tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80413484632736027952024-03-12T16:06:29.242-07:00Coffee RowGeorge Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-79455638661462433452024-03-10T19:35:00.000-07:002024-03-10T19:35:28.117-07:00<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>MY GUN'S BIGGER THAN YOURS</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">A person has
no idea of the strange things that are waiting to be discovered, and that those
things are something that is totally unexpected. While researching for </span><b style="font-size: 14pt;"><i>PIPELINE</i></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">,
a story about bootlegging during the twenties and thirties, I came across a gun
collector who had discovered an interesting piece of history from the later 19</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
Century. He happened upon an abandoned storage shed east of Oilmont, Montana, and
in a stack of cast-off scrap iron, saw the lever of an early lever-action rifle.
Further investigation revealed the entire rifle. He dragged it out and realized
that he was holding an 1876 Winchester 45-75 carbine.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLcOF1bWLm6RnsN_NAkjzhrwQ-fAoNlIA7GCjw_u4bW9jHYfz_b6NU5euGGsIQqthlmIKgAklfEsTsMsU1EpQuUmAsCRZ60fEqWHnwNaY16uLGHjWugpTQqz5LX1IwIlg_84_JvCdaVne-DdDo1t_mV4x3clTGHhTJvqg_8nODOEYkhTy3dwKVBhaG9nQ/s2268/TW1876-NWMP-CARBINE-PHOTO-1-1_scaled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="2268" height="80" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLcOF1bWLm6RnsN_NAkjzhrwQ-fAoNlIA7GCjw_u4bW9jHYfz_b6NU5euGGsIQqthlmIKgAklfEsTsMsU1EpQuUmAsCRZ60fEqWHnwNaY16uLGHjWugpTQqz5LX1IwIlg_84_JvCdaVne-DdDo1t_mV4x3clTGHhTJvqg_8nODOEYkhTy3dwKVBhaG9nQ/w450-h80/TW1876-NWMP-CARBINE-PHOTO-1-1_scaled.png" width="450" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Now the
weapon, being a significant find in the first place, really piqued his
curiosity because this particular rifle was a special issue, a variation of the
1876 Winchester Centennial, and was spec’d out and ordered by the </span><b style="font-size: 14pt;"><i>Canadian</i></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
Northwest Mounted Police, shortly after the force was organized. The gun was
found in Oilmont, about twenty miles </span><b style="font-size: 14pt;"><i>south</i></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> of the border between the
United States and Canada.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi430p2-V4xZcr7DOADyaj9-r6rDSZBFz2AzZSvU6zVOHxg6EIFYi52Td1oSMTqxAPfxkkwoncPfP5emNjKSy5kxo54lF1lYM-ZVG0dkuYWiu05M_IXbDlMQOnLH0FhyphenhyphenfWNau3Zuy2-b6BT4uNw4JYdZLjKsKWOSuOoe0vWap4sLX7epYpsTG_gFokRl5Q/s1321/Winchester%201876%20Centennial.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="244" data-original-width="1321" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi430p2-V4xZcr7DOADyaj9-r6rDSZBFz2AzZSvU6zVOHxg6EIFYi52Td1oSMTqxAPfxkkwoncPfP5emNjKSy5kxo54lF1lYM-ZVG0dkuYWiu05M_IXbDlMQOnLH0FhyphenhyphenfWNau3Zuy2-b6BT4uNw4JYdZLjKsKWOSuOoe0vWap4sLX7epYpsTG_gFokRl5Q/w490-h90/Winchester%201876%20Centennial.JPG" width="490" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">While the
Winchester could be a topic of its own, the story here is something else,
probably the last thing one would expect to find on a cattle ranch on the
border between Montana and Alberta, Canada. First, a little background.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
grandfather, George L. Stringam, bought the
ranch in 1928. Being a cattleman he was far more concerned about raising cattle
than looking for artifacts. Another of his concerns was to be self-sufficient.
Part of that meant having a garden. He designated a patch of land east of the
house and proceeded to set up a place to pump water out of the river to
irrigate that piece.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was a
natural shelf, a safe distance above the water level that had become a place
to discard rocks and debris from the various riverflats in that valley. It was
a major chore but something that a young boy, who would later become my father,
was quite adept to. He got to work moving rocks around to form an edge around
the shelf that wouldn’t easily wash away during spring runoff. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was a
massive pile of rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Mark pried
and worked at the rocks, not really paying a lot of attention to the various
patterns and colors until he found a long heavy rusty looking rock. Well, it
looked like a rock at first.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He dug the
rocks away and exposed more of that odd shape and finally had enough of it
exposed to tell that it was <b><i>not</i></b> a rock at all. Even with the
sand that encrusted it, one could tell that it was none other than the barrel
of a small cannon.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEn42xhZlgywPi-7VZnsIBy1FBOkWcOSdcdTayIhLQPHikCiS4N48JaqrZJwgap6fZopE-vY3lBaP5edv1FIkYkKLdHKV-WmYBz7ZfH4LXSUNOMvRzyg1QyUNTxR69bmzh8BigfgY_AhZAiTbexKNgNHEM1dmUQkSQzZKHkKVYYSogiH1DQF2jS-llyg/s3202/IMG_5222%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1157" data-original-width="3202" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEn42xhZlgywPi-7VZnsIBy1FBOkWcOSdcdTayIhLQPHikCiS4N48JaqrZJwgap6fZopE-vY3lBaP5edv1FIkYkKLdHKV-WmYBz7ZfH4LXSUNOMvRzyg1QyUNTxR69bmzh8BigfgY_AhZAiTbexKNgNHEM1dmUQkSQzZKHkKVYYSogiH1DQF2jS-llyg/w407-h147/IMG_5222%20(2).jpg" width="407" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">With the
help of one of the hired hands, a Swiss guy named Hans, they drug that “rock”
over to the blacksmith shop and started cleaning it up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Definitely,
a small piece of artillery, it was just over a yard long and had a bore in the
neighborhood of an inch and a half. Of course something that small could be
deadly if you were in range of the business end.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But, of
course, the mystery began, primarily, where the devil it came from in the first
place.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Referring to
the background, the ranch was once owned by a sheep rancher named “Harvey.” Not
much was known about Harvey other than he raised sheep. He pulled out in the
early years of the 20<sup>th</sup> Century and the ranch was sold to one
Colonel Mackie, a veteran of several skirmishes, including the Boer War in
South Africa.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now Colonel
Mackie could have had access to ownership and transportation of that cannon
although it would’ve still been somewhat of a challenge, getting a cannon onto
a train and not raising a few warning flags. Of course he could've brought it out in a wagon train.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Like, what
do you call it, other than a cannon? It’s too big to be a cigarette holder, and
doorstop would be a frail attempt to cover its identity. Whatever the case, it
came west sometime between the Boer War and 1928. Whether it was intended to be
used as it was originally intended will never be known.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another
theory is that it could’ve been lost during the whiskey traders’ numerous treks
north to Fort Whoop-Up. During the latter part of the 1800s there was a lot of whiskey
sent north to be sold to the Indians. One of the main alleys was called “Whiskey
Gap,” which was about twenty-five miles west of the old ranch.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unfortunately
that theory was disproven many times as, first of all, there was no record of a
small cannon ever being in Fort Whoop-Up. And, back in that time period, cannons
were cast, many out of bronze while this one was machined.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, it was
quite a novelty having a vintage cannon barrel on the cattle ranch but that
eventually lost its excitement and it was set aside in the garage beside the
ranch house. War was approaching and everyone had to either dig in or serve the
country. Somewhere during that time, the garage door needed some repairs and
Hans realized that the old barrel was the perfect replacement for the
counterweight for the garage door.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One day Mark’s
cousin, Jay, came out for a visit. Jay was an air force veteran who maintained
an interest in old weaponry. He had a good look at the barrel and he
immediately contacted a gun collector over in the next town.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
chatting with him it was decided that the barrel had some significant value,
even if it was to add to the enthusiast’s collection. Lawrence, the collector,
was given stewardship over the old cannon. He went to a great deal of trouble
to construct a mount and undercarriage and for many years it greeted visitors
at his front gate.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kMjCwaLKURfIJ57R4672It4mzvvlJCVd6LHYyhMDOft1QKfyhnjAEX552fIlzWsuCBCwV6yhDcr8G9DdPYHRGHHXOn9hqJDoLOh9ZCFFgtkr-BpQTDaPlspaTUCyW5cZjdHRYKsS1ti1-wJQVyzF02BreXSgUiEgrXDEWTzq7wpD3gKGerzUpzlymnk/s3176/IMG_5220%20-%20Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2270" data-original-width="3176" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4kMjCwaLKURfIJ57R4672It4mzvvlJCVd6LHYyhMDOft1QKfyhnjAEX552fIlzWsuCBCwV6yhDcr8G9DdPYHRGHHXOn9hqJDoLOh9ZCFFgtkr-BpQTDaPlspaTUCyW5cZjdHRYKsS1ti1-wJQVyzF02BreXSgUiEgrXDEWTzq7wpD3gKGerzUpzlymnk/w367-h263/IMG_5220%20-%20Copy.JPG" width="367" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m at
somewhat of a loss as to what was now used as a counterweight on that garage
door.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Today, the
cannon’s history remains mostly in the theory department but one thing for
certain is that it </span><b style="font-size: 14pt;"><i>exists</i></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">. It has been the object of many stories in the local
coffee shop. We may never actually know the entire story but one thing does
remain: There are not many ranchers out there who can brag about having their
own cannon.</span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYHinNR9b0nMkecyUGC3zXojapSs0CXacQ2Olh69_KR7taYTdvC9pdufQemtUQWw96WstmEzlWkcQzzhYe5KEY_aJcTjWq7HEZtyxq-FeJHsRLE12-QD2_hEOlCyJe3bxgN4XfcBxKYTXsNQjxxv8axfbWn4MXQ4bN7E7KVmRmgi0PHNFBnpktW-Kcys/s3869/IMG_5217%20-%20Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2764" data-original-width="3869" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYHinNR9b0nMkecyUGC3zXojapSs0CXacQ2Olh69_KR7taYTdvC9pdufQemtUQWw96WstmEzlWkcQzzhYe5KEY_aJcTjWq7HEZtyxq-FeJHsRLE12-QD2_hEOlCyJe3bxgN4XfcBxKYTXsNQjxxv8axfbWn4MXQ4bN7E7KVmRmgi0PHNFBnpktW-Kcys/w453-h324/IMG_5217%20-%20Copy.JPG" width="453" /></a></div><br /><p></p>George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-69655094542682549012021-03-14T11:58:00.000-07:002021-03-14T11:58:48.641-07:00SHROVE TUESDAY<p>A good part of the Christian world will always recognize <i>Shrove Tuesday</i> in a religious manner, as it is the day before <i>Ash Wednesday</i>, the beginning of <i>Lent</i> which is a period of fasting, prayer, and seeking forgiveness. One week before Easter is <i>Palm Sunday</i> which commemorates the day when Jesus Christ rode into Jerusalem on a donkey prior to his crucifixion. Now all of this is well and good and my hat is off to all those who regard that period as sacred. But for most of us, Ash Wednesday is the real beginning of the religious tradition, and Shrove Tuesday is simply the day that is also remembered for being none other than '<i>PANCAKE DAY</i>.'</p><p>I remember Pancake Day, first of all, because it was the day the local 4-H club hosted its annual Pancake Supper. The club rented the Elks Hall and all members were required to show up and help out. But I also remember Pancake Day as the day that the local International Harvester agency hosted its annual 'Customer Appreciation Day.' </p><p>The shop was cleaned up and closed for business. Displays of new farm and garden equipment, along with some new trucks were set up, then the huge griddles were brought in, tables and chairs were set up and several rooms were partitioned off and set up for mini theaters where promotional films (and some general entertainment ones) were run for the entire day. For the most part, it was an annual celebration and the locals looked forward to it. It wasn't long before the place was full. Farmers, ranchers, contractors, and many local businessmen sat down to heaping plates of pancakes, sausages, bacon, and eggs and discussed usually things other than the occupations they came from.</p><p>My dad was a local rancher and the regional veterinarian. He was good friends with the proprietor of the dealership as well as the people who went in and out through the day. Dad was also a player of practical jokes. On more than one occasion after vaccinating and ear-tagging a herd of cattle an unwary client would venture into his house to discover that his jacket and coveralls had been 'tagged' together. Dad's unbelievable luck with bushing for a bottle of soda pop also had some unlucky guys from the local shops more than willing to get even. Well, this one day some guys at the IH shop decided it was their turn.</p><p>Dad lined up with a bunch of friends and acquaintances and was more involved with visiting with the others than paying attention to what the cooks were up to. One--I think it was Vic, the welder--took a couple of napkins, cut them into circles then poured some pancake batter on the grill. He quickly placed one of the circular napkins onto the fresh batter then covered it with more batter to complete the pancake. Three such pancakes were created and kept aside just for Dad. </p><p>He held out his plate and was rewarded with 'special' pancakes, bacon, eggs, and sausages and then found himself a place at one of the tables where he quickly engaged in more conversations. </p><p>Dad always had a good appetite and he attacked the food with the zeal of some starving refugee from Asia. Between mouthfuls of pancakes and trimmings, he discussed politics, livestock, rotten kids, and more politics. He was completely unaware that the cooks were starting to grow concerned.</p><p>They thought that Dad would discover the napkin-laced pancakes then return for a better selection but instead, he consumed everything and was debating coming back for more.</p><p>Vic decided that maybe they had overstepped their bounds so he slipped away and called the local doctor. After a hasty explanation, Dr. Goertz decided maybe he'd better talk to Dad himself. The nervous cook came over to Dad who was still talking to the Coffee Row gang and said that there was a phone call for him.</p><p>Dad went into Paul's office and picked up the phone. Needless to say, he was rather surprised to hear Dr. Goertz on the other end.</p><p>"I understand you've been imbibing some cellulose," Dr. Goertz began.</p><p>Dad looked around to see Vic and a couple of the cooks looming in the background then turned back to the phone. "Well," he responded, "the way these guys are acting, I wouldn't be surprised."</p><p>The good doctor then told Dad the story. He then reassured Dad that there wouldn't be much going wrong. "Maybe take a good laxative before you go to bed tonight and everything should be just fine."</p><p>Dad swung around to glare at the guilty parties who quickly dispersed back to their positions at the griddle and after a good laugh, everything was back to normal.</p><p>And it really was a good joke. </p><p>However, it would be a good idea to pay attention to what Dad was up to the next time he was in the shop getting some work done. Vic might not notice that Dad had turned the amperage way down on the welder so that the rod would stick as soon as Vic tried to strike an arc. And while he was trying to dial the welder back in there was a chance that the torch got fired up and the handles of his pliers strangely became too hot to handle with bare hands... </p>George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-84144449430426419562021-02-13T19:12:00.002-08:002021-02-13T19:12:41.575-08:00SLEEPING DOUBLE IN A SINGLE BED<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Barbara
Mandrel recorded a song some years back that talked about ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sleeping Single</i> in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Double
Bed</i>.’ It was about a lovers’ quarrel and the aftermath. I never paid much
attention to it at the time because back then I <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i></b> single and slept in a
double bed all the time. I used to make jokes about sleeping double in a single
bed but never gave much thought to actually experiencing that. For years the
song never had any further significance until a short time ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My wife is a retired bank manager
and I’m a retired auto and diesel mechanic. My wife worked at a branch of the
bank on the local Indian Reservation. Being curious about the Native American
lifestyle Kenzie talked to her customers about various events and traditions. One
thing she found out was that Natives give a lot of blankets as gifts. Since the
bank wanted to be part of the community Kenzie persuaded the powers that be to
donate blankets as prizes and promotional items. Kenzie found some good sources
for those things and eventually found individuals coming in asking if she could
bring some blankets in for them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">What Kenzie didn’t realize was that
she would be turning that into a small business. While she was still working
for the bank she actually stocked blankets for vendors from the reservation who
traveled to pow-wows and other Native events and had a successful venture.
After Kenzie retired, people still called upon her for blankets but the numbers
were down—out of sight, out of mind, so to speak. But she needed something to
do so she decided that she would venture out and sell blankets on her own.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Despite coming from an urban
background Kenzie became a good transplant for small-town life. She stocked up
on blankets and other accessories and began to set up shop at various rodeos,
swap meets, Christmas shows, and state fairs. Business grew and soon she
expanded from loading the Chevy Tahoe to the rooftop with merchandise, to a
small 8x10 cargo trailer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Actually, though we had considered
buying a cargo trailer some time down the road, we were in Albuquerque at one
of our suppliers picking out items to fill a large stock order when the husband
of the supplier suggested that rather than ship everything home by freight truck
we should just go out and buy a small cargo trailer and haul the shipment home
in it. A couple of trips like this and it wouldn’t be long before the trailer
was paid for.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Well, we left the order in
Albuquerque and continued onward to Las Cruces, where my brother lives, then
onto El Paso to pick up another order. Kenzie found a trailer sales lot
conveniently located nearby and bought an 8x10 cargo trailer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It turned out to be a good
investment. Besides picking up freight orders we used it to haul our wares to
the various events which were adding up at a steady pace. Business got better
and within another year we were looking at making some modifications to our
situation again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Hotel rooms were taking an ever-increasing bite out of the profits. True there were some places where we had
family and friends who were more than willing to put us up but it was still
becoming a strain. I might add that by then I had retired so I went along to be
the pack mule to unload and reload while Kenzie organized the booth. She would
be the seller and I would lurk behind the scenes and read, write, chat on
social media, and do a lot of real live visiting until I was summoned to either
bring more merchandise or mind the booth while Kenzie took a break. We noticed
a lot of vendors using substantial toy-haulers. They hauled their wares in the
garage area and lived in the front. Well, getting a toy hauler plus a larger
truck to handle it was pretty much out of the question but Kenzie continued to
check out the classifieds to see if something might show up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It did, in the form of a small 8 x 12
single axle ‘Work And Play’ unit. We could haul our merchandise, unload it, and
have the trailer to camp in while the event was on. When the event was over,
slide the bed out of the way, load up and it was off to the next event.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The little trailer was actually well
set up. It essentially had the kitchen in the front, accessible from the
outside under a full-width door and contained a microwave, a gas-fired hot
plate, and a cold water sink (I have no idea why they had both a hot and cold
water tap because to get hot water you had to heat it over the hot plate).
There was even a heater, an A-C unit plus a flat-screen TV. Since the events
ran during the summer it was simply camping. If we couldn’t find a place to
plug the trailer in, we had a small generator set to at least keep the
cellphones charged.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This arrangement went quite well.
Since we always had a lot of merchandise in the trailer we still lacked space.
