On my last post, I had purchased two five acre view lots and drilled an expensive hole in the ground. This next chapter in the misbegotten adventures of a husband and soon to be homeowner leads to the mysteries of banking and high finance.

The Mortgage

“Always borrow money from a pessimist.  He won’t expect it back. – Oscar Wilde

“Hi Gary, Linda and I are building a house.  I need to borrow some money.”

“How much do you need?  $5000 maybe $10,000?”

“It’s a house, Gary, not a tree house.”

“Oh, I thought you were just looking for a personal loan.  I see, you need a mortgage.  What will the house cost to build?”

“Well, so far we’ve spent $10,000 for the land and $8000 for the well.”

“Well?  Are you building this house in the country?”

“Yep, we’ve got ten acres up on Moscow Mountain.”

“No kidding.”

“Yep, the view is amazing.”

“Rich, it’s risky to build out in the country, especially Moscow Mountain.  The wells up there are notoriously bad.”

“Well ours is the top producer on the mountain.  I witched it myself.”

“You what?”

“I witched it myself.”

“Rich, I’m a banker.  We make money by investing in local businesses and properties and charge interest to cover our risk.  The more you talk, the riskier this venture sounds and therefore the more interest I have to charge.  Houses in the country take forever to sell.”

“I’m not selling a house, Gary.  I’m building one.”

“Did you know there are other banks in town?”

“Sure, but yours is the only one owned by my best friend and fraternity brother who wants to give me an incredibly low interest rate so that on my pathetic income I can afford to make the mortgage payment so you won’t have to foreclose and sell my beautiful home.  See, I’m only interested in your welfare.”

Dreamers that we were, Linda and I began researching house plans.  We looked at modular homes, log homes, and finally “kit” homes that sort of fit our financial situation.  We ordered a modest kit home and having no construction experience what-so-ever we decided we would act as general contractor, potentially saving thousands of dollars.

With loan documents in hand and a new set of home-building books from Time-Life Books, we found a kit house that looked perfect.  So, we placed our order and waited for the house to show up.  In the meantime, we bought some rock and built a gravel driveway.  A few months later I received a call from a trucker who said he had a delivery to make and would I meet him at the lot?  “Of course”, I excitedly said.  So, I drove out to the lot and waited for the truck to arrive.  Finally, the truck arrived.  It was a semi-truck loaded with 2 x 4’s, rafters, shingles, plywood, 4’ x 12’ drywall, siding, windows, and doors; everything you need to frame a house. 

I said, “Ok.  I’m glad you made it.  Let’s get this puppy unloaded.”  The driver says, “I just deliver.  I don’t load or unload.  Do you have a forklift?”  I say, “What?  Who has a forklift?  No one I know.”  He says, “Well you might need some help.  Some of these pieces are heavy and there is about 38,000 pounds of stuff here to unload.”  I quickly convert pounds to tons and 19 tons doesn’t sound quite as bad as 38,000 pounds.  Feeling a bit overwhelmed, I walked to my nearest neighbor (this was before cell phones) and called a few friends and asked if they would help me unload some stuff from a truck.  I was careful not to describe the task in too much detail.  Bruce and Loren both responded affirmatively and an hour or so later they arrived, looked at the truck and quickly announced that they were so terribly sorry but they had each forgotten that they had important things they had to do.  I mentioned that there was a cooler of ice cold beer and they reluctantly agreed to help for an hour or so with Bruce declaring there wasn’t enough beer on the planet to even the score.

Eight hours later we had stacked building materials over about a quarter of an acre of land, flipped off the driver who had just woken up from his nap and dug out the beer.  I thanked them both for all their assistance and vowed eternal gratitude and unwisely asked if there was anything I could do to make it up to them.  Loren replied, “no sweat buddy.  Glad to help.”  Bruce responded, “I might need a little help on the ranch tomorrow.  Could you stop by say, about 6am?  It’ll be cooler then.”  Still feeling eternally grateful, I told him that I would be glad to help him for a while.

Home Ownership:  The American Dream

“I believe wherever dreams dwell, the heart calls it home.  So may you untangle yourself from the twist of melancholy and ley your thoughts carry you back to the birthplace of your truth.” – Dodinsky

Linda and I were living in a mobile home in Uniontown, Washington.  Rent was cheap and we were attempting to save some money to buy some land and build a house.  On a drive one Sunday afternoon, we saw a sign on the highway at the top of a ridge north of Moscow, Idaho that said, “5 acre lots for sale”.  We turned off onto the gravel road, drove for about a mile and discovered that the two lots at the end of the road were still for sale.  One lot was forested and faced north.  The other lot was planted in wheat and faced south.  Both views were beautiful.  Being at the top of the ridge, we could see for miles and miles.  We fell in love with the property, called the owner and made an offer.  In no time at all we were the proud owners of two five-acre lots and were now completely broke. 

Our beautiful view lots did not come with wells so I searched through the yellow pages for well contractors and finally spoke with Bud DeTray of DeTray Well Drilling in Lewiston.  Bud said he’d be glad to give us an estimate and that he had drilled most of the wells up on our mountain.  He warned me that the rock structure in the area was “rotten granite” and that the wells in the area were marginal but of sufficient flow that with water storage, would be adequate for a household.  He asked me if he should bring his water finding equipment.  Quite surprised that such equipment actually existed, I said, “sure”, and we agreed on a date and time to meet at the property. 

Being a little concerned about having adequate water I scheduled an appointment with a geologist at the University of Idaho who was an expert in local geologic formations.  He assured me that Bud was correct in his analysis of the underlying rock and went on to tell me that he may have slightly over-estimated the water flow from the wells.  I asked him about the water-finding equipment and he smiled, no, grinned from ear-to-ear and told me he wasn’t aware of any scientific tools for determining where to drill.

Soon, I met with Bud at the property and he stepped out of his pick-up and grabbed a couple of welding rods that had one end bent into a handle.  I asked him what they were for and he announced that they were his water finding tools.  I tried not to be rude but I was so doubled up trying to stifle my laughter that tears were coming out of my eyes.  He asked if I was a bit skeptical and I had to admit that, yes, yes, I was.  He continued walking down a path toward our south facing lot with his arms held straight out in front of him holding a welding rod in each outstretched hand.  After a few steps, the welding rods crossed and he announced that there was water there and he marked the location with a stick.  He walked up the path a little further, turned around and walked back towards the stick.  About two feet from the stick the welding rods crossed again and he marked the spot where they crossed and told me that this water seam that he had just located was only two feet wide and that there were probably better spots to be found.  I asked him to do it again.  This time I was closely watching his hands to see if there was any movement.  Bud backed up and then walked forward again.  At the exact same spot on the trail, the rods crossed.  There was no discernible movement of his hands.  I asked him to do it again.  And again there was no apparent movement of his hands, fingers or arms.  I asked him if he had another set of water finding equipment and he smiled and said, “yes I think I do.  But not very many people have this gift so don’t be surprised if it doesn’t work for you.”  I took the rods and walked slowly down the path.  When I came to the marker, the rods turned in my hands.  I backed up, gripped the rods even harder and moved forward toward the marker.  No matter how hard I gripped the rods, they turned in my hands at the exact location every time.  Bud declared that I was a water witch and I proudly walked around the five acres marking each location that the rods crossed.  There was one location that was wider than the others and the welding rods seemed to cross more strongly than in the other areas.  I called Bud over to confirm.  He had the same result.  We marked the area and set a date for the well drilling to commence.

And commence it did.  At $20 per foot, Bud drilled and drilled.  He assured me that most wells on the mountain were about 200 feet deep which would cost me about $4000.  That seemed like an awful lot of money to me, but we committed to getting water from the location I had determined and due to my very special water finding powers, was about to be a real gusher.  Possibly an artesian well.  Maybe there’d be so much water we would build a trout pond. 

Bud drilled and drilled.  200 feet no water.  Bud gave me my options.  We could pull up and try another location in which case I would owe him $4000 for a dry hold in the ground plus whatever it cost to drill in the new location or we could keep going another 20 feet.  If we hit water, I would owe him for a 220 foot well.  If not, there would be no extra charge.  We plunged forward.  220 feet.  No water.  Same offer from Bud; keep drilling and if we hit water at 240 feet, I would owe him for 240 feet of well.  If not, no extra charge.  And so it continued.  260 feet.  280 feet.  300 feet. 320 feet. 340 feet. 360 feet.  At 360 feet the rock changed.  We hit sand.  “Good news”, says Bud.  The sand is a good thing.  “I think we are getting close.”  “I need a cardiologist”, I say.  “And if we keep going, you will need to accept a payment plan.”  “Don’t give up”, Bud says.  “We’re almost there.”  380 feet.  390 feet and “whoosh”, up comes water.  I felt my blood pressure start to fall a bit until I calculated how much this hole in the ground was going to cost us.  Must be time to borrow some money.

A Tale of Two Fishes

How I Was Suckered by a Sucker

Or How a Cop Was Shot and I Ended Up In The Emergency Room

“No one expects the rug to be yanked out beneath them; life changing events usually don’t announce themselves.” – Slash

It was a bright and beautiful Friday August morning.  I picked up my co-worker, Bob, at 6:30 in Albany and together we headed out to the golf tournament in Springfield.  Since the tournament was sponsored by one of our vendors, this was clearly a work day.  It’s important to build positive relationships with members of the industry and Bob and I felt compelled to volunteer to represent OSU in this important public relations effort.  Instead of driving the freeway we took the back roads through Halsey and Brownsville.  Roads I had never driven.  Beautiful Oregon country back roads.  Within an hour we reached the Springfield Golf and Country Club, grabbed our clubs out of the back of the pick-up, signed into the tournament, received a golf cart assignment, a snack pack, a cup of coffee, and a donut.  At 8 am my foursome teed off and we had a great time at this best ball tournament.  Fortunately, my 3 partners actually were pretty good and we had a good round of golf ending up at par for the 18 holes or maybe it was par + two.  It doesn’t really matter.  My memory improves the game with the passing of time.  I recall that I had a smashing game and some of the best golf shots of my life.

After lunch Bob and I packed up our gear and headed toward home.  Shortly after we passed the Corvallis, Highway 34 turnoff, on our way to Albany to take Bob home, the traffic on I-5 stopped.  It didn’t just slow; it stopped.  Dead still.  I remarked to Bob that I had promised Linda I would be home by 3:00 in order to leave for our fly-fishing trip on the Crooked River.  It was now 1:30pm.  Bob said that the stalled traffic wasn’t a good omen.  We had four miles to go until the first Albany exit.

Linda’s sister Sandy and her husband Paul were coming to our house the next Tuesday and Linda wasn’t crazy about going camping just before their arrival.  She wanted the house to be all neat and clean and everything just right for her sister’s visit.  I might have been just a touch more relaxed about the whole thing and suggested that a little fly fishing prior to their arrival might be just the perfect thing to get her mind off things.  Although Linda didn’t say that she wanted to get her mind off things I thought my comment was very unselfish and most helpful.  Linda wanted to know where we were going and what the campground was like.  She tends to like State Parks and campgrounds with running water, showers, and all that sort of thing.  I tend to think those types of campgrounds are filled with giant RV’s with satellite TV’s and generators constantly running all night.  I’m more of a let’s go where the fish are biting, we can set up a tent anywhere kind of guy.  I described Devil’s Postpile Campground to Linda as a bit rustic.  She asked if it had running water.  I said it was on the Crooked River; of course there is water.  She stubbornly persisted and asked if the water was drinkable.  I replied that it was drinkable if you boiled it long enough and maybe filtered some of the mud out.  (I don’t think that she felt that was very encouraging.)  Linda asked about a bathroom and I happily assured her that there was a very high quality toilet nearby.  Despite all these assurances Linda wasn’t that keen on heading out for the weekend to go fishing and camping.

It was in that spirit, knowing that I would seriously disappoint Linda if I was late, that Bob and I sat in the middle of the freeway stopped dead still.  After about 15 minutes, cars started crossing over the grassy median to merge onto the southbound lanes.  Bob suggested that we might try that.  I replied that I didn’t want to start the weekend with a big ol’ ticket and that with my luck as soon as I pulled out on the median a State Patrol officer would pull up and turn on his party lights.  So we waited.  The traffic started to move.  We inched forward and stopped.  Bob said that if we made a U-turn across the median and headed south toward the Corvallis exit that I might make it home by 3:00.  I suggested that there must be an accident up ahead and that since we had already waited a half hour that it would probably be cleared up pretty soon and traffic would start moving. 

At 5:00 Bob suggested that if we were only to cross the median and head back toward Corvallis we could take Hiway 20 to Albany and I’d maybe be home by 6:00.  I assured Bob that the traffic was almost ready to move forward.  When I arrived home at 6:30 I burst through the front door and asked Linda if she was ready to go.  She greeted me with, “I don’t think we’re going”.  I said, “Gee, I’m sorry I’m late but the traffic was all tied up and it took a little longer to get Bob back to Albany.”  She said, “That’s not it.  I took our house key over to Debbie and asked her to water the plants and she said to be careful with all the forest fires over there.”  Linda said sweetly, “I’m not going camping in the middle of a forest fire.”  In our 33 years of marriage I have occasionally missed subtle hints like the one Linda had just made, and I energetically responded that it wouldn’t take very long to pull up the US Forest Service website or the Department of Transportation website to see what was happening and to see where any little fire might be and if any roads were closed.  Linda stared at me like I was an imbecile.

I quickly checked both websites and their webcams for any sign of smoke.  The Department of Transportation said the nearest fire was at least five miles away from Black Butte (through which we’d pass on Highway 20).  The webcam showed no sign of smoke; only clear blue skies.  I offered to show Linda who didn’t appear to be interested in seeing the clear blue skies.  I quickly helped her finish packing the food, loaded the truck and off we went.  Silently.  I assumed Linda was in a peaceful, contemplative mood and didn’t want to spoil the moment with small talk.

Three hours later we arrived at the Crooked River, found Devil’s Postpile Campground and drove to the end of the campground where the last campsite was available.  As I was backing the pickup into the campsite in the dark, I couldn’t see out the back window and was using the side mirrors to slowly back into the site.  I’d ease off the clutch and slowly slide the truck back; stop; check the mirrors and then ease back again.  I decided to back up just a couple more feet when, “SMACK!” I backed right into a tree.  I got out, looked at my fender which had a big old dent in it, and began to feel that maybe Bob was right about bad omens.

We quickly set up camp and went to bed.  About 5:30 I woke up, got dressed and got my fishing stuff together.  I had a #5 weight forward fly line and tapered 9 foot leader.  I tied a tan #14 elk hair caddis fly to the leader and then a #20 caddis nymph to a 2 foot drop line and headed to the river.  I thought about crimping the barb on the hooks but I was anxious to get to the river and start fishing.  The water was high, even in August because of the greater than average snowpack and was a little muddy but much better than when I had fished it earlier this spring.  I cast out into a riff and watched the fly float downstream.  I pulled in the line and cast again this time a little further upstream just behind a big boulder.  A fish flashed but didn’t take the fly.  I walked upstream a few yards and cast the fly about 10 feet in front of the rock and watched as the current pulled the fly toward the boulder.  This time the fish took the fly and I reeled him in.  He was just a little feller and I slipped the hook out of his lip and released him back to the stream.  In the next couple of hours I had caught a few fish; some on the nymph and some on the dry fly.  The combination seemed to be working well.  I took a break and fixed breakfast as my bride was slowly (ever so slowly) coming awake.  It was a gorgeous morning in the canyon and the early morning sun made the surrounding rock cliffs glow in the reddish dawn.  It was going to be a beautiful August day in Central Oregon.

After breakfast I walked back to the river and walked up the stream and began fishing again.  Linda read for a while then joined me at the river.  The fish weren’t biting and I tried a variety of different fly patterns.  I caught a couple of fish during the day and released them.  Linda wasn’t having quite as much luck and after a while we broke for lunch and then went up to the dam and drove around the reservoir to the boat launching area to see if it might be a good swimming location.  The boat launching area was really primitive and swimming didn’t seem to be a good idea.  We went back to camp and I fished awhile in the afternoon losing more flies to brush than fish.  We had a nice dinner and went to bed.

Sunday, I woke early and began fishing.  The fish were biting and I caught a couple of really nice sized red-banded rainbows.  I walked downstream and began fishing off of a rock slide.  The water was deep and clear.  I was standing on a large boulder.  Next to where I was standing was another boulder and in between was a triangular patch of shallow water.  My back cast was limited due to the steep bank behind me but I was still able to cast about 30 feet out to the middle of the river.  As I watched my fly drift downstream with the current a large rainbow grabbed the fly and took off down-stream.  I reeled in the fish which was about 12” and beautifully marked and carefully released it back into the river.  This was a big hole and I figured there were a lot of trout in it.  Since we didn’t need to leave for another couple of hours, I thought I would catch and release a few trout and then take a couple home to eat. 

Linda was fishing upstream about 200 yards and she yelled that she had a fish on.  I grabbed the net and ran up to help her land the fish.  It was a beaut and I released it and walked back to my rock.  As soon as I got back to the rock Linda yelled that she had a fish on and again I grabbed the net and went back to assist feeling really good that she was getting some fish.  She was fishing in an area with lots of river grass which provided good cover for the fish and I was impressed that she wasn’t constantly getting her line caught up in the weeds.  I had passed that area by because I thought I’d be constantly tangled in the grass.  But not Linda; she fished it like a pro.

I went back to my rock and cast again.  I watched as the fly drifted downstream.  Just as the line was about to go taut a large trout hit the dry fly and it looked like a great fish.  I kept seeing another fish jumping just behind it and when I reeled in the fish, I discovered that one fish had taken the dry fly and one had taken the nymph and that I had two 10 to 11 inch redbands on at once.  The Crooked River probably has never seen such hootin’ and hollerin’.  Since it was getting close to the time we would need to leave, I decided to keep these two.  I reached behind me for my creel and then realized I had left it back at camp since both Linda and I had been practicing catch and release.  So, I grabbed the net, released the first fish from the dry fly and placed the fish in the net and twisted the net around the fish and placed it in the little triangular patch of water between the boulders.  I was worried that the fish that had taken the nymph would spit out the fly and swim away while I was messing with the first fish but as I turned to remove the second fish I saw he was still on.  I removed the fish from the hook and picked up the net and was about to put the second fish in with the first when son-of-a-gun the first fish found a tear in the net and escaped and swam away.  No problem.  I put the second fish in the net, wrapped the net around him and placed him in the triangular patch of water between the boulders.  I considered going back for the creel but I thought I would catch one more fish and then take them both back to camp and pack up and head home.

I launched a beautiful cast and watched as the fly softly landed about 35 feet out in the river.  As the current carried the fly down stream a silver streak exploded out of the water, grabbed the fly and took off down stream.  My line screamed from the reel.  This was the best fish of the day.  I was so excited I failed to notice that the fish which was wrapped up in the net started to get active.  As I was concentrating on the fish on my line, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of the fish in the net pushing my net out of the little shallow triangle of space between the boulders and out into the river.  With the fish on the line I began to try to stab at the net with the tip of my rod hoping to hook the net around the tip and push it back to shore.  No such luck.  The little fish’s tail was whipping back and forth and was powering the net out into the current.  I futilely watched as the fish stole my net.  Back and forth went its tail.  Further and further away went the net.  Damn!  You can’t even trust fish these days.

But…I still had a fish on and I turned my anger back to getting this fish landed.  The fish had taken the dry fly leaving the tiny nymph trailing behind it a couple of feet.  I lifted the fish out of the water and it went crazy.  I grabbed it with both hands to keep it still and I noticed that the fish was completely silver-white.  I had never seen a fish quite like this and was trying to decide if I should keep it or release it.  The rules are different for different areas and I didn’t want to take a fish that I shouldn’t, yet this might be the last fish caught and I wanted to take at least one fish home.  The dorsal fin was fairly large so I knew it wasn’t a trout.  I looked at its mouth and decided it was probably some kind of sucker so I decided to release it.  (As it turns out it was a Whitefish which are legal and great fighters)

I held the fish with my right hand and used my left hand to remove the hook from its mouth.  Just as I tugged on the hook, it flipped its tail and the trailing nymph hook flipped and caught on my right finger right in the second joint on the palm side of my right hand.  I decided to remove the hook from its mouth before trying to remove the hook from my finger.  The idea was that I would let the fish off the fly and gently release it back to the river and then I would remove the hook from my finger which was just barely imbedded in the skin.

And although the idea itself was brilliant; the actual result was not.  As I removed the hook from the fish’s mouth it went crazy, wrapped its tail around the leader which then pulled the hook all the way into my finger as I released the evil spirit back into the river.  Since I hadn’t bothered to crimp the barb, there was no way to pull it out.  Since the body of the fly was wrapped with wire there was no way I could push it through.  I cut the leader and headed back to camp sans net, sans fish.  Linda was talking with another fisherman who apparently was a local guy.  I told her what happened and the other fisherman was very helpful.  When he got through laughing, he commented that he only wished he had a camera to show his buddies back home.  Then he offered some medical advice although I suspected that he most likely didn’t have a license to actually practice medicine.  His advice was to let it fester since the river is so full of bacteria, the wound would get infected, the skin would all puff up and in a few days I’d just be able to pull the fly right through the pus.  Although that might save the fly from getting destroyed, I thought there might be other options available.

I walked back to camp, took the needle-nose pliers out of my tackle box and noticed that they were pretty rusty.  I took some hand sanitizer and squirted some on the pliers and wiped them sort of clean with a paper towel.  Then I used the wire cutter on the pliers to try to cut the fly just below the wire windings thinking that I might then be able to push the fly on through.  No such luck.  Any pressure on the fly at all hurt a whole bunch and the closest I could get with the pliers was about halfway down the body of the fly.  So, I cut it as close as I could hoping that by cutting through the windings that I might be able to unwrap the hook and push it on through.  Again, no such luck. The windings around the hook were very well glued to the hook.  I put a band-aid around the hook to keep it from catching on stuff as we rolled up the sleeping bags, took down the tent and packed up the truck.  

There’s a regional hospital in Bend about an hour away and I thought we could head over there, get the fly removed and head on home.  When we got to Prineville Linda suggested that Prineville probably had an emergency care center.  Prineville is a rather rural little town and I wasn’t convinced that the quality of medical care in Prineville would be what I needed to remove this hook which had now been in my finger for an hour or more.  But since it also hurt a considerable amount, I figured the sooner it was out of my finger the better.  So, we stopped at a convenience store which had a phone booth outside and I found that, son-of-a-gun, Prineville had a hospital; Prineville Memorial Hospital.  I thought is was probably a Memorial Hospital because there were memorial services for everyone that went there.  But I agreed to at least drive by it and see what it looked like.  If it was rustic and unkempt, I was heading for Bend; pain or no pain.  But…it turned out to be a very modern, clean looking brick building and I thought it was worth taking a chance.

So, Linda and I entered and were greeted by a very pleasant receptionist.  She took my insurance card and had me fill out a medical questionnaire and then said she had to fill in a box on the questionnaire that describes how the accident happened.  I told her I was fish wrestling and the fish won.  And although she looked at me as if I was quite insane, she wrote something on the form and told me to go into the next room and wait for the doctor.  The doctor was there in about 30 seconds and she said I was in luck since I was the only patient in the hospital.  My mind wondered if I was the only live patient in the hospital because all the other patients had mysteriously died, but I decided to follow the good doctor anyway. 

Along with the doctor there was a gentleman in a blue-gray hospital gown named Delbert.  Delbert had a few teeth missing and his eyes didn’t track normally and I couldn’t help but wonder what the doctor was doing hanging out with the janitor.  But Delbert and the good doctor ushered me into a room and had me sit on the examining table.  The doctor looked and looked at the remains of the tiny little fly and then she grabbed it with her fingers and started to move it around.  I calmly screamed that it might be better if she injected me with some sort of pain deadener before she started surgery.  Although I’m sure she appreciated my suggestion she only commented that she was trying to see just how we were going to get it out of there.

Then she got a syringe and stabbed my finger a couple of times and said that it would take a couple of minutes for the novocaine (or whatever it was) to work.  In the meantime, she suggested that Delbert go and get a pair of wire cutters.  Delbert was gone a few minutes and returned with…wait for it…a pair of needle-nose pliers.  I didn’t want to seem bossy but I did mention to Delbert that I had actually used needle-nose pliers to make the initial cut on the fly and I didn’t think that was probably the right tool to use.  I think I suggested maybe something with a little finer cutting edge.  Delbert left to get another tool.  Now this is the honest to God truth, Delbert returned with a pair of wire cutters just like the big old clunky ones I’ve got out in my tool box in the garage.  I had a couple of thoughts.  What kind of hospital buys all of its surgical tools at the local Ace Hardware Store?  And I’ll bet this is one way of helping keep medical expenses down.  Maybe if all the hospitals in the country swapped out all their high-tech machines and shopped at Ace Hardware or Home Depot maybe medical costs in this country wouldn’t be so out of control.

So, Delbert approaches me with the wire cutters.  I’m thinking that the doctor would actually make the cut and as Delbert gets closer and closer to my finger, I realize that the doctor is just going to watch as the janitor cuts off my finger.  I start to panic.  Delbert is coming at the remains of the fly from the side and I realize that there is no way he can keep from cutting my finger from that angle.  So, I calmly suggest that maybe if he came over the top, he would have a better angle.  He thought that might be true and came at it from the angle I suggested.  I’m looking at the doctor thinking that maybe she would step in and assist but she wasn’t paying any attention.  As Delbert brought the Ace Hardware wire cutters closer, I realized that he was holding them backwards and wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing so with my other hand I reached up to stop him and suggested that if he turned the tool around, he could actually see to make the cut.  I suggested that he try to make the cut right where the feather came out of the wire windings because that would leave a little bit of wire with which the doctor could push the shaft of the hook on through.  Delbert made the cut right next to the skin leaving no shaft left with which the doctor could do as I suggested. 

The doctor then took a look at Delbert’s handiwork and said, “There’s nothing left of the shank.  Now what are we going to do?”  I suggested that she was probably going to have to make a small incision and pull it out.  She thought that was a good idea and asked Delbert to go get a scalpel.  Delbert left and came back with an exacto knife just like you would use for crafts.  No kidding.  This “scalpel” could have been purchased at the local crafts shop for $5.00.  It looked fairly clean and I figured I was going to get some antibiotics and the razor blade looked new and sharp so I thought what the hell, let’s get this hook out of my finger.  A couple of small cuts with the razor knife and out came the hook.

The doctor commented that this wasn’t nearly as bad as the guy who came in the week before with a fishing lure with a treble hook stuck through his lip.  I couldn’t help but wonder what was left of the poor guy’s face after Delbert had taken the pliers to it.  The good doctor gave me some antibiotics and off Linda and I went to have a beer and burger before heading for home.  On the way home, we learned the reason the freeway was backed up on Friday was not because of an accident but because a policeman had stopped someone and after he asked the fellow for his license and was walking back to the squad car, the guy stepped out of the car and shot the officer in the back.  The policeman wasn’t seriously hurt but the policeman’s partner fired back and the guy who had been pulled over died.  The freeway was closed for seven hours while the crime scene was investigated.

That’s the end of my fishing story.  The moral of the story is never try to save a sucker.  There are probably a few other lessons that could be learned but I’m getting older and I can’t remember.

Cattle Ranching:  Quick way to wealth in the American West

“Life is a long lesson in humility.” – James M. Barrie

My friend, Bruce, bought a brand new F250 4-wheel drive pickup.  He built some wooden side rails and announced that he was going into the cattle business.  Bruce had 60 acres of land in the town of Viola.  Well, not really a town.  Sort of a community of independents.  Anyway, he decided that the way to supplement his income would be to drive down to the Lewiston auction and buy a couple of young steers in the spring, let them graze on his land, get all fat and happy and then sell them in the fall after they gained a bunch of weight.  “Buy light.  Sell heavy.  And pocket the difference,” exclaimed Bruce.  So, Bruce drove his brand new red and white Ford truck down to Lewiston, and bid and bought two young steers.  He told me later that it was more difficult to load a steer into the back of a pick-up than he thought.  Apparently, the steers didn’t much want to go for a ride in the back of Bruce’s pickup.  But with a little assistance from the auction hands, they got them into the back of the truck whence they began kicking the crap out of his new truck.  An hour or so later, Bruce arrived home, let the steers out of the back of his truck, surveyed the damage, shut the gate and went into his house for dinner.  After dinner, he went out to check on the beginning of his new herd only to discover they had knocked down the fence and escaped.  He called me and asked if I might help him round up his cattle.  He said it like an old rancher who had hundreds of head of cattle and that the roundup was just a typical part of being a rancher.  I knew different.  I told him I would be glad to, as long as I didn’t have to ride a horse.  I’d ridden lots of horses in my life and never once had a pleasant experience.  The life of a cowboy was not for me.  He assured me we could use my pick-up since his was in the shop with a couple thousand dollars worth of body damage to get fixed.  We searched miles and miles of back roads until well after dark to no avail.  The herd had disappeared.

Over the next week, Bruce went door to door asking his neighbors if they had seen his maverick renegades.  Eventually word got out and while Bruce worked hard to strengthen his fence, his wild steers were found, and reunited back at the ranch.  Well, Bruce fed his steers well and they were happy and gained weight just as Bruce had planned.  So, as Bruce explained to me, the smart thing to do with steers is buy them in the spring while the grass in the field is growing so you don’t have to buy feed, and then sell them in the fall after they’ve gained weight and before you have to buy hay for the winter.  I was impressed with his deep thinking.  It turns out other hobby ranchers had the same deep thoughts and the auction house was flooded with animals coming to market in the fall which had the unfortunate effect of depressing the price per pound.  So, just like my ability to pick stocks, Bruce’s business plan consisted of buying high and selling low.

T-Shirts

“Being a rockstar is the intersection of who you are and who you want to be.” – Slash

Am I the only guy on the planet that has t-shirt problems?  I mean, if a t-shirt isn’t ripped or too badly stained, then I consider it wearable.  Most of my t-shirts are vintage; maybe ten plus years old, maybe older.  Who knows?  This isn’t something I keep track of.  Most of them were some marketing gimmick that I got for free.  I have one with a V-8 logo, one from some horrible kind of tea that tastes like dirt (just a minute, let me check) Guayaki.  Who ever heard of that?  But it is black with a cool looking leafy logo.  So I wear it.  I have a Harley-Davidson tee, and I’m now down to one, slightly faded, at least 15 years old Oregon State University freshman orientation tee.  I have a few that were gifts, that actually look pretty decent, and some that I bought at Roth’s Dress For Less on sale in a bundle of, let’s just say, a bunch.  I have a drawer full of tees.  I carefully utilize the FIFO (first in, first out) method of cycling through them so that they all get an equal chance at being worn.  Tees that are fresh from the wash are carefully placed on the bottom of the stack.  The same with undershorts.  Same drawer.  Different stack.  I’m very organized when it comes to underwear.  The problem is I seem to have a problem recognizing when they need to be recycled to the rag bin.  Fortunately, I’ve had the good fortune to have women in my life who have a prescient knowledge of when that should happen.  But I remain mystified at how they know.  The universe is fully of mysteries.

Christmas

“All you need is love…”  The Beatles

As a kid, I loved Christmas.  The whole mystical, magical mythology of Santa, the scent of a freshly cut fir tree, the shopping for cheap presents at Woolworths for grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, parents, and siblings.  Handkerchiefs or candles for grandma, ties for dad and grandpa, yoyos for siblings, but always something special for mom.  She liked practical gifts, or so I thought, because she always raved about whatever trinket she received.  One year I got her measuring spoons.  Brilliant.  She never complained.  I received an allowance of 25 cents a week.  Five cents went to church, five cents went to savings (I had a passbook savings account) the rest went to my piggy bank.  Anything in my piggybank I could use for whatever I wanted.  I always saved some each week for Christmas.  One year, on Christmas Eve, my dad made an excuse to go outside and a few minutes later we heard footsteps on the roof.  My mom claimed they were made by Santa’s reindeer and that we should hurry in to bed.  Since parents never lie to their children, we believed her and hurried off to bed, carefully listening to the reindeer hooves stepping lightly on the roof.

Somehow or another Christmas never quite lived up to my expectations.  It was nice.  It was fun.  But it seemed something was always missing.  And as the commercialization of Christmas grew, so did whatever was missing.

When our kids were young, we struggled from paycheck to paycheck.  I tried hard not to disappoint my children but there never seemed to be adequate savings to buy the gifts I wanted for my kids, much less my wife.  And even if my kids were not disappointed, I worried they would be.  I knew, even then, that happiness couldn’t be purchased, yet we are a comparative society, and I knew they would see what their friends received and that, in comparison, they might be disappointed.  Christmas just never lived up to its promise.

The stress of trying to assemble trikes, then bikes late at night on Christmas Eve; trying to decide what to do about the leftover nuts and/or bolts that should probably go somewhere, but where oh where do they go? Or the other things requiring assembly; inserting part A into Part B. Anything requiring mechanical ability or spatial awareness was stressful, complicated by the possibility that I may have ingested one too many eggnogs before attempting assembly.

Yet, I looked and continue to look forward to Christmas every year, even if it comes with a minor amount of dread and fear of disappointment.  There is a chaos that causes fear, and then there is chaos that is the result of happy laughter, presents being ripped open, paper and ribbons everywhere, the scent of candles burning, dogs barking, ripping at the discarded paper, a fire in the fireplace causing the house to heat up beyond any comfortable measure.  I look forward to dinner with family, games and puzzles after dinner.  Sweaters and mittens and socks and ties all given with love.  As I creep into ancientness, I tend not to give much stuff, because my family has more stuff than we need, but more on experiences; trips to the aquarium, fishing trips, day spa experiences to get refreshed from the stress of daily living.  That sort of thing. 

With Linda’s death, life seems so much more precious.  Every moment is real and vibrant and important.  What we say and what we don’t say are important.  The world is filled with beauty and wondrous things.  And that which is beautiful comes from love.  And perhaps a bit late in life, I believe the magic of Christmas is not in stuff but love.  Merry Christmas!

Stream of Consciousness

“You have brains in your head.  You have feet in your shoes.  You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.” – Dr. Seuss

Cigars.  What is it about cigars?  Cigars and brandy.  Manliness.  Nothing says, “manly”, like cigars and brandy.  “Let’s withdraw to the drawing room and have a brandy.”  Do people really draw in drawing rooms?  None of the movies of the royals show easels with partially completed drawings in the drawing room.  Mostly just dark paneled walls, overstuffed chairs and crystal brandy decanters.  I went to a conference not too many years ago, depending on how you interpret ‘not too many’, and after an elaborate dinner with multiple courses paired exquisitely with wine, the hotel set up a cigar and brandy room for those who chose to participate in such manly endeavors.  Not being a cigar smoker, but occasionally enjoying a snifter of brandy, I opted to demonstrate my macho side by joining my fellow conferees in the hotel’s Fireside Room for a brandy.

By the time I arrived, there were approximately 20 men and one woman in the Fireside Room smoking cigars, sipping brandy and regaling each other with manly stories of hunting, fishing, hiking, biking, sailing and other adventures.  The room had a high coffered ceiling, mahogany paneled walls, leather chairs and sofas and was filled with so much acrid smoke I could barely see across the room.   I knew in an instant this was not my thing.  Yet, once I had breached the entrance, retreat was not possible.  Don’t show weakness, I thought.  Have a brandy, tell a story and then excuse yourself and put your suit out to be laundered to get the cigar stink out of it.  “Hey, Rich.  Come on over.  I have an amazing Cuban cigar.  You won’t believe how good it is!”  “Shit”, I think.  I just want a brandy and then to leave.  “Sure, I haven’t had a good cigar in years”, I heard myself say. That part was true.  I had only had one cigar in my life and that made me sick.  Maybe I’m not up for all this manliness.  “How did you get ahold of Cuban cigars?”, I asked.  “I went to Cuba last spring and came back with two dozen.”  “How did you get into Cuba?”, I ask.  “Doctors Without Borders.”  “When did you become a doctor?”  “I was a tag-along volunteer.”  I was sure there was much more to this story but I could hardly breathe and wanted to light the cigar, cross the room, snuff it out and maybe have a brandy in the lobby bar. 

My fellow conferee presented me with a cigar, pulled an exquisitely carved cigar cutter out of his jacket pocket, made a perfect snip on the ends of this classically rolled cigar, flipped out his 1968 vintage Zippo lighter, and flamed the end of my cigar.  I took a puff, coughed, tried to appear sophisticatedly cool, thanked my friend for the lovely stogie, and turned to leave.  He gently touched my arm and said, “sit awhile.  Let’s catch up.  It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other.”  Oh, crap.  No escape.  “How do you like the Cuban?  Quite amazing, isn’t it?”  “Quite”, I said.  And so, for the next half hour, I pretended to smoke, sipped some brandy and listened to the ramblings of my fellow conferee.

Between the brandy, the wine and the cigar, I awoke the next morning with a crushing headache and the inside of my mouth felt like the lint trap of a commercial clothes dryer.  Never again.

If you consider that my Thanksgiving blog is a bit out of order and bears little in common with my first Husbandry blog about the beginning of life, then the following thoughts fit more naturally with the first blog and bear the consequence of my actions leading to fatherhood. And again, I welcome your thoughts and criticisms of my writing which I may use to improve my blog or move them to the rubbish bin depending on my mood or state of mind. So, okay then. Here are some more thoughts on the art of husbandry.

Birthing and Parenting

“Life itself is the most wonderful fairy tale.” – Hans Christian Anderson

And then the night and day of delivery.  Some people call it the miracle of birth as if it is a calm, beatific, beautiful event.  What drugs did they get that I Linda and I didn’t?  I still have bite marks on my hand where Linda bit me.  I was in agony.  Her screaming didn’t help matters.  Endless hours of labor pains eventually led to an emergency “C” Section.  At the end, the doctor grabbed my son by the ankles, held him upside down and whacked him on the back.  He was covered with gooey mucous and he was blue and had a cone head.  The doctor’s comment was, “he’s a slippery little rascal.”  And I was afraid he was going to drop him on his head.

I thought, “Shit, Linda’s been cheating on me with a Martian.”  That can’t be my kid.  Holy crap, is he breathing?  And finally, the cry.  This was a cry we would become so very familiar with.  Nothing could console this child. 

“Honey, wake up; the baby’s crying.”  “Well go get him.”  “Ok, here he is.”  “Go rock him back to sleep.”  “Maybe he’s hungry.”  “Sorry, this dairy is closed until morning.”  Rocking never helped.  Walking helped.  Stopping walking didn’t help.  Laying him back in his crib when I couldn’t walk anymore only caused him to re-awake and start crying again.  Where the hell is the manual for this baby? 

You buy a lawnmower, you get a manual.  You buy a BBQ, you get a manual.  Almost everything comes with a manual.  I paid more for a baby than I paid for a car and I don’t get a manual. 

CHAPTER 3

Baby Manual

Page 1 – Hiring a nanny.  What? You didn’t save enough to hire a nanny?  Go to Page 2 –  How to calm a crying baby.

Page 3 – How to calm a wife.

Page 4 – Why alcohol is not a solution.

Page 5 – How to fold a diaper.

Page 6 – How to avoid sticking diaper pin in baby.  (This page might possibly date me.)

Page 7 – How to stay awake at work.

Page 8 – Why paid parental leave should be mandatory and include a one month all expense paid trip to a golf resort during the second month following the birth of a child.

Two and one half years later, the human brain has no recollection of the trauma of birth and the first six months of child rearing.  Life is all chaos all the time and seems normal.  So, when Linda says, “Guess what?  I’m pregnant.”, I don’t even flinch.  I think I say, “congratulations.”  As if she just won an award for being mom of the year.

Devlin, Huberty and Helm.  Linda’s new obstetricians.  With baby #1, the family doctor was to deliver-the baby.  Except that he went on vacation and his almost English-speaking replacement delivered our son.  Linda didn’t like the way that delivery went so she switched to the three docs.  Each of them saw Linda and each were prepared for the scheduled delivery since the C-section was a scheduled thing.  Except that Baby #2’s schedule was two weeks different than the docs. 

“Rich, I’m having labor pains.”   “Relax, you’re not due for two weeks.  They’ll probably go away.”  “Rich, the labor pains are only 5 minutes apart.  We need to leave for the hospital now!”  I’m thinking to myself, “don’t argue with your wife, even though we’ll probably get there, turn around and come home.”  It’s around midnight and I’m sleepy.  I don’t want to drive all the way to Pullman, drop our son off at Linda’s sister’s house only to find out that this is some sort of false labor.  But I’m a husband and I do what my wife says; especially at this stage of pregnancy.  I call Linda’s sister to tell her we are on our way and then I call the doc’s emergency number to let him know they missed the estimated birth by a little bit and to please meet us at the hospital.

We arrive at the hospital, Linda is wheeled off to a room to wait until it is time for surgery, Dr. Devlin arrives and takes me by the arm and says it is time to scrub, and into the restroom we go to don our hospital scrubs and wash our hands and arms.  Then Dr. “D” reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a flask and says, “here, have some brandy.”  I take the flask, drink a shot and off we go to surgery.  I’m starting to like Dr. Devlin and wished I had brought him a cigar.   

Baby #2 was much less dramatic.  Her birth was easier.  She had the sweetest, most pathetic little cry.  She was adorable.

Holidays

“Thanksgiving.  Bringing out the best in family dysfunction since 1863.” – another famous quote from Anonymous

My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving.  Expectations are very low.  No one knows when the turkey will be done, so a pre-dinner drink can begin at any time.  Thanksgiving dinner in our family is pretty formulaic; there is very little change from year to year.  The biggest change factor is how dry the turkey will be. 

The problem with Thanksgiving in our family was, whose parents do we celebrate Thanksgiving with?  Or, to put it another way; whose mother do we piss off the most?  Unlike Christmas where you can celebrate Christmas eve with one family and Christmas day with the other family, Thanksgiving requires a conscious choice of disappointment.  Never-the-less, once the decision has been made, it is still my favorite holiday.  You might think we could agree to alternate years, spending even numbered years with my parents and odd numbered years with Linda’s parents, but that level of reasonableness simply didn’t exist and it was quite clear that not only were we expected to spend Thanksgiving with Linda’s parents, there would be hell to pay if we did not.  So, Thanksgiving dinner was nearly always spent with my in-laws. 

Linda had six sisters and while it was rare to have all six sisters home at once, it was still quite a houseful of people once all of the husbands and grandchildren were counted into the milieu of constant chaos in the smallish three-bedroom home.  Linda’s mother, Thelma, and her father, Dan, would often invite their close friends, Art and Harriet, to dinner as well.  I think they were invited because Harriet made the best dinner rolls.  Gathering people to the dinner tables for this annual feast of feasts was a remarkable, nay, miraculous event.  Kids were outside playing in the rain that needed to be dried out and their mud soaked pants changed, there was always a baby or toddler crying, there was always at least one brother-in-law who was on his third whiskey that needed to be guided to the table, the house was always about 20 degrees too warm, there were puzzles that had to be moved in order to use the puzzle table for food, the TV was always on having been left on since the airing of the Macy’s parade on Thanksgiving morning, followed by football games. 

But somehow or another, once the food was on the table there was a hush as people gathered around the table.  Grace was said.  And the passing of food began.  The clanking of silverware, the clinking of wine glasses, were like a symphony of gluttony.  Then, from the end of the table, came the call for service that was all too expected.  It happened every year.  We all knew it would happen.  Even the timing of the request was predictable.  “Thelma, where is the cream for my coffee?”, Dan would say.  It was never just a question.  It was not quite a demand, but it was said with a level of annoyance that Thelma must have not put the cream on the table just to piss him off.  Honestly?  I think he may have been right.  Every year.  Year after year.  Holiday after holiday, the question was the same, “Thelma, where’s the cream for my coffee?”  As the premier husband in the room, it never occurred to him that he could actually go to the fridge, remove the carton of cream, pour it into a pitcher, and place it on the table.

After dinner there was a crowd in the kitchen, washing and drying dishes, packaging of the leftovers, etc. so I would always retreat to the family room to watch the rest of whatever football game was on; usually the Dallas Cowboys versus someone else.  Dan would join me.  He was not much of a conversationalist and neither was I, so there was often a somewhat uncomfortable silence as father-in-law versus son-in-law bonded over America’s pastime. 

Finally, the clattering and chattering in the kitchen would die down and Thelma and her kitchen elves would join us in the family room.  Thelma would sit in “her chair”, the TV would be switched to whatever pre-Christmas movie was on, typically Miracle on 34^th Street, and the post-turkey drowsiness would begin.  Despite watching Miracle on 34^th Street for at least 50 times, I’m quite sure Thelma has never seen the whole movie.  Minutes into the movie her head would tilt back, her mouth would open slightly and the snoring would begin.  Her grandkids lovingly referred to her as “old snores”.  The rest of us would suffer through, yet again, another viewing of the movie, with no one daring or brave enough to change the channel lest “old snores” should awaken from her slumber.

Then with an enormous snort, Thelma would wake herself up and without missing a beat, and as if she hadn’t ever nodded off, would brightly say, “would anyone like pie?”  And of course we all would and back into the dining room we would all file.  After pie, around 9:00pm Dan would loudly announce that it was time to go to bed and he would exit the room.  Clearly his expectation was that everyone would do the same in order that the house might finally quiet down a bit so that he would be able to sleep.  His expectations were always dashed.  100% of the time.  But eventually it was time for the rest of the family to call it a night.  Those who lived close by, piled into their cars and left.  Those of us who had travelled a long way to celebrate this very special day of giving thanks, grabbed blankets, pillows and sleeping bags and claimed whatever sofa or bit of floor space was available and then, mercifully and thankfully the house became quiet.  Only the soft and gently snoring from the bedroom at the end of house could be heard.

Hello. This is my first blog attempt. Not sure how this will all go. Your feedback will be much appreciated. My name is Richard Turnbull. I am retired with more time on my hands than I know what to do with, so I thought I should productively use what time I have left on this planet to share with you my experiences as a husband and father. There are lots of books on parenting. There are reams of boring information on the proper role of a husband, but I would like to share with you the reality of the whole dismal process of husbanding as I have experienced it. My intent is to write a little, sleep a little, and then write a little more until my entire memory and knowledge of proper husbanding has been shared with you. Since I am getting older and my memory is getting shorter, this whole process may not take much of your time. Having said all this; here is my first installment of Husbandry.

Husbandry

Husband:  Def:  married man, frugal manager

Syn:  master

Forward And Position Description For Husbands

It may strain the bounds of credulity, but I actually did some research for this narrative. There are websites on line describing how husbands should behave and I found them to be wildly amusing; especially the ones which attempted to seriously define the role of the modern husband. Most of what follows is a slightly exaggerated account of my own experience as a husband and, to some lesser extent, a father. I think most of the “rules” for being a good husband which I discovered during my research are written by women. The “rules” assume a degree of intentionality that, at least for me, was entirely missing. I think most men are like me and fumble their way through marriage, never quite understanding the rules. Most of the “rules” are unstated until they have been transgressed. Wives, on the other hand, seem to be fully aware of the ”rules” but keep them carefully hidden away.

Here’s what some websites gaily offered as to the proper role of husbands in today’s society.

• From FamilyLife.com:  “There is a story of a man who died and went to heaven to find two signs above two different lines.  One sign said: “ALL THOSE MEN WHO HAVE BEEN DOMINATED BY THEIR WIVES, STAND HERE.”  That line of men seemed to stretch off through the clouds into infinity.  The second sign read: “ALL THOSE WHO HAVE NEVER BEEN DOMINATED BY THEIR WIVES, STAND HERE.”  Underneath the sign stood one man.  He went over to the man, grabbed his arm and said, “What’s the secret, how did you do it?  That other line has millions of men and you are the only one standing in this line.”  The man looked around with a puzzled expression and said, ”Why, I am not sure I know.  My wife just told me to stand here.”  Personally, while I found the story to be humorous, I don’t think it accurately portrays the sad state of affairs of husbandry.
• MattTownsend.com:  “Never make the one you love feel alone, especially when you’re right there.”  Ok.  This one is actually a good one.  I know I’ve been guilty of pretending to listen.  I’ve been head-smacked more than once when my wife asked my opinion after a fairly long soliloquy only to discover that I had very little recollection of what she had just shared with me.  It’s not that I didn’t care, it’s just that my attention span is sometimes a little short and my mind tends to drift.  I forget that there might be a quiz at the end of the commentary. 
• From a poster, “Husbands are the best people to share secrets with.  They’ll never tell anyone, because they aren’t even listening.”  My problem is that I heard the secret but forgot that I wasn’t supposed to share it. 
• Yourtango.com:  “A responsible, emotionally intelligent man who can control his impulses shows true maturity.  As such, he likely has the capacity to deal with the change, disappointment, stress, and conflict that life (and marriage) invariably bring.”  Now there is a ringing endorsement for marriage!  Get ready all you soon to be husbands for a life of disappointment, stress and conflict.  Brilliant!
• Also from yourtango.com:  “It’s important for a man not to neglect his woman.”  Oh, holy shit!  If I so much as insinuated that my wife was a possession, I would be standing in the wrong line at the gates of heaven.

CHAPTER ONE

Love, Sex and Marriage

This story begins as all life begins, with graphic sex.  This first part is “X” rated so if you prefer not to be exposed to such things, please close your eyes and turn to page 2.

“Hmmm.  Good morning”, I whisper as I snuggle my naked body next to her warm body.  “Hmmm”, she softly replies as she wriggles in closer to me.  I gently push my hardness in between her legs and slowly, softly we begin to emerge from the edge of sleep and wakefulness.

“Rinnnng”, goes the phone.  “Shall I get it”, she moans?  “No.  Let it be”, I mumble.  “Rinnnng”, goes the phone.  “Shit!”, she says and moves away to answer the phone.  “Hi, good morning.”  Turning towards me she says, “It’s Kathy”.  “Of course it is”, I say.  “It’s her every Saturday pre-orgasm call.”  “Shush”.  “Oh, good you’re up”, Kathy says.  “Well I was”, I say.  Kathy says, “What?”  “Nothing”, Linda says as she moves farther away from me.  “Look, he’s dying”, I say.  “Shush”, Linda replies.  “What”, Kathy asks?  “Nothing”, Linda says.  “He needs resuscitation”, I say.  “Shush, shush”, says Linda and swings her legs out of bed and stretches.  “Should I call back”, says Kathy?  Is that Rich?”  “Of course it’s Rich, who else would it be?”  “Is something going on?” “No, no. He’s just being an idiot husband. What’s up?”  “All husbands are idiots.”

And another Saturday morning interruptus.  Between sisters-in-law and mothers-in-law, it is amazing the human species has been so prolific in reproducing.  Clearly it has impacted our, (meaning Linda’s and my), contribution, although my vasectomy may have had something to do with limiting human output in my family.   I love them dearly, but parenting is not an easy thing to do.  Some people make it look easy.  But for us it was chaos, dirty dishes, piles of laundry, dog and cat hair everywhere, noise, and chaos.  I have a headache just thinking about it.  Why do people have children?  Why did we?  Beats the hell out of me. 

The problem starts with pregnancy.  “Hi babe, how are you doing?  You look great!”  “Shut up!  Look what you did to me.  I’m fat.  My skin’s so tight I feel like I’m gonna pop.  He’s kicking the crap out of me.  My back hurts.  Get me a beer.”  “You can’t have a beer.”  “I know.  This sucks.”  “I thought you wanted to have six kids?  Remember when we were engaged and we were walking along the beach and I asked you how many kids you wanted and you said ‘six’?”  “Shut up!  That’s when I was in love.”  “What?  You don’t love me?”  “Right now I can barely stand you.  Get me something to drink and a pillow and something for me to put my feet on.”  “There you go.  Now do you love me?”  “I have a mild fondness for you.”  “Ok, I’ll take it.”