Bad Week for a Big Toe - Part 1

Most every day, while putting on my socks, I am reminded of the eventful week that I dated Regina.

It all began with a wonderful date that I had planned for the last Sunday in June after my first year of college.  Summer was full on in California and the area that we lived was hitting 105 degrees in the shade.  I had finally talked Regina into a couple dates; the first a “just the two of us” thing, and the second a group 4^th of July celebration a few days later.

The first date was set for Sunday the 30^th of June and I had it all planned; long drive to romantic Carmel-by-the-Sea; day spent walking on the white sand beach and a bit of sunbathing side by side; early dinner with a nice wine on Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey by a window seat overlooking the harbor; quiet movie at the drive-in up in Santa Cruz; yep, it was the perfect date plan.

The second date was on Thursday the 4^th of July at a picnic being put on by the company I worked for out at Lake Del Valle outside of Livermore California.  With BBQ and games, and what not.  Figured a second quick follow up date and I could set the stage for a long relationship.

And Regina was the perfect girl for summer, for school, for it all.  Strawberry hair, sparkling eyes, and wonderfully alive.  You other guys know what I am talking about.  A woman’s beauty isn’t in blemish-free peaches and cream skin, or the pert shape of her nose, or any other part of her anatomy.  A woman’s beauty is the light and life that flows through her eyes when she looks at you; the sparkle and fire that flashes deep within.  That is beauty, and as the saying goes, it isn’t merely skin deep.

And Regina looked at me that way.                                                                                                                     

Sunday finally came and I picked her up on time and on plan.  Gentlemanly held the door for her, and off we headed into what apparently was one of the most memorable days of her life.

Now, I am not being overly egotistical when I say that, but given the way she looked at me when I picked her up that morning, there was every reason to expect many months of dating bliss.  And given how short our actual dating career became, both of our dates must have made a real impression on her, not in a good way either apparently.

The drive to Carmel was wonderful, soft music that we both enjoyed on the car radio, pleasant chatting about mutual friends, and school, and family.  The weather in Carmel could not have been ordered better.  And the Beach, wow, if you haven’t been to Carmel-by-the-Sea to stroll on the long crescent shaped white sand beach, you really should find time to do so.

We laid out a blanket on the beach and stripped down to our swim suits; okay, so the anatomy of a woman isn’t entirely dismissed a young man.  And she certainly added to the view.

 And when she handed me her Coppertone I was sure that good things were on the relationship horizon.  I squirted a large dollop on my hand and set to massaging it in as close to the edges as I dared.  I had packed a small picnic lunch, some cheese and bread, fruit, and sodas which and we enjoyed that.  Our conversation just flowed so smoothly, no uncomfortable pauses, no forced “nice weather” things either.  The day simply flew past.

It was getting on time to pack up to head for dinner when I made the first mistake of our dating career.

I talked Regina into cooling off in the water and so, down to the surf we ran, splashing and enjoying the cool Pacific waters.  And no, I didn’t do any sophomorishly foolish boy thing; no knocking her down, or throwing seaweed or any other stupid stunt.  We just strolled along in the gentle breaking surf and walked all the way to the end of the beach. 

Just as we turned around, I kicked a barnacle encrusted rock just under the water‘s surface.

To say that it hurt would be an understatement of monumental proportion.  As it turned out I basically removed all of the skin and flesh from the outside of my right big toe.  Of course at the time I couldn’t see that, heck, I couldn’t see period.  My eyes were screwed up tight against the pain, and when I finally opened them, everything was distorted by the welling up of tears that completely drowned my vision.

Yep, stripped the skin and flesh from over an area that was close to ½” top to bottom and a good inch plus long.    

In saltwater.

In the roiling surf. 

Rolling saltwater filled with  grains of sand.

I tell you, even now, some 35 years later, it is one impressive looking scar.

I am ashamed to admit that it became readily apparent that I knew an entire vocabulary of words that Regina had never heard before.

But, I grew up Vandermolen tough. 

And Vandermolen tough meant that you just “walk it off”. 

So I tried to do just that; hobbling back down the beach towards our towels, leaving a large bright red stain in the sand with every right foot print. 

Teeth clenched as the beach sand assaulted what was left of the toe.

Regina, bless her delicate little heart,  really felt that we should jump in the car and find a doctor.  I, however, was having none of that. 

Heck, I’d had previous experiences with doctors and flesh wounds.  I knew that if I saw a doctor, he was going to want to stitch up my toe, and that meant cleaning the wound carefully, and anesthetizing it, and missing our dinner reservations, not to mention everything else that comes with a doctor; bills, needles, drugs, all kind of things that were not in my date plan.  So I convinced her that it was “just a scratch” and since she was a bit squeamish about blood anyway, she really hadn’t looked too close.

Grabbing our towels we headed to the restrooms to rinse off, towel down and change.

While there I washed the toe as best I could.  Then I used my Buck Folding Hunter to cut a bit of my towel off and cinched a strip of it around my toe, then put my sock on to hold it all in place.  Once done with that, and before the blood could soak through the wrapping and sock, I stuffed my foot into my shoe.

With my teeth set, I practiced pacing back and forth a bit so that when I went back out, Regina wouldn’t notice how bad I was limping, which I figured would just set her off on the whole doctor thing again.  Mothering was not what I had in mind from her.  So I practiced moving a bit easier before I headed out to meet her.

