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Not Quite Right
A Little Something For
The Rest Of Us
by Bob Church
Sanctimonious Reflections
of Perfidy
 Personally, I've always thought spring over-rated.
Americans, as a society, are very easily impressed. I could cite
hundreds of examples to illustrate, but it would belabor the
point. When the calendar turns the page to March first, one can't
turn on the Idiot Box without being besieged by promises of green
grass, wonderful vacations, fewer insects, better cuts of meat,
and SUV's; those over-powered-10 miles to the gallon-hormone
dedicated-nothing down-0% financed-cost more than your house-all
terrain-death traps.
Of course, SUV's didn't exist when I was
growing up. In those days, any passenger car with a covered top
and more than four windows was called a station wagon. Be that
as it may, SUV's would have been the answer to my father's dreams.
In my mind, I still envision the meetings at General Motors (my
father would drive nothing else), the design engineers sitting
around discussion tables, salivating at the possibility of modifying
the new model just a bit, to incorporate an extra bell
or whistle that would impress Dad. My father was the poster boy
for high-tech gimmickry. In 1954, he owned the only new Chevrolet
station wagon in the neighborhood capable of shooting high-pressure
jets of water onto the hubcaps. On many occasions I recall him
giving the horn a couple of staccato blasts as he passed his
friends house, his goofy grin monumental as his wave, his hubcap
washers forcing them to acknowledge his skill and innovation.
Yea, that's right, you wish you were me. Of course, the
pump and reservoir of fluid were so large they left no room for
windshield washers, but the inability to see the road was small
price to pay for having perpetually shiny hubcaps and supreme
bragging rights in the neighborhood.
Thereby, since he drove the baddest wagon
on the block, his primary mission in life became finding situations
capable of testing all the design functions. This normally meant
leaving the pavement behind, but since we lived in Colorado,
this became a no-brainer. My father's insistence that no terrain
existed that his little marvel of modern engineering couldn't
conquer (and because four-wheel drive was a luxury only found
in Jeeps), I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to free
our Chevy from holes large enough to swallow a Volkswagen, while
in pursuit of The Perfect Fishing Hole.
My dad was not a person likely to be mistaken
for a wilderness outfitter. He loved to go fishing, camping or
preferably both, but somehow, the planning of such an outing
escaped him. He really did enjoy taking me with him- I think
it was his idea of male bonding. His concept of equipment for
a camping trip was a blanket, a canteen of water (for me), a
skillet, a couple of assorted rods and tackle boxes, two coolers
of beer (one was for emergencies or the trip home, whichever
came first), a carton of Camels and a roll of toilet paper.
Once, I suggested that perhaps we should
buy a lantern, or maybe take along a little something to keep
my stomach from roaring in my ears, but I was informed that we'd
soon have plenty of fish to eat. Besides, my dad semi-patiently
explained, there is nothing better than sitting around a campfire
with only its light to protect us. After all, ghost stories aren't
any fun in the light.
Sounds idyllic, you say? Yea, well, tell
that to an eight-year-old who is wandering around in the dark,
looking for berries, wild onions (gag), grass, mushrooms or damn
near anything remotely edible to shove down his throat to get
his stomach to shut up! By first light, I would be starting to
get a little sleepy, considering I'd been up most of the night
trying to forget the sounds of bears fighting just out of sight.
It was out of the question, of course,
but I also wished we'd brought along some insect repellant. I
swear I was awakened by the sound of two mosquitoes arguing.
They couldn't agree whether to eat me here or take me back to
the family. Evidently, they concluded it was best to remain here,
figuring if they took me back, the big ones would get me.
At that point I didn't much care. At 10,000
feet in elevation, the Colorado night is frigid, and it was impossible
to sleep through the conversation my teeth were having. I unsuccessfully
tried to keep warm in the J.C. Penney factory-second blanket
my mother had gotten on sale, roughly the same time that World
War II ended.
After the sun comes up in the Colorado
Rockies (if it isn't raining or snowing), you can usually control
your body's shaking long enough to bait a hook. I no longer cared
about anything but food as I desperately tried to dispel my thoughts
of patricide. Hell, I even thought of ways to kill him with food!
Did you ever sit and think about how painful and agonizing it
would be to be smothered by a baloney sandwich? Well, I did...
and I was able to dispel the notion only temporarily when he
asked me what I was grinning about.
"Oh, nothing…" I would reply,
trying to look pitiful enough to convince him that we should
hop in the Chevy, head for civilization and get something to
eat. More often than not, he seemed to know when I was truly
miserable and he would acquiesce to my desires- but not without
bemoaning my lack of fortitude during the entire fifty-one miles
back to the trailhead. I could quote him chapter and verse after
awhile, as each homily invariably began, "Bubba, someday
you'll thank me for this"...
I'm still trying to find time to do that.
And I still can't eat baloney, it being a murder weapon and all.
Bob Church © 3/13/08
Bob Church resides in
mid-Missouri with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle,
Carla, and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising
five children, he has reached the point in his life that allows
time to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his
stories/observations at notquiteright/
Send Bob a message either directly
or using the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from Bob visit the
Word Catalyst archives or his online
home.
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