Jingle Bell Rock

I had been sixteen for three months that Christmas of 1957. I don’t remember what I knew or didn’t know. Not too much of what is bad had happened to me yet, but of course, it would. I suppose I was somewhat perplexed to be where I was, partly adult, but also childlike and confused in some of my thinking. In fact, remembering back now to that time, it doesn’t seem like I did much thinking, but only let time and events flow past me like the currents of the rivers that I loved, while I waited to see what my life would become, or where I would be taken.

Along with our extended family, we were having dinner at the home of my Uncle Dave and Aunt Pauline like we always did at Christmas. They had a big dining room table that had room for all of us, and there was turkey and ham, potica, Italian cookies, hard ribbon candy and pop. My cousins, LeeAnn and Wilbur were there with their parents. Their mother and my father were first cousins. All of the older relatives had died a long time ago. Wilbur was almost exactly my age. We had spent time with each other, usually at holidays, but we had also fished and hunted together with our fathers. He and I had been in the car more than two years earlier, returning from a fishing trip with my dad, when the drunk had crossed the center line and slammed into us. My father was unconscious, Wilbur was in shock, and it was up to me that day, not quite fourteen, to take charge and make decisions, even though I was bloody and hurt, and it was then that I knew that the same would be expected of me in the future, as I became a man. I didn’t like that idea very much.

Wilbur’s parents had bought him an old car. I don’t remember what it was, but it belonged to him, he could drive it whenever he wanted, and I was envious. We went out in it that day, after dinner, just the two of us. I think we went to his home to pick something up. It was cold, and there was no sun to brighten or warm. The car heater didn’t work. Wilbur turned the radio on and Christmas music was playing on all the stations, and we heard Jingle Bell Rock. It was just out that year. It was one of Bobby Helms’ two hits. I don’t remember what we talked about. Maybe it was about his girlfriend. I didn’t have one.

I was at Central and Wilbur went to Centennial and we didn’t see each other often. We had our own friends. I did some dumb things back then. With some of my buddies I shoplifted from stores, stealing things I didn’t even want, just for the thrill of it. Twice, Perko and I stole hubcaps when we were out in his dad’s yellow pickup at night. The second time the spinners made a loud noise when we pried them off, dogs barked, a light went on, and we had to run for it. I didn’t do it again after that. I don’t know if Perko did.

About a year later we read in the paper that Wilbur and two of his friends had held up a gas station in Colorado Springs with shotguns and had been caught. I don’t know if they were in the same car he and I had ridden in that Christmas. I can remember my parents and I sitting in my Uncle Dave’s kitchen after that, and him saying that if the crime had been committed in Pueblo he might have been able to help Wilbur. Uncle Dave had connections and knew who would take a bribe for probation or a reduced sentence. But he had no influence outside the city. Wilbur was sent to the reformatory at Buena Vista. He served a few years. I don’t remember how many. Wilbur loved to fish as much as I did, so it must have been hard on him to know that the Arkansas River was flowing right behind the prison but it might as well have been a hundred miles.

We hardly saw each other after that. I went to college, and after he served his time, Wilbur was lucky enough to get a job at Triplex. He got married and had some kids even before I graduated. Our lives diverged, and I moved away from Pueblo for almost thirty years before returning. He called me once after I came back. He had become a good fly fisherman and said he would take me out in his boat, but he never called back. I saw him a couple of times after, at his mother’s funeral, and then at his sister’s. Six years ago, Wilbur got cancer and died too.

Now I wish that I had called him, arranged a fishing trip together. Maybe when we were alone in the dark car, before the sun came up as we drove to the lake and we couldn’t see each other’s faces, or even out in the boat, in the calm water reflecting the green mountains I would have asked him why he and his friends decided to hold up that gas station. Why had he done that thing that changed his whole life, that made him a felon when he wasn’t even eighteen. I don’t know. He probably couldn’t have told me, any more than I could have explained to my parents why I stole those ten dollar hubcaps.

More than fifty years have passed since that Christmas day in 1957. They still play Jingle Bell Rock on the radio. It has become a classic. When I hear it, I still think of Wilbur.

Jerry Miller

I’m Seventy

Several months ago, a former student asked me, “So how old are you now, anyway?” Liz had been been a challenge for me when I was her teacher in middle school. When I told her of this milestone birthday, she continued, “So, how does it “feel” to be seventy?”

(I dunno — “like shit,” — “happy to be alive,” — “more opinionated than when I turned 40,” — “about the same as when I turned 69″) — I didn’t have an answer for Liz.

As a student at Carlile, I was invited to several classmates’ birthday parties – the first of which was John Thatcher’s in kindergarten or first grade. Birthdays were never big in our household. In seventh grade we moved to the “new” house on Acero and my birthday was celebrated with a few of classmates. A small black and white photo captured myself with Rusanna, Joann, Kaye Ann, Sandy, Sharron, Susan, and Norma June. I’m happy I have that picture and realize that two of those friends have been gone for quite a while.

Single when I turned forty, my kids “planned” a birthday celebration for me in cahoots with some of my girlfriends. Mother surprised me by coming to Oregon from Pueblo for the event expecting, I guess, a lovely dinner at a nice restaurant. She was quite surprised when she was delivered and dumped at Helevetia Tavern, a popular watering hole in farmland outside of Portland. “I won’t use my camera here,” Mom told everyone loudly, “because I’d be too embarrassed to show my friends in Pueblo where my daughter celebrated her birthday.” But, a friend took a photo that night; I’m glad I have that picture because Mom is seated next to me. She looks “so-so” happy at Helevetia.

My fiftieth was a non-event, probably because it was the first chaotic week of school. Perhaps my memory is already failing me, but I don’t remember my sixtieth being special either.

But, this seventieth birthday has been a burr in my butt since the beginning of the year when my children announced they were going to do something “special” for me — maybe because I’m still alive and/or able to get around. Kind enough to ask for my opinion regarding the celebration activities, (but not necessarily receptive to my suggestions) we agreed upon a dinner at the Cowboy Dinner Tree on Oregon’s high desert (worth a Google), a midnight canoe ride across Elk Lake to view our dark and starry, summer heavens, and finally — a gathering for a family portrait. Of course, the dress code for the pics was dictated, but simple: white shirts and jeans and nice smiles regardless of whether or not all of the siblings and grandkids were getting along that day.

As I viewed the eleven family members about to gather into cars for the photo site, I looked at our three tall, beautiful grandkids, one soon to leave for college. I felt good inside. I then heard one of my daughters say to the other in a nearby room, “Were you able to do something with mom’s hair?”

The photographer gathered us around a rustic bench, and the sting of realizing I was now the matriarch hit me. Not too long ago, my mom sat in the middle where I was placed this night. I’m sure as time passes, the family will be happy to have the portrait.

I did get a special birthday gift. My new puppy, Tucker, awakes and reminds me early each morning that it’s time for our ritualistic walk. I try telling myself the exercise will keep me from aging so quickly. I don’t know who I’m kidding: I’ve already had an implant here, and an replacement there. I’m no stranger at airport security.

Many things I’ve said in my life. Some I’ve been happy I’ve said, and some I haven’t. Funny, however, I never could have pictured myself saying, “I’m seventy.”.

And, I’m lucky.

Laurine Myers Mitchell

My Pal

I was fortunate enough to have five good friends as a young man. Those of you who have kept up with this blog may possibly recall that I have written about those friends over the years, including the very first thing I posted, a semi-fictional account called “Christmas Eve at Donk’s,” back in April, 2005. One of the friends I wrote about was nicknamed Dude, and his real name was Mike McNair.

I think I met Mike in the third or fourth grade at Carlile after he and his brother Doyle had transferred from another school. We became friends for the year or two that he was there before his parents moved out of Carlile’s boundaries. We reconnected at Keating and were good friends for our three years there and during our years at Central. We played pinball together, played poker and pool, went out with girls, hunted rats at the dump, fished, drank, and most of all, we just hung out and talked. For a whole summer in 1958, because of a misdiagnosed illness, I was unable to leave the house except after dark. On most of those days, Mike would show up at my house and spend several hours with me. I never forgot that, and thankfully, a few years ago I wrote and told him how much I appreciated it.

As a young boy Mike was diagnosed with what was then called “juvenile diabetes.” He gave himself his shot every day and most of the time we, his buddies, didn’t know it. He became expert in knowing when a reaction was starting, and even more important, he learned how much insulin to take before he did the things he wasn’t supposed to do.

I wrote several other posts in which Mike was prominently mentioned. You may remember me writing that he, Robert Pardun, Gerry Perko and I were good friends and roommates in Boulder in the fall of 1961. The four of us had great times together, and that was a period of my life I never forgot. Mike was determined to do everything the rest of us did, despite the handicap of diabetes. He ate sweets if he wanted and drank as much as the others. I remember one night when he drank way too much wine. We put him to bed, but if we had been more knowledgeable about his disease, we would have brought him to the hospital. He told us once that when he was small a doctor told him he wouldn’t live past age thirty. He beat that by forty. He was a funny guy who came up with his own expressions. If someone was angry, they had “tight jaws.” He talked about fishing in “urine pond.” He could draw beautifully and did funny cartoons. He exasperated me sometimes, like when he went to work in Alaska in the summer of 1961 with the plan of earning enough money for college that year. He came back with a car and no money. But that was Mike, we were young, and sometimes we did things that didn’t make sense.

I remember an afternoon at the UMC in Boulder when Mike and I played a pinball machine together, me using the right flipper, him the left, which was awkward, but we were good at it. We won so many games that we drew a small crowd watching, and played until we got bored and left with free games still on the machine.

When the original group broke up, Mike and I roomed together the next semester too, right up to the time he got married and left school. He returned to Boulder the next fall with his wife Donna and their son. Then they moved to Salt Lake City and had another boy. When Robert, Gerry and I drove to San Francisco during spring break in 1963, we made sure to stop for a night with Mike and Donna on the way home.

Mike’s marriage broke up and he moved to California and lived with Perko for a while, and I visited them and we had a great time in 1965. Mike had me drop him off at work in Palo Alto and let me use his car to drive to San Francisco or wherever else I wanted to go.

He married Rose and they had two sons, and Mike became very successful in the Silicon Valley area doing a variety of things. He was a smart, personable guy who everybody liked and that combination worked well. Over the years we saw each other occasionally when Jackie and I, and sometimes our kids, went to California. The last time was in 2008 when Pardun, Perko, Mike and I, and our wives, had a reunion at Mike’s home near Santa Cruz. By then the diabetes was finally catching up with him. He had heart problems, trouble with his eyes, and spoke of possibly having to go on dialysis. But he was still working, operating his own company.

A few months ago I wrote a short piece for the Pueblo County Historical Society about the changes on Third Street in Pueblo over the last fifty years, and included something about the pool hall in which we had spent many hours. I concluded that I wished that my three friends and I could shoot one more game together. Robert wrote to me saying that if that was what I wanted, I shouldn’t wait too long to come to California.

I emailed that little article to Mike too, and his response was the last time I heard from him. I wish I had kept it. He wrote sure, if I came out we could have a game of pool. He would look forward to it.

I got the bad news yesterday, calls from both Pardun and Perko. Goodby, Dude. It was a pleasure. Thanks for all you did for me. Thanks for being my friend.

Jerry Miller
August 11, 2011

Days of Swimming Mermaids

When very young and foolish (as opposed to older and foolish), I was living in Baltimore, Maryland with my mother. We had ridden the train from Pueblo to Baltimore to be near my father while he did some Army training at Camp Holabird on the outskirts of Baltimore. My 5th birthday was celebrated there and it was hard not to enjoy my status as an only child.

A large fountain in the courtyard of the small, white, 2-story apartment house was a gathering place where the tenants exchanged information and pleasantries. The children congregated there to play games. One game we played was “Who can walk backwards the farthest?” and I lost that one because I ended up in the fountain full of foul green-black water and rotting leaves. I inhaled a bit of the water, of course, as I was surprised to find myself in such a predicament. Living on the dry plains of Pueblo did not prepare me for a watery world and I had no idea of how one handled water. Mother added a nice touch of fear when she told me to “Spit! Spit!”, as if that would eliminate any water I’d swallowed or inhaled. A hurried trip up the outside staircase and into our apartment bathtub to wash off the yucky debris added another layer of emotion because Mother wasn’t exactly gentle.

I did not learn to swim until I was 12 years old. Mother insisted I take lessons at the YWCA downtown. It meant a bus ride across town to the “Y” once a week and changing into a rental swimsuit there. The suit was scratchy and didn’t fit well at all, but it was all that was available to me. The water was cold and smelled of chlorine. My eyes were red by the end of the class and my skin made a prune look smooth. I managed to figure out how to stop sinking gracefully to the bottom like a stone and to float, to let the water support me. The day that happened was truly a red letter day! But, I didn’t get rid of my fear of water. When water rose to my chest, my heart started beating faster and the breaths went in and out faster, too. There was just a little edge of panic that accompanied the triumph of floating and flailing arms and legs to propel one forward. You want me to dive? Do What!?! Go way under water?!? Panic button is at the ready!!

I determined to combat this fear, to conquer it, and lay it to rest, I became a big fan of the Olympic swimmer and movie star, Esther Williams. She did water ballet, high dives, and strong strokes that cleaved the water and carried her quickly forward. She wore beautiful swimsuits and caps. She had brilliantly white teeth and a marvelous body that my skinny, undeveloped self dreamed of having, too.

That was the beginning of my imaginary exploits as Patricia, the Wonderful Mermaid Girl of Pueblo who was an expert swimmer and diver. Every arm movement, every evenly spaced kick were the epitome of grace and power. Diving off the highest diving board only emphasized the precisely choreographed movements that became a ballet. Patricia had a wardrobe of swimwear that Esther Williams was envious of and every now and then would come by to borrow something. She was especially fond of the pioneer girl look and the dance hall girl swimsuit and wanted to star in a Western movie so she could wear them. Patricia graciously loaned the swimsuits to Esther whenever asked.

Patricia, at the very young and tender age, formed a water ballet group of only the best and most beautiful swimmers in the area. Practices were held at the “Y” and the group became proficient and synchronized so well that they were asked to perform at various events. Soon, The group was asked to sign a movie contract and it was rumored Esther Williams would play a minor role. What a great opportunity for fame and fortune! But, Patricia missed her carefree days of childhood and decided to leave the group for the security of home and the love of her family. She gave her best wishes for the Pueblo Water Dancers to succeed in films and at the venues the agent lined up for them. The best venue was at the Colorado State Fair and Patricia would meet the group and practice with them, appearing as a guest artist for their appearances at the Fair. It truly was a fairy tale come true on those magical nights and hot afternoons. The Pueblo Water Dancers always gave their very best performances in their home town.

In the meantime, young Patsy Talbott met her girlfriends and school friends at the Y in the summertime. Little did she know she was practicing and increasing skills each time she entered the water to race someone to the other side, or slip off the side of the pool to dive down a few feet to retrieve a pool toy. One day, she accidentally turned a somersault underwater and surprised herself tremendously. Each hard-won triumph put to flight a bit more of that fear that was thrust into her psyche when she was 5 years old.

There never has been a whole-hearted embracing of the swimming environment, on my part, but there has been an ease acquired over the years. Swimming is not a favorite pastime. Never will be. And there may come a day when the mourning for Patricia, the Wonderful Mermaid Girl, and her water ballet group, the Pueblo Water Dancers may cease. Though, a recent viewing of an old Esther Williams movie on TV brought back all the old dreams, schemes, and themes. At the movie’s end, I heard a big sigh. I thought at first, it was part of the movie, but then I discovered it was just me…releasing another old dream.

Patricia Talbott-Crump

Mother O’Hare

I don’t know if you remember or ever heard the story of my journey home from the only visit ever to Cleveland forty five years ago. While Brother Greg and bride Pat were basking in newlywedness, I was off on an adventure.

The major strike against the airlines that had delayed my arrival to be best man at the wedding was still going on at Cleveland airport departures. It was bedlam as flights were cancelled by the non-union employees willy nilly and the hordes of distraught would-be passengers were jockeying for new reservations with elbows, shouts, and subterfuge. I felt like a cowboy in an urban jungle and my flight left without me as did the next leaving for a now questionable connection in Chicago.

A young woman who had been next me in the original boarding line for our flight came back and said it would take a bribe of at least fifty dollars to get on any flight and that was not guaranteed if someone came up with more in baksheesh. She suggested we rent a car together and thereby save money and time in getting to Chicago. As it turned out, we should have just headed for Boulder since it eventually came out she was headed there for a job interview.

On our way to Chicago it rained hard. In fact, it rained so hard even I eventually pulled to the side of the road to wait it out as you could see nothing and chanced rear ending some stalled car. She had said nothing but was visibly relieved even though any slim hopes of making our connection were fast fading.

Once in Chicago, in contrast to Cleveland, there was an eerie quiet in mother O’Hare Airport. Small groups of people were standing and sitting and lying around. But, the skeleton crew quickly and efficiently put us on a stand-by list and explained in detail how the system would work and what our chances were. They gave periodic updates over the intercom and it appeared there were no possibilities for baksheesh in the mother city of rough and tumble politics.

We sat down next to a beautiful young woman who had clearly been crying. Her sobbing seemed to have cleared a couple of seats on each side of her. I asked what was up and that launched another bout of sobbing. She had married an American soldier in Germany against her family’s wishes, she was now pregnant and he did not want a baby. He had abandoned her and was now back in Denver. She did not know what to do, had little money left, and knew no one but him in America. She had only his parents’ names and address. We said we would try to help her once we got into Denver. She immediately fell asleep on my shoulder to the seeming distress of my Cleveland companion.

After an hour or so a sophisticated young man in a power suit came into the waiting room. As he stood in line to get on the stand-by list he scoped us all out one by one. He then came and sat on the other side of my new German friend. As happens in these disaster situations, everyone talks to one another like there may be no tomorrow. It turned out he was a lawyer for IBM and was eventually going to be transferred to the new Boulder/Longmont facility. Meanwhile, he was a weekly commuter from his home in New York to Boulder at the company’s expense. He came off as very self confident, decisive and appeared to be a young man with a very bright future. He had been a star bio-chemistry undergraduate and that served him well in working on patent law for IBM. His wife was not excited about moving to Colorado.

When we shared our German companion’s situation with him he offered to get her a pro-bono attorney in Denver. That sounded like a great idea and relieved me some although Cleveland later told me she was concerned he was not to be trusted with Germany’s honor—too slick. She was a good mid-western girl with her antennas out for eastern predators.

We wound up stuck at O’Hare for at least twenty four hours if not more. We explored every nook and cranny of the airport as you could do in those per 9/11 days. There was a group of well dressed Iranian college students flowing around from time to time with bandages and stories to tell from their just concluded large demonstrations in Washington DC against Shaw Reza Pahlavi. I often wondered how they feel about all that now.

Mr. IBM was very generous with his expense account in buying us coffee and snacks to break the monotony of our little campsite. We gained a few camp followers but they came and went over the course of our wandering. In the end we four wound up on the plane in close proximity. Germany was still laying her head on my shoulder at every opportunity but IBM was also finding favor and increasing levels of trust and even hand holding faith as her step into the unknown America approached. Cleveland became a bit withdrawn but stayed somewhat connected throughout the flight. At some point she gave me a blow by blow description of the income and sales tax advantages of Ohio over Colorado which I had no idea of heretofore. I explained to her in detail how she did not need a rental car to Boulder as the bus was very easy to use and I would help her with her luggage assuming it had arrived and we could find it. (It turned out the airlines delivered our luggage to Boulder the next day.)

Before we all took the bus downtown, IBM called from a pay phone and talked with a lawyer friend for Germany and set up a meeting the next day. Cleveland had jumped into action on another phone and had reserved Germany a room at the downtown Denver YWCA as “protection from any accusations of infidelity in possible divorce hearings.” The YWCA had a curfew and a no men on the floor policy they strictly enforced. And, it was very inexpensive. IBM agreed to pay for a week’s stay. He asked if she had a round trip ticket which she did not. All of this started her crying again so we had to refocus on the eminent meeting with the lawyer and clarifying just what she would want from him. Basically she wanted the lawyer to make the guy love her and take her back. Cleveland and I wished her luck with that and left her in the clutches of IBM headed for some more discussion over coffee.

Cleveland and I jumped on the last bus to Boulder. I invited her to stay with Jeanne and me but she demurred and said she had reservations and needed to get some good sleep and prepare for her interview the next day in her well worn clothes! We exchanged phone numbers but never talked again.

I also never heard the outcome of our other two companions’ project to get Germany reunited or satisfactorily divorced across international boundaries and legal structures. If I wrote a short story based on this little adventure I guess it would end with Germany and IBM getting married in O’Hare and living happily ever after while jointly running IBM-Europe.

Dowell Caselli-Smith © May 5, 2011

Spring in the Country

We always went to visit my Uncle Fred and Aunt Hazel the Sunday that followed Easter. I don’t know for sure how that started. They were church people and we weren’t, and Daddy didn’t want to go during that Christian season, but he did like to visit them in the spring because they lived in Fowler and he always wanted to see the fields greening up and the leaves coming on. He said he liked the springtime smells out in the country, plowed dirt, manure, even skunk smell. Daddy was a summer man. He worked for the parks department so he was outside a lot and he hated the cold.

Uncle Fred, who was my mother’s brother, had a feed store and Aunt Hazel helped with the books and I think they made a nice living. They had a brick bungalow with a front room, kitchen and two bedrooms. My cousins, Vicki, who was a year older than I, and Wanda, shared a bedroom, which was OK since they were both girls. I had to share a bedroom with my little brother Jack and that was a problem but I couldn’t do anything about it. Our house had two bedrooms too, on Routt Street. Jack was always getting into my stuff and trying to read my diary. It had a little lock on it but anybody could get it open.

I liked to talk to Vicki. We saw their family several times during the year, at Christmas at Grandma’s house and at other family celebrations, and Vicki and I had been spending time together since we were little girls.

The year I turned 16 we made our spring trip to Fowler. Daddy had a four-year-old 1955 Chevrolet then. He drove out Highway 50 through Blende, past the Cheatum and Chiselem and the Silver Moon and the Mesa Drive-in. He had the window open and you could smell the fruit blossoms and hear the meadowlarks perched on the wires even though Daddy had the Cardinals game on the radio. He said Stan Musial always hit a home run on Sunday. Daddy didn’t drive very fast and other cars passed us a lot. It always seemed like it took us a long time to get there but I know it didn’t.

Aunt Hazel had dinner for us, roast beef, potatoes and homemade rolls, and after cleanup Vicki and I took a slow walk in the neighborhood. There were tulips and lilac everywhere and dogs barked at us. At Christmas she had told me she had a boyfriend. After we had walked for a while and talked about movies and school she told me that her boyfriend had “done it to her.” I was so dumb I asked what he had done, and she said, “You know, it,” and I turned red because of my ignorance. After a minute I asked her if she liked it, and she said it was always over so fast she didn’t know if she did or not. She said they had done it three times, and after the first time she had made him wear a rubber. That was all he wanted to do now, she said, and she was going to tell him he couldn’t do it any more.

On the way home, in the car, Mom said I was being quiet and asked what Vicki and I had talked about. I said not much, and she smiled and asked if it was boys. I said no, just school and Elvis. I was thinking that Vicki had already made love with her boyfriend three times and I had only had one date, with Walter Roberts, and his mother had taken us to the Chief to a movie and picked us up after. I didn’t even like Walter.

Right before Halloween Vicki got married, and she had a little girl in February. She had another one the following April, about at Easter time. We didn’t go to Fowler either of those years. Her husband was a big guy who helped his father on his farm, and they all lived together in his parents’ house out in the country. The story I heard was that she got pregnant a third time and said she was going to Tijuana to have an abortion. Her husband, in-laws and parents all told her that if she did, she shouldn’t come back. She went. In 1965 I got a letter from Los Angeles and Vicki asked me for $200. I wasn’t doing very well either and I could only send $100. That was the last I heard from her.

Anonymous

Flimflam Man

A flimflam man is a character generally associated with the American South, although I’m sure he can be found in cultures around the world. Several examples from American literature come to mind. Br’er Rabbit flimflams Br’er Fox into putting on a saddle so that Br’er Rabbit can ride him into town showing everyone who’s really in charge. Then there’s Tom Sawyer who flimflams his friends into painting his fence. Huckleberry Finn and the escaped slave, Jim, ride a raft going down the Mississippi with two flimflam men who are running from their last victims and keeping their eyes open for new ones. Flimflam men are con artists, tall tale tellers, and blame passers who are by nature positive people who know how to do everything better than you do and will gladly give encouragement and advice on any project as long as there’s something in it for them and it doesn’t involve physical labor.

The first impression of the flimflam man is that he is on top of the world but when you scratch the surface of one of these characters you will likely find a rather insecure little boy who tells tall tales in an attempt to get other people to pay attention to him. As time goes by he learns that even though most people don’t trust tellers of tall tales, P.T. Barnum was right when he said that there’s a sucker born every minute. So the flimflam man’s occupation becomes one of figuring out who the suckers are and convincing them that, although it may be wise to keep your money in your pocket, it is even wiser to give it to the flimflam man.

A few miles from our farm in Arkansas, there was another farm owned by a bunch of oil-field workers from southern Louisiana. Louisiana Jack, who lived on that farm, was definitely a flimflam man. He had a series of “stories” and “scenarios” that he would “perform” whenever there were people whom he could con out of their money. His repertoire ranged from card tricks and various forms of mind reading, to horses that could add and subtract. He would tell people that he could do something that seemed impossible and when asked to prove it he would ask for them to put up money to make it worth his while. If done right the crowd would pay their hard-earned money for the privilege of watching him perform the impossible before their eyes. He often worked with an accomplice who acted as if he was just one of the crowd. This person’s job was to encourage the suckers and to read the mood of the crowd so that things didn’t get out of hand. Nothing makes a fool angrier than being shown to be a fool so sometimes the accomplice made sure they had a get-away car idling outside. There’s a song about gambling with a chorus that goes, “You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, know when to run.” There was always the smell of danger in the flimflaming profession and knowing by intuition which of those four actions to take was what kept the flimflam artist coming back. When the flimflam man finally retires he will most likely become a used car salesman, a politician or the owner of a second-hand store

Louisiana Jack didn’t work for money when he was among friends. Instead he wanted to be acknowledged as the smartest person around. He would have liked to be worshiped as a great wizard, a person who knew the answer when confronted with a seemingly impossible situation that would require a special feat to accomplish it. One day just such a feat was required.

The Louisiana gang bought a plow from one of their neighbors and needed to move it to their farm. The first problem was that the plow had been left in a field that was twenty miles away so there was no tractor easily available to lift it. The second problem was that this was no ordinary plow! It was called a sub-soiler and was built to break up the subsoil between two and three feet below ground level. These plows took lots of power to move them so they were built of heavy steel. Six of us, including Jack, got in a pickup and went to see if we could lift it. We each walked around it several times and estimated the weight at well over 500 pounds.

When we had almost given up on the project, Jack told us that he knew how to do it. He told us to gather around the plow and to try to lift it with all our might. He said that this was a crucial step because we needed to know what we were up against. We gathered around the plow and tried to lift it but the plow remained exactly where it was. We all looked at one another and waited for the next part of the plan. After a minute or so Jack asked if anyone had any ideas and when no one did he proposed that we use “hand over hand levitation.” None of us knew what that was but we needed to get the plow into the truck so we agreed to continue.

Jack explained that the key to lifting the plow was getting all our force going in the same direction. To do that we were to gather around the plow and one at a time we would put our right hands over the plow and then our left hands so that when we were done we would have a stack of hands over the plow. He warned us that it wouldn’t work unless everyone believed that it would work which cut him a way out in case it didn’t work. He could then stand back and say, “Oh you of little faith” and put the blame on us. Of course if it did work he’d get the credit. It was one of those “heads I win, tails you lose” games that flimflam men love.

We stepped forward and one at a time put in first our right hands then our left hands. We closed our eyes and when the flimflam man said “Get ready to lift!” we took hold of the plow. “Lift on the count of three” We got ready. Jack called out “one, two, three” and everyone lifted. The plow left the ground and landed in the truck. I never felt any weight at all and everyone said that they felt the same thing. It was as if everyone else carried the load.

We all shook Jack’s hand and patted each other on the back. We all suspected that Jack had cheated somehow but no one could come up with any way he could have done it. All we could say was that Jack had somehow caused that plow to get into that truck. We told all the neighbors about Jack and the plow and he walked around high as a kite for a week or so. That’s what keeps a flimflam Man going.

Robert Pardun

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Romance

I’m in a nightclub, dimmed lighting, maybe fifteen tables. I’m wearing a gray plaid skirt and my white Jantzen sweater. On the table are drinks for Mark and me, a round, clear glass ashtray, a candle in a glass holder. It’s my second drink and I’m in that perfect state where everything I say seems witty but I know enough to not talk too much. I’m twenty-two and I haven’t been in many nightclubs but I am comfortable here. In the chair close to me is my tan prince wearing a herringbone jacket and a two-inch maroon tie. He is speaking to me in a low tone about someone at a nearby table. The piano player behind the small hardwood dance floor is playing quietly, Gershwin maybe, and he is very good, but people are talking and not paying attention. It is April, but Colorado April, and it is cool outside with trees just budding. Then something is different in the room and I look to the front and a young woman is standing by the piano holding a microphone and she has begun to sing. She is wearing a white evening dress, low cut but not strapless, and her long dark hair and gray eyes shine in the small spotlight above her. She is small, demure, mostly looking at the piano player but sometimes shyly glancing at the audience. It is as if she hasn’t done this before but she has. She is too good. The lights dim more and others realize her presence and the room quietens. She is a torch singer. Her song has already begun and the first of it is lost, but then I pick up the lines.

And when two lovers woo
They still say, “I love you.”
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by.

She looks up then, as the song continues, and it seems like she is looking right at me through the smoky haze. At the same time Mark puts his hand on top of mine on the table. I look at him and he is watching the singer, but then he turns to me and his eyes are glistening. I squeeze his hand and we hold the glance for a few seconds and it seems like something is swelling in my chest. He raises his glass to me and in his Humphrey Bogart imitation, which isn’t bad, whispers, “Here’s looking at you, kid,” and I smile back at him.

When the song ends the audience applauds but not loudly. No one wants to spoil the mood. The singer invites her audience to the dance floor and when the next song begins some of us go there. As we begin to dance my face is touching Mark’s and I am more intoxicated by him than by the bourbon I have had. As soon as I hear the first lines I know this song is different.

Each place I go only the lonely go
Some little small cafè
The songs I know only the lonely know
Each melody recalls a love that used to be…

She sings it so hauntingly that I think no one can sing the song that well if she isn’t hurt, and I open my eyes and I see that a single tear has tracked down her cheek. For just a moment I feel badly for her, but then Mark pulls me closer, moving slowly with the music. I can feel my breasts against his chest and I move my lips on his cheek and I know I will never feel exactly like this again, and somehow I will always remember it. I don’t want this time or this song or this feeling to end. I think of all the songs of lost love. Sad people write them and sad people listen. There has been a time that I listened to them too. I wonder if what Mark and I have now will last. Mark moves his head back and he looks in my eyes and I don’t care where we are, I kiss him, a sweet kiss that goes on and on. For now… for now… nothing else matters. Nothing else.

Anonymous (A classmate)

Monarch Pass

I drove over Monarch Pass the first time when I was sixteen, white-knuckling it all the way. I was on a fishing trip with Jerry Donnelly, his little sister, and his Dad, who unexpectedly asked me to drive. I have probably driven over Monarch a couple hundred or more times since, and I always have enjoyed it in the summer. Winter… not so much.

When I was a teenager, my brother and his brother-in-law and I left for deer hunting in Gunnison. The pass was snowpacked and unsanded. Near the top of the pass, coming around a curve, there was a truck jack-knifed. Joe tried to drive around him but started sliding and we came within a few feet of the edge. Scary. Another time I was with friends heading for Blue Mesa in late April. We were pulling a boat. Naturally, on the pass, it began to snow heavily. The SUV began to slip and we drove slower and slower, and finally couldn’t go. The driver went out to turn the hubs to put it in 4-wheel, but was having trouble. I ran downhill to warn other drivers that our unit was stopped in the road. He finally took care of it and we proceeded to the reservoir for 3 days of miserable fishing, but we did catch a lot of fish.

In the life I had before my current one, I had to drive in the mountains frequently for my job. When coming across South Park from Colorado Springs on a bright winter day I would look northwest and see dark clouds, and that would be the snow falling in Leadville. I only had to go to Creede a couple of times, once in April. That was one of the two times I turned back before reaching my destination. When I left Alamosa there were a few flurries. By the time I got to South Fork it was snowing so hard that it quickly covered any tracks from previous traffic. My wipers couldn’t keep the snow off. and I gave it up. That was the hardest I have ever seen it snow, except for once on Donner Pass in March. The other time I turned back was on Highway 94 east, when it was blizzarding.

Once I was headed for Gunnison and Crested Butte. It was snowing at Salida and coming down hard at Poncha Springs. All the cars I saw coming from the west were covered. There was a small parking lot for people to put on chains, and there was a trucker there who had come from the west, taking off his chains. I stopped and asked what it was like on the pass. I don’t know if he had used the line before or if he thought of it on the spot, but it was coarsely descriptive and disgustingly profound, in its way, and I have never forgotten it. He said, “It’s slicker than snot and snowing like a booger.”

I know I was in for it but there wasn’t enough snow on the highway there to put on chains. I was driving a front-wheel drive car and thought possibly I could make it over, so I took off. When I got to Maysville it wasn’t too bad yet. Before I reached the little community of Garfield I was plowing through deep snow and I knew the chains would have to go on. There was a little service station there on the opposite side and I turned left to go into it. The wheels locked and I slid past the station and headed straight for a huge snowbank of previously plowed snow, and I hit it, hard. I’m glad airbags hadn’t been invented. I sheepishly backed up, hoping no one had seen me, and got over to the station and paid the guy way too much to put on the chains. I made it over the top and before long there was no snow on the road and I had to pull over and take them off, which isn’t that easy when they are heavily coated with ice.

It snowed 6 inches in Pueblo two days ago and 5 more last night.

Have I ever mentioned my opinion of winter?

Jerry Miller

Freeway Story

I remember going to Denver with my family during the early 1950′s before the road was a freeway. We went thru the center of every little town between Pueblo and Denver and then into the heart of Denver where the Museum of Natural History was located. I would be surprised if we averaged more than 40 miles an hour.

In January, 1961 Miller, McNair, Perko and I drove to Boulder in a ground blizzard and still averaged 65 or 70 miles an hour. As I remember the toll road from Denver to Boulder was open and cost a quarter or fifty cents. During spring break in 1963 Perko, Miller and I drove from Pueblo to New Mexico, Arizona and then to San Francisco, California where we spent most of a week. On the way there we spent a night in Las Vegas and another night in Reno on the way back. Without the Interstate Highway system we would probably have spent a week getting there.

Robet Pardun