Lady; the man-eater

In my prime I topped out at six foot two and a half inches; I tipped the scales at 205 very solid pounds.  Biceps a respectable 19.5”, flat stomach, calves the size of most women’s thighs.  I hunted with bow and arrow, shotgun, and rifle; backpacked 15 miles or more a day at 10,000 feet; swam, body-surfed, scuba-dived, biked, and ran; even fought bare knuckle.

People who know me have often said : “Man, you just have no fear of anything”.

And yet, this story is all about my being afraid.

My earliest memory is from before I was 2 years old.  Not too long after I had to start wearing glasses as a matter of fact.  My parents decided that my brothers and I needed a family dog.

Most likely it was an effort on their part to teach us three wild animals some manners.  I think there plan was to get a dog that could whip our little pack into shape.  A little fang here, and nasty growl there, and a nip in the ass once in a while, and they figured my brothers and I would be tamed right down.

So off to the local animal pound the family went one Saturday.  For us, back then living in Livermore California, that meant t a trip to Oakland and the SPCA facility there.  Trips out of the Livermore Valley were pretty rare for us.  Everyone was an occasion, usually a shopping excursion to either purchase some repair parts that were not available locally (no internet back then, you actually had to find someone who had the part you needed and drive to them to pick it up, up hill, both ways, in the snow….).

Sorry about that, think I slipped into one of my Dad’s stories there for a moment.

So we were piled in the family station wagon and out what was then the two-lane Highway 580 that ran through the Livermore Valley and over the hills into San Leandro and north to Oakland.

In truth, I can’t say that I really remember the drive over..but I sure remember the drive back. 

We got to the SPCA building and went inside.  I am sure that there was some time listening to the spiel about the pets and how they had been rescued, and the whole adoption process and the rules, and the blah, blah, blah as far as any kid is concerned. 

But I can’t say I remember any of that either.

The first thing I really have a conscious memory of is that bitter, acrid smell that hits your nose in a place with too many animals too close together; that stale smell of urine and feces and wet concrete floor.  You know the one; it steals slowly up each nostril, even if you carefully pinch your nose and breathed through your mouth?  Yeah, that’s the smell.

No I’m not saying that they didn’t take good enough care of the dogs and cats, horses, and other critters there.  Just that they hadn’t cleaned up after them as often as might have been nice.   I can remember walking along the alleyway of chain-link fences that formed the cages the various dogs were kept in. 

I vaguely remember some stacked cages of cats near the door, and then a long straight walkway with chainlike on both sides.  Each cage had one or more dogs in it.  Some were excited by the people close by, some cowering in the back corners of the inside cages.  Most of the dogs were yapping and barking, and carrying on so that it was hard to hear my parents talking about the different dogs.

After we had walked the length of the building, peering in at the dogs on either side, and back again. Mom and Dad asked which dog we thought we wanted.  My parents seemed to be pretty set on a dog named “Lady”, in fact, we stopped in front of the cage she occupied on the way back to “talk things over”.  Lady was a long haired, brown and white Springer Spaniel.  She seemed quiet and calm, no barking or yipping, and she came to the mesh instead of hiding in the back corner of the cage.

But  I wanted nothing to do with that dog.  To me, she was a monster.  I was only 2, but I certainly hadn’t put on any growth spurt yet.  She looked me straight in the eye, heck every other dog in the place looked me square in the eyes, even if some of them had to bend over to do it.  And I could tell, she was just putting on a show being calm.  I could tell she was just doing what she needed to do so she could get out of the cage and Eat Me.

Yep, I immediately began campaigning for the only dog in the place littler than I was; a little wiry dog with course brown hair that stood in the middle of its cage and whined and shook, and shook.  That dog was obviously afraid of me, yep, that was the dog for me…but my Dad said; “There is no way we are taking home a dog named “Puddles”. 

Best I can figure it, my dad valued the carpet more than his third son (years later I found out he had wanted a girl the third time around and ended up with me instead).

And so, certainly not for the last time in that family, the youngest of the bunch got short shrift (it was a theme I was to get pretty familiar with over the years) and the final selection was to take “Lady” home.

I still remember standing on the outside of that cage looking in, straight into the big brown eyes of that man-eater.  I can even remember thinking that I was going to join ole “Puddles” in action if that Spaniel ever got out on my side of the fence.

Longest car ride of my life was the one back home with Lady in the back of the station wagon.  She kept sneaking up behind me, I could feel her hot breath on my neck. 

I just knew I would never get home alive.

Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Spring Turkey Hunt

Early afternoon had settled into the Manzanita, Oak, and Pine covered valley on the eastern side of the Los Padres National Forest where I had spent the day hoping for a nice spring turkey (Meleagris gallopavo intermedia).   It had been a wonderful spring day, cool in the predawn darkness biking into position and setting up my hid and decoys.  The brilliant blue sky and periodic clouds had balanced the temperature to a comfortable upper 60s range.

It was April and the hills were green with the short-lived grasses that give the “Golden State” its characteristic hues.  Blue and purple Lupine, Golden California Poppies, and a whole riot of wildflowers colored the green meadows.

The Manzanita was richly green and the Poison Oak was just fully leafing out and was casting it’s pollen to the winds along with most every other piece of brush in the valley.

Dawn had brightened the sky finding me already in the field.  I had left the car before 5 in the morning, biked about 4 miles out from the trail head and split out south off of the main Indian’s Road canyon.  Up a small side canyon where I had hunted Quail (Callipepla californica) last season; I worked up onto a side of the hill overlooking a large meadow and set up my blind backed into the manzanita.

I was out bow hunting for spring turkey and so was fully clothed in camouflage and tucked back into the Manzanita with a soft camo drape supported by the brushes’ limb tips just in front of my position.  Twenty-five yards out in front of me, my Jake decoy faced directly towards me with a hen decoy just off to the left.  The decoy setup was staged to encourage a big Tom to come strutting up, face the jake head on and flare his tails feathers in display.  When a Tom did that, he would provide me an excellent shot with a carbon fiber shaft.

The day had past quietly enough, me working a call now and then in the morning after I had first set up, then whiling away the late morning and early afternoon poking around looking at the flowers, and snoozing in the sun, then back in the blind for the late afternoon and early evening.  And the evening was shaping up to be a bit more promising, I had some return noises from a gobbler on the far ridge, and was hoping to coax him down to my decoys when all of a sudden my thoughts of taking home a turkey vanished.

A metallic blue hued Rock Dove (Columba livia), commonly called a Pigeon, hit the ground hard some 60 or so yards in front of me.  From the crumpled impact and the stillness by which it lay, it was obvious that it was dead before it hit the ground.  Within seconds a small Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus) landed lightly on the pigeon’s lifeless body, settling his wings tucked in tight to its body. 

The Peregrine was not much larger than the pigeon, but much sleeker built with light colored leg feathers and soft brown breast and wings.  From the falcon’s size, I assumed it was a male as in the Peregrine as with many birds, the female is larger than the male.

Since I was set up hunting, I had all of the equipment and supplies I could hope for to observe the falcon’s feeding and I silently put down my turkey call and picked up my binoculars.  I was at first disappointed that I hadn’t seen the Peregrine strike the pigeon in flight.  I have never seen that happen in person, and to have been so close and have missed it, was disheartening. 

But now, with the falcon on his prey so close all thought of the initial kill flew from my mind as I concentrated on noting every motion as the Peregrine fed.  I brought the binocs up to my eyes and focused on the beautiful Peregrine perched on the breast of his recent kill.  He was a wonder.  Lightly colored with every feather laying as if recently preened into perfect position.  Bright yellow across the beak, clear of eye and trim and fleet.  He immediately bent to tearing out feathers along the pigeon’s neck. 

His head would dip, burying his hooked beak into the ruffled feathers and come back up to release them into the light cross breeze.  Time after time for what must have been 10 or more actions, all he did was strip feathers from the neck and chest of the pigeon.  Each head bob accompanied by a release of feathers that floated off on the breeze and into the grass some distance away.  But, in no time at all his sharp beak came up stripping the flesh downward along the breast.  During the next several minutes I watched transfixed as the falcon alternated between tearing out breast feathers and stripping bright red breast flesh out and swallowing it with a jerk of his neck.

Just as he was finishing off the right side of the breast, four Crows (Corvus brachyrhynchos) came cruising up the small valley we were in and instantly spied the falcon on his kill.  Intent on chasing the Peregrine off and taking the pigeon for themselves, they came at him; swooping in a line, the first crow veering right at the last second, and as the falcon pivoted to meet it the second flared to the left; as the falcon swung around to face the new dive-bomber, the third crow followed the first to the right and past the falcon’s exposed back. 

The tactic worked.  As the third crow attempted to rake the falcon’s back and the fourth crow drew a bead on him, he felt threatened enough that he spread his lithe wings and leapt off of the pigeon, quickly climbing up to the topmost branch in a dead barkless tree immediately overlooking the kill.

The four crows settled into a couple of live oak trees down low where they could almost taste the fruits of their labor.  Through the magnification of my binoculars each of the crows stood out bold and black, glistening in the late afternoon sunshine.  Their black eyes shown from above the obsidian beaks, shifting rapidly back and forth from the pigeon carcass to the falcon in the tree above.

You could almost hear their thoughts.  They wanted to pounce on the carcass, but were afraid of the falcon some 40 feet up above their heads.

After a few moments, one of the crows took wing and climbed up to a position in which it could dive at the falcon.  The remaining three crows followed suit.  Flapping wings and calling raucously back and forth, gaining position and diving at the falcon and veering away.  But this time, the attack was not as tightly coordinated and the sharp beak and flashing response of the Peregrine overwhelmed the crows and shortly the falcon leapt from the treetop and drove away all four crows.

 As soon as the crows fled for their lives, the falcon returned to the pigeon carcass, settling lightly, folding wings, and returning to stripping the flesh.  He fleshed out the right thigh, leg, and ripped off and choked down the bright yellow right foot.  On completing the leg, the falcon stopped feasting to stretch.  First one leg, out, then the other, wings, shoulders, and neck; standing up tall and taking time to look around carefully for the first time since settling back on its prey. 

He stood mutely, eye’s slowly blinking in the low angel rays of the drooping sun.

After a few minutes of relaxing, he went back to work on the pigeon; alternately stripping feathers and flesh from the left breast.  But almost as soon as he returned to feeding, a large shadow swept across the ground and a large Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura) dropped heavily onto its feet about 15 feet off to the side.

The Peregrine spun to face the buzzard.  Feet spreading, shoulders dropping, wing tips spreading, head down.  The force of the falcon’s glare seemed fiery enough to crisp and crinkle the buzzard’s feathers, but the buzzard simply ignored it.  Hopping slowly forward the buzzard’s vastly larger size carried the confrontation before it even started and the falcon was forced to take wing a second time, again abandoning his meal for the second time.

The buzzard ignored the Peregrine, who rose effortlessly to the dead treetop once again.

Staring down, the falcon seemed to scowl at the buzzard as the buzzard set in to finish off the pigeon.  One quick small gulp as if to sample the pigeon, and the buzzard stopped to look around carefully.  Reassured that all was safe, the buzzard bent again to the pigeon’s breast, coming up with a large strip of flesh.  Just at that moment, the Peregrine launched off the dead tree branch in a stoop that dropped him straight at the back of the buzzards head.

I heard the impact just as the falcon’s clenched feet came in contact with the buzzard’s head; the falcon flared at that vary moment and again leapt skyward to return to his perch.

The buzzard’s head was snapped forward and driven all the way down into the feathers of the dead pigeon.  As the falcon regained his perch, the buzzard staggered upright, wobbling one shaky step after another.  The buzzard staggered around for some 30 seconds or more, obviously trying to reset the nerve functions.  As its senses returned, it had evidently come to realize that it needed to get out of town before it was steamrolled again, and the buzzard abandoned the carcass and the field of battle.

As the buzzard’s wing beats and shadow retreated down the valley, the little Peregrine settled back on the pigeon.  I watched him completely finish off the bird and lift back into the sky just as the setting sun’s rays lifted off of the grasses and brush surrounding the kill site.

The entire event took most of an hour.  An hour I doubt I will ever forget.  And while I returned home without a spring tom that day, there will be other times.  And I returned with a memory that is so much richer.  One of the best hunting days I have ever experienced.

Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

I'm A Storyteller

“I’m the youngest of three brothers; there was the one with no brains; the one with brains that couldn’t remember where he put ‘em; and the smart one of the bunch………”

My son, daughter, and their friends heard a lot of stories around campfires that started with those words.  While unfair to my brother's, as the campfire stories unfolded, most times the first two were never clearly identified, and equally unfairly, more often than not my character was drawn as the smart one of the bunch. 

You see, I am a storyteller; and as a storyteller I start with memories, generally follow the facts, blend in some color, embellish a few of the details, personalize them, and relate a piece of the experiences that made me who I am.

Not that there isn’t some danger in that.  There is a hazard in drifting away from the cold hard facts.  Danger stalks somewhere beyond the margin of embellishment, lurking in smoky lairs somewhere on the sloping edges of fabrication.  Most stories include other characters, and they will recognize themselves in the flow of the words and their own memories of the experience.

An historian protects himself by not drifting very far from the solid foundation of the exacting details; but history was seldom the most engaging of classes in anyone’s past. 

So there is a balance between fact and story; and the tipping point is very personal indeed for the teller.  But, for the good storyteller, the risk is worth the running. For when crafted well, the true character will embrace the shadow changes and the gamble can even blossom into humor; memorable lessons can be crafted; and on occasion, new memorable stories will grow from the telling.

One day when my family and I were visiting my eldest brother, that lurking danger pounced out of the shadows, enriching my storytelling when its bared fangs shattered on the stark strength of the underlying joys of shared and remembered experiences.   Experiences such as can only be shared by true brothers, not just of the same parents, but of the same values.

Several of us; my brother and his kids, myself and my son and daughter, were all swimming in the backyard pool when my 12 year old son abruptly said; “Uncle Barry, dad says that when you guys were boys, one of you had no brains; one had brains but didn‘t know where he kept them; and that he was the smart one of the bunch.  Is that right?“

I had a flashback.  Instant recall of most any day growing up, fists balled, arms swinging, flesh being bruised.  Yep, my brothers and I had been known to fight some; constantly and energetically actually; and for slights that were a whole lot less significant than what my son had just divulged. 

To be truthful, I wasn’t entirely sure Barry had put those days behind him.

My eldest brother slowly turned towards me and lowered his head a fraction to stare up just under his eyebrows at me. 

That look I had seen lots of times before, often right before things got pretty fuzzy. 

He held that stare for several seconds, eyes bright, lips in a firm line.

Then he turned back towards my son, smiled big and bold and said; “Yep, sounds about right to me.”  he said with a laugh.

Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Comparing Scars

Recently, while at a party I happened to mention that growing up as a kid my brothers and I were constantly getting hurt at one thing or another.  And that several of those hurts left lasting scars on our hides.  Some of the other guys I was chatting with said that they had some “really gnarly” scars too. 

One of the guys, decked out in his best macho wife-beater, jeans and boots said: “I bet I got the gnarliest scars” and proceeded to point out scars he got from getting his hand caught in a door, and working his way up to a pebbley road-rash from falling off his motorcycle.  But he claimed that his worst scars had been when he was young and you couldn’t see them anymore cause they had faded.

The gauntlet had been thrown down and one by one the rest of the group broke out their meanest, scar stories, trying to top the last guy and prove how tough they were.  But they all followed “wife-beater’s” lead and said their worst ones had faded out.

After everyone else had given their run-down, they all looked at me.

I figured I had better start them off gentle like so I pointed to the bright white half-moon scar that is quite pronounced on my left forefinger; it runs from underneath the “bend” of the middle finger knuckle, arcs up around the outside and “hooks” into the inside of the knuckle next to the middle finger.  All and all the scar line is about 2 inches in length, and the scar tissue isn’t raised up; in fact might be sunken a little. 

“Can you all see this little scar here?” I asked.

They all nodded that they could, low light and all from as far away as 5 feet of so, and without any trouble to boot.  One guy said “Little?”

“This one I did to myself when I was in the 4^th grade” I tell them.  “It’s faded out some I suppose, but then it was a pretty small wound all in all” I allowed.

“I was carving a piece of wood with one of those fancy wood carving tools; you know, the ones with long handles and curved blades they call gouges” I say. 

“Darn thing slipped” I tell them; “And dang if I didn’t bury it fair to middlin deep in this here finger”. 

“Didn’t even bleed right away, I remember my right hand slipping, feeling the tool slice in until it jarred to a stop sudden like; and looking down to see the gouge dug into my finger”. 

Several of the guys winced.

“Couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t bleeding right away”.

“Of course, that mighta been cause I had to pry the gouge back and forth several times before it was loose enough to pull out of the bone” I told them. 

I acted out clinching my forefinger between my left thumb and middle finger and prying back and forth with my right hand, adding; “All that wiggling back and forth with the gouge sure got the blood to flowing once I got the dang thing pulled free though”.

Most of the guys were lookin a bit peaked; casting eyes anywhere else but at my hand motions.

“Damn blood ruined the carving I was working on too” I added.

Looking up at them, I could tell this group really wasn’t up to the story behind the 3 inch long curved scar on the base of the left thumb the day I almost chopped it off with a hatchet, or my “Bad Week for a Big Toe” story, much less any of my real spectacular scars……

Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Just a Tool

Back in the late seventies I was living in downtown San Jose.  Lived along the boundary line between the University neighborhoods and the East Side section of town.

Given the nature of college kids, and the nature of some of those that lived in the eastside, the neighborhood wasn’t the safest place to live.

The local convenience store got robbed regularly; we called it the “Stop-n-Rob” cause it had easy on-off freeway access.  The local parks were dangerous during the day from drug dealers, pimps, and other criminals, much less at night when beatings, muggings, and rape were regular occurrences.

I lived in a town-house style apartment right on one of the busy streets, one of the main freeway off-ramps into the downtown.  Spent several years there, moved in to get back in college, stayed through a couple years of mixed college and job, stayed long enough to get married and then moved out when we left the San Jose area for the Central Valley of California.

I grew up around guns; hunted as a kid, shot paper, clay pigeons, and bottles for fun.  To me a gun was, and is, just a tool; and just like any other tool, a gun can be used poorly, or well.

Just after midnight one very early Sunday morning I woke up when something rattled my screen door.  I could hear something bump the door itself and then kinda scratch once and then there was quiet.

I rolled out of bed, grabbed the 7 x 57 Mauser rifle that I kept loaded and slipped quietly downstairs.

I could hear some noise out the back side of the apartment that sounded like it was at the house on the other side of the fence.  I stuck my ear up to the front door and could hear some grunts out the front.

The noises out back had turned into a couple of voices yelling back and forth to each other, they were obviously looking for something; “look over there” and “nothing here” were clear and moving closer.

Unlocking the door, I yanked it open and stepped out…..

Only to trip over a body lying bleeding on my front steps.

 I was able to keep from falling, and just as I got my feet square under me and settled, I heard running feet approaching from around the corner of the apartment.  I racked the bolt, dropped the safety, and had the weapon up to my shoulder just as two guys came around the corner and skidded to a stop.  Both of them had knives in their hands. 

I stared at them.

They stared at the hole in the end of my rifle barrel.

When they glanced at each other, I told them; “You move one step forward, I’m gonna shoot one of you, and break the other one’s jaw with this rifle and I really don’t care which is which”.

Apparently they did. 

They looked at each other again and backed around the corner.  As they began backing up, I moved forward and kept them in my sights until they turned and ran down the block and around the corner.

The bleeder on my front steps appeared to be a high school aged kid of about 17 or 18.  He had been stabbed in the stomach, twice, and was bleeding pretty good.  There was a follow-able trail that came around the front, and ended where he had collapsed against my door.  His shirtfront was soaked.  I had tracked deer that left less blood behind than he did.

After the first aid; and the police and ambulance came and went, I washed up and went back to bed.

That Tuesday evening, just after I had walked in the apartment from work, there was a knock on my front door.  When I opened it, there stood a girl about 16 or 17 and an older woman.  The older woman was looking down at the blood stains in the concrete.  They got to the door so quickly after I had closed it that I have expect they had been sitting in a car somewhere watching for me to come home.

The woman didn’t speak any English.  The girl told me she was the sister of the boy who had been stabbed and asked if she and her mother could come in.  After I had them seated on the couch and had offered them something to drink, the girl proceeded to interpret her mother’s words and added some of her own.  They had come to thank me for saving the boys life.  He was still in the hospital, had been close to dead when the ambulance got him there, and the doctors had to remove some of his intestine, but he would recover.

Month or so later, a second knock on the door brought me face to face with the young man and his sister.  He too came to say thank you.

The media is full of stories about firearm crimes, the CDC can tell you how often someone dies from a firearm, the politician’s tend to be loudly against gun ownership.

What is missing from this discussion is how often is a firearm used safely as a tool, and how often is one involved in saving a life?

And while I have wondered from time to time if that boy ran straight and true from then on, I have never wondered about a gun. 

As I said at the beginning, a gun is just a tool.  No better or worse than the way in which it is used.

Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Seasoned with Rock Salt

My brothers and I grew up rambling.  Back in the 1960’s there were no cell phones, no iPods, no computer games, no DVD’s, and parents didn’t let their kids sit in front of the TV for hours on end.  If the sun was up, we were either in school, in church, or outside.

Truth be told, you can’t blame the teachers for the way we were, they tried their best.  And if the Pastor with God as his strong right arm was ineffectual in civilizing my brothers and I, certainly the teachers hadn’t a hope of success.

So ramble we did.

We hiked the hills; gigged frogs in the creeks and arroyos when we weren’t catching crawfish; rode bikes over every road, trail, and open field in the valley; and generally lived high, wide, and handsome.

One of our favorite afternoon activities was to grab up our fishing gear and head out to Old Man Baranus’ place to go fishing in his pond.  The Baranus place was what was left of a large cattle ranch that had once spread over thousands of acres on the south side of the valley.  The original Homestead had been built right in the arroyo that edged the southeastern boundary of our town proper.

There along the edges of the water, the original Spanish land-grant holder had built among what were probably already full grown elm trees.  Sitting quiet in the shade with the cool water flowing near the house must have been a great joy back in the day before swamp-coolers and air conditioners.  Specially in our valley were summertime temperatures often saw the high side of 115 degrees.  Over the years, the trees had grown ever larger, the original adobe was replaced by a big multi-storied clapboard Victorian house, barns and sheds were built, and most attractive of all, a pond was scraped out of the arroyo banks.

Originally that pond must have filled and flushed as each heavy rain filled the creek and then would sit full the remainder of the year waiting for the flood of rains again.  Over the years the creek channel shifted and the pond was completely cut off from the arroyo, but winter rains and the lay of the land kept the pond full and healthy.

At some point, whether naturally or intentionally stocked, that pond had become home to an amazing array of critters. There were Red-winged blackbirds, ducks, pheasant, muskrat, and foxes that all called the pond home.  Many trails led out of the arroyo and under the barb wire towards the pond.  Trails that promised adventures to boys like us. 

The pond itself must have covered eight or ten acres, with thick cattail rushes bounding most of the shoreline and a few giant elm trees as well.  Here and there the cattails thinned down and you could stand right up next to the water’s edge.

Well, I think you could anyway; I never tried.  You see, although my brothers and I fished that pond regularly, we never asked permission, and so standing up bold and bright there at the edge of the water wasn’t a good idea.  Specially since Old Man Baranus didn’t allow people on his property.

Every kid in town knew that you didn’t fish that pond.  Every kid in town either tried, or claimed to have tried to sneak through the strands of Barb wire and up to the edge of the pond.  Every parent in town told their kids to stay off of that property.  And most every kid in town listened, and followed the rules. 


But, my brothers and I weren’t much like every other kid in town.  That pond just seemed to call out to us.  Sure as the sun rises in the morning, that pond seeped into our thoughts.

Walking the arroyo in the evening you could hear the fish jumping in that pond; could hear the frogs calling out; and you just knew that you had to go there.  All the town kids would talk about someday sneaking through the fence, some of them tried once or twice, but I never knew anyone other than my brothers and I that actually went to that pond several times a week and dared to pull fish and frogs from that pool of water.

The fishing was great.  You didn’t even have to bait the hook.  Just cast a golden hook out into that pond and some hungry blue-gill or bass would come nosing around and sample it.  Filling a sack of pan fish for dinner was never a problem at that pond, at least not hard when it came to the catching.  The only real difficult part about fishing that pond, was casting while lying down behind a log or from around behind a tree.

You see, Old Man Baranus didn’t just ask people not to come onto his property, he pretty much insisted.  And while we three were persistent, he was retired.  And being retired he had all day to invest in some hobby or other.

His favorite hobby seemed to be to sit up in the hay loft of the barn and shoot rock salt at us kids who fished his pond.

But there is a funny thing to that; we boys seemed to take all that flying rock salt as more of a challenge than a deterrent.

Nothing fills you quite so full of life as running from death does.

We would sneak out there day after day, ducking, crawling, and doing our best to fill a sack of fish before Old Man Baranus caught sight of us and started to unload.

With the first whistling in the air of salt on the wing, we would grab up our stuff, leap to our feet and race for the barb wire fence line.  Sometimes the fence barbs got us as we tried to clear the strands; sometimes the salt stung the last largest part headed over the top strand and on those occasions we had to pick it out of each other’s back, or rump; and once in a while we would even get clear unscathed.

Looking back on it all these years later, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten any fish that was quite so well seasoned as that we fried up after a trip out to Old Man Baranus’ pond. 

Maybe it was because of all that salt flying around. 

Copyright © 2012 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

The Bike Sale

“My” first bike was a glorious banana-seated Schwinn stingray.  I had a learner bike before that one, but that one was handed down from a brother, it wasn’t mine.  Not that my Stingray was new, we were too careful with our money for that, but it was new to the family, and it came into the family to be mine, not someone else’s.

Can’t for the life of me remember the color of the bike for sure, but orange sure seems right.

The seat though, that stands crystal clear in my memory.  Long and white, padded with “tuck and roll” stitch lines cross-wise every 3-4 inches.  Supported in the front on the seat post, in the back by a chromed loop of tubing that came up from the rear axel bolt, arched over and plunged down to the axel bolt on the other side.

Built before the “stick-shift” jobs; it was a multiple speed bike, just as many speeds as I would willingly pedal.  

That bike represented more than just style and cool.  It represented freedom.

The world opened up to larger than I could walk in the time I had; there were more fields to explore, more potholes to dodge, and more places to go, more puddles and leaves, and sand and mud to ride through.

As I aged, that bike became too weak for my needs.  I got a paper route and needed to be able to cover a full third of our town every morning, and my brothers and I started riding the 10 miles out to the lake to swim and the 10 miles back in time to do our chores before our parents came home from work.  I needed more carrying capacity, and more speed.

I bought my first truly new bike with the profits of my first few months paper route work.  A beautiful, shimmering, metallic brown Schwinn Varsity Tourister with a lifetime guarantee on the frame (a decision that Schwinn must have come to rue, but that is for a future story or two).

And so, that wonderful Stingray fell into disuse and sat forlorn in a corner of the garage.

Some years later our family had a garage sale.  I decided it was time for my Stingray to regain its freedom and mastery of the streets, and so out of the garage it came. 

The tires were flat.

The seat was dusty

The wheels had spider webs.

But I was selling it, so I didn’t care.  My dad told me that I should clean it up and fill the tires, but I thought I was just getting rid of the bike, so why bother.

During that morning several people looked at my Stingray and asked about the price, none of them bought it.  Around lunchtime, I went and got the pump and filled the tires. And I rolled it around back and hosed it off.

The next man that stopped at the garage sale bought that Stingray, and for more money than I had been asking for it before I cleaned it up.

I came away with a new understanding.  One that has served me well all of my life. 

Most people can’t see the potential in things.

Most people only see the first impression. 

I have profited greatly from that understanding, both in understanding how to sell (myself, my ideas, and my things) and how to buy.

Selling that bike was a great experience….but boy, what wouldn’t I give to have it back today as a piece of my personal history.

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Bad Week for a Big Toe - Part 2

In Part 1 of Bad Week for a Big Toe you heard how I left some of my hide and blood in the Pacific Ocean off the Carmel beach while trying to impress Regina on our first date.  And of the impression I left with the doctor who ultimately was called on to repair the damage I had done to my right big toe.

Unknown to me, I had also done some damage to my budding relationship on that first date.  But that was nothing compared to what lay in store at the 4^th of July Picnic at Lake Del Valle outside of Livermore that we were headed to next.

Three short days after visiting the doctor to have my butchered right big toe tended to, and while still limping rather significantly from the discomfort of that injury, I called on Regina and picked her up for my  company’s 4^th of July Picnic.

She looked delightful, with her strawberry hair up, halter top and shorts, and ready for a warm day in the sun.

She must have noticed the limp and asked me how my toe was. 

I had to come clean and tell her that the doctor had been pretty harsh with me over not coming in immediately on being injured as Regina had suggested.  She took some little joy in that I believe.

Out at the lake, sides were being chosen up for a friendly Baseball Game.  I really didn’t feel like running since I could barely walk.  So Regina and I sat in the shade of a great big old Live Oak tree and watched until the BBQ spread was done and ready to eat.

After eating our fill of burgers, chips, and sodas, Regina and I wandered away from the continuing ball game.  We found our way over to the boat rental shack and decided to rent a small motorboat and spend some time puttering around the lake.  With the paperwork done and my money down, we bought some snacks and loaded up into the boat.  We headed up lake, me in the stern running the small outboard, Regina lounging up front in the bow, sunning, and generally making it difficult for me to pay attention to where I was going.

Being an outdoor guy, I noticed trash from all of the other boaters floating in the lake water and began to steer towards the plastic bags and other stuff that I could see so as to scoop them out of the water.  Regina got the fever as well and was soon leaning forward out over the bow, with her knees on the seat making it even harder to focus on my navigation.

Regina saw a large plastic bottle floating off the starboard bow and pointed me towards it.  As the boat approached the bottle, I could see that it was a 1 gallon sized plastic jug, looking for all the world like an old bleach bottle.  Pretty big for anything we had seen up until then, and I couldn’t figure out why a bleach bottle would be floating in the lake, but since we were cleaning up, it wouldn’t be floating in the lake for much longer.

I was proud to display my control of the boat as I slowed down and brought us right past that old bottle.  Regina reached out to grab it.  She had a good hold on it and the boat was slowly motoring by when that old bottle just seemed to pull back.

Almost yanked Regina clean out of the boat it did.  In fact, I had to let go of the outboard motor handle to grab Regina to keep her from accidentally abandoning ship. 

It seemed as though that bottle had grown rather attached to floating in the lake. 

After getting Regina fully back into the boat, only a little wetter for the experience, I turned the boat around and went back after that bottle.  It was a matter of pride at this point.  After all, if that bottle had been a guy and had treated Regina that way, I would have punched his lights out…I surely couldn’t let a piece of plastic get away with man-handling her.

As I approached that bottle a second time I shifted the outboard into neutral and told Regina I would get it.  Well, I grabbed on and pulled the bottle up to see a rope tied through the handle leading back into the water.  I started pulling in the rope and after about 35 feet’s worth, found that the other end of the rope was tied to a large square lead weight with an eyebolt through it.

Regina thought we should throw the thing back, but I maintained that nope, trash was trash and didn’t belong in the lake.

We continued to putter around the lake cleaning up trash until the time was up and we had to return the boat to the rental dock.

At the dock, we cleaned all of the trash out of the boat and I decided that I would keep that lead block, figured I would have some use for it sooner or later.  Really didn’t figure to use it as soon as I did though. 

Done with that we gathered up all of our stuff and headed up to check the boat back in.  My arms were full of all left over snacks, towels, and that lead weight when the man at the rental shack asked to see my papers.  I tried to pass all that stuff to Regina.  She got it all.

All except that lead block with the eyebolt.

That single piece, slipped through either her or my arms (I really can’t tell you who’s) and it followed the laws of physics.

Very, very enthusiastically followed the laws of physics as a matter of fact.

In school I had learned that a mass accelerates at 32 feet per second per second when subjected to gravity’s pull.  I swear they are wrong about that.  I have run the math on that one several times in my life; if they are right that block of lead was only traveling at about 7 miles an hour when it hit my wounded right big toe. 

Of course ballistic calculations tell us that terminal impact energy is mass times the velocity squared.  Running the math on and factoring in the area of my toe that the weight landed on says that the lead landed on my toe with a force of over 350 pounds per square inch. 

Even that doesn’t do it justice.

When that block hit my right big toe, I could feel the ground shake.

Regina felt it too, saying; “What was that”

I was having a tough time seeing straight again.

At least this time I didn’t teach her any new words…but that was just because she had heard them all the previous Sunday.

Regina was a predictable girl if nothing else, and 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.  I convinced her that it really wasn’t a problem, and besides, we had a movie planned and ice cream after that I had no intention of missing.  So off to the show we went.  Well, the movie was pleasant, the ice cream was good, and after that I took her shooting pool until about 2 in the morning before dropping her off at home.

When I got back to my house I set to trying to remove my right shoe.  It wasn’t particularly pleasant.  And in fact, the only way that I finally succeeded, was to take out my Folding Hunter Knife, and cut the shoe off of my foot. 

On peeling off the sock, my toe looked a bit the worse for the day’s wear.

It had started bleeding again at some point (pretty sure I knew when), and that soaked through the gauze and the sock. It had stopped bleeding again and while I wasn’t sure when that was ether, it had been long enough that the sock and gauze were an imbedded part of the scab.  Oh, it had also turned an astounding purple, and seemed flatter than it had been before.  Out of morbid curiosity, I weighted the lead block in at 14.5 pounds.

Next morning the toe didn’t look any better; seemed like Regina had been right again, so I packed myself up and drove to the doctors.

Some 45 minutes later, I had been seen by a nurse, the wound had been cleaned and x-rayed and the doctor had just finished his exam and had ordered another 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 really, really hard is a better description, and said: “What I think is you should have gotten this foot in here yesterday when I could have done something about the swelling and reset the toe.  But, as it is, the best I can do is put you in a walking cast for a few weeks and see how it heals.”

“And to be quite honest about it, I really don’t think you care much about what I think, or else you wouldn’t wait so long so often before coming in to ask me”.

After the plaster cast set, I drove by Regina’s house.  We sat out on the front porch swing and she told me; “I really don’t think we should see each other anymore, you use some bad language, and seem to hurt yourself a lot, I don’t think can deal with either of those things”.

 Yep, what started out as a promising dating situation only lasted 5 days…..heck it took a lot longer than that for the toe to heal up.

  

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved