Similar Parents

Stephen's relationship with his parents was what I considered to be - odd. It certainly was not like mine with my own parents. Although his mother was constantly yelling at him. But she didn't call him names and say she hated him. She just yelled at him all the time. In fact, everyone in his family yelled at everyone else. I think it was how they communicated.

But his parents could be so capricious. Without warning they would turn from yelling and screaming to complete and utter generosity. Or the reverse.

Every so often his dad would try to join some of the things we did: billiards, basketball, football, fishing, movies. He was better than average at billiards. He completely sucked at the rest.

I remember one time Stephen calling me up on a Saturday to ask if I wanted to go out that night. I said sure. He said he would be right over. I went outside to wait for him. It was a nice day.

Since Stephen only lived about five miles away it didn't take long for him to show up. Our house was on a corner and I saw him driving to the stop. Right behind him was his dad, laying on the horn. Stephen stopped and got out and he and his dad engaged in a loud exchange. I was too far away to make out the exact words, but the end result was both cars turned around and drove back to Stephen's house. I went inside to wait for the phone call.

I could hear the yelling in the background. It still wasn't clear what the problem was, but Stephen wasn't going to be able to use the car that night. I would have to drive to him. So I got permission to use the car and went to his house. He was eager to leave. The yelling continued until we were both in my car and driving away.

What had happened was this. Stephen's dad had decided to clock Stephen's speed. But he didn't want Stephen to know it, so he waited until Stephen was well away before getting in the other car and following. But to clock Stephen's speed he had to speed to catch up. When he found himself going 70 m.p.h. to catch Stephen he concluded that Stephen was going 70 m.p.h. Stephen, of course, argued that if he had been going that fast then his dad would have had to have gone even faster to catch up. The argument fell on deaf ears. All his dad knew was how fast he was going. Therefore, Stephen had to have been going that fast, too.

Now that I think of it, Stephen's parents were a lot like mine. They didn't make any sense at all.

We Had Fun

Stephen and I were born at the wrong time, I think. I should have been born a long time before. Perhaps several hundred years. Stephen should have been born later. Today's technology would suit him well.

Stephen wanted to make movies. He made a couple, but only one was any good. That was Fate. I worked with him on one real movie and two other films. But I was not able to corral Stephen's need to "just do it". When Stephen made Fate he was not officially in command. Aaron, who was already making some very good films with his brother, had been brought in to help, and Aaron kept the crew focused. Aaron made Stephen work with a script that actually had a plot.

I was only able to get Stephen to compromise when we made Falcon Man. We had a script. And we had a plot. But it didn't work well.

I think Stephen would love how easy it is for amateurs to make movies now. Video cameras are reasonably inexpensive and digital film means instant knowledge of whether a scene worked or not.

The year after we graduated from high school Stephen was at my apartment and saw one of those shields with the crossed swords behind it hanging on my wall. Being Stephen, he couldn't just leave it alone and he discovered one of the swords actually came out easily. Within minutes both swords came out. Now he wanted to make a film.

We dressed in some of our more rustic clothes and headed to the local dam. It was a small thing, spanning a small river. Still dangerous if one got too close, but we went to the low water side where Stephen knew of a wooded area. Randy was the camera man. That was what Randy liked doing best.

The idea was that Stephen and I would be medieval warriors engaged in a duel to the death.

We waded across the river, the water came up to Stephen's neck but only my chest. Randy had to walk holding the camera above his head.

Once on the island we did some choreography and rehearsals. Now we were ready. Randy started filming. Stephen came at me. He swung his sword and I blocked it. Now I swung mine and he raised his sword to block it. His sword broke in half. That thin aluminum just wasn't meant for stuff like this.

So much for our film.

I wonder what kind of films we would be making today were Stephen still here. With our track record I have to believe they wouldn't make it to either Cannes or Sundance. But we would have fun.

A Day Off

Took a lazy day today and didn't do much of anything. According to some that's what I do every day. Won't argue. They just may be right.

Thought a lot about Stephen today. Some of the things I was reading made me think of our friendship. What would life be like if Stephen were with me today? There is no way to know, of course.

That's the problem with aging. People start leaving and not coming back. Some day it will be my turn. There are those who are probably eagerly awaiting the day. Others don't like to think about it. I confess that it isn't something I like to dwell on. But when I think about Stephen, and Daddy, and Lynahr, and others, I find myself being forced to consider it.

If Stephen were alive I wonder if I would play more tennis. We used to play a lot of tennis. We drove around a lot. We didn't actually go anywhere. We just drove around. Went to a lot of movies, too. I liked going to the movies with Stephen. And after the movie we would find one of three pizza restaurants to visit.

Life has not always been hard times. There are a lot of happy memories. Lots of them.

But I do miss Stephen more on some days than others.

Ice Cream Has No Bones

So it's been nap time again. Strange how sleep picks odd times to visit now. And sometimes during the night it refuses to come near.

I guess I'm being paid back for my youthful years when I often banished sleep from my presence. I often spent nights awake. My first steady job was at a pizza restaurant. I started work at five-thirty at night and worked until close, which was midnight on Sunday, one o'clock in the morning Mondays through Thursdays, and two o'clock in the morning on Fridays and Saturdays. After work it could be two or three hours before I tried going to bed.

Later, in my college days, I again worked a pizza place, and this time I, certain waitresses and cooks, would gather at an all-night restaurant and talk until dawn.

When I wasn't working I was with Stephen, playing tennis until the lights went out on the courts at midnight or one. Then we would find a pizza place and get something to eat.

And when none of those things was going on I would read. Sometimes all night. Often all night.

So now I'm old. The local pizza places close around ten. Too expensive to stay open, and with internet, cable and movie rentals nobody sits down at a pizza place to eat anymore. Haven't the energy to work them anyway.

Can't play tennis anymore. Even if I could, Stephen is gone. I don't really enjoy it like I did. Neither do I enjoy the pizza hopping late at night without him.

Still read, though. Sometimes all night. Or, I write.

But even those nights when I manage to catch hold of sleep before midnight we tend to wrestle with each other more than relax and rest. And my legs hurt all the time, so I wake a lot.

I used to wonder why "old people" took naps in the day. Now I know. It's the best time to sleep. It's when sleep can most easily be captured and kept.

Well, I'm up now. We'll be eating a late supper. Spaghetti. Almost like the old days at J's Pizza. All I need now are Chris and Stephen. After we had placed our order we would get to talking and then I would say it; the phrase that always made Chris laugh.

Because, as you know, ice cream has no bones.

Sleep - My Wayward Friend

A long time ago, when I was young, Elizabeth dealt me a blow to my heart which I thought would kill me. I vaguely remember running to my car and driving away, hoping that speed would make it all not be true, but knowing the pain was real and it wasn't going to go away.

I didn't know where I was going but I found myself stopped at Stephen's house. I knocked and his mother called for me to come in. I hurried to Stephen's room so she wouldn't see I was crying.

Stephen was listening to Pink Floyd. He was always listening to Pink Floyd. He saw my face and knew where I had been. He wasn't surprised. He had tried to tell me for a long time.

He said nothing. He just indicated the bunk bed and I climbed up top. He switched off Pink Floyd and put on Moody Blues. Threshold of a Dream.

I slept and woke and slept again several times. Every time I woke I looked and saw him at his desk, waiting for me to recover. There was nothing else he could do. When I finally sat up he smiled and asked if I felt better. I said no. Then he told me I was a 'scab picker'. "You are not one to just let things be. You have to keep checking things, reopening the wounds and delaying your healing."

Then he took me to Keno's Pizza and I ate spaghetti. Salve to a wounded heart.

Stephen was right about me. I am a scab picker. It is impossible for me to leave the past behind. Wherever I go I bring it with me, and when the memories rise the same feelings rise with them. The wounds are never healed.

I am becoming so old, and some days the memories get awful heavy. I should have been asleep three hours ago. I may not be asleep for several hours hence. I sure could use that bunk bed now.

Young and Childish Humor

We're watching Young Frankenstein as I write this post. It's a wonderfully funny movie I first started watching back in the fall of 1975 at the Varsity Theatre on the UofM Campus. The theatre is still there, but it looks like it's live shows now, instead of films. Back in the 1970s it was a dollar theatre. Saw lots of good movies there. I didn't actually attend the University, except to go to movies and eat pizza at the Green Mill in Dinkytown. Great pizza, but always busy.

Anyway, there is the scene very early in the film where Gene Wilder, in a fit of emotional frustration, stabs his leg with a scalpal. It reminded me of something Stephen did shortly after we graduated from high school.

Stephen was an artist. Mainly, he painted with oils, and he often purchased his supplies in bulk. It was ultimately cheaper and he spent less time running to the art stores. One of the things he purchased in bulk was paint. They came in soft plastic bags, like plasma.

Stephen had recently been hired at a leather and luggage retail outlet. Life was dull there. Everyone was so serious. He decided what they needed was a bit of humor to lighten things up. So, he tied a bag of red paint to his thigh, inside his pants. Then he went to work.

While at lunch a female co-worker sat down beside him. The lunchroom was small and there was only the one table. Stephen very casually withdrew a large syringe from his lunch box. He then proceded to stab his thigh and withdraw a full supply of red liquid. The girl screamed and ran out.

Stephen was fired on the spot.

I laughed when he told me and I laugh every time I think about it. Stephen probably suspected he might get into some trouble, but I doubt he realized he would be fired. Stephen often had trouble envisioning the consequences of his humor.

Once he nearly got us both arrested as pedaphiliacs. I was driving and he was sitting with his window down, bored to death. There was this young girl sitting at the curbside. Don't know what she was doing, but she was minding her own business. Stephen sees her and tells me to slow down. Dumb old me hasn't figured out what's about to happen and so I do. As we near the poor little girl Stephen sticks his head out the window and, in his best (worst) Peter Lorre voice says, "Want to go camping?"

He thought it would be funny to scare her. She was scared. She was also bright enough to get up and run into the house. Needless to say I not only burned all othe rubber off my tires getting away from there, but Stephen had to listen to my anger for the next two hours. When I got too tired to yell at him anymore I drove us to Chris's house and told him. Chris could stay angry at Stephen much longer than I could. And he was much better at yelling.

Poor Stephen. He just couldn't understand that some things just aren't funny.

But in my book, the paint and syringe thing was funny. I wouldn't have fired him.

What Would You Have to Say, Stephen

Just an update regarding my last post. I did finish The Sweet Girl (but not until this morning), but it did NOT surpass Shadow People in word count. Came about two hundred words short.

My friend Stephen was an artist. He could draw, he could paint, he could sculpt. What he wasn't good at was telling stories. Not on paper anyway. Just to sit and talk he did fine. He had a wonderfully vivid imagination.

Stephen was a gentle sort. I cannot remember a single instance where Stephen was ever cruel, or deliberately hurt anyone. His humor could be acerbic, and sometimes people did feel bad. But when Stephen realized he had hurt feelings he would take steps to undo the damage he had caused.

He was an honest person. Gentle. Honest. Kind. What wonderful attributes to possess.

And so it was with great surprise when one day he shows up at my house all depressed. Turns out he had gone to a local Target store with Chris, and Chris had convinced Stephen to do something Stephen had never done before in his life: steal.

I forget what it was he stole. I think it was a piece of fishing tackle. Anyway, it had taken Chris an inordinate amount of time and effort to convince Stephen to take the thing. All of this back and forth debate had attracted the attention of the store's security. So of course when Chris and Stephen left the store they were caught, apprehended, and brought to the local police station where they were booked.

The incident left a lasting impression of Stephen, and it showed in some of his ad-lib comments. He had a great gift for exaggeration and sarcasm. He liked to tell stories of the poor slob who stole a pack of gum and ran out of the store, only to be gunned down by a 37-member S.W.A.T. force. Then he would pose as the dead criminal, laying spread out and holding the cheap piece of swag, and say, "Was it worth it?"

It probably isn't funny at all to read, but when I see and hear him in my mind I can't help but laugh out loud.

And do you know the funny thing about it? That was the only time Stephen ever shop-lifted. His younger brother did it all the time. And never got caught. The truth is, I always felt Stephen was lucky because he was caught, and I often told him so.

Exaggeration and sarcasm was how Stephen dealt with all of his disappointments.

He rode motorcycles. Harley-Davidson models. Back in the 70s Harley-Davidson wasn't doing so well. There weren't many shops around. Here in Minnesota the only shop Stephen knew of was thirty miles away.

One summer in June, Stephen was driven off the road by a jerk in a pickup truck. Stephen always referred to drivers of pickup trucks as "hockey pucks". It was a term he picked up from his motorcycle driving instructor. But in driving off the road Stephen's motorcycle was damaged. Two of the spokes on his front wheel snapped. Now he probably could have continued to ride his bike with the missing spokes, but he felt it was too dangerous to risk. So he called the Harley-Davidson shop and ordered the spokes. (They didn't have any in stock at the time.) He waited the stated four weeks and borrowed his father's car to pick up his spokes. They weren't there.

Two weeks later he asked me to drive him. I agreed.

He was depressed the entire way there. Calling the store didn't seem to work as they seldom answered the telephone. (He may have actually gone to the store and placed his order in the first place.) When we reached the store he had to wait about fifteen minutes before anyone would treat with him. When they did they informed him the spokes still had not arrived I thought Stephen was going to break down and cry. Then he got angry. Angrier than I had ever seen him.

When we got back home he wanted to do an audio skit. These were all ad-lib so I had no idea what was on his mind. He began by pretending he had come in to the Harley-Davidson shop. I was to be the clerk.

ME: May I help you?

STEPHEN: Yes. I was here about - three years ago to order a spokes for a motorcycle wheel.

That was Stephen. I still smile to think about him. He made me laugh. Often when I desperately needed to find humor in my life.

I would like to believe that, were he alive and with me now, he would be pleased with the writing I have been accomplishing. He wouldn't read any of it, but he would be pleased. I know I am.

Shut Down

So, it has come to what may be the final post for this blog. If you've been trying to keep track, officially this is the 282nd post since 10-21-2008. Didn't make it that long, did I? Only been online just over a year, and only been blogging just under a year. Not that this is my first time being online. I've tried the internet, off and on, for around twenty years or so. I remember being on Compuserve. I don't even know if that exists anymore. That was in the days of Prodigy, which I never used.

Yesterday I was offline because my current service provider crashed. Don't know if it was the storms which passed through or if they got hit with some cyber attack. When I called their technical support line I got a recorded message which simply stated that "High speed internet users in Minnesota may not have access to the internet today. We apologize for the inconvenience and our technicians are doing all they can to correct the problem."

High speed? I didn't know. Wow! How disappointing. I was hoping I could get high speed if/when I reconnect. Now it turns out I've been using it. I guess that's good. Else this round of internet access would have gone the way of the others: I get p*ssed off because everything takes so frikkin' long and I cancel the service.

When I started this blog last October I didn't know why. There were things I wanted to say, but not only was I not sure what they were, but I didn't even know to whom I wanted to say them. I guess I hinted at it in my fourth post, titled, "A Wound That Will Not Heal". That post was about Daddy, and how I had deliberately hurt him.

I have talked about Daddy a lot in this blog. It's been twenty-five years since he went away and I still miss him. How would my life be different had he stayed? He would not be happy with me, I think. I've lived life longer than he did when he was here, but I have achieved nothing and have nothing to show for it. What a waste.

Another of my favorite topics is Stephen. Dear Stephen. Taken even earlier than Daddy. Daddy made it to fifty. Stephen barely passed forty. It has been fun recapturing some of the good times (and bad) I shared with both Daddy and Stephen. On a couple of occasions we shared them together, but mostly Stephen and Daddy didn't meet up.

The third topic which dominated this blog was The Old House, and what it was like growing up there. As miserable as living there was, I find myself wistfully returning to it time and again in thought and heart. I guess that is where I want to be after all. I know I'm not all that keen on the present.

Daddy was a hurting and lonely man. Born a b*stard child in a time when such people were not viewed as people, he lived a tortured life. He married when he didn't want to marry because my mother was pregnant with Ranlen and Daddy felt an obligation about that. He had wanted to travel. Be an airplane pilot. He had a license for a time, but was forced to let it lapse due to money constraints. He eventually got his traveling in by virtue of his job, which was regional truck driving in the midwest.

Stephen was an artist who had trouble dealing with many of life's unpleasant realities. His hero was Vincent Van Gough, who he said killed himself. Stephen had a frightful interest in suicide, and I have more than once wondered about the accident which killed him. How accidental was it? Daddy once recorded a musical story in which he very strongly intimated that his drinking and smoking were deliberate efforts to leave this life early. His words, "There are many ways to kill oneself", still haunt me.

But Stephen was especially close to his mother, and when he learned the reason his family had moved to the country (where he met me) was because his mother had been having an affair it hit him hard. I suppose there are things children just don't need to know about their parents.

The Old House kind of suffered, too. By the time we moved in it was quite delapidated, both in structure and in other ways. Once it had been the proud center of a huge farm. Now it stood in the corner of a five-acre lot with two outbuildings. Everything else had been sectioned off and sold as part of other property. It's walls were buckling and it's roof was leaking. Perhaps the fire which brought it down was self-induced? It seems a shame that it's gone. What a waste.

Will that be my legacy, too? "What a waste?" Sometimes I think so.

I have called this blog "A Voice in the Wind" because I tend to ramble. It's hard for me to keep focus because so many different ideas capture my attention. But I liked to tell myself I had important things to say. Turns out I was wrong. What a pity.

There have been several times when I thought about just shutting down the blogs. Now that it will happen I feel sad about it. Yes, if I want to spend the money I am sure I can be blogging again in no time. But there isn't a lot of money to spend. We are scheduled to reconnect to the internet some time this week, but as I wrote at the top of this post, the service provider is having their own set of problems.

We'll see. So, on the chance that I am unable or unwilling to come back, I will leave you with one of my favorite songs. I've posted it before. It's a friendship song. In fact, it's called "Friends". Do play it. And when you do, think of me.

Have a good one.

I hope the day will be a lighter highway
For friends are found on every road
Can you ever think of any better way
For the lost and weary travellers to go

Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right

It seems to me a crime that we should age
These fragile times should never slip us by
A time you never can or shall erase
As friends together watch their childhood fly

Making friends for the world to see
Let the people know you got what you need
With a friend at hand you will see the light
If your friends are there then everything's all right

Getting People to Laugh

Stephen and I used to make ad-lib recordings on cassette tape. That we were using cassette tape should give you an indication of just how long ago that was. But we had fun.

As comedy teams went we probably weren't the best, but we enjoyed ourselves. I was the straight man. Stephen was the comic. Not that I never had anything funny to say, but generally I let Stephen run with the skits and I would simply react to him. It wasn't always easy to keep up with his train of thought, for there were many tracks in Stephen's mind, and he switched from track to track with ease.

Half the time I don't think Stephen knew what he was saying until it had left his mouth. He didn't think too far ahead, which is why his films, for the most part, were dismal failures. The exception was when he let his guest star take control of the story.

Often we would crack each other up because neither had a clue what the other would be saying. There were no rehearsals. Everything was spontaneous. One of my favorite skits began thus:

Stephen set the tape recorder to record and then began knocking on his chair. Taking my cue, I made a door opening sound and put on my wheezy old man voice. Stephen used his baby-talk old man voice. (Can't describe it other than that. You'd have to hear it.)

ME: Good evening. May I help you?

STEPHEN: (very slowly) I'm looking for a man - who only has - two eyes. (faster) But it doesn't look like he has two eyes because he's wearing a patch over one eye. But he doesn't need the patch because he really has two eyes. Have you seen him?

No. But then it's difficult for me to see because I have this patch over my eye.

Stephen could be very funny. Sometimes he could also be annoying. But he was annoying in a funny sort of way. He had a fascination with certain words. One of those words was hemorrhoids.

STEPHEN: I'm sorry, Challie, but I can't go - bowling - with you on Sa.Tur.Day.Night.

ME: Whaaat's da matter?

(First two words high with expectation.Third word with great letdown.) It's these - hemorrhoids. They're so embarrassing. The other day I went to pick up my ball and - well - it was horrible.

Hemorrhoids! Is that all? Why not try Doc.Tor.Scholl's.Hem.Roid.Al.Suppositories?

Oh, but they're all the same.

Not Doctor Scholl's! They're made with a special blend.

But they all taste so horrible.

I had to explain what suppositories were.

Later, we did another skit.

I'm sorry, Challie, but I can't go to the show tonight.

Whaaat's da matter?

I gotta brush my teeth. My breath. It's so bad.

I see what you mean. Why don't you try Doc.Tor.Scholl's.Breath.Suppositories?

After our suppository skits Stephen would often walk around with his back arched and shoulders back, as though in great discomfort, and exclaim loudly, "It's these - hemorrhoids." Finally, his mother asked him if he really did have hemorrhoids.

Although extremely close to his mother, Stephen took no greater joy than driving her insane. (Unless it was driving me insane.) When I was invited to have supper with them the first time he began the meal with the comment, "Bevie, this isn't a race." That was followed up with his pretending to hit his head on the table. His head would go down and his hand would come up, rapping the table's underside. His mother was never quite sure he wasn't really hitting his head and would get all upset about it.

There were few things Stephen treated seriously. Art and basketball were probably the only two things I can think of. Everything and everyone else was fair game for his sense of humor. Like me, Stephen often showed his love through his sarcasm. As my sister, Judayl, once told Gloria, a friend who broke down and cried under the constant onslaught of Judayl's, Helvie's, and my humor, "We never tease people we like. Wait a minute! No. That's wrong. We only tease people we like."

Charlie Brown With a Tennis Racquet

I used to love to play tennis. Didn't discover it until I was a sophomore in high school. That was the year The Old House burned. For whatever reason she had, Mother came home one day with two wooden tennis racquets. Helvie and I took them and walked to the nearby Coon Rapids High School where about a dozen courts were available for public use. When the new house was finished and we moved back to the old property Stephen learned of my new found joy and he picked it up, too.

Neither of us knew much about the sport. As far as we could tell, it was basically ping pong outside on a large court, so that's how we played. It was our mutual friend, Kevin, who taught us the game. His family happened to be at the court next to ours. Kevin heard me announce a table tennis score and came over and gave us pointers on scoring and what the lines were for. The rest, as they say, is history.

I especially liked tennis because it was a sport I could play with just one other person. Baseball would have stayed my favorite if I just could have found enough people who wanted to play it. But baseball was too hard for most people. They were all migrating to slow-pitch softball - which I didn't much care for at all.

Stephen liked tennis, mostly, I think, because it meant so much to me. Chris liked it, too. He couldn't beat me, and eventually he would quit playing. It wasn't so much that he was a poor sport as it was tennis had become expensive for him. He began with a wooden racquet (like Stephen and I did), but it didn't take long before his old racquet broke under the stress of blocking shots from my T-2000. I got so I could hit some powerfully wicked shots with that racquet. Still have it, too.

So Chris purchased a new metal racquet of his own. It was better than the T-2000 - supposedly. He was going to beat me at last. We were playing in Anoka, at the 7th Street Park. Chris hit a poor approach shot and charged the net. Mistake. I was coming forward and hit a blast right at him. His only chance was to hold his racquet up, which he did. When the ball hit it, the racquet folded in half. Chris would never play again.

But before that happened I managed to do something completely stupid. And neither Chris nor Stephen ever let me forget it.

It was at the Coon Rapids courts. The lights would remain on there until about one in the morning, so one could get some good late night sets in, which is what Stephen, Chris and I did often. We would play until the lights went off and then head to one of our favorite pizza places: either Kenos or J's.

Well, this one night three young women about our ages were playing in the court next to us. They noticed us before we noticed them, but their coy antics quickly got our attention. We began taunting each other, as testing the waters for encouragement. Then one of the girls dared us to do something. As a single entitity the three of us walked onto their court. They squealed with delight. Now, instead of playing two-on-one, we had a three-0n-three. But that wasn't working well, so it was decided one guy and one girl would play a singles set while the others played doubles. We would trade off.

However it worked out like this, I can't remember, but I wound up playing singles with the prettiest girl of the three. What luck! I never got the prettiest girl before. In fact, I hadn't got any girl since first grade, when Vicki and Debbie fought over me. (Eventually, they both gave me up.)

Well, this is where I began being stupid. While Chris and Stephen and the two other girls were having fun and still managing to play some tennis, I played tennis. And of course I always played to win. Remember Chris's racquet? I could hit the ball really hard. Fortunately, I'm sure she was thinking, the lights suddenly went off. Tennis was over.

Now what were we going to do? Hmm.

While Chris and one of the girls were trying to determine who's apartment was closet, I came up with a brilliant idea. We could turn the car lights on and continue playing. Wouldn't that be great!

I think everyone else was too stunned with my suggestion to talk it down. So we began moving the cars. Stephen drove his car, and one of the girls drove the other. Why, I can't remember, but the trunks had been opened. Chris and one girl ran up and jumped into Stephen's trunk. The girl I was with suggested we do the same with the other car. I was game. Why not?

We ran up and I had to help her into the moving car. Then I pulled myself in. Unfortunately, my hand caught on something and I now had a terrible bleeding gash on my hand. This was more than the poor girl could take. Whatever interest she had had in me had not only faded, but it was now gone completely. And she seemed to be key to the one who had the keys, so those two were out. Chris and the girl with him would have liked to have continued what they were about, but neither of them had a car, and their transportation was leaving.

As we watched the girls drive away Stephen and Chris both turned on me.

You idiot!

Making the Right Choices

I've never been keen on fishing. The only fishing I remember enjoying at all was when Stephen and I would fish for carp in the Rum River. That was fun simply because catching carp in the Rum was like snagging old boots. We would buy a mess of worms, or grubs, and head out to the river. We parked the car and slogged through the brush and muck to the river's edge.

We didn't bother with bobbers or anything. Just a lot of sinkers. Back then the sinkers were made out of lead. Now I think they're made from some non-toxic material. But carp are bottom feeders, and so we needed to get our bait to the bottom. Otherwise, the carp would never take it.

There were other fish in the river. Once we caught a bass, and a couple of times we caught perch. But those were accidental catches. Stephen knew virtually nothing about fishing. And I knew even less.

It's a shame, too, because Daddy liked to fish. He had a lot of fun fishing. This was especially true if he was up north and fishing with Alfred, his best friend in the whole world. Alfred knew a lot about nature, and not just fishing. He knew the animals and plants as though he were the one who made them. I was allowed to go hunting with them one year, and I remember Alfred stooping down and picking up some deer poop. He rubbed it through his fingers and gave us the deer's life history. Well, that is a bit of an exaggeration. But not much.

In the last years before Daddy died he finally was able to afford some real outdoor equipment. It wasn't the best, but it was good. He took me to Canada twice, just to go fishing. The first time was cool because we found native paintings on an island. They were faded and difficult to make out, but they were there. Afterward Daddy confessed the discovery had not been an accident. Alfred had told him which lake to find and which island. That explained why we had gone so far away from normal roads. Alfred generally didn't fish where everyone else did.

Unfortunately, I was then in my teen years and didn't like fishing at all. I liked being with Daddy (except at meal time - Daddy couldn't cook worth a dang, but I didn't dare tell him I was better at it than him), but I didn't like fishing. And I wasn't keen on how he kept taking the boat further and further away from our campsite, wrapping around island after island. I knew he was going to get us lost. He only did the one time, but he wasn't off by much. What was embarrassing was when he let me drive the boat back. I mucked up some place, and when I made the bend to camp I was shocked: camp wasn't there. Someone had stolen it! Actually, I was about a mile off from where I was supposed to be.

But more and more Daddy was giving me a choice of whether to go fishing or not, and more and more I chose not. I know he felt bad, but it never occurred to me that I only had two years left to be doing anything with him. He didn't play sports. Not anymore. His outdoor activities were hunting and fishing - the two activities I wasn't keen on much at all. He was proud of my achievements in baseball, I know. I caught him bragging about my grand slam home run. I had hit the ball farther than a lot of boys two or three years older than me could hope to hit it. But I squandered my chance to do something with Daddy. I was a selfish fool. And now there is nothing I can do about it.

What I do now is take advantage of the fact Son still wants to do things with me. The day is fast approaching when the ability to run off with friends and do things I can no longer do (or want to do) is going to reduce the amount of time he wants to spend with me. So when he wants to play computer, or go bicycling, or just watch a movie, most of the time I interrupt what I am doing in order to do it.

I mucked up once. Don't intend to make the same mistake twice.

What We Did For Fun

Taking a short break so I can post something. Not that what I'm posting is all that important, but it's nice to keep up.

Got to thinking about a couple of things today while on the way home from grocery shopping. Not keen on grocery shopping anymore. The foods I want to buy and eat I pretty much shouldn't, and so I'm not. The foods I can/should buy are about as appealing to me as chewing on old leather. Actually, I'm more inclined to chew on old leather. So once again Spouse and I walked through the entire store and I didn't choose a single thing for me to eat - except some chicken, honey mustard and hot sauce.

But on the way home I was remembering some of Stephen's and my antics, back in the day. At times our humor was kind of wicked. Even mean. One thing had to do with driving cars. Stephen was better at this than me. The only time I was able to pull it off was when I owned a little Opel GT.

Now the Opel GT was a tiny car. It only seated two people, although I was able to fit four inside. My car was an automatic, so it had no acceleration and now power. As Mother used to enjoy saying about it, "That car couldn't pull the hat off someone's head."

But it looked fast. And that was key.

I remember coming to a traffic light in Anoka. I was in the left lane. A big Dodge Charger stopped to my right. He gunned his engine. I gunned mine. Stephen looked at me and started to laugh.

You don't honestly think you can beat that car, do you?

Watch and see.

We continued to rev our engines and watch the light. Then, as the light turned green, he tore out with the smell of burning rubber. I, on the other hand, made my left turn. Drove around the block to confirm my suspicion and laughed. Sure enough, the cop who liked to hide near the park had nabbed the Charger. I got out of there in a hurry.

Stephen did that all the time. When he drove parts truck for Art Goebel Ford he would speed down East River Road - until he reached a certain curve. Stephen knew that a policeman was waiting just beyond the curve to catch speeders. What Stephen liked to do was to get into a race with some idiot. Then, as they neared the curve, he would hit his brakes and slow down. By the time he made the curve the other racer would be pulled over, pointing frantically at Stephen, who was cruising by at a mile or two below the speed limit.

Kind of mean, weren't we?

My Own Art Form

As I have said many times, my friend Stephen was an artist. He was pretty good, too. He wasn't so talented to make millions, or even hundreds or tens of thousands. But he was good. He achieved what he wanted to, and I don't think one can be much better than that.

Stephen always wanted me to participate in art. I guess he never saw story writing as an art form. I guess I do. But I tried, at various time, to tinker with drawing, painting, and sculpture.

I remember in grade school one of our assignments was to do a report on a bird. We weren't allowed to pick our bird by desire. Instead, we drew them from a box. I got the Baltimore Oriole, which is now known at the Northern Oriole. Personally, I prefer the name Baltimore Oriole. I just do.

We had a nesting pair in our yard at the time. I remember being fascinated by the sack nest hanging from the little tree just to the north of the house. They're pretty birds. Later, when Spouse and I lived near the shores of Lake Minnetonka, we had no less than five (5) orioles make the rounds to drink from our hummingbird feeders. It's one of the things I regret about where we live now. There just isn't enough trees and shrubs to attract anything but blackbirds, robins, and a few sparrows. Occasionally we get colorful birds, but not often. Saw a cardinal once. That was a treat.

Anyway, part of the bird assignment was to draw an image of the bird and color it. I remember my oriole drawing turned out especially well. I can still see it clearly in my memory. What I can't see clearly is what happened to it. Well, if it wasn't destroyed before the fire it certainly was in the fire.

My sisters and I used to make things from Play-Doh and clay. Nothing was great. We'd make things and then smash them. There's something about smashing clay which is just fun. But when I was in seventh or eighth grade art class we were taught how to make coil pots. I was moving along fairly well in the class. I was far from the best, but I had been the only one who understood the instructions when Mr. C told us to draw a collage of objects in front and behind each other. (Then I botched the shading portion.) And when it came to the coil pots I was doing excellently.

My pot was going to be the largest in the class. With my large, strong hands I was able to roll out coil after coil and smooth them nicely into place to make a bigger and bigger pot. I took great care in putting it away at the end of each class, and then taking it out the next day to work on it again. Until it was gone.

I came in on a Wednesday. My pot was nearly finished. I was thinking I could finish it that day. But it wasn't where I put it. Not knowing what to do I started back for my work station. And then I saw it. Jessica was working on it. She had taken my pot! I challenged her about it, but Jessica was a popular girl, and she had three snooty friends at her station who backed up her claim the pot was hers. I went to Mr. C. He had seen me working on the pot. He would know the truth of it.

I explained to Mr. C what was going on. I'll never forget his reaction. He looked me right in the face and said, "Then you'd better get busy working on another."

I stood dumbfounded for a minute and then grabbed a tiny piece of clay and squished out a tiny ash tray. I quit trying in the class and never liked Mr. C again. It didn't matter that he was Stephen's favorite teacher. He had worked with Jessica to steal something important from me. "Jessica's" pot would get top grade. Mr. C actually held her up to the class as a model of achievement for that project - and he knew she had stolen it. Mr. C played favorites. Stephen was one. I wasn't.

Stephen got me into painting for a time. He started me out on acrylics instead of oils. I remember going to this huge art store and buying a large amount of paint, brushes, and canvas. We went to Stephen's house and set up a canvas on an easle. Stephen talked me through what I was doing. He was into abstract at the time, working with color and balance. He had me do some free splashes with blue and then red. Having done this, I was to look at what I had and try to imagine just what it was that was trying to be painted.

I learned it isn't wise to make jokes to an artist about the process of creating a work. They have no sense of humor about that.

To Stephen's disappointment, what I saw were furry monsters in battle. Hey, I like fantasy. What can I say? Stephen was hoping I'd see something beautiful, erotic, and/or meaningful. Instead, I saw monsters. Furry monsters with claws.

I have vague recollections of continuing to try and paint, but I don't recall Stephen ever giving me a lesson again. Eventually I sold off my paint supplies and white washed my canvases. Stephen took them after that. He was unhappy I had destroyed my work. But I did that a lot in those days.

Had I the money, I think I would set up an art studio and give acrylics a go again. I expect I would still try to paint fantasy images. But I like landscapes, too. Mountain backgrounds with river and lake valleys in the forground. Maybe some deer or buffalo grazing. It's where my happy place is. Thinking maybe I need to revisit the place. Maybe I'll write a story.

Writing is an art form. To me, anyway. And I can usually write what I want. So I guess I can't get much better, can I?

Another Reach Into the Past

Stephen was the eldest of three sons. In many ways he was the favored son, but not all. At times, each of the boys was their mother's favorite. They all meant a lot to her - and their father. But I think Stephen was always his father's favorite. So it seemed to me. Probably because he was the eldest. But also, I suspect, because Stephen's father recognized in Stephen a sensitivity the other two boys lacked, at least to the degree Stephen had it.

Sean, the youngest, was significantly younger and so never a part of any of our excursions. His teenage years and early adulthood came during the time of Stephen's and my separation, which lasted about fifteen years. So I don't remember much about Sean except, like his brothers, he was spoiled. In a good way, though. I spoke with him at Stephen's funeral. I was holding Son and we were talking and both trying not to cry. Sean said Stephen was always my friend. I managed to choke out the words, "He is my best friend." As Sean and I cried, Son speaks up, "You're squishing me!" So I let him go.

Glen, the middle son, was the popular one. Everything always came up shining for Glen. He was his mother's favorite most of the time. He was the singer and the actor. Unafraid, Glen would try anything. The girls flocked to him. The boys flocked to him. Teachers flocked to him. The only thing Glen did not do was athletics, which Stephen did. And while Stephen's immense artistic talent was devoted to painting and sculpting, Glen used his in the performing arts. It was Glen who got me to put my fears behind me and actually try out for a play. It was "The Hobbit". I got a part. Two parts, actually: the Great Goblin and the voice of Smaug, the dragon. Glen was Gollum, and he hammed it up beautifully. Glen knew how to work an audience. He always played to the audience. Got him into trouble when we did "Diary of Anne Frank". He was given a smaller part and tried to ham it up. The director came backstage between the second and third acts and threatened to pull him and put in his stand-in right then and there.

Glen's lack of fear would ultimately cost him his life. I do not know if it was unprotected sex, or drug use which caused it, but Glen got AIDS. This also happened during the dark years when Stephen and I were out of touch with each other. Glen's death hit Stephen as hard as it did their mother. Probably because Glen was their mother's favorite, and Stephen was very much bound to his mother. Stephen never really recovered from this, and on more than one occassion accused me for not being at the funeral. But I hadn't known. I don't read obituaries. Oddly, a lot of people do. But Stephen had desperately wanted/needed me there. And I didn't show up. I think that may have influenced his decision to find me. Which he did.

But Glen was amazing. Self-centered as he was, he still managed to make one like him. I did. He would annoy me to no end, especially when he got away with things Stephen couldn't. I'd be angry on Stephen's behalf. Stephen seldom was. He was very proud of Glen. And jealous, I imagine, because of the extra attention Glen received from their mother. Yet Stephen never tried to emulate Glen. If anything, it was the other way around.

Still recall when Glen was at Northtown Shopping Mall. He shop-lifted a pair of dress shoes. Stuffed them in a brown paper bag and then walked the mall with his loot. Came back to the store which he had robbed and applied for work. Got interviewed and hired, all while carrying his stolen loot. Glen shoplifted all the time. He was one of those people who never got caught. Until he got AIDS. Not being careful finally caught up with him.

Stephen, on the other hand, only shoplifted once in his life. It was a cheap piece of fishing tackle he didn't even want. And he got caught.

He had gone shopping with Chris. The two were going to go fishing together. Stephen secretly admired Chris. Chris was kind of like Glen, only he treated people better. Except not Stephen. Chris took great pleasure in picking on Stephen. Sometimes I would have to run interference on Stephen's behalf.

Well, it was Chris who talked Stephen into taking the thing. They argued about it until Stephen finally agreed. Unfortunately, their arguing and general behavior had attracted the attention of store security. They didn't get five steps outside before they were apprehended.

Stephen came to my place later that day. He had been arrested. Taken to the police station. Fingerprinted. It did something to him to be labeled a criminal. It hurt.

As with everything in Stephen's life, he would quickly begin to amplify the event. Suddenly, there were S.W.A.T. teams and gun battles and news reports across the nation. "Stephen steals fishing lure. Details at ten."

It's amazing how, after a person is gone, one finds themself missing a person's annoying traits. I could use some of Stephen's ability to enlarge things right now. It would help me laugh, I think. He would, in any case. He always knew how to make me laugh. Laughter is a powerful weapon against sadness and despair.

A Country Rube on City Streets

Both Randy and Stephen loved to drive in Minneapolis. I hated it. I was not then (and am not now) a city person whatsoever. But I'm not as "country" as I used to be either. Stephen and Randy lived in the country but loved the city. Whenever they drove it seemed inevitable that we would find ourselves driving down Hennepin Avenue, or somewhere in the warehouse district. Hennepin Avenue was bad enough for me, but the warehouse district was downright scary. Especially at night.

What would be especially funny about my fear of the city was that in the late 1970s I would find myself working at 13th and Hennepin from noon until nine at night. Then I would have to walk from 13th to eighth and Hennepin to catch the bus home. Although never assaulted, I was accosted a few times by panhandlers. And I learned to walk on the opposite side of the street from Mousey's. Mousey's was a bar from which several prositutes operated. It burned down, purportedly from arson, in 1980. The women used to take their jackets off and wave them at me like bullfighters taunting the bull. Only this bull never charged. (It was cash only in those days.) I still recall sitting at the bus stop one night when some guy plops down right next to me. He was so close I thought he was going to sit in my lap. Before I could react his arm was around me and he was whispering in my ear: Hey. Do you want a twenty-five dollar chocolate bar?

The offer was so incredible I actually looked at him instead of pulling away. He had the most odd smile on his face. My look had to have revealed my ignorance (stupidity) because he repeated his question. Then he glanced over his shoulder, causing me to do the same. There, standing behind him, was a very cute young girl with big brown eyes looking at me. Although slow, I finally understood the gist of his question. In that brief moment we shared eye contact, and I felt so sorry for her. The guy shook my shoulder and I turned back to him.

I don't have twenty-five dollars.

Poof! He was gone. And so was she.

That's what Hennepin Avenue was like in those days. Might still be like that for all I know. Sitting there waiting for the bus I saw lots of pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers and the like. Don't think gangs were a problem back then. I never had any problem in that regard anyway. And the prositutes weren't really a problem. Embarassing was more like it. They were not afraid of anything as a topic of conversation, and they didn't care who overheard. I suppose they got a kick out of seeing someone like me turn five shades of red while they stood where I couldn't help but see and hear them and talk about what kind of underwear they were (or were not) wearing. I was pretty much a rube.

Stephen and Randy loved being around this. Made me uncomfortable. I had no real clue on how to function in such a society, so I avoided the city when I drove. But when Stephen and Randy were driving we wound up at Hennepin Avenue. Or the warehouse district.

I recall one evening. It was kind of late. We were bored. It was still too early for us to make our appearance at the local J's Pizza, so Stephen drove to Minneapolis. We're scooting about through the warehouse district when I see something that concerned me. I sat up.

Turn right!

Obediently, Stephen made the right turn.

Turn right again.

Stephen did so.

Turn right again.

Again, Stephen cooperated without question. I looked, but what I had seen was gone. Stephen now voiced his curiosity.

What did you see?

There were these two girls. They were backed up to a wall. It looked like a couple of guys were harassing them.

And just what did you expect us to do about it? Who do you think we are anyway? Starsky and Hutch? C'mon, Bevie. We'd be afraid of the girls.

Oh. Yeah. Well, they're gone now anyway.

They were probably together.

I suppose.

Well I'm getting out of here before you find some way to get us into trouble. Let's go.

That was fine with me. I hadn't wanted to be there in the first place. In that place one never knew what was going on. But then I was always clueless about things like that.

I was such a rube.

A Heck of a Team

Before camcorders, Ipods, cell phones which double as spy cameras, there were tape recorders. That was what Stephen and I used to ad-lib various skits. Stephen was a master at at-lib. I thought of the right things to say, but often didn't have the courage to say them, even with Stephen. Too afraid of offending. Offending was never something Stephen worried about when making jokes. I guess in his mind people should be mature enough to understand that funny is funny, even when it is insulting. That is true, too. People who aren't afraid to be laughed at tend to be nicer people than people who will not tolerate it. But sometimes it can get over the top.

What was nice about a tape recorder was that since the listener had no idea what was going on, it was difficult, if not outright impossible, for them to predict what was going to happen next. So when Stephen and I did a skit about an incompetent barber, and the customer finally got the barber to stop and listen, the short pause of complete silence followed by the the sound of a hair clipper going again came off really well.

We got into doing fake play-by-play and sports commentary on Minnesota Vikings football games. Needless to say, Bud Grant and his team did not fare well under our imaginations. Stephen didn't on the day he decided to use innuendo in his humor. By chance, that was the day his mother came to listen to what we were doing that was causing all the commotion. I can still see her beating on him with her hands while he lay on his back and kicking up with his feet. Stephen's mother was not shy about being herself even when company was over.

Inevitably, our sports commentary took us to real games. Not professional real games. My brother belonged to his company's slow-pitch softball team. This was a highly competitive league, and the teams were considered "A" level.

Stephen and I showed up at a game with our (his) tape recorder in hand and dropped down behind the backstop where we could see the action.

Stephen was always "Charlie Bush". He found the name amusing for some reason. I was "Joe". Stephen would always talk fast when describing any action and make completely innane comments. He would fit right in with today's commentators.

Not all of the players appreciated our presence. Some gave us looks. But not all. But then Stephen didn't treat them all equally. God help the person who showed any kind of sensitivity to Stephen's remarks. That was just throwing fuel on the fire.

I remember my brother's best friend coming up to bat with the bases loaded and two outs. My brothers' team was down by a run at the time. This was Mike's chance to be a hero.

I did the "Now batting (pause) for Murhpy Trucking (pause) Mike (pause) (last name)". Some of the wives and offspring around us cheered. Then I went into a fake spiel about Mike as a player. Just as the pitch came Stephen announces in a loud voice, "You know, Joe, I couldn't find any baseball cards of this guy." Mike reacted just as he swung the bat. Pitiful ground ball to the pitcher. When he turned and looked at us we ended our presence before he did.

This is not funny to anyone else, I'm sure. But it was part of what Stephen and I did to amuse ourselves. Stephen gave me the confidence to do the things I knew I could do. I'm not sure what I gave him. But we were friends, and will be again one day. And, considering my age, I'm thinking it won't be all that long.

A Rambling Mind is a Terrible Thing to Let Free

I apologize. This is way too long, but I've lost the energy to edit it. So be warned. Even for me, this post tends to ramble. You might want to bail on it and try again another day. Sorry.

Stephen wasn't much for writing and I was no great shakes at art. I sang in choir, but I had a voice like beef jerky (either you love it, or you hate it). Stephen never even attempted to join choir or band. I became involved in drama, but Stephen left that to his brother, Glenn, who was quite good at it. Regarding athletics, while Stephen was a better athlete, I was more successful. Stephen was always more emotional than me, although I have become far more so than I ever was. I was more sentimental, however. In many ways we were dissimilar. I was tall and strong. Stephen was short and quick. I think we may have looked like Mutt and Jeff. So how did we become friends?

The credit must go to Stephen. That is true for everyone who has ever been close to my heart. I am a responder, not an initiator. Spouse asked me out. And then asked me out again. I never asked Spouse for a date until after we were married. (Didn't fear the "no" reply so much. [grin]) Getting married was Spouse's idea.

Stephen was new to our school in ninth grade. His family had moved to our district from a Minneapolis suburb. Surprisingly, one of Stephen's summertime friends also moved to the area. That was Kevin, and they continued to be friends until college, when Kevin kind of just disappeared into the world.

Stephen was in my algebra class, but I didn't notice him. It wasn't until basketball season began that I even knew there was such a person. It was during basketball that he attached himself to me. Why, I'll never know. But it was one of the best things that ever happened to me.

I didn't want to play basketball. In fact, I didn't even try for the teams in seventh and eighth grade. But I had always been the tallest boy in the class, and in ninth grade I passed Sharla at last and became the tallest in the class. Pressure from coaches, teachers, and students eventually got the best of me and I signed up.

No one ever taught me to play basketball. All the coach cared about was that I got rebounds. So I couldn't dribble well. I couldn't shoot well. I wasn't aggressive because I didn't want to hurt anyone. And I couldn't keep up. I remember our guards loved to fast break, even when it wasn't there. Craig, who I don't believe ever got much taller than five feet, would try race down the court and do layups. I lost count how many times he was blocked by some six foot forward or center. But I would exhaust myself trying to keep up, finally spending my time in the middle of the court, always half a play behind the ball. I was a horrible basketball player. I was probably as bad at basketball as I was good at baseball.

The truth was, baseball was the only sport I really cared about - until Stephen taught me tennis. That's because no one would let me play what I wanted. I didn't want to be the center in basketball. I wanted to be a forward. In football, they saw how big I was and made me a guard. I wanted to be a wide receiver. Mickey had taught me to catch everything, and I would have made an excellent receiver. (Craig, our five-foot wonderboy, was our wide receiver. Sheesh.) I didn't block well and the quarterback and running backs constantly yelled at me - and any other guard or tackle who didn't get the job done. I remember the quarterback kicking me in my b*tt when I bent over to start the play. He never should have done that. I knew better than to drag his a*s all over the field. He was popular with the coach. But I got my revenge.

Before EVERY play, I would tell the defensive lineman across from me which side of me to use to reach the quarterback. Then I would pretend to block the guy and just let him through. Our quarterback spent a lot of time laying in the dirt. I didn't play football again until my senior year, when I was again co-erced into it. Actually played well that year. We had a new quarterback. But I had both my knees broken at the same time, which kind of ended my career.

But back to Stephen.

We became friends during the freshman basketball season. I felt bad because Stephen was probably one of the best players we had. But he didn't get to play. I was one of the worst. I started every game. Such is the fairness of high school sports. Stephen wasn't part of the "In Crowd". Neither was I, but I had the distinction of being the tallest player on the team. What would happen is that I would go out onto the court and foul out by the end of the third period. Then I would sit with Stephen, Joe, and the other benchwarmers and enjoy the rest of the game.

Stephen also played baseball. But our roles were reversed here. He wasn't very good at it, while I excelled. I would eventually be moved to varsity, where the older players resented me being as good as them and let me know it. My old teammates resented me being better than them and let me know that, too. Kind of took the joy out of playing. It also affected the quality of my play.

After we got our driver's licenses, Stephen taught me tennis. I thought it was a "sissy" game. (Anything I couldn't do was "sissy", which is funny now. I have very much become the "sissy" I used to try and hide from. To be honest, I'm happier with it. It seems more honest.) Actually, Stephen didn't teach me tennis. He just got me out on a court to play. We didn't know the rules and only had vague ideas of what the lines were for. So we played it like table tennis, the only tennis we knew. By chance one day, Kevin's family was at the court next to us. He looked at me and asked me what the score was. I told him, "Sixteen to ten." Horrified at our ignorance, Kevin then proceeded to teach us the rules of tennis. It became one of Stephen's and my favorite activities.

During the summer months we would often play six or more hours a day. We spent all of our time together. Stephen taught me about food, such as eating spaghetti with mushrooms, chinese egg rolls, and fried rice. I don't recall teaching him anything about food. He made me put on a swimming suit and actually try to swim. Until then I was terrified to even try. He taught me that it was all right to want to do the things I wanted to do. Most importantly, he accepted me for who I was, despite the many times I was subjected to, "You idiot!" Stephen made me feel happy I was me, because I was the one Stephen liked. I don't know what I gave him, but he must have got something from me. I wonder what.

We never lived together, despite being best friends. Not sure why not. Might have had something to do with the fact that Stephen seldom had a job. Now I don't have one. It's probably best, though. A lot of friends cease to be friends after sharing an apartment or flat. We never did, although we did suffer a couple of separations. Always, it was Stephen who came looking for me. We're separated again. Some day he's going to come looking for me again. Some days I wish it were now.

How to Spend a Summer Day

Yesterday's post reminded me of how young and stupid and silly Stephen, Randy, and myself were when we were young. Now that I'm no longer twenty-years-old I am no longer young and stupid and silly. (Replace "young" with "older".)

Before the Falcon had taken up residence in a field as home to a nest of hornets the car had been an important element in our film careers.

When it had still been Stephen's car the back window had shattered. No idea why. Stephen just came out one morning and it was cracked in about a million pieces. So he tapped out all the glass and drove without a rear glass. This became convenient for our filming. As I had indicated yesterday, Stephen didn't like to film from a script. He just wanted to go out and film. And since he and Randy were both fascinated with the city, often we drove into Minneapolis to do our filming.

We took turns filming and driving. Two would sit in the back leaning on the car's roof, their feet resting on the back seat. While driving along Hennepin Avenue once we were hailed by a pimp and his bodyguard driving a small convertible behind us. He wanted to know what we were up to and insisted Stephen film him. So Stephen did. For real. When we had the film developed and I saw he had actually filmed the guy I got annoyed.

Why did you film him?

I was afraid he's shoot me.

Yeah, but why did you film him? Why didn't you just pretend?

He would have got mad.

How would he ever know?

Oh. Yeah.

Another time we were stopped at a corner. There was this couple, around our age. Early twenties. He looked like a guy with no sense of humor. She was gorgeous. I had the camera, and I immediately focused it in on her. She bowed her head and smiled, coyly. Clearly she was enjoying the attention. The guy, however, was not pleased. Fortunately, I had Stephen at my elbow. Stephen engaged the guy in conversation, interrupting him every time he tried to speak to me.

That's mostly what Stephen and I filmed. Pretty girls. But only if they didn't mind. In all the time we filmed we never found a girl who minded. Randy wasn't so lucky.

Randy was not comfortable with women at all. He never married and I don't believe he even dated once. So when Stephen pressured him to film the girls he resisted. But finally, with Stephen driving and Randy taking his turn with the camera, Randy gave in.

Some of our favorite places to film were the city beaches. It was summer. Where else? Well, Stephen drives into the parking lot and is cruising toward the exit when we pass by this car with a woman and two young children. Randy had the camera up and on her as we drove by. She looked up and saw what he was doing. Randy, always polite, offered a greeting.

Hi!

F*ck off!

I nearly fell off the car laughing. Randy was humiliated. He wanted to quit filming, but Stephen said it was like falling off a horse. He needed to give it another go. So we drove by Lake Calhoun.

Lake Calhoun was a favorite for bicyclists. There were always a dozen or more out enjoying the weather. So Stephen took us down the scenic route where the bicyclists were in great numbers. Randy wanted to film the scenery, but Stephen b*tched back that he didn't want Randy wasting all the film.

I can still them in my mind. Four young women in bikinis biking toward us and waving. The first three greeted us with melodic hellos. The fourth gave us probably the most beautiful pose we could get. Stephen went crazy.

[S] Did you see that!

[B] Yes! Wow!

[S] Randy, did you get that?

[R] Yes. I think so.

[S] Great! Let's go get that developed right now.

We rushed to the nearest One Hour Photo lab and submitted our film. Then we paced for an hour while we waited. Retrieving our film we rushed back to Stephen's uncle's house. He was the only one we knew with a projector. We put the film in and saw the pimp, the beatiful girl on the corner, the woman who swore at Randy (that was funny to relive, even if there was no sound). Finally, we saw the scenic view which portended the four cyclists. Knowing what was coming, Stephen completely forgave Randy for his waste of valuable film.

We saw the trees waving. They went back and forth. Back and forth. Trees. More trees. More trees. MORE TREES. MORE TREES!

[S] Randy, where the f*ck are the girls?

[R] What girls?

[S/B] What girls? Are you out of your mind?

[R] I didn't see any girls.

[B] But you said you got them!

[R] I did! Those trees. I thought it was so majestic, the way they waved in the wind.

Stephen now used one of those phrases he generally reserved for me.

[S] You IDIOT!

Poor Randy. He refused to film ever again. I don't think Stephen minded.

My Career in Movies

Back in the 70s Stephen, Randy, and I would make super 8mm films. Stephen began it. He made friends with a pair of brothers who were doing that. He told me of a film they made based on an old gas station commercial in which it appeared people were driving without vehicles. The brothers did that on a dirt road, shooting one frame at a time and kicking up dust behind the people to simulate movement. They even included a wreck.

Stephen and one of the brothers teamed up to make what Stephen always felt was his crowning achievement in film: Fate. Randy was given a bit part in it, but he got killed right off. It was a snowmobile film in which a hunter mistakes Randy for a deer and shoots him. They put ketchup on his face. They only got about five seconds of film because Randy started laughing. The rest of the film was about Stephen trying to exact revenge. The musical score was the Theme From The Exorcist.

Well, after Fate, Stephen wanted to make more movies, and he included me. Unfortunately, Stephen's idea of making a movie was much like Paul McCartney's. He just wanted to take a camera and film whatever happened. Like Magical Mystery Tour, nothing ever did.

I wanted a script of some sort, but Stephen insisted that would stifle his creativity. (He starred in fate, but he didn't control the production.) In the end, I got him to compromise. Mainly because I had come up with an idea he thought was fantastic. We would do our own version of - The Flintstones.

My sister, Judayl, had once owned a Ford Falcon. She drove it thirty miles while it was overheating in order to bring it to Daddy d to fix. I remember her diving into the yard, the car gasping, and then shuddering, and finally going silent. Daddy went out, opened the hood, and declared it dead. Judayl sold it to Stephen for ten bucks.

Stephen's dad worked at a Ford dealership. He would bring home parts (I'm sure he paid for them [grin]) and together, he and Stephen put the car back together. Eventually, Stephen sold the car to Randy for $100. Randy eventually parked the car in a field because it had rusted out so bad he was afraid he would fall down on the road while driving. That was my plan.

We would take the car, kick out the bottom, and then tow it behind Randy's new car. Filming from the side, we would show the feet running and the arms hanging out the window. It would great. I thought so. So did Stephen. Even the stoic Randy considered it a good idea. All we had to do was get one more group on board and away we would go. Unfortunately, that group happened to be a nest of yellow-jackets which had taken up residence in the Falcon.

Using his superior intellect, Randy had already made one attempt at evicting the mighty stingers. Knowing that honey bees go docile in smoke, he decided to light a fire under the car. It was a brillliant idea. Lit up the entire sky when the car itself caught fire and burned. When we came to take the car for our film it was entirely burned out, except for one section at the right front fender. Guess where the hornets were nesting?

We tried various methods to get the hornets to depart, but none worked. Then, I offered a new suggestion. It had been my experience that hornets weren't that keen on rain. What if we flooded them out? So Randy got the hose and began showering the car with water. The hornets didn't like it and chased at us, but wouldn't come through the water. After a half hour or so, they left. The car was ours again.

I remember walking to the driver's door and looking inside. What had been a pile of dusty ashes on the seat was now a mess of sludge. Nobody wanted to sit in that. We had no ideas about the cleanup. Besides, we'd exhausted our day getting rid of the hornets. So, giving up all ideas of making a film, we went to Keno's Pizza and ate.

This was a fight to make any military historian proud. A tremendous battle of forces over a small piece of property. And after winning, walking away to let the vanquished return and lay claim to it once again. That's kind of how it works, isn't it?

The beauty of war.

I still feel bad for those hornets. That was their home.

NOTE: Before the Falcon died, I got to play the hero in Falcon Man. A film that would have been good had Stephen just relented and used a script. Alas, my film career came to an unhearalded early end. Sigh.

Autographs are ten dollare apiece.

The Tortoise and the Hares

So I got the bicycle and have been riding. Put in eleven miles and seventy-five minutes yesterday. Paying for it today. Not feeling well at all. Will probably stay off the bike (probably not) and just do treadmill today.

Getting sick from riding too much reminded me of the one and only bike-a-thon I was part of. Did that back in the mid-70s. When I was nineteen or twenty.

It was Randy's idea to participate. He invited Stephen, who invited me. We met some others, including a co-worker of mine at the pizza shop, at the starting point and took off as a group of six or seven. Randy was in training. He wanted to do the 100-mile Ironman later that summer. This particular ride was fifty miles. For charity. You got people to pledge so much a mile. I didn't get many pledges. Asking people for anything is difficult for me, but asking them for money is a nightmare. So I would just make it known I was involved and let them offer to pledge. Think I got ten or fifteen dollars for the thing.

Anyway, being young and feeling "macho", we got into a competition before we even started. The deal was, who could go the longest before they had to get off their bike and walk, or just plain stop and take a rest? There were allowances. For instance, there were about a half dozen checkpoints for the bikers. These would typically be at fast-food restaurants or convenience store filling stations. Getting off one's bike to purchase food or drink, or to use the facilities didn't count. But between checkpoints did.

We started out together and reached the first checkpoint as a group. Same with the second. That was where we got food and drink. I avoided the food and went only with the drink. Didn't want to get sick.

On the third leg we began to spread out. And all but three of us got off their bikes to walk up the nightmare hill. I felt like I was biking straight up into the air. I had a Raleigh bike with ten speeds. Stephen's bike was even better. (I had got my Raleigh from Stephen. Traded a Chevy Vega for it. I got the best part of the deal.) I made it to the top without stopping going on sheer willpower and pride. You see, Stephen didn't stop either. Neither did my co-worker. Silly macho pride kept us going. After that hill I was convinced I would do not worse than tie for the longest ride.

After the final checkpoint we had several uninteresting miles to cover in order to finish. We had begun early in the morning and now it was late afternoon. I was wiped. The furthest I had ever biked in a single day before was maybe thirty miles. Randy, who was hoping to bike 100-miles in just a couple of months had to take several rests. So did nearly everyone else. Even my co-worker finally looked at me and gave up, conceding my willpower over his. That left just Stephen and me. I knew we would finish together.

Except by now we were spreading out into a long line separated by huge gaps. I had been in the middle or near the front all day, but I had fallen behind. Stephen decided he would rather finish first and I told him to go ahead and he was soon out of sight, too. I plodded.

Then, I passed my co-worker. He was laying on the ground beside his bicycle taking a nap. One by one I passed the others, including Randy. I planned on telling Stephen about it, but then I found Stephen laying beside the road, too. I had won.

Now I could have got off right then and taken a rest, but for whatever reason I decided I wouldn't. It was only five miles to finish and I was going to make it without stopping. I plodded.

Then Stephen passed me. Looking fresh. Not long after that Randy passed me. One-by-one they all did. My co-worker passed me with two miles to go.

I came into the last stretch ready to fall over and die. I had forgotten what things were like at the end. When we began it was fun. A long ride down a hill. Now it was reversed. A horrendous climb which lasted nearly a half mile. And it was sandy.

It was so tempting to give up at the end. Why is that? When the end was twenty, ten, or even five miles away I was determined to finish. Now, with the finish line in my sights, I wanted to give up and quit. Why?

I would have quit, too - except for Stephen, Randy, and the others. I saw them. They were standing at the finishing line cheering me on as though it were some big deal. I struggled with finding a suitable gear to climb a sandy hill but made it. I didn't stop until I was sure I had put the finish line behind me. I finished a half hour behind the one in front of me. But I had done something none of them had: never stopped.

I had to work that night. So did my co-worker. He lived three miles from work. I was more like fifteen. Stephen brought me home and I got dressed and hurried to the pizza place. I was late by an hour. When I got there the owner was there. He was not happy. What surprised me was that my co-worker was not there. The owner followed me to the back where I punched in and took an apron.

"You're late!" (as if I hadn't figured that out on my own)

"I know. It was the bike-a-thon. It took a lot longer than I thought."

"Jeff was late, too. I sent him home. Maybe I should send you home, like I did him."

I was too exhausted to argue or be afraid. I was fluffing out my apron to put it on (you know the way you do) and instead let it drap over the counter. I looked at him.

"Are you sending me home?"

He wanted to. I could tell that. But I was his best cook (next to his son, Rich). And he had already sent Jeff home. If he sent me home, too, that would mean he would have to stay and cook, and Norm just wasn't that good. He'd never be able to keep up with a supper rush. He knew that. So he just grumbled at me and left.

I wish he had sent me home. I could hardly move.

Eleven miles is a far cry from fifty, but at my age, weight, and general physical condition it will do. My blood just isn't used to having to move like that anymore. I'm dizzy when I stand up and I even had to bend over the toilet for a bit. But don't worry. This tortoise is going to keep plodding. I don't know how to do anything else. That's what we tortoises do.

Oh. And Randy did enter the Ironman later that summer. At seventy-five miles he stopped and called Stephen to come and bring him home. He didn't make it, and he was ever crabby after that. I could have told him he went farther than I had guessed, but some things you don't say to good friends. They must be a best friend, I guess. Stephen and I would have said.