ADHD and the Art of Motor Vehicle Ownership

Fair warning up top: this is going to be a long post.

Recently my friend Liz read my memoir "High Turnover: Neurodivergent Adventures in the Work Force". In it I made multiple references to cars I have owned over a long life, prompting her to ask me just how many cars I had owned. At first I wasn't sure, but I took it as a challenge. I love making lists, and I started writing down all the cars I could remember. Over the course of a few days, I kept adding cars. When I felt I had finally remembered all that I was likely to remember, the list topped out at 27 cars and one moped. I asked the ever-so-wise internet how many cars the average American owns in a lifetime, and it said 8 to 12. So I guess that makes me above average.

The reason for such a high number of motor vehicles is probably related to the reason I've had so many jobs (89 at last count): a generally chaotic lifestyle stemming from severe ADHD and mild-to-medium autis). This post will serve as a sort of companion piece to my memoir. If you have read my memoir, first of all, bless you, and second, I will probably be repeating some stuff you've already read, but I'll try to keep it to a minimum. Don't worry if you haven't read my memoir -- you'll hopefully still be able to get some enjoyment from this story. Let's get to it, shall we?

MOPED:

The first motor vehicle I owned was the aforementioned moped. It was 1980, and I was 20 years old, and looking for work. Getting around my hometown of Oroville, California by bicycle was doable, but a bit of a pain if you're seeking employment. I was in no position to buy a car. In fact, I was no more able to afford a moped. I asked my long-suffering oldest brother Richard for a loan, and bought a used Batavus moped. I had great fun tooling around town on my own two motorized wheels.

My relationship with the moped came to an abrupt end one night when an on-coming car made a left turn in front of me at an intersection. I struck the car's right front fender and somersaulted over the hood, and broke my left leg in the process. This was a couple of days before my 21st birthday.

I convalesced at Richard's house in Sacramento. Our parents had left their 1970s era Ford Ranchero in Richard's care while they toured the country in their motor home. The Ranchero was an automatic, so I had no trouble driving it with a cast on my left leg. So I had transportation during my convalescence, but I can't count is as my own.

KARMANN_GHIA:

I got a substantial settlement from the insurance company of the driver who had caused my accident. Like the numpty I was about money, I bought a 1966 VW Karmann-Ghia hardtop. I thought it would be an investment. I didn't stop to consider that I might not be able to afford the care and maintenance of a vintage automobile.

After my cast was removed, I moved to my the college town of Chico, California. Pretty soon I found myself in financial difficulties. I had failed to procure gainful employment, or at least a job that I stayed with for more than a few weeks or months. I had to sell the Karmann-Ghia to pay my rent. I ended up buying a bicycle, and got around on that for the next few years.

Around 1984 I finally got a job driving bus, and stayed with it long enough that I was able to buy a 1959 VW van, which I named Klaus. He was a rusty old bucket, but I loved him. I moved to Seattle in Klaus, but we got in an accident in Olympia, Washington, and I couldn't afford the repairs, so I sold him to a wrecking yard. I ended up doing all my job seeking and working by riding Seattle's excellent public transit system.

A few years later, after many adventures (or misadventures if you please), including a brief stint in the United States Army, I found myself back in Oroville, and a prospective father with my girlfriend (then wife, then ex-wife) Jeri. Richard gave me an old Toyota sedan he had for some reason, although he was able to afford much better transportation. The Toyota had some sort of problem with the timing, but I drove it for several months while I was working for my friend Skip in his landscaping business.

Eventually I moved in with Jeri, and sold the Toyota. Our son Jacob was born in 1987. Jeri had a cute old Datsun station wagon, and her car became "our" car. I should probably mention that when you are a car owner on a limited budget, you have to become at least proficient in auto repair. Knowing that I have had 27 cars in my lifetime, you might assume that I am some sort of "car guy" or "motor head". I am not. My father was a mechanic, and what mechanical aptitude I may possess I probably inherited from him. I certainly didn't learn it from him because my only exposure to car repair when I was growing up usually involved either holding a flashlight, or handing him tools upon request, usually while being yelled at.

I had diagnosed and repaired a minor problem with the Karmann-Ghia's carburetor. My real introduction to DYI auto repair, however, came when Jeri's (I mean, "our") Datsun station wagon needed new brake shoes installed. I got a book from the library about basic automotive maintenance. I was reading the section on brake systems. Jeri asked me if I understood what I was reading, and I could honestly said I did. She was impressed, and I felt proud.

