Years ago when I was a whole world younger and (I thought anyway) a lot smarter about what I was meant to do with my life, my first wife and I moved to Arcadia in southern California. We moved there because I wanted to be a professional actor. The way we chose Arcadia was unique. We got out a map of southern California and closing our eyes we stuck our index fingers on the map. The area midway between where our fingers hit the map was where we were going to live. That turned out to be Arcadia. You might be wondering why we did not just live in Los Angeles. Good question. The reason was simple, we felt the cost of living would be too high for a young couple just starting out.
We flew out to the Los Angeles International Airport via a "champagne" flight. When we landed we then had to figure out how to get to Arcadia. We wound up booking a limo; it was, somewhat amazingly, the cheapest way to get there. That limo ride was our first experience of what living in southern California would be like. The chauffeur was very chatty. He explained that he was self-employed and that this was only one of his three jobs. He was divorced and his ultimate goal was to be an actor.
Everybody, it seemed, in southern California wanted to be in the entertainment business. I mean everybody. Right up to the guy who owned a paint store that I was trying to get a builder's discount from. When I rang him and asked about the discount, he started chatting while he was working out my discount. He asked if my business was going to grow. I said I didn't really expect it to get too big as I was only doing it while I was trying to get work as an actor. "Great," he said, a lot more excited than he had been working out my possible discount. "Have you got a Publicist yet?" I answered that I had not as I hadn't really gotten any work yet. He thought about it for a second or two and said, "Give me your address. I'll send you my business card. Keep me in mind when you start working."
Like I said everybody seemed to want to be part of the Hollywood dream machine.
For a few weeks we stayed in a Dollar Inn. It was the cheapest hotel we could find. I still remember cracking up when the desk clerk informed us that for seventy-five cents extra we could get a key that would unlock the television in the room. I had never heard of locked televisions before and said so. The clerk then solemnly explained that as they were part of a cheap hotel chain, they had trouble with people walking off with the television sets. I think the inference was that because they catered to a "lower class" clientèle everything in the rooms was locked down tight.
While we were there we discovered the Los Angeles County Arboretum and Botanical Gardens. This was where they filmed part of the Fantasy Island television show. The early Tarzan films were also shot there. In fact it was used a lot for television filming. We also discovered the Santa Anita Race Track where the high rollers of Hollywood came to lose their money. We had a lovely chat with the desk clerk at the Arcadia Holiday Inn. This was conveniently located near the race track. The desk clerk informed us that when racing season hit they were always fully booked. He even showed us the exclusive bungalows behind the hotel where the rich and famous liked to stay "in the season." We also found out that the hotels favourite customers were the actors Jack Klugman and Walter Matthau, who were very heavy betters. They both booked bungalows for the entire season.
Unfortunately we soon realised that Arcadia would not be a place where we could live. The rent for this little suburban paradise was way more than we could afford. Of course the other thing we found out was that rental properties were nigh on impossible to find. We finally had to join an agency that would "find" properties for you. We then discovered that southern California actively practised what can only be called reverse ageism. Every place we looked at turned us down. Finally after a lot of frustration, we had a "heart to heart" with our property agent. "You're too young," was the information he imparted. When we started to protest (we were after all twenty and nineteen years old and married for crying out loud), he held his hands up and said there was nothing he could do about that. He did eventually take pity on our situation and told about a property that he had to rent.
So that was how we wound up living in one of the most historical buildings in Pasadena, California and how I almost got killed twice in the same night.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Incredible Growing Purple Foam
In my last blog I mentioned the fact that I was a huge Brains Benton fan. Brains was a rich kid who was incredibly smart. His parents pretty much left him to his own devices. This included having a laboratory that would be the envy of any mad scientist. Brains with his best friend (a juvenile version of Dr Watson to his youthful Sherlock Holmes) would solve mysteries in his local neighbourhood. These mysteries were in fact crimes and the only one I can remember now with any clarity is The Case Of The Counterfeit Coins. There were only six books in the Brains Benton mystery series and I read four of them. These books, with their focus on a juvenile with the brain power and money sufficient enough for him to scientifically solve crimes faster than the local police force, inspired me.
I still remember begging my parents for a science kit for Christmas. In those days, if you were prepared to spend the money, you could get a great science kit. After an entire year of me harping endlessly about this science kit I got one. And it was a doozy. *On a side note - if you have never heard this particular word, doozy equals wildly great* This kit had a real microscope that worked on both batteries and solar power (a mirror system), glass: slides, test tubes, and beakers; a Bunsen burner and loads of chemicals. You also got a scalpel, forceps, an eye dropper, tweezers and an elemental table. Along with all this great stuff, you also were given a bunch of experiments to do. You could, for example, make a tornado in a beaker. *that is the only experiment I can remember from the kit*
Before I was even old enough to take a proper science class in High School I was doing experiments that, in school, I would not be doing until I was a sophmore taking Biology. I remember doing an "autopsy" on a frog. When I cut open the stomach I found six of the biggest beetles I had ever seen. Yet, the stomach, before it had been cut open did not appear to have been big enough to hold half the number I extracted. I was fascinated with anatomy and all chemicals period.
Then I decided to discard all the experiments that were listed in the science kit booklet. I had never been able to get the tornado experiment to work and because of that I started losing faith in it. I was going to make my own creations instead. This was how I made the "Incredible Growing Purple Foam."
