The Rain Makes Applesauce

When my brother and sister were young, they had a book titled And the Rain Makes Applesauce. I don't remember what it was about but for some reason Mom would use the line whenever my sister uncorked a whopper. "The Bogeyman ate all the cookies!" "And the rain makes applesauce." They had another one called A Apple Pie but it wasn't nearly as memorable. Anyway, It has been an incredible year for apples and the old Gravenstein behind the mo-beel home has been producing dozens, scores, hundreds of yellow and red apples that land on the ground with a thump. The local deer can't keep up with them and the turkeys come by every morning and peck a few. I make pies out of them and gallons of applesauce which I freeze in the new freezer. The old one from the 1950s finally died. I make at least a gallon a day and sometimes two. The apples bruise where they hit the ground so I have to pare a lot of brown along with the peeling. The later in the season it gets, the riper the apples and the finer the sauce. Our tree ripens the first in the neighborhood and then there are many more later apples to steal. Should be able to have applesauce until next summer at this rate. N

Work Day at Andy's Place

Had a wonderful time working on Andy's place upstream of Leaburg, downstream of Vida. Andy served in the same unit I did a decade or two later and is now in the NG. He is having some serious health issues so Vince organized a work day to clear up his place since he can't any more. Somebody organized 60 volunteers to come on down and bear a hand on his over run forested lot. Before the White Elephant NG bus arrived with the volunteers from Portland, I attacked a blackberry jungle that had come roaring back in the 90 degree stress panel I built to hang the gate on. I used my 357 chainsaw. Love the name. As the berries splattered on my saw chain, I looked down and found one of Boone's balls that had landed in the thicket. He had been running around trying to get people to throw sticks. I tell him: "We don't do sticks--go find a ball." I held it up and as he came running, I threw it in the Leaburg canal a few times to play wash the dog. When the volunteers came trickling down the dead end road I learned that they were a company of accountants. I had somehow suspected that they would be NGs. Vince, the NG rep held a briefing and then started looking for jobs different people. I wound up with four young men who looked physically fit. A fir had fallen over across the fence and the top just crossed the wire. I had cut thirty feet of the top of the log before the gang arrived. I ribboned the old wire fence that had disappeared into the black berries so no one would trip on it. I continued cutting the log and brushing the line. The stout young lads packed the rounds and shot put them over the fence. I cut the rounds shorter as the tree got bigger. It started getting hot. Soon all the wood was across the fence in a big heap. The macho men were all over splitting the rounds. None of them had ever done this fun. They learned that it takes more than just muscle to bust wood. This was a particularly tough bunch of rounds. Soon we had one pair busting rounds in half with a sledge and wedge. The shaker would throw the halves to the other pair who would chop them down with an eight pound maul. I taught them to position themselves so if the head flew off their maul, it would fly into the brush and not hit somebody. Another crew worked on graveling the road with stolen gravel from a BLM stockpile. Mike Dalton brought his PU bed trailer. Somebody brought a plate compactor. Three people saw where I had cut the berries in the fence corner and attacked the berries with loppers. I used Andy's truck to drive around the house with a load of split wood as a crew was digging in barko mulch trails--one to the woodshed. Somebody used the power polesaw I had borrowed and cut back a lot of stuff that had encroached onto the house. The volunteers were moving cut vegetation like ants to form a huge pile in the middle of the yard. It will have to be swamper burned this winter. Boone was in hog heaven. There were dozens of people willing to throw his new found ball. There were four or five other dogs on the scene and they all played well together. Somebody brought about 40 pizzas from Ike's just up the road. After lunch we hit it again in the heat. The macho men finished up the wood and left the last round for a chopping block. Channel 16 came out and needed some action footage so some volunteers stacked the busted wood. If you see it on the news tonight, I'll have you know, I cut that wood. Andy had to leave at 1300 for a Cat scan or some such. There is no good news. Boone wore down and didn't bother people to throw the ball any more. I gathered my gear, loaded my PU and fled the scene. N

The Boat

My father died on Mothers' Day of 09. He knew he was terminal but never got around to doing a will. Under Oregon law, when you die intestate, your spouse gets half your property and your children, be they one or fifty in number, split the other half. He did say a couple weeks before shuffling off this mortal coil that he wanted his wife to have his money, such as it was, and his two children to have his personal property. He said this in all of our presence. Sis and I split the duty of changing diapers and administering morphine with his wife. I was recovering from minor surgery but managed the heavy lifting. Sis is a lawyer and went back to New York with the outline of a will for Dear Old Dad. But Dad went into a coma and died even sooner than we had imagined. No will. So be it. I liberated DOD's fish poles and firearms as I seemed the most likely of the three of us to use them. Ted, Sis' boyfriend, and I hauled the hospital bed Dad spent his last days on from the living room to the garage after the undertaker hauled his body away. I put my hand on his head through the body bag and said good bye. The funeral was a week or so later. It didn't take long for the fireworks to start. Dad's wife, Emily declared that I had stolen Dad's firearms and fish poles. Not long after Dad's ashes were interred at the Eagle Point National Cemetery, She tried to file a police report on the theft. The police officer who got to listen to her complaint labeled it a "family dispute" after talking to Sis on the phone. He never called me. Dear Old Dad had never been a father to me. My mother had divorced him for being a terrible drunk before I was a year old. He was in the military where you can be a functional drunk--or used to anyway. I have few childhood memories of him. My very earliest must be when I was about three years old and he took me fishing with his stepfather on the Coquille River. Alcohol and firearms were part of this story. Dad's truck was in both his and Emily's name so she was able to appropriate it with no hassle. Dad's boat was another matter. It was in his name only so it had to be probated. Sis looked into it and decided it wasn't worth the effort. I monitored the boat's ownership through the Oregon Marine Board for a year or so. Suddenly the title changed from Dad's name to Emily's. I called the OMB and explained that Emily wasn't the sole surviving heir in this case. The woman I talked to showed interest in this and one way or the other, the boat title was revoked or rescinded. I tried to talk to her lawyer about negotiating a satisfactory settlement to our situation. He told me to buy Emily's half of the boat for $$2,500 or quit bothering him. I quit bothering him. Eventually the OMB got tired of holding the boat title in limbo and printed out a fresh title in all three of our names. I called the woman who had been dealing with this mess and asked her to send the new title to me. Jane said that in her 13 years working at OMB, she had never seen anything like this. So now, here we are, bargaining for Dad's military medals, photographs and other few souvenirs like used car salesmen. What will happen next? Stay tuned.

A wienerdog walks into a bar...

Sande and I rode over to Florence on my Rocket III this morning to eat a big pancake breakfast at the Rebeka's Jesse T. Jones camp ground. After we pigged out and Sande caught up with everybody we went over to see Randy and Colleen. Randy is raising koi all over the place. We caught up on all the news and then we left. While it was cool in the morning, it warmed right up by the time we left Florence. We stopped in Mapleton so Sande could get some water and stretch. While we stood there in front of Frank's Place Bar, a little red wienerdog wandered in through the open door. I immediately said: "A wienerdog walks into a bar..." Haven't been able to think of the punch line for it but it is clearly an excellent beginning of a joke. Five minutes later, the wienerdog came wandering back out of the bar. I guess they wouldn't serve him. We rode back on Highway 36. The parking lot at the slide at Triangle lake was packed. I have no doubt that the swimming hole was shoulder to shoulder. Sande had never been on that segment of 36 before. Turned right on Poodle Creek Road and looked at Greg's place. No apparent break ins. Stopped in Noti for gas. The R3 got 39 mpg on that fill up. A good 150 mile ride. N

Last Day at the Salt Mines

Today is my last day at the salt mines. I received a maple burl clock made from local BLM wood with a thin bread sliced piece of the original Oregon & California RR rail with 1985 to 2012 on a small engraved piece of metal. The O&C RR Co was granted hundreds of alternating sections of Oregon land in a checkerboard pattern after the Civil War as incentive to build a rail road through the Willamette Valley from California to Washington State. The O&C RR didn't get around to it in a timely manner and the government repoed the land. It was just land covered with trees anyway. In those days, the first thing you had to do was get rid of all those damned trees in order to do anything with the land. The Government Land Office took control of the defaulted land. After the Second World War, the GLO disbanded and the Bureau of Land Management was formed. The O&C RR Co had laid down some track so now when Oregon BLM employees retire or move on after 10 years, they get a piece of the rail on a Big Leaf Maple (BLM) plaque. Gary Wilkerson made us a clock for our wedding back in 93 so I brought it to work and Dave Mattson superglued on a chromed piece of the rail. He even went out and found a new clock mechanism to fit in the recess as the original had died. I aim to crash Dave Reed's BBQ party (we retired on the same day) next Friday and have Dave Mattson read excerpts from The Velveteen Rabbit and all the names of the temps who got to sign it. I hope to work part time gigs at Tyrrell Seed Orchard on occasion in future, but this is it for the 9 to 5 commute to town scene. I will not miss the ce-ment plant across the fence. I got my piece of the rail superglued to the maple burl clock made by Gary Wilkenson for our wedding in 93. I moved back to Eugene from Ashland in 1985 to use up the last of my GI bill at the U of O partying—I mean studying journalism. Eventually I ran out of dough and decided it was time to get a job. I happened to be listening to the radio one morning when I heard the announcer babbling about help wanted in the Eugene Springfield area. At the end of his list, there was a half breath spent on the Eugene BLM needing four temporary forestry techs. Down I went to the Pearl Street Office and submitted a SF 171. A week or so later, I was hired along with Brett Jones, Mark Herron and Weird Albert. We were all promptly banished to the red house where the other three were snapped up by the silviculture and timber shops. I was assigned to Wayne Tinglum, Lorane RA’s surveyor, as his point setter. I didn’t know anything about surveying but I did know how to cut brush so I hacked line for Wayne and picked up a basic understanding of land surveying. Found some original corners and three naval stores trees in my time in the woods. One of my fondest memories of being a temp was the time I didn’t get a paycheck. Remember paper paychecks? Anyway, I gave it a few days before going to see our payroll technician. I discovered that I had been terminated two weeks previously but nobody had gotten around to informing me of the fact. After a couple of seasons with Wayne, I applied for a temp position on the cadastral crew. I got the job but was only allowed a GS-4 rating because I had been working as a forestry tech for Wayne. I pointed out that I had been working as a surveyor’s assistant the past couple seasons but this failed to cut any ice. Mark Herron also wound up on the cadastral crew with a GS-5 as he had college education in forestry. GS-4 it was. I spent a couple seasons on the crew with Mark and Rad Brad. Eventually Pete Pisani and Oscar joined us for the Deadwood abuse. We visited places that time forgot and got introduced to devil’s club and giant Pacific salamanders walking through the woods. And then it rained harder. While working out of the Pearl Street Office, I originated the seasonal fun of jumping out of the shrubbery wearing a hockey mask and starting a chainsaw on Halloween morning to greet people coming to the front door. There was plenty of camouflage, cover and concealment. The shrubbery was too small when we moved to Chad Drive so this fine tradition languished and died. During my second season of cadastral fun, I applied for a permanent position as a forestry tech. Fire fighting was a significant portion of the PD and I didn’t have so much as a red card. Still, I went for it. The District planned to hire four forestry techs. I came in second on the list of eligibles (with veteran’s pref) and felt that my future was secure. I was wrong. I kept asking when I was starting in my new position—and encountered a stubborn silence. I was forced to call a meeting with the state director. He was coming to town on other business anyway, and so he brought the state office head personnelist with him. I had put together personal flip charts for all parties that demonstrated conclusively that I should be hired. There was ever so much more to this story but I will omit it in the interest of brevity. Eventually, I was advised by my boss that if I didn’t quit causing trouble, my fine GS-5 (finally) cadastral temp job might not be waiting for me the beginning of next survey season. I decided that it was time to roll the dice. On the last day of my term, I discovered the boss’ brand new yellow rain jacket in the rig as I was putting stuff away. I found a magic marker and drew a fine target on its back, at least a foot in diameter before folding it up and putting it away for the winter. Sure enough, I was not rehired the coming spring. I was working for a private surveyor but heard through the grapevine that the yellow rain jacket was a huge hit on opening day of field season. Eventually, after 20 months, the Office of Special Counsel finally arrived on Eugene District and interviewed 36 people. The official attitude changed from: Go away Boy, you bother me—to Can you start work next Monday? I had told my current boss that I was going to force the BLM to hire me but I don’t think he believed me. He did when I gave him a week’s notice. My original plan was to take a week off before starting my new permanent job. My old boss couldn’t find anybody to replace me so I wound up working the interim week after all. As luck would have it, my first day as a permanent fell on an all employees’ meeting at Harris Hall. Ron Kaufman, the DM, asked all the department heads if they had any new employees to introduce. When it was Brad Krueger’s turn, he denied that he had any new employees. Feeling slighted, I stood and raised a fist like a victorious boxer . I had broken the temp barrier! I had taken my position by conquest just as had William taken England! I had boldly gone where no temp had gone before! The rank and file cheered and clapped. Most of them were aware of my struggle to shatter the temp barrier. “Oh yeah,” Krueger finally acknowledged, “Hamar’s back.” And that was that. I ordered a custom license plate for my new pickup that read X-TEMP. I was careful to always park the rig (when I wasn’t riding a motorcycle to work) so its front was pointing at the main employee entrance at Fort Chad. I wish to go on the record here to state that the X-TEMP plate was the idea of Ian Johnson—a recovering temp who finally turned to teaching at the age of 45. When I was a wannabe permanent, I would say things like: “When I become real I will do thus and such.” After breaking the barrier, Dave Mattson gave me a copy of the Velveteen Rabbit. Since then, all temps who become real get to sign the fly leaves of the book. I have left it in the stewardship of Dan Christenesen for future ex-temps to autograph. I soon found myself resentenced to cadastral crew as a permanent. The mutual fondness between me and the boss hadn’t waxed any and so I sought to break the gravitational pull of the CC. Eventually I succeeded and then I discovered that there was the GS-7 barrier to break. Myself and some other ceilinged GS-7 FTs utilized the formal EEO process on this one and after 20 months (is this a magic number of some kind?) we all achieved Mach II, and became promotable to the GS-9 level. I got to participate in the fire program. Got a red card finally. I remember paddling across Waldo Lake with shovels when a boat motor wouldn’t start on the High Spirit Complex. Warner Creek, Warm Springs, Montana—too many fires to remember. I hiked Storm King while doing helicopter duty in Glenwood Springs in 2002. We moved to the new office on Chad Drive. There was a lot more room. John Peacher was killed in an automobile accident and I inherited his junk car program in 1996. John liked to utilize the system of employing the road department with dump trucks and backhoes to round up abandoned automobiles and store them out at the Triangle Lake Maintenance Yard. I elected a more low tech method. It took some doing but eventually I trained Oregon’s Dept of Motor Vehicles and Schnitzer’s Steel to do it my way. I would write a paper giving me (representing Eugene District) the right to own a junk car and sell it to Schnitzer Steel for scrap value. Our LEOs liked this system. Adam and Jon would get email reports, pictures if they wanted, and for the most part, the junk cars would move quietly out of the woods to the steel yard where they started the long road to reincarnation as a new Toyota. I dealt with camp trailers full of crap, boats, cars, school buses, trucks & major appliances. Sometimes I poached junk off the reservation but nobody seemed to care. At one time, the 5310 used car fund exceeded $80K. The used car program at least defrayed its own expense. I got the National Guard to participate in this fun and the motor section would use a five ton wrecker to yard up junkers that Bubba and Billy Bob had pushed over cliffs to reinact their favorite Dukes of Hazzard scenes. The members of Echo Company’s motor pool seized the opportunity to practice extricating heaps out of canyons. Now the price of steel has risen to the point where you rarely find an abandoned car in the woods. Old fiberglass boats appear to be the medium of choice of today’s recreational dumpers. I got involved in a land watch group and help resist the Oregon Military Department’s attempt at building a new armory across from Lane Community College. Lane County’s Land Mngt Div ran interference for the OMD. Big name developers lurked in the shadows hoping for the success of the project so that there would be changes of zoning and free infrastructure so they could make millions with nearby housing developments. Eventually the Russell Creek Neighbors prevailed. Not because of the many highly questionable and even illegal gambits attempted by the LMD/developer complex, but because the OMD would lose funding if it didn’t break ground soon. No good deed goes unpunished. It wasn’t too long before I learned that the BLM was going to share a roof with the National Guard, FS and others where the OMD found a place to build on Pierce Parkway. Time accelerated and I failed to evolve. I still did the same sort of labor intensive things I always had only a little slower each year. I participated in the removal of much of the junk at the foot of Blue Mountain. Suddenly I found myself in the aging parent zone. I discovered how to utilize my months and months of accrued sick leave as Family Friendly Leave I helped my father to the exit in 09. We were never close but I am glad that I did this. I used up the last of it over 2011 and 12. I learned way more than I ever wanted to know about foundations working on Mom’s house in Astoria to make it more user friendly for her decreasing mobility. I trained a replacement for my used car business. There wasn’t a line up for this collateral duty. I tried the indispensability test. I stuck my finger in a glass of water and removed it. There wasn’t a hole in the water so this meant I was not indispensable. Everybody is expendable—Everybody is replaceable. I remember that from the merry military forty years ago. Since I wasn’t indispensable, I decided it must be time to get a life. I did not wish to implement the Neil Armantrout retirement plan and keep coming to work until I expired noisily at my desk. I look forward to asking my wife to please make a little less noise in the morning when she goes to work. I can get plenty of abuse and rejection trying to publish a trash novel I wrote. Maybe someday I will get a new copy of the Velveteen Rabbit when I break the wannabe writer barrier. I met many fine people in my years on Eugene District. I enjoyed meeting the tree planting/thinning crews in the cold, wet dark and racing them to the bottom of the unit where I would stand on a stump and ensure quality by my presence. The Spanish speaking crews would call me Rojo. Now I am more Rojo y Blanco. Saw a lot of wildlife in my time in the woods. A big cougar stalking two branch antler bull elk on my birthday. Three cougars in the road one dark morning. Mom and two grown kittens, I assume. An all black bobcat. A three legged bear. Moose in Montana and Alaska on fires. I was born in Alaska before it was a state. And all the small day to day timber tigers one encounters in the woods. This morning I am busy throwing away junk and confining my keepings to one box that I will take home with me and winnow out later. I am sure we will run into each other around town. You might see me out riding my MC on a fine day while you are going to or from the field. Maybe you will see me doing an odd job at the seed orchard. I will continue to donate blood at the facility here until I find a better venue. The new generation will see my name around and wonder who I was. Maybe somebody will tell them that I am the X-TEMP who became real. Sure was easier getting out than it was getting in. N

