, the next time he came out.

While we waited, the stranger took in the surroundings.

He winced when he saw the framed autographed photograph of George and Barbara Bush hanging in a prominent place in the living room.  He raised his eyebrows upon seeing the framed autographed photograph of Bela Pelosi hanging above the tank of the commode in the bathroom, visible from the kitchen through the opened door.  He seemed a little uneasy at spotting the framed autographed photograph of Robert Dole hanging above the dining room table.

He looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space, but said nothing.

Oh God, I thought; I’m giving away fifteen bucks of gasoline to a primitive.

This was confirmed when I made a casual inquiry about for whom he planned to vote.

Him being a socially-conscious liberal, sympathetic to the plight of those who have less than him, I figured he might give me ten bucks or something, for the gasoline.  Then I just as quickly figured, no, it’s not going to happen.  After all, decent and civilized people are supposed to give, and primitives are supposed to take; they expect that, and if they don’t get it, they demand that.

In fact, with his primitive mind-set, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d blamed me for his running out of gasoline up on the highway, but never mind.

When the headlights of the approaching ranch-hand hove into sight, I went into the bedroom and donned some underwear, so as to be decent.  We got everything all squared away, and my reasonable speculation proved true; not only did the primitive not offer a damned dime for the gasoline and hospitality, he never even said “thank you.”

Some people.

[formerlurker]

Nor will he post on DU how a freeper helped him... after he converted the freeper of course.   

[Ballygrl]

He winced when he saw the framed autographed photograph of George and Barbara Bush hanging in a prominent place in the living room.  He raised his eyebrows upon seeing the framed autographed photograph of Bela Pelosi hanging above the tank of the commode in the bathroom, visible from the kitchen through the opened door.  He seemed a little uneasy at spotting the framed autographed photograph of Robert Dole hanging above the dining room table.

When the headlights of the approaching ranch-hand hove into sight, I went into the bedroom and donned some underwear, so as to be decent.  We got everything all squared away, and my reasonable speculation proved true; not only did the primitive not offer a damned dime for the gasoline and hospitality, he never even said “thank you.”

Were you nude initially?

And seriously? he never said "thank you"? WOW! that's unbelievably rude.

[obumazombie]

At least you get your gas can back. Without complaint about it's impact on the environment. Didn't you ?

[JohnnyReb]

Were you nude initially?

And seriously? he never said "thank you"? WOW! that's unbelievably rude.

We don't call him "The Streak" for nothing.

[franksolich]

Were you nude initially?

And seriously? he never said "thank you"? WOW! that's unbelievably rude.

Modesty forbids me from giving the answer to a lady.

And seriously, no, he never did say "thank you," not even to the ranch-hand when he was filled up again and starting his car to head east to Sioux City.  He acted like he was "entitled" to what he was given, and that it had been a big nuisance to him, to walk two miles in this weather to get help, as if someone was supposed to be right there on the spot to help him.

Damn hippie.

[franksolich]

At least you get your gas can back. Without complaint about it's impact on the environment. Didn't you?

I'll probably get it back tomorrow or the next day.

I have a special affinity to that gas-can; it pre-dates OSHA, and so therefore is easy to use.

[Ballygrl]

That's not nice that he didn't even say Thank You, it's that freaking entitlement mentality.

[franksolich]

That's not nice that he didn't even say Thank You, it's that freaking entitlement mentality.

Uh huh.

Just like the primitives, who are given much but grateful not at all.

[BlueStateSaint]

Uh huh.

Just like the primitives, who are given much but grateful not at all.

Let me ask you something, Coach.  If he did the whole thing again, knowing what you know now, would you help him again?

[franksolich]

Let me ask you something, Coach.  If he did the whole thing again, knowing what you know now, would you help him again?

Probably.

<<feels a moral imperative to keep my Pollyanna attitude about people, even coarse primitives.

[diesel driver]

I'll probably get it back tomorrow or the next day.