My parents knew that I "played" with my science kit constantly. My bedroom always smelled of the strange chemicals I worked with. No matter how long I left the windows open the smell remained. My folks had no problem with this at all and I was always allowed to do my experiments in my bedroom. That all changed when I concocted the purple foam.
I cannot remember what items I mixed together to make this foam. I can remember my excitement when the beaker began foaming. I can also remember my excitement when the foam changed colour from white to a dark purple. I can also remember when my excitement turned to concern and then panic when the foam started moving out of the beaker and onto my science table.
Luckily I had put my experiment on a place holder from downstairs. The idea being that if I spilt anything it would not ruin the table. Unfortunately my "Incredible Growing Purple Foam" was not content with growing out of just the beaker. The foam just kept growing. It outgrew the place holder and started spilling all over the table and onto the floor. And it still kept growing.
I quickly grabbed the place mat with the ever expanding purple foam on it and headed for the stairs. I ran downstairs, through the kitchen and out the pantry door into the back yard. I dumped the whole thing, place holder, beaker and foam in the space between our garage and the storm cellar. The foam kept growing for another couple of hours at least. When it finally stopped growing it made a mound of purple foam that was about one and a half feet high and two feet across. I was ecstatic.
My parents were not.
It took repeated cleaning to get the purple stain out of my bedroom carpet. The table had to be repainted because the purple colour refused to be removed. I was banished to the storm cellar for any future experimentation. Amazingly my banishment was not because of the mess I had caused. No, my banishment was because I shared my bedroom with my younger brother. Where I was judged to be old enough to play with what was in essence a dangerous toy, my brother was way too young to be exposed to this stuff.
I did not argue about this. I meekly moved all my things into the storm cellar. The consequences of this move was gradual. I began to spend less time being a junior scientist. Not because my interest waned. No I spent less time because I did not particularly like the storm cellar. It was dark (even with the light on and the storm doors open) and it hosted a plethora of spiders. I had an almost phobic distaste and fear of spiders.
I am not in the field of science or medicine. Both of these fields were high on the list of careers that my parents thought I would eventually pursue. Nope, the world lost a creative and devoted junior scientist who could have grown into a scientific genius if not for a fear of spiders.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Show and Tell
We moved to Fayetteville when I was fifteen. I started that fall at Fayetteville High School. I desperately wanted to take Drama, but there were no spaces left. The closest the school advisor could get was Public Speaking. It would have to do. On the first day of class I became devoted to the teacher.
He was a mountain of a man. He must have been at least six and a half feet tall. He had a barrel chest and wonderfully rich voice. He had been a bit of everything in his life before he, "Came back to the school that showed me the door and suggested I never come back." One of the many things he had done was work as a prison officer.
About halfway through the school year, the teacher wanted us to do a "show and tell" speech. He handed us our subjects. Mine was on how to make a Martini. I held my hand up and asked if I could do the speech on a subject I chose. He answered in the affirmative. Luckily he did not ask me what I was going to do.
When I was a lot younger I used to read a book series called The Brains Benton Mysteries. Brains, as was suggested by his nickname, was a genius. He was like a young Sherlock Holmes. I adored the books and it was through one of them that I found the recipe for making gun powder. It was not exact, that would have been irresponsible. But it did list the main ingredients. Charcoal, saltpetre, and sulfer. Saltpetre and sulfer I could get at the local drug store. In those days you could get your hands on loads of "cool" things. I remember getting Hydrochloric Acid and Formaldehyde over the counter. That did change very shortly when a new chemist started working there. Of course I had the other ingredient at home in the guise of charcoal briquettes.
After a lot of experimenting I made a small pile of gunpowder that could more accurately be called flash powder. I did tightly pack a bit and it did make a satisfactory bang when lit. I was inordinately pleased that I had cracked the formula. I wrote the measurement down in a notebook and never had the opportunity to make the stuff again. Well, until my Public Speech class came along.
I went home on Friday and spent the next two days making gunpowder. I managed to fill an entire coffee can with the stuff. I then wrote my speech outline and made a few index cards with the formula on them. Speech class was my first class of the morning, so on Monday I entered the room with my coffee can, index cards and my outline. The outline I gave to the teacher and I sat down with my coffee can and index cards on the desk in front of me.
When the teacher read my outline he raised his eyebrows and looked at me questioningly. I just grinned and nodded. This seemed to satisfy him and he then did a roll check and said that I would give the first speech of the morning.
I got up to the podium and using the chalk board I wrote down my recipe for making gun powder. I then explained where you could get the ingredients from. Then with a flourish I opened the coffee can asked everyone to pass it around and have a look. When the can came back to me, I opened the floor for questions.
Immediately from the back of room came the question I was hoping someone would ask. "How do we know it works, man" This was from the "druggies" in the corner. "Ah," I said, "Now comes the demonstration part of my speech." I took a box of matches out of my trouser pocket, opened the box and pulled a match out and lit it. With what I thought was a theatrical gesture worthy of P.T. Barnum himself, I tossed the match into the coffee can.
FOOM! In a split second a flame roughly about five feet tall shot out of the top of the can. This was followed by a huge black cloud of smoke. The teacher shouted at the class to open the windows. This action did not immediately help to disseminate the smoke which appeared to get worse. The general atmosphere in the room was one of great hilarity. There was a lot of laughter and shouting and coughing. The teacher then evacuated the class room and we all went outside to wait for the smoke to clear. Luckily no one hit the fire alarm. Although this was mainly because the smoke was confined to the speech room.