Big Fish

Went to The Dalles, Oregon for a little sturgeon fishing this weekend. My friend Marc lives in TDs and knows all there is to be knowed about sturgeon fishing. He had caught a bunch of shad ahead of time for this event. Shad run by the millions up the Columbia in June and the great white sturgeon keg up under the dams to eat the unfortunate shad that get chewed up in the generator gatewells by giant turbine blades. For some reason Marc had always discarded the shad heads when cutting baits out of the narrow, bony fish. I asked why the sturgeon wouldn't bite on heads so we tried some and discovered that sturgeon like head too. He froze some shad heads in vacuum pack plastic. We got lots of mileage out of having to give the sturgeon head to get a bite. White sturgeon get huge. The biggest one I have ever caught was probably ten feet or a little longer. You are only allowed to keep one a day about four feet long. A four foot sturgeon is not very exciting to catch. Marc knows all the holes and how to fish them upstream and down from The Dalles Dam. June has been very cold and wet around TDs this year which regularly achieves 100 degree days. We were out early Friday morning in Marc's 25 foot boat. I boated a seven footer without too much effort. Marc released it with his needle nose pliers. The wind rose in volume as it blasted up the Columbia River Gorge. We don't use the word "wind" when fishing. If you say it, the wind always increases in volume. So we say; "The boardheads are happy." When the wind decreases, we say: "The boardheads are sad." Hood River, 20 miles down river, is the sailboarding capital of the US if not the world. We caught a couple more way too big sturgeon. When a giant jumps out of the water I like to holler: "He breaches!" like Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab. We didn't catch any keepers or too small fish by noon so we trailered the boat at the public boat landing. Thje fish checker was in our face wanting to know what we had caught. We went back to Marc's garage apartment where we ordered a Chicago stuffed pizza from Papa Murphy's. I drove down to the pizza parlor and took delivery and we baked in the oven of Marc's garage apartment. In this day and age, many parents have adult children "basement dwellers" living in their garage or basement. Marc is different in that he lives in the garage while his son, daughter in law and grandson live in the house. When company comes, you just assemble a one by two meter Cabela's folding cot to crash on. We ate our pizza and took a nap. Marc's two year old grandson and the yellow lab he shares with his son's family both came out to visit. Around five o'clock we decided to hit it again. You don't have to go very far to the boat ramp and the fishing hole we were using was only a mile upstream. I drove the truck and Marc idled around in the boat while I parked the rig at the top of the hill. We charged upstream and I dropped the anchor. I dropped a fresh shad head on a big hook over the side when I noticed the back of the boat was filling with water. Oh shit! Marc had plugged the wrong drain hole with the screw tight rubber plug at the boat ramp. I frantically plugged the hole from the inside with paper towels while Marc fired up the bilge pump. We raced back to the ramp and I got the truck and we pulled the boat out of the water and let a ton of water drain out the nickle sized hole in the back of the boat. I told Marc that I got a pass on any comments on my performance as a deckhand from this day forward. We got back to it and hooked a few more monsters. One was so big that we chased it with the boat and I couldn't do a thing to influence the big fish. Couldn't slow it or turn it or make it jump. I finally broke the line and we went back and found our cast off anchor line by the floats on the end. I made fast and we fished untill just before dark. A hefty eight foot sturgeon wanted some head and I wrestled him to the boat without casting off. It took a good 45 minutes. He possibly weighed 250 pounds or more. Marc released him and we called it a night. We turned on the running lights and avoided one fool who didn't believe in running lights. Saturday morning we were hard at it. Marc caught a 41 inch legal fish! It sure wasn't very exciting after muscling in eight footers. We bagged it around noon. The boardheads were grinning and the rain was pouring down like in the Willamette Valley in December. Marc let me off and I hiked up the hill to get the rig. I saw the fish counter sitting in her little PU and motioned her to roll down the window. I told her we caught a bunch of too big fish and one keeper thinking it would keep her out from underfoot. Wrong. She wanted to see the fish. I told her it was 41 inches. Still wanted to see the damned fish. Next time, I will tell her we just caught a bunch of too bigs. There were trailers and rigs parked everywhere as it was Saturday and the last day of keep a sturgeon season. I had to carefully jack back the fifty foot outfit up, being careful not to hit the motorhome some moron had parked behind the trailer. It rained harder. I backed down the ramp and Marc drove the boat onto the trailer. I winched it tight and pulled it up the hill, parking on an incline to let the water run out the drain hole after I removed the plug. The fish counter was there and made us stand in the pouring rain while she measured the sturgeon and looked for tags. Marc made beer batter and fried up some bits of tasty sturgeon. The smaller ones taste better than the big ones. We chowed down and took a nap and then I rolled for home. I have my 19th wedding anniversary tomorrow and my last week at the salt mines starting Monday. Might go halibut fishing next weekend if the weather cooperates. N

Fathers' Day

My parents divorced when I was a few months old so my father was never a major part of my life. My very first memory of Dear old Dad was fishing on the Coquille River near Myrtle Point. I guess Mom must have let him have me for a weekend or something. I think I was three or four years old. I can remember Dad and his stepdad and another man all casting from the bank with spinning poles into the small river while rapidly drinking cans of beer. My sense of smell was acute as a child and I can remember the biting smell of the stuff when they opened a fresh one with a church key. I believe Dad and the guys caught fish although I don't remember specifically. Then Dad broke out the firearms and I remember learning to shoot a .22 rifle at a beer can at a range of 15 feet. Dad coached me and propped the long gun over a log or something for me. Alcohol, guns and children. No problem. Happy Fathers' Day, Dad! N

Riding the Dark Side

I have been riding motorcycles for most of my adult life. They have all been smaller machines except for my last one: a Triumph Rocket III. It used to be that a 1200 cc Harley Davidson was as big as you could get. Bigger is better, nodded the Harley crowd At 2300 ccs the R3 is nearly double displacement--bigger than many small cars, and comes with 140 horepower. If that won't do it for you, upgrades are available that will boost performance as far and fast as you and your wallet want to take it. The beast is powerful enough stock that its onboard computer will not permit maximum throttle in first or second gear to keep neophytes from winding upside down with 800 pounds of motorcycle on top of them. It also will not allow the bike to exceed 140 mph. I haven't felt the need to test this but I accept the word. The only comment I hear from Harley rider's now is that the R3 is too big. I guess anything bigger than a HD is too big. Oh well. It's OK to ride little motorcycles--it really is. I got burned out on replacing the rear tire on the R3 every 3 to 4000 miles. The huge rear Metzeler the Rocket was designed around is expensive and I can think of better things to do than groveling on the ce-ment floor of the shop removing/replacing the big wheel & tire. The bike is so huge, I sprung for an after market center stand to hold it up while I remove the muffler and axle and slip the worn out tire off the final drive (made by the same company that builds Maserati transmissions) and drive the wheel into town for new rubber. I had heard of people riding larger motorcycles on car tires on the back wheel. I got on the net and found a whole raft of posts of people riding Rockets with car tires. "Riding the Dark Side," it's called. One R3 rider had a video camera taped on the handlebars of a chase bike filming him as he rode through various curves and straight stretches. Another rider wired a camera underneath his R3 so you could watch close up how the car tire performed as he put it through its paces. There seemed to be a general consensus that once you ride on a high performance car tire, you'll never go back to making Mercedes payments for the managers at Metzeler. Anyhow, the last Metz rear tire sprang a slow leak and I had the option of paying forty dollars to have it repaired so I could take it off again in a thousand miles to be replaced--or just buy a new one. That does it. I went across the street to America's Tire Co and bought a cheap 225/50/16 inch directional car tire. Some of the people who posted on the Dark Side subject used bigger tires but I wanted to start out small. The gang at the Triumph shop cheerfully mounted and balanced the tire for less than they wanted to fix the leaky M 880 Marathon. I rode around on the new tire for a while and decided that while it wasn't as good as the high dollar Metzeler for road racing, it was superior for cruising on the highway. After I decided that there was nothing tricky about riding the Dark Side, I took my girlfriend for a ride as my wife was in Florida. I aimed for bumps in the pavement to see if the square shouldered car tire would grind on the inside of the fender. No problem. I might consider a 225/60 16 next. In over 1000 miles there is no perceptible wear on the directional car tire. I fully anticipate getting 20,000 miles before replacing it just to be safe. You can get longer, stronger rear shock/spring assemblies for an R3 if you need more clearance and I might do this if the larger tire rubs on bumps two up. At any rate, I have decided don't fear the Dark Side. N

New Freezer

Our old freezer was on its last legs. The hinges had finally outlasted the metal on the coffin like lid on the 6 foot, 6 inch chest freezer that lived out in the shop. Sande and I bought it 20 years ago--used. We were shopping classified adds in the local newspaper and we looked at this one first. It seemed just too effin big. The owner wanted $150. We toured three or four other used freezers but at the end of the day I called the owner of the BF freezer and offered him $100. He countered with $125. Sold. It just fit under the canopy of my new 92 short bed Dodge Dakota. Couldn't put the tailgate up so had to tie a rope to keep the huge Amana from sliding out the back while ascending a hill. I got technical assistance from some friends & neighbors and we moved it into our old mo-beel home. It was heavy--possibly four hundred pounds empty. AMANA made in USA was proudly emblazoned on a chrome badge on the latch. Many Thanksgiving turkeys resided in the old chest freezer over the years. Many Easter hams and containers of frozen applesauce. Half our wedding cake spent a year in suspended animation in the hoarfrost of the white enameled sarcophagus. A half an elk was our guest. One time when we helped with a T-Day inner in the Whitteaker Neighborhood, we diverted a dozen turkey carcasses that were headed for the dumpster after the event. They rode home in clean garbage bags in the back of the Dakota. Into the freezer they went and Sande eventually boiled them all down into gallons and gallons of turkey stock that went back into the freezer. The Amana was totally huge. You could stack at least two, and possibly three bodies in it. "Sande? Oh she went back to Florida. Said I was a loser and a pathetic small time clown and she was tired of being married to a piker. No, she was pretty adamant. I don't think she'll be back " I enlisted the neighbor's aid and she ran a computer program for the best deal in the neighborhood. I measured the inside of the old Amana and calculated that it was a 27 cubic foot model. I had to admit, we never filled the thing to capacity. I studied the options and decided that an energy efficient 20 cubic foot upright would probably be the best choice. If nothing else it would free up a little more floor space in the shop. Lowe's was having a sale that amounted to 70 dollars off the regular price. There was nothing for it but to drive to Eugene and check it out. I decided that the Fridgidaire was as good as it was going to get and told the salesman to load one up. Todd took a dolly and fetched one from the back while I paid for it up front with a credit card. The cashier asked for ID and I showed her my official ID card from the salt mines. It has a bigger hi def photo on it than an Oregon Drivers License. Because my agency shares a roof with the National Guard, MCR, Forest Circus and USNR my ID card has OREGON MILITARY DEPARTMENT laser jetted on the plastic in big black letters. "Oh, so you're in the military," cooed the cashier. "Um, yeah--that's right." I agreed, following along. "Todd, did you give this gentleman the 10% military discount?" Todd had not. Bad Todd! If anybody had called BS on this, I would have just played the artillery ears card and said "Oh, I thought you asked if I was (past tense) in the military." I have that T shirt. I pulled Linda's grey Tundra to the front door and three of us easily boosted the new freezer in the back of the truck. Todd and his assistant left and I fastened the big carton in the vertical position with ratchet straps and rope. I did not exceed 45 mph the 25 miles home. Linda and I easily slid the new freezer over the edge of the tailgate and onto the ce-ment floor of the car port in front of the shop. I walked to the end of the road and borrowed Kevin's dolly. It was standing outside in plain sight. Ginger rushed out to bark at me until she saw who it was and shifted to wagging mode. It was no challenge wheeling the new freezer into the shop by myself. I placed it by the back door next to the old Amana and plugged it in. I transferred the frozen food from the old to the new and found I was barely able to skid the empty Amana on the six inch thick concrete floor. The new freezer's compressor is a quarter the mass of the Amana's and has a sticker reading Panasonic made in Singapore. I somehow doubt if we get 20 years out of this one. I will need help removing the old chest freezer. There must be enough steel in it to build half a Toyota. N

Armed Forces Day Woodcutting

 This morning on May 19--Armed Forces Day (2012), I marshaled forces for some serious wood cutting.  I wore an old camouflage jacket with parachute wings and drill sergeant patch over my ripped up coveralls with Sprint  embroidered over the breast pocket.  No, I am not a poser.  Tom drove his diesel Bug all the way from Eugene to participate in the physical abuse of wood cutting.  He views wood cutting as alternate exercise.  We hooked Bruce's (the neighbor from across the road) utility trailer to Linda's little grey Tundra and drove the mile and a half to the unit on Carpenter's Bypass where we met Quint and his friend Sean.  They were driving Quint's big grey Tundra with a flatbed trailer behind it.   
     Bruce and I had hacked on this doug fir OG log before.  It is on BLM land but a guy named Joe thinks it is on McKenzie River Trust land.  The last time Bruce and I were cutting our way up the hill from the road, Joe, the local caretaker for McK Riv Trust came out and told us we were trespassing.  Then he gave us permission to carry on.  Since then, I have studied the map and I am positive we are on BLM land.  I bought a BLM permit for the log.  Still, it doesn't cost anything to call Joe and tell him we are gunna cut on his log.  I left Joe a phone message last night telling him we were going to cut this morning.
     Quint and I trudged up the steep hill packing chainsaws, a shovel, a couple wedges and a splitting maul along with jugs of saw gas and oil.  Tom started up the slope but it was too steep for his acrophobia.  Where Bruce and I had left off from last time, the log was over 24 inches and getting bigger each round.  I toted a big old falling saw with a long  bar.  It is ungainly and awkward but is very powerful.  When I cranked it up, it sounded like a dirt bike at idle.  Blum, blum, blum. 
     There was quite a bit of traffic on the paved forest road below.  Bruce wore an orange vest and hardhat, providing traffic control on the paved main logging road.  There is a very popular mountain bike trailhead up the road so a lot of people were coming and going in automobiles this fine morning.  Didn't see any bicycles.  They mostly ride uphill from the staging area.  I was surprised to see that at least half of the Disciples of Dirt drove massive 3/4 ton 4WD PUs with all the options, freighting their mountain bikes in the back.
     Quint's big saw balked and didn't want to start after running out of gas.  My antique Husky roared and its sharp chain ate through the big log.  We were working on at least a 60 percent slope.  This means that for every measured 100 horizontal feet, you ascend 60 vertical feet.  My corks didn't buy me anything in the loose soil and woody debris.  I probably should have worn my Go Devils.
     Quint went down the hill and swapped out his dead big saw for his running little saw.  I cut the log as close as I could to the dirt without rocking the chain of the old falling saw.  Quint would then" eat dirt" with his little saw to complete the cut.  If we ruined the big saw, we were out of business.  We used the shovel to dig out the dirt from alongside the bole of the tree where it had embedded itself in a rise of the slope when it fell with tons of snow in its dying branches.  Quint used his little saw to sever the bitter end of each round down to ground level and below.  He was forced to sharpen the chain on the little saw  several times while I did not, by avoiding sawchain contact with the ground.  I had spent a good hour sharpening the old saw before we commenced cutting this morning and it was throwing chips.     
     Where we resumed cutting this time, was the impact area when the big fir snag crashed downhill in the wet snow of late winter.  The last time we were cutting, we enjoyed cutting fully suspended log.  The top of the tree had broken off in in the road and the first 40 feet were from five to one foot off the ground.  I sliced off forty feet of rounds with a small to medium saw before the log quit being suspended and the rounds disappeared into the dirt.  Chainsaws do not like dirt.  A perfectly cutting chainsaw, like a perfectly running antique British motorcycle, is a joy to operate--and a pain in the ass when it decides to resist--even a little bit.  Dirt and rock dull a razor sharp chain and you have the option of stopping to sharpen the saw or trying to force the dull saw through the wood.  One side of the chain will be duller than the other and the saw will grind its way through the boll with a shallow (from the side) "C" shaped cut instead of a perfectly 90 degree slice across the stick.       
     The three men on the road stood around and BSed as Quint and I carved big, moon faced "pumpkins" off the receding log.   We had to kneel on our uphill leg and keep the downhill one fully extended,  We were developing quite a "chute" where we were rolling our rounds to the road below.  Every cut we made increased the size and weight of the round and the pping dead. 
    The cutters on the hill were getting tired.  We burned up a whole gallon of saw gas.  I was starting to cramp up and could barely swing the splitting maul on the 60 percent slope.  
     We endeavored to persevere and finally got within 25 feet of the massive rootwad of the snow thrown giant.  Quint and I agreed to quit.  We rolled the last two chunks to the road and then gathered our gear to pack out.  The road party started splitting the rounds and half rounds While we descended the slope.  Quint was unable to find his big shorthandled Thor hammer and finally came down the hill without it. 
     I changed my cork boots for romeos and we started loading wood into vehicles.  We blocked the road and had to move a few times as bi-cyclists came or went in their automobiles, bicycles in the back of the rig. 
     The office where I work owes Quint's National Guard motor section for extricating a pickup truck and the  road dept backhoe that tried to rescue it.  It is only right that we help out when we can.  We were all amazed to discover that we had cut exactly the right amount of wood to fill both truck and trailer outfits.  I was all cramped up for hours after this fun.  Clearly, I am not gepping dead. 
    The cutters on the hill were getting tired.  We burned up a whole gallon of saw gas.  I was starting to cramp up and could barely swing the splitting maul on the 60 percent slope.  
     We endeavored to persevere and finally got within 25 feet of the massive rootwad of the snow thrown giant.  Quint and I agreed to quit.  We rolled the last two chunks to the road and then gathered our gear to pack out.  The road party started splitting the rounds and half rounds While we descended the slope.  Quint was unable to find his big shorthandled Thor hammer and finally came down the hill without it. 
     I changed my cork boots for romeos and we started loading wood into vehicles.  We blocked the road and had to move a few times as bi-cyclists came or went in their automobiles, bicycles in the back of the rig. 
     The office where I work owes Quint's National Guard motor section for extricating a pickup truck and the  road dept backhoe that tried to rescue it.  It is only right that we help out when we can.  We were all amazed to discover that we had cut exactly the right amount of wood to fill both truck and trailer outfits.  I was all cramped up for hours after this fun.  Clearly, I am not getting enough exercise.          

   

AA is for Anti Aircraft

   Lots of farms around here have old equipment lying around, sinking into the ground.  Old farming implements--mowers, seeders, combines, balers.  Old logging arches, trucks, water tenders, crummies, even steam donkeys.  One local farm has a Second World War Japanese anti aircraft gun mixed in with all the other machinery.
     Oral history has it that local Sea Bees souvenired the three inch piece at the close of the war and brought it home along with enemy flags, pistols and samurai swords.  After the Japanese saw the light (the blinding light over Hiroshima and Nagasaki) and surrendered, there were a lot of bored American servicemen scattered around the Pacific, waiting to go home.  There was some incredible mechanical talent with multi million dollar machine shops at its disposal.  Many "genuine" samurai swords gathering dust in Grampa's attic, started their lives as pranged airplane propellers.
     The rusty old gun was most likely mounted on a ship and fired 75 millimeter shells at American dive bombers and torpedo planes that sought to sink the entire Japanese Navy.  No telling how the Sea Bees got the thing home, but get it home they did.  The gun spent four decades in front of the VFW hall in Junction City.  Children liked to climb on the piece and fall off of it until it became viewed as a liability and was banished to a farm west of JC where it was forgotten along with tons upon tons of other rusty steel orphans, sinking a little deeper into the mud each year.
     The price of scrap went way up and the current owner of the farm reduced his inventory and made mortgage payments until the old gun stood alone, muzzle pointing skyward out of a blackberry bramble.  If you know where to look, you can make out Japanese characters and maybe even chrysanthemums stamped on the breech block.
     The organization where I work shares a roof with 2nd Battalion of the 162 Regiment of the 41st Combat Brigade.  The 41st spent almost four years in the Pacific combatting the Japanese in New Guinea and points west.  We are cramped for room but it seems logical that we need to make space for the old relic as a war trophy.  A little steel brush work, a coat of battleship grey, and we have a fine gate guard.  Failing that, perhaps we can find a home for it at the Camp Withycombe Museum near Portland.  N
         

Armed Forces Day Woodcutting

 This morning on May 19--Armed Forces Day (2012), I marshaled forces for some serious wood cutting.  I wore an old camouflage jacket with parachute wings and drill sergeant patch over my ripped up coveralls with Sprint  embroidered over the breast pocket.  No, I am not a poser.  Tom drove his diesel Bug all the way from Eugene to participate in the physical abuse of wood cutting.  He views wood cutting as alternate exercise.  We hooked Bruce's (the neighbor from across the road) utility trailer to Linda's little grey Tundra and drove the mile and a half to the unit on Carpenter's Bypass where we met Quint and his friend Sean.  They were driving Quint's big grey Tundra with a flatbed trailer behind it.   
     Bruce and I had hacked on this doug fir OG log before.  It is on BLM land but a guy named Joe thinks it is on McKenzie River Trust land.  The last time Bruce and I were cutting our way up the hill from the road, Joe, the local caretaker for McK Riv Trust came out and told us we were trespassing.  Then he gave us permission to carry on.  Since then, I have studied the map and I am positive we are on BLM land.  I bought a BLM permit for the log.  Still, it doesn't cost anything to call Joe and tell him we are gunna cut on his log.  I left Joe a phone message last night telling him we were going to cut this morning.
     Quint and I trudged up the steep hill packing chainsaws, a shovel, a couple wedges and a splitting maul along with jugs of saw gas and oil.  Tom started up the slope but it was too steep for his acrophobia.  Where Bruce and I had left off from last time, the log was over 24 inches and getting bigger each round.  I toted a big old falling saw with a long  bar.  It is ungainly and awkward but is very powerful.  When I cranked it up, it sounded like a dirt bike at idle.  Blum, blum, blum. 
     There was quite a bit of traffic on the paved forest road below.  Bruce wore an orange vest and hardhat, providing traffic control on the paved main logging road.  There is a very popular mountain bike trailhead up the road so a lot of people were coming and going in automobiles this fine morning.  Didn't see any bicycles.  They mostly ride uphill from the staging area.  I was surprised to see that at least half of the Disciples of Dirt drove massive 3/4 ton 4WD PUs with all the options, freighting their mountain bikes in the back.
     Quint's big saw balked and didn't want to start after running out of gas.  My antique Husky roared and its sharp chain ate through the big log.  We were working on at least a 60 percent slope.  This means that for every measured 100 horizontal feet, you ascend 60 vertical feet.  My corks didn't buy me anything in the loose soil and woody debris.  I probably should have worn my Go Devils.
     Quint went down the hill and swapped out his dead big saw for his running little saw.  I cut the log as close as I could to the dirt without rocking the chain of the old falling saw.  Quint would then" eat dirt" with his little saw to complete the cut.  If we ruined the big saw, we were out of business.  We used the shovel to dig out the dirt from alongside the bole of the tree where it had embedded itself in a rise of the slope when it fell with tons of snow in its dying branches.  Quint used his little saw to sever the bitter end of each round down to ground level and below.  He was forced to sharpen the chain on the little saw  several times while I did not, by avoiding sawchain contact with the ground.  I had spent a good hour sharpening the old saw before we commenced cutting this morning and it was throwing chips.     
     Where we resumed cutting this time, was the impact area when the big fir snag crashed downhill in the wet snow of late winter.  The last time we were cutting, we enjoyed cutting fully suspended log.  The top of the tree had broken off in in the road and the first 40 feet were from five to one foot off the ground.  I sliced off forty feet of rounds with a small to medium saw before the log quit being suspended and the rounds disappeared into the dirt.  Chainsaws do not like dirt.  A perfectly cutting chainsaw, like a perfectly running antique British motorcycle, is a joy to operate--and a pain in the ass when it decides to resist--even a little bit.  Dirt and rock dull a razor sharp chain and you have the option of stopping to sharpen the saw or trying to force the dull saw through the wood.  One side of the chain will be duller than the other and the saw will grind its way through the boll with a shallow (from the side) "C" shaped cut instead of a perfectly 90 degree slice across the stick.       
     The three men on the road stood around and BSed as Quint and I carved big, moon faced "pumpkins" off the receding log.   We had to kneel on our uphill leg and keep the downhill one fully extended,  We were developing quite a "chute" where we were rolling our rounds to the road below.  Every cut we made increased the size and weight of the round and the longer the distance it had to achieve maximum velocity.   
     "Ground control" flagged cars and built a barricade of rounds and chunks to keep the next round from hitting the ditch and bouncing over the road.  We finally resorted to splitting the rounds in half in situ so that the half rounds would crash against the growing wall of rounds and chunks at the beginning of the pavement and stop.  One of us would hold an old axe head to the end of the still attached rounds while the other beat the wedge home with an underhand motion while the uphill leg was kneeling and the downhill was fully extended and locked uphill. 
     Quint and I got better and better at splitting rounds in half while still attached to the log.  More and more of our chunks fetched up against the wall of wood on the shoulder of the pavement.  We worked ourselves out of the trench where the trunk of the tree embedded itself and found some big trunk completely above the ground.  We had to drive plastic wedges into the top of the cuts to keep the kerf from "pinching" from the tons of weight uphill bearing down on the downhill end of the the log.  We spilt off half chunks before finishing the job severing the stem.  The half rounds were hitting the wood piles at the edge of the road and were more often than not, stopping dead. 
    The cutters on the hill were getting tired.  We burned up a whole gallon of saw gas.  I was starting to cramp up and could barely swing the splitting maul on the 60 percent slope.  
     We endeavored to persevere and finally got within 25 feet of the massive rootwad of the snow thrown giant.  Quint and I agreed to quit.  We rolled the last two chunks to the road and then gathered our gear to pack out.  The road party started splitting the rounds and half rounds While we descended the slope.  Quint was unable to find his big shorthandled Thor hammer and finally came down the hill without it. 
     I changed my cork boots for romeos and we started loading wood into vehicles.  We blocked the road and had to move a few times as bi-cyclists came or went in their automobiles, bicycles in the back of the rig. 
     The office where I work owes Quint's National Guard motor section for extricating a pickup truck and the  road dept backhoe that tried to rescue it.  It is only right that we help out when we can.  We were all amazed to discover that we had cut exactly the right amount of wood to fill both truck and trailer outfits.  I was all cramped up for hours after this fun.  Clearly, I am not getting enough exercise.          

   

Play Date with the Guard

     The Bureau of Land Management's Eugene District is composed of thousands of acres of steep terrain, navigated by zig zag gravel roads.  For the 20 years I've been working here, some people entertain themselves with recreational dumping on public land.  One aspect of this fun consists of rolling derelict and/or stolen automobiles off high places so that they land hundreds of feet downslope.  I think the yahoos doing this must be re enacting their favorite scenes from Dukes of Hazzard,  or maybe Rebel Without a Cause.  Then, too, there is the recreational dumping sport of "Bridgestone Bowling" where Bubba and Billy Bob roll unwanted tires over the side of forest roads.

I have always stayed on top of the abandoned vehicles left on landings in the woods and have utilized the Forest Work Camp crews to tote hundreds of tires up the hill to be hauled to town.  I am approaching 700 junk cars, trucks, motorhomes, pickup campers, camp trailers, boats and loads of tires removed from the land since I assumed this duty.

A year or two ago, I got a call from the warrant officer in charge of the the local National Guard's Echo Company Motor Section.  Mr Barnaby wanted to know if there were any dead cars in need of retrieval from over the side on BLM land so his people could practice using the five ton wrecker in recovering vehicles.  We did a field trip south of Cottage Grove and looked at a half dozen heaps that had been Evel Knievaled off a 200 foot bluff but decided that was beyond our capability.  Eventually I remembered where somebody had pushed three junkers over the side of a clear cut and the reprod had grown up so that you couldn't see them any more.

Since then, Echo Company has yarded up at least half a dozen "problem children" out of canyons for me.  Their monster wrecker is very powerful and has a rear facing PTO winch with a three quarter inch cable.  Staff Sergeant Scott and the gang can be very creative using blocks (big pulleys) chained to trees to pull a Suburban carcass up a dogleg chute created by dirt bikes. 

Friday's target was a Ford Explorer somebody had stolen in Sheridan and tired of, so over the side it went.  Australia Road is a happening place when it comes to dumping.  It is less than fifteen miles from the new multi agency office.  The National Guard and the Forest Service have already moved in.  The Bureau is going to move in this summer as soon as a add on building goes up to house our overflow since the original design.  I volunteered to take an early out.

I was sitting in my Expedition in front of the boarded up Camp Creek beer store.  The gang was supposed to meet me at 0900.  At five minutes til, the light green GSA six pack came around the corner closely followed by the big green wrecker.  I started up and led the mighty convoy the four miles to Australia Road.  There is a logging show up the left fork of the road but we make a right.  A truck driver was cinching his load of logs on the pavement and ten foured everybody that we were coming up the hill.

The wrecker slowed to a crawl going up the steep gravel road.  I pulled over at the site and five guardsmen piled out of the six pack in new mechanics' shop uniforms.  I pointed out the front of the junk Explorer a hundred and twenty feet down, behind a hazel bush, lying on its side.  The crew is oriented and has a plan by the time the wrecker comes around the last corner. 

The road is wide enough for the green machine to turn broadside with its boom hanging over the slope.  One man grabs the bull hook and walks the cable down the hill.  The winch pays out very, very slowly.  It doesn't free spool.  It is designed to move deuce anna halfs and even armored vehicles on the flat.  The hillside is littered with animal bones.

The men in the hole run a chain around the frame of the heap.  Somebody has helped themselves to the rear axle and transfer case so it is that much lighter.  Sergeant Scott put the winch in forward gear and the massive cable comes taught.  The Explorer budges and then creeps up the hill on its side.  It flops over on a boulder and rolls along like a circus seal on a ball for while.

Doug, our PR guy, shows up and photographs the heap coming onto the road.  The crew leaves it on its side so I can remove the gas tank.  A man starts back down with the cable.  Two more guys have made a necklace of tires on a chain to pull up.  The bushes downslope are taking a beating. 

The crew loads up and flees the scene.  I try to start my rig but the emergency flashers have drained the battery.  Oops.  At least the radio works so I raise Doug who comes back and jump starts my Expedition.  I should get a new one shortly so I refrain from buying new tires or a battery for this (04) one. 