I have a special affinity to that gas-can; it pre-dates OSHA, and so therefore is easy actually possible to use for its intended purpose.

I HATE those damned, new OSHA cans that cost TWICE what the "old-fashioned" plastic ones did.   

[franksolich]

I HATE those damned, new OSHA cans that cost TWICE what the "old-fashioned" plastic ones did.   

The one I have is metal, with a long flexible metal spout.

It was in the garage when I moved here, in its original packaging from Montgomery Ward.  The shipping-label showed it as having been mailed sometime in 1961, and while the package had been delivered (obviously), the box hadn't ever been opened.  (The people living here at the time, eons ago, were an elderly couple who had a habit of forgetting about things.)

Finding these new plastic OSHA cans all but unusable--if it's a two-gallon can, one's never going to get to pour out more than a gallon, the other gallon going to waste, just sitting there in the container--one night I figured, "Oh, Hell," and broke out this antique for use.

[longview]

You've mentioned that some people think you live too far out of town.  I think you live way too close to whatever civilization you are near.  You have way too many uninvited, nighttime guests.  I have never. 

[JakeStyle]

You've mentioned that some people think you live too far out of town.  I think you live way too close to whatever civilization you are near.  You have way too many uninvited, nighttime guests.  I have never.  

I was thinking the same thing.  You need to move to the Big City, Frank, you'll have more privacy, I sleep commando every night and, apart from my stalker, have never needed a socket wrench.

[vesta111]

I was thinking the same thing.  You need to move to the Big City, Frank, you'll have more privacy, I sleep commando every night and, apart from my stalker, have never needed a socket wrench.

Another way to look at this...........

Perhaps this city boy had just come from the movies with a double feature of Texas chain saw murders. 

Your home in the dark in the middle of nowhere may have looked ominous and a bit spooky to him.   Takes a lot of guts for a city boy to be alone at night and need help out in the middle of nowhere.

 He half frozen to death finds your home and a Naked tall man waving a huge wrench about.  He did not know you were deaf so all your actions were a bit unnerving, no banjo's playing yet but he must have been waiting for them.

It may be that the guy was not being rude, just running for his life with a story to tell that few would believe. 

Sometimes the the wildest things happening to a person who lives to tell the tale are seldom believed by others.   

[diesel driver]

The one I have is metal, with a long flexible metal spout.

It was in the garage when I moved here, in its original packaging from Montgomery Ward.  The shipping-label showed it as having been mailed sometime in 1961, and while the package had been delivered (obviously), the box hadn't ever been opened.  (The people living here at the time, eons ago, were an elderly couple who had a habit of forgetting about things.)

Finding these new plastic OSHA cans all but unusable--if it's a two-gallon can, one's never going to get to pour out more than a gallon, the other gallon going to waste, just sitting there in the container--one night I figured, "Oh, Hell," and broke out this antique for use.

I inherited a couple of those metal ones from my ex-FIL when he died.  I still use them.  Keep the moisture out of them and they'll last you a lifetime.

I have one that used to be red plastic, which now has faded to a whitish-pink, that I used when I raced off-road motorcycles back in the 1980's.  It works almost as good as the metal ones, no fuss, no mess.

I have 3 more with those @%$# F'N *!%$ OSHA spouts on them, a 1 gallon for my chainsaw and weed eaters, and 2 5-gallon ones for my mowers.  I don't even use the spouts on the 5-gallon ones, it's easier to siphon the gas out of them than pour it out!   

Typical of the government:  take something that works perfectly well, and "F" it up until it doesn't!

[franksolich]

You've mentioned that some people think you live too far out of town.  I think you live way too close to whatever civilization you are near.  You have way too many uninvited, nighttime guests.  I have never.

But surely you're familiar with the phenomenon, as you're familiar with my terrain.

If one has the only human habitation for 24 square miles, it's a magnet with a strong draw.

Right now it's bad weather, winter, and so it doesn't attract so much.  But in summer, because of my location, there's somewhat more traffic around this house, usually people camping on the riverside about a football-field length away from my back porch.  I dunno why they don't stay in motels, with air-conditioning, clean sheets, comfortable beds, indoor plumbing, no bugs, but that's just me.

Of course, it's private property that's rented in my name, into the middle of the river as it flows past, but I'm loathe to turn anyone away, who wants to camp there.  I haven't ever had any reason to; despite they most of the time being old hippies, unlike the occupiers, they are clean and fastidious, and leave no mess behind.

About half the time, they just come and set up camp, mistaking it for a public area.  When the property caretaker talks to those, if they offer to move on, he tells them no, to stay, it's okay.  During the seven years I've been out here, in all instances they offered to move on, and so he made them stay.

The other half of the time, they see this ideal spot, and then go around looking for a law-enforcement personage to find out about the property, to get permission to camp here.  The real owners of the place are an ancient elderly couple, so they're directed to the caretaker who lives in town but is usually found at the local bar.  He finds out who they are, what they are, and their plans, and then gives them the okay.

Nobody is directed to franksolich, who actually lives here; it's usually to the caretaker, and in a few rare instances, the neighbor.  I suspect everybody's afraid I'll give permission to the "wrong" people.

Oddly, when sitting on the back porch on lazy summer evenings tossing frisbees out for the cats to run after and bring back, I oftentimes wish some of them would come up to the house, for a visit.  But in seven years, no camper ever has.  Not once, even though I'm plainly visible from where they're at.

I think the property caretaker tells them to leave me alone because I'm an axe-murderer out on parole, or something like that.

[obumazombie]

A cat, retrieving a frisbee, who's zooming who? It does make a delightful image though.

[franksolich]

A cat, retrieving a frisbee, who's zooming who? It does make a delightful image though.

About 95% of the time, they just run to it, and stand at it, looking at it.

But about 5% of the time, they get the idea.

I have a couple of dozen frisbees here with which to entertain the cats, and so I have to get up off the back porch (or wherever I'm at) and retrieve them for re-tossing aboutd every fifteen or twenty minutes.

You're not aware of this, because you're new.  I'm a dog person, not a cat person.

But because cats came with this place, one adapts, and I've tried training them as if they were dogs.

These cats actually come to me when I call for them, even if across the meadow.  It's a sight to see.

They also like riding in the car, the windows half open, their heads hanging out, their tongues lapping up the passing air.

When someone's coming (and as usual I'm not aware of it), all four of them (there used to be eleven), if they're around, coming rushing to me, and piling on me.

When I first moved out here, this place, which had not been lived in for a long time, inside and outside was infested with nuisances--field mice, snakes, rabbits, prairie dogs, moles, opossums.  After I got the cats shot and neutered, and they started hanging around, such nuisances aren't seen any more.  It's been years.....

[obumazombie]

So, what you're saying is, 95% of the time the cats have you well trained ?

[longview]

About 95% of the time, they just run to it, and stand at it, looking at it.

But about 5% of the time, they get the idea.

I think you've bettered the usual success rate for cats retrieving.

But surely you're familiar with the phenomenon, as you're familiar with my terrain.

If one has the only human habitation for 24 square miles, it's a magnet with a strong draw.

Yes.  I had a friend whose mecury light was visible from the interstate (maybe 1/2 a mile).  She got lots of strange, late-night company.  I never had one of those, for that reason.  Just a yard light I could turn on if needed.  

I think the property caretaker tells them to leave me alone because I'm an axe-murderer out on parole, or something like that.