She was dressed and a vision to behold when I finally emerged from the men’s side of the changing area.  Dressed in a flowered sundress, shoulders bare and hair put up, I was glad that I had decided to forgo the foolishness of finding a doctor just to stop up the free flow of blood.  Heck, I had more where that came from and could make more anytime I needed it. 

I had bled before, lots of times, but I had never kissed Regina before and the smile she graced me with promised that I would before the evening was done.

We found our way to Monterey and dinner on the wharf.  The view of the harbor and the settling sun right outside our window-side table was fantastic.  So was the drive and close contact of the drive-in movie.  And as promised, I got to kiss her.  Can’t say as I remember what the movie was, mostly that night was a cycle between the joy of kissing her and the throbbing pain from my toe. 

After dropping Regina off at her house, I headed home, carefully removed my right foot from the shoe, and spent most of an hour trying to soak the blood saturated sock off of my foot while simultaneously cleaning out the inside of my right shoe.  After applying some Neosporin, I rewrapped the toe and went to bed.

Monday morning I awoke to a throbbing toe and bloody sheet.  Again I spent a long time soaking off the wrappings and took my first good look at my big toe. 

It looked as bad as it felt.

I could see parts of the bone through the ragged leftover bits of attached flesh.

At that point I realized that Regina really had been right, and decided I had better get to a doctor. 

Some 45 minutes later, I had been seen by a nurse, the wound had been cleaned and the doctor had just finished his exam and had ordered a tetanus shot and a shot of antibiotics when I asked him: “Well doc, what do you think?”

 He looked at me over the top of his half glasses; Stared hard is a better description, and said: “What I think is you should have gotten this foot in here yesterday when I could have stitched this up and done something about this.  But, as it is, the best I can do is give you a shot or two and you will have to wait for several months to see if your body will re-flesh the toe.”

Hated to make the call to Regina knowing that I would have to fill her in on the doctors prognosis, but hey, I had a second date planned in a couple days and had no intention of missing out on that.

After all, other than the “little unpleasantness” with the toe, it had been a great date.    

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

My father was tough.

He said: “My job is to assure your hands are well fitted to the handle of shovel and broom”.

He said: “It'd be nice if we could like each other, but if not, my job is still to raise you right.”

He said: “Just exactly at what point did that seem like a good idea to you?”

He gave us chores each morning, and every night he checked that they'd been done correctly.

He gave us discipline in corners, noses on dots; scrubbing pots, and the sting of his belt.

He gave us rules, and rules, and rules, and rules.

He insisted that we earn our money from outside jobs, not chores of family life.

He insisted that we pay for our own haircuts; buy our own bikes, camp gear, guns and tools.

He insisted that we stand up for what was right, and fess up when what we did was wrong.

He built our skills with practice and critique; and practice and review; and practice.

He built our bodies with physical labor; digging holes, sifting rock, painting walls.

He built our experience with backpacking, and hunting, and camping, and traveling.

He taught us how to glaze windows, do plumbing, wire houses, fix bikes, and rebuild cars.

He taught us the stars in the sky, birds in the fields, plants of the land, and the fish in the sea.

He taught us how to handle snakes, to feed owls, to care for rabbits, and to raise pigeons.

He formed our minds with daily discussions, with monthly challenges, and yearly appraisals.  

He formed our souls on nightly prayers, weekly church, and constant righteous living.

He formed our hearts with supportive structure, generous wisdom, and abiding love.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Mowing Grass

As a boy, I mowed my fair share of lawns.

I mowed the front yard lawn once every three weeks as a chore for the family.  I mowed the back yard once every three weeks (never the same week as the front) as a chore also.  I mowed the lawns of the frail elderly neighbors as a “request” from my dad.  I even hauled the mower around the neighborhood and mowed lawns for spending money.

Our house wasn’t the best looking one in the neighborhood, but my dad aspired to that.  He watched the neighbors as they cared for their lawns, shrubs, and yards.  He questioned them about their methods, and fertilizers, and sprays.  As a boy and young man, he mostly lived on the farms and rental places his parents occupied.  And after finally being able to buying his own house, he was driven to make it a model of what he felt a proper house should look like.  Kinda a reward I expect for all those years in places that weren’t too pretty.

He painted and tended, planted and sculpted, planned and worked, so that his property would be as good as any other on the block.  He didn’t have a chance in retrospect, but he had the desire and the drive, and he had my brothers and I.  So, my brothers and I spent hour after hour following his lead and working our chores.  I say that dad didn’t have a chance, not because he didn’t know enough, nor because he wasn’t dedicated enough, but because he had to work for a living (for himself and all of us) while the retired men whom he was competing with had all day everyday to work on their yards.

That gave them a natural (or unnatural depending on how you looked at it) advantage.

But dad watched what they did, and talked with them on how they did it, and incorporated into our weekly chores the various techniques that they employed.

I remember the day he came home after learning Mr Peck’s secret; cut the lawn two different ways.  And dad carefully explained to us boys that we would first have to cut the lawn one way side to side, then, cut it a second time at a 90 degree angle to the first cut.  That way each and every blade of grass was sure to be clipped, with none straying outside the push mowers cutting path.  We thought he was nuts.  After all, once we cut the lawn, the second pass wouldn’t be cutting anything….