Once the smoke had cleared and we were herded back to our seats, the teacher asked me if I knew that was going to happen. I had to honestly say no. I explained that I had never made that much before and had no idea that it was going to be so spectacular. He believed me and did not send me to the Principle's office for being a disruptive influence on the class.
He instead gave me an A+ for my ingenuity and flair. Looking back on my time spent in High School, I think it was the highest grade I ever got for anything.
Vinnie's Bomb
My friend Vinnie had called me at home. He wanted me to see a dead buzzard he had shot from his bedroom window. This was a favourite pastime for Vinnie. Even though his parent's house was in the city limits, he thought nothing of taking off his window screen and shooting at the "varments" that wandered into the back yard. Amazingly, no one ever complained about his shooting. I do not know if this was because he used a scoped rifle and had little chance of missing or if no one truly cared.
On this particular day, it was late enough in the year for there to be a good bit of frost on the ground. When I got to Vinnie's house the frost had mostly melted away. "You should have seen it first thing this morning," Vinnie said, "It threw up when I shot it and the stuff was frozen on his head." I said that I was sorry I hadn't gotten there sooner so I could see this undeniably grotesque sight. *Yes, I do know that young teen boys can be disgusting at times*
After looking at the dead bird in his back yard for a bit, Vinnie then mentioned in a very hushed tone that he had some professional explosive powder and some water-proof fuses. My jaw dropped down in total surprise. It seems that Vinnie had an uncle who was in the underwater demolition business. On his last visit he had given these items to Vinnie with the idea of making a home made explosive. "You want to help me?" Vinnie asked. My answer was a resounding yes. Excitedly we both made our way to his dad's garage.
While figuring out what we wanted to make with the blasting powder and how we were going make a casing for it, we decided to experiment a bit with the blasting powder. We took one of Vinnies .223 cartridges and filled it tightly with the powder, we then crimped the end of the shell around a two inch bit of fuse. Taking this miniature bomb out to his back garden, we made a hole in the hard ground. After the hole was about six inches deep, we lit the fuse and dropped it into the hole. We scrambled quickly away and waited.
A geyser of dirt and rock shot into the air accompanied by a most satisfying boom. Rushing back to the hole we checked to see how far down it had extended after the explosion. We found a bamboo fishing rod and shoved it in the hole. We never did get to the bottom and the rod was well over six feet in length. We were suitably impressed.
Vinnie then showed me an aerosol can that he had taken the top off of without blowing himself up. This he decided was going to be the explosive's casing mould. He just needed some lead to melt and pour into the can. That was where I became useful. My dad was a house builder. One thing he had lots of was lead. In those days when the plumbers made a base for a shower stall, the base was lined with lead. They invariably left tons of "off-cuts" laying around the site that was anyone's for the taking. Since lead was cheap, we used it to make fishing weights. My dad had a "shed-load" of the stuff. I asked and got permission to use as much of it as we needed.
For weeks Vinnie and I melted lead and poured it into the can. This was a slow and boring process. When we finally got the whole can filled with lead, we then cut the can off to leave us with our bomb casing. This left us with a cylindrical object that was roughly three inches in diameter and seven inches long. There was no "hole" in the middle to put the powder in. But we knew just what to do.
Vinnie got out his dad's heavy duty drill and fastened a one and a half inch drill bit to it. We then took turns drilling out a hole. This was also a long and boring task. We were about halfway through when a female friend from school dropped by. She wandered out to the garage and asked us what we were doing. We explained about the bomb and having to drill the hole. We also moaned a bit about the amount of time it was taking.
Looking at the half drilled cylinder she said, "Since you guys melted the lead to make it, why didn't you put something in the middle and pour the lead around it so you didn't have to drill one?" We both reacted the same way. "Huh! What do you know?" "That never would have worked!" She gave us both a disdainful look, tossed her red hair from her face and left. It was only after she left that we both had a face palm moment. Now why didn't we think of that?
We finally finished the bomb and tried to set up a time for it to be set off. Vinnie's dad had some land beyond the city limits and we both agreed that would be the best place to blow it up. All that was left to do was organise a time to get together. Unfortunately, we weren't able to come up with a time that was mutually beneficial. Plus, while we were building the thing, my family had decided to move.
Although we only moved a few towns away, I did not get a chance to hunt down my friend for a couple of years. I finally bumped into him while visiting my grandparents. The first thing I asked about, of course, was the bomb. "Oh yeah! Dad and me took it out to the farm. We dug a hole, put about a mile of fuse on it, planted it, then we lit it and ran like hell!" How big was the hole after the blast I asked. "HUGE!" Vinnie said with a grin. " It left a crater about six feet across and about four feet deep! It was also so loud, I think they heard it in town!"
I think back to those days and wonder how in the world did we not blow ourselves up! I also marvel at the simplicity and naivety of the both of us. We never at any point thought that this was too dangerous a pastime. We also never realized that what we were doing might just be illegal. When anyone complains to me about today's youth and how they spend too much time playing video games, I always think back on my childhood activities.
Sure video games can be time consuming and expensive, but at least they aren't making bombs.
