Friday Report 7/20/07

Here in Greeley a few days back, one young man drowned and another faced criminal charges after a boyish "stunt'' went wrong. The stunt involved a car and a pond in a gravel pit. You get the picture.

It took me back in time to 1970.

The Campbell family, a wild-eyed gaggle of red-haired parents and red-haired boys together operated a dairy farm just west of our house in the agricultural country west of Blackfoot, Idaho.

The dairy had perhaps 25 milkers, minimal mechanization, dubious sanitation, inadequate feed and pasture, and frenzied operators.

It was chaos and mayhem, but they had fun.

The boys went to Idaho Falls and saw the movie, "20,000 Leagues Beneath the Sea."

They came home and made their own submarine by welding two discarded iron water heater tanks together. Into the submarine they welded one of the brothers. They welded him inside the craft. Inside. No escape hatch.

They rolled their submarine into the muddy waters of the irrigation ditch. As submarines often do, it sank.

The eldest brother came along about the time the contraption went down. He ran and got a tractor and hitched a chain to the submarine and pulled it from the ditch.

Little brother lived.

Ah the good old days.

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Think of Josh Turner's song "Your Man."

Every time I hear it, I think of my Mom. (Bear with me.)

Mom would love the deep bass voice, the seductive, flirty lyric, and perhaps most of all the handsome young man singing it.

But Mom died in 1976, and the Turner song didn't come out until 2006 -- thirty years later.

How do I know Mom would like the song? I just know.

It's a grace. It's a grace made available to me by my Catholic Christian faith. Veneration of The Blessed Mother comes easily to me, and it's no stretch at all to think of my own blessed mother -- and what would please her.

That's one instance of how "Catholic Thinking" works. I look for something in my world that would please the Blessed Mother.

Josh Turner's song is one of those things.

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Word of the week: Ignoramus. Webster's New World says this word comes from a Latin phrase meaning "We take no notice." 1. Originally, the word written by a grand jury on a bill of indictment thrown out for lack of evidence. 2. An ignorant person.

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Living and working next to a "cigarette store'' has been educational. We learned right away, for example, not to walk anywhere near a vehicle being driven into the cigarette store. You could die. These people have their strong need, and a mere pedestrian is no significant barrier.

There is a more subtle behavior after the new pack of 20 coffin nails is purchased. It can be called "Smoking Protocol."

These are things one ''must do'' if one is to belong to the brotherhood of smokers.

First, one tears the cellophane wrapper off with the red cellophane strip. Then, one must (and I mean MUST) throw the cellophane either out the window of the car or directly to the ground. If one fails to discard the wrapper in this way, one's membership in the brotherhood can be lifted.

Secondarily, one must smack the filter-end of the pack down hard against the palm of the hand. This motion is necessary because obviously the factory couldn't pack the tobacco tightly enough. Sometimes 30 or 40 smacks are necessary.

Third, one must tear the foil off one side of the lid, get out a precious smoke, and light up right away. After all, it's important among the brotherhood that you smoke as often as possible.

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Next week's word: Adolescent.