I pull the Explorer on its belly and winch it on the dead car trailer.  I manage to cram and stack the 14 large tires in the junk car and strap them on the deck of the trailer.  Call it a load and head for the barn.  The Explorer weighed 3,200 pounds at the steel yard.  N          

   

Whatever Floats Your Boat

My father died without a will on Mother's Day 2009.  He told his last wife, my sister and I that he wanted his wife to have his money (such as it was) and his two children to have his personal property.
     Upon his death, his widow's attitude rapidly changed.  Instead of being happy to have Sis and I around to change diapers and so forth, she was convinced that we were out to rip her off.  I took Dear Old Dad at his word and liberated his firearms and fishing poles.  After the funeral, I was happy to see the last of the "bunt" (two words for the price of one) and ride off into the sunset.
     Bunt tried to file a police report on the theft.  She spiced up the take with the addition of 50 towels taken.  The cop lost interest when she finally admitted the thief was the deceased son.  The cop closed his notebook and labled it a "family dispute."
     The only big ticket item that Bunt was unable to appropriate without probate was Dad's boat.  Its title was in his name only.  I called the Oregon Marine Board from time to time and eventually, discovered that Bunt had convinced somebody that she was the sole surviving heir and someone had changed the title in her name.
     I swiftly set the record straight and the OMB sent somebody to her door to reclaim the newly issued title to the boat.  I went on the offensive and contacted Bunt through her niece, communicating that I would be willing to have Sis and I sign off on the boat title for Dad's personal property as his request.
     Bunt's lawyer emailed me and poo pooed the idea and tried to sell me the boat for $2,500.  That assumed the value of the boat to be $5K and Bunt receiving half the value.  The lawyer further said to accept the offer or not bother him any more.  I ceased communications.
     Yesterday, close to two years later, the lawyer's understrapper contacted Sis and I and offered us the princely sum of $250 apiece to sign off the title of the boat.  We will counter with receiving Dad's personal stuff or the boat can rot.  It would have been nice if Dear Old Dad had done a will but there is no reason to assume that he would do something as responsible as that.  We shall see how this plays out.         

Sanford & Son--Moving Day

    The agency where I work moved in with the Forest Service and the National Guard along with the MCR and the Navy Reserves a couple years back.  Space is limited and we no longer had an acre of graveled lot behind the warehouse like we used to on Chad Drive. 
     Our Recreation Department rented space from the Lame County Dept of Public Works on Delta Highway.  Recently the county raised the rent to the point where it was decided that the three rec techs would return to Gorky Park.  I was sent packing across the parking lot to Gilligan's Island to make room for the three.  The head of the Rec Dept opted to retire rather than return to Gorky Park.  He liked his little fiefdom off away from the main office and didn't wish to have supervisors drop in whenever they felt like it.
     Our Rec people have a temporary shed built on three 4 X 4 skids that was inside a big garage.  The 8' X 16' shed was full of tools and signs and just plain junk.  Somebody called the outfit that built the shed and was quoted a price of three grand to move the building to its new home in the cramped space behind the warehouse.  I poo pooed the idea and declared that we could move the building utilizing organic resources with our dead car trailer.  I connected the battered trailer to Papa (Papa Oscar Sierra), the giant four door diesel power pickup and Dan and I headed for the Lame County Dept of Public Works. 
     We were able to borrow two forklifts and helped Ken, John, Paul and Rob unload all the crap out of the dusty building.  We had four pickup including Papa and we pretty much filled them all with tons of tools and other stuff.  Then we skidded the building outside with the two forklifts.  Dan backed the trailer to the end of the brown building with the door and we messed around trying to throw a piece of parachute cord tied to a trailer ball the 16 feet under the shed.  We finally resorted to lifting the shed from the side with a forklift and successfully rigged a chain around behind the middle skid. 
     I pulled tight with the rear facing electric winch and the two ton shed skidded along to the loading ramps of the 18 foot tiltbed trailer.  With some assist with forklifts, I put a 2 inch metal pipe under the front of the skids and this made the building move a little easier.  It was still necessary to hook a pulley to the chain at the front of the building and bring the main line back to the front of the trailer for mechanical advantage.  The shed was wider than the fenders on the trailer but the three skids fit between them.  I brought a round post that we placed against the industrial strength fenders and lifted the skids on top of.
     I had miscalculated and the floor of the shed was going to drag on the fender tops.  John found a couple pieces of scrap 2 X 6, which when placed under the pole, gave it enough height so that the floor cleared the diamond steel fenders that covered the trailer's four wheels.  Eventually the trailer tilted level and we pinned the deck with an old tire iron and retaining pin.  The top of the shed was close to 13 feet above the pavement.  Nobody was sure of the height of traffic signals and power lines but it seemed that since the pros had moved the thing here, we would be able to move it across town to its new home. 
     We set out with two pilot trucks and a chase truck--all filled with rec equipment.  Papa pulled the load easily with its mighty turbo diesel.  A sheriff waved as he passed us so apparently we weren't going to be hassled by the police.  Dan made the turns very slowly so we didn't lose the building in the middle of a busy intersection.  We dawdled along at between 15 and 20 mph.  John in the chase rig reported on the radio that the top of the building was missing wires and traffic signals by at least a meter.
     Our mighty convoy plodded east, crossing Coburg road.  Inconvenienced raced past us yelling at us enthusiastically and rendering the one finger salute.  Apparently they were telling us that they still thought BLM was number one!   We crossed under I-5 into Springfield and idled past River Bend Hospital.  Dan elected to travel a busier stretch of road to the office.  There were back ways with little traffic but the power lines might have been lower.  We cruised around the parking lot seeking the best way to back the rig to where we would drop the shed.  I left the unloading to the rest of the herd and went back to Gilligan's Island to finish my retirement paperwork.  N       
        

A Horse in the Race

     It's election time again and our local news paper is busy beating the drum for a new conservative North Eugene county commissioner.  This is well and good, but the Guard needs to come out of the closet and admit to owning considerable real estate on Old Coburg Road--which is inside the North Eugene district.
    In 2008, the Guard advocated voting for both Bobby Greene (for N Eugene CC) and Jim Torrey for Mayor.  Both of these individuals are much more user friendly to developers than the current incumbents.     I wrote a nice letter to the editor pointing out these inconsistencies and calling for the Guard to come out of the closet and admit to having a horse in the race.  For some reason, the letter hasn't been printed.
     Developing around here has always been a way for the few to make a lot of money and then run away and allow the little people pay for the infrastructure.  A classic example of this would be the town of Veneta. 
     Veneta is a small town using wells for its water needs.  Developers threw down a bunch of houses over the protests of local land use watchdog groups and now the town needs a pipeline from Eugene to transport water out to the little town.  The initial estimate was 17 million dollars but it will undoubtedly double or triple by the time the rubber meets the road.
      The developers won't be footing the bill.  The chump taxpayers will.     
     

Stuck in the Mud

     A couple weeks ago, an employee where I work drove a pickup out to look at a corner of the West Eugene Wetlands to plan some work for the jail crew.  It got stuck.  It has been a very wet winter.  Somebody else came along with another PU to pull it out and that got stuck too.  So the road dept came along with a tractor and that  got stuck too.  I was home for the weekend so I called out the National Guard.  The NG used a Humvee with a winch and several blocks for mechanical advantage and yarded everything out of the mud.  Dan (my replacement) coordinated for the Guard to yard up some junk cars from a canyon out by Veneta.  Tried to post some photos but it didn't take.  Oh well  N 

Wood Cutting

     I have been cutting firewood for most of my adult life.  I cut wood for a living when I lived in Ashland for several years.  These days it is more of a hobby.  I cut for people in need around here who can't seem to get it together and do it themselves.  I do have ready access for permits to cut over timber sales that most people can't match.
     I use one neighbor's Tundra pickup and another neighbor's trailer for my wood cutting operation.  My F 150 has a canopy and lacks a heavy duty trailer hitch.  I've been pretty successful at securing permits close to home so I don't have to drive a lot.  With the price of gasoline what it is, this is important.  It now costs what it used to to fill a car in order to fill my saw gas jug with no alcohol Hi Test gasoline.
     I leave piles of cut wood behind the Grange and the Lodge Hall in the little town where I live.  Douglas fir is the most common wood to be had but I take maple and alder too.  I find piles of dense ringed fir poles along the road where the Cut To Length machine has decked them.  Sometimes I find a down old growth fir log up to four feet in diameter to cut on.  I like to load up unsplit rounds and let the recipient worry about breaking them up.  Sometimes, I set a round on end behind the trailer and tip another on top of it and roll it on board.  Unloading is a snap.  The two to three hundred pound rounds roll off the back like old time depth charges.
     Sometimes I have help with the wood, sometimes not.  I use my collection of Husqvarna chainsaws compiled over the years.  The local volunteer fire department splits and stacks the wood I deliver if the recipient can't.  Joe, one of the VFD members used to handle the wood for the people in need but I guess I inherited his job.  He might have been getting to old for the sport. 
     I plan to retire soon and may not have access to the gravy wood permits that I take for granted now.  I guess we will just have to wait and see how this plays out. 
     
     
        
     
    

Banjo Lane Chapters 1-5

A trash novel I wrote.

                                                            

                                                                     Chapter One

It was a cold wet afternoon in mid January and Hayes trudged along the road in the thin clothes he had been wearing when jailed last August.  He had managed to hitch a ride to Cottage Grove, 12 miles south of Eugene.  It was clear he was going to have to walk every step of the last five in the rain.

He was a small, pale man, not yet thirty, and he had always avoided working for a living, as it is a tremendous waste of time.  While his body continued to age, his brain had been stunned at about age 15 from a continuous stream of airplane glue, cheap booze, dirt weed and good bud. For the last five years high quality, locally produced and reasonably priced methamphetamine was a major part of his life. 

   

Hayes had been released from the county jail late that morning after serving four months for beating his girlfriend again in the parking lot of her apartment complex in Springfield. He had rated a couple of add on raps too.  Brandy had moved while he was locked up so he couldn’t find her and make her give him a ride in her old car to the house he had grown up in at the end of Banjo Lane.

Cletus, Hayes’ father, was out of the country on yet another yearlong gig as a physical plant manager at a remote facility.  Hayes hoped to raise a fine crop of marijuana in the disused ten acres of brush in back of the old house over the coming summer.  Working a straight job is a complete loser.  You have to get out of bed before you want to every day and somebody else gets every dime you make anyway.

There were still Christmas lights up and dried out trees with tinsel lying in the yards of stunted houses as he squished by in his worn Nikes.  He turned off on dead end Banjo Lane and stopped for a minute.  There was no traffic.  No one was going anywhere.   The past months behind bars had sapped his walking muscles and his legs ached.  He had to crap too.  It was no longer so much a matter of when as where.

 The composition of housing on Banjo Lane had changed over the past decade. There were still some of the old do it yourself “fernow” houses built of puckyboard and tarpaper from the 60s.  There were a few 10 by 50 foot trailers from the 70s as well as double wide “mo-beel” homes left over from the 80s.  On the corner of Banjo Lane, the old Peterson house had been bulldozed, burnt, and a huge McMansion stood finished in its place.  It was just going up when he went to jail last.

    

It wasn’t far to the homestead now.  He picked up the pace and came around the last bend in the road and there sat his father’s little house, dark and unloved, under a naked oak and a couple of merchantable firs.  It had the same blue paint job it did a quarter century ago when Hayes and his

 brother Zach were toddlers.                                                        

He walked through the missing gate of the drunken fence, up two steps and tried the front door.  It was locked.  He felt on top of the window casement and doorframe for the key but it wasn’t in any of the usual places.  He checked the windows as he rounded the old house but they were all latched on the inside.  On the back porch, he tried the door and then picked up a handy stick of firewood and broke a small pane above the doorknob.

Reaching through the hole, he turned back the flimsy locks and let himself in, fumbling with his belt and tearing down his pants as he raced through the freezing house for the little bathroom.

His bowels evicted its last dose of institutional grease and starch as he was squatting towards the mossy toilet.  He groaned with pain and relief as he sat on the frigid seat with his head in his hands.  His innards gurgled.  He was home.  There was no toilet paper.

An hour later, the wood stove was putting out heat and Hayes’ red Starmart shirt was almost dry.  There was a small pile of wood on the back porch.

Dad kept the electricity bill paid and so he switched on the pump in the shed that brought rusty water farting through the pipes in the house.

  

All this was a refreshing change from being in jail.  There were old familiar pictures on the wall and even a few happy memories before Cletus and his mother had divorced and Mom had moved to town.

 Hayes needed to call his parole officer but the phone was disconnected.  He would have to hike the five miles back to Cottage Grove.  If he couldn’t find the keys to Dad’s car or truck, he would have to ride his old bicycle or walk.  The PO was adamant about his staying in contact and Hayes didn’t want to go back to jail just yet.

 Night came down hard.  The rain was steady and almost sleet.  Hayes opened cupboards and found a lone can of Spaghetti-Os along with a surprised nest of mice.

 

 His cooking skills were minimal but he could turn a mean can opener. There was one handy in the drawer beside the kitchen sink that had been there all his life.  He twisted open the can and shook the contents into a saucepan on the stove.

 

While Chef Boyardee heated, Hayes poked around the little house and found a half bottle of decent whiskey.  A little more prying uncovered a small coffee can with five pounds of nickels,

dimes and quarters.  If the phone worked he could score a good high of meth with that much money.  If he knew where Brandy had moved to, he could track her down and convince her to dump her kids at her mom’s and come out here and drop her pants.

The rain increased on the tin front porch and a cold gust of wind came through the broken window of the back door.  Hayes poured three inches of whiskey in the bottom of a Mickey Mouse tumbler from his childhood.  The Spaghetti-Os were a little burned on the bottom but good though.

He was tired from the excitement of getting out of jail and walking all the way home from Cottage Grove.  He went out the front door to pee off the porch and nearly fell over the rail.  He had been alcohol free for four months and the whiskey was swiftly twisting his head.

Bags of garbage had been tossed in the yard for years and the neighborhood dogs and other wildlife had done a good job of ripping open the plastic and distributing refuse around in front of the house.  He breathed the wet air of freedom and caught a whiff of smoke from the chimney and a waft of dump smell from the soggy crap on the ground.

Hayes zipped his jeans and ricocheted off the doorjamb into the living room.

It was good to be home.  He was going to stay out of trouble this time and hang around the old homestead and grow a fine cash crop this summer.

No more stupid half-assed little punk crimes to finance his meth habit.  He was going to keep a really low profile and take care of business.  This time.  Yes Sir.

He was fading fast and headed for his father’s bed to crash.  He managed to remove his worn out felony shoes and crawled between the icy sheets of Dad’s bed fully dressed.  He fumbled the bedside light out.  He was looped enough that he had to keep a knee bent and one foot on the floor to keep the room from spinning.

 He would check dear old Dad’s shoe collection tomorrow. 

Their feet were about the same size.  His head throbbed almost pleasantly.  It

was good to be home.  The rain noise on the front porch made him feel happy and lonely at the same time.  The wind soughed through the oak branches above the roof.

It was full daylight and there was nobody but his bladder to tell Hayes to get out of bed.  He enjoyed the warmth of the old down comforter and the discretion to stay in bed until he was totally ready to get up and face the day.  He was clearly going to have a small hangover but if he took his time getting vertical it should be OK.                                                                           

 He slowly sat up on the side of the bed.  He could see his breath in the uninsulated house so he wrapped the comforter around his shoulders.  The floor was cold through his socks so he put on Dad’s carpet slippers that poked from beneath the old box springs.  Then he shuffled out to the

front porch to relieve himself.  His urine steamed and reeked of whiskey fumes as it pooled in the

neglected flowerbed in front of the porch.

 

Hayes needed to call his PO today or there could be problems.  He would see if he couldn’t get one of Dad’s cars going and drive to the little beer store on the edge of Cottage Grove and use the pay phone and buy some Olde English 800 in 40 ounce bottles.  He could even buy cigarettes with his coffee can of newfound wealth.  There was no smoking in the county jail.  Some people

 might have continued to march after a 120 day tobacco free stint but not Hayes.  He was young enough that he was still immortal.

There was a big jar of Western Family instant coffee in the kitchen so Hayes put a kettle on the old kitchen range and cranked up the baseboard heaters.  While he waited for the water to boil, he went through Cletus’ closet and found a warm sweater and a pair of wellingtons that were only a little too big.  He kept an eye out for valuables that could be converted to ready cash.

After his third cuppa, Hayes decided it was time to get busy and plan his day.  He should call Linda K, his parole officer.  Just his luck to draw Linda as his PO.  She had absolutely no sense of humor when it came to domestic abuse on women.  He had no doubt that she would put him back in jail if he gave her the slightest excuse.  He must be just as nice as pie and always have just the right answers for her.  There was little doubt that he was going to be peeing in bottles for drug testing too.

 After a thorough search of the house for car keys, Hayes decided that there was nothing for it but to hotwire Dad’s car or pickup.  He walked out the back door and headed for the main barn where Cletus parked his rigs when he was away.

Behind the house was a small jumble of trashy travel trailers, filled with assorted junk that nobody had ever found the time or inclination to deal with.  They had flat tires, expired license plates and leaky roofs.  To one side of them was a little detached bunkhouse Cletus had built on ce-ment blocks for the boys when they were ten and twelve.  It, too, was filled with stuff that nobody would ever use.  When something broke or was of no use in the house, it got banished out back and forgotten about.  Nobody had made a trip to the dump in years at the Loveless place.

The ass end of a Ford Fairlane stuck out of the brush 50 feet beyond the trailers.  Hayes was mad at Cletus when he was 15 after his mom left and the logical thing to do was to pour a dose of molasses and paint in the gas tank of Dad’s car.  The next logical step was to push the dead car out behind the house and let it return to nature.  The glass was mossy and the interior was wasted.  Packrats lived in it but the body was still solid.  Some day he would invite some friends over and they would all get drunk and shoot the car.  Maybe they would remove the plates and tow it over onto BLM land first.  Maybe not.

     

He walked the 70 yards out to the old barn.  The red Buick and green pickup rested side by side on the plank floor under the disused hayloft.  The Buick was locked and had a locking steering column as well.  Hayes focused on the old three quarter ton Chevrolet pickup.  The driver’s door opened and it had a simple ignition switch on the dashboard.  It took Hayes no more than ten minutes to remove the switch and route “run” and “start” wires from its terminals as it dangled below the dash board. 

The old truck’s battery was way low but the engine caught just before the juice ran out.  Hayes revved the cold V-8 and filled the barn with noise and smoke.  He had wheels!  No more walking like a little loser. 

The big bald tires of the 2 wheel drive truck spun as he banged across the muddy front pasture to the gravel driveway.           

 

Hayes didn’t have a driver’s license any more.  The old truck had broken taillights and turn signals that worked when they felt like it.  The plates were still valid but the rusted glass pack mufflers were loud. It was a good bet that any cop who saw the old heap on the road would pull it over for a look see.  He needed to find the keys to the straight Buick.

 

With the can of chump change on the seat beside him, Hayes rolled for the beer store on the edge of Cottage Grove.  The old three quarter ton had less than a quarter tank of gas and got really bad mileage.  Money was too scarce to waste buying gasoline so he was going to have to hose the neighbors’ cars at night.  The dash radio didn’t work.

He grabbed high and roared the half mile to the stop sign at the beginning of Banjo Lane.  The old truck sounded like a performance machine with its hollow glass packs as he slammed through the gears.  The road to the Grove was empty and he flogged Dad’s truck the five miles to the beer store on the edge of town.

The heater worked and the cab was comfortable as he parked the green machine in a back corner of the Minute Mart parking lot and disconnected the run wires.  Hayes sat still as he composed his mind for the phone call to Parole Officer Linda K.  He scooped up a fist full of quarters from the can and exited the truck.

One of the phone booths didn’t work but the other did.

     “Hello--Ms Killion?  This is Hayes Loveless.  Checking in.”

The rain pattered on the smudged glass of the booth as Hayes slumped against the folding door and listened to his PO take charge of his life.

“Yes’m, I aim to look for work.  I don’t have a place to live.  Stayed with friends last night.  They don’t have a phone.  No, I haven’t been drinking.  I don’t have a car or a driver’s license.  I can’t get a phone until I have a place to live.  I suppose I could get a cell phone.  Never had one of those.”

He bit his tongue as Linda told him that he was going to have to come to Eugene to submit to a urinalysis soon and that she wanted to see him in person once a week.  He rolled his eyes as she continued to talk about him getting a job--any job--as his number one priority.

After another five minutes of policy guidance, he flipped off the telephone and said “Good bye, Mam. See you soon.”  He hung up the receiver upside down and stalked through the rain to the Minute Mart where he lightened his pockets for four 40 ounce bottles of chilled Olde English 800 and four packs of generic smokes.  He would soon revert to rolling Top tobacco but he was going to splurge for now.

He sat in the truck and cracked the twist top of a 40 ouncer.  The heady charcoal smell of liquid crack filled the cab.  After looking to see nobody was watching, he guzzled down a quarter bottle and refitted the cap.  Then he rolled down the window a bit and opened a pack of smokes, savoring the smell.  The cigarette lighter in the dashboard still worked and he lit up and enjoyed a long drag and felt the familiar bite and buzz of Olde English take hold.

He hadn’t smoked in so long that his head thumped wickedly in short order. He butted the cigarette carefully for later and walked back to the phone booth, breathing the wet air gratefully.  He was out, and by God he was going to party like he wanted to regardless what that bitch Linda K had in mind.

The quarters dinged as he dropped them in the slot and dialed Scary Larry’s number.  After a few rings an answering machine picked up and Larry’s voice said: 

     “Your dime--Leave a message.”

“Hey Larry, this is Hayes.   I’m home again and I’m behind the eightball.”  In other words, he wanted to score an eighth of an ounce of meth.

He hung up the receiver right side up this time and got back in Dad’s truck and twisted the run wires together and touched the start wires briefly.  The warm engine sprang to life and Hayes looked around carefully to see if any cops were around before engaging the clutch and rolling smoothly out of the parking lot.  He knew better than to drive all the way into the Grove with the legally challenged pickup so he returned home to the little house under the gaunt oak.  The gas gauge had perceptibly fallen in the short drive to the beer store.  The needle wagged back and forth constantly, but it had gone down.

He looked in the rear view mirror and put the bottle of piss-yellow Olde English between his legs and twisted off the cap.  With no cars visible on the road, Hayes tipped up the big bottle and chugged while looking sideways around the glass and driving.  The world was a better place.  He re lit his generic cigarette as he turned in Banjo Lane.  Despite its rough exterior and powerful thirst, the old Chevy ran well for its age.  Its exhausts boomed as he downshifted for the driveway.  He parked it beside the house and pulled the wires apart.

The snipe fit in the hole in the top of Smokey’s hat on the dash and he

gathered his bag of beer in one arm.  The coffee can was lighter after his shopping spree.  He was going to have to glean Dad’s stuff for things to sell when this trove ran out.

 Hayes was feeling the liquid crack as he put his bottles in the fridge and gathered up the last of the wood from the front porch and started a fire with the aid of old newspapers and cardboard.  It smoked and sputtered for a while and then the wind went just right across the chimney top and air drafted through the open stove door and the fire took.  All he needed now was some poon tang and good meth. 

Dad’s easy chair was calling him and he sat down and kicked the wellingtons off his feet and nursed the last half of the bottle.  He let loose a charcoal filtered belch and settled into the Lazyboy.  He was hungry but it just wasn’t worthwhile to get up.  Besides, beer has nutritional value.  He drained the suds from the bottom of the clear glass and dropped it on its side beside the chair.  Linda K could kiss his ass.  He would grow the finest crop of dope anybody ever saw this summer and just enjoy life. 

In an hour or so, Hayes stirred and carefully moved his head back to top center--slowly, so his neck wouldn’t break.  The house was warm and he decided to look for the keys to the old Buick.  They had to be around somewhere.  He shifted his stocking feet on the hassock and gave it some thought.  Dad probably didn’t take the keys with him to Timbuktu. 

Dad owned a pair of pistols that could be pawned or used to rob 7/11 stores.  One was an old Colt Single Action Army made before World War II and the other was a .45 auto souvenired from the military.  If Hayes could find the stash, he could sell them and buy drugs.  Dad might be irate when he came home, but it would be too late. 

The Mossberg 20 gauge stood in the broom closet by the back door.  It was an old turnbolt model with the bolt removed.  Two shells were visible in the gun’s magazine.  Without the bolt, the gun was worthless.  With the bolt, it wasn’t worth much.  You’d think the bolt would be near the gun so Dad could slip it into the back of the receiver when he needed it.   

Hayes lurched to his feet and padded onto the porch to recycle some Olde English.  The sun was going down and it was already cold.  A neglected rose bush bobbed under the golden shower. 

Where would Dad hide something of value?  Cletus knew from long experience that if Hayes were out of jail, he would sell anything that wasn’t nailed down to buy drugs.  He wandered about the house looking for hiding places. 

The desk had a few .45 ACP cartridges rolling in the pencil drawer.  The old Sperry Rand copy of the 1911 had to be around somewhere.  He had shot it a few times and remembered the buck and roar of the old sidearm.  Linda K. had made it clear that he had no legal right to touch a firearm ever again.  He could carry it with him while driving without a license and convert any routine traffic stop into a rolling felony.  “Fuck you, Pig!  You’ll never take me alive!”

He broke open another 40 ouncer and took a big slug before putting it back in the fridge.  The Nash Kelvinator was empty except for his beer and jars of old mustard, pickles and rancid catsup with green and blue mold on the bottom shelf.  Opening the door was enough to start the old electric motor under the appliance wobbling to life.

The little house was packed with boxes of junk and paper.  Looked like they would all have to be sifted through for valuables.  That would take time.  Well, he had nothing but.

Hayes lit a smoke and sat back down.  Dad collected coins.  There must be some hidden throughout the house.  The Buick keys were a must.  He needed low profile wheels with good gas mileage to get around to sell stuff and score.

 He was getting the hang of smoking again.  Cletus didn’t like smoking in the house but he was in Iraq making big bucks as a civilian contractor.  Maybe he just would never come home and Hayes would inherit a lot of money and the old hacienda on Banjo Lane.  He was sure his brother, Zach, wouldn’t want the house.  He wondered what his dad was worth as he stubbed his halfway smoked butt. 

Canned beans were on the menu tonight.  Hayes stirred the pot with a big spoon as he wandered around looking for ratholed valuables.  Close examination of the broom closet produced the bolt for the shotgun tucked on a ledge above the door on the inside. 

 He brought the rusty fowler into the kitchen and inserted the bolt through the back of the piece, carrying a round home and locking it.  Hayes pointed it at the wall and fantasized that he had the drop on a screw at the Lane County jail.  He was no longer a little punk.  He was a little punk with a gun.  He visualized the screw pleading for his life and then lowered the weapon, stood it in the corner and stirred the beans.  The 20 gauge wouldn’t buy much dope.  He’d have to do better than this.  He could always hacksaw the Mossberg down into a clumsy gat.  Pistols were cool.

He sat at the kitchen table eating beans out of the saucepan and drinking OE 800.  The TV was on. You could sort of see Channel 13 but you could only listen to Channel 9.  There was no possibility of selling the quarter century old television.  It was brand new when he was in diapers.  Zach and he watched Sesame Street on it together.

Burping beans and beer, Hayes put the pan in the sink and took a look underneath.  There was a jumble of cleaning agents and dish soap and brushes but nothing of value.  Yes there was.  Hayes removed the roll of paper towels from the hanger inside the door and carried it through the pantry to the bathroom.  He had butt wipe. 

The woodstove was cooling and there was a little pile of coals left, visible through the murky glass of the old Fisher.  He stepped out on the back porch and picked up a gnarl of seasoned apple wood.  He really was going to fix the broken pane in the back door.  Soon.  The lump of apple wood barely fit in the stove.  It smoldered briefly and then crackled alight.

Hayes wanted money.  Like the song goes: Money Changes Everything.  Life is like a shit sandwich in that the more bread you got, the less shit you gotta eat.  He had no work experience and even less enthusiasm for looking for a hated real job like Linda K wanted him to.  The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of just forgetting about his PO and fading off into the sunset.  He would grow hundreds of pounds of good dope this summer and have to contend with very little shit in his sandwich.

He hefted cardboard boxes filled with paper until he found one that weighed more than it should.  Placing it on the kitchen table, he felt through it hoping to find a pistol on the bottom.  His hand closed around something round and cold.  He brought out an old Indian artifact that he had found on the way home from school almost twenty years ago.  It was a ground basalt boat building tool with a hammer on one end and a cross between an adze and a maul on the other. 

 Hayes had been so happy when he had found the thing in the fresh cut where a cat had widened the first corner of Banjo Lane.  Other kids he knew had found arrowheads and pestles in gardens and disturbed earth but nobody he knew had ever found such a unique piece as this.   What was it worth?  He had no idea who would buy such a thing.  Guns were the ticket.  You could always turn a bad ass pistol.

The next suspiciously heavy box was more like it.  His groping hand came up with a tarnished silver cup almost full of pre-1964 silver coins.  Score! The small, blackened cup had some hard to read engraving on it.  Turning it to the light, Hayes could just make out:  Hayes Blaine Loveless  July 1, 1978. 

 The coins were worth more than their face value.  He would have to get the Buick going so he could drive into Eugene and sell them at a numismatic shop.  The baby cup with his name on it would divert any possible suspicion that the coins weren’t his to sell!  You had to show ID in order to sell anything at the Eugene/Springfield second hand shops.   He would keep the cup and always carry old coins to pawn shops in it.  The wannabe professional criminals at the Lane County Jail would be proud of his flawless logic.

After shaking down another dozen boxes of paper trash, Hayes decided he had enough for one night.  A draft blew through the broken pane with the suggestion of rain on it.  There must be a roll of duct tape around somewhere that he could use to block up the hole.  It was getting old crunching over the broken glass too. 

Hayes took his 40 ouncer and sat in the Lazyboy with his feet to the fire.  A spare coffee cup served as an ashtray.  He thriftily saved the butts so he could field strip the tobacco out of them and roll jailhouse cigarettes when he ran out of tailor mades.

Car lights wavered through the living room side window up Banjo Lane.  This was an unusual event as the Loveless house was at the end of the road.  Hayes turned out the light and moved rapidly to the kitchen where he took up his father’s shotgun.  He verified that a round was chambered and the safety off.  “Fuck you, Pig,” he muttered, “You’ll never take me alive.”  He would have peed his pants and come out with his hands up if the cops surrounded the place, but it sounded tough.

An old white sedan rolled up to the house and parked by Dad’s truck.  The driver’s door opened and slammed but no interior light came on.  Footsteps moved with a purpose across the little parking lot, avoiding the yard, and up the steps.

“Hayes, you in there, bro?”  It was Scary Larry.

“Yeah, Larry! Come on in.”  Hayes returned the shotgun to its corner and turned on the light.  The door opened and a tall, lean man in a black leather jacket stepped in and closed the warped door behind him.

Scary Larry was a rare bikeless biker.  Not that much past 50, his hair was in a long ponytail with a ZZ Top beard.  He dressed like a biker and had a Harley Davidson sticker on his car’s back window.  He read Easy Rider magazine, or at least looked at the pictures, and talked about all the chopped shovels, pans and flatheads he had owned in the past.  He had a HD logo tattooed on his chest. He knew all the key words and phrases but nobody had ever seen Larry on so much as a Honda.  He did have the ability to create decent meth powder.  Like Hayes, he couldn’t spell “job” with three tries and a dictionary.  He called everybody “Bro” because he thought all bikers talked like that.

“When did you get out, my man?” Larry bear hugged Hayes and looked him up and down.  “Life treating you OK?  Heard about you going down for beating Brandy again.  She’ll be back.  She digs it.”  He hung his jacket on a hook by the door and stood by the fire. 

“Got out yesterday.  My PO doesn’t know I’m here.  I’m gunna lay back and grow dope this summer.”  Hayes stated this like someone else might say he was going to get a summer job before going back to school.  It never even crossed his mind that the maximum number of people who can keep a secret is one. 

“Boss plan!” said Larry.  “I can help.  I know all about growing dope.  I remember the time I grew a million dollar’s worth of killer green bud on the American River in California years ago.  It’s the right time of year to start preparing the site.”

 He looked at Hayes’ Olde English bottle on the floor.      “Share the wealth, Brother!”

 Hayes obligingly fetched a fresh bottle from the fridge.  Larry held the cold 40 in his hand and twisted the top. He inhaled the aroma of the cheap drunk and sighed, “Breakfast of Champions.”

He chugged a mighty drought and wiped his long moustache with the back of his hand.  

     “Good for what ails you.”

“Yep.”

They sat in the lazyboy and overstuffed chair and regarded the fire.  The can of beans interacted with the Olde English and Hayes fired a three second burst, loud and long.  It stank too.  Bad.

“Talkin’ out your ass.”  Commented Larry.

 “Yep.”

 “So how many plants you want to grow this summer?”

 Hayes thought about it.  There were at least ten acres of pasture that had gone to seed out behind the barn.  Dad used to raise a couple beeves most years but he hadn’t done that in a decade and scotch broom and blackberry vines had swiftly repossessed the open ground.  If you didn’t overplant it, the broom and berries would conceal the dope from the annual helicopter patrols of the Lane County Sheriff’s Department. 

 “Maybe a dozen really good plants.”

 “That would do the trick all right.” Larry nodded.  “You want to be sure and minimize traffic where you’re growin’ so you don’t have trails all over hell for the pigs to see from the air.”

     He hauled out his big leather wallet on a chain and opened it.  Inside were a few wilted dollar bills, a wad of paper and a metal smoking pipe with a small ziplock bag.  Hayes perked up immediately. 

Larry packed the crusty metal bowl with a green dope bud and put a generous pinch of white powder on top of that.

“Fire that up, bro.”  Larry handed over the pipe with a blue bic lighter.

And Hayes did.  He inhaled just as hard as he could and held the smoke until he gagged while Larry sucked down the rest of it.  In a minute the meth combined with the dope and Olde English to produce an incredible buzz complete with sound effects.  This was the life.  Complete freedom to get as high as you wanted.  He needed to screw Brandy.  He wanted to take something apart and maybe even put it back together!