On this particular day, it was late enough in the year for there to be a good bit of frost on the ground. When I got to Vinnie's house the frost had mostly melted away. "You should have seen it first thing this morning," Vinnie said, "It threw up when I shot it and the stuff was frozen on his head." I said that I was sorry I hadn't gotten there sooner so I could see this undeniably grotesque sight. *Yes, I do know that young teen boys can be disgusting at times*
After looking at the dead bird in his back yard for a bit, Vinnie then mentioned in a very hushed tone that he had some professional explosive powder and some water-proof fuses. My jaw dropped down in total surprise. It seems that Vinnie had an uncle who was in the underwater demolition business. On his last visit he had given these items to Vinnie with the idea of making a home made explosive. "You want to help me?" Vinnie asked. My answer was a resounding yes. Excitedly we both made our way to his dad's garage.
While figuring out what we wanted to make with the blasting powder and how we were going make a casing for it, we decided to experiment a bit with the blasting powder. We took one of Vinnies .223 cartridges and filled it tightly with the powder, we then crimped the end of the shell around a two inch bit of fuse. Taking this miniature bomb out to his back garden, we made a hole in the hard ground. After the hole was about six inches deep, we lit the fuse and dropped it into the hole. We scrambled quickly away and waited.
A geyser of dirt and rock shot into the air accompanied by a most satisfying boom. Rushing back to the hole we checked to see how far down it had extended after the explosion. We found a bamboo fishing rod and shoved it in the hole. We never did get to the bottom and the rod was well over six feet in length. We were suitably impressed.
Vinnie then showed me an aerosol can that he had taken the top off of without blowing himself up. This he decided was going to be the explosive's casing mould. He just needed some lead to melt and pour into the can. That was where I became useful. My dad was a house builder. One thing he had lots of was lead. In those days when the plumbers made a base for a shower stall, the base was lined with lead. They invariably left tons of "off-cuts" laying around the site that was anyone's for the taking. Since lead was cheap, we used it to make fishing weights. My dad had a "shed-load" of the stuff. I asked and got permission to use as much of it as we needed.
For weeks Vinnie and I melted lead and poured it into the can. This was a slow and boring process. When we finally got the whole can filled with lead, we then cut the can off to leave us with our bomb casing. This left us with a cylindrical object that was roughly three inches in diameter and seven inches long. There was no "hole" in the middle to put the powder in. But we knew just what to do.
Vinnie got out his dad's heavy duty drill and fastened a one and a half inch drill bit to it. We then took turns drilling out a hole. This was also a long and boring task. We were about halfway through when a female friend from school dropped by. She wandered out to the garage and asked us what we were doing. We explained about the bomb and having to drill the hole. We also moaned a bit about the amount of time it was taking.
Looking at the half drilled cylinder she said, "Since you guys melted the lead to make it, why didn't you put something in the middle and pour the lead around it so you didn't have to drill one?" We both reacted the same way. "Huh! What do you know?" "That never would have worked!" She gave us both a disdainful look, tossed her red hair from her face and left. It was only after she left that we both had a face palm moment. Now why didn't we think of that?
We finally finished the bomb and tried to set up a time for it to be set off. Vinnie's dad had some land beyond the city limits and we both agreed that would be the best place to blow it up. All that was left to do was organise a time to get together. Unfortunately, we weren't able to come up with a time that was mutually beneficial. Plus, while we were building the thing, my family had decided to move.
Although we only moved a few towns away, I did not get a chance to hunt down my friend for a couple of years. I finally bumped into him while visiting my grandparents. The first thing I asked about, of course, was the bomb. "Oh yeah! Dad and me took it out to the farm. We dug a hole, put about a mile of fuse on it, planted it, then we lit it and ran like hell!" How big was the hole after the blast I asked. "HUGE!" Vinnie said with a grin. " It left a crater about six feet across and about four feet deep! It was also so loud, I think they heard it in town!"
I think back to those days and wonder how in the world did we not blow ourselves up! I also marvel at the simplicity and naivety of the both of us. We never at any point thought that this was too dangerous a pastime. We also never realized that what we were doing might just be illegal. When anyone complains to me about today's youth and how they spend too much time playing video games, I always think back on my childhood activities.
Sure video games can be time consuming and expensive, but at least they aren't making bombs.
Friday, May 4, 2012
The NHS...American style?
I have just returned from my latest appointment at the hospital. After weeks of waiting for confirmation of a MRI, I finally got to see a lady who set the wheels properly in motion. As much as I (and just about everyone come to think of it) like to complain about the NHS, they do a great job considering their inherent shortfalls.
I have had a love/hate relationship with the NHS since I started to use it. When I became a full-time resident of the United Kingdom, I was issued a National Insurance number. This meant that as I was now paying into the system via taxation that I was eligible for the English health care program. I did not feel any sort of elation at this development. I rarely go to the doctor for anything other than maladies that do not seem to want to move on.
I first entered into a more serious usage of the heath system in the mid to late nineties. I had a back problem that had made life difficult since the early eighties. After a long drawn out procedure of getting referrals to specialists (that's spelt surgeons by the way) and multiple MRI's, xrays, et al, I finally got an operation that fixed me right up. I have gone pain and restriction free from my back problems since the fourteenth of September 1999, well free until the thirteenth of February.
But I am wandering off topic. The point I wanted to make was that apart from my contribution to the National Health Service (NHS) and having to pay for my prescriptions, the cost for my utilizing the service has been nil. Yes, it is a long laborious matter to use the NHS for anything "serious" but again the operative word in the above sentence is nil. No expenditure for anything apart from the prescriptions.
I am only writing about all this because I know that the United States is now working on setting up a National Health Service of their own. From what I have seen on the internet, newspapers, and international news programs Americans are fighting this tooth and nail. I don't really understand what their problem is.
Let me explain.
In 1979 my first wife gave birth to our son. It was not an easy delivery.The baby she was carrying kicked loose the placenta with the end result of the both of them basically bleeding to death. An emergency caesarian operation was required. I am happy to say that our son and his mother both came through fine, although he did make his entrance into the world about a month and a half too early. Neither my first wife nor I had medical insurance.
Time has made this memory a little hazy, but, I think our bill for all this exciting early entry by our son came to over two thousand five hundred dollars. That was a lot of dough-ray-me in the seventies. I had to take out a loan to pay it all. Of course the running joke for years was, "If we don't pay it off, will they come and repossess our boy?" You had to laugh.
I look back on that episode and think how much simpler (and less expensive) it would have been if we had the NHS to utilize. I know that most if not all Americans do have a form of medical insurance, they need it. I just don't understand the mentality of fighting a program that would help everyone to get adequate medical care.
In the United Kingdom, we have the option to be see private doctors. In reality they are usually the same folks you would see if you went through the NHS. But by opting out of the program, you pay and get the added bonus of being seen more quickly. But the operative word in the sentence is pay. So that you have the option, if you can afford it, to opt out of the Health Service system. Surely this is something that Americans could use.
I guess the point I am trying to make is this. Setting up a program that would benefit everyone is a good thing. Stop fighting it folks and figure out how to make the system better. In the UK the system has become a lumbering beast. Management heavy and slow, the system is in drastic need of an overhaul. But, it is still better than having to rely on medical insurance that most of the lower income folks cannot afford.
I have had a love/hate relationship with the NHS since I started to use it. When I became a full-time resident of the United Kingdom, I was issued a National Insurance number. This meant that as I was now paying into the system via taxation that I was eligible for the English health care program. I did not feel any sort of elation at this development. I rarely go to the doctor for anything other than maladies that do not seem to want to move on.
I first entered into a more serious usage of the heath system in the mid to late nineties. I had a back problem that had made life difficult since the early eighties. After a long drawn out procedure of getting referrals to specialists (that's spelt surgeons by the way) and multiple MRI's, xrays, et al, I finally got an operation that fixed me right up. I have gone pain and restriction free from my back problems since the fourteenth of September 1999, well free until the thirteenth of February.
But I am wandering off topic. The point I wanted to make was that apart from my contribution to the National Health Service (NHS) and having to pay for my prescriptions, the cost for my utilizing the service has been nil. Yes, it is a long laborious matter to use the NHS for anything "serious" but again the operative word in the above sentence is nil. No expenditure for anything apart from the prescriptions.
I am only writing about all this because I know that the United States is now working on setting up a National Health Service of their own. From what I have seen on the internet, newspapers, and international news programs Americans are fighting this tooth and nail. I don't really understand what their problem is.
Let me explain.
In 1979 my first wife gave birth to our son. It was not an easy delivery.The baby she was carrying kicked loose the placenta with the end result of the both of them basically bleeding to death. An emergency caesarian operation was required. I am happy to say that our son and his mother both came through fine, although he did make his entrance into the world about a month and a half too early. Neither my first wife nor I had medical insurance.
Time has made this memory a little hazy, but, I think our bill for all this exciting early entry by our son came to over two thousand five hundred dollars. That was a lot of dough-ray-me in the seventies. I had to take out a loan to pay it all. Of course the running joke for years was, "If we don't pay it off, will they come and repossess our boy?" You had to laugh.
I look back on that episode and think how much simpler (and less expensive) it would have been if we had the NHS to utilize. I know that most if not all Americans do have a form of medical insurance, they need it. I just don't understand the mentality of fighting a program that would help everyone to get adequate medical care.
In the United Kingdom, we have the option to be see private doctors. In reality they are usually the same folks you would see if you went through the NHS. But by opting out of the program, you pay and get the added bonus of being seen more quickly. But the operative word in the sentence is pay. So that you have the option, if you can afford it, to opt out of the Health Service system. Surely this is something that Americans could use.
I guess the point I am trying to make is this. Setting up a program that would benefit everyone is a good thing. Stop fighting it folks and figure out how to make the system better. In the UK the system has become a lumbering beast. Management heavy and slow, the system is in drastic need of an overhaul. But, it is still better than having to rely on medical insurance that most of the lower income folks cannot afford.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
The Apple Cider Trip
Reading my last blog, I realised that I had not written about my friend Vinnie's funniest moment at the lake called Wedington. This moment will always be burned into my memory as the apple cider trip.
The town we lived in was called Lincoln. Obviously named after Abe. In fact my grandfather on my mother's side played Abe Lincoln in a Fourth of July town parade. As you drive into the town limits of Lincoln from the north you will pass an apple orchard. This orchard has been there for as long as I can remember. The folks who own it sell apple produce in the shops by the road. One of their biggest sellers has always been their 'preservative free' apple cider.
Now this cider is not hard cider aka alcoholic cider. No, that would be illegal for them to sell as Lincoln is a "dry town" and alcohol for human consumption is not allowed to be sold within the town limits. In other words this cider is really apple juice. It is mighty tasty regardless of what you call it.
On this particular day Vinnie's dad, and Vinnie of course, had invited me to go fishing at Lake Wedington. I have to explain that our family did not "do" lake fishing. We had always gone "creek fishing." This meant driving until you found a farm or ranch where the owner did not mind you crossing his land to get at the creek running through his property. Most farmers/ranchers readily gave permission as long as you closed gates behind you and did not litter up the place. The most important of these "understood" rules was closing the gates. If the owner's cattle got loose and had to be rounded up, then the next person who wanted access to a good fishing hole was not welcome. After getting the required permission you then "walked" the creek. This involved sometimes walking for miles to find the best spots where the fish were "biting."
To get a chance to go on an actual boat and fish in the middle of a lake was something I wasn't going to pass up.
I got to Vinnie's fairly early in the morning. But his dad had been out even earlier and bought two plastic gallon jugs of delicious apple cider. Vinnie was in the kitchen drinking glass after glass of the stuff. It was a little like watching an automaton. He would go to the fridge, open it and extract a plastic jug of cider. He would fill his glass and state, "Boy! I love apple cider!" He did this each and every time he drank a glass of the stuff. He did not stop until he had emptied an entire plastic gallon jug.
Apparently Vinnie was not affected by this massive consumption of fruit juice. We got all our fishing equipment loaded in the car and went to the lake. It is a fairly good distance, if memory serves me correctly, it is about a forty-five minute drive out to the middle of nowhere. During the longish trip Vinnie and I talked with his dad about fish, girls, school and other things. There was no sign of the problems that would soon erupt.
We all got to the lake, got our boat, loaded it and put it in the water. Vinnie's dad took us right out to the middle of the lake. We got our poles baited and cast into the water. Then we sat and waited.
Well, we would have sat and waited except that now Vinnie was starting to act very strangely. I noticed that he had started squirming the minute we cast our lines from the boat. His dad had so far not left the meditative state that was required for lake fishing. Suddenly Vinnie bent over so far that his face was within kissing distance of the boats bottom. Then he started groaning.
"I've got to go to the bathroom...NOW!!" This was said with an almost hysterical edge to it. "What's wrong?" Vinnie's dad asked. Vinnie just looked at his dad, his eyes bulging and veins throbbing in his face. "I've got to go, NOW!!! "Just get me to the restrooms!" Vinnie's dad was completely nonplussed. "I told you to go easy on that cider. Well, I'm not going all the way back to the restrooms. You'll have to go into the woods." With that pronouncement he started the motor up and went to the nearest shore.
Before we got within ten feet of the shore, Vinnie vaulted out of the boat and legged it for the tree line. From where we sat, it sounded like an elephant on a rampage. I swear he even knocked down small trees in his rush to go for a "dump."
"Where's he going? Texas?" Vinnie's dad asked. We waited for what seemed like ages. Finally Vinnie came staggering back out of the woods. His face was pale and he was sweating like a racehorse. He climbed slowly and creakily back into the boat. Vinnie's dad started the motor and took us out into the middle of the lake again. He had just shut the motor off when..."Goback,goback,goback!" Vinnie was yelling this as if it was one word. He was doubled up again. Only this time he was rocking up and down, as he tried valiantly to keep his bowels under control. His dad dutifully started the motor and back to the shore we went.
Like before, Vinnie did his rampaging elephant routine. After we sat there for awhile with no sign of Vinnie, his dad looked at me and sighed. "I didn't come all this way for Vinnie to go into the woods and shit himself to death." He looked in the direction we thought Vinnie had lumbered, "Vinnie! We going back out to fish! When you get done, come out to the edge and wave. We'll come get you!" Without waiting for an answer, he started the motor up and we went out to resume fishing.
I'd like to say that Vinnie finished voiding himself of all that cider and continued fishing, but he did not. We checked the shoreline repeatedly looking for him with no sign. After awhile, we just sort of forgot to keep looking. Hours later, we remembered and there was Vinnie waving weakly from the shore. Vinnie's dad mumbled something under his breath and we went to pick him up.
As Vinnie got back into the boat, he had gone through some kind of transformation. He looked and acted like he was about a hundred years old. His face had gone a horrible shade of white and he was now drenched in sweat. That pretty much ended the fishing trip.
I was, of course, very sympathetic towards Vinnie's plight...NOT. All the way back to his house, I was in literal hysterics. I kept saying over and over, "Boy, I LOVE, apple cider!" And each and every time I said it, Vinnie's dad and I laughed until we cried. I can honestly say my face hurt from laughing so much. Vinnie took all this in good spirits considering.
As far as I know, he does not drink apple cider any more.
I was also never invited to go fishing again.
The town we lived in was called Lincoln. Obviously named after Abe. In fact my grandfather on my mother's side played Abe Lincoln in a Fourth of July town parade. As you drive into the town limits of Lincoln from the north you will pass an apple orchard. This orchard has been there for as long as I can remember. The folks who own it sell apple produce in the shops by the road. One of their biggest sellers has always been their 'preservative free' apple cider.
Now this cider is not hard cider aka alcoholic cider. No, that would be illegal for them to sell as Lincoln is a "dry town" and alcohol for human consumption is not allowed to be sold within the town limits. In other words this cider is really apple juice. It is mighty tasty regardless of what you call it.
On this particular day Vinnie's dad, and Vinnie of course, had invited me to go fishing at Lake Wedington. I have to explain that our family did not "do" lake fishing. We had always gone "creek fishing." This meant driving until you found a farm or ranch where the owner did not mind you crossing his land to get at the creek running through his property. Most farmers/ranchers readily gave permission as long as you closed gates behind you and did not litter up the place. The most important of these "understood" rules was closing the gates. If the owner's cattle got loose and had to be rounded up, then the next person who wanted access to a good fishing hole was not welcome. After getting the required permission you then "walked" the creek. This involved sometimes walking for miles to find the best spots where the fish were "biting."
To get a chance to go on an actual boat and fish in the middle of a lake was something I wasn't going to pass up.
I got to Vinnie's fairly early in the morning. But his dad had been out even earlier and bought two plastic gallon jugs of delicious apple cider. Vinnie was in the kitchen drinking glass after glass of the stuff. It was a little like watching an automaton. He would go to the fridge, open it and extract a plastic jug of cider. He would fill his glass and state, "Boy! I love apple cider!" He did this each and every time he drank a glass of the stuff. He did not stop until he had emptied an entire plastic gallon jug.
Apparently Vinnie was not affected by this massive consumption of fruit juice. We got all our fishing equipment loaded in the car and went to the lake. It is a fairly good distance, if memory serves me correctly, it is about a forty-five minute drive out to the middle of nowhere. During the longish trip Vinnie and I talked with his dad about fish, girls, school and other things. There was no sign of the problems that would soon erupt.
We all got to the lake, got our boat, loaded it and put it in the water. Vinnie's dad took us right out to the middle of the lake. We got our poles baited and cast into the water. Then we sat and waited.
Well, we would have sat and waited except that now Vinnie was starting to act very strangely. I noticed that he had started squirming the minute we cast our lines from the boat. His dad had so far not left the meditative state that was required for lake fishing. Suddenly Vinnie bent over so far that his face was within kissing distance of the boats bottom. Then he started groaning.
"I've got to go to the bathroom...NOW!!" This was said with an almost hysterical edge to it. "What's wrong?" Vinnie's dad asked. Vinnie just looked at his dad, his eyes bulging and veins throbbing in his face. "I've got to go, NOW!!! "Just get me to the restrooms!" Vinnie's dad was completely nonplussed. "I told you to go easy on that cider. Well, I'm not going all the way back to the restrooms. You'll have to go into the woods." With that pronouncement he started the motor up and went to the nearest shore.
Before we got within ten feet of the shore, Vinnie vaulted out of the boat and legged it for the tree line. From where we sat, it sounded like an elephant on a rampage. I swear he even knocked down small trees in his rush to go for a "dump."
"Where's he going? Texas?" Vinnie's dad asked. We waited for what seemed like ages. Finally Vinnie came staggering back out of the woods. His face was pale and he was sweating like a racehorse. He climbed slowly and creakily back into the boat. Vinnie's dad started the motor and took us out into the middle of the lake again. He had just shut the motor off when..."Goback,goback,goback!" Vinnie was yelling this as if it was one word. He was doubled up again. Only this time he was rocking up and down, as he tried valiantly to keep his bowels under control. His dad dutifully started the motor and back to the shore we went.
Like before, Vinnie did his rampaging elephant routine. After we sat there for awhile with no sign of Vinnie, his dad looked at me and sighed. "I didn't come all this way for Vinnie to go into the woods and shit himself to death." He looked in the direction we thought Vinnie had lumbered, "Vinnie! We going back out to fish! When you get done, come out to the edge and wave. We'll come get you!" Without waiting for an answer, he started the motor up and we went out to resume fishing.
I'd like to say that Vinnie finished voiding himself of all that cider and continued fishing, but he did not. We checked the shoreline repeatedly looking for him with no sign. After awhile, we just sort of forgot to keep looking. Hours later, we remembered and there was Vinnie waving weakly from the shore. Vinnie's dad mumbled something under his breath and we went to pick him up.
As Vinnie got back into the boat, he had gone through some kind of transformation. He looked and acted like he was about a hundred years old. His face had gone a horrible shade of white and he was now drenched in sweat. That pretty much ended the fishing trip.
I was, of course, very sympathetic towards Vinnie's plight...NOT. All the way back to his house, I was in literal hysterics. I kept saying over and over, "Boy, I LOVE, apple cider!" And each and every time I said it, Vinnie's dad and I laughed until we cried. I can honestly say my face hurt from laughing so much. Vinnie took all this in good spirits considering.
As far as I know, he does not drink apple cider any more.
I was also never invited to go fishing again.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Lake Wedington or The Tale of the Dead Fish
When I was old enough to drive on my own, summers were spent with various friends at Lake Wedington. I cannot remember ever laughing so hard at any other spot. So many memories and so much laughter.
Once, a friend and I rented a canoe. I'll call this friend Vinnie, as I do not know his whereabouts to ask permission to use his real name.
Vinnie was one of the funniest guys I have ever known. He had a knack at spontaneous humour that has never been matched by anyone else I have been friends with. Vinnie also had a knack of having funny things happen to him. Not because he was stupid (he was not, that spontaneous wit was the result of being incredibly smart) but, because he liked to try different things. Whether it was shooting buzzards from his bedroom window, or making a bomb to explode on his parents property, Vinnie was up for anything.
So Vinnie and I rented a canoe at Lake Wedington. Our aim was to do a sort of Deliverance trip. We were going to traverse the many creeks that fed into the lake. Whereas this plan had seemed brilliant when we were discussing it, we had failed to plan for the narrowness of the creeks. We had also failed to take into consideration the lack of sufficient water in the creeks. And the wasps. These angry creatures immediately dive bombed the canoe the second we stopped because the creek had run out of water. This made navigation of the creeks almost "too dangerous" to continue. After almost being stung repeatedly while turning the canoe around, we gave up.
We decided instead to explore the lake's shores. Of course while we did this we splashed one another with oar backlash and and generally tried our best to over-turn the canoe. While we were engaged in this horseplay, one of us spotted the fish.
The fish was huge. It must have been a carp, my memory is a bit hazy on this detail. I do remember it was about twenty-four inches long. It was also at least eight to ten inches high and about three inches wide. Like I said it was a monster fish. It was also just floating on top of the water. *this should have warned us immediately, but we chose not to think about what would cause a dead fish to float*
"Wow!" Vinnie was super impressed by the size of it, "That sucker is huge!" I agreed and we sat looking at it for at least ten minutes before one of us had, what we thought, was a brilliant idea. I cannot for the life of me remember whose idea it was. But the gist of it was this: We would get the fish into the canoe and row ashore. Once ashore we would tell all and sundry that we had caught it with our bare hands. Of course it never entered our juvenile heads that folks might just not be interested in this fact.
I was in the front of the canoe and closest to the fish. I put my oar under the fish and lifted it straight up and over my shoulder to land in the middle of the canoe. This is precisely what it did, hitting one of the canoe's struts as it came down. As it hit the strut, it exploded. The fish suddenly turned into a green watery mess of fish guts, maggots and the foulest stench imaginable. Vinnie "feaked-out," and leaning over the side of the canoe he began helplessly dry heaving into the lake.
After what seemed like ages (it seemed a lot longer due to the overpowering smell this mess made) He straightened up and in a strangled voice said, "Oh my God! If you had flung that fish back any further it would have landed on me!" He stopped and thought for a moment and then said, "And if you hadn't thrown it far enough it would have landed on your head!" That was my cue to lean over the edge of the canoe and dry heave for a spell.
Of course the entire time these histrionics were happening the stench seemed to build. We then started power rowing to the shore. We headed for the stall where we had rented it. Reaching the shore, we jumped out of the vessel and threw our life-vests and oars at the vendor. We ran all the way to the car. We drove back to our respective homes with all the windows open.
Of course having Vinnie as a friend meant that the next time we got together we would be doing something exciting. The next time we met it was to make a bomb.
Once, a friend and I rented a canoe. I'll call this friend Vinnie, as I do not know his whereabouts to ask permission to use his real name.
Vinnie was one of the funniest guys I have ever known. He had a knack at spontaneous humour that has never been matched by anyone else I have been friends with. Vinnie also had a knack of having funny things happen to him. Not because he was stupid (he was not, that spontaneous wit was the result of being incredibly smart) but, because he liked to try different things. Whether it was shooting buzzards from his bedroom window, or making a bomb to explode on his parents property, Vinnie was up for anything.
So Vinnie and I rented a canoe at Lake Wedington. Our aim was to do a sort of Deliverance trip. We were going to traverse the many creeks that fed into the lake. Whereas this plan had seemed brilliant when we were discussing it, we had failed to plan for the narrowness of the creeks. We had also failed to take into consideration the lack of sufficient water in the creeks. And the wasps. These angry creatures immediately dive bombed the canoe the second we stopped because the creek had run out of water. This made navigation of the creeks almost "too dangerous" to continue. After almost being stung repeatedly while turning the canoe around, we gave up.
We decided instead to explore the lake's shores. Of course while we did this we splashed one another with oar backlash and and generally tried our best to over-turn the canoe. While we were engaged in this horseplay, one of us spotted the fish.
The fish was huge. It must have been a carp, my memory is a bit hazy on this detail. I do remember it was about twenty-four inches long. It was also at least eight to ten inches high and about three inches wide. Like I said it was a monster fish. It was also just floating on top of the water. *this should have warned us immediately, but we chose not to think about what would cause a dead fish to float*
"Wow!" Vinnie was super impressed by the size of it, "That sucker is huge!" I agreed and we sat looking at it for at least ten minutes before one of us had, what we thought, was a brilliant idea. I cannot for the life of me remember whose idea it was. But the gist of it was this: We would get the fish into the canoe and row ashore. Once ashore we would tell all and sundry that we had caught it with our bare hands. Of course it never entered our juvenile heads that folks might just not be interested in this fact.
I was in the front of the canoe and closest to the fish. I put my oar under the fish and lifted it straight up and over my shoulder to land in the middle of the canoe. This is precisely what it did, hitting one of the canoe's struts as it came down. As it hit the strut, it exploded. The fish suddenly turned into a green watery mess of fish guts, maggots and the foulest stench imaginable. Vinnie "feaked-out," and leaning over the side of the canoe he began helplessly dry heaving into the lake.
After what seemed like ages (it seemed a lot longer due to the overpowering smell this mess made) He straightened up and in a strangled voice said, "Oh my God! If you had flung that fish back any further it would have landed on me!" He stopped and thought for a moment and then said, "And if you hadn't thrown it far enough it would have landed on your head!" That was my cue to lean over the edge of the canoe and dry heave for a spell.
Of course the entire time these histrionics were happening the stench seemed to build. We then started power rowing to the shore. We headed for the stall where we had rented it. Reaching the shore, we jumped out of the vessel and threw our life-vests and oars at the vendor. We ran all the way to the car. We drove back to our respective homes with all the windows open.
Of course having Vinnie as a friend meant that the next time we got together we would be doing something exciting. The next time we met it was to make a bomb.
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