Sacajawea, My Sweet Ride

Sacajawea was a Native American woman who accompanied Lewis and Clark on their expedition from the northern plains over the Rocky Mountains, to the Pacific Ocean, and back.  On the side of my Uhaul was her picture.  Love at first ride.

After a few nights in Phoenix, the first stop was Flagstaff.  I’ve never been there.  Not been to much outside of Phoenix.  When weather is extreme…Minnesota is sitting naked on a giant bag of ice.  Phoenix is being scalded with hot coffee.  Winter in Arizona is summer in Minnesota.  I'll let that soak in.

Ten minutes into my drive I find out that Sacajawea’s breaks are solid.  An accident happened a few cars in front of me and everyone/everything survived.  Biggest concern was the snacks my sister-in-law packed for the journey.  Cheese & Sour Cream Ruffles intact!

I didn’t have a set arrival time for Flagstaff.  I’ll get to Flag.  Yeah, college town.  If there was nothing for me to see on the way, then I get there before sundown (we measure things by sunup and sundown on the road).  Flagstaff seemed to have some ok restaurants, a few Uber close to my hotel.

However, Mike and his lovely Indian maiden had a date with history in Prescott, Arizona.  No Sedona stop.  Whether it be -a Vortex or static electricity from a meditation rug, none of that held a candle to Prescott.  It especially didn’t hold an ice cream cone to it.

Some won’t even recognize this history.  That’s what the internet is for.  Marino’s Mob Burger and Ice Cream.  Forever it holds a place in Mike’s folklore.  For in the 1960's, the movie Billy Jack was filmed in the surrounding area.  Quite sure some don’t remember this movie, but might remember a few scenes.  Mike remembers, and after all, it’s my folklore.  So I went off the normal path for about 30 minutes into Prescott.  I found appropriate parking for my sweet Indian legend and was on my way.

I found a seat right where I wanted.  The counter.  The kind where one gets a root beer float, a double cone, or a scoop of flour poured over their face.  Yes, for I was sitting at the place where the young Indian students were refused service, and the bad guy proceeded to “make them white” by pouring flour on their faces.  At this point in the film, the hero, Billy Jack arrives in his classic, straight-brimmed cowboy hat and tells our bad guy that this kind of treatment makes him go berserk. He uses his supreme martial arts skills to ruin some people.

A nice bucket list item for me and you probably understand why driving solo is often for the best.  It was an excellent get.  I wouldn’t go hours out of my way for it, but 30 minutes was a no-brainer.

The place had changed.  We’re talking 50 years ago.  Few customers even know about the movie, aside from the poster on the wall.  I knew it.  I sat in the same freaking spot where Billy Jack kicked ass!  One tin solider rides away...  Youtube links at bottom of story.

The young man at the counter knew the story and told me some history of the place.  That’s what you get for two scoops of Gelato.  I told him more about the movie and what happened in the restaurant.  Also introduced him to TCB, showed him a video, and explained that history.  He loved it.

Interesting thing about the Prescott Town Square, there were at least three ice cream places on the square.  I actually had to compare Google Street View to the film.

It was a fun visit.  No great, life-changing experience, not on my end, but perhaps on the counter guy.  He got to meet The Cranky Bunny.

Billy Jack goes berserk.  

Road Trip 2017 - Pretrip Preface

I like road trips.  I like solo road trips.  Not because I want to be alone.  Sometimes I do.  It’s easier to do what I want, be on my own schedule, etc.  However, the biggest thing it does is make me mingle.  I like mingling.  There are few strangers on my road trips.  You can create memories traveling with someone, but you will create them when traveling alone.

Is it lonely?  A few years ago I traveled by myself for 45 days.  That got lonely towards the end.  After a week?  No way.  It’s just nice to experience things on your own accord.  Be your own boss.  I’m to blame for stopping at the Navajo Jewelry stand, or regret not stopping.

Also, no one else snores.  Once I close my hotel room door, the clothes are gone!  More on that later, because I know you want to know more my hotel naked.

So this road trip.  Sis-in-law mentioned moving her mom from Phoenix to Iowa City.  I volunteered to help months ago, especially with my long distance driving skills.  A few months later, she asked and I said I’d be interested if the timing worked out.  I was asked again as plans were firming up.  I was given the chance to bow out, no questions asked.  Honestly, my initial reaction was “no, I better not do it.”  What if something comes up?  Like with a lot of people, for me it can be easier to just say no.  “No” keeps me safe because it eliminates “what if”.  I hate “what if”.

So for that exact reason I committed on the spot, period.  I’ll do this road trip.  Period.  My only caveat, I could dilly-dally.

The art of the dilly-dally.  I could have made this Phoenix to Iowa City trip in three days.  Interstate all the way.  I would have if it were required, but it wasn’t.  So, I didn’t.  The destination just ends the journey.  Wow...

“The destination just ends the journey”-Mike Brennan.  

There are interesting places along the way and some cool people, too.  Granted, what I considering interesting, you might not, but still.  Explore.  Dilly-dally

“A life without dilly-dallying isn‘t living.”- Mike Brennan

Next - Off like a truck full of herds of turtles driven by a guy who isn’t used to trucks full of anything.

Hair today. Waxed Tomorrow.

In the early 1990’s, I performed standup comedy.  I did a good ten minutes on being hairy.  The featured part of that was my hairy back.  Lots of material there, literally.  Just as much material when I got it waxed, figuratively.

A hairy back isn’t something playboy playmates list as a turn-on.  It’s made the turn-off list a few times…I’m told.  However, it’s not a relationship deal breaker.  However, admitting to it early on is.  Providing you avoid early dating beach and pool situations, you should be fine.  Eventually, when your shirt is off, there’s a good chance hers is too, and the coast is clear.  I’d be lying if it didn’t used to make me self-conscious though.  Just that moment at the pool when the shirt comes off and people‘s thoughts go towards the great ape in the swimsuit.  The thing is hair just means more testosterone (that‘s what we hairys say anyway).  Nothing wrong with that.  Yet, a hairy front is considered sexy.  Why was a hairy back so…well, icky?  And to the men who shave their chests…”men” (definite air quotes).

Still, like I’d rather not be bald, I’d rather not have a hairy back.  If simply for easier living.  Having a full head of hair makes it easier in the summer.  A sunburned scalp hurts like a grease splatter during naked cooking.  Mostly kidding, just wanted to give you the visual of hairy, naked cooking.  Back to simplicity, not having back hair just means less shedding.  If I don’t keep up on vacuuming, it’s pretty much guaranteed I can rub my finger a few inches along any part of any floor in any room in my house and pick up a hair.  Not a ‘curly’ hair, just a hair.  I shed.  Less hair, less shedding. It eases this hairy man’s burden.

So I decided to pull the trigger, er…pull the hair, if you will, and get my back waxed.  I had a long weekend at the beach coming up and figured I’d try it out.  Rather than go to some fly-by-night waxing outfit, I made an appointment at a Spa.  A mall spa, but still a spa.

The de-waxer met me at the reception area and took me to the room.  A nice room.  Typical new age music, scents, and dim lights.  I took my shirt off and laid on the table.  Larger than massage table with a high tech crock pot of wax nearby.  It used to have leather straps when waxing was used as a torture method against the Italians in WW2.

The way the process works is a follows…
Step 1: Put warm wax on hairy area.
Step 2: Put a strip of cloth over the waxy area.
Step 3: Rub cloth a bit so it adheres to wax.
Step 4: One, two, three and yank the cloth hard and quickly.

The resulting yank pulls out the hair by the root.  If successful, I should add.  The first yank I experienced can best be considered a false start.  The car engine didn’t turn over.  She pulled and the cloth didn’t budge.  “Sorry,” she said.  Did it hurt?  Think of it this way.  With that yank, my skin made a better effort to be pulled off my body than the hair did.

“Where does my back rank in terms of hairiness?”  I had to know.  If you’re going to have a hairy back, you want to be top 10%.  “You’re up there.”  My bathroom rug-on-the-back badge of honor..

After the initial oops, she…we got into a rhythm.  True confessions, I experimented with some at-home dehairing. Masking tape.  Never limber enough to do more than my shoulders…and all it really did was thin things out.  What it did do was prepare me for the pain.

There are places I would never ever wax.  I also think there are places you can’t wax.  Example, I’ve never heard of anyone waxing his head.  I think your scalp would pull right off.  I’d also never wax my chest.  I had half of it shaved for shoulder surgery and it wasn’t pretty.  Body hair tends to lessen the obvious.  That I’m a quite pasty.

So we conquered the shoulders well enough.  However, as I suspected, as she took the wax down my back…ouch.  The rest of the back didn’t like waxing. At that point, I was ready for the leather straps.

There’s not a spot on a male that should ever, ever…ever get used to waxing.  The closest a man should get to hot wax is when dripping it for placement of the candle in the carved pumpkin

But let’s get back to the horror.  I’ve sugarcoated the experience and aftermath.  It was a donnybrook of the back.  By the time she was done, it looked like she’d had a banner day squirrel hunting and came away with a couple of dozen pelts.  I can only imagine what her garbage can is like after a day of peak man-waxing season.  She probably sells off her results to a Locks-of-Love group from hell.  Perhaps a third world sweater manufacturer.

Hirsutes for the Angoraphobic! -TM

The waxing part was as expected.  It wasn’t going to tickle.  It didn’t.

The aftermath.  Wow.  The awful secret.  Never again.

I wasn’t out of the mall when my back spoke, “You’ve done something weird and now you’ll pay.”  It then screamed with waves of prickly sparks of heat.  Hundreds of hot pins.

It mellowed out after a couple of minutes.  The next lesson was that evening when I showered.  Research shows the average person showers with a water temperature of 105F.  On my naked back, 105F felt like 205F.  I didn’t expect this and when the water hit my back, I screamed.  I’m not a good screamer.  I go from my normal baritone or my rarely-heard teenage girl.

The journey of surprise continued  the shower.  The shower had been surprise-free…hmm…for a long…long time.  Toweling off.  In my younger days, there was never an issue.  And no, I wasn’t born with a hairy back.  I’m not Curious George.  However, once I was waxed, toweling off my back became impossible.  Like using a towel on a wetsuit.


There was so much friction between my towel and back, I had a better chance of pulling my skin off than I did drying off.

Appearance.  I thought it would look normal the next day.  Friend told me it looked like I’d been strung by a hundred bees.  Up close, I noticed that roughly 20% of the hairs weren’t truly removed.  They broke off just above the root.  That meant two things, that some hair would start growing right away, instead of the six months it would normally take.  Also, it looked like a few hundred wood tick heads were stuck in me.  Their little spines sticking out.

So, I tried it, but it was just silly.  Who in their right mind believed it?  I looked like the before photo of a home remodeling job.  My front was 1970’s deep shag carpeting.  My back, linoleum.

*Haven't posted anything in awhile because I'm working on long-term project.  Thought I'd write a little something fun.

The Chintzy Sign

The greatest benefit of spending years in the airline business was free flights.  It allowed me to see the world.  I love history, so I’ve seen history face-to-face.  I’ve seen a lot.  However, seeing a place and fathoming what occurred are two different things.

Big Ben, Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum.  Toyko, Sydney, Madrid, Munich.  One of my last overseas freebies was Amsterdam.  Not my first trip there, but it was as good a place as any for a dart match.  My buddy Mark and I have been playing against each other for decades.  Since we both had flight benefits, we threw in the occasional international match.  Yeah, we flew to Amsterdam to play darts.

Granted, we were still tourists.  We hit museums, the North Sea, and a day trip to Arnhem, famous for the World War II, Operation Market Garden (the movie, A Bridge Too Far).  Drank lots of beer, a bit of Jenever, their juniper-flavored, national drink.  Bought tulip bulbs and went to a very interesting outdoor market.  We skipped the Anne Frank house, Red Light District, and the herbal products.  We’d both been there a few times.  Not that we’d ever partaken in the last two, but we’d been in those parts of town.

Our last day, we stumbled on a nameless outdoor market.  Not something designed to attract tourists, but the kind of thing you go to for that very reason.  It’s where the locals go.

We walked around a bit, doing our own thing.  Not looking for anything in particular, I saw a sign for sale.  It was out of my reach, but it looked very interesting.  Bronze, the size of a salad plate, with Dutch phrase on it.  Of course, I had no clue what it said, but it looked cool.

I reached across the table to see how much it cost.  To my disappointment it was very light, not the heavy bronze that I thought, but tin disguised with a bronze color with a weathered, cardboard back.  So now I looked it over more out of curiosity, than as a potential purchase.  Whatever it was, it only cost a couple of dollars.  A man behind me said something in Dutch.

The German language is derived from an ancient people who had very bad sinus infections.  It’s a tongue reminiscent of that guy who sits by you at work who is constantly snorting phlegm from nasal passages.

Dutch is the German language after the superficial relief of a lozenge.

My knowledge of the language is limited to a phrase that I was learned so I could yell it in a crowded Amsterdam bar, “Wanneer is het mijn beurt om te zingen ?”  When is it my turn to sing?

I turned around and now knew he was speaking to me.  “Do you speak English?” I asked.  He was of senior-citizen age, smartly dressed in his leather winter jacket, nice hat, and warm boots.  He was 80 but seemed much younger.  The kind of person who’d be driving, accident-free when he was 100.  In Amsterdam, he’d be riding his bicycle.

George spoke perfect English, which surprised me.  English has been taught in the Netherlands for decades, but I’m sure he was long out of school before it was part of the curriculum.  “I was asking if you knew the meaning of that sign.” he said, pointing to the chintzy disappointment in my hand.

“It’s a traditional sign we hung on our door as a way of welcoming guests.  It means, ‘If you are a friend, come on in.  If you are not, then you must go, go, go!’ That was the version put out during the war.  The Germans came into our homes and took any metal that could be melted into weapons.  People made cheap versions like this to replace what was hidden.”  Of course, they came for people, too.




“You had to be there.”  An expression we’ve all used.  Mostly after telling a story and not getting the reaction you expected.  I also see it as literal.  Things happen in this world that cannot be comprehended unless you bore witness.

I love history.  I’m more drawn to where things happened than where someone lived.  The battlefield over the headquarters, the scene of the crime rather than the arrest location, and yes, where lives were lost over salvation found.

“The area we’re in used to be the Jewish part of town.  It was destroyed during the war, and rather than rebuild it, a market and theater area was created,“ he said.  By reading his face, you knew this was were he grew up and his mind’s eye returned him to those days whenever he visited.  Everything he knew had been gone for over 50 years, but he still saw every brick of it.  As a Jew in Nazi-occupied Netherlands, he’d lost more than buildings.

Mother, Father, brothers and sisters.  Aunts, Uncles, and the like.  George’s entire family was gone.  “I spent the war living in people’s basements,” he said.  “I ate nothing but tulip bulbs.”  He was the non-conformist of his family and chose hiding over obeying.  George hid for five years.  Thousands of others did the same.  Thankfully, one girl wrote in her diary about it.

At war’s end, George emerged from under ground to find everyone and every thing gone.  Before the war, he was a teenager, had a loving family and many friends.  His neighborhood, a comfortable place that he knew inside and out.  No number of history books, documentaries, or guided tours gets me there mentally.

I’ve walked the concentration camp in Dachua, Germany and could not fathom that men, women, and children were murdered here en masse.  I stood on Omaha Beach with no concept of the carnage of a D-Day invasion.  I’ve walked the streets of London, rebuilt from the blitz.

You had to be there.

I cannot grasp the inhumanity of our past by simply being in the place where it occurred.  It’s just a place.  In truth, I feel very little.  Witnesses feel everything, forever.

Now a sign hangs on my door, the same as it would have over 70 years ago.  A great possession that reminds me of a brave man who survived with the help of support people worthy of entering anyone’s house.

I Love You, Too

Her arms frozen, like leafless branches.  Her eyes focused, but only she sees.  Light as a feather.  Lifted.  Soaring.

Father pushes the swing
Mother smiles and claps
She gets the hang of it
From grimaces to grins and giggles.

Elevator music and her fingers wiggle.

Her first solo recital
A draw of her bow and a scrape across the violin strings
A scream or a song?
Her smiling parents in front row never been prouder

She’s loaded in back.  Bounces jostle her. Focused with her arms locked and on task.

Fixing her hair for the school dance
Little brother bumping her in the narrow bathroom
Both yelling to get out of the way
Mother shouting over them about how a lady behaves.

Gurney up the sidewalk.  Chilled from the breeze.

Sweating, exhausted and trembling
Her arms extending for her newborn
An unwed mother giving up to adopt
The nurse reminds, better to not get attached.

A car honk louder it passes and fades

She stands with him at his train
Their gold bands shine in the sun
A final goodbye
He’s off to Europe and the approaching D-Day

A yellow transfer form on the paramedic’s clipboard.  Sign here with the date.

Quaking sobs.
Can’t stop reading
The telegram confirms
He’s not coming home.

An aide stops them in the hall.  A stroke of her rigid arm and a smile.  "Welcome home, Miss Jenkins."

Reunited nearly a lifetime later
He’s found her at last
The son she gave up
Both hunger for "Mom".

Lifted into bed and one paramedic stays behind.  Her mind and body frozen, arms rigid and eyes stare beyond.  He sings so quiet and strokes her white hair.

Her son and his family
Gave her great years
They visit her often though she’s not there
Drifts out of focus and grabs what’s not there

The paramedic feels her calm
And kisses her forehead
“Hi Grandma”
Their eyes meet and they both smile.

“I love you.”



I saw paramedics wheeling a very old woman into a Memory Care facility.  Her mind and body weren't gone, they were just elsewhere.  I wrote this for her.

A Grandfather's Letter

Note: This was a writing exercise where the story's purpose was to apologize.
                                                                                                                                                               February 2, 1967
Dear Grandchild,

I write this letter to my unborn grandchild because I am of failing health.  I’ve asked your father to give this to you upon your 21st birthday, as its content is better understood with an adult mind.  It’s become evident that cancer will end my life before you will be born.  This is my effort to apologize for what I have done, and to explain why I did what I did.

You certainly learned early in your life that your grandfather was a scientist.  I became interested in the sciences at a very young age. I was blessed with a mind for science and passionate desire for mastering it.  My hope for you is that you find such a passion in your life.

How I went from a passionate pursuer of scientific knowledge to being called The Father of the Atomic Bomb, I will try to explain.  The fact that I was involved in such as project is something that I have regretted for decades.  I’m not arrogant enough to think that without me, there would be no nuclear bomb.  I just wish my name wasn’t connected to it.

For this I sincerely apologize to you, grandchild.

I apologize because you have to share the last name with my moniker of destruction and death.  Your last name will be forever associated to mine.  In my heart of hearts, I hope you’re a baby girl because then, perhaps you’ll marry and rid yourself of the Oppenheimer name and my curse to it.

I apologize for being part of a team that knowingly created a weapon that we knew would change warfare for lifetimes to come.

We knew that man had never, not used a weapon he’d created, and that using this one would leave its target devastated and reduced to uninhabitable, radioactive rubble.

I apologize because I knew that I was helping create a nuclear arms race.  Giving one nation an atomic bomb meant that others would do everything they could to negate this threat by making their own.  After that, it would be a numbers game.  Governments and their militaries would think that the nation with the most atomic bombs had an advantage.  Eventually, their stockpiles would number the thousands.

I apologize for giving you The Cold War, for leaving you with a world of uncertainty.  A world that can be destroyed in minutes, by the press of a button, and entrusting that button to soldiers

You must be asking why I would I be involved in such a project?  There are multiple reasons.

First, President Roosevelt asked me to help.  During a war, when the President of the United States calls upon you to serve your country by developing a weapon that could save American lives, you do as you are asked.  Sadly, the other two reasons why I took part in this project were not so patriotic.

I wanted a challenge.  I thought it could be done and I wanted to be a member of the elite group of scientists that made the first atomic bomb.  The cause was a weapon, but it could have been anything else of great challenge, and I would have wanted to be involved.

Ego was the second reason.  I wanted to be involved because other great scientists would be taking part.  I wanted to prove to myself that I was better than them, and that I could be chosen to lead the group.  I was.  I was the best of the best.  As a result, history has forever linked the Oppenheimer name is to this weapon.

If you’ve studied the history, you know that we first tested the weapon in New Mexico.  After I saw the successful results of our first test, I was quite relieved.  Nearly speechless, I told a military officer, “It worked.”  However, in my thoughts was a quote from the Bhagavad-Gita, “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”[sic]  As I mentioned before, I feel this bomb was inevitable.  However, I’m very sorry I am known for its creation.”

Nothing can really make up for what I did.  History carries with it some facts, fiction, and plenty of speculation about my life.  What I have written in this letter is fact.  I will not burden you with the veracity behind what else may or may not be fact.  Any burden I wish to place on you would be that of using the Oppenheimer name to better mankind.  Perhaps you’ll go into medical research and use the popularity of the name to secure funding for cancer research.  Such a thing would not absolve me of my sins, but the thought does sooth this old man’s heart.

So grandchild, I close the letter by wishing you a wonderful life of love, joy, and peace.

With love, your grandpa,

J. Robert Oppenheimer

Two Voices

(My writing mentor gave me a challenge.  Write a story based on:  an old fishing pole, cold lasagna, and sock suspenders.  Enjoy.)

His lasagna was cold.

She licked the bits of it off her finger.  Pretty good still, but when she left it was warm and ready to be cut up for him.  Now it had a hole in the center where you could fit a substantial birthday candle.

She’d only been gone an hour.  His prescription refills were ready and she wanted to be sure he had his medicine for the big day ahead.  When she pulled into the driveway and saw their home health aide’s car gone, and her worrying began.

She called her husband’s name as she swept the house from room-to-room.  Sometimes she’d find him sitting on their bed, staring at nothing.  The only thing on the bed now was the black tuxedo jacket she’d put their earlier.  She was too preoccupied to notice that the remainder of the outfit was no longer hanging from the doorknob.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number on the aide’s business card.  She got her answering machine.  “Voice mail,” she reminded herself.  Her own cell phone peeked out of the wicker basket on the kitchen counter.  It lay amongst the tape dispenser, Post-It Notes, address book, daily pill reminder, and sugarless gum…all the things she used daily and never quite put away.  She intended to use her cell phone more often, but it always sunk to the bottom of the basket.

She finished leaving a message.  Did the aide leave him alone?  Was he with her?  What happened?  She was supposed to get him fed and dressed in his tuxedo.

She didn’t really care what the doctors called it.  Alzheimer’s or dementia.  In the year since his diagnosis, she knew it was getting worse.  He’d gone from being a bit forgetful to needing help every day.  Family’s subtle suggestions about moving to assisted living were increasingly pointed.  She wasn’t ready.  Her health was good and she wasn’t about to put him somewhere without her.  Plus, there was this house.

They’d raised kids in this house.  Spoiled grandchildren.  It was beyond a dream home. It was the center of their lives.  He built it with his bare hands.  A log home on the lake decades before they were popular.  Over the years, the pine trees overtook their view, but once you got the bottom of the log staircase, the panorama of the lake took awhile to take in.

“A million dollar view,” he called it, and this was back when a $10,000 view would have impressed.  On a good day, like today, the only thing that kept the crystal clear lake from blending with the crisp blue sky was a brim of trees on the horizon.  A bad day, perhaps a heavy rain and the family parked in front of crackling fire watching old movies.  She knew better.  Those were also the good days.

When she looked at the fireplace, she noticed right away.  His old fishing pole was gone.  The cane bamboo rod was his sole birthday gift that summer of 1929.  He cherished it.  “It was the only gift an eight year old boy needed,” he said most every time he used it.

Her heart pounded in her throat as her dress heels hit the log staircase.  There was no use yelling for him.  Unlikely he’d hear her, and if he did he’d try to come back up the stairs.  It would be enough of a blessing if he’d gotten to the water without falling, she wouldn’t risk him climbing back up.  “Oh lord, what if he made it to the dock?” she thought.  Her mind raced with visions of him tripping and drowning.  “Not today, God.  Please, not today,” she pleaded.  Not on their grandson’s wedding day.

Things had to go well today.  He made a point of having the wedding in town, so they could attend.  Afterwards, they’d return to their lives time zones away.

Slow and steady, she descended through the trees.  As the sun crept through, she thought she heard a voice, but her hearing wasn’t what it used to be either.  Two voices?

Relief swept over her when she saw them.  At the end of the dock, a grandson taking the time on his wedding day to have one last fish with his grandpa.  “Two peas in a pod,” she thought, shaking her head.  Their neatly-pressed tuxedo pants draped over a bench.  Each with a fishing pole, wearing tuxedo shirts, boxer shorts, shiny black rental shoes, dark socks, and sock suspenders.

She took in the moment, then turned back up the steps.

“…only gift an eight year old boy needed.”