That's not all bad.  I ran an outfit with some prime river frontage.  Had to cross a little bridge to get there.  People always stopped at the neighbor to request permission to cross because you had to drive through his yard to reach the bridge.  He was a retired deputy.  If he didn't like their looks or attitude, he'd tell them "You have to find the woman over there.  Just cross.  She'll find you before you see her.  She's from Detroit.  We don't know much else about her.  Or you can go to the state land below the dam."  I think the biggest threat he saved me from was people who would have drank and gotten obnoxious or possibly started a grass fire.  He thought it was hilarious.

[franksolich]

Yes.  I had a friend whose mercury light was visible from the interstate (maybe 1/2 a mile).  She got lots of strange, late-night company.  I never had one of those, for that reason.  Just a yard light I could turn on if needed.

There's a light on a high pole out here that shines meggawattage; I dunno how much.  If I don't want to deal with people, I shut it off.  But during bad weather I make it a special point to keep it on, as a beacon for someone needing help.  (It floods the front with light, but as I sleep in the back, it doesn't bother me.)

Most people are not aware of how dark it gets in the Sandhills, where there's no artificial light, only the light of the moon and millions of stars.  You know, and I know, what "ink-black darkness" really is, but most don't.

And so this light's visible from the highway two miles north (the high pole is on a rise in the ground, which raises its altitude too).  People who know me and who are headed here consider it an advantage, as they then know when to turn off on the road to come here.  

I ran an outfit with some prime river frontage.  Had to cross a little bridge to get there.  People always stopped at the neighbor to request permission to cross because you had to drive through his yard to reach the bridge.  He was a retired deputy.  If he didn't like their looks or attitude, he'd tell them "You have to find the woman over there.  Just cross.  She'll find you before you see her.  She's from Detroit.  We don't know much else about her.  Or you can go to the state land below the dam."  I think the biggest threat he saved me from was people who would have drank and gotten obnoxious or possibly started a grass fire.  He thought it was hilarious.

The last person who lived here before I came here in autumn 2005 was a daughter of the original settlers on the land in 1875.  She died in 1986, at the age of 101 years.  (She was the aunt of the current owners of the property, an ancient elderly couple.)  There are certain things, features, here that helped her, an ancient woman, deal with living alone, of which I take advantage best I can, but her issue was old age, while mine is being deaf.

She had four large vegetable gardens and planted flowers everywhere, and despite their having been neglected since the summer of 1985, every year they sprout anew, without my doing a damned thing (I do not have a green thumb; having grown up among all these things--but in a different part of Nebraska, of course--I'm rather bored, jaded, about them, and just let things be).

I dunno how an ancient pioneer woman handled unexpected visitors, but apparently she handled them okay, because nothing ever happened to her.  She lived to an old age, and was absent from here only the last three months of her life.

[franksolich]

I was thinking the same thing.  You need to move to the Big City, Frank, you'll have more privacy, I sleep commando every night and, apart from my stalker, have never needed a socket wrench.

Uh, I've spent many years in big cities--Lincoln, Omaha, Allentown, northern New Jersey, and in many brief spurts, Kiev, Kharkov, and Lvov.  I never considered any of them any safer than out here (nor have I ever considered out here any safer than the big cities)--it's a "deaf" issue; what makes things dangerous and what makes other things safe is totally different from such things for hearing people.

I live out here because the biggest cattleman in the county has meadows and pastures across the road, and has always wanted someone to live at this end of his property so as to watch out for things, but who could never get anybody willing to do that, as their wives insisted upon living in town.

This is probably my last year here, especially if an (R) gets sent to the White House in November, and the economy inevitably improves, as the ancient elderly couple who own the property want to tear down this really old house (nothing special about it, anyway) and put up three or four summer homes along the river for their children and grandchildren.

After that, the plans are to head further west deeper into the Sandhills (I'm only on the edge of the Sandhills right now), to a great big metropolis of 2,800, where I will in fact live in town, and dutch508 is only a county away, and longview similarly nearby, in the adjacent state.

[ChuckJ]

frank, I think if you were to write up a script about your life on Sandhills of Nebraska you could have the basis for a pretty good TV show.