And then, not too long after, he came home from work realizing that cutting the lawn at 90 degree angles meant that when people drove by on the street they would be able to see the “rows” that were set into the lawn’s growth patterns.  So from then on it was side to side on the first pass, and then at 45 degree angel on the second pass….

Now I can’t say that the way we mowed made a difference; nor can I say the time we watered did; or the any of the other specific little things he made us do.  But I can say, that later in life, every tiem I moved into a new place, and started doing those things all over again, dang if the lawn didn’t look better after a couple of months. 

Course back then, when I was a boy and would rather be climbing fences, or chasing lizards, or squashing snails…all that lawn stuff was purely a pain in the neck.

Pushmowers

Back then all that cutting was done with what was known even then (some 45 years ago) as an “old-fashioned” push mower.  One of those mowers with a long handle, two wheels, and a rotating set of helical blades that spin as the wheels are rolled forward, and free-wheels as the mower is pulled back.  Make a raspy, metallic, grinding noise they do.  Set your teeth on edge too.

Hard to push forward unless they are cleaned and oiled cause the wheels don’t want to spin.  And they jamb up wth dirt, and grass, and dust.

Hard to push cause the blades got dull or nicked, or rusty and then wouldn’t pass smoothly along the pressure/cutting bar.

Hard to push if the grass is wet and slick cause the wheels don’t want to rotate, so the cutting blades don’t rotate; and the grass blades jamb up and stop the forward motion.

Hard to push when it was hot cause the sun would expand the metal and rubber wheels and they would bind up.

Hard to push when it was cold, cause the wheel grease would cake and grab and the wheels wouldn’t spin.

Hard to push cause they were made for the cast off anchors of battleships, heavy and rust, and heavy.

Did I mention they were hard to push?

One day my brother’s and I banded together and went to see our father about how hard they were to push.  We recounted all of the difficulties getting them to work right, to keep them cleaned and oiled, and greased and sharp.  We told him that he should let us use the gas powered lawn mower that was sitting on the shelf in the garage; that we could get the job done better with gas mower.

He just said: “Nope, you boys aren’t old enough to use that gas mower yet, you just keep on using the push mower”.

The moon came and went and the earth chased around the sun, once, twice, three, maybe even four times.  All the while my brothers and I shoved and pushed that cantankerous old mower. 

We learned to wash it and dry it after every use, and oil it too.  We learned how to grease the wheels, and store it undercover.  We learned to file it sharp, and adjust the tension, and countless other things to make the mower operate smoother, to make it somewhat easier to push.

Finally one day we realized that we were older, that must mean we could use the gas mower.  So we banded together and went to our dad.  We made our case, we were older, and more careful, and could be counted on to use the gas mower right.  We smiled cause we knew that we would be out racing across the lawn with that gas mower roaring the grass into short even-cut perfection.

But dad just said “You boys are big and strong now, you can easily push that mower, there’s no need to waste the money on gas for the other one”.

I’ve always rather suspected he had some ulterior motives there.  Don’t think he cared wit one about how easy or hard it was, figure he was more concerned about the things we learned.

“A Job done right”

My dad was fond of saying “A Job Done Right, Need Never Be Done Again”.

And he used to often (and not without provocation I must admit) say “Are you listening to me boy?”

And that was all well and good, but heaven help if you actually did pay attention. 

One day after carefully cutting the front lawn; two ways, one at a 45 degree angle; and edging by hand the walkway and sidewalk; and crawling on hands and knees to weed the dandelions, and fertilizing, and watering, and raking, and sweeping; just as I was finishing up, my dad drove in the driveway from work. 

He got out of the car, looked over the job that I had done and promptly said; “Boy, you did that up right.”

Yep, that was the day I found out my dad didn’t have a sense of humor, cause I immediately replied; “Does that mean I don’t ever have to do it again?”

And he thought I didn’t listen.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Freedom

Freedom  exists at different levels

And in different forms

And makes unique advantage of selected realities.

When my brothers and I were young, we were as free as the wind.  Not in the ways of today, but in the ways of the world that we all dream of as kids. 

We lived outdoors, spring, summer, fall, and even winter.  We worked outdoors, we camped and hiked, backpacked and fished, raced and hunted.  No day passed that we didn’t live to be going somewhere; anywhere.

Most of that going included bicycles.  Now we didn’t have the bikes of today, no spring suspension, no wide tires for gravel, no soft hand grips and 27 gears.  Nope, what we had was a metal frame and leather seat; two tires and a rack to haul papers; a pedal set that connected a worn chain to knife edged gears that were limited to just five.

For joy we added old playing cards with clothespins to sound like a motorcycle at full revs.  For light at night we held a flashlight and rode single handed, at least until we could afford a small generator that was spun by the tire and made a feeble orange glow to ride by.

We worked on those things, we played on them too.  On them we flew, and we lived.  We broke free of the world and the things that dragged boys down; things like school, and baths, clean clothes, and rooms. 

Every morning started with 100 papers or more, rolled into tight tubes and rubber-bands.  Stuffed upright into a canvas bag that lay across the rack behind the seat like a saddlebag across a horse’s rump. 

Papers that on Sundays weighted over 5 pounds each and required more than one trip just to throw them all.  In the rain, the papers were further wrapped in plastic bags.  And we pedaled around town, to each of our customer’s houses and lobbed papers up onto porches, out of the rain. 

