New Car

In the 24 years that I have been driving I’ve owned, and co-owned ten cars. My first has always been my favorite, and she was a 1974 Chevrolet Camaro, and I bought her in 1981. I loved driving my Camaro, and any excuse to drive, was a good excuse to drive. In 1983 Chevrolet came out with Camaro’s third body style and, in my opinion, the Camaro has never been the same. However, Chevy may still pull a classic Camaro shaped rabbit out of its hat one of these days. Who knows?

I’ve never owned a vehicle that even came close to bringing me the joy that my Camaro did. Maybe it was the first car mystique. Maybe it was the 350 cubic inches with the Holly 4 bbl carburetor. Maybe it was the rear tires that would burn rubber and smoke with only a mere tap on the accelerator. (A fact that caused me to purchase more than my fair share of tires for that baby) Whatever the reason, I really enjoyed just being behind the wheel and driving somewhere…anywhere, it didn’t matter why and I didn’t care. A joy that I have never experienced since.

I wrecked my Camaro in 1983, two days before graduating from high school. My first love gone, I was sure I’d never enjoy driving the same way again.

Monday, December 27, 2004 was driving’s first real spark for me in 21 years. With the help of my father-in-law, who is possibly the world’s best car shopper, I purchased a 2005 Chevrolet Trailblazer, and while I’ve owned about eight cars since my beloved Camaro, she is only my second true auto love.

When I climb behind the wheel I’m magically transported back to a time when any excuse to drive, was a good excuse to drive. There’s no first car mystique, no 350 cubic inches, no 4 bbl carburetor and certainly no smoking tires, but the feeling’s back all the same.

It’s been a long time, but I think I’d better head to the store for a Coke or some Tic-Tacs, or whatever. There’s bound to be something at the store I really need.

Maybe I’ll figure it out on the way.

Dirk the Jerk

My wife asked me why all my stories and poems had to be so dark and violent. I really wasn’t even aware that they all seemed to be flowing in that direction. So I set out to change things…and the result was 'Dirk the Jerk.'

Dirk the Jerk

There’s a boy at my school and his name is Dirk,
And there’s a good reason his name rhymes with jerk

Almost every morning, he punches me hard,
And because I’m not skinny, he calls me “Fat Lard”

At recess, it’s kick ball on almost all days,
Dirk goofs up our games in lots of mean ways

One day, he ran over and stole my new ball,
And laughed as he booted it over the wall

Next, Dirk came out early and stole all the bases,
Then stood back and laughed while making mean faces

Lunchtime for the jerk is especially fun,
He poured chocolate milk on my hamburger bun

Sitting down without looking was one big mistake,
Cause stuck to my pants, was the Jerk’s piece of cake

I decided I that would watch out from now on,
That the days of Dirk picking on me were all gone

So the next day, at recess I hid in the trees,
I squatted real low and got down on my knees

I thought, “I’ll watch for Dirk and see where he’s playing
Then far, far from Dirk and his friends I’ll be staying”

You couldn’t miss Dirk as he bolted outside,
I was so very glad I’d decided to hide

At first, I saw just what I thought that I would,
Dirk running around being up to no good

Then suddenly, truth, it became crystal clear,
And of Dirk the jerk, I no longer had fear

I watched Dirk pick on kids and oh, there were many,
But as for Dirk’s friends, well, he didn’t have any

I watched Dirk all recess, though it wasn’t fun,
When it ended, I knew something had to be done

If I didn't have friends, I just might be mean too,
So I gave it some thought and I knew what to do

The very next day, I picked Dirk for my team,
I just smiled as, “NOT HIM!” I heard everyone scream

Dirk played the whole game and we all had a blast,
When the recess bell rang, Dirk came over at last

And he seemed really sad that our fun had to end,
But his smile said it all…cause now Dirk has a friend

Go-Cart Memories

Every boy deserves to have an uncle who’s bigger than life. An uncle who rides wheelies on motorcycles. An uncle who drives a racecar and has a room full of trophies to prove it. An uncle who can build anything. An uncle who dreams big and makes those dreams come true.

For me that was Uncle Van Ray. Uncle Van Ray is my mother’s younger brother and he did all those things and more. He lived near my grandparents so going to see them meant going to see him. A fact that made the almost 15 hour drive from El Paso to Livingston (northeast of Houston) a little bit easier for a young boy to handle.

It was always fun to discover the latest incredible invention or project Uncle Van Ray was working on. In many ways it was like having Caractacus Potts, the dad from Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang, for an uncle. Except that Uncle Van Ray’s inventions worked.

Some of the larger-than-life things I remember Uncle Van Ray building are: a racecar, a jeep, countless deer hunting stands, both battery and solar powered deer feeders, remote control racecars (I mean he designed and built the whole car), a racetrack for driving the remote control cars on and of course my go-cart.

I was in about the fifth grade when Uncle Van Ray invited me to come to his house and build a go-cart. For me, this was a dream come true. Not only did I get to spend a couple of weeks with this man whose life and abilities seemed magical to me, but I got to work right along side him and bring home a go-cart. It was a win, win, win situation.

I had always been in awe of, as well as a little afraid of, Uncle Van Ray’s shop. To a wide-eyed, young, impressionable boy with a love of anything mechanical, it’s metal walls and massive awnings only added mystery to it’s already haunted castle appearance.

Before this invitation, I had only managed to sneak the occasional glimpse into this, the Disney World of workshops. This time, my trip to the Mechanical Magic Kingdom would be much more than a few stolen glances as the massive doors slid closed, I would be working side by side with Walt himself. I was more than just a spectator, I was in the game.

Inside his workshop, there were more power tools than I had ever dreamed of before. Along with a huge assortment of toolboxes, workbenches, and every sort of mechanical “do-dad” you could imagine hanging on the walls. The main room housed several different sizes and kinds of floor saws, drill presses, a metal lathe, a welder, a cutting torch, and a couple of machines I had never heard of.

The back room had my uncle’s collection of wood and metal salvaged from who knows where that he used to create his incredible inventions. At different times throughout the go-cart building adventure, Uncle Van Ray would disappear into the back room and emerge with an odd assortment of metal pieces that he would craft into some specialized element for one of the go-cart’s intricate parts.

I arrived to find the basic frame of the go-cart already welded together. The raw, tarnished metal lay flat on the floor and we got to work measuring and marking the various pieces that we needed.

During the day, while Uncle Van Ray was at work, my grandfather and I would fish, run errands and organize the materials for the evenings visit to the go-cart factory. We didn’t do much, if any, of the work until Uncle Van Ray got home.

I don’t remember there being any kind of blueprints or plans for the go-cart, but I’m sure there were. Even if my uncle only had them in his head, which I doubt, I can only imagine how detailed they must have been.

This was the 1970’s. The only go-carts my friends or I had ever seen were the ones with a 3-horse power engine and six-inch diameter lawn mower wheels. While they looked fun, they were nothing compared to the monster go-cart we built.

It was huge. It had a chrome steering wheel with black cushioned handgrips, a roll bar, a 5-horse power engine, and 13-inch diameter off-road tires. We painted it metallic blue and it looked more like a miniature racecar than a go-cart.

Time and a head injury have erased many of my memories of those days, but I’ll never forget my first ride on that go-cart. Uncle Van Ray pushed me out of the workshop onto the awning-covered carport and the engine roared to life with only a single pull. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. I hit the gas and made a 300-yard blurry blue loop around my grandfather’s house and back up to the workshop.

After I got back we cleaned up the workshop, but I couldn’t get my mind or my eyes off my new toy. After what felt like a lifetime, but was really only about five minutes, Uncle Van Ray told me I’d better go make sure she was still running right. For the next two days that go-cart only stopped if it got dark, or I really had to go to the bathroom.

I had never spent that much one-on-one time with Uncle Van Ray before this go-cart adventure and I really never have since. I’m not sure that Uncle Van Ray was prepared for the number of questions I had about everything. And I had a million. But Uncle Van Ray took the time to make his nephew’s dreams come true and, possibly unknowingly, sparked a kind of mechanical "Do-it-your-selfism" in the life of a young boy.

He taught me how to see a completed project from the beginning and then build what you see, a skill I would pull off the shelf and use countless times throughout my life.

I like to believe I taught him a thing or two about relating to a young boy, a skill he would pull off the shelf and use years later when his grandsons was born. At least that’s what I like to believe.

I still have that go-cart, although it has gone to live with my cousin and his two boys down on their few acres near Waco. I’m sure Blue loves his new foster family and I have an open invitation to come ride whenever I want.

Just like in the old days, I look forward to driving at full throttle until I run out of gas, or really have to go to the bathroom, whichever comes first. Maybe I’ll do just that next summer.

Thanks Uncle Van Ray for being wild, being crazy, and being creative. But most of all, thanks for making a difference in the life of your young nephew.

Writer's Frustration

I couldn’t find any words that rhyme today
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
It doesn’t care if I ever rhyme again
Rhyming is fun
And fun suggests enjoyment
And this isn’t enjoyment
This is therapy
Therapy is hard work
Hard work is something you endure
But to endure it takes desire
I’m not sure if I desire to endure
It’s strange, but part of me doesn’t care
And I don’t know if I ever will anymore
I couldn’t find any words that rhyme today

Slot Cars and Air Compressors

In life, there are some things that just come naturally. For me these have always been the mechanical type things. I spent hours as a child taking apart and rebuilding my toys, especially the electronic kind. I think I was kind of like that kid that lived next door to Woody and Buzz in the movie Toy Story, but without the explosives.

My personal favorite was my slot car track. I quickly discovered that I could not only take apart and rearrange the track, but the cars as well. My slot car inventory was organized into three distinct groups, each securely kept in it’s own plastic Parkay butter bowl garage/workshop.

· Group 1: New Cars – These were the cars (usually not more that two at any one time) that I still liked the way they were. I left these alone, because didn’t want to take the chance of messing up a good thing.

· Group 2: Redesigned Cars – These were all the cars that I had owned long enough to get bored with. I would take them apart, mix and match the pieces and by some twist of fate, get them to run again. A few of these cars were now actually faster than before, but more often than not they ran slow and pretty rough.

· Group 3: The Parts Pile – This was all the extra tires, magnets, connectors, plastic body shells, and all the other leftover pieces that did not yet have a place among my collection of Redesigned Cars. It always seemed odd to me that while the first two groups stayed pretty much the same size this group was forever growing.

These days I don’t have a slot car track, but I still have a love of, as well as my knack for, anything mechanical. That’s why a couple of years ago I asked for an air compressor for Christmas.

"What in the world does he want with an air compressor?” This was the reply from my father-in-law.

In my mind I had, and still have, visions of spectacular woodworking projects that I could accomplish if I only had a tool as compact and versatile as an air compressor. Not to mention the plethora of auto and household types of maintenance and chores that could quite obviously be completed much more quickly and easily.

Quickly sensing that mine was an uphill battle, I seized each and every opportunity I had to enlighten the unbelievers in my family and help them see the benefits of my owning what I had begun referring to as, ‘The Mother of all Power Tools.’

But Christmas came and there was no air compressor shaped package under the tree.

A little disheartened, but not defeated, I set my sights on the following Christmas. And this time I had a full year to educate and lure supporters from the dark side of the power tool force.

After a year of some subtle and some not so subtle hint dropping I not only got my air compressor, but two nail guns to boot.

We’re going on one year of life with an air compressor and while it’s come in handy for countless repairs around the house, so far I’ve only actually used the compressor and nail guns to build one thing…a stand for the air compressor itself to set upon.

This is no rinky-dink, scrap wood stand that I hastily threw together one day after downing a few brews. Oh no, I used a t-square and all my high school mechanical drawing knowledge to draft the top, front, and right side views. I had all the measurements and knew exactly how much lumber to buy. For structural stability, as well as storage, I added a shelf on the bottom to hold my nail guns. It has a drawer to hold all the different blower attachments and a hook on the side for coiling the air hose. I even designed the top with a set of three 45-degree corner mounts to secure the compressor’s tripod stand. Then I primed it and painted it flat black.

It’s very nice. In fact, it’s so nice that my father, who got an air compressor about the same time I got mine, had me help him build one. My Dad’s, not being the prototype, actually turned out a little bit better than mine.

I’m not sure what became of my slot car wrecking yard. However, it’s not hard to imagine how three butter bowls filled with an odd assortment of car parts could have been confused with unwanted junk and tossed into the trash pile by mistake. It probably happened long after I had left home.

However, as I put the finishing touches on my compressor stand, stood back to inspect my work and couldn’t help but think about that little boy who spent all those hours with his slot car track.

In some ways I’m still that same little boy who dismantled all those slot cars, only now my toys are bigger and come equipped with two nail guns.


I had planned to attach a picture of the compressor stand, but I haven't had the time to figure out how to do that yet. I'll post the picture later.

Bear's Lesson

I started writing children’s picture stories a few years ago after attending a district required reading staff development. At one point during the class, our instructor read us a story similar to this. I don’t remember exactly what the point was for reading this book. Some lesson idea, I suppose. I don’t even remember the title.

Anyway, the story was about a wolf who comes across some barnyard animals that are reading. The animals end up teaching the wolf to read, they all become friends and live happily ever after.

I heard the story and I was very disappointed. You see, I felt that the story should have had a much different ending. I went straight home and wrote my first rhyming children's picture story. However, seeing as I can’t draw anything more than stick people and I don’t even do that very well, you’ll have to create the pictures in your mind.

Enjoy


Bear's Lesson

I know of a sheep, a chicken and pig,
When I met these guys, my life it changed big

You see, I’m a bear and what I have to say,
Is I eat all these creatures on most every day

The problem begins with me walking along,
When all of a sudden, I heard a strange song

The music was odd, though it had a good beat,
And the voices I heard, to my ears, were a treat

Then I saw it, a kind of old broken down shack,
It was three shades of red with a wobbly smoke stack

Quick up to the window, I did softly creep,
The first thing I saw was this rather large sheep

I sat there just dreaming of having sheep stew,
When a squatty, plump pig waddled into my view

Well now the night’s meal was almost complete
I’d have mutton stew, then the other white meat

But nothing compares to me seeing the chicken,
I became Pavlov’s dog, as my chops I was lickin’

Without thinking longer, I knocked down the door,
I raised both my arms and let out a loud, “ROAR!”

In the past, well, each roar was just loads of fun,
Cause all over the place my new dinner would run

I’d have a real blast chasing down the night’s feast,
And I wouldn’t stop ‘til I’d gulped down each beast

But these new taste treats didn’t follow that rule,
I stood with arms raised, feeling much like a fool

My actions, it seemed, they had one small hitch,
Pig said, “My good fellow, your roar was off pitch”

Pig showed me a seat, and bewildered I sat,
When sheep spoke up and said, “Not to mention, you’re flat”

“We could give you lessons,” the nice chicken said,
I smiled really big and nodded my head

I went to that shack for six weeks, twice a day,
For they taught about music in more that one way

I learned that I sing in what’s known as bass,
That’s why, when I roar, it shakes up the place

My teachers, they said that for me solo’s best,
For I tend to be loud and drown out all the rest

And that’s when the lesson I’d learned, it hit big,
I had three new friends…sheep, chicken and pig

See, they didn’t think that I was all scary,
Just because I am loud, big, mean and hairy

No, they took the time to help out a bear,
The fact is, we’re different, but they didn’t care

So when my last lesson had come to an end,
I stuck out my paw and said “Bye” to each friend

I turned to the door, but then I looked back,
And grabbed that fat chicken for a last good-bye snack

Sheep and pig stared in fear as I started to chew,
Coughing feathers, I said, “Guys, it's just what bears do”