PHONE CARD IN THE FREEZER AND OTHER STUFF

Get a place in the wilderness, Jon. It'll be fun! You'll have a simple and carefree life.

If it wasn't so physically hard to do, I'd be kicking my own ass for suggesting that to myself.  
After three long years existing in the wilderness my life is filled with more problems and complications than a '58 Edsel Corsair, and my nerves are more shredded than the lettuce on a Taco Bell veggie salad.

I couldn't sleep all night from the scratching and scraping of the wild animals trying to nest in my roof and walls. Don't be fooled by all those cutsie wildlife documentaries on PBS and the Disney Bambi crap that we were spoon-fed as kids.
If I had a submachine gun I would have used it gleefully and without regrets.

Did you ever try to sleep on a bad mattress with a bad back and two big cats? Bosco must weigh 50 lbs. and he was dead weight on my legs like a sack of scrap metal.

When I crawled out of bed at the grim and cold crack of dawn, it took me ten minutes to get on my feet and I looked like an accordion on stilts.

Yup, I chose today (Tuesday) to drive into town - despite a warning from my cousin that there was "road work" being done.

Actually, I was fortunate to even find the road - since the weeds and "brush" on my property are now 20 feet high thanks to recent rain.
I won't mention the mud.

Driving to town wouldn't have been too bad, if a pickup truck didn't appear in front of me (seemingly out of nowhere). It was going less than 15 m.p.h.
Picture that on a narrow, winding, no passing mountain road.

Thanks to that SloMo snail, it took three times longer to get to town than usual.
I was biting my fingernails to a bloody pulp.

But luck was with me -
No road repair work was being done!

.....until I got to town.

I thought my cousin meant the mountain road was being repaired.
Instead, I discovered that she meant the roads in town were being repaired.

Every major road in the entire damn place was under "reconstruction", making it less than impossible to get anywhere.

I had to stop at the courthouse, which was located in the very midst of the road construction ( a harrowing maneuver, to say the least). My reason for going there is far too long and tedious to rely here - let's just say it had to do with the registration of some property.

 Here's the courthouse and that's exactly where I parked (I didn't take this photo - I got it from the Internet).

The lady in the clerk's office was so busy, rude, and confused that I finally left in abject frustration (to say the least) without getting anything resolved or done.

Onward to Walmart, where the holiday shoppers were out en mass.
Did I ever mention that I think all holidays should be permanently banned - and those who try to participate in them should be subjected to waterboarding torture?

I desperately needed a BIG bag of Purina Cat Chow Complete, which is the favored cuisine of my three cats. Naturally they were all out of it. So I had to settle for the small (very small) bag - and a big bag of Friskies.

I had to buy a phone card for my cell phone. The  swishy male clerk in the phone department was wearing two gigantic earrings, at least six finger rings - and he was extremely friendly.

Hey, I'm not trying to suggest anything. It's merely an innocent observation. And it's very strange for rural Tennessee. 
I haven't seen a dude look like that since I was in West Hollywood.

I bought two pumpkin pies that were on the "mark down" rack (one of my favorite Walmart haunts). More about the pies later.

The long drive home was beyond the realms of a hellish nightmare:
a huge truck hauling a load of cut lumber was going about 5 m.p.h. There were fourteen cars behind him. I was the fifteenth car.

It was like a funeral procession, only slower. I eventually started gnawing my toenails and saying profanities that would have made Satan blush.

Okay - 
what about the phone card in the freezer??

When I finally got home, I wrapped one of the pumpkin pies in a plastic bag and put it in the freezer.

Eventually I noticed that the phone card I bought was missing. I frantically searched everywhere and finally figured that I must have dropped it somewhere (like in the Walmart parking lot).

Imagine my surprise when I happened to check the pumpkin pie in the freezer. My phone card was in the bag with the pie - frozen solid!

I won't apologize for this post being long, because I condensed it. It would have been a lot longer if I told everything that happened.

Just a typical day in the life of Jon.

 

VEHICLE TALES

I'm ready to hit the road

 

I was going through old family photo files on my desktop computer this morning and was surprised at how many photos of vehicles there were. Loads of them, from an incredible span of years. Even more amazing is the fact that each vehicle ignited special memories that I had almost forgotten. 

Narrowing these stories down to a few isn't easy, but I'll give it a shot. I'll begin with the oldest. 

The crash of 1928. I'm not talking stock market crash. I'm talking car crash.

The car was owned by my great uncle, Michael Gordon - - brother of my maternal grandmother. Michael was handsome, flamboyant, and artistic. I saw some of his drawings and paintings and they were fantastic. He'd been in the Navy during World War I. After the war he started drinking and indulging in hedonistic pursuits. Despite trying to ignore (deny?) the fact, I'm sure the whole family knew the disturbing truth......that he was.......let's whisper....gay.

One night, on a dark country road, he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a tree. He was seriously injured. The right side of the car was demolished. If the impact had been on the driver's side he might have been killed.

In an astonishing theory dredged up from the Dark Ages, the family claimed that Michael's eccentricities and homosexual inclinations were the result of a head injury from the accident.

Wham!
Hit his head. 
Woke up the next day with a strange craving for lilacs and Oscar Wilde witticisms.

It was a unanimous family assertion that Mike was "never quite the same" after the accident. He became somewhat of a black sheep and his name was mentioned only in whispers of disdain. 

I never met Uncle Mike but I would have liked to. I have a feeling we might have had a lot in common.

This is a rather unflattering photo of my Mom, because she was pregnant with me - - but it's the only photo I have of this particular vehicle.
Anybody happen to know the make or year?

My mother told this story numerous times and it has always stuck in my mind.

It seems that my father bought this vehicle solely because he got a good deal on it. He initially never divulged to my mother exactly where he got it.

In the months before I was born, my father was working at the Metallo Gasket Co. in New Brunswick, New Jersey (incredibly, it's still in existence). He worked the night shift, and my Mom had to drive there every night to pick him up at midnight.

The route she had to take was a dark, completely deserted country road. The most unnerving part about it was that she had to go past an old graveyard.

Mom recalled one particular night when it was so foggy that she literally had to drive at a snail's pace, inch by inch. When she finally got near the factory Dad was outside whistling for her. She kept shouting and he kept whistling until they finally saw each other.

My mother always hated the vehicle that she had to drive. She described it as a creepy old clunker that had a peculiar smell inside. A ghastly feeling came over her every time she drove it.

It wasn't until much later that she discovered the origin of the vehicle. It was originally owned by a funeral parlor mortician, and he used it to haul corpses. It was a Corpsemobile!

I have no doubt whatsoever that my father knew this before he bought it.

Dad with Pontiac

 When I was in my early 20's in California, my parents had five or six vehicles. One of them was a Pontiac Catalina. My father had to take it to an automotive shop for some minor maintenance. He dropped it off there very early in the morning - before the shop opened - and left the key in the ignition. It was a foolish gamble, but he knew the owner of the place and had done the same procedure before.

I was living in Hollywood at the time. That morning, as usual, I turned on the  radio to hear the news. During the traffic report segment, there was a breaking bulletin:
A high-speed chase between police and a stolen vehicle on the 405 Freeway just ended in a fiery crash. The driver of the stolen vehicle was killed on impact.

I didn't think much about it until later when I learned the full story. My father's Pontiac Catalina had been stolen from the automotive shop that morning - along with another vehicle  (by two different thieves). The other vehicle is the one that crashed on the 405 - and the thief was killed.

My father's Pontiac Catalina was stolen by a couple of teenagers. A few days later my parents got a call from the police in Page, Arizona. The teens went to their aunt's home in Page. The aunt immediately got suspicious of the car and called the police.

My parents had to drive to Arizona to pick up their stolen car. It was filled with the teenager's possessions. The cops told my parents that they could do whatever they wanted with the stuff in the car. Dad drove to a local dumpster and threw everything away. Then he had the car washed.

I wasn't there. I heard the story from my Mom.

I have lots of other vehicle tales to tell but I'll spare you. Here are some photos for your viewing pleasure.

 

 I was only two years old when my parents took a trip from New Jersey to Arizona in this old contraption. I think it was a Chevy. I know it was blue. Incredibly, I remember a lot about that journey. 
In the Texas panhandle, in the middle of the night, a fuse burned out and we were without headlights. We eventually encountered some workers from an oil field. They gave my father some tinfoil as a temporary fix for the fuse.
Don't ask me how that worked - but it's what I remember.

My father in his Willys Jeep. I don't know the year - possibly 1948? This is the vehicle that my parents used when they eloped. He later bought a Willys car.

 Mom, me, and 1962 Ford Falcon. I look kinda bow-legged because a bee had stung my right foot and I was trying to keep my weight off it.

Mom & Falcon several years later. That's the car in which I learned to drive. 

 Our 1965 Cadillac. My father got into an accident the day he bought it. Someone failed to stop at a stop sign and rammed into the front fender. It looked as good as new after it was repaired. That was a great car.

This post is much too long. I'd better stop before everybody falls asleep at the wheel.





Hunks in History
a new post on my photo blog.
Famous hot guys from the past. 

http://cabinetofcurioustreasures.blogspot.com 

 

SLIGHTLY OFF COURSE

This is the final installment in my series of posts about moving from Texas to Tennessee.

WARNING: it's not half as exciting as my previous post but it's just as long.



My adventures in Arkansas didn't end when I went over the cliff. There was more to come. Nothing quite as exciting in comparison to the cliff incident - but worthy of rehashing, nevertheless.

I'm sorry to disappoint those of you who were hoping I'd go over another cliff. Don't try to deny it. I know you're out there.

When I and my car were finally extracted from that Arkansas swamp, my problems were not completely over. The rain was still torrential. It was still pitch dark. And I still didn't know were the hell I was. 

The patrol car left quickly, as did the tow truck - without even waving bye-bye. Me and my car were covered in mud. My three cats were catatonic (no pun intended). I wasn't really physically hurt, but my ego was shattered and my confidence had dwindled to the size of a pimple on a flea's ass (I just made that one up).

The road was still under construction and a single lane. With no lights and no signs. I still couldn't see a darn thing.

All I kept thinking was
What if I give a repeat performance? What if I go over another cliff?
The possibility was unnervingly probable.

I drove in the company of extreme apprehension - - until I finally saw lights and an exit. The exit took me to Russellville, where I stopped at the first motel I saw. Best Western Inn, in case you really need to know.

Hopelessly disheveled and completely covered in mud, I looked like I had just been unearthed from an archaeological excavation. I attempted to explain my plight to the night clerk, who was only mildly amused.

You're dragging out the story and wasting precious time, Jon.

Yea, but I'm always damn interesting. Admit it.

I started out the next morning with wet boots and shaken cats, but I had clean clothes and an optimistic attitude. Things looked better without the rain.

Little Rock was a blur of frenzied traffic. At this point my only concern was getting to Memphis.

The sign reads Memphis Merge Left
I merge left.

After leaving Little Rock I begin to relax. There is very little traffic. The scenery is lovely. I'm occasionally wondering why the traffic is so sparse on I-40, but it doesn't really concern me.

I'm occasionally wondering why this highway doesn't exactly seem like I-40, but it doesn't concern me.

I get concerned when I see the sign HWY 67 North, St. Louis .
 I'm supposed to be heading east. Memphis.

I couldn't possibly have been driving in the wrong direction for the past hour, could I?
I'm not that stupid.

I was that stupid.
I wind up in a little town called Newport. I fill the car with gas, eat at McDonalds, then study the roadmap. Carefully.

I backtrack on HWY 67 but opt not to go all the way back to I-40. Instead I take HWY 64  to Memphis. A very pleasant rural route.

I won't bother to alarm everyone by telling about the VERY close call I had while trying to pass a slow-moving vehicle and almost hitting another car head-on. I'm not that reckless.

Memphis welcomed me with rush hour traffic. I got a glimpse of the mighty Mississippi River (it wasn't my first time). The torrential Arkansas rain followed me through Tennessee and forced me to get a motel in Fairview for the night.

My main goal was to get to Tennessee alive and I did. I'm grateful for that.