Now, the next several cars may not have strictly come in the order to be presented. I am able to affix approximate dates to some of them, but that's not important. We were poor for almost the entirety of our marriage. This was due in no small part to employment flakiness on my part, but also due to shoddy money management practices by Jeri, who stubbornly insisted on handling all our finances. To be fair, I'm no financial whiz myself, and to my shame, I gladly ceded control of our money to her. When you are poor, you can only afford cheap cars, and cheap cars don't tend to last very long. So, in no particular order:

 BIG, GREEN STATION WAGON

I don't remember what year or make this car was, but it was a whale, and it was in decent shape. We got quite a long period of faithful service from it. One winter, however, there was a hard freeze and it popped a freeze plug. I didn't know how to repair such a thing, and we gave it to Jeri's youngest brother, Craig, who did. In fact, there evolved a sort of bizarre exchange system between us and Craig, wherein we would either sell or give a car we could no longer drive for whatever reason to Craig, or he would sell or give a clunker to us.

BAD TIRES

We bought a junker from a very shady tire shop. Within a short time, every tire on that bomb blew out and had to be replaced. I suspect that the reprobates who ran the shop had gotten a junky car with decent tires, and had replaced those tires with pieces of shit they had lying around the shop. I forget the circumstances under which we relinquished ownership of that vehicle. I don't even remember what make or year it was.

I should probably take a moment to mention that over a period of several years during which we ran through several heaps in quick procession (approximately 1987 to the late 1990s), I noticed that many of the cars we came into possession of were from model year 1978. At first I thought it was a funny coincidence, but I think what is more likely is that it took about that long for cars from that year to deteriorate to the point where we could afford them.

ILL-PROPORTIONED BEAST

For a couple of years I worked for the paratransit service of our local public transit system. It was basically a subsidized taxi service for the elderly and disabled. I frequently dropped at home an old lady who lived in a trailer park. I noticed she had a big old car gathering dust in her carport. One day I asked her if she would like to sell said vehicle. She said I could have it. She professed not to know what was wrong with it, and wanted rid of it. So on a day off, I came over and checked it out. It turned out that all that it needed was a new battery. I asked her if she was sure she still wanted to give it away, and she said yes. So, free car. Cool.

It was a 1973 Dodge Polara. I forget whether it was a two- or four-door model. The back end didn't seem long enough to visually balance out the huge front end. Jacob dubbed it "The Ill-Proportioned Beast", which is from the poem "A Nauseous Nocturne", which served as the introduction to the anthology "The Essential Calvin and Hobbes".

We got quite a satisfyingly good period of service from the IPB. It saw us through my transition from the paratransit service to my servitude as a long haul truck driver for the Swift company. I was driving Jeri and the kids (by now we had a second son, Locke) to the truck depot in Sacramento after a weekend at home. We were tooling down the highway north of Marysville, California when the engine suddenly started stuttering and lost all power. I was able to pull it into the parking lot of an abandoned fruit stand. This was in the early days of cellular telephones, and we called our good friend Maureen, who drove down, picked us up, dropped me off in Sacto, and took Jeri and the kids home.

We had no choice but to abandon the IPB at the fruit stand. A few months later I saw the car sitting in a front yard in Oroville with a "for sale; as is" sign on it. I stopped and asked what was wrong with it, which turned out to be a broken timing chain.

HONDA CIVIC

We somehow managed to acquire a tiny Honda Civic. We got a lot of mileage out of that sucker. It developed carburetor problems, and it wasn't an easy fix like the Karmann-Ghia had been. I by now was back working for the paratransit service. Over the course of several weeks, I ended up rebuilding that carburetor after work. It still never worked quite right after that, so I guess I didn't do such a good job. We eventually ended up selling it.

HIGHLY STEAL-ABLE TOYOTA

We got a late-"70s to early-"80s Toyota Corolla. The ignition switch was badly worn to the point that any key or metallic object that would fit in the slot would start it. I have heard that that was a problem with Toyotas of that era. Apparently someone from our neighbor (not one of the best) knew this, because that car ended up getting stolen TWICE. The first time, a few days later I spotted the car parked in the lot of our local supermarket, and was able to reclaim ownership of it. The second time the police found it upside-down in a ditch off of "Snake Road" (so named for its winding nature), but known officially as the Oroville-Bangor Highway. That stretch of road was notorious as a dumping ground for household items that people didn't want to pay disposal fees to get rid off. The police had it towed to an impound yard, and we couldn't afford the towing and storage fees, so we had to give it up as a loss.

