I REMEMBER - STUCK ON THE MOUNTAIN...

My son Nicholas (Nicholas Gerald when he was in trouble - Nick -now that he is in his mid-twenties...) has always been competitive.  The middle son of three brothers, he didn't get to be the first and he didn't get the free pass like his little brother somehow always did.  He figured out, early on, that since he couldn't be the baby and couldn't be the oldest, he would just try to be the best.


I remember a camping trip once at the north coast of California - Ft. Bragg area - where we all went down to the beach to play.  All boys like to be climbers and my three were no different.  They were climbing on everything, rocks, driftwood, etc.  They tried their hand at climbing the mostly sheer face of a small hill, but they gave up about halfway up, as it looked pretty impossible.


We were putting out the blanket and picnic basket when I heard this tiny little pleading voice from off in the distance.  "Dad, Dad......HELP!!"  We looked everywhere and though we could hear Nick, we couldn't see him anywhere.  That is, until we looked at the impossible-to-climb cliff and there he was...almost to the top...and stuck.  He would have made it, but he wasn't tall enough to reach the next handhold and it was much too difficult to go back down.


Most parents have "saved their children's lives", multiple times, from fast car stops, choking on hot-dogs, to grabbing them before they ran into the street...etc.


This time was a bit more difficult.  I had to dash over and start climbing the cliff to where he was....all the while telling him reassuringly that Dad was on the way.  


When I got to where he was, I discovered the problem...hand holds are not necessarily footholds and going back down (let alone carrying somebody) was not a solution.  Other than the worry of us both tumbling down a two or three story high rocky cliff, I had it under control.  We had to finish climbing to the top.


The brave adventurer bravado was gone when I arrived where he was stuck.  The all-trusting, 'my Dad is a super-hero' look took over from the 'deer in the headlights' look as I climbed up next to him. There wasn't any time and this wasn't the spot to lecture him about the danger he got himself (and me) in.


His answer to my "It looks like you got yourself stuck" was a proud "Look Dad, I got higher than my brothers."  Which indeed he did...the classic half-full vs. half-empty observation shared by all my children.  It wasn't a sobbing, "I'm gonna die!...it was "I almost got it Dad, but I can't reach the next rock..can you help me up?"


Since Nick is still here and I am telling the story, you can successfully surmise that we made it.  


Still the adventurer, I am confident he will somehow, always find the next handhold to make it to the top.


rlw

-     Robert Welton: Twitter                     

-        Robert Welton: FaceBook 

-        Robert Welton: LinkedIn          

 

·        My Blogs              

-       http://sunriseandtime.blogspot.com/   

-       http://robertweltonremembers.blogspot.com/

-       http://robertweltonanotherdayinparadise.blogspot.com/

-       http://gratitude-alittlegoesalongway.blogspot.com/          

-       http://rwelton.hubpages.com/

        Write Your Own Hub

 

YouTube

http://www.youtube.com/user/rweltonremembers

http://www.youtube.com/user/aaasportsstuff

I REMEMBER - 'Men only' - Fish Camp with Cousins & Uncles

There are lots of good memories in our lives and for those that are blessed with large families, there are often even more.  Interaction with different personalities that might doom a relationship outside your own family, but are preserved forever because they are “blood” relatives  Blood is thicker than water.

Most of my relatives were in Oklahoma and when my Mom and sister and I moved to California, it was like Marco Polo sailing off to the edge of the known universe.

We went back a couple of times for a visit and family reunions.  Being young, skinny wearing glasses, with all my 6’+ farm boy older cousins and Aunts and Uncles, I was often lost in the mix.

One of my favorite memories was a week-long, guy’s only, fish camp expedition.  There were lots of trucks (one with a huge freezer in the bed), chicken guts, “Catfish Charley” stink bait, treble hooks for snagging catfish and trot-lines.

We stayed at a fish camp on the Arkansas River…little shanty cabins right on the river bank.  We had big campfires at night and I drank lots of soda…I seem to recall my uncles and older cousins drinking something with the word “lightning” out of mason jars, getting louder and crazier as the night wore on.  We had made a side trip to this little farm to pick up the mason jars.  I waited in the truck.

We caught a couple of month’s worth of fish, mostly catfish and bass.  We cleaned and gutted them and packed them in the freezer right there.  We also had fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner (good to get home and have a hamburger).

I watched my older cousins catch catfish with their bare hands in little washed out recesses in the river banks.  There were lots of yelling and new words for me to learn when they got spiked with fins. 

