the cbayer primitive meets franksolich

[franksolich]

“Who’s that down by the river?” I harshly asked the property caretaker this morning.

“You didn’t tell me I was having guests.”

The caretaker looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.

“Here,” I said, dragging him out to the back porch and pointing.

“There’s a boat parked over there, less than 1500 feet away from where we’re standing, and I have no idea who they are.”

The caretaker looked at me as if I were the Man from the Moon.

“I have no idea, boss; this is new to me.”

I went back inside and got the telescope.  The telescope, a garage-sale item the caretaker had bought for me some years ago so as to increase security out here in the middle of nowhere, is usually kept mounted on a bracket on a railing of the back porch, but is brought inside during the winter.

And it’s winter here right now in the Sandhills, snow covering everything.

“Brrr,” I said; “it’s way too cold to be camping.”

I peered through the telescope.  “It doesn’t look like anybody’s around.”

The caretaker peered through the telescope, reciting the license serial-number on the side of the boat.

Just then the neighbor showed up, and he looked too.

“Uh oh,” he said; “it’s got a couple of those little red-white-and-blue 0bama flags flying on the hull, and there looks to be an 0bama-Biden bumper-sticker near the top of the windshield.”

Hmmmm.

“Well, what to do now?” I asked.

“Let’s go down to the river and check it out,” the neighbor suggested.

Uh, no way, I said.  “I respect the privacy of other people, and don’t want to snoop.”

The caretaker in the meantime had telephoned the county sheriff; usually such intrusions are harmless, but this was an uninvited intrusion, and so it was best to check things out.

The sheriff called back a few minutes later, informing the boat was registered in California, to an affluent couple with an English-sounding last name.  “But what’s odd is, it’s not only registered as a boat, but apparently they live on it.

“They can afford a place in a gated neighborhood, say around San Diego, but they live on the boat.”

The sheriff added, “I wonder how it got here, all the way from California.”

The caretaker, the neighbor, and I discussed it, coming to the reasonable conclusion that they’d sailed down the coasts of California and Mexico, gone through the Panama Canal up into the Gulf of Mexico, entering the Mississippi River at New Orleans, and the Missouri River at St. Louis.  After that, it was up the river to Omaha, turning left at the Elkhorn River, ending up here.

to be continued

[Airwolf]

Sounds more like it was stolen or driven to some location west of you. A boat small enough to get to the middle of Nebraska isn't built to take on the seas of the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. It wouldn't have the range or a small enough draft(?) to do both.

[Skul]

This just ain't gonna end well. 

[diesel driver]

Not in the middle of winter in Nebraska, global warming or not.   

Might end up like those idiots that almost froze to death and a main course on a polar bears' menu heading to the North Pole to swim across it to prove global warming was real.

God loves making fun of these fools, even if it involves frostbite and polar bears.   

[franksolich]

Sounds more like it was stolen or driven to some location west of you. A boat small enough to get to the middle of Nebraska isn't built to take on the seas of the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. It wouldn't have the range or a small enough draft(?) to do both.

I know next to nothing about boats.

But I do know the cbayer primitive's boat has 300 square feet, which is slightly smaller than the living room here, and assume it's both seaworthy and riverworthy.

I dunno if it's a motorboat or a sailboat.

This of course is a work of fiction, with real-life experiences dealing with primitives camping here, inserted into the story here-and-there.  I've been here since the autumn of 2005, and lots of primitives have camped here.  And some things happened that even the most-vivid imagination can't make up.

Thus far, the first chapter, it's wholly fiction, but the next two chapters will be part fiction, part fact (although they were things that happened with other primitives other times).

I had to write this story after the cbayer primitive, against whom I originally had not an iota of animus, trashed the decent and civilized people who read the DUmpster.

"If you can't say something nice about somebody, then don't say anything at all"--one of those hoary old maxims the primitives fail to remember.

[franksolich]

Oops, I forgot.

The picture of the river is real, the telescope is real, and the description of the weather is real.

So the first part isn't wholly fictitious.

[seahorse513]

Sounds like a good start to a great story! It's been a long time since you and/or Big Dog wrote one up!

[Big Dog]

This is gonna be good.

[ChuckJ]

Good work as usual frank.

I'm thinking we need to put you and Big Dog on some sort of quota system where you've got to write at least story or two per quarter or we dock your VRWC stipend.

[Dori]

This of course is a work of fiction, with real-life experiences dealing with primitives camping here, inserted into the story here-and-there.  I've been here since the autumn of 2005, and lots of primitives have camped here.  And some things happened that even the most-vivid imagination can't make up.

Can you add something about them cooking kale chips over a campfire?

[GOBUCKS]

Sounds more like it was stolen or driven to some location west of you. A boat small enough to get to the middle of Nebraska isn't built to take on the seas of the Pacific and the Gulf of Mexico. It wouldn't have the range or a small enough draft(?) to do both.

No. It can be done.

There was a DUmmy here in Tennessee who a few years ago hammered together a big ark, in his yard, out of Home Depot 2X4s and scrap plywood.

He had a plan all laid out for sailing this ark from the wilds of Tennessee to the California coast, where he would dock it and live onboard, just like DUmmy cbayer the odiferous thread slayer.

He had the course all plotted and ready to go, freshwater all the way. The Continental Divide only exists in your mind.

The only obstacle between him and his dream was moving his big wooden castle to a place with enough water to float it.

That obstacle was a dealbreaker, and he died, still in Tennessee.

The ark still sits there, hidden amidst pokeberry bushes and blackberry briars.

The only good thing about the whole deal was another dead DUmmy.

[Delmar]

Get off of the porch, get into the house, shut off the lights, and close the curtains.  I have a feeling that those DUmmies are going to be showing up at your door mooching provisions.  Those boats only have room to hold so much.

[Tucker]

No. It can be done.

There was a DUmmy here in Tennessee who a few years ago hammered together a big ark, in his yard, out of Home Depot 2X4s and scrap plywood.

He had a plan all laid out for sailing this ark from the wilds of Tennessee to the California coast, where he would dock it and live onboard, just like DUmmy cbayer the odiferous thread slayer.

He had the course all plotted and ready to go, freshwater all the way. The Continental Divide only exists in your mind.

The only obstacle between him and his dream was moving his big wooden castle to a place with enough water to float it.

That obstacle was a dealbreaker, and he died, still in Tennessee.

The ark still sits there, hidden amidst pokeberry bushes and blackberry briars.

The only good thing about the whole deal was another dead DUmmy.

That would be the late Wiley50.

http://www.conservativecave.com/index.php/topic,54549.0.html

[franksolich]

“They’re still here, but they’re not here,” I groused to the neighbor’s older brother when he stopped by in late afternoon to pick up some tools.

“I’m really not up to visitors--especially primitives--given my decrepitude.  I really want to be healthy and vigorous again by my birthday, and it was going that way…..until this…..this…..this…..boat showed up here.

“I can’t understand it; it’s winter, there’s snow and ice all around, and Californians being wimps about weather, I can’t imagine why they’d come here now.

“But they just parked the boat, and evaporated.”

The neighbor’s older brother and I walked out to the back porch, as he wanted to see the boat through the telescope.  He already knew the story--the whole town knew the story, and was all abuzz about hippies showing up, an early start to the season here.

“I think I already know,” he said, handing the telescope back to me.

“I think it was them at the bar last night, an older middle-aged couple, not from around here, but obviously rich, and the husband’s a European--given his accent and mannerisms--he sniffs and snorts, contemptuous of everything and everybody around him.

“She’s a mousy little woman, but pushy.

“They were driving a rental car--it was parked right in front of the bar--and said they were staying at a motel in [the big city] until the weather cleared up.

“They didn’t say what they were up here for; they were very secretive.

“Now, they didn’t identify themselves as the owners of that vessel out over there, but I think that was them.

“And there was almost trouble at the bar, but it got stopped right as it started.”

Swede, the husband of the owner of the bar, cooks there the nights he’s not on the road as a truck-driver; he’s of Norwegian derivation, and his specialty is Italianate cuisine, for which he’s justifiably famous.  Italianate restuaranteurs from six states oftentimes show up here to sample his wares and to get his recipes.

He’s also very temperamental.

“She went back into the kitchen, as she wanted to give him advice about his pollo marsala portobella--she thought he should put some red peppers in it, ‘like people do in California.’

“Well, you know Swede--two counts against her.

“He doesn’t like anybody back in the kitchen when he’s working there, and he doesn’t take kindly to criticism of the way he cooks things, the same ways old peasants in Italy taught him to cook more than forty years ago.

“’I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re not in California,’ he told her; ‘you’re in Nebraska, and people in Nebraska like Italianate cuisine the way it’s made in the land of its origin, not American west coast modifications.'

“He wouldn’t put red peppers in her pollo marsala portobella, and she had to have it the way he made it.

“She didn’t strike me as a woman who backs down, but you know Swede…..”

Yeah, I said.

“After they left, Swede went to his wife and told her to have ‘Tiny’ Gustl bounce at the front door the evenings he cooks, to keep this woman out of the establishment.”

[GOBUCKS]

As long as he doesn't put peas in it.

[Tucker]

“After they left, Swede went to his wife and told her to have ‘Tiny’ Gustl bounce at the front door the evenings he cooks, to keep this woman out of the establishment.”

This is not going to end well.

[franksolich]

I'm thinking we need to put you and Big Dog on some sort of quota system where you've got to write at least story or two per quarter or we dock your VRWC stipend.

Okay now, I'll describe the sources of the material. 

The people described in all the stories are real--the property caretaker, the neighbor, the femme, the neighbor's wife, the business partner, the cook at the bar, the neighbor's older brother, the retired banker's wife, the property caretaker's wife, the 420-pound guy who shovels grain at the local elevator five and a half days a week, &c., &c., &c.--they're all very real, and I hope to God I'm giving an accurate depiction of their character and habits.

The neighbor's older brother was actually here this afternoon, although the converation described between us was created out of whole cloth; we actually discussed the weather.

The episode described the by neighbor's older brother--the invasion of Swede's kitchen--is something that really happened in real life a few years ago, when a primitive went back there to tell Swede he need to put tofu in his lasagna al fresco.

The next chapter, I guess, the action starts picking up, again based upon previous real-life experiences with primitives.

[Bad Dog]

Perhaps the Swede could garnish her next dish with a dollop of mucoso fresco.

[franksolich]

Today, after working, I returned home, and as is my usual custom, scouted the area for anything amiss.  Nothing was out of order, nobody had been here, and so I went out to the back porch to see what was up with the boat parked on the river.

Taking the telescope, I scanned the immediate area around the boat; nobody was around.

But then looking to my left, I spied a human figure, male, average build, grey-haired, wearing a tweed suit-jacket with leather patches sewn on the elbows, walking around.

He had a great nose, an impeccable proboscis, making him seem hawk-like.

Now, I know people don’t really make noise as they walk around, but at times I like to imagine they are, and in this case, I was imagining him as walking around making a putter-putter-putter-splut-putter-putter-putter-splut-putter-putter-putter-splut sort of noise, as if a power lawn-mower needing tuned up.

Putter-putter-putter-splut, as he darted around, closely looking at things.

Perhaps, I thought, he was near-sighted.

I debated whether or not to bother walking down to see him--it was after all cold and wet, and he was more than 1500 feet away from me, a goodly distance.

I finally decided, well, I might as well find out now, what’s going on.

As I approached him, it was obvious at first he didn’t notice me, so preoccupied he was in puttering around.  I hadn’t seen it from the telescope, but he had both binoculars and a handled magnifying glass hanging around his neck.

And then he noticed my presence, blinking and staring at me.

“What sort of apparition are you?” he asked.

“The owner of this property,” I replied; “actually, just the renter, but by the laws of the state of Nebraska, with the same rights as if I owned it, exclusive of any exceptions on the lease.”

He kept blinking and staring at me, as if he hadn’t heard a word I said.

Straightening himself up, he said, “I’m looking for something.  What sort of birds live around here?”

I looked at him blankly.

“All sorts of birds, but I don’t bother paying attention to them.  If I notice the difference between a goose and a hummingbird, I’m probably being more observant than I need to be.

“There’s birds all around here, but I generally leave them alone to go their own thing, while they leave me alone to do my thing.

“That is,” I added, “excepting for a couple that are a nuisance.

“There’s the wild turkeys.  Sometimes when going to town, on my private road”--taking care to emphasize it was my property--”there’s an acre of them on the other side, and they decide to come here.

“But once they reach the edge of the road, they decide to cross it single-file.  I dunno why, but they do that.

“As I’m reluctant to run over one of them, I just kill the engine of the car and sit there, until they’ve all crossed; single-file, and it can take twenty minutes, half a hour, for them to get across.

“And then in the summer, there’s the bald eagles.  I dunno anything about bald eagles, but they look like vultures, and so I suspect they act like vultures too.

“I keep a whole pile--dozens and scores--of plastic frisbees on the back porch--I get them at garage sales, for a dime or a quarter apiece, as the cats here like to play ‘fetch.’

“But when the bald eagles are around, I fling the frisbees at them, to scare them away; I‘m always in dire fear one of them‘s going to swoop down and snatch up a cat with its talons.

“But other than that, despite their numbers, I don’t pay much attention to birds around here.”

He blinked and stared at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.

Finally he commented, “Well, I read in a magazine that passenger pigeons have been seen in this area, and came to check it out, as it would be quite a find.”

“No way,” I said; “passenger pigeons have been extinct since 1917.”

“But one doesn’t know for a certainty,” he hotly insisted; “the world’s a very large place, with plenty of nooks and crannies for one to hide, in isolated remote uninhabited areas such as this.”

[Dori]

he sounds like a spy....   passenger pigeons hiding and all.  Oh please...I hope some cracked reporter dosn't show up.

[GOBUCKS]

I once read an interesting article about the extinction of passenger pigeons. We've always been told that it was due to unregulated commercial hunting and that seems possible until you consider the millions or billions of birds involved. They could have fed the continent for decades, if people wanted to eat that many pigeons. These were the same decades, we're told, when the continent was feasting on buffalo meat.

Anyway, this article said the pigeons were very peculiar in that if the section of woods where they'd nested for centuries was cut down, they wouldn't relocate en masse. Instead the gigantic flock would break apart. And, it said, in another quirk, smaller flocks of these pigeons had much, much lower nesting success. So, when a huge flock broke up, the resulting smaller flocks would gradually become smaller, not larger, all apart from any effect from netters or shooters.

Over period of decades, as the human population grew and inevitably displaced the unimaginably huge original flocks, the pigeon population declined. If they could not breed in gigantic numbers, many of them would not breed at all, and eventually they disappeared. For the last thirty years or so, their numbers were too small for anyone to be interested in commercial hunting, but still they declined until the last bird died.

They may have been just like the buffalo, incompatible with human civilization.

It was several years ago I read that, and I apologize for not having nadined to relocate it. I think I remember at least its essence accurately.

[Tucker]

Over period of decades, as the human population grew and inevitably displaced the unimaginably huge original flocks, the pigeon population declined.

That could never happen today with moonbats having so much influence in the Federal Government. They would tear down cities, putting millions of people out of work to save one rare Mosquito from extinction.

[franksolich]

It's been y-e-a-r-s since I've read about it, many years, but essentially what you said is what I remember of it too.

Things in nature work in quirky ways; take deer for example.

The more of them that are bagged every hunting season, the more they seem to proliferate.

It still freaks me that Nebraska today has many more deer than it had in 1890.....during the same time the human population here increased from circa 160,000 to 1,600,000.

This, despite a lengthening of the hunting season, and increased allowances for more bags.

There's a lot of hunting stories in reminisences of pioneers 1880-1910--bison, grouse, ducks, geese, turkeys, prairie dogs, coyotes, antelopes, rabbits, squirrels, elk, mountain lions, whatnot ever else--but one notices deer hunting wasn't one of them.

In raw unsettled Nebraska, one apparently rarely, if ever, encountered a deer.  Nowadays, one can't turn around without running into one.  And that includes in the urban areas too. 

[franksolich]

Oh please...I hope some cracked reporter dosn't show up.

As far as I know, no, one's not going to see the oblate spheroid (or any other primitive) in this story.

It's being written after all to honor the cbayer primitive, and I don't want her character diluted by the presence of other primitives; to her alone, the glory.

[Tucker]

As far as I know, no, one's not going to see the oblate spheroid (or any other primitive) in this story.

It's being written after all to honor the cbayer primitive, and I don't want her character diluted by the presence of other primitives; to her alone, the glory.

You'd better be nice to her or she will lock your thread, ending the saga. The reach of her powers is far and wide. Ask her, she'll tell you.