“Wow!  Been a long time, Dawg.”

“No doubt, bro.”

“I want to shoot up some good crystal.”

 “That can happen.”

The stove was really putting out the heat now that the apple wood was fully involved.  Rain sheeted down and the wind blew stoutly in the night.

The two were warm and dry and unsupervised.  They smoked generic cigarettes and Larry rambled on about the fastest Sportster in the world that he had built in California.  Years ago. 

“I’m going to blow off my PO.” Hayes declared.

“This is Lane County, bro. It’s not like they have room to keep you in jail.”

 “Right on!  I’ll stay out of sight and grow a hundred pounds of good bud this summer and live like a king. I’ll get Brandy to come out here and fuck and suck until the cows come home and I’ll find the keys to Dad’s car so I can get around without being hassled.  I’ll find stuff to sell and sleep in every morning.  None of that loser job crap for this kid.”

“You’re a man after my own heart, bro.”

Hayes was really wired up on low order crank now.  It was a perfect night for stealing gas.

 Dark so nobody could see you.  Windy so nobody could hear you, and wet so nobody in their right mind would be out of the house anyway. It was a Thursday night as well so all the little wage slaves would be in bed resting up to trudge wearily off to the salt mines in the morning.

 “Larry, let’s go hose some cars.”

 Larry considered the idea.  He was no stranger to the Oklahoma credit card and it certainly was an ideal night for the sport.  He had three dollars, a little change and a back seat full of beer cans.  He was out of food stamps. He did have a small inventory of meth that he could sell if he didn’t party it away first. 

His old school bus had a stone empty gas tank.  It was parked beside Big Barbara’s house.  Big Barbara was a woman who’d never leave you and if she did, so what?  He was getting tired of her shit and it was time to be moving on down the road.  Every time she carped at him about helping around the house or getting a job or some other establishment bullshit, he was reminded that his GMC hippy bus had no gasoline.  Its fiftygallon tank was too cavernous to even consider paying to fill.  Money was for drugs and beer and other things that could be had in no other way.

“Shrewd idea, bro. I’ve been planning to part ways with Big Barb for some time now.  I need some gas to move my bus.  I’ll wait til she’s at work and split.” 

 This being decided, Hayes found a pair of empty five gallon gas jugs on the back porch.  They were made of plastic so they would make little noise.  Larry had a nice siphoning hose in his car trunk as well as a two and a half gallon can. 

Hayes put on his old felony shoes and a black sweatshirt and borrowed a dark Kellog, Brown & Root baseball cap that his dad had brought home and never worn.  Larry tied a mostly black Harley bandana over his head.

“We’ll drive to the Grove and steal gas over by the high school,” decided Larry.  “It’s pretty dark back there and nobody should be out tonight.  We don’t wanna piss your neighbors off right away.  My car’s close to empty so we can fill it up if pickin’s are good.”

The drugs and excitement made Hayes have to crap in the worst way and so he voided alternating solid and semi-solid discharges in the cramped and damp bathroom. 

“My God, bro, turn on the fan or something.  That stinks all the way out here.”

 “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

An hour later they shared the last of Scary Larry’s 40 ouncer and dropped it with a clink in the back seat of his Fairmont.  It was quiet out and everything was wet.  The gas thieves stayed in the shadows and looked for big American cars to hose. 

Somebody had parked a jacked up Suburban with oversized wheels along the street with its locking gas caps in a dark penumbra from the street light.  Larry felt a rubber filler pipe behind the quarter panel and sliced it in half with a razor sharp folding knife.  He passed the knife to Hayes and deftly threaded a small diameter hose into the gas tank.  He blew experimentally through the hose and could tell the tank was nearly full.  He sucked daringly and the fuel flowed.  He could hear it pouring in the empty gas can over the background rain noise.

Hayes hadn’t been idle and had managed to cut the filler hose to the second gas tank.  Water ran down the inside his sleeve.  He closed the blade on the Buck knife and handed it to Larry. 

It took nearly five minutes for the first can to fill and Hayes moved the hose to the empty five gallon.  Scary Larry took the full can and moved silently half a block to empty it into his old Ford. 

It rained steadily and nobody interrupted their work.  No dogs barked and Larry brought back half a five gallon when the car would take no more.  They drained the rear tank and topped off all three jugs with most of the front. 

Somebody was gunna be pissed in the morning.

Hayes felt the Suburban’s tires and wheels.  They were just worn enough that they didn’t feel worth stealing.  If they had been brand new, he and Larry would have had the lug nuts off and traded the car for Dad’s truck.  They would have come back with a hydraulic jack and four ce-ment blocks and given the battered Suburban the “concrete wide oval” treatment.  You could always sell new Bubba truck tires on Chevrolet rims.  Oh well.  They gathered their gear and loaded the full jugs in the trunk of the Fairmont and drove away. 

The little car had a good muffler and the lights all worked so they drew no attention as they eased out of town.  They were wet and adrenaline boosted their high.  They were smug in the satisfaction of having ripped off a citizen.  The Minute Mart was closed as they left the Grove.

“Yee Haw!” exulted Hayes. “We bad, We bad!”

He burped gasoline fumes and lit a cigarette, handed it to Scary Larry and lit another.

“Good Scene, bro.”  Larry’s leather jacket was wet and his beard was sodden.  He stepped on the accelerator as they cleared the city limits sign.

They were back in the little house at the end of Banjo Lane enjoying the heat from the mature hardwood coals in the Fisher.  Their clothes steamed as they passed the last 40 ouncer and enjoyed the warm fuzzy feeling of a theft well done while high.  Larry loaded up another pipe.

“Let me hold the gas we scored tonight, bro.”  I need to move my bus and I never have any gas when Big Bitch pisses me off. Next time, I’ll have 12 gallons and I can just leave.”

Hayes nodded.  It was going to cost Larry. 

“The TV doesn’t work very well.  I’m gunna take it apart and fix it.” 

For some reason, the ingestion of methamphetamine fosters the hallucination that things can or need to be taken apart and fixed.  It sponsors the even worse hallucination that the user suddenly has the ability to repair mechanical or electrical appliances.  There are millions of cardboard boxes across the country filled with pieces of household appliances that have been taken apart and will never be reassembled.  Eventually the boxes are thrown away.  Perhaps this is a good thing.  A lot of household junk is reduced and eliminated in this manner.

Hayes got some screwdrivers from the tool drawer in the kitchen and started in on removing the back of the old Hitachi.  Scary Larry looked on the back porch for more wood and found only chunks of bark where the stack had been.

“Hey bro, got any more wood for the stove?”

“Should be some under a blue tarp behind the porch.”

 Larry shrugged on his leather jacket with the HD logo on the back and ventured outside.  The rain was taking a break.  A couple minutes later and he was back with a double armload of dry oak.  A big limb had come crashing down behind the house a few years ago and Cletus had cut it up with his old chain saw and laid it by.

Larry dropped his load in the wood box and crammed the biggest piece into the maw of the stove as Hayes tinkered.  Televisions store an impressive electrical charge even when they are unplugged.

“We’re out of beer, bro.”

“Got some 7 Crown in the kitchen.”

 Scary Larry located the half bottle of whiskey by the stove and poured generous slugs in coffee cups.  He handed Hayes the black one with KBR in gold leaf and took the one with the teddy bears for himself.   

They lit smokes and drank Dad’s booze.  The alcohol and dope they had consumed was counteracting the low grade crank Larry had put on top of the bud in his hash pipe.  Hayes lost interest in fixing the TV.

    

The spread at 1234 Banjo Lane is a long narrow lot of marginal bottomland up against the beginning of foothills of second growth fir belonging to the Bureau of Land Management. 

It is all that remains of a century plus old donation land claim that was staked out by a Civil War veteran as a reward for faithful service in the Union Army.  It didn’t cost much for the Federal Government to give away land roamed by the Calapooya before the English could pour out of Canada and occupy it.

Eventually the Government Land Office got around to surveying the area and tied the cedar posts and worn out rifle barrels the old sergeant used to monument his corners into the official Willamette Meridian survey. 

The original homesteader had plowed the flatter portions of the black gummy soil and raised hogs and wheat and children.  He hunted the deer and elk and planted orchards.  He cut timber when he needed it and his sons sawed it into lumber or split it into puncheon.

The original cabin had been built somewhere near the current house.  It had been used as a sty after the new house, built with lumber, nails and glass windows, was erected before the 20th Century. 

The old man had divided his original 640 acres and given it to his sons and recorded all these transactions down at the Lane County Courthouse.  The sons had in turn split their shares yet again or sold the land for ten dollars an acre.  Some of them became loggers and they all worked for someone else as their small land holdings wouldn’t make a living and it was no longer possible to just move west as Dad had done.

Indian trails got bigger and evolved into wagon roads--dusty when dry and knee deep when wet.

The old man died and was buried in the Silk Creek Cemetery and time accelerated relentlessly.  His youngest son fought in the Spanish American War and a passel of great grandsons served in the War to End All Wars.

Eugene grew to 20,000 people and airplanes landed within current city limits.  The Great Depression dragged along and land wasn’t worth much.  The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and Hitler declared war on the United States. 

Lane County’s young men waited for the recruiting office to open or the draft board to notify them, according to their nature.

 The US never won a major engagement in the Pacific until the Battle of Midway and the Japanese never won one after.  Hitler bit off more than he could chew and the Allies dragged him down.  The Japanese finally saw the light-the blinding light-over Hiroshima and Nagasaki and surrendered.

The young men came pouring home to Lane County.  Some liked what they saw in California and demobilized in the land where there is no winter.

The old sergeant’s cedar posts fell or were burned over but his rifle barrels held true the DLC’s corners. 

 Nobody really wanted to live out of Cottage Grove just so they could travel to town to work so the little houses scattered over the claim stood vacant or were occupied by folks who got by without full time jobs and didn’t want to live too close to civilization.

 Most roads were graveled before the war and pavement was creeping out from Eugene in the afterglow of the war.  Electricity was a fact of life, even in the sticks. 

Not a lot changed on the Donation Land Claim for the next thirty years.  Douglas firs reclaimed the fallow fields and grew big.  The Baby Boom generation started.  These children held hands with grandparents who had traveled by wagon and even fought Indians.  A very few Civil War veterans still drew breath.

Lane County became one of the biggest producers of old growth softwood logs in the world and the good times rolled.  Everybody benefited, from the timber barons who owned the stands to the working stiffs in the mills to the service economy--even the school districts got their fair shares.

Then, suddenly, people wanted to live out of town--but not too far.  Even towns like Cottage Grove were getting crowded.  The mega cities of Southern California spewed forth thousands and hundreds of thousands of people moving north to Oregon.  Most of them wanted to live “out in the country” and five minutes from town.

Oregon land use laws are about as effective as screen doors on a submarine.  You can make a lot of

money by dividing real estate from one lot into two.  Let’s say you start with a ten acre tax lot worth a round figure of 100,000 dollars.  If you can divide it in two, each lot is worth at least 100,000 dollars.  If you can get away with splitting the five acre lots in half, they are worth the same as the original 10 acre unit. 

 There is lots of money to be made out of lots.  There are many incentives to violate land use law and not one red cent to be made defending it.  An entire caste of developers’ minions known as “consultants” came into being.  They make huge livings greasing the skids for developers with the county planning department and running interference on watchdog land use groups.

Returning to the present day, it isn’t hard to see what happened to the Civil War vet’s DLC.  Cletus’ little house sat on the last sliver of the original claim with BLM timber on one side and a hundred meter buffer to the first McMansion on the other.

An old fence loosely defined the Loveless land.  The cedar posts were gray and the field wire was brown with age and crushed down in places where people had felt the need to cross.  The entire fence was held up periodically by steel fence posts driven into the clay with the top strand wired to them.  The fence had been built long before Hayes was born and he

remembered it no differently than it was since he and his brother played Cowboys and Indians around the place.

The sergeant’s wife’s dream house with the glass windows had burned down around 1950.  It was pretty worn out by then.  The cabin/sty had collapsed before that and been used for stovewood.  The end of the road had reverted to fir trees and puckerbrush for ten years before somebody bought the last forty of the old DLC and built the little blue house on it.

In the mid 70’s the owner managed to split the forty several ways after crossing a few palms with silver and sold Cletus the original remnant of the DLC using the old fence to legally describe the parcel.

The ancient barn out back, was considerably older than the little house. It was a blend of vernacular construction with rough sawn old growth and machine made nails.  It was roofed with hand split western red cedar shakes, covered with lichen.  It was built closer to the First World War than the Second.  It showed no trace of paint but was still solid for all its neglect.

If you kept going away from the house, past the barn, you came to a sad, six acre pasture with an open gate imprisoned by black berry vines.  The pasture was overrun with scotch broom and dense with thickets in the corners.  There were a few great apple trees in the margins that were long forgotten by everybody except the deer and bear.

Hayes didn’t know or care, but he was a very distant relation to the Union sergeant who had patented the land.

     This, then, was the Loveless place.

                                                                  Chapter Two

It was Sunday morning about 10 o’clock and Hayes was driving Scary Larry’s white Fairmont as chase car behind the lumbering school bus that Larry had lived in, off and on for 20 years.

The two had reasoned it out that it would be best to move the bus on a Sunday morning when traffic was light and cops were few.  The old GMC had no working lights.  The license plate was long expired and Larry saw no reason to drop twenty dollars for a paper trip permit.  Twenty dollars could buy three gallons of Muskatelle on sale at BI-Mart. 

Of course the bus had no insurance.  Its California license plates were black with yellow letters and attracted attention.  The thirty footer had most of its seats removed and been painted brown with bucket and brush so it would blend into a woodland background. The flatland bus was powered by a small six cylinder motor and any hill slowed it to a crawl.  There was a big Harley Davidson sticker on the window of the rear door emergency exit. 

Big Barbara had traveled to Portland to hang with her sister over the weekend and Larry decided the planets had aligned for him to ditch the bitch and find something half his age and weight.  No point in talking about it-nothing was going to change..just weigh anchor and silently steal away.  Big Barb would figure it out pretty damn quick when she got home. 

Ever since Barbara had blimped out beyond 250 pounds, Larry couldn’t fantasize hard enough to make sex worthwhile.  Time to move on.

 The plan was to drive the bus via back roads to the Loveless place and park it in the barn.  The principals had hammered out a verbal agreement whereas Larry would live in the barn and help cultivate the coming marijuana crop while keeping Hayes going with a steady supply of meth. 

Larry topped a hill and started down Fox Hollow Road.  The engine quit smoking so much and the bus rolled almost silently.  The worn tires hissed softly on the wet pavement.  They would follow Lorane Highway into Lorane and then turn east on the Cottage Grove-Lorane Highway, climb the hill and descend to Banjo Lane.

The underpowered bus hobbled along under its own tonnage and the burden of Larry’s worldly goods.  There was a moldy king sized mattress in the very back and piles of clothes on the floor.  An extensive collection of VCR porno tapes with titles like: Butt Bang III and Lesbian Lust filled cardboard cartons behind the driver’s seat.  A small generator powered the TV/VCR set up when the bus was out of extension cord range of free electricity.  Dozens and hundreds of pennies and .22 cartridges littered the recycled shag carpeting. 

The GMC/Bluebird had a complete galley with a household refrigerator.  Years of grease and dirty dishes were everywhere.  Empty Tokay bottles clanked as the bus lurched around corners.   A heavy wood stove with a rusty pipe out a side window gave the bus that “Back to the 60s” look.  Years ago someone had painted a peace symbol over the original hand powered STOP sign that swung out from beneath the driver’s window with the pull of a lever.

A rigid Harley frame rode in a cardboard box.  The numbers were filed off and it had been painted rattlecan black.  Larry was going to build the most righteous chop anybody ever saw.  Just any day now.

Several grubby ice chests contained Larry’s meth cooking equipment.  Like most cooks these days, he used the new cold method which utilized jumbo plastic drink cups from AM/PM stores or 7/11s.  Larry could brew up an ounce or two of pretty good meth that worked fine when smoked in a pipe, with or without reefer.  

The bus might as well have had PLEASE BUST ME stenciled in two foot letters down both sides of its subdued hull. 

The Sunday Morning strategy was sound.  The token force of Oregon State Troopers and Lane County Deputies on duty was busy running speed traps on Interstate-5 in order to pay salaries to run speed traps to pay salaries to run speed traps.  The big bus rolled through Lorane under the radar and labored up the winding hill towards Cottage Grove.

Hayes got a steady whiff of burning oil from behind the GMC as it slowed to a crawl on the moderate incline.  Larry continued to down shift until they were moving at 20 mph.  Private and federal timberlands bordered both sides of the CG-Lorane Highway.  A Porsche Boxster shot around them both on a questionable straight stretch.

The brakes on the bus worked if pumped with vigor.  You wanted to plan your stops well in advance.  The hand brake would hold the bus on a pretty steep grade at the halt.  

Scary Larry’s mobile mansion would remain stationary for years at a stretch.  When the time came to relocate, Larry would round up a car battery, some gasoline with a can of starter fluid, and the 235 cubic inch six cylinder always cranked up with ease. The Diehard from Cletus’ pickup was on duty today.

Larry had taken anything that was his or what he wished to confuse for his from Barbara’s small house in the hills south of the “South Hills” in Eugene.  He had thrown a few armloads of residue from the past couple years of living with Big Barb on the floor of the bus and it was moving day.

The big brown bus left a big brown spot alongside the house where it had been parked the last couple years with six deep holes where the tires settled in during the rainy seasons.

Hayes signaled electrically as the little convoy made the turn onto Banjo Lane.  Scary Larry made no pretense of signaling at all.

Dierdre Devereaux-McCally was unlocking her new Lexus SUV with Oregon license plates, when the smoking bus heeled through the corner and grumbled past the McCally driveway at a walk.  She was flaunting designer spandex and getting ready to drive into the Grove and work out at the spa before a massage.  Her platinum ponytail stuck through the back of her green baseball cap with oversized bill.  Dierdre and her new third husband, Ken, had just moved up from The Valley and had a custom built million dollar house on one corner of the Union sergeant’s DLC.  It was tastefully screened from the unwashed masses on the main road by a picket of 20 foot tall fir trees transplanted last year.

The McCallys were aware that the Tobacco Road house at the end of the lane was no longer deserted and the increased traffic of junk automobiles was distressing and reduced property value.

She was almost 50 but looked more like 30 thanks to extensive expensive So Cal plastic surgery and augmentation.  Larry slowed the bus still further, cranked opened the main doors and wolf whistled.

Diedra took a look at Scary Larry and got a glimpse of his Hustler centerfold wallpaper and made out a faded bumper sticker on a side window that read: Save an Antelope--Bag a Bagwan.

She rendered an artificial smile and a half wave.  There goes the God damn neighborhood, she thought.  Charley Manson drives a school bus.  Maybe we can get more trees planted along the front. Oregon would be such a nice place if it weren’t for all these inbred Oregonians.  Maybe we can buy the house at the end of the road.

The bus groaned away trailing a blue haze and some other loser in a heapy white car smiled and waved.  Dierdre got in her polar ice Lexus and locked the doors.

The bus sat in the mud with its rear end facing the barn door.  It was time for Hayes to move the Buick one way or another.  It was too tight a fit to back the bus into the barn with the red car there.  He wanted to find the keys so that he didn’t have to destroy the locking ignition.  He valued the straightness of his father’s car and if he busted up the steering column, a cop might notice just such a detail while wandering by in a parking lot.

“Whatcha gunna do, bro?”

Hayes circled the car.  He had shaken down every hiding place he could think of in the house and failed to find the car keys or pistols. 

“I’ll bet Dad put a magnetic key box under the car somewhere.  He always believes in backup.  I’m going to jack the car up on blocks and go over every inch underneath it with a flashlight.”

Within the hour the Buick’s Goodyears were perched on concrete blocks and Hayes was examining every nook and cranny between chassis and sheet metal.  The exhaust system sported a shiny new muffler.  Scary Larry leaned on a barn wall, sucking on a half bottle of warm tokay and offering encouragement.  Tokay Is OK til payday.

The rough planks of the floor were uncomfortable as he writhed on his back from under the trunk of the sedan and worked forward.  He carefully felt on top of the gas tank.  Nope.  He slithered along under the whole automobile and was about to give up in disgust when his probing fingers felt a little tin box on the inside of the front bumper. 

“Bingo”!

“You find it, Bro?”

“You got it, Dawg.”                                                   

Hayes pried the magnet loose from the bumper and shook the hide-a-key box.  He was rewarded with a tinny rattle.  The rusty box thumbed open with an effort and Hayes held two keys close in front of his eyes under the car.

“I’m in business now!”

“Far out, Bro. I’m happy for you.  Did you see the way that blonde babe at the beginning of the road looked at me?  You can tell she wants me.  Did you check out her tits?  Out to here, bro!” He exaggerated with one hand while maintaining control of the Tokay with the other.  “Women are always turned on by hard core bikers like me.”

“I think she’s married Dawg, but hey--go for it.”

Hayes slid out from under the car and cupped a pair of keys marked GM in his hand.  He strode to the driver’s door of the Buick and inserted a key and the inside door lock knob popped up.  The door opened effortlessly.

Cletus had bought the car brand new and while it was now 2 decades old, it was of very low mileage as it was frequently parked a year at a time in the barn.  Sometimes Cletus would stay home for six months and sometimes he would ship out for another gig almost immediately.  The car was unremarkable in every way and a cop would look right at it and look away and forget it--it was that straight.

Hayes used Larry’s handyman jack to lower the Special to the deck.  Larry stabilized the jack with both hands and a foot as one corner teetered on the five foot handyman and Hayes removed the ce-ment block. It was a lot like work but the car soon sat on its underinflated tires without mishap.

“Let’s see if she’ll start.

Hayes sat in the driver’s seat and unlocked the passenger door for Larry.

“Boss ride, bro.”

“I remember when Dad bought this car.  He had just come home from working on an Army base in Japan.  He took me and Mom and Zach all the way to Portland in the old car and we drove to a lot and he let Mom picked out the color.    Then we went to Chucky Cheese for lunch. Mom and Dad took turns driving home.”  Hayes almost smiled.       He twisted the ignition and the motor turned over for five seconds before it caught. 

“Hot Damn!”

 “Let’s hear it, bro!.”

Motor revving wasn’t very satisfactory due to the new Midas muffler.  Hayes put it in gear and patched out of the barn and into the mud.  He did a few doughnuts in the boggy area between house and barn and then blasted for the pavement of Banjo Lane. 

The street tires of the Buick almost made it to the parking area but lost traction on the slight rise just before the gravel.  Hayes floored the gas and the rear of the Special dropped in the mud up to the axle.  Larry capped his fortified wine and put it on the floor.

A handy rope, and an assist with the old white car from solid ground, and the Buick was out of the mire. 

Mud dropped from the undercarriage and flew from the tires on the pavement. Hayes slowed down and drove the speed limit.  The Buick Special’s V-6 whispered along. He braked to a complete stop at the beginning of Banjo Lane.  Nobody was coming.  He slowly pulled across the main road and sedately cruised to the Minute Mart at the edge of Cottage Grove.

Larry and Hayes stood in the parking lot admiring the low profile car.  It had mud streaks on the rear fenders and globs in the rear wheel wells but a hose would take care of that.   It looked like an old man’s car.  It WAS an old man’s car. 

     “I got three dollars in change, Dawg, Let’s buy some Olde English.”

“That’ll work, bro.” Larry preferred 20% Tokay but Olde English was OK too.  He opened his big wallet on a chain and matched Hayes’ three bucks and raised him a handful of change.  “We’ll get some Top and roll some smokes.”

Hayes enjoyed driving the invisible “citizen” car at precisely the speed limit.  If he got in the habit of never speeding and always using the turn signals, he should be able to drive forever in a car like this without his lack of a driver’s license becoming an issue.

Larry dusted off his Tokay bottle and unscrewed the cap.  He drank off the last inch and rolled down the power window.  A speed limit sign was coming up.   He leaned out the window and cocked his arm until the last possible moment before dashing the green glass and red label against the unyielding metal of the sign.

“Good shot, Dawg!”

“Right on!  Death to the Pig!”  Larry closed the window, belched, and rolled a couple of perfect cigarettes.  The Buick had never been smoked in before, but that had just changed.

Hayes opened the ashtray and scooped up a clutch of change Cletus had left there.  Everything was coming up roses today.

Larry opened a forty of liquid crack, took a big swig and passed it to Hayes. 

“Just the thing, Dawg.”

Larry hadn’t eaten all day and the cold Olde English did not sit well on top of the warm tokay.  His head spun as he fumbled for the window hand crank like on his car, remembered the power window switch, looked for that and it was too late.

“BUUUUU-IIIICK!” he retched, as he pulled the door handle.  Some of the rejected Tokay actually made it out of the car.  Most of it deflected off the door and splashed on the floor or splattered on the velour seat.  His huge beard dripped purple.

“Oh, Dude!”  Hayes stopped the car and Larry power hurled three times running on the shoulder of the road.  The smell was fierce and vomiting seemed like a good idea to Hayes as well.

A couple of bubbas headed back to the Grove in a monster truck took in Larry’s performance.  The driver lowered his window as he slowed down.

“Party hardy, Dude!”  

“I think I’m gunna die,” moaned Larry

 “You will when Dad gets home.  You gotta clean this up like it never happened.”

The rest of the ride home went down with Larry hanging out the passenger window of the car.  The turn at the beginning of Banjo Lane was just unsettling enough to resume a small encore.

Deirdre McCally generally looked out the window whenever a car passed in or out of Banjo Lane.

 It was a rare enough event, unlike in The Valley.

“Kenny, come look at this!”

Ken was in the kitchen and missed it.

“Oh-my God--you should have seen it!  It was that Charley Manson clone with the school bus I saw this morning.  He was hanging out of an old car--puking!  It’s disgusting!  What’s wrong with the hicks who live around here? It must be the water. I want you to buy the house at the end of the road and have it torn down.  It’s a blight on the neighborhood!”        

“Yes, Dear, I’ll call the real estate agent in the morning.”

It had been a productive Tuesday.  Hayes had managed to acquire a foodstamps debit card.  In addition, he had collected a free food box.  Most importantly, he had managed to convince the phone company that he was Cletus and to turn on the telephone at 1234 Banjo Lane and send the bill to his overseas address. 

This, of course, would alert Cletus that his house was occupied but it wasn’t like he could drop everything and rush home.  Hayes never planned too far ahead anyway.

Hayes had taken straight driving seriously and affected one of Cletus’ old man hats while driving his old man car.  He chuckled at his cleverness.

He had gone to several drug stores and paid money for cold capsules.  All merchants keep them behind the counter now so shoplifting wasn’t an option.

Scary Larry needed the ephedrine in the pills in order to cook meth, and all the clerks were paying attention to who was buying cold pills in more than occasional purchases.  The only way to do it was to make the rounds and buy a package of the stuff every week or so from each retail outlet.

Also Hayes had made a semi-conscious decision not to meet with Linda K, his PO.  Linda didn’t know where he was living and in his mind, it was as if that were never going to change.  There was no way that the law would ever find him living in his father’s house at the end of the road or cruising around in Dad’s straight arrow Buick.   He had also sweet talked Brandy’s new phone number out of her mother.  Hayes was very good at being charming when it benefited him.

The numismatic shop in Eugene had given him folding money for Cletus’ Ben Franklin half dollars and other silver coins in Hayes’ baby cup.  Money was a problem.  Money was always a problem but it wasn’t going to be this coming September when he harvested his crop.

The Buick didn’t smell so good after Larry’s half-hearted attempt at cleaning the sour wine out of the interior.  It was still as low profile as ever though and smoking cigarettes helped reduce the stink.

Hayes turned onto Banjo Lane keeping an eye out for the hot blonde who lived on the corner.  Dee Dee was no where in sight but hubby Ken was getting out of his 12 cylinder BMW and made a mental note of the license plate of Cletus’ car.

Ken McCally was 65 and California wealthy.  He was unaccustomed to lowering standards and reducing expectations.  He didn’t have to.  This was his fourth marriage and he was closely monitoring his current wife.  Dee Dee turned heads in a little black dress and could even still pull off a white thong over a dark tan poolside, but time was closing the gap. 

Deirdre’s good looks were not entirely artificial but they were at their absolute apex.  She had gotten to the point where she enjoyed working out and even running to the end of Banjo Lane and back three times first thing every morning.  She never ate seconds and rarely dessert.  Looking good was her profession and they both knew it.

She now needed her eight hours beauty sleep every night.  She was spending more time at hair salons and nail boutiques to draw attention to her extremities.  There was no frumpy underwear in her walk in closet.              

Dee Dee couldn’t indulge in more than a token glass of wine or snort of coke without paying the piper the next morning.  Should she make the choice to party like she wanted to and sleep in rather than run her six miles at dawn, her days in the House of Ken would be numbered. 

Ken was experienced at protecting his assets.  Should Deirdre decide to chunk out, then they would have to do lawyers and while she might be able to stall the inevitable for a while, in the end she would be out of his life and cash flow, her credit cards canceled, staring a hated realjob in the face. 

He would make sure Number Five was half his age or less.  He could afford it.  His favorite line from Gone With the Wind was Rhett Butler declaring: “Money may not buy happiness but it will buy some of the most remarkable substitutes.”

Kenneth A. McCally thumbed through the bills as he watched the red Buick round the corner and then turned and walked up the embedded flagstones to his trophy house and wife. 

   

Hayes lifted the receiver on the telephone.  Sure enough, it worked.  He dialed Brandy’s number and it rang, rang, rang.  Oh well, he would try again later.

The weather was cold and sunny.  Scary Larry was right in that it was time to work up the plots for the marijuana plantation this spring.  Larry was full of shit about a lot of things, but he just may have grown some dope in the past.

He wandered out to the barn.  The bus was backed indoors now with the driver’s side a couple feet from the disused horse stalls so as to leave access.  You could close the sliding door of the old barn and have ample room to walk in front of and behind the heavy bumpers

Larry had a little meth still cooking on the old workbench across the back wall behind the rusty Bluebird.  Hayes banged on the side of the bus.

“Hey Dawg, Rise and shine. Let’s do it.”

“I’m up bro.”

Larry had been crashed out on his moldy mattress after several days of tweaking on his home brewed meth.  He felt pretty good after 12 hours of sleep.

He sat on the bottom step of his bus and pulled on dirty socks and his old biker boots with the buckles on the sides.  The bus roof was low enough that Larry could not stand upright inside.  He stretched expansively on the barn floor and yawned, rolled a smoke and farted as he lit it.  He stepped to the barn door and urinated in the mud.

“That’s better.  What’ve we got for gardening tools, bro?”

Manual labor was something that Hayes had avoided all of his adult life.  He had tried tree planting for a day once as big brother Zach did it and it seemed to pay well.

“We got all kinds of stuff like that in this little room here.”  Hayes moved to the old tack room and opened the Z braced door.  There was no electricity in the barn so he had to feel through the cobwebbed darkness for the stack of rusty shovels in the corner.  He handed out implements to Larry who segregated the whole from the broken and stacked both categories on the outside wall of the little plank room.  Hayes’ hand closed around a wooden handle that was in the very corner of the tack room, long covered by a layer of splintered cultivating forks and the like. 

 Out came a strange looking tool, a heavy hoe with a four foot handle or better that had clearly been hand carved, probably out of Oregon ash.  Larry whistled and held the heavy digging tool up to the light.

The iron head of the hoe looked different than anything similar you could buy today.  It had been hand forged by the old sergeant’s firstborn son, a functional blacksmith.  The hoe head had survived the fire that destroyed the original barn on the place and somebody had made it a new handle out of a straight hardwood limb with a spokeshave.  The old wood was worn smooth by long dead hands and had the grip and heft of a pick only longer. 

“Just the ticket for clearing the ground where we’re gunna plant, bro.”  He admired the balance of the tool like it was a fine hunting rifle.

 

“The first thing we need to do is make our approach into the field where we’re gunna grow.  From now on, nobody ever walks through the gate.  That’s the first place the pigs will check from the air.  We can walk through the barn here to the fence line out back and move as close as you can along the wire.  Then, we’ll cut a hole in the old over grown fence, right at the corner, and make tunnels through the brush like the gooks did back in The Nam.”

Hayes was fairly certain that Scary Larry had never been to Nam.  His bullshit wore many hats.  Still, it didn’t cost anything to act like he believed him. 

Whatever his experience with “gooks,” Larry’s concept made sense.  A major trail through the old gate into the back field would show up graphically from the air.  You’d be able to see the trails through the summer grass to each pot plant.   The brush was thick enough along the old fence line that if you were willing to regularly crawl on your hands and knees, you could leave no trace visible from the air.

This was starting to sound like work.  Still, it would be money under the table that the government couldn’t steal from him in back child support.

“You right, Dawg,” Hayes agreed.  I know there’s a fence pliers and some rose clippers somewhere.  There are plenty of gloves on the work bench.”

 An hour later, they had breached the fence at the corner and were carefully snipping a narrow tunnel through the scotch broom and blackberry vines.  The ground was soggy and their knees got wet and muddy but the brush itself was almost dry.  Larry insisted on removing every piece of cut vegetation in its entirety and piling it at the entrance of the tunnel.  They would burn it later or haul it away in the truck and dump it on BLM land next door.

Larry remained incredibly focused for a tweaker and his example wore off on Hayes.  He worked under the bikeless biker’s tutelage and they made a good ten meters of tunnel before they decided they had enough for the day.

They stood at the mouth of the tunnel and Scary Larry swiftly rolled a pair of flawless cigarettes as they surveyed their progress.

“This old apple tree will cover the entrance to our tunnel when it leafs out.” Larry scratched a kitchen match on the seat of his pants and let it flare before lighting their smokes.  “I think we should hang a hammock here in the spring so if the pigs notice a lot of foot traffic coming back to this corner, they’ll see a reason for it.”

 Hayes was starting to use his head on the project.  He had had some vague notion of just planting some good weed and trusting to luck that the pigs wouldn’t spot it.

“I think we could weave some berry vines into the piece of fence wire and close it like a door when we’re not using the tunnel.”

Larry nodded.  Blood dripped off the end of his big nose where a blackberry vine bit him.

“That is a most excellent idea, bro.  You’re thinking like a gook now.”

The sun was going behind the BLM timber and it got cold fast.  The two pot growers went back inside the barn where Larry examined his still on the workbench and got an armload of dirty clothes out of his bus. 

“I wanna use the washer and drier and take a shower, bro.”

“You don’t gotta ask, Dawg.”

They tracked mud into the house through the back door.  Glass still crunched under foot from Hayes’ break in a week ago.  Somebody really needed to fix the broken window.

An hour later, Larry was standing by the woodstove drying his freshly laundered beard.  He looked like a Lil’ Abner character in Cletus’ old Ben Davis pants.  The legs were too short, the waist too big around and they were held up by suspenders.  You could see the HD tatoo on his bare chest through the gray hair.

Hayes was in the kitchen emptying cans in a saucepan. 

“I wonder what okra and creamed corn taste like.”

“Sounds good to me, bro.  You up to smoking some bud and powder?”

“Hold that thought Dawg, I’m gunna try calling Brandy again.  If I can get her to come out here, she’ll do anything for a good buzz of the demon snuff.”

“Anything, bro?”

Brandy was a professional welfare recipient since she turned 17.  She lived in a state subsidized apartment complex with her three children by different fathers and learned to work all the angles of the system.

She was still a good looking girl in her early thirties with big brown eyes and long black hair.  She used enough meth so that she was a chic ten to fifteen pounds underweight but it had not yet destroyed her looks.  Her small breasts rode high and she still had her teeth.

Her life moved to the rhythm of external forces.  Human Services threatening to take her children.  Eviction from Section 8 housing because of her latest stud reported as living there with her.  Busted for shoplifting.  Drug overdose.  Power turned off.  Phone turned off. Amateur prostitution--sex for drugs with children in the next room.  YOU ARE A DEADBEAT letters.  Sick children.  A brief trickle of money at the beginning of the month and then three weeks of utter penury.  Month after month after year.  It never occurred to her that life could be any other way.

“Hey Gorgeous Girl, this is Hayes.  I’m out of jail.”

“Why should I care?”

They both knew this was just an act and that Brandy would always come groveling back to Hayes for more abuse.

“Who loves you, Babe? I worry about you and the kids.”

“You do not.  You wouldn’t hit me if you really cared.”

“Hey, you hit me first.” 

This was true.  Hayes was always able to subtly provoke Brandy into hitting him first.  The long suffering Springfield police were not interested in investing time sorting out domestic disputes and generally hauled the male half of the problem away in the back of a prowl car.

Nobody in Brandy’s circle held a job.  Most of her friends and acquaintances had no work experience and could only hope to land the most menial sort of bottom rung occupation and stay there--providing the company didn’t do urinalysis.  They had started doing major drugs in high school and never graduated and had lost any motivation they might have had except for the next score.

It is possible to make just as much money collecting public assistance as working a deadend McJob--and every day is Saturday.   

Not even military recruiters would afford a ticket out of this backwater of ambitionless second, and even third generation welfare recipients. Today’s modern volunteer green machine doesn’t want professional couch potatoes.  No losers content to pass their days smoking dope and watching Captain Kangaroo on worn out televisions while waiting for meager electronic welfare “checks” at regular intervals.

Generic cigarettes on “payday,” jailhouse smokes the rest of the month. Cheap, powerful meth that gets stronger every year and forty ounce bottles of liquid crack.  These are the “stuck on pause” generations. 

Most conversations with her cohorts revolved around how wasted they had gotten the night before or who was screwing who--who’s welfare money had been electronically withheld and who had stolen what from where.

“Come on out to the house, Sweet Thing.  We got what you need here.”

“Who is ‘we?” Brandy demanded.

“My main man, Larry, is living in his bus in the barn.  He’s a short order cook.”

Hayes was a flawless judge of human character.  He was especially adept at playing the female psyche like a Stradivarius.  He could make almost any woman do what he wanted her to if he could keep her talking long enough.  He was a master of manipulation.  He could cause most women do his will and think it was their idea.  Admittedly, Brandy wasn’t much of a challenge.

The suggestion that methamphetamine was available at the little Loveless house at the end of Banjo Lane was all it took to get her rear in gear.  She was a methwhore, first and foremost.

Then, too, she viewed Hayes as a success.  At least as successful as anyone ever was in her life’s sphere.  While he didn’t waste his days working a job, he had a roof over his head and always some sort of drugs in the house.  If he needed a ride, he boosted a car.  He stole as much as he needed to get by and a little more for gracious living.  He didn’t mind children.  In fact, it even seemed that he liked them at times.  This was possibly due to young children taking him at face value and not looking too hard behind the facade that he presented.

Brandy didn’t have a lot of options in her life as far as men went.  Not many doctors, lawyers or Indian chiefs were interested in a long term relationship with a young woman who liked to shoot meth when she could get it, with three unruly children, living in a dive apartment.  In her world, a small time to medium size drug dealer was a catch indeed.

Television was Brandy’s distorted little window to the outside world.  She didn’t care about world news or current events but devoured the network pap of beautiful people with dynamic lives in fine, sparkling homes and driving new cars with gold tipped exhaust pipes.  If the deck had been stacked differently, that would be her with big tits and a perfect smile armed with credit cards that never maxed out.  There would be no problems in her life that couldn’t be resolved in an hour minus commercials.  Jealous men without tattoos would compete for her attention.

She had been having a carnal little affair with Raul, the local dealer in her neighborhood.  It hadn’t lasted as Raul liked to sleep in and the kids liked to get up early, gobble heavily sugared cereal, and bounce off the thin walls. 

He would keep Brandy shot up on meth and she would be his whore as long as he wanted.  He would leave in the afternoon to sell his wares and return to her squalid apartment in the early morning. He even paid the electric bill when the power was cut off.  It wasn’t the most satisfying relationship, but it was much better than nothing.

Brandy wanted to be taken care of.  Her parents had divorced when she was a child and she had been passed around between relatives and foster homes.  Her mother wanted to party unencumbered and her father left no forwarding address. Skinny little Brandy shuffled from home to home with her clothes and few possessions dumped in a couple of garbage bags. 

She would feel attachment to her latest ersatz family and then she would become inconvenient and it was time to be relocated.  Some times she would be molested in her new environment.  Sometimes beaten.  Sometimes both.  Occasionally neither.  She reached the point where she would accept sex as love sort of like foodstamps equal money.

At 16, Brandy was at the crossroads of her young life.  She could have taken a number of trajectories that might have achieved escape velocity from her existence up to this point.  She occupied space at school sometimes.  She wasn’t stupid and even got high marks on subjects she found interesting.

She traded sex for drugs and not too surprisingly wound up pregnant.  It was certainly possible for her to have had an abortion but she did not do so. It was more a case of the path of least resistance than any conscious decision on her part.  Maybe a child would love her.

Brandy found herself with a full time career of jumping through hoops with low level bureaucrats who control the valves of public assistance money.  There is no such thing as true or false in this world.  There are only correct and incorrect responses.

It was clear even to her that she was damaged goods as far as marrying an upwardly mobile man with a profession, or even a chump with a job.

Mom got old and fat at forty-five and fetched up in a run down trailer park on the outskirts of Eugene.  She was willing to be part of Brandy’s life again and even gave the children a sense of family.                      

      

   

Brandy called her mom's number and left her a message to come get the kids.  She took Pamela aside and told her she was in charge until Gramma came for them.

 She broke out the bottle of raspberry flavored, vodka reinforced cough

 syrup and gave her youngest child a double dose of the stuff with a table spoon out of the kitchen sink.  Billy and Jacob knew what was up as Brandy stealthily gathered her coat and purse and tried to disappear out the door while they sat watching Dukes of Hazzard on the old TV.  Jacob ran crying after his mother as she slammed the door and locked the deadbolt in his face.  She stood outside in the wet darkness waiting for the wailing to subside as they went back to watching '67 Dodge Chargers flying 200 meters through the air.  The high performance Robatussin (sp?) took effect and the little boy sat down and dimmed out.  Hopefully Gramma would check the answering machine sometime tonight.

Brandy walked down the concrete stairs to the big parking lot to her 20 year old Honda Civic.  A tire had gone flat last week and it had the tiny "for temporary use only" spare on the driver's front.  The turn signals didn't work and the windshield was cracked but it had a stick shift so you could almost always start it with a little help.  Brandy could usually recruit help pushing the car without much effort.

Tonight the beat up little car started electrically.  The hole in the muffler wasn't getting any smaller and burning oil fumes came through the back window that wouldn't shut all the way.  The gas gauge needle was past E but it would flicker when the car cornered so there might be enough to make it to Banjo Lane.

There were dozens of bottles and cans on the back seat floor.  Brandy stopped at the Dairy Mart and with the 35 cents in her pocket was able to trade the stale beer containers for a pack of generic cigarettes.  The woman-oriented-woman cashier admired the tattoos above the belt of her low riders as she left through the glass door.  The clerk's eye shifted to the child seat visible in the back of the Civic.

Brandy eased her Honda up to speed on her way out of town.  Once rolling along, the car didn't make so much noise and as long as you didn't have to change lanes, it was possible to avoid official attention.  Brandy had been stopped at night a while back by a Eugene cop.  Fortunately, he was willing to ignore her many vehicular shortcomings for oral sex.  The Eugene PD had cleaned house since then and she might not be so lucky next time.

The faded Honda made the short dash south to Cottage Grove in the wet darkness.  Brandy lit the first cigarette out of her fresh pack as the Civic wobbled down the freeway on its mismatched tires.  The car was so wretched that the EPD had declined to impound it last month when a traffic stop revealed that Brandy had no automobile insurance.       

The city wanted vehicles that could be held hostage for a couple thousand dollars and everybody involved knew that Brandy would just walk away from this heap and they would be stuck with it.                                                             

She idled through the Grove as quietly as possible, catching most of the lights just right.  On the far side of town she opened the throttle and the little motor sounded big through the ruined muffler.

Brandy had been to the Loveless house many times before.  Hayes always lived there when he was out of jail and Cletus was out of the country. 

Somebody had stolen the BANJO LN sign again and she almost missed the turn.  For some reason, people liked to steal the road sign and it took the county longer and longer to get around to replacing it each time due to cut backs in the Department of Public Works.  There was a new monster mansion on the corner that added to her confusion.  It was all lit up and somebody stepped out on the porch as she downshifted and threw the car into the turn at the last second when she decided that this really was Banjo Lane despite the missing sign and new house.

  

“Kenny, did you call the realtor about buying the dump at the end of the road?”

“I did, Dee. Kathy said she’d look into it.  She knows the house.  The Seautons next door to it have wanted to buy the place ever since they had their home built. It belongs to a man who works for Haliburton overseas a lot.  His deadbeat son and his dope buddies occupy the place when he’s out of jail. 

She says it goes in cycles.  Eventually the police will come and bust everybody and things will quiet down again.  The old man has never wanted to sell in the past.  She says our lot was part of the original spread belonging to the house at the end of the road.”

“Another junky car just went blasting up the road.  I want that shack torn down.  There is entirely too much riff raff going by our house since people started living there.”

“Yes Dear.  Isn’t it time for you to do your situps?”

Brandy’s old car shuddered and sputtered and ran out of gas.  She was able to coast past the Seautons’ driveway and pull far enough into the ditch so the car wasn’t a problem.  There wasn’t usually much traffic at the end of Banjo Lane anyway.   The lights were on in the Loveless house and she could hear death metal thumping on the stereo and smell chimney smoke.

She snapped off the headlights, left the key in the ignition and stood for a minute and enjoyed the darkness and fresh country smells of the foggy night.  She would like to move out of town some day. The lights and car alarms and constant yelling in the low income housing complexes where she had to live made her unhappy.  It would be nice to plant daffodils in flowerbeds and share a roof with a man who tolerated her children and paid the bills.

The Honda was canted into the ditch enough so that the driver’s window rattled when Brandy collected her purse and coat and let gravity shut the door.  Thunk.  An owl hooted in the darkness not so far away.  One shoe had a crack in the sole and her foot got damp on the short walk to the front porch of 1234 Banjo Lane.

Megadeath stopped on the old stereo and Hayes opened the front door.

“There you are, Beautiful!”  I was starting to wonder.  Saw car lights and figured it must be you.”

Brandy had mixed feelings about seeing Hayes again.  He could and did shift from kind and loving to cold and mean in a heartbeat.  On some level she knew that cold and mean was his true color and that anything else was just a cheap latex paint job on top of that.  Still, Hayes was a consummate actor.  Nobody knew the true Hayes--possibly not even himself.

It was a relief to be away from her fighting, squalling brood. It was a relief to be off the road with her horrible old car.  It was so decrepit that arriving at any destination was hardly a given any more.  Hayes would supply her with gasoline.  He might even steal her some new tires off another Honda.  He had done that before.  He would take care of her.  It might not be much, but it would be a heap more than anybody else would bother. 

He would be warm and loving and attentive for a while.  When Brandy whined or became too needy, he would become distant and evasive and would start setting her up so she would hit him so he could return unto her blows manifold. 

Brandy sighed to herself and stepped up on the rotting stoop.  Air bubbled audibly through the wet crack in her shoe sole.  Hayes took a step forward and hugged her, sliding his hands down her ectomorphic ass.  He stood on his toes to kiss her as she was an inch or two taller than he.

“Missed ya, Babe.  We gunna lay some pipe tonight.”

His hands returned to the bare skin above her belt. 

“Jeez, Honeychile, you’re cold.  Come in by the stove.  We got a fine fire going.”  He took her hand and led her through the door.

Scary Larry was entertaining himself by stringing together electrical cords in the living room of the little house.  He was sitting cross legged on the floor wearing a black Harley Davidson sweatshirt with his Dogpatch pants and was systematically untangling a huge Gordian knot of orange and yellow extension cords removed from the below deck cargo hold of his bus.  When he freed one, he would connect it to his growing string, taping the connection and covering the join with bread bag plastic and electrician tape that Cletus had left on the back porch.  His plan was to run power out of a window to a handy tree, and then down the old fence line common with the Seautons to the barn so he could watch his porno tapes and have a light bulb in his old bus.

“Larry, This is Brandy, the light of my life--Brandy, this is Scary Larry, my main man.  We’re gunna grow a million dollar’s worth of fine bud this summer.”   

Scary Larry put aside his extension cords and rose to his feet. 

“Hi Brandy, Heard good things about you.”

The house was destroyed.  Mud was tracked everywhere and the kitchen sink heaped with dirty dishes.  A funny smell emanated from the range as Larry was simmering a saucepan of iodine solution to evaporate all the useless tare so he could use the concentrated iodine crystals in his meth cooking.  A damp draft came through the broken pane in the back door.  A dismantled television took up space on the living room floor and rifled boxes of mostly paper were scattered carelessly.  Everywhere. 

Brandy stood with her back to the woodstove.  The heavy iron radiated a generous heat that she never experienced in Section 8 housing.  If you turned on the heat, the electric bill would balloon to unmanageable proportions and then the power would be shut off.  It must be nice to be able to go out and rustle any old form of wood and warm the house like this. 

Hayes handed her the Mickey Mouse tumbler filled with icy cold Olde English.  He had chilled a forty in the ice choked fridge freezer until the 8% malt liquor had nearly frozen.  Brandy didn’t really like tweaker brew but she disliked reality more and the world was a better place drunk or stoned.  There was slush in the top of the glass.

“So what’s new with you, Good Looking?”

What was new with her?  She had moved to a different same apartment complex to get away from Hayes.  The three children had developed a taste for alcohol.  They would take any unguarded beer from table or floor and start drinking or run after glasses of cheap whiskey to dip their fingers in it and suck them dry.  Brandy knew this wasn’t a good thing but it did keep them quiet.

Hayes didn’t need to hear about Raul.  Her car was falling apart and she really needed a new one.  Her car.  A safe topic if she didn’t whine about it.