Angels Among Us

I think it was my first post last summer, when I wrote that summers are great here in Gunnison, CO.  From Memorial Day through Labor Day, there is some event happening every weekend.  Good old all-American activities like a weekly farmer's market, local bands playing downtown each weekend, an Art in the Park festival, a super fireworks show, and the balloon festival.

This weekend is no exception, while maybe not quite as all-American as the previous weekends, this one is off to an interesting start.  This weekend more than 300 members of the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang are staying in town.  It's not quite like the old days when the town would empty when Bonnie and Clyde came to town.  But the town definitely prepared.  About 150 policemen and state troopers from other areas of the state came to provide extra law enforcement.  The strategy of the police seems to be to shadow each group of cycles wherever they go.  If you see more than five motorcycles going down the street, they have a police car alongside or behind.  Still, I have seen several arrests being made.  But overall, so far at least, not too much excitement.  Hopefully it stays that way. 

The Angels last came to town in 2002.  According to news reports, they were very well behaved.  In the three days there was only one murder!  Oh yeah, and a rape.  Guess the bar for good behavior is set a little low where the Hell's Angels are concerned.  As the national security director for one of my accounts said, "They are trying hard to remake their image, but for each picture you see of one of them with a Santa sack full of toys for kids, I can show you a picture of a dead body."  Kind of puts them back in perspective.  

My only other experience with the gang was with one of the members back in the 1980's when I had the book store.  One of my most regular customers was a guy named Charlie.  He was a Hell's Angel that had moved from California a few years earlier.  He looked just like you would picture a Hell's Angel.  Long stringy black hair, a leather hat, a leather vest with the Angel's colors on the back, big black leather boots, spiked leather gloves, and spiked leather armbands.  And of course, the cigar.  When I bought the store, I made it non-smoking.  Charlie had no problem with the new policy.  He just broke the cigar into pieces and chewed it.

Charlie came in just about every Sunday.  During football season, he had the habit of arriving just as the Cowboys (knew I had to work them in here, didn't you?) came on the radio.  And Charlie loved to talk.  He would talk for hours about mystery novels.  Mickey Spillane was his favorite.  I don't think I ever read a Spillane novel, but I knew the story line of all 100+.  He did turn me onto a a couple of good writers.  I especially liked the noir style of Jim Thompson that Charlie recommended.

What really made Charlie interesting was his mode of transportation.  When he came to Texas, he fell on some hard times.  An accident destroyed his motorcycle and left him with a bit of a limp.  He replaced his Harley with what we now call a "townie" bicycle.  If you aren't familiar with the townie, it is a throwback style of bicycle that looks like the bicycles that were popular in the 1950's and 1960's.  Especially in small college towns like Gunnison, townies are cool now.  In Texas in the mid and late 1980's bicycles weren't cool.  And townies especially weren't cool.  They were just old and cheap.  And to further add to the image of the leather and spike clad Hell's Angel riding through the city on an old style baby blue bicycle, add a wire basket to the handlebars.  Oh yeah, fill the basket with paperback mystery novels.

I once asked Charlie why he hadn't replaced his Harley.  He had a good job at a factory in Grand Prairie that made either Colt revolvers or ammunition, I can't quite remember which.  He was saving every cent possible to make his dream come true.  His goal was to buy a hearse and convert it to a home on wheels.  When I sold the book store, Charlie was still riding around Arlington, TX on an outdated rickety bicycle.  

One day, several years after I had last seen Charlie, I was driving in the usual heavy traffic near the campus in downtown Arlington.  While I was sitting in the left lane, a hearse passed me on the left and pulled into the left turn lane.  I glanced over at it and saw the famous Hell's Angel colors in the back window.  When my light turned green, I slowly passed the hearse and looked over.  The windows were covered with black curtains, each with the Harley Davidson logo.  The front window was rolled down and blue cigar smoke was rolling out.  There in the driver's seat, complete with scraggly beard, leather hat, and big smelly cigar sat Charlie looking as happy as could be.  

I would bet the back was filled with Mickey Spillane novels too.  I guess dreams do come true.  

Fourth of July and Winning

If you are ever nostalgic for the America that you remember from Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best, (when was the last time the media told us that Father does know best?), plan your summer vacation around visiting a small town on Independence Day.  I lived for maaany years in Arlington, TX.  It has been about 40 years since Arlington could have been considered a small town.  Still, it had a good parade and an excellent fireworks show.  But looking for a parking spot in a crowd of thousands of cars does not give you that nostalgic, patriotic feeling.  It mostly gave me a headache.

Last year, I wrote about the wonderful fireworks show, parade, and balloon festival here in Gunnison.  Just about 50 miles away is a very small town called Lake City.  I haven't seen their fireworks yet, but to me the main draw is the reading of the Declaration of Independence.   They have colonial re-enactors ring bells and performing a reading on the town square.  I think we all need to be reminded of our history and what the holiday is all about.

When I was a kid in Gruver, TX, we had a great celebration in the city park (yes, THE city park, there was only one).  They had a greased pole with a pocket knife taped to the top.  Anyone who could climb to the top got the knife.  When I was 11, the new kid in town, Russell Murphy made it.  I think they had used the same knife for the past five years.  No one had even come close to getting to the top.   The city workers also put pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters in the sandbox for a real life treasure hunt.  Rumor was that a kid found a silver dollar back in '72.  All I ever found was pennies and the occasional gift from stray cats.

I have mellowed with age, but until very recently, I was extremely competitive.  I once bragged to a co-worker that I beat my 10 year old daughter 32 - 10 in "slug bug / bruiser cruiser" on the way to work.  He was just as competitive.  His wife threatened to make him walk if he didn't stop counting PT cruisers on their drive.  Anyway, my competitive drive was still in its early stages back in Gruver.  I wasn't very athletic, but I really thought through the games.  One I was sure I would win was the shoe race.   In a shoe race, competitors take off their shoes and the judges mix them into a big pile at one end of the park.  The competitors return to the other end.  Then they race to the pile, put on their shoes and race back to the finish line.  In those pre-velcro days, I concluded that a lot of time was wasted tying the shoes.  So, I wore my cowboy boots, figuring that the loss of some of my already tortoise-like speed would be more than offset by not having to tie my sneakers.  When the shoes were piled, I discovered an unforeseen benefit - mine were the only boots in the pile!  When the whistle blew, we all ran for the pile.  I arrived in about the middle of the pack and immediately grabbed my boots, pulled them on and raced back.  But my friend, Clifton was also starting back and he was faster!  He also was a strategist - he had marked his white shoes with a red magic marker and didn't bother tying them.  So as we ran back toward the finish line, I was slipping all over the dried mid-summer straw that passes for grass in July in Texas.  Clifton was stopping every ten yards to put his shoes back on.  We traded the lead back and forth like NASCAR drivers on pit stops.  And as we slipped and tripped the last few yards, Curt passed us both, with his nice tightly tied PF Flyers.  Speed beats strategy every time.

My last chance at a blue ribbon was in the bicycle race.  As I said before, I was athletically challenged, so I didn't even come close to the blue ribbon, or the red, or the green.  I think I finished fifth out of eight.  My little sister, LeAnne, the most athletically gifted, but somehow the least competitive of all of us raced in the second grader's race.  She could not have cared less about winning.  So at the whistle, she took off at a leisurely pace and wove all over the street like a drunken sailor, waving to everyone she might possibly know.  She fell so far behind, I was almost embarrassed for her.  Or at least would have been if she were not my sister.   Then I learned how cruel life can be.  LeAnne was so far behind her race that the first grader's race started.  She finished just ahead of the first six year old to cross the line.  In fact, she was so far behind the last place finisher in her race, the judges thought she won the next race!  With a huge smile, she took her blue ribbon and proudly showed it to all her friends, and of course to all my friends.  Then, it occupied a prominent place on the bulletin board in her room.  Until it mysteriously disappeared.  Last summer our dad found the perfect sign to take the place of the ribbon in her game room.  It says, "I'm so far behind, it looks like I'm ahead."  Some people are just winners, no matter where and when they finish.  

Hometown

One advantage to business being down this winter is that I'm not working 60-80 hours a week this year.  That leaves some time to do more recreational activities.  Of course the disadvantage to working less hours with slower sales is the decrease in income.  That seems to be one of the unfair facts of life.  If you are making money, you have no time.  If you have time, you are not making money.  Such is life.

So, I have been reading more than I have in several years.  Two books I read this week both have hometowns and roots as a major theme.  The first one is Larry McMurtry's wrap-up of his first protagonist, Duane Moore from The Last Picture Show.  In this new book, Rhino Ranch, Duane feels disconnected from his hometown of Thalia.  A wealthy philanthropist has started a preserve to save the rhino and the town welcomes the business and money, but not the people involved.  Duane is torn between loyalty for his town and disgust for the way they treat outsiders (anyone who hasn't lived there for their entire life).  And even worse, as he ages, he is becoming one of the outsiders.  His successful oil company is now being run by his son, and now if the young people know him at all, it is just through stories or rumors about his series of wives and scandals.  He even goes through the stereotypical you young 'uns get off my lawn old man stage.  Well, sort of.  His involves the omnipresent meth cookers.  I would highly recommend this book to anyone who has read the previous books in the Duane Moore saga:  The Last Picture Show, Texasville, and Duane's Depressed.  It's a good, quick read.  As longtime Dallas sportswriter, Blackie Sherrod once said, McMurtry has written great books and good books.  The story might not be great, but he can't write a bad book. 

The second book I'm reading this week is John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley.

I think I'll write about it in tomorrow's post.

More Childhood Pyromania

Like I said yesterday, one of my few regular chores was taking out the trash and as I got older, burning it.  In our small town, the city only picked up our trash a couple of times a month.  So, we burned it in our trash barrels at least a couple of times between pick-ups.  I don't remember if there was a regular pick-up schedule, or if Don just came by when he had time.  He was kind of the do-everything city employee.  I think he was the maintenance department, animal control, and waste management department combined.  Anyway at least a couple of times that I can remember, Don provided our entertainment on a summer day.  Burning trash in the barrel and an irregular pick-up schedule was a dangerous combination.  Trash burned the day before the pick up would not be flaming, but would be smoldering.  Smoldering trash compacted on top of the other trash would eventually produce a flaming garbage truck.  I remember Bobby and I racing our bikes down the street trying to keep up with Don as he sped through town to the city dump with flames trailing out the back of the truck.

I also remember a scary trash burning incident with Jeff. We had difficulty getting the trash in his alley to burn.  His parents had their own gas tank, unfortunately within fairly easy reach of the trash barrels.  After several failed attempts to get the trash to burn, we had the brilliant idea to pour gasoline on the trash.  The tank had a long hose and just reached the barrel.  A few cautious shots of gasoline were dumped on top of the trash.  Being reasonably intelligent boys, we took the hose back to the tank before trying to light the trash.  Jeff lit a match on the side of the barrel and tossed it in.  Instantly there was a fwoomp and the flames shot up out of the barrel, just like in the cartoons!  And just like in the cartoons, the trail of gasoline that dripped down the side of the barrel to the ground and along the wooden fence toward the gas tank also lit up.  I stomped on as much as I could and Jeff ran for the water hose, which of course reached almost to the fire.  Fortunately for us, the gasoline trailed out into the dirt of the alley before crossing back into the grass to the gas tank.  The gasoline burned off before the flames had a chance to get back to the dry grass.  That was end of my trash burning career, and probably for Jeff too.

Back to Don, the city worker, he also drove the truck that sprayed for mosquitoes in the summer.  That was another form of entertainment for Bobby, Jeff, and me.  We would chase behind the truck on our bicycles, inhaling the ddt fog that would keep the mosquitoes from carrying us away.  There's a line in a James McMurtry song titled, 12 O'Clock Whistle,that says about DDT, "that stuff won't hurt you none, the neighbor lady'd say, but encephalitis, now that'll ruin your day. "If you like country-folk-rock music, I'd recommend James McMurtry.  And this one,It Had to Happen, is my favorite album. For some reason, this song reminds me of spending time in the summer with my Grandma Mae. Besides how can anyone resist a song that successfully works "encephalitis" into its lyrics!

Childhood Memories

Like the protagonist in the book I mentioned a couple of days ago, River Season, I grew up in a small Texas town.  Gruver, in the panhandle of Texas, was very similar to Jim Black's Archer City.  One of the few chores I remember being required to do, was taking our trash to the barrel.  In the pre-environmentally conscious 1970's we burned our trash in the barrels.  That's what made the job worth doing!  I think all young boys are pyromaniacs at heart.  

I had a little sister, Lori, who was still eating baby food in the old Gerber jars when I was at my pyromaniacal trash burning peak.  Mom made sure I took the lids off the jars when I put them in the barrel.  One day I finally got curious enough to ask why.  Well, mom must've missed the mommy class that told about boy's pyro tendencies.  She said that if the jars were sealed, they would explode when they got hot.  With visions of mushroom clouds in my head, I ran to tell my best friend Bobby the wonderful news.  Bobby and I were a dangerous combination.  While I would come up with all kinds of destructive, dangerous theories, Bobby was a do-er.  I might plan and revise for months and never actually execute the plan.  I was happy just visualizing the massive explosions we could create.  Lori had at least three meals a day.  One meat, one vegetable, and a dessert at each sitting.  Now she wasn't a big eater, but we could count on collecting at least six jars a day.  Six jars times seven days (we burned just once a week and Don Evans emptied our barrel every other week)would be 42 jars!  That would be one heck of an explosion.  Again, being the planning type, I argued that we could stash jars in the garage and collect an extra week's worth jars. We could create an explosion that could be seen in Spearman, or maybe as far away as Guymon!


Well, like I said, Bobby was an action man.  He knew that if he let me collect jars for two weeks, I would convince him that four would be even better.  After four weeks, I would have visualized the explosion thousands of times and probably chicken out.  So at his insistence, we took the paper grocery bag full of baby food jars and lids out to the alley.  I started the fire while Bobby started putting the lids on the jars.  Well, a little not so common sense and caution came into our 11 year old heads in the meantime.  We decided to put just half the jars into the fire at first.  No sense in burning Hansford county down.  Once the fire was going really good, we folded down the top of the paper bag half full of jars and tossed it in and ran and ducked behind the pile of dirt left behind when the railroad track was laid.  We waited and waited and waited.  Finally there was a pop, then another pop, then another and another.  Each pop was followed by a ping as the metal lids smacked against the side of the metal trash barrel.  Not exactly the Hiroshima-like explosion we were going for, but still kind of cool.


By then, even I was getting a little braver.  I suggested that we toss the remaining jars in one by one.  Just for fun, you know.  So we, well actually Bobby first, with me following a little behind, started tossing jars into the burning barrel.  Pretty soon we had about a quarter of the barrel filled with Gerber baby food jars.  Pop, ping, pop, ping.  Then pop, pop, pop, pop, it sounded like the Jiffy pop popcorn on the stove top.  Then the red hot strained pea lids started raining down.  It was funny until I had visions of hot lids landing on the dry grass and setting the great plains on fire.  I was sure that our fire would burn all the way to Kansas.  Bobby's dad would tease that I was too cute to go to jail.  I didn't know what that meant and I didn't want to find out either.  For once, I was the quick action person and grabbed the cut out top of the barrel and risked life and limb putting it on top of the barrel.  I couldn't cover the whole top, or it would fall in the fire. I had to angle it across the top so it blocked enough of the opening that the lids stopped flying and started pinging again.  While I ran around stomping on hot lids, Bobby laughed until he was rolling in the dirt.  But he wasn't as cute as me, so he wasn't afraid of prison.