There is skill at work there.  Bike moving laterally at up to 20 miles an hour, legs pumping to keep the speed up on the slight rise, handlebars held straight as you turned your whole torso around to reach back and down to grab a paper, pull it up out of the nest of companions, swing the arm up and back, and lob the missile through the end of the porch and its opening where the wisteria vine hadn’t covered, or fling it over the hood of the car, but under the carport, or around the Christmas ornaments.

Not that tens of thousands of other boys didn’t develop the same skills.  But skill it was and it bonded us in brotherhood one to the other.  And we learned pride, and confidence from the development of it.

We lived on those bikes.  Mornings on the paper routes, after school over to our friends and home before our parents got off of work; on holidays and vacations out to the swimming hole, or to the next town to do some swapping, or maybe hit the county fair and some carnival rides.  Afternoons with fishing poles, mornings with shotguns, heck, they even served as ambulances when needed.

I grieve for the kids I see today; driven to and fro, no matter the reason or need.  Sequestered in steel and trapped in front of a movie screen.

They don’t know the wind in their hair, or the rush of blood as they hurdle down a steep hill, ever-faster at the cattle guard, or corner that must be negotiated (at pain of personal injury) on reaching the bottom.

They will never know the wonder of a pebble filled scab; or of a toe jammed in spinning spokes; or the abrasions of palms on street.

They will forever be tainted, with an impression that riding is about Saturday with the family in the park, or a sport for professionals, or (God forgive) “spinning” class at the gym.

  

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

I am a Man out of Time, I suppose.

Growing up I read Asimov and Clarke, Verne and Herbert, Heinlein and Bradbury, and of course, H. G. Wells.  I was eager to see the future they painted with their words; and it has come to pass.

Whether they really saw the future, or whether the engineers and designers have subconsciously created the visions they painted, I do not know.

As a boy I gasped in wonder at their visions, as a man, I am simply left to wonder.

Recently, I stopped in at a local grocery store one morning on my way out to spend the day hunting.  I was dressed in camouflage; pants and shirt, and jacket.

The 30-something clerk at the register excitedly said to me: “Wow, cool, I have one of the hats, but didn’t know they made a jacket.  How many points did you have to get for that?”

At first I had no idea what he was asking.  Then as we spoke a bit more, I realized that he had noticed the “Cabela’s” label on my jacket.  And the conversation led me to believe that he thought the jacket was a prize that could be earned by scoring enough points on a video game that Cabela’s markets titled “Big Game Hunter”.

While I didn’t laugh out loud at him, I left pretty amused.

Several hours later, I sat down to rest with my back up against the broad sun-warmed trunk of a California Live Oak some 4 miles from the end of the road.  In front of and below me stretched a large field of mostly mixed rye and native grasses in the Ventana Wilderness of Central California.  Spaced about the field were several other oak, madrone, and pine trees.  Skirting the edge of the field and rising above my position was an incline covered mostly in manzanita brush, with some buck brush and cactus mixed in.

The sun’s rays angled low in the sky sliding ever closer to the crest of the ridge on the opposite side of the valley.  Golden-toned light cast sideways through leaves and branches warmed the look as well as the feel of the air as the sun sank into a pillow of fog that hugged the far ridgeline.

I watched Blue Jays hop from tree to tree, screeching and chasing each other. 

In a dead bleached-white tree a red-headed wood pecker drummed holes into the top portion of the trunk.  Dead for many years, the tree’s bark had released its hold on the trunk and fallen to the ground in heaps around the still upright trunk.  The larger branches had also settled to the ground and formed the base of a large wood pile.

Squirrels sat side by side on the top-most branches of the pile, munching on acorns, and keeping a close eye on the activities around them.  A cotton tailed rabbit bumped along in and out of the tangle of limbs on the ground; dashing out to select a few mouthfuls of grass and back to chew them thoroughly before returning for more.  A covey of quail fluttered in fits and starts across the meadow, from tree shade to tree shade, scratching and poking around for food as they moved.

Winging overhead a golden eagle interrupted the circling flight of a red-tailed hawk, but not the ceaseless circling of the turkey buzzards who were riding the thermals along the ridgeline.  The hawk called its displeasure before sliding off to another valley out of line with the eagle’s travels.

Leaning there, warmed by the sun, watching the activity below me, I munched on some jerky, and chewed Pistachio nuts, drinking from my water now and then.  And my mind drew back to the clerk at the store and his video game; and his desire to “earn” a jacket by scoring enough points shooting video game animals while sitting in his darkened room staring at a colored screen.  And to the visions of the science fiction giants that I read as a kid; and their awe inspiring “future” that has come to pass. 

Nuclear submarines and travel to other worlds; cell phones and computers that you carry in your hands; and “virtual” pleasures and thrills that insulate mankind from the real world around us.

I see the near future of Total Recall where instead of going on vacation, vacation memories are planted in your brain; and of Surrogates where people really have no interaction, instead living their lives through the actions of their “duplicate robot beings”; and I grieve for mankind.

Mankind willingly sets aside the real, for watered–down imitations.  And as a result, most men and women live less than the animals in the fields below me. 

I believe that Asimov and Clarke, Verne and Herbert, Heinlein and Bradbury, and of course, H. G. Wells would all cry over that truth that has come to pass from their visions of greatness.

 Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Digging Holes

As a boy, I got lots of experience digging holes.