We inherited from Craig a Ford Fiesta. It was a banger with a suspension problem that precluded highway speeds. Strictly an in-town car. One night Jeri and I were enjoying a rare bit of freedom from the kids, and we were out for a leisurely drive on the back roads of our side of town. Suddenly the headlights cut out. I switched on the emergency four-way hazard lights, and we were able to navigate back home via the flashes.

MOTOR HOME

I realize now that this entry is a bit out of order. It was during the time of Jeri's pregnancy and birth of Locke (1992). This is covered in more detail in my memoir, but basically it was during a period of houselessness on our part. I had asked my father if we could borrow their motor home so we had someplace to live. My dad was dying of cancer, so his days of gallivanting around the country were over. He angrily agreed, but told me not to expect any inheritance from his will. As it turned out, my mom outlived my dad, and she had final say on the disposition of his will, so she gave us the motor home. We eventually sold it and were able to move into a decent apartment.

Of course, a motor home is not very handy as a general-purpose form of transportation, and one of the last of the long line of random pieces of junk we drove for a short time was...

AUDI

We bought an old Audi sedan from our friend Sue. I had to replace the starter motor before we were able to drive it. At one point it also lost its muffler, and we had to spend money we could ill afford to replace that. One funny incident occurred with that car. It used the old ceramic "bullet" type fuses. One day I needed to replace one of the fuses, but I noticed that they were all looking a little funky, so I decided to replace them all. At first, everything was fine, but suddenly all the various systems in the car began shutting down. Soon it cut out entirely, and I was able to coast into the parking lot of a local eatery. I was sitting there, wondering what to do. Then the idiot lights on the dash started coming back on, and soon I tried the ignition and the car started up like nothing was wrong. I guess it had a momentary bout of its system rejecting the new fuses.

REPOSSESSED VAN

At one point, we decided to swallow our pride and take our chances with trying to get a less shitty car from an established dealership. We had to visit a couple of places before we found one that was willing to work with us. Both our individual credit ratings were not great. We were in the market for a mini-van. I was expecting them to present us with something with maybe one door a different color, or a fender held on with baling wire. But we ended up with a very decent recent-model van. The interest and monthly payments were quite steep, but Jeri promised me we would be able to swing it.

Well, it wasn't long until we fell behind on payments, and not much longer after that that a tow truck showed up in our driveway and hauled away our new (to us) car.

LEAKY EXHAUST VAN

We somehow managed to acquire an older Chrysler or Dodge mini-van. This car had some sort of exhaust problem, wherein fumes would invade the cabin. You had to drive with the windows open, even in the dead of winter, in order to avoid asphyxiation. Turns out the problem was worn engine mounts, and one day I undertook to repair the problem. It took me all day and late into the night. It was about 2 A.M. by the time I was done, and I had to work the next day. I swore never to undertake such a project again.

BLUE VAN

Around this time (2001), our fortunes took an upswing, for a sad reason. My mom had passed away, and I inherited an not-insubstantial amount of money. We used part of that to buy a Dodge or Chrysler mini-van, which was barely 10 years old, making it the newest car we had every owned up to that point (with the possible exception of the fiasco of the repossessed van). We got several years of good service out of that blue van.

BETTY

I used another portion of my inheritance to buy a 1977 VW camper van, which I named "Betty", after my mother. Betty had some problems though, and I eventually sold her to a minister.

FILI'S TOYOTA

Around this time, I was doing time at Osmose, where I was a much-beleaguered wooden utility pole inspection and treatment foreman. We were still driving the blue van, but I worked away from home for weeks at a time, so I couldn't very well take the family's only vehicle to and from work. I bought an old Toyota Sedan from one of my crew members, Fili (Filiberto). Unfortunately, that car had such bad emissions issues that it couldn't be smogged, so I had to junk it. We had to resort to either Jeri or my step-daughter Briana driving me to and from such far flung places as Turlock, California on the weekends when I could come home. It was a hardship for all.

BURT THE BEAST

We got from Craig an old Chevy Blazer II. I was working at the Home Depot at this time, and despite his a quart-a-day oil habit, Burt was a good little workhorse.

Around this time, our fortunes, which had dwindled in the years since my mother's passing, and thanks to spotty employment on my part. Things took an upturn for two reasons. I got steady, well-paid work as a bus driver at Butte County's transit system. It ended up being the longest I ever worked at one place. We also got help from a family benefactor, who shall remain nameless. This person helped us to get three different cars over the course of a few years.

MY HONDA

The first was a Honda Civic. It was old, but it had a strong motor, and a loud exhaust system that made it sound more powerful than it really was. I got a few good years out of that beauty.

HONDA SEDAN

At the same time we also had a Honda sedan. Very nice car. Unfortunately, Briana totaled it. She was uninjured. In fact, she ended up getting in accidents, some minor, some major, in every car we let her drive. I don't know how she kept a license. We should have stopped letting her drive our cars. My beloved Civic was safe, because Briana didn't know how to drive a stick shift.

TOYOTA SEDAN

Our benefactor then helped us get a nice Toyota, which Briana also wrecked.

DODGE DART

After the loss of the Toyota, our semi-daughter-in-law, who was some kind of whiz at buying cars, co-signed for us to finance a 2015 Dodge Dart. A very nice car. This was the last car my wife and I co-owned as a couple.

TOYOTA CONVERTIBLE

My tenure at the bus company was a time of good, stable income for us, and it should have been a chance for us to prosper. Unfortunately, it was also a time of great turmoil in our family. I would rather not go into details, but owing to certain bad habits of certain family members, we were always broke. At this time, a co-worker gave me an old Toyota convertible that had been sitting with its top down under a tree for some years. It ran, but the back seat was adrift in fallen leaves. The top still worked, so I don't know why they had never put it up. Sadly, this car had such a severe cooling-system leak that it ran out of water after a few minutes of driving. I sold it to the wrecking yard on the day I left my marriage.

I took Greyhound to Portland and went to work for their transit system. For four and a half years, I didn't have a car. Then just before I moved up to Seattle, I bought...

LIAM

I financed a Nissan sedan, which I named Liam. Get it? Liam Nissan? After I took early retirement in August of 2024, I traded Liam for...

TERRY

Terry was a VW Vanagon camper van. He was the third VW van I had owned. The Spanish word for "third" is el tercero, hence "Terry". Terry and I drove all the way across the country. I had to pay for expensive repairs to his suspension system in Austin,Texas. Then he developed emission problems. I ended up giving him away in Sweet Home, Florida and financing...

RUBY THE SUBIE

Ruby was a nice red Subaru Crosstrek, which I drove home to California. Ruby developed some problems, so I traded her for my current car...

EUGENE

Eugene is a Jeep (get it?) Cherokee. Hopefully he is the last car I will need, but only time will tell.

So there you have it, the story of 27 cars (and one moped). I hope you enjoyed it. Please tell me in comments how many cars you have owned.

 

AITA?: Pharmacy Edition

Hi. It's been awhile. I periodically think I should write on this blog more often. Usually after a few beers. But this just happened to me, and I want to solicit some opinions.

I live in a small town. There is only one Walgreen's (a large chain of drug stores for any non-Americans) here, and that is my pharmacy. It has a drive up window. There are two lanes, but for the first several months that I lived here (since August of 2025), the second (or outermost) lane was never in service. Then, a couple of months ago, they put the second lane into service. The original lane has a window, and the clerk passes your medicine out via a sliding drawer. The second lane is served by a good old-fashioned pneumatic tube. I've loved those things since I was a kid. There was an old department store in my childhood hometown I sometimes went to with my mother. They had a whole network of clear tubes running along the ceiling between the office and various departments. I would stare at them the whole time, and sometimes be rewarded by the sight of a little canister whizzing along.

On the day I found out about the new second lane, there were several cars waiting in the original line. At first I was all "Ugh!", but then I noticed there was a new sandwich board type sign on the island between the two lanes announcing that the second lane was now open. I hesitated for a second, because I was nervous that if I just bellied up to the open lane, that the people who were already waiting in the original lane might get mad at me, as though I were cutting into the line. But then I figured that they all had the same chance I did to see the sign, so it's on them that they chose to get in a long line when it wasn't necessary. Admittedly, some of them may not have seen the sign, especially if they automatically pulled up at the back of the line because they had no prior knowledge of the new lane. So, I justified to myself, I'd be doing them a favor by demonstrating that there was indeed a second lane. Of course, some of the people who chose the original lane may have done so out of the same fear I had of public censure by the other people in line. Oh well.

This has happened on several occasions when I have made subsequent trips to the pharmacy: a line of cars (sometimes longish, sometimes shortish) at the original lane; no one in, or sometimes one car at the front of, the second lane. Every time, I have that niggling doubt at the back of my mind that I am somehow cheating, but I persevere. After all, when you are presented with multiple lines, whether it be at a store or bank or whatnot, don't you tend to get in the shortest line? It's just human nature, right?

I should note that despite the two lanes, there is usually only one employee serving both the window and the second lane. Inside the store, the opposite situation occurs: one line, but two windows, and frequently both windows are staffed.

Today when I went to the drive-thru, there was a car at the window, and three cars behind it and no one in the second lane. As per usual, I chose the shorter lane. I waited until the clerk was finished with the person (an old man in a big pickup or SUV) at the window. I was cognizant of the fact that this must present a quandary for the clerk: should they serve the customer at the second lane (me) or the person who was already in line behind the guy at the window? But by that logic, every car that was already in the original lane was there before me. It wouldn't make any sense to serve all of them before me. What would be the point of having a second lane in that case?

Just before the old man pulled away, I heard him say to the clerk, "The person behind me..." and I didn't catch the rest, but I had a feeling it had something to do with me. The clerk got on the speaker and told me that she needed to serve the car behind the old man because they were next. When that car pulled up to the window and the clerk greeted them, I heard the woman behind the wheel tell the clerk that she was sure "that person" (meaning me) was next. I didn't hear the clerk's explanation to her, but I did hear her say, "I don't want to get in trouble." So I waited while the clerk served the lady in the second car.

I didn't beef about it, but I was somewhat disgruntled. I couldn't be upset with the clerk, because as stated earlier, it must have put her in a difficult position. I don't know why the customers of my local Walgreen's seem to be so slow to adapt to the fact that there are now two lanes available. It sure seems like things would run a lot smoother at the drive-thru if they would. Perhaps the reason for the slow adoption of the new way is because this is predominantly a town of retirees, and old folks get set in their ways.

So, I guess my question isn't so much "Am I the asshole?", as "Do you think the clerk did the right thing by serving the car behind the old man before serving me (technically the next car)". Follow-up question, "Do you think the old man was an asshole for pointing out to the clerk that I shouldn't be the next person served?"

I eagerly await your thoughts.

The Winner of the FGES Caption Competition is...

 

Yes, it's that time. Time to announce the winner of my Freakin' Green Elf Shorts Caption Competition. But first, some Dishonorable Unmentionables:

Inexplicable DeVice: "(Down) Under the Freakin' Green Elf Shorts's grip of terror, Rimpy pleads for release!"

Scarlet: "Rimpy announces that the Freakin' Green Elf Shorts are to be made an UNESCO Heritage Site, and just like the Sydney Opera House, they often contain huge organs."

Mistress Borghese (AKA Maddie): "I wonder how much tariff Trump will put on these Elf goods?"

And the winner is (drum roll please)...

Steve. Because 'Steve' is almost as nice a name as 'Paul' was

Auntie Anne's got nothing on those pretzels!

This was Steve's winning caption:

"The Freakin' Green Elf King emerges from his Pointy Citadel to greet the world."

Congratulations, Steve! Steve is a first time winner, and as far as I can tell, a first time participant in the FGES Competition (please correct me if I am wrong about that, Steve). Please write to me at rimpyrimpington@gmail.com and provide me with a mailing address, so that I may send the Shorts to you, along with some souvenirs of my home in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Thanks to Steve, and everyone else who entered (or just commented). Our numbers may have dwindled, but we few, we happy few, we band of weirdos, help to keep the phenomenon known as the Freakin' Green Elf Shorts alive and stickin'. Long may they wave! Preferably in a patch of sunlight -- nothing like UV rays to kill germs and eliminate odors.

My Book! I Forgot I Wrote a Book!

 Oh, my stars! I neglected to let you all know that I published my memoir, "High Turnover:  Neurodivergent Adventures in the Workforce" on Amazon. It's available as a paperback or an ebook. You can go here if you would like to check it out. There is also a link to it in the sidebar of this blog. Thank you for your attention to this matter. 

2025 Official Freakin' Green Elf Shorts Caption Competition!

Hey, hey! Guess what? Just in time for the winter holidays, it's the Freakin' Green Elf Shorts Caption Competition.

To recap the more recent adventures of the FGES, between November 2024 and February 2025, the Shorts traveled to many locations in the United States during an epic cross-country road trip. I contemplated using one of the many photos I took wearing the Shorts at landmarks famous and not-so-famous across this great land for the competition, but not long after I returned to my home base in California, I received and invitation to attend the wedding of my BFF in Australia in September.

What a great opportunity, thought I. The Shorts "returning" to the Land Down Under. For those not familiar with the history, or in case you have forgotten, the reason for the quotation marks above is because the Shorts currently residing with me are actually the second pair used in this competition. The originals disappeared during their first and so far only sojourn to Oz.

So, without further ado, I present the official Freakin' Green Elf Shorts Caption Competition photo:

The rules are simple. Submit your caption(s) by 11:59 P.M. (PST) on December 31st, 2025. Yes, multiple entries are allowed. If you merely wish to comment, please be sure to specify that your comment is not a submission. You must own a blog to have your submissions considered. The winner must then host their own caption competition, with a picture of them actually wearing the Shorts. You may hide your face if your wish. No alteration of the Shorts is allowed.

A winner will be announced on January 7th. The winner will receive not just the Shorts, but also a few trinkets representing my location, anywhere from locally to regionally to nationally.

Please help spread the word by sharing this news on your own blog, if you have one.

Good luck! I can't wait to read (and judge) your witticisms. May you have a blessed and joyful holiday season.

Snakes and Dadders

The great white hunter

In preparation for submitting my jobs blog for publication at Kindle Digital Publishing (link coming soon!), I visited Buffi in Vallejo to look through some old phamily photo albums to harvest some good images for the book. Upon seeing the picture at the top of this post, I asked, "Why did Dad have a gun?", to which Buffi said, "Because... he had a gun."

A simple answer to a silly-sounding question. The reason I asked it is because I had never seen any guns around the house, nor do I recall my father ever mentioning any interest in firearms or hunting. The picture was taken a few years before I came on the scene. Buffi then told me a remarkable story.

Our family lived in various areas of California -- mostly around the Los Angeles area, Sacramento, and the rural north state. Dad always enjoyed hikes, and we kids enjoyed going on them with him. Not because we necessarily enjoyed his company, but kids usually want to be included in things their parents do, and also he tended to yell at us less when he was enjoying himself.

So he had that rifle ostensibly to protect my siblings from such threats as coyotes, mountain lions, and other dangerous wildlife. I also think his trigger finger was itching to shoot something, without having to go to the trouble of obtaining a hunting permit.

The story goes that on one hike, Dad and the sibs happened upon a rattlesnake next to the trail. Rather than just keeping their distance and going their separate way from the serpent, Dad decided that this "threat" needed to be dealt with by meting out some good old-fashioned frontier justice. He told the kids to head up the trail to a "safe" distance while he dispatched the menace. He then put the barrel of the rifle (which I believe she said was a .22 caliber) right up close to the snake's head. Admittedly, a snake is pretty hard to hit, especially with anything other than a shotgun, but c'mon! Obviously, I didn't get my natural sharpshooting skills from Dad.

I am told that a rattle snake can strike up to two-thirds of its body length, so even if that snake was just a three-footer, it could easily have bridged the distance between the end of the barrel and Dad. I can't help but think that the snake must have been coiled and shaking its rattles like crazy.

So Dad fired, and simultaneously the snake dove down a hole. He wasn't sure if he had actually hit it, so he proceeded to stop up the hole with rocks, because that always works with snakes.

I later had my own experience with Dad and a rattlesnake. The sibs had long since moved out on their own, so it was just me and a now-unarmed Dad against nature, red in tooth and claw. I can't help but wonder if, upon hearing of the attempted assassination and subsequent Cask of Amontillado-ing of the snake, Mom made her husband give up firearms.

Dad and I were hiking somewhere. As I recall it, I was a few yards behind Dad. Suddenly, I saw a rattlesnake within striking distance of me. Perhaps it was rattling, which caused me to notice it. I froze in terror, but I managed to scream for Dad. He came back, and somehow we were able to get away without harm to any parties. But when Dad related the story later, he said the snake was right next to him, and it was I who alerted him to the danger. I don't know how I would have seen it, since I distinctly recall being several feet to the rear. I guess since he had been emasculated by not having a handy weapon, he had to make his part of the story seem more important. I guess we'll never know what really happened that day.

This post is actually supposed to be about what a fuck-up Dad was, but while we're on the subject of snakes, I would like to relay my own battle with a ferocious reptile.

It was when I worked as a wooden utility pole inspection and treatment foreman -- which you can read all about over on the jobs blog, or soon to be available wherever fine Kindle digital and print books are sold.

My crew and I were working a line of poles in the arid lands east of Reno, Nevada, along the Truckee River. My digger Art and I had walked ahead of our treater Cory, who was still preparing the tools and materials of his trade at the truck. We were crossing a plain of rocks and sagebrush. It was a windy day. As we approached our first pole, we became aware of a buzzing sound ahead of us. Sometimes the tops of old poles become kind of frayed, resembling Bart Simpson's hair. When the wind blows over and through these fissures in the wood, it makes a buzzing sound. We assumed that's what we were hearing, and proceeded on our quest. Suddenly the buzzing became much louder. We realized it was a rattlesnake, and a big one by the sound of it. We immediately turned tail and ran at top speed back whence we came.

Cory by then was following us with his wares, and was surprised to see us charging in his direction. When we stopped and explained why were running, Cory (who was Black) said, "I've never seen White people move that fast!"

We began throwing rocks towards where we had last heard the snake. We hoped to be able to encourage it to move away from its spot between us and the pole. We couldn't see it, but one of my missiles apparently was a direct hit. A furious hissing and buzzing ensued, and a sage bush began shaking violently. I don't know if I had dealt it a mortal wound, and it was in its death throes, or if it was just injured and angry and lashing out at anything near it. Eventually the sound and the fury abated, but we didn't bother to confirm any possible kill. Instead we treated the pole (and all the other ones in the area) as quickly as we could, with at least one person keeping a lookout for more snakes when not otherwise busy.

Back to the business at hand. Buffi told me another story that convinced me that Dad was a major doofus. He was always headstrong and stubborn. He liked to "do his own thing", and didn't like to be told what to do by others. I think this overweening independent trait is what lead him into some of his more boneheaded misadventures.

Mom had a lifelong friend named Jean Wynn. Jean's husband Bill was a successful dentist in Concord, California. The Wynns owned a motorboat. When I was a toddler, our families were enjoying a day of swimming and boating at a place called Steamboat Slough on the Sacramento River. Bill, Dad, and the sibs were out in the boat. At one point, Dad stood up and moved from one side of the boat to the other, which caused everyone, including Bill the driver, to spill into the water. The boat kept going in circles. There was a very real danger that it might run over one or more of them. Mom witnessed this incident from the shore, and was so frightened that she peed herself.

On one pass, Bill was able to grab the boat and pull himself aboard and bring it under control. No one was injured. Mom was wearing a bathing suit, so she just had to rinse herself off in the water.

I have a feeling that there is a good chance that Bill had told everyone not to stand up in the boat while it was in motion, but Dad being Dad, he didn't heed that advice.

Those stories made me reflect about how Dad always acted like he was SO good at things, and his way was superior to any other person's. Everyone makes mistakes, but he could have killed or injured himself or one the sibs with a ricochet in the snake incident, or gotten one or more of the boating party chopped into fish bait. So it was gratifying in a horrible kind of way to hear what an absolute dumb shit he was at times.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Baja Humbug!

 

A portrait of the author as Groucho Marx, accompanied by his parents as Harpo and Chico. 

Mom was always interested in art. She took a lot of classes. Her preferred medium was watercolors. In their middle years, Dad made enough money as a union heavy equipment mechanic to afford to indulge Mom's artistic pursuits. She went on several extended painting classes/trips to exotic locales such as Portugal and Baja California. Most of these trips were led by famous watercolor artist Richard Yip.

For the Portugal trip, Mom flew there by herself. I have several pictures of her from that trip. She looks extremely happy. It was the first time she had been out of the country, and I'm sure she was enjoying being away from her overbearing husband for a week or so.

