the dog days of summer

[franksolich]

“I’m still thinking about that cooking and baking group that wants to camp here over the Labor Day weekend,” I told the property caretaker early this morning.

“Usually, I’d dismiss them, but my gut instinct says ‘no, not yet, until you’re thought about it for a while.’

“I want the kids to make a bundle on admission fees, and so I’m committed to giving them the best possible old hippies, getting for them the best possible show.

“Old biddies into cooking and baking aren’t going to draw; old hippies are going to.

“But the gut instinct says--

“Do you remember anything in particular about the telephone call, like where they’re from?”

The caretaker didn’t have his yellow stick-it note with the information, but he remembered the woman had said she was from “the Blue Ridge mountains,” also commenting she didn’t name a state or city.

“Aha,” I said, “one of the primary characteristics of primitives; their geocentrism.

“They assume everybody knows where something’s at, as long as it’s where they’re at.

“Especially the ones from New England.  They’re as provincial as Hell.

“The Blue Ridge mountains are in western North Carolina and eastern Tennessee.

“And they cover a lesser land-area than the Sandhills of Nebraska; I dunno why they’re better known than the Sandhills, other than that easterners tend to be, again, provincial, thinking their little corner of the world is the only world there is.

“And to top it off, easterners have no sense of aesthetics; the Sandhills here are much more scenic than any old mountains there.

“So we may be looking at primitives, but still, the odds are pretty slim.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Can you remember anything else, about when she called?”

The caretaker remembered that the cooking and baking group ostensibly consists of members from all parts of the country.

“She giggled and said, ‘oh, we’re just a bunch of girls who, when we get a wild hair up our asses, we get together and go somewhere to try out the area cuisine.’”

I winced.  “An old lady called herself and them, ‘girls’?”

Yeah, the caretaker said.

Damn, I said.  “And she giggled?

“These obviously aren’t old hippies; they’re more likely old fuddy-duddies, addled old ladies touched in the head.

“Fuddy-duddies won’t draw; we need to find some authentic old hippies for the kids to show off--but keep the telephone number just in case.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

There’s a message on the telephone answering-machine from my regular physician, telling me to call him, as he has the name and appointment of a cardiologist I’m to go and see, but as I saw it too late in the afternoon to call back, I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.

When it comes to making important medical decisions, one shouldn’t automatically accept the solutions offered by the medical professionals, and it’s always been my experience that medical professionals in fact prefer patients who question, doubt, and amend.

The biggest factor here is the ever-diminishing circulatory system, for which nothing can be done; this overshadows and underlays any other “medical condition” I have.  It is my principal condition.

I have no idea how cardiac problems are affected by this, but I guess I’ll soon find out.

- - - - - - - - - -

When I slipped on ice (coming out of a coin-and-stamp store in Lincoln) in January 1993, I shattered my right elbow.  It was a peculiar sort of break (medical evaluation, not my guess), where all the big bones shattered but the small fragile ones remained intact.

At the time, I was working for an insurance company, and inevitably had excellent medical insurance; in fact, there wasn’t even the smallest token co-pay for anything.  All was covered, 100%.

The surgeon proposed an artificial elbow, at the time at the cost in the high five figures.

During the initial visit, I thought that was the only alternative, and tentatively agreed.

However, I was bothered that such an elbow would require routine medical maintenance, and have to be replaced every 10-12 years.  This really bothered me; for example, what if I were ever in a situation of not having the means to pay for a replacement (or even the “maintenance”)?

During the second visit, I asked about other alternatives.  The second one was more primitive, but still, it would require replacement every so often.

So finally, pointing to the x-ray, I asked, “How about just bolting this bone to that bone, and that bone to this bone--would that heal, and what would be the consequences of that?”

The surgeon pointed out that I’d unwittingly described the way it used to be done, like circa 1900 or 1920, and yes, it would heal.  However, it would “lock” the elbow permanently at a 90-degree angle against my midriff, making my right arm unusable (I’m right-handed).

“But it would heal,” I said; “so why not just bolt the bones together, and I can deal with an unusable arm later?  I’d just as soon have a permanent solution, rather than always having to spend a fortune I might not have, on maintenance and replacement.”

So he agreed, and the cost plummeted from the high five figures (plus unknown future expenses) down to a mere $6,000.  Despite his initial pessimism about the outcome, before the operation, he finally suggested, “well, maybe some physical therapy might help.”

After the surgery, I went back to my regular physician, who set me up with three-times-a-week physical therapy sessions; he too assumed I’d never get full use of the right arm back, but it might be possible to get circa 33% of use restored.

I diligently went to physical therapy for about a month, and then went back to my regular physician to complain.  The physical therapist was located way over on the other side of Lincoln, and it bit a big chunk out of my work-day.

But my biggest complaint was, “all they’re doing is giving the joint warm baths and massages, nothing more.  There’s no improvement using this wimpy treatment.”

(What I didn’t mention was that this physician was always giving me prescriptions for controlled-substances pain-killers, which I refused to take.  Every time I got one, upon exiting the building, I tossed the paper into the trash-can.)

So then I proposed something else.  The objective was to get my right arm straight, and then flexible.

The physician approved what I then did (which incidentally, as it cost nothing compared with what professional physical therapy was costing, I was saving other policy-holders money).  I began walking around with an empty briefcase.  After I got used to that, I put half of one of these reddish bricks inside the briefcase, and went around carrying that.  Then I put in a full brick, and then a brick-and-a-half, and then two bricks.  

I started doing this about March 1993, two months after the breakage.  By summer, I was walking around with five bricks inside the briefcase.  By September, the allegedly impossible had happened; I had full use of my right arm; I could do anything I wanted to do, with it.  And utterly painlessly.

And have ever since, with no expenditures for maintenance and replacement of an artificial joint.

- - - - - - - - - -

Now, the heart and the elbow are two different things.

However, the point of all this is that after being illuminated of the usual-and-standard treatment, and usually costly treatment, one should then think outside the box about possible other, less expensive, treatments, and discuss them with a medical professional.  Many of the ideas of a layman aren’t really good ones, but some might be, and so it doesn’t hurt to discuss them.

[franksolich]

The femme and I went to bar in town for supper.  Swede’s gone, and so Wanda, the cook of Polish derivation whose specialty is French cuisine, was working.  The femme dined on moules à la crème Normande, while I had my usual, a well-done hamburger pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease.

I was nervous, because I had to tell her something.

“You know, next week while you’re gone, I’ve got a visitor coming, an old friend--”

“Oh, but I already know that,” she said, nonchalantly.  

“You don’t mind?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, I’m going to be gone, and you have the carnival freaks and six children out there to watch, and so it’d be good for somebody else to be there, to help.”

“You know who it is,” I said, cautiously, hoping she didn’t.

“Yes, it’s that old friend of yours, the sixth cousin three times removed, of the late Clare Boothe Luce.

“You should have a good time, and her help would come in handy, given what interesting things you could do on your own, mixing carnival freaks with young innocent children.”

“I’m doing it only as a favor to her,” I pointed out.  â€œShe’s bored, and wants something new.  She quit her job with the U.S. Department of Agriculture out in southwestern Nebraska, because she says, ‘you know, after a while, all dirt looks alike.’

“But as she’s very happy out there, loving her husband [a veterinarian] and the scenic wonders of the butte country, she’s now decided to become the town librarian, and’s taking remedial courses to do that.”

For whatever reasons, I thought it important to point out she’s in love with her husband (which she is).

- - - - - - - - - -

She changed the subject.  â€œ[the neighbor’s wife] and [the wife of the neighbor’s older brother] and I are going to thrift stores in [the big city] tomorrow, to pick up some things, which I’ll clean and alter for the children.

“You’re pretty demanding, about these croquet-playing uniforms.”

Right, I said; “and be sure it’s the right stuff--white dresses for the girls, and if a blouse and skirt, the blouse has to be white, while the skirt can be any light pastel color.  Big floppy hats, of an appropriate light pastel color, too.  And shorts of any light pastel color for the boys, but the shirts have to be white.  And knee-length socks for them, too.

“In case there’s any Connecticutians around, we don’t want them thinking we don’t know how to play lawn croquet out here.

“Although I can’t figure it out; these are the same snobs who let chickens run around loose in their front yards, like barbarians and savages and other uncouth people.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

She paused.  â€œAnd while I’m there, I’m going to look for some flannel shirts for you, as you don’t have any.

“When looking at those pictures, I thought you looked rather good in flannel shirts, giving you a certain aura of masculinity and strength.”

Uh, there’s a good reason I don’t have flannel shirts, I reminded her.  â€œFlannel shirts suck, pure cotton’s where it’s at.  I quit wearing flannel shirts after someone told me they made me look ‘cuddly;’ threw all of them out into the trash right away.”

She’s still trying to reform my wardrobe, but isn’t going to get away with it.

to be continued

[Skul]

Clocks. 

[franksolich]

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think this is all pretty weird,” the property caretaker said this morning.

“I mean, all the trouble you always take for people camping here, and now this big deal about uniforms for playing lawn croquet.  You’re always making a really big production about things.”

“Normally, people don’t give a [excresence] about such things.”

Blame the femme, I said.

“Ten years ago, I would’ve never thought to carry on like this.  But because [the femme] is what she is, I just got hooked on staging things.”

In case one needs reminded, the femme is an instructor in dance and drama, and one of the things she does is put on productions at fairs and during holidays, during which time she and her students show off what they’ve learned.  These productions entail festive renaissance dances, courtly dances from 19th century Europe, medieval pageants, baroque masterpieces, balls of the decadent French courts, and somesuch.

Another instructor, in music, provides the music and musicians.

The femme doesn’t only teach and direct; she also makes all the costumes for such events.  She’s an excellent seamstress, and really likes to snip-and-sew.

And myself, being a lousy leader but a great follower, follows suit, making great productions out of what are usually trivial things.

- - - - - - - - - - -

“And that’s not all of it,” I continued. 

“You hearing people have all these sources of amusement, diversion, and entertainment--television, radio, records, movies, concerts.  And some of you hearing people spend hours and hours every single day being stimulated by all this entertainment.

“I can’t hear.  There’s nothing in any of this that can possibly animate me.

“However, at the same time, I have the same ‘need,’ or ‘want,’ to be amused.  So I have to find ways of being invigorated that don’t involve hearing.

“The soap operas among the primitives on Skins’s island is a great source of entertainment, better than watching sixty movies.  But sometimes the primitives get stale and boring, and one needs something else.

“When I was a little lad, I discovered that secretly putting other people into ridiculous or preposterous situations, and observing their reactions to these things, was highly amusing, better than watching television 168 hours a week, like my twin Atman does.

“It may look like I’m bending over backwards to make guests here comfortable--and I truly am--but what most don’t see is I’m also bending over backwards to put these people into peculiar situations simply to see how they react, how they handle it.

"Of course, sometimes the tables turn, and I'm the one in an awkward situation, such as what happened Sunday morning, but still, it's worth it because of the usually-amusing reactions I inspire.

“It’s the same as that old game, ‘tickling the tail of the dragon,’ to see what sort of reaction something provokes.  It’s nothing more than a pathetic, desperate attempt to be amused, but I can’t be blamed for trying to fulfill a certain need to be entertained.

“I’m desperate, man, to be amused.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

I asked if anyone had telephoned about camping here over the Labor Day holiday.

“No, somebody called to reserve this place for the weekend of September 21, and I said ‘okay,’ given that you’ll be gone anyway, and so it wouldn’t matter.

“But for Labor Day, we still have only the hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer’s clan from northeastern Oklahoma, or that cooking and baking group.”

Damn, I said.  “I wish there was a way we could find out if the old biddies dress and act like old hippies, so they’d give a good show.  We pretty much know they’re primitives, but do they look like primitives?

“They have to look like old hippies, to draw crowds to come and ogle.”

to be continued

[debk]

FYI.... Blue Ridge Parkway through the mountains is in NC and Virginia. Both states refer to the western part of the state as the Blue Ridge, more so the Virginians. However, so do Marylanders, even though the Parkway isn't up there. Hazarding a guess, the want to be visitors are from Virginia or Maryland.

TN people are more basic.. tend to just say "Smokies" or "the mountains" or "plateau" or "valley", depending on where they live. (I'm in the valley.... damn, I'm a Valley Girl  .)

Also...you can get all cotton flannel shirts or all wool, if you don't want a poly blend. 

[franksolich]

It was a full house this evening, what with the femme, the neighbor’s wife, the wife of the neighbor’s older brother, and six kids running around.  The mature women had been successful in finding stuff at thrift stores that could serve as croquet outfits, but of course all needed fitted, altered, and laundered.

The only problem was the white shirt intended for the oldest of the group, the neighbor’s older brother’s second-oldest son, 12 years old, would not do at all, and so there was much discussion about that.  The neighbor’s older brother’s wife offered to return home to get another shirt, but that’s way over on the other side of the county.

And the femme was pressed for time; she needed to get these things, once fitted, home so as to begin the alterations.  I graciously sacrificed one of my own best white all-cotton shirts.

- - - - - - - - - -

We four adults also finalized the plans.  The kids will be camping in the front yard--out of view of where the carnies and their freaks will be camping on the river--Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday nights.  This is a “practice run,” so that they become familiar with what happens when there’s people camping here.

These are children; they’ve never been around when I’ve had, uh, guests here, and need to know what happens, in preparation for the big show they hope to give the general public when some primitives come here for Labor Day. 

(One dollar admission for drive-by viewing of the old hippies, five dollars admission for parking privileges in the meadow in case one wants to sit and watch the old hippies do all the things old hippies do.  Lawn-chair rental, three bucks, and picture-taking privileges free.)

They’ll camp in the front yard only through Wednesday morning, as that’s when the county fair starts, and they of course are all involved in that.  And I want them out of here by then too, because that’s probably around the time the carnie-and-freak bacchanalia will start, and it’s nothing for innocent children to see.

They’re expected to sleep inside the house if the weather turns inclement, and of course can roast hot-dogs and marshmallows as they wish, in the front yard.  They’re to telephone their parents every evening about supper-time, to confirm that all’s okay.  They’re free to wander anywhere north, east, or south of here, but not west, towards the river.  Any violation of these rules (franksolich’s rules, not their parents’ rules), and I will drive the culprit home.

The retired banker’s wife, the insurance man from town, and franksolich will be instructing all six of them in the finer points of lawn croquet on Sunday afternoon, in the grove of walnut trees.  That’s down near the river, but far enough away that the freaks can’t possibly figure out we’re really down there to watch them, and close enough to satiate any curiosity the kids might have, about freaks.

to be continued

[Splashdown]

Those are beautiful walnut trees! If you allow the cooking and baking primitives to camp there over Labor Day, will they be allowed to harvest some for their special chili recipes?

[franksolich]

See comment 41 on this thread, for the latest:

http://www.conservativecave.com/index.php/topic,89331.msg1114995.html#msg1114995

To console the lurking primitives who can't get into that forum, the only photograph, ever, of franksolich with a camera:

<<<am always fearful of being seen with a camera, and mistaken for the cousin, given that we resemble each other so much.

[franksolich]

Those are beautiful walnut trees! If you allow the cooking and baking primitives to camp there over Labor Day, will they be allowed to harvest some for their special chili recipes?

It'll be a tad bit early to gather walnuts; usually people come and pick them up after the first frost, and that's happening until a long time after Labor Day.

But I'm starting to think the cooking and baking group is "out" in regards to camping here; the kids need some hippie-looking hippies here so as to put on a good show, and I have no idea if the cooking and baking primitives, in appearance, resemble dirty old hippies.

[franksolich]

Those are beautiful walnut trees! If you allow the cooking and baking primitives to camp there over Labor Day, will they be allowed to harvest some for their special chili recipes?

But most of the year, they look like this (not just during the winter):

I'm not sure why the original people here (1875) planted them, because the Sandhills are inhospitable to trees, and usually settlers took care to plant only flora that would do well.

The trees always look so sad, as if they'd rather be somewhere else.

[Skul]

Odd that you mention the trees. There were two walnuts in the wooded lot across the street while I lived in O'Neill.
The nuts made excellent stand-in golf balls.

[franksolich]

“Don’t you think you’re being overprotective of the kids?” the business partner said to me, as we drove through the Sandhills earlier today.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I said; “I’m aware of this, and bend over backwards so as to be sure it’s only a little problem, not a big problem.  But it’s going to be a problem no matter what.

“It’s like with the cats; I’d never had any cats until I came out there, and I got really nervous.  I can’t hear, and so wouldn’t know if one was hurt, or in some sort of trouble.  And I’d feel absolutely lousy if something happened to one of them while I’d been around, and didn’t hear it call out in distress.

“So my first three years there, I took inventory of the cats at least twice a day, censused them, and if one came up missing, I’d go out looking for it, not stopping until I found it.  Some days, I’d be looking for hours, to find it.

“Same thing with children; I need to know where they’re at and what they’re up to, in case one of them’s in trouble, and I can’t hear anything.

“Yes, I’m overprotective, but damn, the only other choice is to be utterly negligent.  I do what I can.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“But there’s been times you’ve taken care of all of them, for an afternoon or even overnight, ever since they were babies.  You’re used to them, they’re used to you, and so surely you can ease up on your zealous guardianship once in a while.”

“Ah,” I said; “when they were infants, they were as easy as strawberries-and-cream.  One can plant an infant in some safe place, and not have a worry thereafter.  The infant’s going to stay right where he’s put, and so one can go about in confidence, knowing exactly where the infant’s at, and what he’s up to.

“But when they start running around, only God knows what sorts of trouble they can get into--and trouble about which I’m not aware, because I don’t hear things.

- - - - - - - - - - -

“Now, I’m intimately acquainted with the care of children; don’t forget, when I was in junior high and high school, I made a mint babysitting young children, raked in some big bucks (“big” for the time and place).

“Our town was pretty masculine, simply because of sheer numbers.  For example, in my graduating class of 101, there were 68 boys and 33 girls.  So lots of males did what are usually considered “girl” jobs, and mine was babysitting, from about the time I was thirteen.

“My most regular clients were a certain cattleman and his wife--for whatever reasons, they lived in town rather than out on their spread.  They had seven kids, and at the time I had them, the oldest was still in grade school.

“They liked me because they didn’t think a girl could handle that many kids, and also because being a boy, I could be out later than girls usually could.  And because I didn’t do television or radio or stereo and invite friends over, they knew I’d concentrate wholly on my charges.

“The kids liked me too; in fact, they still remember me fondly.

“And they were well-behaved; they went to bed on time, after which all I had to do was sit around for about four more hours, until the parents came home, about 1:00 a.m.  There was a television there, but I didn’t pay attention to that.

“Unlike most people with television, these people had books, too; lots and lots of books.  So I’d just sit there and read in the semi-darkness.  Most of the books were about Mormons and Mormonism, and I found them interesting.  I think that by the time I graduated from high school and went away, I’d read them all.

- - - - - - - - - -

“There was only ever one single problem, back when the youngest one was an infant about a year old.

“It was the summer, and the kids were getting bored.  So we raided a neighbor’s garden, coming away with an enormous watermelon, which I cut up and fed everybody, excepting the infant, who of course was on the usual-and-standard infant diet.

“He began to fuss and fret, because he wanted watermelon too.

“So I smashed up some watermelon and fed it to him.

“When I was cleaning up things a little bit later, he began fussing and fretting again, and there was olfactory evidence in the air that he’d done a big number two.  So I changed his diapers, and all was well again.

“That is, for about ten or fifteen minutes, after which he unloaded again.

“I changed his diapers, figuring well, that was it.

“It wasn’t.  He released his bowels a third time.

“And a fourth time.

“And a fifth time.

“The kid was pumping out as if a bison.

“Now, the family didn’t use disposable diapers, only renewable ones.  There’d been a stack of them in the bathroom, but needless to say, there were none left after a while.  I resorted to using bath-towels as diapers, not knowing what else to do.  I was panic-stricken.

“I guess I could’ve contacted the parents--medical professionals, after all--to find out the maximum possible volume of solid body wastes in an infant, but I didn’t think to.

“Fortunately, he was finally diminished, and went to sleep as if nothing were wrong.

“The next time I baby-sat there, instead of a medium-sized stack of clean diapers, there was a stack reaching high up in the air.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

“You know, with these freaks coming starting tomorrow, I wish I still had my father’s old medical textbooks,” I told the business partner as we were driving alongside the Missouri River.

“I knew those books like the back of my hand, and they’d be quick reference guides, the ones with pictures of anatomical disfigurements, and explaining the causes.

“I never kept them, though, because there were s-o-o-o-o-o-o-o many books in the house, thousands of books, books all over the place.  I didn’t have the means to keep all that I wanted to take.

“You know, one time I made money off those books.

“I was in the second grade, and one day I took three of them to school with me--a book with photographs of the development of women when pregnant, a book of illustrations of contagious diseases, and a really large book with transparent color plates showing the layers of the human eye.

“During recess, I set up shop.  At first, I charged a dime to look at anything in the book of contagious diseases, twenty cents to look at the layers of the eye, and thirty cents to look at naked women.

“I had it all wrong, though, and quickly had to adjust my rates--I couldn’t get but five cents for a look at the naked women, and the demand for the pictures of contagious diseases was such that I could charge thirty cents, getting no complaints.

“It went so well that instead of returning the books home at dinner, I kept them at the school, and again set up shop during afternoon recess.

“There was one photograph in the contagious diseases book that was the most popular, a hapless victim of leprosy whose features were shown, over time, growing leonine-like.

“But some miscreant complained to the teacher--I wouldn’t allow him two looks for the price of one, or something--and she took the books and my gate-receipts away.

“The teacher had a meeting with the parents after school, and returned the books to them, but nothing was ever said to me, or if it was, I didn’t hear it.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The femme came by last night, to drop off the altered wardrobes for lawn croquet and to say “good-bye,” as she’s going to be away for the next ten days.  Her group will perform some sort of Elizabethan show at the county fair, but it’ll be under the direction of the assistant instructor.

“You’re in a funk,” she declared.

Of course I’m in a funk, I replied; “It’s not easy, realizing one’s mortal.

“I mean, I always knew I was--oh God, yes--but it was something I’d hoped not to encounter for some, uh, decades yet.  And now to save myself, for the first time in my life, I’m going to have to acquire self-discipline.

“I’m fortunate I’ve gotten this far in life, doing what I want to do, being the way I want to be, and nothing bad’s ever happened.  Of course, that’s due to that the things I wanted to do, the ways I wanted to be, were exactly, precisely those things one should do, for a long life.

“Avoiding grease and processed foods and dead fish, an intense dislike of sugar and other sweet things, an avid consumer of milk and other dairy products, a preference for poultry over beef, fresh fruits and vegetables only, no canned, four times the recommended daily allowance of fiber and roughage, and of course no drinking or drugs, licit or illicit.

“And generally living life cautiously and conservatively, getting involved in no argument or dispute, staying away from people and things hazardous to one’s well-being.

“I didn’t avoid these things to stay healthy; I did these things simply because I wanted to.

“And the unintended consequence was that I’ve thus far evaded the ills that sent all other members of my family to early graves; the usual ailments and afflictions of affluenza, high blood pressure, expanding girth, diabetes, kidney and bladder problems, high cholesterol, bad teeth, loss of hair, explosive temperaments, melancholia, dementia, haemorrhoids, dependence upon pharmaceuticals, &c., &c., &c.--those things that arise out of leading a too easy, too comfortable, too secure sort of life.

“I used to be especially fearsome of diabetes, because to get that, meant I’d have to adopt rigorous self-control and discipline.  It’s got to be Hell, being diabetic.

“Well, none of the problems anybody else in my family had, are my problems--but then damn it, it never occurred to me that I’d develop problems they never had.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“You’ll feel better after next month, when you’ve been out there,” the femme said, referring to my trip to the heart of the Sandhills where I spent my childhood and adolescence.  It’s going to be the first time in 35 years since I’ve been there (other than just quickly passing through)--and will be chronicled in the Sandhills forum here, perhaps even with photographs, if my hostess has a camera.

Why I hadn’t ever gone back has been explained before, and so suffice it to say when I was 17, 18, 19 years old, those were the most difficult years of my life, and in a fit of incredible folly, I threw overboard all those with whom I’d shared a childhood and adolescence in the Sandhills, severing all bonds and connections.

“But why have you been waiting for so long?” the femme asked.  “You’d been talking about this as long ago as May, and you’re waiting until near the end of September, to go.  Sure, it’s far away, but it’s not that far away.”

“The Sandhills in autumn,” I replied; “when they’re at their finest, some of the most beautiful sights of all Creation.  There’s nothing else as beautiful, as sublime, as glorious, as awesome, as the Sandhills in autumn.”

to be continued

[obumazombie]

I like the pics you publish that have the trees in them. I must have a mild form of agoraphobia.

[franksolich]

I like the pics you publish that have the trees in them. I must have a mild form of agoraphobia.

Oh now, trees have their places.

But their places aren't everywhere; they don't belong everywhere.

If one wants to see a sore thumb, one need only look at the National Forest near Halsey in the Sandhills.  It's the largest man-made forest in the world, started by some effete eastern do-gooder about a hundred years ago.  Its flora is totally alien to the Sandhills, and the whole damned thing burns down about every twenty-five years.

And then because "other people," outsiders, think Nebraska needs trees (never mind that we probably have more trees than Ohio), and because Nebraskans aim to please, we spend a fortune putting up a new one.

Trees don't belong everywhere.  Nature has its reasons for not wanting trees in that particular spot, and so man should listen. 

[franksolich]

This is the western slope of the Sandhills, around where dutch508 lives (I live on the eastern slope; those pretty pictures taken of where I'm going in September are in the center, the heart, of the Sandhills)--please notice there's more than enough trees there--and actually, there's places where there's tens of thousands of acres of tree so dense the sunlight never reaches the ground.

[vesta111]

I like the pics you publish that have the trees in them. I must have a mild form of agoraphobia.

Agoraphobia you named it perfectly.

Why is it I can go 20 miles out to sea, turn around 360 degrees and see the tilt of the earth and the waves and feel calm ?

Driving through NE, there were times I panicked as On land I could see the tilt of the earth.    Earth to me meant trees and structures stopping my view.    Coming to lands end and looking out over thousands of miles of nothing but water.

So strange and different for this Yankee to try to imagine how the first settlers felt coming west and seeing not one tree to hide behind when the Indians attacked them.   No where to run, no where to hide, Here one could look as far as one could see.

That and without the salt in the air the earth smelled so different.    Miles of plowed fields that had this unknown Oder.   For those that visit the east coast from NE. the smell of the earth at low tide will gag them.

Then the farmers, on the coast the farmers will spread horse or cow manure on the fields.   Way inland the smell is way different, ----This don't smell like cow or horse shit to me.

When we came to OMAHA it was like the Wizard of OZ, it seemed to grow from the ground up.  

Franks Photos are amazing, makes me want to spend a few months touring his State.  Why spend $3,000 for a cruse to the Bahamas  when there are 48 states land side to visit and see amazing things???   Sorry Alaska, but I do not want to be around Polar Bears,    Sorry Hawaii, today just a tourist trap.

Trying to look at this as Lewis and Clark did, can one imagine the wonder and surprise they and their group saw for the first time ?    Have to remember they were all East Coast Yankees that had never been 500 miles from the sea.

YUP kind of pisses me off when family spend thousands of dollars to visit another country on a Cruse ship and have never seen more then the 10 States in their area.    Jump aboard an Amtrak and get off in each state, rent a car for a day, drive about see the sights and get back aboard the next one for dinner and sleep.  Be it northern or southern route, more to see then any cruse to the Bahamas.

 

[franksolich]

Driving through Nebraska, there were times I panicked as on land I could see the tilt of the earth.

Actually, you're looking into Eternity.

Two-dimensional photographs don't capture this essence of the Sandhills, and it's very real, this sense that one's looking into Eternity.  It's caused not only by the landscape, but by the meteorological characteristics, the atmospheric conditions (unique to Nebraska).

Most people prefer a world defined by visual and other boundaries.  Without boundaries, they feel lost and insecure......and insignificant.  There are no egoists in the Sandhills; we all know how small we are, compared with nature and God.  They're uncomfortable in world that reaches all the way to God.

[franksolich]

Okay, I told the property caretaker when he was here, bringing both of us dinner from the bar in town, in brown paper bags.   I’d ordered my usual, and he’d gotten sauerbraten and schupfnudel for himself; Hop Fu Chou must’ve been cooking today, as he’s famous for his Teutonic dishes.

“Tell the cooking and baking group that, sorry, the place is already taken for Labor Day, and so they’ll have to find somewhere else.  I have to be sure I get old hippies here so the kids can put on a good show, and I’m not sure about them.

“They sound like a bunch of eccentric little old ladies, not old hippies, this cooking and baking group.”

“Am I supposed to tell hippywife Mrs. Alfred Packer that her clan can have it then?” he asked.

“No, keep them on hold for the while; we got until next Saturday to give them an answer, and I’m really hoping to find some other old hippies, rather than them.”

“Well, it’s too bad for the cooking and baking group,” the caretaker said.

“But maybe not,” I responded.  “When telling them ‘no,’ remind them about dutch508’s cattle barony over on the other side of the Sandhills.  He’s got plenty of room over there, and is always asking people to come visit him.

“And dutch508 sets a good table.”

“How big’s his spread?”

“It’s enormous, about the size of Connecticut or something.  And right on the banks of the Niobrara River, famous for its unblemished scenery.  He even has a couple of private waterfalls.”

“Can he offer them a good place to camp?”

“Better than that; he can offer them a whole colonial-style guest house.  It’s located on the far side of his empire, and offers considerable privacy.  There’s some livestock buildings surrounding it, but it’s pretty big, and the animals’ll be too far way to bother them.

“Of course, he has his own house too, but he’s got kids, and it might be crowded there.  It’s modest for the area, but still pretty good.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The neighbor was here, and we were sitting on the back porch when the first of the carnies and their freaks showed up, as we’d been told.

It was an old, kind of beaten-up, white Toyota pick-up truck pulling one of those old-fashioned little trailers that are oval, rather than rectangular, in shape, with boat-sized port-holes for windows.

While we were sitting there watching, two guys got out and disconnected the truck from the trailer.

The river’s 500 yards away from the back porch, and so the two of us got up to look at things through the amateur telescope that’s mounted on one of the railings of the porch.

The first one he saw was the hunchback, and then turned the telescope over to me.

Watching for a couple of minutes, I announced the hunchback was no fake, given the way he moved around--very clumsily, almost as if blind--and that his face, although indistinct, looked as if it were melting.

“Well, there’ll be at least one honest freak at the carnival.”

The neighbor looked again, at the other guy.

“Must be a caretaker; I don’t see anything wrong at all with him.”

I took the telescope, and at first didn’t see anything wrong myself, but there was something about the guy that rang a bell inside my head.  I couldn’t figure out, and kept watching.

Five hundred yards is pretty far away to see with an amateur telescope, and so it took me a while.

“Aha--that guy’s got both eyes on the same side of his nose.

“I’ll bet it’s the hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer’s brother-in-law, one of hippyhubby Wild Bill’s younger brothers.

“In fact, I pretty sure it’s him.

“Don’t take any ten-dollar bills this next week; tell them to give you two fives instead.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

In late afternoon, I went to town with the woman who’s taking the femme’s place in the show at the county fair next week, as she wanted to sample the local cuisine.  We went to the bar, where Swede was cooking.  Upon seeing me, he angrily tossed a hamburger down on the grill and jammed a brick on top of it.

She, on the other hand, pleased him every much.

She started off with verdure in pinzimonio, and then moved on to sugo al pomodoro and grissini torinesi, and then as a start for the main course, had tortelloni ricotta and spinachi, and finally moscardini lessati alla genovese.  For dessert, she had cassata siciliana.

I can’t figure it out, how petite women can eat like a horse, and never put on weight; the femme’s exactly the same way.

- - - - - - - - - -

When we got back here, the neighbor’s wife was here, with the five children.

I panicked, and rushed out to the back porch, hoping there were no freaks down on the river, because the children might see them.  There weren’t; it was just that one trailer, nobody around.

There’d been a mix-up in communication between the neighbor and the neighbor’s wife, who’d been in the big city with the children, about what to do for supper, and they were waiting for him to come here, from the grocery store in town.

He showed up soon thereafter, with fixings for chicken salad sandwiches and potato chips.  As one might suspect, there was already plenty of whole milk out here for the children, and for franksolich.  The neighbor and the woman who’s taking the femme’s place in the show at the county fair next week raided one of the refrigerators in the garage for beer.  The neighbor’s wife sipped on water.

The neighbor’s oldest son, eight years old and in charge of the public viewing when the old hippies come here to camp over Labor Day, informed me again that they--his two older sisters, and two sons and one daughter of the neighbor’s older brother, and he, were all set to “make a million bucks.”

Whoa.  Talk about being under pressure.  I have to get some colorful old hippies so the kids can offer a good show, and thus far I’m stuck with only the Packer clan, which I don’t want, but will take if I have to.

I told him that the retired banker’s wife had been here this afternoon, along with her eight-year-old grandson, the kid who’s always staring at me, hoping the wind’ll blow some hair away from the sides of my head, exposing that I have no ears.

“I think you’ll have seven,” I told the eager young lad.

“He wants to sell popcorn to the spectators.”

“Aw, but I don’t like him,” the eager young lad said.  “He’s a doofus.”

“You don’t have to like him,” I said, “but you can be fair to him.  None of you six proposed selling concessions; this was his idea, and he deserves to profit from it.

“And besides, you six have to clean up after it’s all over.  Think about how much easier it’ll be, seven people doing the work of six.”

The eager young lad reluctantly assented.

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor’s wife sorted through the croquet outfits.

“You know, because it was important to you, she put a lot of work into this…..and the sad fact is, the children probably won’t even appreciate it, having to wear this stuff.”

Uh, no, I said; “what kid doesn’t like dressing up in a costume?

“And besides, they may end up liking the game and want to play it more, in which case they’ve already got the apparel for it.”

“And in about six months, they’ll have outgrown all of it,” she sighed.

- - - - - - - - - -

The eager young lad came back to our table, and asked me about the freaks.

“Is it okay to laugh at them?”

The neighbor’s wife held her breath.

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no,” I said.  “It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Well, if a person was naturally born a freak, born that way, no, it’s not okay, because the person wasn’t responsible for it, and probably doesn’t enjoy being a freak but can’t do anything about it.

“But if a person makes himself into a freak on purpose, it’s perfectly fine to laugh and laugh and laugh and mock and tease and ridicule and scorn and lampoon as much as one wants to--and that’s not just a rule from franksolich, but from God too.  If the person did it on purpose, by all means it’s okay to laugh at him.

“Remember, not only I, but God also says this.”

I sifted through a bunch of carnival flyers, pulling out three I wanted.

“Now, one of the freaks in the freak show is billed as ‘the world’s biggest drunk,’ and he’s going to give ‘the world’s most boring monologue on an issue of no importance at all.’

“Now, when sober and with hair, he looks, well, okay.  But then he makes a freak out of himself not only by being drunk, but by shaving the hair off his head.

“It’s contemptible, the way the idiot purposely uglifies himself, and he deserves all the laughter he attracts.

“There’s ‘iffy’ cases too; for example, there’s going to be ‘the world’s ugliest woman.’   She has a face like Paul von Hindenberg.  Now, you don’t know who Hindenberg was, but if you did, you’d agree if he’d been a woman and looked that way, yeah, sure, she’s grotesquely ugly.

“Now, the world’s ugliest woman wasn't responsible for looking the way she does; she was born that way.

“And so normally, it wouldn’t be good to make fun of her.

“However.

“However.

“However.

“The world’s ugliest woman is also of a mean, bitter, hate-filled, spiteful nature, which makes her ugliness even uglier.  In fact, if she weren’t so mean, bitter, hate-filled, and spiteful, probably nobody’s even notice she has a face like Hindenberg’s.

“So it’s a judgement call, but my own judgement is that yeah, it’s okay to laugh at her.”

I began reaching for the flyer advertising ‘the world’s fattest and ugliest subway cat,’ but the neighbor’s wife’s hand stayed mine.

to be continued

[franksolich]

After it began getting dark, the neighbor’s wife took the five children home, but the neighbor, the woman who’s taking the place of the femme in the show at the county fair this next week, and I sat around on the back porch, hoping to see if any more carnies and freaks showed up down by the river.

Then the business partner showed up, on his way back from Iowa, and as he still had a long drive ahead back home, decided instead to spend the night here.

About 11:00 p.m., there was light and movement down there, but even with the telescope, we couldn’t tell much what was going on.  Vaguely, we could see it was a long horse-trailer, pulled by a truck.

There were two things that were rolled out of it, and parked underneath a canvas roof.  It was a nice night, ideal for sleeping outdoors; no need for walls.

“Well, there’s two,” the business partner said.  “Which of the freaks come in pairs?”

I said there was the guy with the eggplant-shaped head, “the world’s biggest drug addict,” and the guy with the pineapple-shaped head, “the world’s biggest dork,” but it didn’t seem to me it’d be necessary for them to ride this way, in a horse-trailer.

Then I remembered.  “Oh yeah, ‘the world’s fattest twins,’ allegedly 800 pounds apiece.  ‘Ebony’ and ‘Ivory’--Ebony’s the white one, and Ivory’s the black one, but how they can be twins defies me.

“Now, they probably look fat, but I wonder.

“Not all fat people consist mostly of fat; there’s some people--the Lynne Sin primitive, for example--who because of dropsy caused by overuse of pharmaceuticals, are made up more of water, than fat.  If one pays attention, one can tell the difference; authentic bona fide fat has at least some solidity to it, some firmness, while watery fat just sags.

“I guess we’ll find out in broad daylight; if they’re spilling over the sides of the gurneys they’re on, they’re fake; it’s not fat, but water.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

We briefly debated the Minnesota Mammaries, allegedly 84”-38”-41” in stature.

“That’s the one I want to see,” I said.  “No way in Hell can those be real.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

The other two left, but the business partner and I sat outside for a while after that.

He asked me how the plans were going, for my trip back into the heart of the Sandhills in late September; I’ll be gone at a time inconvenient for him, but that can’t be helped.

“It’s been 30 years,” he said; “people change a lot, and I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

Yeah, yeah, I said; I know that.  “But some people have eternal qualities that never change.

“I can’t see where she’d be any different now, than she’d been before.

She wasn’t a high school girlfriend, but just my best friend who was a girl, from about the time we were ten until we were twenty-two, and I quit going back to the middle of the Sandhills.

“The most perfect woman ever.  We first met in Sunday morning catechism classes when we were in the fifth grade, although in regular school, she went to the elementary school on the south side of town, while I went the one on the north side.

“I was awestruck, speechless, the first time I met her.  I even bowed at the waist and addressed her as ‘madam,’ because even at the age of ten years, she oozed grace and class and elegance out of every pore.

“I never called her anything but ‘madam’ all the way through, and I guess what’d be considered odd is that none of our classmates thought it was weird at all.  It just seemed the most natural thing in the world, for me to call her that.  I never carried her books, but I always gently took her elbow when escorting her through crowds.

“So I never had anything to do with her--or anybody else from there--for 30 years, until last April, when my best friend during childhood and adolescence died.  I immediately wrote her, “Hi, this is me.  Hey, what happened to…..”  Despite that I hadn’t identified myself--this was an e-mail--she right away knew who I was, and we picked up right where we’d left off.

“She never cared for him, and he never cared for her, which created all sorts of problems for this guy in the middle, but I eventually got used to it, as it seems the story of my life, always being caught in between.

“I’m sure it’s going to be very emotional for me--she’s one of only two women on whose shoulder I’ve ever cried, and I’m sure she’s the only woman who ever understood me.”

to be continued

[franksolich]

The business partner left this morning, but not before seeing that the mysterious cargo of the night before was in fact the “twin” fat ladies Ebony and Ivory.  They were mounted not on gurneys, but on some sort of super-duper-sized wheelchairs, and tended to by a woman with three legs.

I was the one who discerned how they took care of, uh, certain personal needs.  They wear diapers the size of bed sheets.  The three-legged woman merely eases the back of the chairs down, until they’re laying flat, and does the job.

“Well, I hope they don’t have to do that during the show itself,” the business partner said.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor’s older brother later came to drop off four pup-tents and six sleeping bags, for the kids to deal with tomorrow, piling them on the front porch.

As the charcoal grill in the front yard was going, and as his wife and family were in the big city, I invited him to grill something, and have a beer from one of the four refrigerators kept for that purpose in the garage.

Then a few minutes later, the property caretaker came, to pick up some stuff, and decided to do the same.

We sat out on the back porch, watching the camp-site down by the river.  There were now three rusted antique miniature house-trailers there, along with the horse-trailer.  No vehicles were present, until an old Ford Econoline van pulled up, dislodging four people.  They looked normal, carnies, perhaps.

The caretaker looked through the telescope; they were unloading cases of cheap beer.

Fortunately he was seated again when Louie “the Nose” Macellaio, the advance-man for the carnival, came out through the kitchen.

He looked at me.

“You’re not letting people see them, the freaks, are you?  I have lots of money tied up in them, and if people see them for free here, they won’t pay admission to see them at the county fair.”

No, I assured him; indicating with my arm I showed that they were too far away to be seen with any clarity from here.  From the back porch, they were so small and indistinct they looked normal.

He seemed mollified, and told me he’d just dropped by to see how things were going, and questioned me how to keep the sheriff off the property.

“We were robbed last year, when he went around giving us tickets for drinking on governmental property.  We barely had enough money left over after paying the fines to get enough gasoline to get everybody back home.  And then the next week’s payroll was a bitch to gather up.”

I assured him the sheriff won’t come onto this property unless I call him, and I have no intentions of calling him, unless bloodshed’s occurring down there.

The neighbor’s older brother asked Louie if he’d seen the new tennis courts in town, omitting of course to mention that the fines levied against the drinking carnies last year paid for the whole thing.

I glared at him.  The sheriff this year is looking for creative financing for a press-box and luxury suites at the local high school football field, and best to procure the funds from outsiders, rather than from those of us who live here.

It’s always a good idea to keep the money in the county, in the county.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Louie left, and drove his car from the front yard through the meadow down to the camp.

The three of us watched, but nothing else happened.

Then a string of deer passed by, over on the property to the south of here, owned by the Italianate interests in New Jersey.  Apparently it’s going to be good deer season, after the disappointing one last year, due to the Great Barack Drought of ‘12, the hottest and driest summer ever recorded in Nebraska.

to be continued