A Chiminea!

Greetings and salutations, and welcome to Friday Letter #66. See what we have come up with this week.

A chiminea for Tom and Laura

We are blessed with a giant old American Elm.

Our grand old boy, with some gentle persuasion by a variety of tree trimmers through the years, has spread its friendly limbs and leaves over our entire home.

That’s right. The tree shades the entire house. A roofer who looked at the ancient asphalt shingles last summer said the tree has saved us the price of a re-roof.

The tree is very tall, and very broad. So, with any luck, the leaves blow east or west each fall, landing in our neighbors’ yards. Leaf cleanup is not that big a deal – we just have to get out there and spend a couple of hours and git-er-dun.

But the offal, the branches and twigs that constantly fall straight down from the tree, summer, winter, spring and fall, do not go in the neighbors’ yards. They go in our yard.

They must be picked up, collected, taken to the dumpster. It’s necessary to do this often. The mat of cumbersome twigs is hazardous to walk on, and hard on the lawn mower. The old elm produces a huge volume of twigs and branches.

But wait!

There’s got to be a pleasant, entertaining way to accomplish this disposal task. So we looked around. Ace had a chiminea – too much money. We never made it as far as Wal-Mart. Lowe’s got our cash.

It’s a screen-sided cast-iron pot belly stove, made in China, just right for an evening’s worth of twigs and sticks. Ashes? They go in the garden.

We buy a chiminea. What fun.

The Cattle Prodders Ball

We weren’t invited. Were you?

I hope everybody had fun, though. Nothing like an evening basking in the bright white spotlight of elitism disguised as charity.

The Arts Picnic

We could have gone, I suppose. I didn’t see a fence around the park.

However, those snobs lost me years ago.

I am a painter of sorts. I make paintings with real oil colors on real old-fashioned canvas.

So when we moved to Greeley 20 years ago I was attracted by the words “Arts Picnic.”

Then I read the “rules.” Oops. It read something like the invitation we didn’t get to the Cattle Prodders Ball. No nudes? Really. No nudes. What fun is an art show when there are no nudes?

They are sticks in the mud with their noses in the air, all of them. Fuss-budgets. The Upper Crust, if you will. The self-appointed crumbs who form the upper crust.

Elitists as public servants

So how do these elitists grab all the best committee posts? How does a person rise above the Greeley Muck to become a member of the Stampede Committee and drive a Suburban too fast?

Maybe we don’t want to know. We don’t need to know how some schmuck was just a regular guy until one day magic happened and he became a “chair.”

So now on his resume it can say, “I am chair of the Stampede Entertainment Committee.” I am a chair. When did “chair” become a verb?

The answer to that one lies in the ‘70s, with the concept of the Women’s Liberation Movement. The word “chairman,” which had been perfectly useful since English was invented, suddenly wouldn’t do.

“Chairman” is gender-imperfect, see. So it became, “I am the chair.” Personally, I hope I never become a chair, or go to a stinky rodeo or eat a $500 dinner while horses prance around entertaining me.

Am I envious? Naw, not really. Wouldn’t want to be seen driving a Suburban anyway. Bad for my image.

A dad on the scene

Last week, my brother and I told stories of how our Dad had the misfortune of showing up just in time to witness road crashes in which we were involved.

So I got to thinking. Must be some things happened of that nature when I was a young Dad. Here’s one.

-o-

It was mid-January in eastern Idaho, 1977. Cold, bitter cold. Gray. Foreboding. I had just gotten home from work, ready to sit in my recliner wrapped in a blanket, ready to warm my cold heart next to the steam radiator.

The phone rang and it was my daughter. “Dad, I’m in Idaho Falls. Can you come get me?”

I drove the 30 miles north through Wapello, Firth and Shelley, and spent a little time finding the phone booth the child had described.

There she was. She was 14. She was huddled on the floor of the booth. She was wearing a “tube top” and a pair of cutoff jeans. That’s all. No shoes. No shirt. No coat. No gloves. No hat. Just a tube top and cutoffs.

She was blue. Her breath came in short gasps. She was suffering from hypothermia, big time.

She was 14. I carried her to the truck, wrapped her in my army blanket, drove back to Blackfoot and put her in the bath. In a few hours, she recovered.

How did she get from Blackfoot to Idaho Falls? Why didn’t she wear clothes – didn’t she know it was January? How did she have the 25 cents to call for help? Who had left her there in that cold aluminum and glass box? Who would do such a thing? There are no answers.

All I know is, I got to be there. It was my privilege to see firsthand when one of my children came that close to death. Those were dark days.

Word of the week: Eventer. My old dictionary says it’s not a word. But the computer says “eventing” is an equestrian event which comprises dressage, cross-country and show-jumping.

This event has its roots as a comprehensive cavalry test requiring mastery of several types of riding. It can also be called Militaire, Horse Trials, and Combined Training.

There’s a woman driving around in a huge motor home. There’s a sign on the back of the bus that says, “Jane Doe, Eventer.”

So perhaps she is a person who comes to town just in time to get paid to help with your equestrian “event.”

Like the Cattle Prodder’s Ball. English changes all the time. Now we have “chairs” and “eventers.” Sheesh.

Next week’s word: Obsequious.

-0-

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