You have likely heard of the mythical army punishment of digging holes; where a soldier is forced to take a shovel and dig a hole that is 3 feet by 3 feet, and 3 feet deep.  It may be that the army never really made anyone do that, but my dad sure did.

You would have thought it was his favorite punishment for my brothers and I.  But I must admit that it wasn’t just some random thing with Dad, he had a plan.  Once the hole had been dug, we had to sift the rocks out of the dirt and move the rocks out into the driveway to add a layer on the dirt to keep it from being muddy.  And the hole then was filled back up, layer after layer.  We put say a layer of grass cuttings from the lawn and a layer of dirt; a layer of apple cores and skins (during canning season) and a layer of dirt; a layer of leaves in the fall and a layer of dirt.

Each hole that was dug in a different location.  I don’t know this for a fact, but I have always suspected that my father had a map of the yard with each and every hole carefully measured and recorded, dated, and tracked.  Over time, the soil in that yard became the best growing ground in the city.  Rock-free, rich, and airy.  Our house had Apple, peach, pomegranate, fig, apricot and plumb trees.  We grew everything from asparagus to zucchini, and grapes, and berries, and flowers.

Each and every hole was exactly alike.  The walls were true, the corners were square, the floor was level.  I know that for a fact.  I watched my dad check enough of them with a tape measure and a drafting square.

You might think that my dad had to make up reasons to punish us, but that wasn’t the case.  We got into enough trouble that he often had to find other punishments because he had too many holes waiting to be filled.

And that driveway.  If we had really transgressed, we knew it, because we were assigned a hole in the driveway. 

As good as we were at digging holes, the driveway was a special punishment.  It had been driven on for years and years.  And every year we added more rocks, and every winter those rocks got pressed down into the dirt.

The top 6 inches of the driveway sure could work up a sweat.  A hard swung railroad pick would make about a ¼” divot and then bounce up with each swing.

Today, someone would call that hole digging “child abuse”.  They would be wrong.

It was instead character building.  We learned to value work, and we learned to take pride in what we could accomplish.  We learned to reach inside ourselves for strength, and resolve.  It built muscle, and determination.

It built men.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Captain Dodgeball verses WarBall

Mohammad Ali or Sugar Ray Leonard; Babe Ruth or Mark Mcguire; Coke or Pepsi.

Match ups are very often fuzzy and confusing; usually totally subjective.  Mired in the hazy history of decades of change and endlessly debated by observers who are living their lives quite separate from the details of the comparisons.  But one match up that is easy for me to answer is the question of which version of dodge ball is the most demanding.

I speak confidently on this subject; from personal experience; from the stress and the stretch of arm and back muscles, from the bruises and abrasions of ball to skin contact. 

As a boy I spent countless hours playing Captain Dodgeball beginning at 11 years of age when I joined Boy Scout Troop 939 in Livermore California. Captain Dodgeball was the favorite meeting night game for us boys.  We meet in the multipurpose hall of the First Presbyterian Church in town.  A room that was roughly 70 feet long and 25 feet wide, with solid walls at each end and high ceilings.

Back in the late 60’s and early 70’s, while the restrictive structure of “civilization” was rapidly encircling the wildness of preteen and teenage boys, it hadn’t closed the circle with brick-solid walls quite yet.  Boys could still run, and climb, and chase, and fight mock (and real) battles.  We could challenge each other, and ourselves, learn our limits, and expand them. 

The forty plus boys in the troop would split up by patrols and face each other as teams on opposite ends of the hall.  No real dividing line existed, as long as you had the “balls” to cross the centerline, putting yourself at greater risk, you could pursue your quarry as deep into the other team’s line as you dared.   The game began with each team armed with one red rubber ball.  At the signal to begin, the boys who had the balls would run towards the centerline, take aim at someone, and let fly.

We learned to throw hard.  No, not like that; I mean REALLY HARD.  Hard enough that no one wanted to get in the way.  Hard enough that no one could possibly catch the ball as it would bounce off as they flinched from the impact.  Hard enough that if we didn’t connect with someone’s flesh, the ball hit the far wall with enough force to bounce all the way back to our side before it could be stopped and trapped.

 That was the key to Captain Dodgeball.  Learning to put 100% of you muscle, weight, and spirit behind the ball.  Putting enough “heat” on the ball that it left colored marks on the wall when it hit; and discolored flesh behind if it didn’t make it to the wall.

Yep, that was Captain Dodgeball and my friends and I cut our teeth on it, at least the teeth that didn’t get knocked out.

Then, in my freshman year of high school, I was introduced to WarBall.

It happened on the first rainy day of the year.  We all headed to our gym class as scheduled, changed into our workout clothes and were told to assembly in the Boy’s Gym.  There on the hardwood floors of the basketball court the Coaches told us that since it was raining, we wouldn’t be going outside and would instead be playing WarBall in the gym.

Two seniors were selected as captains of the opposing teams, and they began choosing team members.

Times were was no different then than now, and I am sure you all know that as a freshman I would be picked only after all the seniors, juniors, and sophomores had been teamed up.  Both of the captains loudly proclaimed that they didn’t want any whimpy freshmen on their team.  But ultimately we were all chosen and as luck would have it, several of my Scout friends were all chosen on the same team as I.

The Coaches told us that this was the toughest dodgeball game ever devised because there were 6 balls in use at all times and you just couldn’t keep track of it all.  The opposing team huddled up, they obviously had a plan.  The whistle blew, and the game began.