My fondest memory after 50+ years was a nightmare at the time, which is often true with many good stories.  Being the youngest (and most naïve) on this “man trip”, I got initiated into the “Chiles Clan” one night.  We were sitting around the campfire and the mason jars were being passed around – not me.  


One of my three uncles announced that it was time to check the trotlines and needed a volunteer.  All my cousins volunteered me.  It was pitch black and very late at night.  I was terrified to even go much beyond the campfire area, but had to “man up” and not let it show that I was about to wet myself in fear.  

I had to take one of the “Jonboats” off the shore and paddle out into the night following the rope tied from one tree to another across the river and check the dangling baited hooks to see (had a lantern) if we had any fish on them, pull them up, remove the fish – drop them in the bottom of the boat (club them in the head if they flopped too much), rebait the hooks and paddle back.  No problem.  I am thinking, I can do this.

I faced my fear of the dark and took off as calmly (on the outside) as I could and was about halfway out when the initiation happened.  One of my older cousins slipped into the water behind me and quietly swam out to the boat and came up over the side behind me with a loud moan.  I now knew the monster stories were true and I was soon to be a dead man (boy actually).  Never one to go down without swinging (I had lost my fair share of playground fistfights) I first screamed at the top of my lungs then grabbed the paddle and wacked the “monster” over the head a couple of times. 

The distant laughter from the camp that had started with my screaming at the top of my lungs, turned into several enlightening four letter words from my half-drowned cousin and my uncles on the shore – one of which had to swim out and help his dazed “monster” son back to shore…and then the laughter started up again back at the camp after confirming everyone was still alive.  This time they were laughing at my soaking wet, gash-on-forehead cousin.

I was now officially in the clan…even offered a sip from the Mason jar (after they applied some to my cousin’s wound - man, did he ever yell even louder than me). Tasted very much like gasoline, but not as smooth…I think my eyes crossed several times from just enough to wet my flaming lips. I slept well.

The story was passed around at the next week’s family reunion.  Me, swelling with pride, my cousin embarrassed and my Mom whacking her brothers (my uncles) for allowing such a thing.  

My uncles were 6’3”+ - my mom was 5’1” – They were laughing so hard, I don’t think her punches were felt much.

Rlw

I REMEMBER…Rottweiler’s and the rolling gate.

In the late 1990’s I was in charge of a major truck-trailer rental company.  My territory was Northern California and Northern Nevada.  I travelled a lot and often got home way after dark.  I travelled from Vallejo to Redding and over to Tahoe, Carson City and Reno.  

There were seventeen stores and about one-hundred independent dealers in that geographic area. The challenge was to keep the inventory of trailers and trucks at the location most likely to have customers that wanted to rent them.  The reality was that the trucks they needed in Sacramento were often sitting on the lot in Redding or Reno, etc.  We often had to make these ‘runs’ to pick up needed rental equipment and transport them to the new location before the weekend when demand was the highest.

There were several of my staff members with me on one such run and we arrived back in Sacramento late on a Friday night.  It was a successful foray and we brought back the equipment needed.  We pulled up to the rental center, opened the rolling gates, pulled the equipment in and parked them all in a neat row.  

Everybody, but my assistant and I had headed home in the personal vehicles they left parked outside the gate.  Our team was very efficient, as we had done this procedure many times.  In and out….done…head home.

  

The last two of us were walking back towards the open gate when we heard the strangest sound.  It was a very rapid clicking sound, accompanied by low growls.  I was tired.  It had been a long day.  Finally my brain cells kicked in.  Because we had been experiencing vandalism at this particular location, I had asked for the office staff to arrange for a security guard dog service.  I thought I had made it clear that the service was to start tomorrow, as we were bringing trucks in tonight. 

All I could hear was click, click, click, growl getting closer, as their nails scraped across the pavement, trying to get a good grip to pick up speed.   As our feet picked up speed, I came to the sinking conclusion that the dog service had started a day early.  A tried a quick glance over my shoulder, which, if you are not that girl in the Exorcist, was very hard to do at a full run.  It was dark, but not so much that I missed two very large Rottweilers coming, full bore, right at us.

We were at far more than a full run now and salvation (the open gate) lay 20 yards ahead of us.  They were gaining on us, but Lord Be With Us, we made it to the gate first.  We grabbed the long rolling gate and pushed it along with all our might to get it closed before the dogs got us.  We pushed until it stopped.  

I had a big sense of relief as, a second later,  the dogs hit that fence at full tilt.  I didn’t get much of a chance to savor the victory of Man vs. Guard Dog, as I realized (a second before the dogs also realized it) that this was a twenty foot opening gate with two rolling ten foot sections.  We had only closed one half of the gate.

My friend had already made it to the truck.  I thought for about a half of a nano-second that I could run past the 10 foot open area to the other half of the gate and, by myself, roll it closed and lock the security chain before the dogs dashed through.  Like a defensive feint in football or basketball, facing my two growling opponents through the chain link, as soon as I shifted my weight to my left foot to make the dash, these highly intelligent canines realized there was a ten foot chasm available to them as well.

After about two steps to the left I became aware that the dogs had already covered twice the distance and were rounding the half-closed gate and coming my way.  Much like an inspired Olympic sprinter-high jumper, I crossed the distance between me and the waiting truck and leaped into the back of the pick-up truck, just as the dogs were on my heel.

My companion, safe inside the cab with the windows rolled up, and I, on top of the cab, inched slowly along the opening, with me pulling the gate along until we finally had it closed, chained and locked.

By now, the dogs had mysteriously disappeared into the night.  Fortunately I had my cell phone in the truck.  Now relegated to the museum of early portable phones (the phone was attached to a phone cord with a giant battery pack in a canvas bag, much like the type you see the ‘Radio guy” using in old war movies) it was still  a convenient was to make a call under dire circumstances.  

I called the dog protection services and left a message that his guard dogs had managed to escape and to come find them.  All future truck runs left the vehicles on the street until daylight.

rlw

I REMEMBER: Dentists, Lincoln Logs & No Play-Dates on School Nights

This isn’t the cheeriest of remembrances, but definitely one I am unable to forget and it is why I hate to go to the dentist.

It is 1954 and I am seven years old.  We are living in McAllester, Oklahoma and I am in first or second grade.  I didn’t have a fondness for going to the dentist like any other kid, but I liked candy, so I got to take the dental trip more often that I would have liked.

 

 As it turned out, a good friend of mine in school was also the son of our family dentist. My friend Raymond had just gotten some new toys for his birthday, including Lincoln Logs , which was the best toy a kid could ask for in 1954 Oklahoma (with the exception of Lone Ranger Guns, mask and bandana.).  His dad made a lot of money, so my friend got the first, biggest and best stuff when it came out and this wasn’t just a starter box, it was a deluxe Stage Coach Stop Kit with cowboys and horses to boot.

He invited me over to spend the night, so we could play with the new toys.  It was, however, a mid-week night and was also a school night.  His mom offered to bring me to school with Raymond the next morning, if I brought a change of clothes.  It seemed like a super deal to me, but my Mom wouldn’t hear of it, as it was a school night. Mom was a school teacher and had a hard and inflexible rule about playing during the week. She wanted us to concentrate on homework, be rested and have our smarts on for school the next day. Play dates were exclusively for the weekends and there was no changing her mind.  So, the moms made a plan for the following Saturday.

The next day at school, my friend Raymond was not in school.  There was a lot of hushed whispering amongst the teachers, but when I asked if Raymond was out sick, my teacher just told me I should talk to my mom after school.

It turned out that Raymond’s Dad, our family dentist, had snapped the night I was supposed to stay over, killed the entire family with injections of poison, burned the house to the ground and committed suicide.

Dentists' odds of suicide "are 6.64 times greater than the rest of the working age population," writes researcher Steven Stack. "Dentists suffer from relatively low status within the medical profession and 

have strained relationships with their clients—as few people enjoy going to the dentist."

That was almost 60 years ago and although I can’t tell you what I did last week, I still remember that time I was invited to be in Raymond’s house that night and my fear of dentists giving you an injection.  For a very long time after, you needed three men and a mule to get me to the dentist or get a shot of any kind.  With all the dental work, injections and blood work I have had in the past few years, I am managing much more calmly and mostly appear to be an adult about the whole process on the outside. The three men and the mule are on standby, however, in case of a relapse.

So, this week, I remembered that I have a root canal/crown replacement appointment at 9:01am this coming Monday.  One and a half hours in my least favorite spot in the universe.  I’m good.  Just saying, it is interesting how the little memory pop-ups from our past still come many years down the road.

Note: Reruns of The Lone Ranger starring Clayton Moore were still being transmitted as of August 2010, sixty-one years after their initial broadcast.

Oh, and for my kids, that is probably the main reason you never, ever got a sleepover on a school night.

rlw