The picture at the top of this post was taken in Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico around 1976. For other students of Mr. Yip, there were arrangements for air fare and lodging. In fact, the photo was taken at the hotel where the other students were staying. Perhaps in the interests of frugality, Dad drove Mom and I down to Mexico in our motorhome. It was during the Christmas school holiday, and Dad usually had his vacations at that time, when work in the construction industry was slow. I remember riding in the cab of the motorhome on the narrow, winding roads of Baja California. Drivers of oncoming vehicles showed signs of panic upon seeing the giant motorhome lumbering towards them. Dad would stick his left arm out his window and wave them onward, yelling, "Plenty of room!". Of course, they couldn't hear him, and probably wondered what the crazy gringo was gesticulating and shouting about.

Instead of staying at the hotel with the other students, we stayed at an RV campground near the beach. I thought that Mexico was always warm. Not so. Oh, there were a few days when we didn't need jackets, but it was December, so it was often chilly. At the time, the motorhome had a toilet, but it didn't have a built-in shower (Dad later remodeled and expanded it to include one). One cold, windy day, the 'rents made me go and bathe at the communal shower facility at the campground. The chilly zephyrs whipped through the open windows set high in the concrete walls of the bath house, and the water wasn't even warm! I bravely tried to shower, and made a fair job of it, but arrived back at the motorhome a shivering, blue mess. Mom said that if it was that bad, I shouldn't have done it, but I was raised to do what I was told. I couldn't help but be envious of the smarter guests enjoying warm showers at the hotel.

Despite that, I had a pretty good time in Mexico. Minors could buy powerful fireworks there. I blew up a lot of M-80s. We visited the famous La Bufadora, a place where waves pound into narrow fissures in the cliffs and a geyser of water shoots out of a hole at the top.

M-80s. Contrary to urban legend, they are not a quarter stick of dynamite, but they're still a blast.

La Bufadora -- "the blowhole", or "the snorter".

For some reason there was a costume party held at the hotel. I was obsessed with the Marx Brothers at the time, and I talked the 'rents into dressing as Harpo, Chico and Groucho. Of course, I was Groucho. I had seen a lot of their movies, and I had the bit down. Dad was Harpo, and Mom was Chico. Mom and Dad were old enough to have seen Marx Brothers movies in theatres when they were new releases. I remember Mom telling me how she almost peed her pants at a particularly funny thing Harpo had done in "Night at the Opera".

I don't know if Dad had been to any of their movies in his youth, but he was familiar enough with the concept. I had to give him some coaching on some of Harpo's signature moves. He really got into his role, probably because he saw it as an opportunity to chase frightened women around. His take on Harpo was rather terrifying, as you can see by his mug in the picture.

I have another picture from that same party...

Cursed Image: View with Care.

Apparently these are the winners of various categories of costume. A young boy, whose entire costume seems to consist of a sombrero and bandana atop street clothes, is front and center with a blue and yellow ribbon. I'm guessing he won best in children's costumes. On the right are three... bears? Pigs? Mice? I can't tell, but all those species have famous fairy tales feature trios of them. One of the bear/pig/mouse creatures has an all-yellow ribbon, perhaps second prize for group costume? Behind the boy is a man apparently dressed as a samurai? I don't remember what Richard Yip looked like, and I can't find any pictures of him on the web, but I suspect that may be he. He doesn't seem to have a ribbon, so he may be in the picture in his capacity as host of the event.

And then there's Dad, mugging ferociously for the camera. At first I thought he had simply barged his way into the picture. It would be in keeping with his personality, enhanced by his method approach to his character. But then I noticed that he also has a blue and yellow ribbon. I don't remember him or us winning a prize for our costumes. Was I -- also a child -- passed over for youth costume by a punk in a sombrero and kerchief? If Dad's ribbon was first prize for group costume, why aren't Mom and I also in the picture? If his ribbon is for adult costume... well, I guess he deserved it for his scenery-chewing performance. It just seems unfair because the whole thing was MY idea! I demand a recount!

Lastly, I liked to point out, that if you look closely, there seems to be some sort of purple ectoplasm emananting from Dad's groinal area. This doesn't surprise me at all, considering how he seemed to be possessed by the horny spirit of Harpo Marx that night.

And that's how I spent my Christmas vacation.