The other team held onto its three balls while our side threw our three.  Then, controlling all 6 balls at once, each in the hands of a senior, the opposing captain yelled out “lets smear some freshman” and all six ball holders raced at the line.  Each had singled out a freshman on our side.  Four of those freshman were Scout Patrol members of mine.

All four of us caught the balls thrown at us.  They had no heat.  The opposing captain had thrown at me; he threw with his arm only, no back, no roll to his hips, no back foot off the ground.  I knew I could catch it and jumping squarely in front of it I caught it cleanly.

Then, because it was the way of Captain Dodgeball, I raced at the centerline, planted my left foot rolled right shoulder up and over, followed by right hip, and the right foot came up fully off of the ground.  And because it was the way of Captain Dodgeball, my target was the guy who had thrown at me.

The captain on the other side was turning to run back  away from the line when the ball connected firmly with his right temple.  It was the first and last attempt he had to dodge a ball that day.  Knocked him off his feet, and either it, or the wooden floor, knocked him unconscious. Three other seniors on the other side were “knocked out of the game” by my fellow patrol members.

All 4 of those balls bounced back to our side of the line.

The game came to a screeching halt.

The coaches summoned the nurse.

The senior was carried to the office.

Freshman were never chosen last again.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Tote Goat and Mud Puddles

There was a grand total of 34.5 months between my oldest brother’s birth and mine.  Yep, I’m the baby of the family.  Three boys in less than three years; you just gotta be in awe of my mother for that one.   It had to be tough on her, both in the birthing and the raising.  But, my brothers and I were close because of it, and it lead to wonderful experiences. 

My brothers and I grew up with a strong desire to go faster. 

If we were on foot, we raced each other, we raced butterflies, we raced cars, and bikes.  If we were on bikes we raced each other, we raced birds, we raced leaves in the wind, and we raced cars.  So it should come as no surprise that as soon as we could, we scrounged up and saved up and bought something with a motor.

Can’t tell you how old we were when Barry (the oldest) worked a deal with a man that our father knew and bought an old Tote Goat from the man.  A Tote Goat is, or rather was, an early mini-bike.  Pretty simple all in all; built up of a bended metal tubing frame, with a v-belt driven rear wheel that was about 18” in diameter and 8 inches wide.  Simple front forks similar to a bicycle’s but built heavier and a matching front tire without the belt drive.  The whole contraption was powered by a Briggs and Stratton single cylinder motor of 5 horse-power if I remember right, maybe 8 horse.

Simple bench seat over the top of the frame that was long enough for two people if they were fairly young; couple brake levers and a twist throttle and that was about it.  Started like a lawn mower by pulling a rope.  No shifting involved; it had a rudimentary automatic transmission called a “centrifugal clutch”.  The clutch was mounted on the output shaft of the engine, with two facing tapered metal plates.

As the engine sped up, the inside plate was forced against the outside plate.  Since they were tapered, the bottom came into contact before the top did, and as the plates got closer together, they forced the v-belt to ride farther out, and thus effectively turn the rear wheel faster.

Since there were three of us and the seat only held two, being the youngest I always had to sit on the metal tubing rack that extended out the back to carry things.  Barry got to sit up front (ownership has its privileges) and Jeff (the middle son) sat according to his place.  Both of them on the padded seat; me on the metal bars.

Come to think of it, maybe that is why I have always tended to be a bit bigger and heavier than my brothers…self preservation for those damn uncomfortable bars.

We weren’t allowed to ride the Tote Goat on the street, or the sidewalk.  One of our fathers many rules.  And so we had to push it the 4 blocks to the railroad tracks that ran through town before getting on and starting to ride.  Being the youngest and not having ownership in the thing, it meant that I usually was tasked with all the pushing while my brothers galoofed along beside me.

Come to think of that, maybe I should say thank you.  My oldest Brother has for the past 30 plus years introduced me as his “bigger baby brother” as I am several inches taller and much stronger.  Anyway, before I go getting all moody over owing him for making me work, I’ll get on with my story.

We would push down to the railroad tracks, then pull start the bike, pile on and roar off in a cloud of dry Livermore dust.  Rocks would skitter out from under the tires, rabbits would jump up in fright and we would give chase howling and yipping just like the raw young wolf cubs we really were.

Many a day we spent time that way.  That little motorbike opened up miles of fun for us.  Mostly we started out in the field right behind where Barber’s Cycle Shop and Feed Store burned to the ground one winter night.  I swear, we had nothing to do with that other than the watching.

One rainy day must have been early springtime we had been cooped up too long in the house.  Days had passed with the weather so bad that our mother had not let us out except to go to school and back.  Could have been worse I suppose, but for boys like us, the outdoors called out to us rain or shine.

The rains finally broke and we rushed outside to do some exploring.  We talked our mom into letting us take the Tote Goat out to see what the fields along the railroad tracks looked like.  And as usual I got to push.

We got to the tracks and I started lobbying for the chance to drive.  I cajoled and pleaded to no avail.  So, loosing that battle with Barry, I set in on Jeff, trying at least to get a ride on the comfortable seat and not the bars.  Again, no luck.  It was sit on the back, or don’t come as far as those two were concerned.

Turned out to be the best seat in the house.

We all three piled on and started off up the tracks.  The rain had muddied the access road something terrible.  The tires were digging and clawing, slipping and sliding in the ooze.  But, heck that was just about right for three boys who often had to take more than one bath a day.

Puddles were everywhere and Barry aimed straight for them, as any boy would do.  We plowed through mud, splashed though puddles and generally made a muddy mess out of that road.

As Barry gained experience slipping and sliding and staying on the ragged edge of control, he started taking risks.

Speeding along back home, he spied a very large puddle that he had steered around right at the beginning of the ride.  He yelled that he was going to drive through it.  I recall not being happy about that, I figured that it being extra deep, and me being on the back, I was going to get really wet.  But, being on the back of a rampaging motorbike leaves one with few attractive options other than hang on and close your eyes.

Thundering along, Barry powered into the puddle, when all of a sudden he collided with a submerged chunk of concrete.  The front tire whipped sideways.  The Tote Goat pitched forward with the rear tire pointing up to the sky.  And the three of us got piled drived right down into that puddle. 

Barry went face first into the puddle, all the way down into the mud. Face and toes and hands planted firm and deep.

Jeff landed on Barry’s back; swallowed a gallon or so of stirred up mud and water.  His whole front half was muddy and wet.  His back though broke above the puddle‘s surface.

And I landed high and dry on Jeff’s back.

My shoes got wet and muddy standing up, Jeff’s whole front side was muddy and wet.  Barry didn’t rise until Jeff and I pulled to break him loose from the mud.

Guess being the youngest and on the back wasn’t all bad after all.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Burning Thighs

Most of my childhood was spent outdoors.  Running, riding, swimming and sailing, we were barely civilized during the school year, and if school was out, there was no barely about it.

One weekend, a bunch of my friends and I were out camping.  Now this was at the difficult age between boy and man, when you know the end is coming, but you haven’t gotten there yet and you are doing what you can to hold on to your childhood, all the time railing about how you want to be an adult.

As evening came on, we settled down to cook us some dinner.  We camped most of half of the weekends every year, as well as a couple full weeks during the summer, and had done so together for 4 or 5 years by this time.  So dinner had long since passed from being hot dogs and beans.

On this particular Saturday night, dinner was going to be BBQ’d chicken halves, potatoes baked in the coals, garlic bread, roast ears of corn, and baked apples for desert.  We were growing boys after all, and in all honesty, at 16 and 17, the menu sounded more like an afternoon snack to us than dinner.  But you have to rough it some when camping, so there we were.

One member of our regular group had not been able to come out for the day as he had a real job in town.  Yep, Kevin was making the transition to adulthood faster than the rest of us in some ways, slower in others.  This story is more about the slower parts than the faster parts.

We all of us worked in one way or other.  Myself, I had started throwing papers to fill in for my brothers when I was 8, getting my own full time route at 10, pushing broom in the local garage, mopping floors in the town bakery, and folding shirts in the drycleaners.  Those jobs along with caring for the local car wash and mowing lawns and pulling weeds mostly kept me in spending money for ammunition, food for weekend trips, and used equipment from garage sales and flea markets.

In any case, Kevin was an ice cream jerk…or part of that anyway.  He had a job at the local 31 flavors joint and had to work during the day on that Saturday, but on getting off of work he jumped on his little 125cc motor bike and raced out to where he knew he’d find the rest of us getting ready to eat.

Well the charcoal briquettes had been laid out and piled high, the charcoal lighter fluid had been poured on, soaked, and flamed just as we heard his motorcycle coming up the canyon.  Kevin pulled up just after the visible yellow flames had snuffed out, but before the charcoal had started to really kick off heat.

Strolling up, filled with his ever-knowing-more-adult-than-you knowledge he immediately took stock of the situation and asked what we were doing.  We told him we were waiting on the charcoal to kick in so that we could cook. 

Now Kevin must of been starving, I mean after all, he had been forced to spend all day dipping and stacking ice cream cones and snacking whenever the boss wasn’t looking, so I am sure his stomach felt as if his throat had been cut.  Given that over-riding hunger, waiting wasn’t gonna happen.

Kevin announced that we needed to pour some more lighter fluid on the charcoal and looked around for the bottle.  We had finished it off however, so there wasn’t any left.

He promptly decided that he would drain some gasoline out of his motorcycle and use that to speed things along.  We warned him that was a bad plan, me most vocally.  In fact as the conversation drifted back and forth between he and I, it finally ended when I told him I’d thump him if he didn’t leave it alone.  He quietly backed down and off.  We thought he was going to wait it out with the rest of us.

But he was just about to graduate early in our senior year and so was of course better thinking and more educated than the rest of us were.  So he scrounges up a small can, sneaks off to his motorcycle to drain some gas and comes up to us at the fire without telling us that he was going to go ahead and reenact the WWII Army Air Forces’ incendiary attacks on Tokyo.

Now I have to give him his due, Kevin had enough smarts to be scared of gasoline and fire together, but not enough to be wary of ‘em.

So he reaches out quick with the can until he has it right above the middle of the charcoal, then, ever so slowly tips the can.  Proving his maturity by displaying care and deliberate slowness, he tips the can further and further until a thin stream of gasoline slips over the rim and free-falls in a continuous line down to the charcoal.

Kevin’s eyes light up just a fraction of a second after the open flame began climbing the stream back up towards the half-full can.  He moved fast, a lot faster than he thought, but fast as he moved, he was slower than the flame by a full country mile and then some.

He whipped his hand back and to the right to throw the can away from himself before it could explode.

In the process he whipped a flaming liquid stream across the fire pit, the seating area, both of my thighs, and the knee high dry grass outside of the cleared fire circle.

I am not entirely sure of what everyone else was doing at that point, I was fair to middlin preoccupied right about then.  I recall beating out the flames on my blue jeans, whipping off my jacket and using it to beat out the flames in the grass, and then just for the hell of it and cause I was just starting to limber up, I commenced to doing some beating on Kevin as well.  Seemed like the natural course of action to me at the time.

I got to thinking about that Saturday a while back, it was a good 35 years ago now.  Just a couple days ago Kevin came down to visit and we went out sailing on the ocean together.  I resisted the temptation to throw him overboard; guess maybe I have finally grown up myself.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

A Foundation To Rest Upon

When I was not yet in my teens, my brothers and I learned of a wonderful thing.  It only took three signatures attesting to the fact that someone should be locked up to protect themselves or others in the State of California.

Of course it didn’t take long before we realized that the signatures of three boys wasn’t going to carry enough weight to get our Dad committed.  Committed, not because there was anything wrong with him, but because there was so much that was right.

By the time I was just beginning to drive, I had already figured out how wrong we had been back then.  By then I wouldn’t have traded fathers with anyone, anywhere, for love nor money.

Dad is mostly a quiet man, mostly I say because there were times when he had to raise his voice (and his belt) to get our attention.  And it wasn’t until many years later that I realized we three boys deserved more than we got when it came to punishment, and less than we were blessed with in the way of parents.  

And while his belt stung some, it helped to underscore the lessons that dad tried so hard to teach in the most amazing of ways.  Looking back, I have no clue how he did it.  Some of his lessons were instant epiphanies, others, well I call them “the lessons my dad taught me that took a while to grow”.  Perhaps if I relate a few you will see what I mean.

One time, Dad and I were out in the backyard doing something, work most likely as he was unduly fond of finding work for us boys, when low and behold the phone starts to ring.  My ears perked right up, for here was an escape pleading with me to bolt over the wall and away.  So I quickly up and said: “I’ll go get that”.  To which Dad replied; “Don’t bother, if it’s important, they’ll call back”.

“Holey Hanna” what a thought.  Yeah, if people really needed to talk to me, they would try again, and if they didn’t, well then it really wasn’t important enough for me to interrupt whatever I might be doing at any point in time.  What a thought.  I live by that still to this day.  I don’t let the ringing phone, or all the new prompts, e-mails, facebook, twitter, cell phones, etc., run my life for me.  Nope, those are tools for me to use, not the other way around.

Or the time when we boys found a new amusement.  One summer day we started playing a game, opening the garage door, climbing up on the garage, jumping off the garage onto the open door and sliding down the face as the door slammed closed.  Round and round we went.  Great  fun and all.

Of course, the inevitable happened, the old wood uprights split.  Dad noticed it and had us out one night helping him to fix the old uprights.  Of course, we were sweating figuring that we were busted, but nope, dad just fixed the posts and went back inside without saying a word.

So, back to sliding on the door.  Heck, after-all, it was obvious Dad didn’t know we had done it.  Course, the fix didn’t last long and the post started splitting open again.  Dad was back out fixing the door and we were helping him, figuring we were busted again.  But again, not a word was said about us being in trouble, and again, we figured we had gotten away with it.

So, after the repair, we headed off to play while Dad stayed around cause he wanted to “paint the door”.  When we came back, we found it painted alright.  It was also sporting a nice raised wood pattern of horizontal strips that would have shredded our rumps if we ever slid down that door again.

I remember Dad telling me that he felt it was his sacred job as a father to make sure that my hands were well acquainted with a broom, a rake, and a shovel.

Or the time when I was really mad at him for something I wanted to do and he wouldn’t allow.  I remember yelling at him that I didn’t like him.  And I remember him quietly saying “Well son, it would be nice if we could like each other, but my job is to make you into a socially acceptable human being, so if we can’t, it really isn’t important.”

He took our wildness in stride as “boys being boys” and he focused us on our futures with honest hard work, with freedom to do wrong, and discipline to think it through next time.  Sayings like “Some people’s kids” which could be used sternly, scoldingly, lovingly, or wonderingly;  or  “In my house you will live by my rules” to keep us on track, or “What were you thinking?” to make us take stock of our actions were our daily world.

He taught us how to make beds to bounce quarters on, and push a hand powered lawnmower while the gas one slowly seized up in the garage.  We fixed bikes, built toys, shot arrows, and BB Guns, and learned to run and climb and play.  Dad taught us to hunt, and fish, and sail, and be free in a world that was slowly constricting around everyone else.

But what he taught us best, through his sayings, and his actions, through his expectations and his demands; what I love him for the most, is that he taught us how to be MEN.  Three babes born; Three boys raised; Three men out; and Three men that have made their way through life. 

Three that have met the good, challenged the bad, and braved the unknown. Three that have always had a guiding light to look back on, a pattern, and a vision, and a plan.  Three that have always had a pillar, no, a whole foundation to rest upon when there was a need. 

And Three that have always known that the lessons of our father would always allow us to win out as long as we lived up to the role model that he continues to provide.   

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved