Ponderings

 

 

    At the age of 84, I am certifiably old in the game of life, but not quite ready to cash in my chips. It has been an interesting process. When I was 21, I was certain that I would have a handle on the changes by the time I was thirty. What I didn’t know was that the changes come faster than one can accommodate or adjust to them. Thus, as an old fart, I have lingering questions.

     For instance, who or what am I to believe now that lying has been institutionalized by the government at all levels? Will Artificial Intelligence, which mines cyberworld for its information, eventually learn to lie to us? “Gee. AI, how is the security of our power grid?” “Oh, just wonderful, JD.  It is the most secure power system ever developed by humans.”

     So, I have sluiced my memory box to reclaim chunks of knowledge that were given to me over the years by folks who had no reason or inclination to lie to me.  What follow are a few of those nuggets.

     My Dad, Red Smith, was a railroader and solid union man, a WWII Marine who advised me to stay away from the military, and a patient, gentle human. His guiding principle was “Give till it hurts.” He and my Mom saw me to the train the day I left the Sandhills of Nebraska for a college in Massachusetts. He put his hand on my shoulder and said “Folks back there are liable to invite you to supper. Remember, don’t pick your nose with your fork.”

    My Mom, Chris, was stout and practical. She died at the age of 101. Two pieces of advice I can remember were “ If you are worried about dandruff, wear dandruff colored clothing” and “ If  you drop something on the floor and bend down to retrieve it, look around for anything else that needs to be done while you are down there.” 

     My Uncle Olie was an influence in my formative years. He gave me my first airplane ride, encouraged the acquisition of my first Harley at age 14, and supported several hot rod purchases. He owned a functioning Stanley Steamer automobile. I stopped by his Platte River home when I was about 25. He was a trucker, hauling crops to the ports on the Missouri.  Olie said “You have been so many places you should write a geography book.” Perhaps that is what I have been doing all these years. 

     My good pal Dewie Lovelace has been dead for ten years and I still miss his wisdom. He was a one-eyed horseshoer, having lost an eye to a piece of metal from a T-post he was driving with a sledge. He was a hired man who married the boss’s daughter and they lived in a barn with their horses down on the Snake River. Dewie said, “You can sometimes be smarter than a horse, but you will never be stronger.” 

         Ted and I worked together for eight years. He was a rancher’s son from central Idaho with a collection of cowpoke expressions. A few that I remember were “It was darker than a hatful of assholes” “I was as welcome as a turd in a punchbowl” “She shined like a dime in a goat’s butt” and “It was about as fancy as the shithouse door on a tuna boat.” 

     I was best man for the wedding of Hester the Jester and Sawmill Floy. Hester is a solid brother of mine. We sailed paper airplanes from a bell tower in downtown San Francisco, worked where a rancher’s wife tried to feed us microwaved liver, sat beneath the trees on the backstretch at Bay Meadows with the jockeys yelling at each other as they blew past. Thirty-five years ago, I was doing double shots of Jim Beam with beers back when Hester said that I should try not drinking some Saturday night, to see how it felt to wake up Sunday morning feeling better than when I went to bed. I tried that and haven’t had a drink since.