We had a larger than normal-sized single bed which was actually quite comfortable
for the two of us. And I’ll tell you, we must’ve gotten along quite well
because we slept together in it without one argument.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now, most of the time, our trips
were made from our home base during the week. We headed out, set up, took down, and drove home for two or three days R&R before we had to do it all over
again. But there were a lot of events that got strung together making any home
R&R next to impossible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We did get a chance to practice the
actual camping when we did the annual rodeo at <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Writing on Stone</i></b> Park. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The park is situated on the International Boundary on a number of riverflats
down the Milk River about twenty-six miles east of the I-15. There, under the
shadows of the massive sandstone hoodoos, in the most primitive of conditions,
is the location of the rodeo. And I mean </span><b style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><i>primitive</i></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> conditions. There is NO
power unless you have a generator and if you want luxuries such as Internet,
you need to drive to the top of the bluffs above the park and run your
transactions there. It’s still as death and the daytime high can tease triple
digits without much difficulty. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1gBzqTB9TBuXTyPsAZ4d3oi2ILy173jcBFtoIvr8-4L3Y7gw9sSq__TNA__x8yAYMbf1UdHqduCnPWEYtjKO-P74qSHhHQZSUXOPybbpXH7hQe1eMuoPB-XOsxsCLH8xcCiVG-v9hAo4/s2048/IMG_0184+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1464" data-original-width="2048" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1gBzqTB9TBuXTyPsAZ4d3oi2ILy173jcBFtoIvr8-4L3Y7gw9sSq__TNA__x8yAYMbf1UdHqduCnPWEYtjKO-P74qSHhHQZSUXOPybbpXH7hQe1eMuoPB-XOsxsCLH8xcCiVG-v9hAo4/w377-h270/IMG_0184+%25282%2529.jpg" width="377" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Well, that first weekend in August we
loaded up both the cargo trailer and the toy-hauler and headed for Writing on
Stone. We got the tents set up and the merchandise displayed then, while Kenzie
was busy attending to some of the finer details, I pulled the toy-hauler around
to a reasonable camping spot and set up camp. The daytime high that particular
day was around 95 but slowly cooled down to the 70s in the evening. If you were
lucky you could actually have the interior of the camper down that low and you
could get some sleep.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcrjNjrT_DVp98wHQwPwk2F_OWpGa6gS0ojKAs51Hm4sRsPacZx-6b73Smi-djP5HsfakQA2I6GP16cd0le8ItpO-BR9ZlBn6YXgMvAA-0QKikMR4PVCK4G_L-Q8LJzRhybPiWPGeT2Y/s2048/IMG_0190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1464" data-original-width="2048" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIcrjNjrT_DVp98wHQwPwk2F_OWpGa6gS0ojKAs51Hm4sRsPacZx-6b73Smi-djP5HsfakQA2I6GP16cd0le8ItpO-BR9ZlBn6YXgMvAA-0QKikMR4PVCK4G_L-Q8LJzRhybPiWPGeT2Y/w449-h321/IMG_0190.JPG" width="449" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">And sleep we did, although it was a
practiced ritual. Sleeping on your right side was just fine as long as both of
us wanted to do that. When someone wanted to sleep on the left side both had to
agree. I might add that nocturnal washroom breaks were postponed either until
your back teeth started floating away or the morning time came.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Overall, Writing on Stone was a good
experiment and we had to say that it was a grand success. I might add that
sales at the rodeo were great and that assured us and everyone else that we
would be back for more the following year.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEOIZ7Fbax7PpEYOvN0ZCLYiuLnEM8sDPzGggypIq2-XeI8VD4nYUGHmKHmsO2IaN0mWPsVTqBFrfO9m5R8_VvpqQlaAqUT53kVLm2C1VSOIAWH-98CpcU2W7cyhQxDDlTa-iBIvFO1hc/s2048/IMG_0253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center; text-indent: 48px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1465" data-original-width="2048" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEOIZ7Fbax7PpEYOvN0ZCLYiuLnEM8sDPzGggypIq2-XeI8VD4nYUGHmKHmsO2IaN0mWPsVTqBFrfO9m5R8_VvpqQlaAqUT53kVLm2C1VSOIAWH-98CpcU2W7cyhQxDDlTa-iBIvFO1hc/w510-h365/IMG_0253.JPG" width="510" /></a></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Home for a couple of days then it was
time for a major run that would take us from the end of the first full week in
August to the end of the second weekend in September.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">The Northwest Montana State Fair was a
first for us. We got outdoor vendor space for our two tents and were even able
to keep the trailer on site. Since we had to take a lot of extra merchandise
there wasn’t going to be a lot of space to camp in. But that was okay, as my
cousin has a nice cabin in Hungry Horse, just a few miles east toward West
Glacier and he is always glad to have us crash there. I might add that on this
trip we had a sizeable armoire that we had fixed up for our granddaughter in Wisconsin,
our final destination.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">So we got into the fairgrounds in
Kalispell, set up our tents, got acquainted with our neighbors, one who was
selling nice Burl lamps and log furniture, and one across the street who sold
beauty and skincare products. We had just finished getting everything set up
when the first real monkey wrench got thrown into the works.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Since the western plains and
intermountain region is subject to wind and thundershowers we have to do our
best to anchor our tents down lest they ‘sail’ away to some prairie port in
North Dakota. Since we were on pavement we couldn’t drive stakes in the ground.
Anticipating wind and stormy conditions we had several plastic cans that each
held around five gallons of water, tied to the metal frame of the tents.
However, we were finishing up for the day and hadn’t gotten around to attaching
the walls when some ominous dark clouds began to form up at the north end of
the valley. They came up fast and we were frantically trying to get the walls
in when all hell broke loose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Wind, rain, debris, and maybe a
couple of small children whipped everything into a frenzy. It came in from the
northwest and we had just gotten the north wall up and were trying to connect
it to one of the sidewalls on the west. But the wind had other ideas and it
was doing everything it could despite having to deal with five-hundred pounds
of ballast. Fortunately, we had a lot of good people leaving the fair about then
and soon we had several bodies holding everything down until we could get the
sides all zipped up and attached to the frame. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">No real harm done except for about
fifteen soaked blankets which we were able to take back to Hungry Horse and use
the driers in the laundromat. I might add that for the next four days the
weather threatened but never got out of hand. We rolled out of Kalispell on
Sunday night with a somewhat lighter trailer and feeling successful both with
the fair, and the new friends we had made.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The next stop was Billings where
there was a significant Barrel Racing event going on. We were given a wide
place inside a wash-barn, where other vendors and a massage therapist were
setting up. It was spacious enough to set up one of our tents and organize it
into an attractive store. Our good friend just east of Billings was only too
glad to put us up although she was a little concerned as a massive hailstorm
the week before had peppered the siding on her house and took out every piece
of glass on the south side. They were just addressing the damage when we showed
up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But all was well. We had a good time
and a successful event. It was a rather somber experience packing up and moving
on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We stayed on the I-90 from Billings
and dipped on down into Wyoming and drove through an awful lot of terrain where
you could watch the dog run away for three days. I well remember this route as
I had been down it on my two-wheeled conveyance several times in the past to
attend the Black Hills Motorcycle Classic. Let me just say that it was
different in a truck with air-conditioning, radio playing, and relative quiet.
But the bike trips were fun too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">If you’re driving down I-90, even if
you’re a vendor at an event down the road, always give yourself some time to
stop and see some sights. I saw the Devil’s Tower for the first time in 1969 and
at least three times after that. Kenzie had never seen it so she thought it
would be a good idea to stop there.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdS6n_Pyy3onxVuK9Jv9Pur3ynBxGzJWu7t10HtPBYHBR8uktrQGzySHPll7BylPZ6yMr5W7-4eKapKKGCFPDYyIRnq6Q8E0FAdW76Kq2_pNETjVidNRhTScvhSJAyX6dy5UaoTWsJltc/s2048/IMG_0415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdS6n_Pyy3onxVuK9Jv9Pur3ynBxGzJWu7t10HtPBYHBR8uktrQGzySHPll7BylPZ6yMr5W7-4eKapKKGCFPDYyIRnq6Q8E0FAdW76Kq2_pNETjVidNRhTScvhSJAyX6dy5UaoTWsJltc/w443-h281/IMG_0415.JPG" width="443" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It truly is a sight to behold, that
mass of columns pushed up to the height of eight hundred feet pretty much in
the middle of nowhere. I remember times when you could simply drive up to it.
Well, you still can, but you’ve got to pass through a gate where you have to
pay someone to gain access. That’s okay, as I actually agree that you don’t get
something for nothing. I also must have looked like a senior citizen and they
took pity on us so we got the senior’s discount. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And even though I insist that the
word, ‘<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">senior</i></b>’ refers to real <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old</i></b> people who are older than I am,
I guess I’m in that category whether I like it or not. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Still having a couple of days to
take it easy we also stopped to see Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse. Mount
Rushmore still looks the same although they added a lot to the parking and even
put up a place to eat and a souvenir shop.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISR_PtPTyRQYPLez8XpnnljNcN5W6gpGn9LKBLS1iWtbWyrSS-XoZOTd1gN_L6F_jj6qoomgbQasDWr6WDgszeE4kFvIPs8JwysLQ_N4IcGrZ2IQyvcC4vYF4PRjJ1IZWbe1pOyxFCbs/s2048/IMG_0430.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgISR_PtPTyRQYPLez8XpnnljNcN5W6gpGn9LKBLS1iWtbWyrSS-XoZOTd1gN_L6F_jj6qoomgbQasDWr6WDgszeE4kFvIPs8JwysLQ_N4IcGrZ2IQyvcC4vYF4PRjJ1IZWbe1pOyxFCbs/w472-h314/IMG_0430.JPG" width="472" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We continued onto the Crazy Horse
monument which has seen a lot of progress in the past thirty or so years. You
can actually see the warrior’s face coming out of the rock whereas the first
time I saw it there was a hole through the mountain where his armpit would
eventually be.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRkvURWLIjbEMmmEhjvpiTqHc5EFRpgrx9uV-7aiBqnnMajZ3Hx-9XzC0HRUPviBdOFk0r6eYUl8aZ6VD-PYDNre2c4fddkmxxqGN6hkMtjOUt3AItAYsiuvcVnYQ2XEqG8QJh65mlH8/s2048/IMG_0474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRkvURWLIjbEMmmEhjvpiTqHc5EFRpgrx9uV-7aiBqnnMajZ3Hx-9XzC0HRUPviBdOFk0r6eYUl8aZ6VD-PYDNre2c4fddkmxxqGN6hkMtjOUt3AItAYsiuvcVnYQ2XEqG8QJh65mlH8/w472-h314/IMG_0474.JPG" width="472" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It was time for the next event of
our tour, the South Dakota State Fair, in the rather small community of Huron.
Now, this is an interesting event. It seems like everybody in South Dakota shows
up for the fair. Getting unloaded and moved into your booth was a major achievement
because there were trucks and trailers, and vans everywhere you could find a
space large enough to park. But in the end, everyone got moved in and all was
well.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I should say that the campground was
something else. To say that the trailers were packed in like sardines would be
a gross understatement. We were fortunate enough to have a site on the end of a
row and with a somewhat shorter trailer than some of the behemoths that were
there, access was a breeze—almost. I have to add that I was so thankful that I
didn’t have to jackknife a 30-foot 5<sup>th</sup> Wheel into a place halfway
down the road. But all in all, there were ten thousand people in that
campground. There were two sizeable washroom facilities and everyone got along.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I remember being kept awake by some enthusiastic
visiting a few trailers down the road. I got up and went over to ask them to
tone it down. I was promptly offered a chair and a beer—not necessarily in that
order—and we got acquainted. It wasn’t long before we forgot about the annoying
noise…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A lot of wonderful, friendly people
at the South Dakota State Fair.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once again it was time to load up
and get on the road. We were under somewhat of a crunch this time as we had to
make it to our daughter’s place by the following morning. We packed up and I’m
sure glad it wasn’t any hotter than eighty degrees out there because the
humidity was close to saturated and in no time at all, we were soaked with
sweat. On the road again, we headed for Central Wisconsin which meant we would
be driving most of the night through Minnesota. With the sun setting on our
right side we headed down to Mitchell where we would hopefully hop back onto
I-90 and get on our way. That’s when our second monkey wrench hit us.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Driving into Mitchell we somehow
missed the interchange to get onto I-90. Looking back it was probably the best
because we ended up in town and out of the traffic. One thing I’m extremely
careful about is to check the conditions of the wheels and tires on everything
especially the trailer. Our toy hauler does run smaller tires than I would like
to see and for its size, it’s far from light. Plus we had a pretty good load on
it. The trailer was designed to haul a full-sized motorcycle plus a full tank
of water and baggage. While we didn’t have a motorcycle on board we had an armoire,
filled with clothes and things for the grandkids. Plus, we had ten large
plastic tubs filled with merchandise.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I felt the wheel hubs and tires on
the trailer every time we stopped from the time we left home. They were always
warm to the touch but they weren’t hot, and there was no change all the way
from Kalispell to Huron. I really didn’t expect anything to go wrong but,
coming into Mitchell, I caught what I thought might be a wisp of smoke from the
right wheel. It was after dark and I watched it closely, and also looked for a
place to turn off and take a closer look.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I finally realized that the smoke
was coming directly out of the hub which told me that a bearing had decided to
check out. I felt totally helpless. I pulled into the lot of a repair shop and
verified that the wheel hub was almost hot enough to ignite. And it was making
some noises that were not conducive to a healthy wheel bearing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I mentioned before that we were
supposed to be at our daughter’s place in the center of Wisconsin the following
morning. You see there is a tradition in our family; Papa takes his grandkids
to school for their first day. Two years before, I took my granddaughter. Now
it was time to take my grandson, the day after Labor Day. And I never fail. And
today was Labor Day. And we were some hundreds of miles away, now with a broken-down trailer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I called Triple-A and was informed
that we didn’t have coverage for our trailer. Well, that meant that we needed
to find a tow truck. I got on Google and found what I needed, a towing service
just out of Mitchell. I called the number and got an answer right away. It
turned out that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paul</i></b>, the driver/owner was in town with another job and there
was no problem. He did repairs at his place and he would take the trailer
there, fix the wheel and we could come back to retrieve it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Just pull it into the bank’s
parking lot across the street,” he said. “I’ll be back to get it in the
morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Kenzie immediately quizzed him:
“What about if the bank sees it and wants it towed away?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m the one they’ll call,” Paul
said with a grin.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well, we dodged a bullet there.” We
parked the trailer and continued on our journey. And we made it to the kids’
place around four in the morning. A couple of hours of shut-eye and I was in as
good a shape as I could be in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And Papa <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">took</i> his grandson to school for his first day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Of course we had to drive back to
Mitchell to retrieve the trailer, which we pulled back to the kids’ place so we
could unload the armoire and other things we had brought for the kids. A few
days to unwind and especially to enjoy the kids and grandkids and, though it
was all too soon, it was time to head for home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The trip home was largely
uneventful. Lots of rain in Western North Dakota and Eastern Montana, some
mud-bogging through some road construction, which we saw a poor motorcyclist
have to navigate (I did that myself more than once. Even had some Wisconsin red
mud plastered to the cylinders.). Just over five weeks on the road and we were
home to a badly neglected lawn that almost needed to be swathed.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS85INxf-KZg0M9ltpGzAGiPGqvnfKlgJ5pLE5XX3XgHGIHjeePLBCtrgOHpdck_TV9E-S8Kt5A_aaig-6j0LAkRWsxakypa0AaccflSdDGWJjURA6oGU5wjLOaGb-Wvs8h3gK4prwhyc/s2048/IMG_1381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1464" data-original-width="2048" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS85INxf-KZg0M9ltpGzAGiPGqvnfKlgJ5pLE5XX3XgHGIHjeePLBCtrgOHpdck_TV9E-S8Kt5A_aaig-6j0LAkRWsxakypa0AaccflSdDGWJjURA6oGU5wjLOaGb-Wvs8h3gK4prwhyc/w320-h229/IMG_1381.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">But it was a fun trip. However, I do
have to say that I’m not all that enthusiastic about repeating it like that.
But if we have to, I guess we’ll have to drag out that single bed one more
time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-49693106515746965122020-10-07T20:51:00.000-07:002020-10-07T20:51:04.688-07:00LAKE FRANCIS V<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Driscoll drove straight home. It was
late and he couldn’t think of anything else he could do at the time. Charlie
Scheels’ rifle that Stan had so willingly turned over for the lab to check out,
had fired the bullet that blew the front tire of the car, no doubt causing the
driver to lose control and crash into the lake where he subsequently drowned.
That made it a case of murder. It could be argued many ways in court but
Driscoll’s hands would be tied. The prime suspect would be anyone who had
access to that rifle. It could’ve been Charlie’s brother, Stan’s Uncle Artie,
but what would the motive be? That left Stan. It happened before he and Wendy
were even dating. The only thing that bothered the sheriff was that the motive
was still weak. But for the time being, Stan was a suspect and could only be
treated as such. Driscoll decided to give it a couple of days so he could check
into it further.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">This was one of those times when
Driscoll hated his job.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">A new day found Driscoll at his desk at
the office. It was fairly routine, mostly reviewing some notices of wanted
people, who were several states away. Hinkley was running the front desk today,
giving Larson a chance to go out on patrol. He had two rookies out on patrol
too. Five officers to staff a county sheriff’s department that normally ran
eight. But so far there wasn’t a lot of trouble; the worst thing was the state
enforcing a vehicle emission law regarding diesel trucks that the owners had
chipped so high that they poured black smoke out of their tailpipes—they called
it ‘<i>rolling coal</i>.’ First one busted
was the son of the county commissioner. Driscoll wanted a full staff but as
much as that, he just wanted to call it quits and turn the job over to someone
else.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">It was back a few years now, when he
allowed himself to get talked into this job. He’d managed to get the staff up
to speed and things went well. Then things went south. Scheffer moved over to
Flathead County to run for sheriff there; Davis went into the border patrol;
Jessop had retired, only to become incapacitated from a stroke less than a year
later. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The door opened and footsteps could be
heard. A typical curt greeting from Hinkely and the visitors headed for
Driscoll’s office. First one through the door was Stan Scheels, who was
followed by Munson Beals, a very sharp attorney, whose services had been
retained by Driscoll, himself, not very long ago. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“So, what’s happening, Mooney?” Driscoll
asked although he was sure what the answer was. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“My client wishes to make a statement,”
the lawyer said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“What about?” Again Driscoll knew the
answer but there was a protocol.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I’m the one who shot at Jacob Weiss’
car back in 1972,” Stan said. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all the night
before.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Mark leaned forward. “Are you sure you
want to own up to that?” he asked. “You know that there haven’t been any
charges drawn up yet.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I’ve lived with it since high school.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Driscoll glanced at Mooney and got the
nod of assent. “OK,” he said, then raised his voice to get Hinkley’s attention.
“Hey Gator, can you get these guys set up in the interview room?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Hinkley promptly gathered up the video
camera and carried it into the special room with the one-way glass and set the
equipment up. Mooney and Scheels followed. Driscoll entered the room and closed
the door. After everyone was seated, Driscoll started the camera, introduced
himself, then getting it on record that this concerned the car with the body of
Jacob Weiss that was found at the bottom of Francis Lake. He then introduced
Stanley Madison Scheels, and got it on record that Stan had come in, voluntarily
with his attorney. He then turned the mike around toward Stan so he could begin
his statement. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“It was June 22<sup>nd</sup>, 1972. We
had graduated high school a week before and a bunch of us were partying it up
at the ‘HooDoos,’ between Sunburst and Sweetgrass. Jacob Weiss was there with
Becky Clark. He was drunk and mean as a snake; he treated her like crap. Jacob
used to date Wendy Peterson, as she was known back then. Wendy came to the
party and told Jacob that she was carrying his baby. Jacob got violent with her
and threw her on the ground—told her to get an abortion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I always liked Wendy and thought Jacob
had gone way too far. We got into a fistfight and then Jacob grabbed Becky and
took off.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Did Becky resist?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“She begged everyone else to give her a
ride. Terry Barnes was there and I thought she was going to get a ride with
him. Next thing any of us knew, Jacob and Becky took off. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I’d just had my dad’s guns appraised
and they were in the truck. I was drunk and in a blind rage but I didn’t think
about pulling a gun on him; none of us did. I just wanted to have it out, hand
to hand, with Jacob and stomp him into a bloody mess, so I followed him, all
the way to Choteau. They pulled up to the Circle K and then Becky got out and
took off. I watched Jacob drive off, looking for her. I decided to forget about
it all and headed for home; I was leaving for Camp Pendleton in a couple of
days but as I was driving home I got to thinking about Jacob again and decided
that this was going to end; he wasn’t going to do this to another woman again.
So I headed to the lake and parked over by the tavern. It was closed for the
night and everything was dark. I took Dad’s rifle and hid behind the berm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I dozed off and almost missed him but I
heard the blast of his open headers. I saw him come around the corner, way too
fast, and I aimed and fired.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Where did you hit him?” Driscoll asked
carefully.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“The first shot hit the tire; I don’t
know where the other one went.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Just two shots?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I think so; I was still really drunk.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“So what happened after that?” Driscoll
asked reasonably.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“The car went straight off the road,
down the boat launch and into the lake; it went out a couple hundred yards then
went under, pretty fast.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I just stood there, I don’t remember
how long, then I got into the truck and took the backroads to Cutbank then back
home through Galahad and Devon.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“What did you do with your dad’s guns?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I just took them all and put them away.
Next morning, I cleaned the M-1 then packed my bags and got ready to ship out.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Did you intend to kill Weiss?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Hell no! I just wanted to scare him.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">The interview ended shortly after that. Stan
Scheels was formally charged with Second Degree Murder and placed under arrest.
He appeared in court to answer the charges and was released on bail, pending a
hearing and resulting trial. The likelihood of Stan spending much time behind
bars, although up to the judge, was fairly slim. Stan was a well-respected man
in the community; he showed remorse but his record since had been nothing short
of stellar. He had honorably served his country, then come home to run a
successful ranching operation and raise a good family. It could be reasonably
proven that none of the shots fired had hit Weiss. Witnesses had come forward
to corroborate <a name="_GoBack"></a>that Weiss was intoxicated and agitated
the night he was last seen. Still, shots had been fired and Weiss had lost
control of his car; Stan could be facing some severe penalties. Hopefully, the
judge would show some mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Sheriff Driscoll was putting the last of
the reports into a file when Deputy Larson entered his office. “Cased closed
yet?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Driscoll shook his head. “Well, our end
of it is pretty well done; it’s up to Scheels and the judge.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Larson detected a hesitation in the
sheriff’s tone. “Something tells me you’re not satisfied,” she observed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“No, I’m not.” Driscoll picked up the printed
copy of the statement the Stan had given, then he looked at his service record.
Then he looked at the statement again. Then he re-read the statement from
former cashier at the Circle K. He checked the dates, then he dropped them back
on the desk and stood up. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Dammit!” he shouted as he punched the
wall, leaving a large indentation in the sheet-rock.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“What’s wrong, sheriff?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Mark donned his official baseball cap
and headed for the door. “The dates don’t match; he was already deployed!” He
paused for a moment. “Get your gun, and come with me.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Dusk was gathering when the sheriff’s
Yukon pulled into the yard of the Scheels ranch. Driscoll stopped the SUV in
front of the gate to the house and got out. Stan was already out the front door
of the house and was halfway across the yard when the sheriff got out.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“What can I do for you now?” Scheels
asked. Then he saw the look on Driscoll’s face. Stan shook his head. “No, Sheriff,
please don’t—”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I have to; I haven’t got a choice; if I
don’t, someone else will.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Come on, Mark, one marine to
another—please—Wendy’s got cancer for God’s sake.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Driscoll stopped abruptly. He gazed at
Stan. He could see that his friend was desperate. “Yes, I know, and I’m sorry.
But Stan, I’ve still got to do this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“No!” Stan’s pleading voice was almost a
wail. “There’s got to be a way around this.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“It’s Okay!” Wendy’s voice interrupted
from behind. “Stan, I’ve lived with this—we’ve lived with this—for over forty
years.” She turned to the sheriff. “I was pregnant; I was carrying Jacob’s
baby. He told me to get lost—have an abortion—then he tossed me aside and
started tomcatting around with that Becky Clark from Choteau. I was so messed
up; I just wanted to make him suffer—feel the pain. I knew where the rifle was,
so I drove out to the ranch, got the rifle, and followed Jacob. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“I just waited beside the berm, just
like Stan’s mother told me she did all those years before. I saw that car—I
knew the sound of that motor—it came around the bend and I just lost it; I
emptied the gun! I watched him drive straight into the lake! And I’d do it to
that bastard again—in a heartbeat!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Larson handcuffed Wendy Scheels and put
her into the caged rear seat of the Yukon. Driscoll turned to his friend who
was completely devastated by this time. He felt sorry for Stan and wished
there was another way. But there wasn’t; the law was clear. At times like this
Driscoll hated his job; hated being the one to tear a man’s life—his family’s
life—in two. An act of passion from the distant past, never to happen again but
this was still a nation of laws. Stan went up to the SUV and put his hand on
the rear glass. His wife of forty years looked out at him. “Be strong,” she
said as her eyes filled with tears. “I love you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Sheriff Driscoll felt a strong tug at
his own heartstrings. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Tammy was
taken away from him like this. He desperately tried to think of a way to help
them out of this but his hands were tied; he’d just end up in a jam too. He
opened the door and slid in behind the wheel then he turned to Stan. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">“Stan,” he said, “Call Mooney, then come
in and be with Wendy. She needs you now—more than ever…” Driscoll closed the
door and started the engine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">THE END</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span></p>George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-80853088247301146402020-09-24T19:51:00.000-07:002020-09-24T19:51:07.163-07:00LAKE FRANCIS IV<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">The chores were well underway at the
Scheels ranch the next morning. Driscoll found Stan and Wendy in the barn treating
a sick calf. He said good-morning to them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Stan, they’re pretty sure it’s your dad
in that old car; they want to wait for the DNA test to come back before they’re
completely positive, but the dental records match.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“That’s good news,” Stan said, then he
frowned, “well maybe not good news, but at least we can get some closure.” He
looked at the sheriff. “That isn’t everything is it?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll looked grim. “We believe he was
murdered. They found a thirty caliber bullet in the left front tire of the car
and another one lodged in the back of his jaw on the left side. It was powerful
enough to penetrate the windshield and still hit him, travel along his jaw and
embed itself on the jaw hinge. It wouldn’t have killed him immediately but it could’ve
caused him to lose control of the vehicle and drive straight into the lake.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Stan nodded then looked away for a
moment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I realize that this happened more than fifty
years ago so there’s not a lot to go on. I’ve looked at motive and opportunity;
two people had motive: your mother, and Hunter Walker, the husband of the woman
your dad was seeing. Walker lived in Dupuyer and could have easily snuck away
and waited for his wife and your dad to come around that corner, shoot them and
quickly run home.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“That’s not what you think happened
though.”</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“From what I learned, Hunter and his
wife had been on the skids for some time, and a divorce was on the way. However,
your mom wasn’t that amicable.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Stan swung around and gazed at Driscoll.
“I agree with you,” he said with a surprising amount of conviction. “Mom was
off-kilter. She spent a lot of time in the psychiatric facility. She was
convinced that Dad was beating her up and was going to kill her. Dad caught her
many times hoarding ammo and playing with his old M-1 Garand. She used to tell
me how easy it would be to knock him off; she even mentioned that if it was planned
and done properly, the evidence could disappear forever.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I just dug up a couple of shell cases
behind the berm beside the boat launch. They look like thirty-aught-six to me.
I just dropped them off at the lab.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“When I was in Sixth Grade,” Stan
continued, “Mom came into the school, flipped out on the teacher and attacked
her, accusing her of sleeping with my Dad, and causing all the trouble in our
family; the teacher would’ve been in middle school when Dad disappeared. Mom
was arrested and sent to the ‘bin,’ never to come out again.” Stan led the
sheriff over to the house where he brought out his father’s old service rifle
and gave it to him. “Check this out and see if it’s the one,” he said. “It will
at least give me some closure.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">The summer wore on. The cars in the lake
were down to occasional chats in the coffee shop and business was easing back
to normal. Unfortunately this left Driscoll quite unsettled from time to time. The
bullets they had recovered from Scheel’s body and his car had been run through
ballistics and compared with fresh shots from the M-1 carbine that Stan had
turned over. The results were a ninety percent match. Maybe if the suspects
were still alive a case might have grown out of it but there wasn’t much sense
pursuing it any further; the case of Charlie Scheels, Doug Bond, and Beth
Walker was about to be officially closed. It appeared that the prime suspect
would have been Roberta Scheels; she had the motive and the opportunity, and,
from what those who knew her said, she was lopsided enough to actually carry
something like that out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">But that still left the case of the
Camaro and the demise of Jacob Weiss. Jacob had been positively identified and a
surprising number of people had come forward to offer information about the
night Weiss disappeared. It was right after high school graduation. There had
been a party in the sandstone hoodoos just south and west of Sweetgrass. Jacob
had gotten quite drunk and was being a total jerk, in addition to driving his
car very hard. His girlfriend, a girl from the Choteau area, was there and was
very reluctant to go home with him but Jacob had gotten belligerent, and all
but forced her to ride with him. It was a hot night, and Becky managed to
persuade Jacob to stop at the Circle K back in Choteau to pick up a soda. They
had gotten into a big argument right after that and Becky ran off on foot. She
managed to elude Jacob but still watched him patrol the town for close to an
hour before he lit out like a scared rabbit. Becky Clark, now Becky Prentiss,
was officially the last person to see Weiss alive.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll had been to the forensic lab in
the city and had gone over the Z-28 with the lab crew and they all agreed that
the hole in the driver’s door could have been caused by a gun shot. The car had
been checked from one end to the other but there was no slug to be found. He
was missing something.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">He thought about the driver’s door and
the angled hole in the skin next to the upper hinge. He mentioned it to the
technician who took a probe and followed the path of trajectory, but there was
nothing at the end of it. The skin was removed and the inside cavity was
examined, to no avail.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">The inner door panel was mostly plastic.
It wouldn’t offer much resistance to a bullet coming through but it could
possibly cause a deflection and alter its course.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Another week went past and they were
almost ready to put the case of the Camaro and Jacob Weiss into the cold files.
Driscoll was in his office dealing with a truck accident about six miles out of
town. His cellphone chirped its usual tone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Driscoll,” was the usual greeting. He
paused while the caller filled him in. He then killed the call and headed out
to his vehicle. “I’m headed for the lab,” he told Larson as the door closed
behind him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">In the lab, Driscoll could see that the
front of the Camaro had been jacked up. Both front wheels had been removed and
one of them was on a work table nearby; the tire had been separated from the
rim. The technician directed Driscoll to the rim itself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“The bullet went through the tire where
the side wall joins the tread, right here,” he indicated with a plastic straw.
“Now this is freaky. This is a tubeless tire, typical of what cars ran back in
the 70s. But the stem was missing. I pulled the tire off the rim, and of
course, it was half filled with sludge from the lake. But we washed that
through the screen and found the inside part of the rubber stem. The bullet
caught that at the perfect point and not only severed the stem but lodged
itself—crossways—in the inner lip. Whoever shot this should’ve gone out and
bought lottery tickets. We’ve got a slug.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“What about those cases I gave you?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Thirty-Aught-six, but too rough to get
a good match. Fifty percent at best. I’ve sent them to Washington to let the
FBI have a go at them.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“And the slug?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“They’re just setting it up now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll followed the technician into
the ballistics lab where the slug was being set up under the microscope. The
technician made a final adjustment then let the sheriff examine it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“The one on the right is from the jaw of
the driver of the old car; the one on the left is the one that just came from
the valve stem.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I’ll be damned!” Driscoll said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">The sheriff didn’t bother to check the
time when he drove into the Scheel’s yard. He knew it must have been after
eleven but not much later because he could see the flash from the television,
indicating that Stan, or Wendy, or both, were watching the nightly news.
Through the curtains, Driscoll noticed two figures stand up as soon as he rang
the doorbell. They both looked quite tired when they opened the door.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Sheriff,” Wendy said, “come in.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“You picked one heck of a time for a
visit,” Stan added.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">They sat at the kitchen table and Mark
readily accepted a cup of coffee. He gazed at his host and hostess. He never
saw it before but Wendy looked awfully tired. Driscoll told her so.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“We just got some bad news today,
Sheriff,” Wendy said. “Looks like I’m going to be headed for Great Falls
again—St. Jude’s.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">When someone talked about places like St
Jude’s that meant one thing and one thing only: the Big-</span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">C</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">. “Sorry to hear that.” Mark was truly sympathetic.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Wendy sighed. “I’m not giving up. They
took a breast from me ten years ago; looks like they’ll be taking the other one
now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“We’re praying that it hasn’t gone
malignant,” Stan added.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I’ve got friends in Conrad,” Mark said,
“she got sick about five years ago; had to lose one. But she’s doing really
good now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Well, I hope she continues to test
negative,” Wendy said. “It’s a terrible disease.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I can’t imagine. My mother smoked like
a factory for most of her life; no physical problems whatsoever; got an
infection from a knee injury, and died from it at eighty-nine. My
stepfather—Mac—developed prostate cancer when he was in his eighties. When they
opened him up, they just closed him up again and gave him three months to live.
He fooled them though; he lasted just over six.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“So, there’s got to be an official
reason you’re driving all the way up here in the middle of the night,” Scheels
said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Mark nodded and sipped his coffee. “I
might as well tell you; they found a bullet in the tire of the Camaro; it’s
from the same </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">rifle</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">—.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-25832806404466104692020-08-30T14:28:00.000-07:002020-08-30T14:28:28.354-07:00LAKE FRANCIS PART III<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Cole Musgrove was outside of the blacksmith shop, performing an almost lost art with saddle horses: shoeing.
Driscoll watched as Musgrove stood close to the horse’s hindquarters, reached
down, picked up the horse’s hind foot, then, holding it up with one hand, maneuvered
around and placed the foot between his leather-clad legs. He checked the fit of
a new shoe. Satisfied that everything was right with the world, he expertly
nailed it in place. A quick trim with a file and the job was done.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“You know I watched Uncle Frank do that
countless times,” Driscoll said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I don’t need to do it as often as I
used to,” Cole said. “We still use horses but the quad is a lot faster.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Yeah, but a quad is no match for a
pissed-off bull.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Roger that; it takes a real good horse
to handle a mean bull; a quad is no match.” Musgrove paused to remove the heavy
leather apron. “What can I help you with, Sheriff?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Well, I’m sure you heard about the cars
we found in Francis Lake yesterday; trying to figure out what happened. We got
a good idea of who was driving the older car; at least it was registered to
Charlie Scheels, whom you know has been missing for over fifty years. The other
two, I’m not clear. One of the bodies is a woman.” Mark paused and retrieved
the leather chaps which had dried and responded to a good cleaning. He pointed
to a set of elaborately tooled initials. “You wouldn’t happen to know who “DB
is?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Doug Bond,” Musgrove replied without
hesitation. “One of the best bull riders I ever saw. Of course, I was pretty
young at the time; I was—hell—six years old when he disappeared. Headed for
Cheyenne—National Finals—got to be 1959. Doug worked for Elroy Haige, out
toward the South Butte.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Elroy Haige.” Mark paused for a moment.
“He was on that old Roy Parks spread, part of the George Grainger ranch. Dad
and Uncle Frank knew him.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“That’s him,” Musgrove said. “Course we
all got a pretty good idea who Roy Parks was.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll nodded.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I remember that old Chevy car that
Charlie had,” Cole continued, “kind of a gun-metal silver, it was. I was told
Charlie bought it just before he went to Korea and just kept driving it after
he got back.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Charlie was a rodeo cowboy too—saddle
bronc. Skirt chaser when he wasn’t riding; a real philanderer. He’d get on the
rodeo circuit and I’m sure he had a girlfriend in every town, and probably at
least three in every city. His wife was a psychotic boot; I don’t know if he
chased around because his wife was psycho or his wife was psycho because he
chased around. Whatever he chased around.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I remember Charlie’s wife,” Driscoll
said. “She used to pour drinks at Dutch’s Bar in Sunburst; she and that huge
lady, uh, Dorothy Popp, only </span><i style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Popp</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"> was
short for her real name—.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“—</span><i style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Popercznick</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">,”
Musgrove added for him. “The story goes that Charlie was seeing a lady in
Choteau,” he continued, “she was married—to a guy with shell-shock, who
wouldn’t hesitate to cause plenty of trouble if anyone crossed him. Of course,
Charlie was married too. From what I heard Dad talk about, Charlie was headed
down to Cheyenne, along with Doug Bond. The night they left, they all
disappeared. Dad was a deputy back then; he investigated but never turned up
anything except that this lady from Choteau disappeared that same night.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I’ll have to follow that up,” Driscoll
said. As he stood up to leave, he asked, “Charlie’s wife—?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Committed to the loonie bin around ’65.
Died somewhere around ’68 or ’69—cut her wrists. Son—Stan, and his wife,
Wendy—you know Wendy—Peterson—,”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Oh I know Wendy,” Driscoll said. Kind
of a student body—.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Some called her the ‘town pump,’”
Musgrove interrupted.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Dated her myself in high school,” Mark
added, “but she dumped me for Darrel Buchanon; flung herself at him for a
while then dumped him.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Well, she sure seemed to have a thing
for Stan,” Cole added. “She married him, threw the nightlife away and
commenced to raise seven kids; all churchgoers; all responsible citizens.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Guess there’s hope for all of us,”
Driscoll said with a forced grin.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll left the Musgrove ranch and
drove down the road, deep in thought. The case of the older car was more
questions than answers. For the time being, there was the strong possibility of
two suspects; a jilted husband or a jilted wife. They would need to find a slug
and then see if there was a gun to match.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">The Scheels spread was on the Border
Road, a road that ran up to the Sweetgrass Hills themselves. Stan had served in
the Marines, joining up less than a year after Driscoll, but had gotten out
after his required time was completed. He had married Wendy between his time in
basic training and his deployment. His paternal uncle had run the ranch while
he was away; the original plan was to take it over but when Stan gave
intentions of returning, the uncle readily decided to head for the eastern
headquarters and left the original place to Stan. He and Wendy had built up and
improved the ranch and had done an enviable job of both running a ranch and
raising a large family. Driscoll drove down the tree-lined lane into the yard
and parked in front of the rambling house. He could see a newer three quarter
ton truck driving in from one of the pastures so he stood beside the Yukon and
waited.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Stan and his wife were both in the
truck. They might have been a little guarded at first but then, most people are
intimidated when they come home to see a sheriff’s department vehicle in the
yard. Any misgivings were dissolved within a few minutes. There were the usual
pleasantries before the sheriff told them of the real purpose of his visit.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I think we found your dad’s car,”
Driscoll began, “We drug it out of Francis Lake yesterday. License plate
indicates that it was last registered to your dad back in ’59, the year he
disappeared.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Stan was silent for several minutes
while he comprehended the news. “I heard it on the news, about the cars in the
lake,” he said finally. “You’re sure it was Dad’s car?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“The license plate indicates it, and
considering your dad had a ’49 Chevy ‘Fastback’ it looks very much like it’s
your dad’s car.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“What about Dad? I heard on the news
that they found a body.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Three bodies,” Driscoll said, “all I
know so far is that there are two men and a woman. Pondera County is following
up from their end because there’s a chance—and that’s only if our suspicions
are true—the woman is from north of Choteau. Since there’s a possibility that
one of the victims is your dad, I’m going to need a swab from you to test for
DNA.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“What about the other guy?” Wendy asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“We’ve got an idea but I can’t say; we’re
checking for dental records, and once we’ve established something more positive
we’ll try to locate his family.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Doug Bond?” Stan offered as quickly as
Musgrove had just done.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll gave a slight nod.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Doug’s real name is Dallas,” Stan continued.
“I don’t know how he got the Doug moniker.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll shrugged. “Probably the same
way I got called </span><i style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Mark</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Wendy was surprised. “Mark isn’t your
name?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll shook his head. “My middle name
was Martin; my grandmother called me Marty, and called me that till the day she
died. My Uncle Cordell, Mom’s brother, got part of his jaw blown away during
the war, and he had a major speech impediment. He could barely manage to call
me Mark. ‘Course he was usually about twenty-three sheets to the wind and had
trouble talking anyways.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I’m actually surprised that those cars
weren’t discovered years ago when they all but completely drained the lake,”
Wendy said, steering the subject back to its original course. “I can remember
places you could walk across it. It seems that they found a motorcycle, a
computer and a stack of rifles in there, back in the mid-eighties.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I think the Pondera county sheriff
still has the rifles,” she added.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Glacier County,” Driscoll corrected her.
“They traced one to the murder of a Canadian RCMP officer from just north of
the border about twenty years ago.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I read about that,” Wendy mentioned.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Still unsolved,” Driscoll said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">They completed the swab on Stan, and
Sheriff Driscoll sealed the jar. “You say there were two cars?” Stan asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Mark nodded. “The other one was eleven
or twelve years later, almost the same place. It’s actually the one we found
first; we were going after it when we discovered the older one, and we had to
get the older one out of the way first.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“I’ll be damned,” Stan said. He stood up
and left the room for a moment, returning later with an old photo of his dad’s
car with his dad, clad in his army uniform, posing proudly beside it. “That’s
just before he went to Korea.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Thanks,” Mark said. “I’ll make a copy
of it and return it to you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">The work was far from done. Driscoll
arrived back at the office then immediately began to sift through a mountain of
old files.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Reports, missing person reports, no one
even reported them missing until four days after the rodeo was over and they
hadn’t returned home. Possible sightings, then the interviews. The
investigation carried on for the better part of a year then was finally sent to
the place where all unsolved cases went: the vault in the basement.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">It was well past dark and Driscoll was
beginning to realize that he had only gotten maybe two hours of sleep in the
past twenty-four hours. He switched off the lights in his office then checked
the phone to ensure that any calls would go to the answering service and
prepared to leave for the day. He was reaching for the door when his cellphone
chirped.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">It was Hinkley. “Sheriff, they drug the
bodies out of the cars and they’re on their way to the city morgue. They’ve got
the cars loaded and are ready to take them down to the lab; they just need your
authorization.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Just tell them to go ahead. If they
need anything more, tell them to see Moffit.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Roger that. Coming home.” Hinkley
sounded tired too. It seemed that Driscoll was always dependent on Hinkley.
They had been best friends since Second Grade in school and shared nearly everything.
When they graduated they both enlisted in the Marines. Both had spent a lot of
years in and out of service to Uncle Sam and had looked forward to retirement
before the sheriff’s position suddenly became available. And that was supposed
to be a temporary job but had somehow gone through no less than two elections
afterward. It seemed that Hinkley was the only member of the staff that stuck
around. Well, Driscoll shouldn’t exclude Larson, who was a rookie when Driscoll
became sheriff.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Tammy was happy to see her husband home.
Being married to someone in law enforcement was a challenge, almost as much of
a challenge as being married to a soldier. And she had been married to both.
There were times when the absences were almost overwhelming but she also knew
that Mark and people like him wanted to be home with their families instead of
being out in the elements, chasing elusive criminals, settling domestic
disturbances, or sorting out the grisly aftermath of a tragic accident. Mark
had been a marine—a Navy SEAL, in fact, although when she met him he was
working as a mechanic. He had later been involved in military investigations
and government probes. But he always knew where home was, and he was always
glad to be there.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Sandwiches and coffee on the table, they
sat down and talked about the things that mattered: Roger was busy on the farm,
and he and Uncle Paul were busy spraying crops. The hay crop was almost ready
to cut and branding was coming up. Wesley was coming home from Afghanistan and
had a good chance of not being deployed there again. He was in line for a
promotion and would probably be wearing two silver bars on his uniform next
time. Melissa was going to work in Yellowstone again this summer and she
probably wouldn’t be home until just before classes began in Bozeman. And that
left Jordan, who was a freshman in high school.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Where had the time gone? It seemed like
only a few days ago when Mark was working on his motorcycle outside the shed
over at the old fourplex. The end of a blistering hot day and Tammy asked if he
could help put a new bed together over at her place. That was thirty years ago.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">An investigation never sleeps. Driscoll
managed to grab some much needed hours but come Monday morning he was up with
the sun and at the office long before anything else was stirring in the
community. He had an investigation to run and answers were needed. And the
predawn hours were often the times when progress was the best.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Best keep the investigations separate;
there was no need to put them together anyway as it was established that over
ten years had passed between the times that the cars had left the road and
plunged into the lake, taking a combined four lives in the process. Of course, there was the possibility that those weren’t accidents. The sheriff had just
begun to read through the massive pile of files when his cellphone rang its
usual.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll picked it up and listened to
the caller. He woke up his computer and accessed the message. After seeing the
information that was sent, he killed the call, gathered up a map, and left a
message for Hinkley. He locked up the shop and climbed into his Yukon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">The first place he drove was to the
lake. He unrolled the old map then examined the tracks made by the car when it
was pulled from the lake. He then went and placed stakes where the old road
would’ve been. About sixty yards from the boat launching ramp was a berm, tall
enough to stand behind, and yet be reasonably well protected or camouflaged. He
made a sketch on the map then got back into his vehicle. On an impulse, he
quickly emerged again and opened the back to the SUV. He pulled out the metal
detector and went back to the berm.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Probably an hour passed as Driscoll
walked back and forth along the berm slowly playing the detector from side to
side. A beep and the sheriff stopped and probed the ground. The first thing was
a bottle cap. He dug up several bottle caps and a couple of quarters, even what
looked like a fifty-cent piece. He paused and gazed at the flags he had placed
to mark the approximate location of the original road. He then moved over a
couple of feet and began to retreat toward the lake.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">A distinct beep and he probed again. The
earth was mixed with a lot of gravel due to the approach and the boat ramp; it
made digging a bit difficult. Driscoll had the most success with a large
screwdriver. He would dig and turn the dirt over and scan it with the detector.
More bottle caps then something long and narrow. He carefully worked the object
out of the loosened up dirt. A shake and a moderate tap and he slipped the
object into a plastic bag.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;">In the course of another hour, he found
another similar tubular metal object. He carefully photographed where it was
found then staked the area off. After putting the detector away he got back
into his SUV and drove away. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 36pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-10254804795455837442020-08-01T20:33:00.002-07:002020-08-01T20:35:53.934-07:00LAKE FRANCIS Part II<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll stood up and stepped back. He picked
up his cellphone just as it chirped. He listened to the caller then said: “Call
the coroner, contact Hinkley and have him bring the camera.” He checked his
watch. “You might as well come down here too; it looks like we’re going to be
here for a while.” Driscoll killed the call then turned toward Moffit. “It’s
one of ours,” he said. The two sheriffs backed away and let the deputies probe
the interior. They spoke in guarded tones as the crowd gathering around to
witness the spectacle was increasing. Moffit had already brought in extra
personnel to control the crowd.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“There’s two more, a deputy said, “one
on the front floor and another in the back seat.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“My God,” Driscoll murmured, “what the
hell have we gotten ourselves into?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The second car was emerging from the
lake and they stopped to watch as the salvage crew winched it onto the higher
ground to come to rest about ten yards away from the first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although covered in mud and silt there
were still places where they could see some green paint showing through. The
car appeared to be a late sixties GM pony car. Typical style for the era: long
hood, short deck—two large doors. The once shiny chrome emblems near the
leading edge of the front fenders proudly proclaimed Z-28, obviously the model
of the car itself. The glass was mostly intact; that was to say that it was in
place; the windshield was obviously cracked, very similar in pattern to the one
in the older car. It was stained completely brown and impossible to see
through. The license plates were mostly intact on this car too but it would
take some careful cleaning to determine where the car had last been registered.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Car looks vaguely familiar,” Driscoll
observed as he scanned the filthy exterior, “Kid, over Sunburst way, got a ’69 Z-28,
dark green, like this, for a graduation present.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Local kid?” Moffit asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“His dad was a Customs officer at
Sweetgrass; family moved into Sunburst about the beginning of Junior Year.”
Mark paused. “They had just the boy. I’m trying to think of his name—kind of a
Mennonite sounding name—Jacob Weiss? Yes, that’s what it was. Anyways, he
didn’t like it around here; preferred San Diego, where they came from; always
vowed to move back. People just thought he did, I guess. He was head-strong;
moved out of the house during his senior year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I didn’t know him very well, you know,
different school. I do have to say that he was considered to be somewhat of a
babe magnet. Tall, athletic, southern Californian—,” Driscoll indicated the
car, “—nice car; girls kind of threw themselves at him. Graduated a year after
I did. Disappeared shortly afterward, while I was in Viet Nam.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driscoll backed away from the car. “If
this is his car, it’s been in the drink for over forty years.” He crouched down
behind the car and snapped a photo of the license plate with his cellphone. The
metal validation tag was still in place but it was obvious that he would need
the lab to positively identify the registration. He called the number in,
hoping that those on the other end might at least get started.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driscoll examined the cracks on the
windshield but was eventually satisfied that the cracks were either typical
wear and tear or getting the odd rock thrown from a passing truck. Like the
first car, three tires were still holding air but the driver’s front was
flattened. Unlike the first car it wasn’t shredded so there was a chance that
this car simply drove off the road. The fine details would be the
responsibility of the lab.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Driscoll
went over to his department-issued Yukon and rummaged around in the toolbox,
quickly returning with a sizeable wrecking bar and a hammer. He was in the
process of prying the door open when he noticed a hole running at an angle just
inside the hinge area. Surely that wasn’t a bullet hole as well? He wasn’t
about to take his chances so he decided to investigate from somewhere else.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No longer a good idea to force the
driver’s door open, at least for the time being, Driscoll wiped the left rear
window down then took a wide strip of masking tape which he placed on the
glass. Taking a ball-peen hammer, he drove the ball end of the head into the
center of the window. The shattered glass held mostly intact and he was able to
pull it out toward him. The stench of the decomposing interior, very similar to
the older car, rushed out at him. The sheriff gave himself a moment before
taking out his flashlight and beaming it inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He could see the rear seat frame and the
springs, with mere tatters of upholstery still clinging to the heavily corroded
metal. The floor was covered in muck. The front seats seemed a little more
intact. He went around to the passenger’s side of the car. Inserting a pry bar next to the latch, he attempted to force the door but it wouldn’t budge. He
went to the trunk and had better success forcing the trunk open. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The trunk revealed little more than a
rusted spare wheel, with the spare still inflated, a rusty jack and tire iron,
and a dozen beer bottles with the rusted caps still on top.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The wrecker driver came over and offered
a more substantial prybar for the passenger’s side door. This gave them better
success. In very little time they had the door open and were able to see what
was inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It almost looked like everything was in
one filthy, mud-encrusted piece; the buckets seats and console blended together
with what seemed to be a pile of old clothes. The interior of this car, too, appeared
that the headliner had detached itself from the ceiling and draped itself down
on the seats. Being immersed for all those years blended everything together. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the investigation had to continue.
Armed with a couple of hastily fashioned wire hooks and plastic sticks,
Driscoll and Moffit carefully probed the pile of rotted headliner and
upholstery and pulled some of it away. It didn’t offer much resistance and
didn’t offer much more to see. Driscoll went in again. He caught onto something
more solid. Seat frame, he thought and pulled some more. It gave way and a
major wad slid out the opened door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The two law officers fairly gaped at
what they saw. Sprawled across both seats and the console was the skeletal
remains of a man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They stood there in shocked silence
while they comprehended what they had just seen. The case had suddenly become
more than just a second car at the bottom of the lake; there were now four
deaths to sort out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of
course by the time the local coffee shop opened the following morning, the news
was out. The sheriff didn’t find it at all surprising that the speculative body
count was closer to eight than four. Driscoll tried to keep a lid on that from
the get-go but reporters were on the scene as soon as it was revealed that a
car was found on the lake bed; there were at least three reporters within earshot
when they opened up the old Chevy, and there were a couple more by the time
they had the Camaro drug out. Mark tried to downplay the gossip as he filled
his cup then took a seat at the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“So the cars were all shot up?” Leonard
asked from the opposite end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driscoll shook his head. “Just the one, there’s
no evidence that it wasn’t there long before the car went into the drink.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Know who it is?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“No. We got three bodies out of the
older car and one from the newer one; we’ve checked the license numbers and
know where they were last registered. Right now we’re trying to identify the
bodies, and, just trying to piece together what happened.” Mark couldn’t really
say anything more. It didn’t really matter; the whole event seemed to take on a
life of its own and he was glad it went that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 36.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driscoll drove out east of town then
headed north toward the Sweetgrass Hills. The old Chevy was last registered to
a rancher who had run an operation in the region of Pratt’s Canyon, in the
vicinity of the West Butte. The Musgrove ranch was in that same region. Mark
decided to stop there and have a chat with his good friend, Cole. As he drove
into the yard he wished once again that Cole’s dad was still around. The late
Sheriff, Andy Musgrove, was a wealth of information, and willing to help in
every way he could. It was Musgrove who had not only recommended that Driscoll
become the new sheriff but encouraged him as well. But Musgrove had passed on;
the only thing Mark could do when he got bogged down was to ask himself how
Sheriff Musgrove would’ve handled it. But Musgrove’s only son was the only
source now. Cole had often donned the uniform and assisted his dad in solving
numerous cases. But Cole decided that law enforcement wasn’t for him; better to
let someone more skilled—and dedicated—do that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-52336729917651015132020-07-26T14:22:00.001-07:002020-07-26T14:24:42.474-07:00LAKE FRANCIS PT.1<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The outboard trolling motor hummed
softly as the medium-sized fishing boat made its way across the glasslike
surface of the lake. The deputy kept it in a straight line while two other law
enforcement officers huddled in the rear, watching the screen of a
state-of-the-art electronic scanner as it revealed the secrets that littered
the lake bed. Nothing really harmless, a couple of old tires, what looked like
a couple of glass bottles; nothing that could cause a major environmental
panic. The depth suddenly increased as the driver maneuvered the launch further
away from the shore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This is quite the gadget,” Sheriff
Driscoll praised as he continued to scan the screen, “about the most elaborate
fish-finder I ever saw.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’ll damn near count the scales on the
fish itself,” Sheriff Moffit responded with a grin. “It’s small enough to take
in a smaller craft yet it’s dead accurate. I figured we could use it, but with
only one sizable lake and a couple of streams, I sort of doubt if the county
will go for it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Could possibly use something like
this over my way.” Driscoll continued to view the screen. “This is almost as
clear as my wife’s last Ultrasound.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They were in fifty feet of water by
then and the screen, although considerably darker, still showed the irregularities
of the lake bed. The depth remained at fifty feet then started to rise then
leveled off at forty feet. It first started to appear as a sudden increase in
depth but it soon changed to a rectangular object. They both saw it together as
it came into view.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What the hell?” Driscoll said. “That
looks like a—car.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“It’s a car for sure.” Moffit motioned
for the driver to cut the power and allow the craft to stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driscoll looked up from the screen and
gazed back to the shore. They were a good hundred yards out. He glanced at the
boat launching ramp then to the highway beyond that. “Wasn’t the old road
closer?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moffit pointed to the shore. “The road
used to form a dogleg that bordered the parking lot. It almost headed straight
for the ramp but veered away at the last moment. They straightened the road out
and moved it about fifty yards further over to give more room in the parking
lot for trailers and towing vehicles and make it a little safer. Of course, it
lessened the congestion around the Lighthouse tavern.” He indicated the popular
eating and drinking establishment about three hundred yards further east.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“How long ago was that?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Hell, I was a senior in high school;
that would’ve been around 1979.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I can remember the old road,”
Driscoll said. “We often took this way down to Teton Pass to ski. We quite
often ran out of beer on the way back and bought more at the Lighthouse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You could’ve gotten into trouble for
that,” Moffit said with a chuckle, “Sheriff could’ve given you a rather large
citation.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Where’s the law enforcement when you
need ‘em?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They both looked at the monitor again.
“Need to get a closer look at that car,” Moffit said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll nodded. “I’ve got scuba gear,
but it’s back at my place.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Moffit indicated the small town a couple
of miles away toward the east. “Two firemen in town, they’re both qualified
divers.” He nodded toward the launch pilot. “Let’s head in; I’ll get a wrecker
coming.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">It was just past noon on that sunny late
spring day. The divers, eager to get the opportunity, wasted no time getting
their gear together and out to the sizeable lake in the western Montana plains.
They were taken out to the site and lowered themselves into the still chilly
water.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Miss diving?” Moffit said to Driscoll.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">Driscoll nodded. “Sometimes. Never
really went crazy for it; it just went with the job. In the CRT, you did
everything; diving was part of it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">The first diver came to the surface and
slid his mask up. “Sheriff Moffit, there’s </span><i style="text-indent: 36pt;">two</i><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">
cars down there!”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Two cars!” Both sheriffs shouted in
unison.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Yeah, went down, looks like a long time
between. One’s almost buried in silt and sediment and the one you saw has to
have been there at least thirty years. Looks like the second car, the one you
saw, was going a lot faster; it’s just ahead of the older one.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“Okay, winch truck’s on its way; I’m
going to need you guys for a while."</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">They eventually needed more than a
wrecker; they ended up enlisting the services of a sizeable winch truck, plus a
lot of digging on the part of the diving team. It was well into the afternoon
when the first car broke the surface and was pulled slowly out of its watery
grave, muddy water pouring out from many passages. The crew wasted no time at
all going after the second car. While they were doing that the two sheriffs
began an examination of the first one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Looks like a ’49 Chevy Fleetline,”
Driscoll said as he examined the rusted-out hulk in front of them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I can see the Fleetline part,” Moffit
said as he scanned the long roof as it sloped down from the driver’s area to
the rear bumper, “how can you tell the year?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Grill—bottom section has got vertical
bars in it; ’50 model looks very close but the vertical bars are gone.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You know your old cars.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driscoll nodded. “For what it’s
worth.” He wiped the mud off the front and rear license plates which were
mostly legible then took pictures with his cellphone. He promptly sent them in
to see if there was a chance at the identification of the registered owner. He
then carefully began a systematic examination of the car’s exterior. The body
was cratered with holes that were the result of many years underwater.
Surprisingly three of the four tires still held air; the left front one was
shredded. Mark checked the glass of the car, first the doors and the rear window
then the windshield. The windshield itself was spider-webbed with cracks which
could have been caused by years of traveling the local graveled roads, or the
impact of hitting the lake at speed. He probed at a large spiderweb of cracks,
just ahead of the driver’s side then backed away and took a photo with his
cellphone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Bullet hole,” Mark said, “about .30
caliber. I’d guess the shooter was directly in front, or a few degrees off to
the left.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moffit came over to look for himself. “Bullet
hole, alright. I agree, about .30 caliber. Going to be a fun game trying to
track down a thirty caliber rifle out of the several thousand in this country.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The doors gave way easily on the old
Chevy. They all but crumbled when a pry bar was inserted in the latch area. It
was a four-door so access to the interior, though difficult, was a lot easier
than if it were a two-door. But the years underwater damaged the car far
beyond any possibilities of salvage and it had literally begun to collapse as
it was drug across the grassy shore to higher ground where it sat streaming
brownish liquid. The stench of the sodden, decomposing interior was nauseating
so the officers gave it some time to air out before continuing. The inside seemed
to be half-filled with trash, which could eventually be identified as tattered
upholstery, to articles of clothing, to—Mark tried to dismiss the thought—human
remains. One thing that remarkably came out intact was a pair of leather rider’s
chaps, the type worn by rodeo cowboys, in the rear seat. “Rodeo cowboy,”
Driscoll muttered as he noted the initials, ‘D.B.,’ then set them aside and continued
to probe the interior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">With a plastic probe Sheriff Driscoll
began to pull at what appeared to be a pile of trash on the front seat. The
headliner had long since collapsed on the seat, covering everything that was
there. Fortunately, it gave way and could be slid to the side. Another pile of
trash slid off to the side revealing a gray-colored dome-shaped object.
Driscoll had seen enough of those to know what he was looking at.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 36pt;">“We’ve got a body,” the sheriff said
grimly.</span></div>
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-73957038472834188482020-07-11T19:31:00.003-07:002020-07-11T19:31:53.913-07:0020 K AND CLIMBINGHello all, and thanks for dropping in on my page. I just want to announce that my Blogspot has now surpassed 20,000 readers. When I first set up this page I had no idea that I would get this many readers to drop in. I have to admit that I had some stories to share and if I had more than one I would have accomplished my goal. So this is an indication that I'm doing a few things right. I've got many more stories in the making so new posts will be arriving soon. There are always more memories that get inspired by something happening in ordinary daily life and I always hope to remember them long enough to put them down on paper. Many thanks to all and I sincerely hope that you will drop in again.<br />
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-8813639216752852732020-02-18T02:30:00.000-08:002020-02-18T02:30:55.736-08:00THE OLD WOOD BARNSome time ago I was asked to do up a picture collage of some family photos that progressed through the years depicting the family's growth and development. The family came from a farm in the midwest and all grew up working and playing in the old barn on the place. As time went on the farm was sold and the barn stood empty for a number of years until the new owners slated it for demolition. The family requested some of the wood from which to build some picture frames. I diligently set up the collage and forwarded the copies which were mounted in the frames and given to each family member. Just before the presentation, I was asked to come up with a poem, which I was honored to compose. The poem I present to you.<br />
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IT BEGAN WITH TWO, A COUPLE WHO, WERE DETERMINED TO BEAT THE ODDS.<br />
FRED ASKED JANE, WHO TOOK HIS NAME, AND THAT THRESHOLD THEY DID CROSS.<br />
<br />
TO LIFE ON THE FARM, WITH THE OLD WOOD BARN, TO A WORLD OF HOPES AND DREAMS.<br />
THE GOING WAS TOUGH AND DOWNRIGHT ROUGH, BUT CONTINUED 'NEATH THOSE BEAMS.<br />
<br />
THE WINTER CAME, THEN SUN AND RAIN, THE LIVES THAT IT DID SAVE,<br />
THROUGH WORK AND PLAY, THROUGH NIGHT AND DAY, THE SHELTER THAT IT GAVE.<br />
<br />
THE CRIES AND GROANS, THE BROKEN BONES, NOT EVERYTHING WAS GOOD,<br />
BUT TOOK IN STRIDE, WITH LOTS OF PRIDE, THE BARN ALL MADE OF WOOD.<br />
<br />
BUT LIFE GOES ON, THE KIDS ARE GONE, THE BARN NOW EMPTY STANDS,<br />
A SENTINAL, REMINDING ALL, WHAT HAPPENED ON THIS LAND.<br />
<br />
AS IN ALL LIFE, FROM DAY TO NIGHT, NOTHING FOREVER LASTS,<br />
BUT ALWAYS KNOW, THIS WOOD WILL SHOW, A PORTAL TO THE PAST.<br />
<br />
TO DAYS GONE BY, AND MEMORIES HIGH, AND TIMES SO FREE FROM STRIFE,<br />
YET LOOK FORWARD TO, THE FAMILY WHO, LIVES EVERLASTING LIFE.George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-60442964439453681172019-07-21T16:32:00.002-07:002019-07-21T16:32:31.681-07:00LOTTERYAfter many months and a lot of misfires my newest release has finally reached completion. I have to say that a remake of an original could not be that much work, but it is. Lottery has been revised and improved, and is even more affordable.<br />
<br />
Mark Driscoll is somewhat of a loner. A hard worker but is not really satisfied with the directions his life has taken. However, he is willing to leave things as they are and do the best he can. He has a small circle of friends and has adjusted well to life in a small town. That is, until he finds out that he has won a massive jackpot in the lottery.<br />
<br />
Suddenly his life heads in a whole new direction, and the last thing he wants is publicity. He devises a plan--a game--to cash in his ticket while attracting the least amount of attention. Unfortunately there are others who want to cash in on his fortune and are willing to use the same clandestine methods to get what they want. Murder and coverup follow Driscoll as he finds himself at odds with his friends and the law.<br />
<br />
Like his military service in Indo-China, he wonders who his enemy really is and it takes him on a journey that might easily cost him his own life. His wits, experience and just plain luck help to identify his opponents and reset his future.<br />
<br />
Lottery was a labor of love for me. It began when a couple of locals in my hometown won significant jackpots in the local lottery, and what happened to them afterwards. A friend of mine and I were sitting on his deck one hot summer night discussing how we would keep it a secret if we were to luck out. I didn't realize it would take on a life of its own. When I got home I began to assemble a plot and a loose story that quickly ate up a legal pad and several cups of coffee.<br />
<br />
I was on my way.<br />
<br />
Eventually Lottery was a reality. It had great reviews and modest success but readers wanted something more so I came out with a more refined version which I submit to the public today. Happy reading.George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-22814435172491111232019-06-28T08:57:00.001-07:002019-06-28T08:57:18.563-07:00FAMILY REUNIONI never get tired of sharing my stories, both here, and in full-sized novels. I have several projects in the works and hope to have more of them available in the near future. However, I wanted to direct your attention to my newest addition.<br />
<br />
My second book, <i>FAMILY REUNION</i>, has been released. If you're inclined to mystery-thrillers with a hint of a ghost story included, then this could be for you.<br />
<br />
RC's wife and daughter left to attend the annual family reunion in the old hometown. They never returned and no one seems to know what happened. RC eventually exhausts all of his resources and tries to settle down to get on with his life. He becomes somewhat of a recluse and cuts all ties with his family. But that image of his wife and daughter continues to burn into his subconscience and never lets go. Ten years has gone by, and many family reunions have come and gone. As he looks again at that precious photo, he makes a decision to attend the reunion for one last time, not knowing that the road ahead will take him to places he has never been to.<br />
<br />
Available through Amazon.<br />
George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-56044915979803913722019-04-19T13:00:00.002-07:002019-04-19T13:00:58.699-07:00SOLOISTOne Sunday morning, JC was getting himself ready for the day, he was looking into the mirror and finishing up his shave when he heard the most sickening, ear-splitting screech coming from across the house. It was a cross between nails grated on a chalkboard and someone dragging a bastard file across the edge of a piece of glass. Whatever it was, even the razor suddenly seem like it had cracked.<br />
<br />
He didn't hear Mattie shriek so he first thought that everything must either be under control, but then, Mattie could also have become incapacitated, or worse. He decided that it would be a good idea to check it out, just in case, so he slipped on a pair of blue jeans and headed out to see what went wrong. Possibilities bombarded him as he strode through the bedroom. A really humorous one went through his mind as he opened the door.<br />
<br />
He looked out into the kitchen to see Mattie busy at the counter churning up fruit and assorted juices together in the blender to make some breakfast smoothies. "Oh, that's what it was," JC said, a smile playing about his lips. "For a moment I thought Cousin Jackie had dropped in for a visit and was practicing her solo for church this morning."<br />
<br />
Mattie cast him an annoyed glance but couldn't help but snicker at the derogatory comment. In a way, JC wasn't that far off. His cousin at one time had been a very talented singer. Aunt Edith had discovered Jackie's singing ability back many years ago when she was still in grammar school, so she signed her up for singing lessons. Jackie had since performed in numerous community stage productions and had actually attempted a career as a professional. But years of raising kids, yelling at said kids, and yelling at her husband had taken their toll. Her voice, once so clear that it would all but shatter a glass, had gone long past its 'Best Before' date.<br />
<br />
JC had made numerous jokes about it. He first compared Jackie's singing voice to a car that wouldn't start, then an older starter that was in need of a rebuild. Then he talked about the typical soloist tuning in for a song, where the accompanying pianist would strike a note, then the singer would sing the same note. JC would mimmick the note and then mimmick the grinding sound of the Osterizer blender. Every family reunion, those in attendance had to endure Jackie singing her heart out. Of course, JC and several adolescent cousins all grimaced and cupped their hands over their ears.<br />
<br />
The trouble was: Jackie still thought she was as good as she ever was. One could blame her mother for that. Aunt Edith was always giving her those sickening compliments, praising her to death and assuring her that she was better than ever. Of course, JC had to add that shortly after uttering those compliments, Aunt Edith probably plugged her hearing aids back in; she had to be deaf as a post.<br />
<br />
There was a time when JC's father had stopped in at Uncle Norman and Aunt Edith's condo for a visit. Jackie was there at the time and she was practicing her singing, with Aunt Edith accompanying on the piano. JC's dad and Uncle Norman were engaged in deep conversation, talking alternately about ranching and politics, both of which dealt with offing some idiot politicians. The family cat was dozing on a pillow at the end of the couch. Everything was relatively peaceful.<br />
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Then it happened. Jackie opened her taps right up and shot out a shriek that was so shrill that it broke some of the glass panels in the Seattle Space Needle a couple thousand miles away. JC was sure that the traffic signal on the street below suddenly went to a flashing red, forcing all the cars all to resort to alternating with a Vroom--screech, vroom--screech, as they attempted to proceed through the intersection. Everyone's ears went fuzzy and their eyesight was permanently blurred. The cat, once having a peaceful snooze, suddenly sprang straight up in the air, then bolted down the hardwood floor of the hallway, tried to make a ninety-degree turn at the end of the hallway, and in doing so encountered a loose scatter rug, which shot out from underneath him, causing the cat and the rug to have a major wreck against the closet doors at the end of the hall. The cat got itself back on its feet and charged under the bed turning around to peek out at what disaster had suddenly hit the household.<br />
<br />
Jackie suddenly stopped singing then turned to glare at her dad and uncle who were killing themselves laughing. Of course, she thought they were laughing at her. If the truth be known, she might have been correct at that assumption. But they were also laughing at the cat, and those two tiny lights staring at them from under the bed.<br />
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It's really too bad that parts of the body go south before everything else does. Jackie loved to sing and perform; it was unfortunate that her voice was broken long before the rest of her. I'm sure that someday, when she makes that journey into the great beyond, like Jim Reeves' <i>Brother Eyer</i>, she'll be reunited with her once beautiful singing voice, and be able to entertain thousands, looking forward to some beautiful sounds. And she will no longer have to deal with the likes of JC and his band of merry men (and women) grimacing and acting like it was the worst sound since neutering a cat, the old-fashioned way...George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-57451783098901102032019-02-26T19:29:00.002-08:002019-02-26T19:29:43.229-08:00DOING THE TON<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My father always wondered what it would be like to travel at 100 miles per hour. When quizzed about that in his later years, he never could zero it down to when that idea popped into his head. It might have been after watching a newsreel covering the latest Indy 500 at the local theater or just seeing a modern speed demon flash past the family conveyance while out for a Sunday drive.<br />
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Dad was born in 1925 and was seven years old by the time Ford released its spectacular new V8 in 1932. In fact, Dad's oldest brother bought one of those marvels, and since he and his family still lived at home, Dad had almost complete access to that new beauty. The sleek lines and that powerful engine were like a fix from a powerful drug. Well, Dad was also fascinated by the electric cigarette lighter and couldn't seem to leave that alone either. During the early thirties, the stories of John Dillinger, and Bonnie And Clyde got the adrenaline pumping, especially about the high speed chases with police so just maybe that's where Dad thought it would be fun to drive that fast.<br />
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Grandpa was an extremely busy man and needed reliable transportation. Consequently, he bought a new car every year. He'd put roughly 25,000 miles on one in a year then it was time for another. He seemed to gravitate toward Fords, mostly because they had an uncanny ability to stay together on those gravel and dirt roads. He tried other makes but always came back. There was one independent brand that kept breaking something in the front end. Grandpa took it back in time and time again to get it welded up. The salesman was an aggressive type that declared: "We know what to do this time and if it breaks again, I'll eat it." I believe Dad said it was less than a week later when Grandpa drove up and asked the salesman if he would like a little salt on it. It seems to me that during that time Grandpa did try a <i>Chevy</i>, which was said to attain that ghastly speed of 70 mph. The neighbor had one of those and even claimed to have achieved that speed, except that he conveniently left out the part about the engine blowing up 20 mph ago.<br />
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So Grandpa stuck it out with Fords. In the spring of 1941, Grandpa drove home his latest beauty, a Super Deluxe 4-door sedan, complete with that flathead V8 that some people claimed could attain 100 mph right out of the box. Of course, Dad was all over and under that shiny new chariot. He heard something about more horsepower and got to wondering if this would be the car that would break that almost unattainable <i><b>ton</b></i>. It went without saying that Dad had recently turned 16 and, for only a dollar, received his driver's license shortly after.<br />
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It was interesting in those days. If you wanted to drive and had reached the age of 16, all you had to do was show proof of age, then hand over a dollar. They filled out a form then handed you a temporary license which would be replaced within a month or so. I doubt if a person even needed an eye exam back then. Of course, I would imagine that if a person came into the office brandishing a white cane, and having to use it to navigate his way to the wicket, the officials might question his actual driving capabilities.<br />
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Dad's best friend, Alan, was almost as daring as Dad was. At least he was close behind. He seemed to be able to get into almost as much trouble as Dad did so maybe he was up to the task when Dad told him that Grandpa's new car could reach 100 mph. He just <i>had</i> to be there for that monumental achievement.<br />
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The highway west of the city was described by many as 'The Old <i>Goat</i> Trail.' For many years it was a two-lane blacktop, sans shoulders, and almost sans full-width lanes. A lot of people who worked in the city lived outside and commuted every day. It was actually quite comical to watch them all lineup and drive to work with the line getting longer and seemingly slower the more cars joined in. Until the war ended it was only paved for the first and last ten miles along the 27 mile stretch from Lethbridge to Fort Macleod. But there were a couple of straight stretches: once you crested the hill west of the city the road ran fairly straight for about three miles past the communities of Coalhurst and Kipp, then the road bent more toward the west and there was a straight stretch that ran for another four miles.<br />
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One warm evening in the late spring, Dad managed to obtain permission to take the car over to Alan's place where he would pick Alan up and go for a drive. There might have been something about attending a movie over on the north side, which was quite a hike, even in a small city with a population of only 11,000 back then.<br />
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A little bit of trivia for that time period: Lethbridge was a main location for a POW camp, and when it was at full capacity (around 1944) it had 15,000 prisoners.<br />
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Like he promised, Dad drove over to Alan's place. After Alan was in and the door secured, the two boys made their way up 12th Street, left at 6th Avenue then over to 1st Street which would connect with the Old Goat Trail. The new flathead V8 was purring away as they drove under the railroad viaduct that spanned the river. They continued down into the river bottom where they crossed the bridge before the road made its way up the other side, past the Number Eight Coal Mine where it swung north and then west toward Coalhurst.<br />
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Well, the highway was virtually deserted. As far as the eye could see, the only lights were from the buildings in Coalhurst and Kipp, a mile further. Dad carefully checked around him and pressed the accelerator to the floor.<br />
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Sixty-five was no problem. It didn't even seem to take long to reach 75; maybe a little longer to reach 80. They passed Coalhurst on their right as the speedometer crossed 85.<br />
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Things started to happen rather quickly now. Dad decided that he'd best keep his eyes on the road while Alan slid over to watch the speedometer more closely.<br />
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They passed Kipp with the speedometer approaching 90. The car started to shake and twitch but it seemed like it still had some left to give. Alan watched the needle as it passed 90. He began to call the numbers out, having to shout them over the wind noise from outside.<br />
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"Ninety-four, Ninety-five!" Alan shouted excitedly. "Ninety-six!" They could hear the roar of the engine and the whine of the rear end, even over the roar of the wind.<br />
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"Ninety-eight, ninety-nine!" The adrenaline was really pumping by now. The car felt as if it would fly away at any second. Alan continued to watch the speedo but that needle didn't seem to budge. It even acted like it was slowing down.<br />
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The curve to the west was coming up fast. Just before the curve was a slight dip. The '41 Ford Super Deluxe flew down that highway as if every law enforcement officer was in hot pursuit. Dad kept his now sweaty hands on the steering wheel; his knuckles so white they rivaled the moon in the sky. "Come on!" Dad shouted.<br />
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'Ninety-nine!" Alan shouted again. "Come on, come on!" both boys shouted.<br />
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"One-hundred!" Alan finally exclaimed. Actually,<br />
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if the truth were known, he sounded more relieved than anything else. Who knows? Maybe it didn't actually reach that speed but Alan decided that it was close enough.<br />
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Dad took his foot off the gas and allowed the car to coast. They were probably still going past 80 when they entered the curve to the west but that newly christened family race car had no problem whatsoever.<br />
<br />
Well, they pulled into Monarch, where they treated themselves to a soda at the local gas station. When Dad told the story, years later, he even hinted that they had to stop to use the facilities as well.<br />
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Unofficially Dad drove a car at 100 miles per hour. It was a story that he did his best to keep a lid on, lest he lose all driving privileges for an extended period of time.<br />
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That '41 Ford ended up being the family chariot for the duration of the war. In February of 1942 civilian car production ended as the factories converted to war production. Dad was mildly surprised that the engine in Grandpa's car held together remarkably well for all those years, considering that high-speed run when the paint on the engine was still curing. Uncle Woody, who had actually started a Plymouth-Chrysler dealership in 1942 finally managed to have new vehicles to sell in the fall of '45 and Grandpa took delivery of his first Chrysler product, a Chrysler Windsor in 1946. It would be nice to know what happened to that '41 Ford but it no doubt went from one family to another until it was used up like so many others.<br />
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I might add that Dad never wanted to drive that fast again...<br />
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George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-929657545410112572018-07-21T11:46:00.001-07:002021-02-13T19:33:42.500-08:00ANIMAL CONTROLWhen you live in an urban or semi-urban setting there is often more to getting along with neighbors' pets than the neighbors themselves. Yes, you might have to deal with their kids who can sometimes give challenges of their own but just as often, you have to deal with their family pets.<br />
<br />
They say that a dog or cat contributes to a longer life. I guess if you like pets then, yes, that can <i>contribute</i>. But there are some who choose <i>not</i> to own a dog or a cat who might dispute that claim. JC grew up on a ranch with cattle, horses, pigs, chickens, dogs, and cats. When he got into the Second Grade in school, he was in charge of looking after the chickens. He fed them, gathered the eggs and cleaned out the chicken house. For that bit of effort, he got a percentage of the egg sales, providing the family and ranch workers left some over for selling. He was also the grounds keeper which required him to drag out the mower and push it around for an entire Saturday--there were some large yards on that spread. Needless to say he was busy on the weekends and after school, and the last thing he needed to do was put up with wayward pets.<br />
<br />
Oftentimes he could hear some agitated chickens when he approached the hen house. He would enter to find a dog in there killing chickens. He took a bullwhip and beat the dog within an inch of its life, then let it loose, hoping that it had learned its lesson but, in reality, only to find it back in there a couple of weeks later. This time the dog would try anything to avoid the whip. Realizing that there was no cure to killing chickens, a .22 caliber shot of lead fixed the problem, once and for all. I might add that JC had heard about tying the marauding dog up and taking a chicken carcass and savagely beating the dog with that often cured the dog. However, the rifle worked a lot better.<br />
<br />
Of course getting rid of the dogs on the ranch was only a bandaid. It seemed that the neighbors' dogs, who lived about nine miles away, decided that the chickens on JC's ranch were more sporting than the ones on their home place. That's right, they wouldn't dream of killing chickens at home but sure didn't hesitate to go to JC's place to do it.<br />
<br />
Hail, the .22 hollow point.<br />
<br />
Another problem with dogs was they would rumage around the barnyard in search of something to do and during calving time, they would drag a filthy piece of decaying afterbirth onto the lawn where they would chew on it then leave it in a far corner. JC would come by with the lawn mower and not see the small strand of placenta (which led to the main cache) in the grass. The blade would catch it and instantly wrap that disgusting mess around the blade and shaft of the engine, often requiring removal of the blade to get everything dug out. The stench would be with him for the rest of the weekend.<br />
<br />
The kids couldn't have a sandbox because the cats would use it to make unwanted deposits which had to be carefully strained out before the kids could get back in.<br />
<br />
Yes, after a life on a ranch, pets were about as welcome to JC as the proverbial turd in a swimming pool. He grudgingly consented to his wife bringing a dog home (she did it on the sly); he tolerated the thing but soon after his wife left (and left the dog behind because dogs weren't allowed when she moved to), the dog went to a deserving and loving elderly couple. Since then he viewed dogs as a 7-letter word that began with <i>D-I-V</i>, and ended with <i>R-C-E</i>. But he still smiled and tolerated the neighbors' pets, until they began to come over to <i>his</i> place.<br />
<br />
The dogs were easy to control. A well-aimed pebble from his wrist-rocket usually sent a dog back to its own place to dump on its own lawn. Ditto if the dog tried to mark its territory. It was interesting that the neighborhood dogs would actually cross the street to the opposite side instead of crossing in front of JC's property. Cats, though, were another thing.<br />
<br />
Cats are independent, and nocturnal. And once they decide that a certain plot of dirt is their latrine, that's it. JC didn't have a sandbox but he had flowerbeds (left there by the previous owners of the house). His next door neighbors (who also hated pets) had a fabulous flower garden in the backyard. Between the two yards the neighborhood cats swarmed and proceeded to anihilate every plant in existence.<br />
<br />
Some said that scattering coffee grounds in the flowerbeds tended to keep cats away. Apparently the grounds get in between the cat's toes and make things very uncomfortable. That almost seemed true because after JC and his neighbor started scattering spent grounds, almost overnight, the unwanted cat population almost ended; all but one.<br />
<br />
There was one black cat with a bell on its collar. JC and the neighbor referred to it as 'Tinkerbell.' That cat was oblivious to coffee grounds in the flowerbeds and kept on doing its business as if nothing was wrong. JC had seriously considered a .22 caliber remedy and even discussed it with the neighbor. Well, one summer morning just before dawn broke, JC was out on the deck enjoying the first cup of Joe for the day when he heard a POP, followed by a ZAP, and a THWACK; the sounds were almost simultaneous. Then silence.<br />
<br />
JC knew what the sound was; he had fired enough of them to know that someone had just discharged a .22 rifle within town limits. He didn't say a word; he just went back into the house and proceeded to get ready for the day ahead.<br />
<br />
That night, JC and his neighbor pulled into their respective driveways at the same time. It often happened that way and the two of them would get into some good conversation before heading inside.<br />
<br />
"Don't have to worry about Tinkerbell anymore," the neighbor said with a grin. He turned and indicated the board fence that separated the alley from the trailer park beyond. On one of the posts was a cat's collar with an acorn-shaped bell. "I threw the carcass into a dumpster a hundred miles away; no doubt it's looking for a flowerbed in the next world by now."<br />
<br />
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-76628488926745349562018-06-18T20:34:00.001-07:002018-06-18T20:34:08.387-07:00SCAMMERSThis is probably the way, <b><i>NOT TO DO IT</i></b>, but, not having experienced anything like this before, I had to learn. And learn, I did.<br />
<br />
Don't let this happen to <b><i>you</i></b>.<br />
<br />
I had read of similar incidents regarding telephone fraud before but in them there was always a clue right from the get-go that it was fraudulent and easy to pick up on. However, as unsavory scammers go, they all learn more, the more they play the game.<br />
<br />
I was at work one day and had my hands full when I heard my cellphone chirp (Chirp? Maybe I had it on Guitar mode, or Morse Code). It was strange in that it rang just once and went immediately to message. I thumbed the message button and got a partial recording: "<i style="font-weight: bold;">You can arrange to have your counsel meet with you prior to appearing before the magistrate but all we can say for the time being is, Good luck.</i>"<br />
<br />
Now I was a bit unnerved at hearing this. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of trouble I was in. I knew I wasn't completely flush with what I owed the federal government but I had kept in touch through the phone and was making sizeable monthly payments so I was sure that I wasn't in trouble with them. What else could it be?<br />
<br />
They did leave me a number to call, so I went ahead and called back. The party at the other end told me that they were from the IRS and that I was about to be arrested and jailed for tax evasion. In fact authorities were on their way to pick me up at this very moment.<br />
<br />
Now I've been phoned by government agencies, and even collection agencies in the past but they usually don't tell me that I'm about to be slapped into matching silver bracelets and hauled away to the pokey. They're usually more interested in your paying your bill and incarceration makes that next to impossible. So this was somewhat of a surprise. But it also hit me at a bad time and I really didn't have a chance to think clearly so I went along with the guy. He told me that I would be arrested within the hour but if I acted quickly I could avoid all the trouble and extra court costs. I was listening and told the man that I was willing to co-operate.<br />
<br />
I was put on hold then another man came on the line. He identified himself with a typically Anglo-Saxon name which seemed a bit strange as he had a noticeable accent. I might add that the first one spoke with an accent as well. I first thought East Indian, which wouldn't surprise me if he was working for the government but then, I've talked to tech support for various products and services and knew full well that those people <b><i>were</i></b> East Indian and talked different. I began to think that this guy was more <b><i>Nigerian</i></b>.<br />
<br />
Well, he told me I had to drop everything and run to the bank to get the money. I began to relax a little and started to think that these guys aren't who they say they are. In fact the more we talked, the more convinced I became that they were attempting to scam me. Being a trifle adventuresome and somewhat tenacious I decided to ride this out a little further and see what was going on.<br />
<br />
I told the guy that the bank was closed for the day in the town where I worked and I would have to drive thirty miles down the road to see the main branch of the bank. I then informed the guy that my vehicle was low on fuel and I would have to fill up before I left. The man told me that he would allow me to do that but I was <b><i>NOT</i></b> to hang up the phone and I was to run a voice check every five minutes. I did that, and about fifteen minutes later I was on the road.<br />
<br />
My curiosity was rising and I realized that this guy hadn't mentioned my name or anything else. I asked him to tell me my social security number, as any call allegedly from the IRS, they always confirm your identification; he immediately snapped back that he wasn't allowed to say it over the phone, but he assured me that all of my information was open in front of him. That only helped convince me a little more that this was a scam.<br />
<br />
I made it to the city and drove immediately to the bank. I told the man that I was there and was going inside. He told me to go to the automatic banking machine and get the cash. I responded that I would have to talk to a banking officer because I could not take $4800.00 from the ATM in one lump sum and that I would have to have an official do that. The man told me to get the cash, but under no circumstances was I to tell the officer what I needed it for. He also said that I could withdraw a lesser amount if that worked better.<br />
<br />
That was all I needed to convince me that I was being scammed; he might as well have confirmed it right then and there. I maybe should've just hung up and let it go but I decided to have some fun with the guy. I found the staff actually leaving the building for the day but I did get hold of one individual who politely told me that I would have to come back in the morning. I kept the phone near so the scammer could hear that. But the official added that the branch on the south side of the city was open late and they could help me if it was an emergency.<br />
<br />
I got back in the car and drove off but didn't head directly for the bank. I first stopped at the club cigar store and bought an iced tea and the latest issue of my favorite magazine. Of course I had to chat with the owner for a couple of minutes. Back in the car I spoke to the man who was getting quite impatient by then. After all we had been on the phone for over an hour. He told me to speed up or he was sending the police if I didn't <b><i>co-operate</i></b>. I told him that I was doing the best I could and to relax because I was negotiating afternoon rush hour traffic.<br />
<br />
I made it to the bank on the south side of the city and walked in, cellphone in hand and the number visible. The receptionist actually knew me as on several occasions before, my wife and I were hired by the bank to do some photography for some special events. I told her that I was sure I was being scammed and showed her the number which she immediately checked out and confirmed that it was fraudulent. I also had her access my accounts and confirmed that there were no problems with any of them.<br />
<br />
I thanked her and went back to the car. This time I drove directly to the police station. I went up to the desk sergeant and told him what was happening. He smiled and told me that he'd received a similar call just the weekend before, and just to hang up.<br />
<br />
Which I <b><i>did</i></b>.<br />
<br />
Having consumed a fair quantity of my beverage by then I was seized by the urge to use the facilities so I excused myself and headed for the bathroom. I was just finishing up there when the phone rang. My caller ID showed the number of the police station which rather surprised me. I answered and a very angry man with a heavy accent shouted: "We are the police and we are arresting you for tax evasion!" I responded with: "I'm already at the police station."<br />
<br />
"I want to talk to the arresting officer--<b><i>NOW</i></b>!"<br />
<br />
"Sure. Right away. But I'm in the head, taking a whiz right now; I'll put him on the phone as soon as I'm finished."<br />
<br />
I went back out to the desk and told the sergeant that the goons had called me back--on the police line. He raised his eyebrows and told me that <b><i>that</i></b> particular line was the general police inquiries line. He took the phone and identified himself but the caller immediately hung up.<br />
<br />
The sergeant immediately called the same number and got the switchboard operator who told him that no calls had gone past her desk. She checked my name on the computer and couldn't find any outstanding warrants, thus completely clearing me of most of my wrongdoings.<br />
<br />
Anyways, the sergeant told me that the police had investigated a number of complaints pertaining to those claiming to be part of the IRS. He added that the typical victims are usually older and that <b><i>one</i></b> had been defrauded of $85,000.00 before his kids stepped in and put a stop to it. He said that I would likely be instructed to take the cash and deposit it in an account in another bank or wire it through the local wire service. Whatever way I did it, the money would've evaporated.<br />
<br />
I was <b><i>lucky</i></b>. In the following months, I've been phoned twice and received the same recorded message that included the final wish for Good Luck. My wife has been phoned too but she contacted the proper agency and confirmed with them that there was no trouble. I have to say that initially, I was somewhat shaken up but I'm forever thankful that I had my wits about me and was able to avert a disaster. I really feel sorry for those poor souls who didn't fare out so well...<br />
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-83160247998903706502018-05-20T19:00:00.001-07:002018-05-20T19:24:34.482-07:00ROCKET MAN IIDisclaimer: This one should've actually been the first one. No particular reason except that this story took place quite a few years before the one that I featured before. And I have to admit that I heard this story long before I heard the other one.<br />
<br />
He was a welder and had spent a lifetime applying his trade. From working in a welding-blacksmith shop in the city in the thirties to building aircraft for the war effort, to working back in the welding shop until he semi-retired to a position of welding instructor at the local tech institute. Everyone called him '<b><i>Sparky</i></b>.' And yes, many people in the trades don't have much imagination when it comes to labeling certain people, or even pets. For example JC had a cat for a few years. He called it, '<b><i>Cat</i></b>.' Back when he was in the 4-H club he raised several calves, the identification of each was duly noted in his record books: '<b><i>Calf</i></b>.' And Sheriff Walt Longmire's dog is aptly named: '<i style="font-weight: bold;">Dog</i>.' So having a welding instructor named Sparky was actually a step up; after all, he could've been given the handle: '<b><i>Welder</i></b>.'<br />
<br />
As already mentioned, Sparky worked in a welding shop, which began as a blacksmith shop. It is quite likely that it began life as such as there aren't many blacksmith/welding shops that morph out of a tea room or florist, and it's even more unlikely that the opposite would happen, in case the question comes up. Sparky entered the trade while still in school. He didn't have the opportunity to actually complete high school until he was well established as a welder and metal fabricator, but sometimes the road that takes you there is filled with educational opportunities.<br />
<br />
During the thirties, as the amount of cars on the roads increased, so did breakdowns. A very common problem was a leaking gas tank. A stone thrown up from a tire at the most inopportune moment could find its mark right square in the gas tank and before you knew it, ten gallons of precious fuel ended up on the road.<br />
<br />
There were two ways of fixing the problem: Take the gas tank out and replace it with a new one, or take the gas tank out and repair it. Since it was the thirties and everyone was broke, the vast majority chose to repair the tank. That in itself was a hazardous procedure and gasoline is designed to atomize and explode. Draining/siphoning the gas out of the tank leaves a large cavern that is saturated with gasoline fumes and heating that to weld a hole shut--well, the tank was probably halfway to the moon and the shop may or may not be ablaze.<br />
<br />
Some guys said that if you filled the tank with water to almost cover the area where you were welding, you could weld it quite safely. But the water tended to quench the metal thus not allowing the sheet metal of the tank and the welding rod to completely melt into that puddle that mixes everything together. Consequently the weld might not seal very well or last very long. The ideal way was to get a bucket of water with a secure lid boiling on the forge (remember that the welding shop began life as a blacksmith shop?), run a hose from the spout into the gas tank so it could be filled with steam, which is completely inert (unless you're distilling moonshine), and wait for the steam to exit the filler neck. Weld away.<br />
<br />
Well, there were several renegades, including Sparky's crew, in that welding shop. They thought that steam was just another task that got in the way of what you needed to do. They thought: why not simply take care of the hazard first and foremost? Eliminate the liability once and for all, and then the hazard would be taken care of. The tank was removed the tank from the car, carefully drained, the float removed and the interior of the tank was thoroughly swabbed out. The tank would then be carried out to the alley behind the shop. After lighting a hand-held torch, the welder simply stuck the flame into the filler neck or the opening left from the float mechanism, and let the games begin. Of course, before he did all that, he prepared himself by donning a heavy leather apron, coat, gloves and welding goggles.<br />
<br />
You've probably seen in the movies where a car is burning and the gastank explodes with enough force to level a building. Well, that's only in the movies. The reality of a gastank exploding is usually a loud 'Pop' or even a 'Boom.' Sometimes there was enough force to send the welder back against the brick wall and knock the wind out of him. But most of the time, a loud pop, or even an anemic 'Chuff' was all that happened. But then there was the spectacular 'Boom' that not only flattened the welder up against the building but the ruptured, flaming gas tank would skitter down the alley and out into the street, surprising some unsuspecting motorist. There was one occasion where the gastank shot out into the path of a truck that promptly crushed the tank, thus turning a simple repair into a major task. I might add that Sparky told another one about a flaming tank jumping over a fence into the neighbor's place.<br />
<br />
The local fire department caught wind of this activity and paid the shop a visit, telling everyone within earshot that such acts were prohibited and could result in heavy penalties. To that the boys just got more creative and made an enclosure out of railroad ties. An exploding tank was no match for those timbers although a couple of guys got a good thump on the noggin.<br />
<br />
The fire out and the welder's wind back, he would take the tank, hammer it back into shape (it was often warped outwards into the shape of a jelly bean), weld the hole shut then weld the ruptured seam back together. The repaired tank was reinstalled and the happy owner was on his way, until another leak occurred.<br />
<br />
But there were other incidents that happened at that particular shop, one of which was rather exciting. The shop where Sparky worked was a large operation that employed in the neighborhood of eight welders and welder's helpers. The shop supplemented its bottom line by selling welding supplies which included welding rods, goggles, helmets, leather aprons, oxy-acetylene torches, and recharging oxygen and acetylene bottles.<br />
<br />
It happens every once in a while that an exchange bottle goes out and the valve is faulty, or the tank is damaged. The shop would always make the necessary repairs and return the bottle--refilled--and ready to go. This one particular oxygen bottle came back with a faulty valve. It was given to a welder's helper who was thought to have some experience in the handling and refilling of the bottles. He stood that five foot bottle on the floor and proceeded to remove the faulty valve.<br />
<br />
Today, oxygen is pressurized to 2,200 psi. But back in the thirties it was less than that, only 1,800 psi. Either one is one heck of a blast when the contents are suddenly left to exit on their own. Now, normally, when you would need to replace the faulty valve, the proper procedure is to discharge the bottle be<i>fore</i> you remove the valve. Apparently the man assigned to replace the valve hadn't been briefed in the proper procedure. He simply took out a wrench and unscrewed the valve.<br />
<br />
Well, that valve, with 1,800 psi of pressure behind it blasted skyward, with a deafening roar, through the ceiling and continued through the roof and somewhere into the stratosphere. I wouldn't be surprised if John Glenn saw it orbiting the earth when he went up there in 1962. The blast of escaping oxygen had everyone scrambling to get the hell out of there.<br />
<br />
In the melee that followed, the bottle tipped over and began to skid across the floor in an almost serpentine pattern, gathering speed as it went. It finally got straightened out and streaked across the floor like a rocket (or a torpedo) it aimed itself squarely at the brick wall that separated the room where they kept the bottles and the front office. It went through that wall as if it was the paper wall of a Japanese house. Charge of oxygen not expelled yet, it kept on going, breaking a couple of legs off of desks and through the opposite wall and into the street.<br />
<br />
The bottle finally ran out of steam and came to rest at the curb across the street. The poor kid who perpetrated the whole event was sent home--probably to change his pants--and then brought back to retrieve the wayward bottle.<br />
<br />
Everyone's ears rang for several days after that. A brick mason came in to repair the walls and a carpenter was hired to fix the damaged ceiling, roof truss and the roof. They never did find that valve...George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-2270862775563571452017-02-12T20:18:00.000-08:002017-02-13T14:20:09.807-08:00BOAT THIEFTheft comes in a variety of shapes and sizes. Sometimes it's seemingly insignificant and sometimes it's a major crime. No matter what kind it is it's usually devastating and leaves the victims feeling violated and unable to trust anyone again. They feel ashamed, guilty and sometimes plain silly. There comes a time in nearly everyone's life when he or she might fall victim to to theft, and make no mistake, no one is immune.<br />
<br />
Darren was a successful businessman. Through a lot of hard work and dedication, he turned his sales agency from a prosperous venture to a major player in the agricultural industry. He built up and branched from one dealership to over a dozen branch houses, some of which were doing as much in annual sales as the home base. From his business ventures he accumulated a substantial personal fortune. That enabled him to indulge in some of the finer things in life.<br />
<br />
A luxurious mansion in an upscale neighborhood; fancy cars, motorcycles, airplanes, a luxury cabin on Whitefish lake; trips all over the world. A fancy boat...<br />
<br />
Sometimes Darren was not merely satisfied with having fancy and sometimes powerful toys; he had to have the fanciest, or the most powerful, or both. He had his Porsche sports cars and he had them souped up to give him an edge over anyone who might want to challenge him. He bought a ski boat that was powerful enough to pull half a dozen trick skiers, or pull a couple of adventurous fliers to the stratosphere. But that wasn't enough; he must have had a neighbor at the lake who had a more powerful boat than he had so he wasn't to be outdone. I might add that Darren tried a bit too hard to keep up with his competition and ended up with some loud squeaking noises coming out of the engine compartment.<br />
<br />
Darren showed up, boat in tow, at JC's shop. "I want you to rebuild that engine, and while you're at it, make it into a fire-breathing monster!" Darren ordered JC. "I want the fastest boat on the lake!"<br />
<br />
"You got it," JC responded then side-lined everything else to get the crew going to first pull the ailing engine and then see what could possibly be done while keeping some degree of reliability. He got on the phone and talked with several engine builders and finally decided to get an engine specially built for what Darren wanted.<br />
<br />
The engine showed up around three weeks later, much to the surprise of JC. It didn't take all that long to get it installed and tuned. Of course the next step was to take it to the nearby irrigation reservoir where they could put it through its paces and tune it to perfection. It was a blistering hot day and JC invited the crew to come along for the testing. And make sure you bring your swimming trunks, skis and life vests. Oh yes, your wives and girlfriends are welcome to come along too.<br />
<br />
That boat was impressive. JC had driven it and skied behind it with the original engine and this new one really made that 28 foot monster go. The boys spent an entire Saturday skiing, tubing, wake-boarding and having a great time. The day ended all too quickly and the boat had to be loaded up and delivered.<br />
<br />
Darren wasted no time at all, taking his family and friends back to the same reservoir the next day and he was very impressed, something that he seldom showed to anyone. I might add that he didn't waste any time settling on the job, which confirmed how satisfied he was.<br />
<br />
Well, the next place to go was back to Whitefish Lake. Darren hitched up the boat and headed right down to his place. He launched the boat and he and some friends spent an hour or so seeing just how fast that boat could go. Finally convincing everyone that he had the fastest boat on the lake, he dropped his friends off then headed over to his own private dock where he tied up and covered the boat for the night.<br />
<br />
It was a calm, quiet summer night. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore; a light rustle of the breeze through the upper tree branches and occasionally the far-off call of a loon. In the distance one could hear the sounds of the town of Whitefish but otherwise everything was as quiet as it could be.<br />
<br />
The next morning, Darren was up early. The only thing on his mind was to take that new toy of his for another frolic across the lake. He was as excited as a kid at Christmas and could hardly contain himself. As soon as breakfast was over, he bounded out the door and raced for the dock.<br />
<br />
He only ran a few paces when he suddenly stopped, and fairly gaped at the empty dock. His beloved new toy was <b><i>gone</i></b>! Someone had <b><i>stolen</i></b> it during the night.<br />
<br />
One thing I didn't mention before was that Darren was a hothead. Maybe a touch of small-man syndrome as well, but when Darren didn't get his way, he exploded and all but threw a tantrum, which fell miraculously short of a child flopping around like a freshly landed trout. I'm sure someone in Kalispell, some twenty miles to the south, heard Darren's wrathful commentary, which, would make that average sailor blush.<br />
<br />
He phoned the sheriff and no doubt gave the poor deputy an earful. Whatever, everything else on the sheriff's to-do list had to be sidelined in order to find out who had stolen Darren's boat. The sheriff himself, drove to the scene of the crime.<br />
<br />
After a barrage of pointed comments about the incompetence of the local law enforcement, the sheriff was able to begin his investigation. He headed down to the end of the dock, the place where the boat was last seen. He saw the heavy hooks where the mooring ropes were still attached, their supposedly severed ends dangling in the water. Squinting in the early morning light, the sheriff gazed off across the lake; then he took his field glasses and began to examine the lake and surrounding shoreline a little more carefully. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he re-focused his attention on where the boat was last seen.<br />
<br />
He gazed at the mooring ropes then reached down to pull them out of the water. Then he realized that those ropes weren't merely dangling in the water; something heavy was attached to them.<br />
<br />
It doesn't matter how watertight a boat is, being a watercraft, it will accumulate a certain amount of water in the lower hull or bilge. When a person goes out to start his boat he usually switches the bilge pump on to get the water pumped out and back into the lake where it belongs. Most boats are equipped with a rubber stopper at the lowest point in the rear of the transom so whenever the boat is brought out of the water, you simply pull the stopper and let the hull drain. Then you always put it back into the hole and pop the latch overcenter to keep it in place.<br />
<br />
When Darren finished his frolic with his family at home, he loaded the boat and removed the stopper in typical fashion to drain the accumulated water. Unfortunately he got into such a hurry he forgot to reinstall it when the draining was finished. When he launched the boat in Whitefish Lake, he never thought about it. Driving the boat at speed across the lake would actually siphon the water out of the hull but the moment he shut it down for the night, the water came back in--quickly.<br />
<br />
The boat was still moored to the dock; it just happened to be about five feet under the surface of the lake....George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-66171215577903267772016-07-25T18:32:00.002-07:002016-07-25T18:32:52.505-07:00MAJOR MILESTONEThis post is going to be very short and sweet. My blogspot has recently crossed the 10,000 readership mark and is continuing to climb. It seems like only yesterday that I wrote my first post but that was over four years ago. Writing has been one of my passions and the only thing I enjoy as much as writing is sharing my stories with others; more specifically, You, my readers.<br />
<br />
Thank you for stopping in to sample my stories and leave the occasional comment. Please feel free to drop in anytime. I have more stories in the works but I also have to admit that I've been very busy preparing to reintroduce my first novel: <b><i>Lottery</i></b>, plus a smaller story (I think they call it a novella) entitled: <b style="font-style: italic;">Family Reunion</b>. I'll introduce you to both of them when the time comes. In the meantime, browse the stories and feel free to comment.<br />
<br />
Thanks again. G.George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-28693071007638545322016-05-21T10:24:00.002-07:002016-05-21T10:24:54.817-07:00WEIGH INOne of the trucking communities worst fears is that of reporting to the scales. Some will insist that it slows their progress down which might be somewhat legitimate but there's always the fear of being caught overweight and either being given a heavy (no pun intended) fine or being taken right off the road. But the scales are a fact of life and being properly loaded makes the road safer for everyone. But there are those in the trucking community who might argue that point.<br />
<br />
Coutts, Alberta, and Sweetgrass, Montana, are two communities that comprise a major port of entry for Canada and the United States. Interstate 15 comes up all the way from the southern part of California and Highway 4 joins it on the north side of the border. For many years after the war, the corridor from Lethbridge to Coutts was free of so-called <strong><em>chicken coops</em></strong>. Of course, if you were headed south and weren't planning to get rid of some cargo in Sweetgrass, Sunburst, or Four Corners, you were likely to get waylaid just on the north side of Shelby. However, you could exit I-15 at Four Corners, itself, head west through Kevin and onto Cutbank then swing back and rejoin the I-15 at Shelby. But the Canadian side was rather devoid of scales, with the exception of one that would stop you just south of Calgary on Highway Two. As time went by someone decided to set up a scales just north of Coutts. <br />
<br />
Now, even back in the 60's the highway was divided about three miles due north of Coutts, and continued that way all the way through to the border crossing. They must have planned to put in a scale between the two stretches of blacktop because when the installation went forward that scale was planted right in the dead center of everything; they couldn't have planned it better. Access from the north or southbound traffic was easy, with a long stretch of asphalt for each direction. Note that I said <strong><em>easy </em></strong>access. If you weren't paying attention, you could find yourself taking the family car in to get weighed; more than one motorist caught himself on that stretch of pavement and could only imagine the laughing and finger pointing from those who saw him make that wrong turn.<br />
<br />
Back in the 60s the scales facility amounted to little more than the scales itself. The platform was outside and a tiny wooden structure housed the beam and kept the operator out of the elements. The scale house also provided a counter where a trucker could fill out the necessary forms needed to obtain a permit (in addition to getting written up on an overweight citation). From the outside the structure resembled either a tiny cottage or a unit from numerous motels that dotted the outskirts of almost any town.<br />
<br />
Walt was a fun-loving individual. He enjoyed life to its fullest, especially when it included copious quantities of spirits. He loved his booze. Some of the temperance types might have hinted that Walt was an alcoholic but those who knew him well, knew that he was just a partier and loved to get feeling good. The downside of it was that he got behind the wheel and attempted to drive home when the party was over. If there could ever be an upside to driving while under the influence you could say that Walt drove very slowly--almost creeping--toward home.<br />
<br />
Well, Walt had been to Milk River and on the way home, stopped at Art's place; or maybe Art's brother, Al's. For all we know it could have been both of them because they <em>both</em> consumed whiskey by the case. Anyways Walt stopped in to say hi and one of the brothers responded by offering Walt a drink--or five. The hours passed, the whiskey flowed, and the stories abounded, but like so many parties, this one had to end. So Walt bade the brother/brothers good-night and ambled out to his old reliable '56 Ford sedan and proceeded to drive home. <br />
<br />
It was late winter or early spring, the skies had grown overcast and it had started to snow. At times the snow was falling heavily enough that the snowflakes, reflecting the light from the twin headlight beams of the car, tended to restrict Walt's visibility. His condition didn't help but undaunted, and also knowing the way home, he made steady progress down the highway. He crossed the railroad tracks and took note of the sign indicating a curve ahead where the highway would change its course to an easterly direction for two miles before curving south into the customs. Walt's farm was east of Coutts on the 500 road. Another mile and he would turn left. He watched for the next sign.<br />
<br />
A Customs officer had just completed his evening shift and was busy brushing the snow off his car when he heard the crash. He quickly went back inside and told the duty officer to phone the police then he headed back out and drove up the highway. He was headed west slowly, looking for any telltale signs of a crash but found nothing. That was kind of strange because he heard <em><strong>something</strong></em>, and he was positive it came from the highway. However, finding nothing, he finally decided to call off the search and let the police continue. Following the sign warning truckers to <strong><em>STOP AND REPORT</em></strong> <em><strong>TO SCALES</strong></em>, he turned off the highway with the intention of turning back in the direction of Coutts. As he approached the tiny scale house from the east he began to notice that something was wrong.<br />
<br />
The wall next to the scale platform itself didn't seem quite straight. In fact it appeared that the entire building wasn't straight. He drove closer and noticed a red glow in the swirling snow. He reached the house and stopped abruptly.<br />
<br />
Barely protruding from the west side of the scale house were the taillights of a car. The car itself was almost completely inside the house; the only thing that caused the car to come to a complete halt and not bury itself was when its front bumper hit the steel scale post. That was lucky because the beam was less than an inch from the miraculously undamaged windshield and was pointed directly at the driver. The officer could see some movement from inside the car. He managed to gain access to the passenger's side and get the door open.<br />
<br />
There was Walt, about twenty-three sheets to the wind still sitting behind the wheel. He seemed almost oblivious to what had just happened. "Where in the hell did that house come from?" he slurred, "I was driving home, minding my own business and all of a sudden, this house appears, in the snow. I thought there's no house in the middle of the road and must've been seeing things so I kept on going..."<br />
<br />
Little did he know...<br />
<br />
Over the next few weeks, the scale house was replaced with a more substantial unit, eventually to be replaced with a fully modern terminal and warehouse facility. Walt's car was repaired and he would drive it--more sober from now on--for many more years before his eyesight would fade and eventually terminate his driving for good. But Walt would stay on and continue enjoying a drink until he was finally called home sometime in his 90s. I just hope that St. Peter opened those gates wide so Walt wouldn't run into them... <br />
<br />
George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-32438392538070059622016-04-24T16:58:00.001-07:002016-04-24T16:58:22.758-07:00FIRE FIGHTEROne of the problems with living out in the country is the hazard of being away from emergency services. We hear all the time about a fire starting in someone's home and by the time the fire department arrives, about all that's left to do is try to keep the fire from spreading and to push the charred remains into the now opened cellar and fill the hole in. Begin again in a slightly different location. There was a couple of occasions on the old ranch where we had some devastating fires. <br />
Back in '59 the barn burned down with much the same results as the aforementioned situations. Some time after the place was sold, fire broke out in the old shop and leveled the place. At that time the fire department didn't need to control the spreading as it was raining a deluge out there. The worst was the early fall of 2012 when a fire that started in a combine about nine miles to the west of the old ranch. There was a high wind blowing at the time and the fire headed east right into what was left of the ranch.<br />
<br />
The barn that replaced the one lost in '59 was lost again. The corrals and the outbuildings also succumbed to the fire storm; the only buildings that were saved were the main house and garage, and a house that Dad built in around '67 for a hired man and his wife. Oh, and the massive trees that surround the main house survived with only a temporary loss of color. But there was a time many years before the first barn fire that could've ended up as a disaster.<br />
<br />
Winters in the Chinook Belt are by nature easy to take. No real deep-freezes unless you consider that 104 day cold snap in the winter of '69 when the temperature never rose above zero (Fahrenheit) until almost spring. True we can get those Siberian Expresses that float way up above the polar ice cap and drop down on us causing the temperatures to plummet below zero for upwards of three weeks. It's kind of nasty, especially when you have to venture out every day to look after and feed cattle.<br />
<br />
The ranch was reasonably mechanized. That is to say that we had means, other than horse and wagon, to feed the cattle. We had trucks that could be coaxed into life fairly easily--unless the block heaters weren't working or someone forgot to plug them in--and when the snow got too deep, Dad would simply fire up the wheeled tractor or crawler and hitch it to the hay sled to deliver feed.<br />
<br />
One bright sunny day, in the very early fifties, a day that turned out to be far from mild, Dad ventured out from the warm confines of the old ranch house to look after his means of providing said old ranch house with the means to continue giving the warm confines. Simply put, he headed out to <em><strong>feed</strong></em> the cattle. It was <strong><em>cold</em></strong> out, the fourth or fifth day where the mercury just simply hid, shivering in that bulb on the bottom of the thermometer; it was so cold that the brass monkeys were considering careers in hairdressing. It was almost as cold as JC's ex-wife's side of the bed.<br />
<br />
There was a lot of snow on the ground, and where the cattle were holed up, passage by truck was hazardous in that there was a good chance that there would be more time spent shoveling the truck out of a snowbank than feeding the cows. A standard tractor was nearly as risky but that's where the crawler came in. Fire up the D-2 Cat, hitch it up to the sleigh and head out. It was next to impossible to get the Cat stuck. <br />
<br />
The Cat was in the metal clad machine shed. Dad went out to the shed, slid the doors open and prepared to start the crawler. Now I don't know if it's just me, or Dad, or all of us who venture outside to go into an unheated building in the dead of winter, but it seems that the interior of a typical machine shed is at least twice as cold as it was outside. Dad took one look at the D2 shivering just inside the door and realized that his chances of starting that thing in 30 below weather were slim to none unless some outside source of heat was brought in to help warm the engine up. Dad didn't waste his time, he just headed over to the blacksmith shop and came back with the tiger torch and a bottle of propane. He carefully positioned a piece of thick-walled pipe under the Cat between the tracks then set the torch so that the flame would direct its heat more rearward than up. In that way the heat would thaw out the entire machine so that, should you luck out and get the engine running, you could still turn the transmission over, and thus get the crawler to move so that you could actually get some work done.<br />
<br />
Everything went just fine. Dad lit the torch and made sure that it was secured so that it would direct the heat as planned. Confident that everything would be OK, Dad left the shed and went over to the barn to check on a couple of cows that were going to calve early. It turned out to be a good idea because one of the cows was down and the calf had a leg back. Dad, being a vet, quickly tied up the cow then worked away at the calf's front leg, eventually getting it pointing in the proper direction. The actual birth took place soon after that; so Dad, confident that everything was OK in the barn, donned his heavy coat again and headed back to the shed.<br />
<br />
It was a good thing he came back when he did because he saw that one side of the Cat's engine was ablaze. It turned out that the hose to the torch had a twist in it which pulled itself around pulling the torch in a different direction. Where it was perched on that piece of pipe allowed the torch to point up at the left side of the engine, which thawed out rapidly, then the heavy accumulation of grease reached its combustion temperature and presto, Dad had a hot Cat.<br />
<br />
Well, he first shut of the valve at the propane tank then ran back to the shop and came out with one of those old brass-bodied Pyrene extinguishers, the type which had a T-handled plunger at one end and a nozzle at the other. To operate the extinguisher, you twisted the handle to unlatch it then pull it out of the body and shove it back in. Of course it would also be prudent to have the spray nozzle directed at the fire. He unlatched that handle then pulled the plunger out. Aiming the spray nozzle at the flames he gave a mighty shove and pushed that plunger in.<br />
<br />
Now when there's a rush of air or gas into a semi-closed area, there's a rush of displaced air or gas that rushes right back out. In the case of the extinguisher, there was a lot more chemical sprayed than there was capacity for air. Flames rushed out; hot air rushed out; extinguisher fumes rushed out, and if it could, I think the unburned grease and scorched paint would've rushed out as well. All Dad could remember was this wall of hot gas and flame that rushed right out into his face just as he was breathing in. It sapped his wind and sent a burning sensation right down his throat. He felt that he was breathing his last and it was about that exact moment that Dad thought: 'to hell with the crawler, let the damn thing burn!'<br />
<br />
He lost track of time for a minute or so but when Dad woke up, he was laying flat on his back on the floor of the shed, the extinguisher on the floor just inches from his grasp. He lifted his head to see the Cat, a little pall of smoke still rising from somewhere underneath. The fire was out and a quick check revealed only superficial damage. Dad fired up the small 'Pony engine,' which was used to fire up the main diesel engine and Dad was able to feed the cows that day.<br />
<br />
There's more than one moral to the story: When using a tiger torch to warm up a frozen piece of equipment, don't leave it unattended. And when using a pyrene extinguisher because of not properly adhering to the first piece of advice, take a deep breath and hold it before discharging it. Failure to do so can do more than just extinguish the fire...<br />
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-63544358484854643182015-11-22T09:36:00.001-08:002016-05-14T00:27:47.252-07:00OF AIRPLANES AND CATTAILS<br />
To many who volunteered for service during the war, what they got wasn't exactly what they thought they were getting into. So many entered, expecting to be deployed overseas but instead got assigned to posts in this country, and sometimes even close to home. But most could at least be happy they were put to work here, even if it didn't seem as glamorous. And it was absolutely necessary to have personnel on this side of the pond to help train those who were headed <em>across</em>. Still it could get somewhat monotonous; military work could get that way. Just the same there were times when things could get interesting and the boredom didn't seem to be so bad.<br />
<br />
Don enlisted in the air force as soon as he was old enough to volunteer. After training he was assigned to several different air fields in Alberta and Saskatchewan where training of new pilots and crews went on at a feverish pace, but the station that had him the longest was Calgary. And that seemed strange to Don because his home was Lethbridge, just a hop skip and a jump to the south.<br />
<br />
To go off in a bit if a tangent here, Don could get the occasional weekend furlough home if a crew happened to be flying down to Kenyon Field at that time. The only requirement was to check out a parachute just in case everyone had to bail out. <br />
<br />
It was interesting in that Don had to take the bus back to Calgary and he looked a little silly carrying a parachute onto the bus for the return trip. A few drivers even mentioned that.<br />
<br />
Aircraft maintenance was the task Don was given. Being more or less the junior of the squad, he found himself doing nearly every aspect of maintenance that could be imagined. And most of them were jobs that either the more senior of the enlisted men didn't want or physically couldn't fit in the often cramped spaces. Don cleaned the Plexiglas canopies, wiped the grease off the fuselage, checked the air in the tires, and more often than not, was the one assigned to clean the vomit from inside the cockpit, after a new pilot trainee lost the <em>stalls and spins</em> contest.<br />
<br />
Every morning at precisely five AM, rain or shine, or snow, or ice, the base was awakened by the lone trumpeter. This guy must have loved his job because he seemed to play continuously, well beyond the usual time it took to wake everyone up. Everyone on the base (even the roosters at the neighboring farms) developed an extreme dislike for this <em>un</em>talented musician and everyone tried to come up with a way to sabotage his morning regimen. Ideas like <em>whizzing</em> in his bugle, or filling it with something more solid were passed around but the man kept such close tabs on that horn that access was impossible; they were sure he showered with it.<br />
<br />
A new instructor was assigned to the base. This guy was the real thing; he was a combat veteran who had been up close and personal with the enemy, close enough to see the whites of their eyes. He had spent countless hours in the air defending England from the invading Luftwaffe, and then several posts in France and in North Africa. Finally, after receiving his second or third Ace medal, the Brass decided that he'd had enough combat experience and it was time to pass <em>that</em> knowledge and experience onto others. Thus he got shipped home, and on to Calgary.<br />
<br />
It turned out that this Flying Officer's quarters was uncomfortably close to the place where the trumpeter began every day. Consequently the officer wasn't receptive to that damned horn screeching at five in the morning. He complained lots but it didn't get him very far.<br />
<br />
Now, the trumpeter had an interest in flying; at least he wanted to know what it was like, to be up in the sky, floating high above the clouds, free as a bird... Well, at least he indicated that to his friends, like another trumpeter, because he likely didn't <em>have</em> any friends. One day, after he had finished annoying the entire base, he was strolling around and happened to see Don, intently checking out a single engine trainer. <br />
<br />
'Say, Fisher, do you think you could get me a ride on one of those?' <br />
<br />
Don thought about it for a minute. He gave a shrug. 'Sure. Might cost you three cartons of cigarettes.' During the war, cigarettes were often hard to come by. Since the majority of soldiers smoked, cigarettes became better currency than actual money.<br />
<br />
'Three cartons? Too much. How about one?'<br />
<br />
'Never fly.' If the truth be known, a couple <em>packs</em> of cigarettes would have probably sufficed, but this was a <em>business</em> deal, with an enemy, or at least someone who was about as welcome on the base as a turd in a swimming pool. 'Make it two cartons and I'll see what I can do.'<br />
<br />
The deal was made and Don headed into the pilots' corner. The veteran flying officer smiled like the cat that was about to eat the canary. For a carton of cigarettes, he'd give that trumpeter an airplane ride he'd never forget.<br />
<br />
Notice that the pilot only got <em>one</em> carton of cigarettes? Well, Don was a businessman. Besides, there was a little pain and suffering on Don's behalf that had to be taken into consideration.<br />
<br />
Well, the trumpeter checked out a parachute and met the flying officer at the plane that Don had just finished checking off. They boarded and got belted in then Don engaged the starter which brought the big radial engine to life. With the roar of the engine and the blast of sand in the wake of the propeller they were on their way.<br />
<br />
The flight lasted less than an hour, more or less the orientation time of a new student pilot. The <em>Harvard</em> landed and taxied back to the maintenance hangar. The pilot shut the engine down and Don couldn't believe his eyes.<br />
<br />
There were cattail shards stuck to the rudder; more shards around the pitot tube (the tiny tube that protrudes out from under a wing or along the forward part of the fuselage) and a couple of pieces of stalk on one wing. But Don couldn't believe the shards that were wedged in between the cylinders of the engine and wrapped around the roots of the propeller. How the pilot managed to get large chunks of cattails jammed in around the engine and prop without severely damaging the propeller or crashing the airplane would be a mystery that would <em>never</em> be solved.<br />
<br />
The canopy was slid back, probably as soon as the plane touched down. Once parked, the flying officer didn't waste any time exiting the craft. The passenger was another story, as he required help to climb out. Once on the ground he dropped down to his hands and knees and hurled his insides out again. He eventually managed to get to his feet and stagger off to his quarters where he stayed for the remainder of the day.<br />
<br />
'Fisher,' the pilot barked out, 'there's an engine vibration around 1700 revs and a little problem with the trim on the rudder. And, uh, wash the puke out of the cockpit!'<br />
<br />
Remember the aforementioned <em>pain and suffering</em>?<br />
<br />
The next morning at 5:00 sharp, the trumpeter blew his usual wake-up call. For some reason he didn't seem to get the message but at least he didn't ask for another airplane ride.<br />
<br />
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-19217609154229974602015-11-08T17:05:00.000-08:002015-11-08T17:05:38.143-08:00COINCIDENZA<br />
Coincidences happen all the time. For the most part we just smile and say: 'Wasn't that a coincidence?' Two events occur at precisely the same time and we're dumfounded. Of course there's the story about three clergymen, a Catholic priest, a Baptist minister and a Rabbi, who lived on the same street and all bought new cars--at exactly the same time--and got exactly the same make, model and color, all unbeknown to each other. The story goes on about how they individualized them, by the Baptist minister pouring a bucket of water over his car, thus baptizing it; the Catholic Christening his with a vial of Holy Water; and the Rabbi taking a hacksaw and cutting an inch off the end of the tailpipe. Yes, that's getting a little off the storyline but it's still funny.<br />
<br />
How about when five of them occur? It might inspire one to go right out there and buy a pile of lottery tickets. This is a true story. Only a couple of names have been changed since the author cannot remember the proper ones.<br />
<br />
It was in the late spring, a time when the days were fairly long and the sun was up long before most human members of the animal kingdom were even stirring. Well, 5:00 AM on a Sunday morning anyway. Urban was enjoying a few extra minutes of early morning slumber before having to rise, get dressed and ready to attend church and spend the rest of the day relaxing before enduring another week of punching the time clock. His moments of relaxation were suddenly cut short by the ringing of the telephone.<br />
<br />
Urban picked it up, more to keep it from waking his entire household than to actually answer it. Suppressing an oath, he plastered on the best smile he could muster at that audacious time of day and greeted the caller.<br />
<br />
"Hello?" <br />
<br />
"Good morning, Urban," the caller greeted, "this is Father Patrice. I was wondering if Leona could play the organ in church today?"<br />
<br />
Urban put off giving Father Patrice a large piece of his mind. After all Father Patrice was not only one of the best Parish priests they had ever had, he was a good friend. And it was Sunday; no doubt the Father was extremely busy and had a lot of work to do before services began.<br />
<br />
"Well, Father, she isn't up yet, but I could ask her. She likes to play but she has a long way to go before she could really be up to your standard."<br />
<br />
"I thought she was very good," the priest responded, "when she played at that concert in Augusta last Christmas, I was left speechless--"<br />
<br />
Urban was puzzled. Augusta? What the heck was Father Patrice talking about? Leona had never played a concert in her life. She had only taken up the organ after their oldest boy had left for college less than a year ago. "Excuse me, Father, but I must be missing something. Augusta? The only Augusta I've heard about is Augusta, Georgia."<br />
<br />
A brief pause. "Of course Augusta, Georgia. I was there before transferring to Atlanta."<br />
<br />
"Atlanta? Georgia? Father this is going to really sound silly but this is Lethbridge, Alberta, in <em>Canada</em>.<br />
<br />
"That's impossible. I just dialled your number from the parish member's list."<br />
<br />
"Father Patrice, unless there has been some kind of time warp this morning, I've never set foot in any part of Georgia since the war." <br />
<br />
There was a stony silence on both ends of the line while both men collected their thoughts. Father Patrice finally starting speaking again. "What's your area code?"<br />
<br />
"It's '403,'" Urban responded.<br />
<br />
Father Patrice let out an embarrassed laugh. "My area code is 770 but the code by your name is '404.' I can't believe it; I dial a three instead of a four, and get a <em>parrishner</em> named Urban, who has a wife named Leona, only they're two time zones away. Well tell me, since I'm paying for this phone call, what's the weather like up there?"<br />
<br />
So that's got to be Coincidence Extraordinaire. But it actually happened, over forty years ago. I heard that Urban and Leona actually planned a trip to Atlanta to meet the other <em>Father Patrice</em>, and the other <em>Urban and Leona</em>, who had the same telephone number, save for a one-digit difference in the area code. George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-44250468992261845502015-10-07T19:49:00.001-07:002015-10-07T19:49:06.783-07:00NO POWER<br />
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Let me begin today's entry with a little bit of educational material from the halls of mechanical training.<br />
<br />
A diesel engine burns diesel fuel, which is injected into the combustion chambers under extremely high pressure by the fuel injection system. The injection system is a composed of very precise components that require a steady flow of fuel and that supply of fuel absolutely must be completely free of dirt and other contaminants or the system will fail and the engine will fail to run. To keep the system free of said dirt and contaminants requires a system of filters that can sift out particles as small as three microns, which I am told is smaller than a grain of talcum powder. Of course I've never had occasion to measure a grain of talcum powder so there's always a chance that someone is pulling someone else's leg.<br />
<br />
And if that's the case then I was pulling a <em>lot</em> of legs when I taught upgrading courses on fuel systems at the local college...<br />
<br />
A tractor operating in a field, is always surrounded by dust, which can enter the fuel tank where it is carried by the fuel supply pump to the precision injection system. Fortunately the designers put the aforementioned filters in between the supply pump and <em>said</em> precision system to prevent damage, and so on and so forth, ad nauseum...<br />
<br />
Farmers store fuel in large tanks, anything from five-hundred gallon tanks to vessels with capacities for thousands of gallons. Now this is all well and good but with the heating and cooling of the ambient air, and things like condensation, problems can result within the storage vessel itself. Rust and scale can form on the inside of the tank and this is also a source of contaminant, not only containing water, which is a major enemy of the injection system, but rust particles, which in themselves are abrasive. Now most of the time, the contamination level is well below the level at which fuel is drawn so it remains relatively stable. Unfortunately, when the bulk tank is replenished, it stirs up all the contaminant which can cause some troubles but after a spell of even a few hours, will settle out and the farmer can go back to business as usual. Some farmers will drain and flush out their tanks once or twice a year and, for an additional precaution, they will wait for a few hours after the bulk fuel agent has replenished their tanks before they fuel up their tractors. An added precaution is to also have a filter installed on the bulk tank.<br />
<br />
But there are those who might think about it but never seem to get around to it.<br />
<br />
JC's place of work was ten miles away from his home town. While he had few problems arriving earlier than usual or staying later than required, once he did get away and manage to close things up for the day, he hoped that maybe business was done and he could indulge in something else for the evening. However, there were occasions when he had to go back out in the field after supper. When spring planting was in full force, or when harvest was in full swing, he never really had much of a social life.<br />
<br />
One spring evening, JC showed up at the coffee shop. He was greeted by those usual Coffee Row members already seated and took a seat at the table. Supper was served and the stories flowed. Then the phone rang. 'For you, JC,' Val called out from the kitchen. JC took the phone and began to listen.<br />
<br />
'JC, it's Louis. All of my tractors are down; they won't hardly pull themselves. Can you come out?'<br />
<br />
'Come out? As in tonight?' That was in reality a dumb question to ask. If Louis wanted JC to come out, it was tonight, or better yet, yesterday, <em>before</em> the problem occurred.<br />
<br />
Well, JC had a pretty good idea what was happening, mostly because this wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't likely be the last either. Ol' <em>Slippery</em>, the bulk fuel agent had obviously been out delivering fuel. Louis would've had the fuel tanks of all three of his field tractors down to the stink of a grease rag and consequently would be all lined up waiting for a fresh supply of fuel. Louis and the boys would fill the tanks of the tractors and head back to the field where within an hour or two the filters would start clogging up with debris and by suppertime would hardly pull themselves. <br />
<br />
Now, one thing I forgot to mention: When a fuel filter is new, it's at its worst stage; fuel passes easily through the element. However, as debris gets caught up on the element's surface, it begins to accumulate and jam together, each particle packing in tighter and tighter, thus adding to the filter element's capacity to sift out the particles. It finally becomes such a good filter that nothing will pass through, and that's when Louis' boys would realize that something is wrong.<br />
<br />
Well, if it <em>was</em> plugged fuel filters (and JC was certain that was the case), then JC would have to drive the ten miles back to the shop and get new ones anyway so he simply headed up there in the first place. He knew the equipment that Louis ran so that was a no-brainer. But it was still annoying to drive up to the shop. JC seldom complained though. There usually was a good visit that went on during the service call, and often finished with a cup of coffee and a nice piece of pie at the house before he would be allowed to head for home.<br />
<br />
Louis' place was ten miles the opposite way from town. By the time JC showed up, it was growing dusk. Being skilled at changing filters, JC still had the job(s) done and the tractors running before it was totally dark. He was even able to stop back at the coffee shop for a final cup before calling it a day.<br />
<br />
The next day as JC wrote up the umpteenth work order for the previous trip to Louis' place, he pondered the perpetual situation; how could he fix this and not waste so much time? It didn't take long to formulate a plan. JC reached for the phone and began to dial.<br />
<br />
'Hey, Darrel' (JC actually called him by his proper name because referring to someone his Dad's age as <em>Slippery</em> sounded a bit derogatory, even if it might have applied to Darrel's business tactics), 'it's JC. How goes the battle?'<br />
<br />
'Just fine,' Slippery responded, 'how about you?'<br />
<br />
'Can't complain--' That was a lie; no one would listen anyways. 'Say, Darrel, I need you to do me a favor.'<br />
<br />
'Anything.' Slippery was always accommodating.<br />
<br />
'Next time you deliver fuel out to Louis' place, would you mind giving me a call and letting me know?'<br />
<br />
'May I ask why?'<br />
<br />
JC told Slippery about the numerous trips to fix the same problems and added that if he knew when Slippery was delivering fuel, he'd simply take a supply of filters home with him, thus saving the trip back up to the shop.<br />
<br />
They both had a good laugh, and Slippery said he'd let JC know.<br />
<br />
Three weeks later, JC received a phone call from Slippery. 'I'm delivering fuel to Louis' place.'<br />
<br />
'Thanks for the heads-up. I'll be ready.' It was a good warning because after supper, just as JC was having a second cup, the coffee shop phone rang, and the entire scenario would be repeated...<br />
<br />
This went on for years. Every time Slippery delivered fuel to Louis' place, he called JC to let him know, and JC would come home prepared. JC actually started keeping a stock of filters at the house, just in case Louis phoned him on a weekend...George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8041348463273602795.post-62177979441202220872015-08-29T15:44:00.001-07:002015-08-29T15:44:13.007-07:00HUMAN TRAFFICKINGMy grandfather was an avid rancher. He may have dabbled in politics, serving on the State Legislature and then for ten years, after he moved to Canada, as MLA for Alberta, but his passion was cattle and horses, and he was very successful. He began down in Southeastern Utah, in the somewhat green valleys of Teasdale. For years his herd would graze the lush meadows then in the fall, Grandpa would drive the herd over the southern mountains to the desert where they spent the winter. With the coming of spring, Grandpa would drive them back to Teasdale and the cycle would start all over again. That is until the spring of 1910 when Grandpa heard of wonderful ranching opportunities to be had north of the International Boundary into Canada.<br />
<br />
Grandpa loaded up Grandma, two kids and one baby and headed north to the promised land. Well, sort of promised land. When Grandpa checked things out a couple of years before, a Chinook had blown into the region and it was warmer in southern Alberta than it was in Salt Lake when he boarded the train.<br />
<br />
Ranching turned out to be somewhat different than it was in the Four Corners region. Rain could fall all year long and so could the snow, even in July. One could see an eighty degree temperature change in just one day; it could be thirty below in the morning and a Chinook could blow in raising the temperature to fifty above in a very short time. Of course the opposite could also happen too. But one of the most significant changes in ranching between southern Utah and southern Alberta was the need to put up feed for the winter months. <br />
<br />
Back in the states, Grandpa had plenty of grass for the cattle during the spring and summer months. The desert actually offered some good forage for the winter but I have to admit that I'm at somewhat of a loss as to where it actually was. Hay production went on but not at the level that Grandpa was soon to find out. Simply put, in Alberta, one could count on spending the summers mowing, raking and stacking hay for the winter. It just went with the territory. <br />
<br />
Grandpa was a progressive rancher too. He could see the importance of plowing up the native prairie grass and seeding it to tame grass which yielded a lot more for summer grazing and hay production. Trouble was, there was still some medicinal value to native prairie grass so making hay out of that was important as well.<br />
<br />
Now Grandpa found a lot of meadows that yielded some good grass and he (and the older boys) spent a lot of time gathering in the crops but things simply got too busy. The alternative was to possibly buy some native hay from the locals which would benefit everyone.<br />
<br />
Grandpa's first operation bordered the Indian Reservation to the east. He actually rented land from the Reserve and used it for feed crops and pasture. But, as mentioned before, the time factor, which turned out <em>not</em> to be that big of a problem after all.<br />
<br />
There was a lot of native prairie grass on the reservation and some of the Indians were willing to put it up to sell off to the local ranchers. Grandpa, always eager to get along with them, was willing to do business.<br />
<br />
It would start when a couple of guys would ride up to the ranch to tell Grandpa that they were putting up hay and they would deliver it for so much per ton. That was fine with Grandpa. The boys would head back and the next day, they returned with a wagon heaped with 'prairie wool.' They'd pull up on the scale, get weighed, then head over to the stack yard and, using large pitchforks, would unload it in fairly good time.<br />
<br />
Grandpa would watch them from time to time. One day he was sure he counted only two of them driving the load but then noticed three of them stacking the hay. Then another day there were four busy pitching off the load. Then, not surprisingly, there were five.<br />
<br />
Well, you've got to hand it to the Indians, they knew how to add extra weight to the load without having to actually <em>sell</em> it.<br />
<br />
Finally Grandpa got wise. They would pull the wagon onto the scale then Grandpa would grab a pitchfork and start probing the load, not shoving the fork in too far because he wasn't actually trying to stab anyone. 'Who's in there?' he'd demand, and almost always two or more of them would come crawling out of the load.<br />
<br />
But it didn't take long before the vendors got a little wiser. They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and that there is always a way around an obstacle. The two men pulled the wagon onto the scale and Grandpa probed the load with the fork handle. He got no response so finally concluded that there weren't any stowaways. The two men unloaded the wagon then brought it around to weigh empty to figure out the tare. Grandpa paid for the load and everyone parted company, satisfied.<br />
<br />
For a spell.<br />
<br />
Grandpa would send the boys to load up some hay and take it to the barn. When the task was done, one of them would inevitably ask about that huge rock that was next to the haystack.<br />
<br />
Grandpa was always good natured about the whole episode. He simply joked that he <em>bought a lot of</em> <br />
<em>Indians</em>... and maybe a few <em>rocks</em>...<br />
<br />
<br />George Stringamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11375285536941813368noreply@blogger.com2