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whew !!!

IN THIS ISSUE

• Regretably, this is the last of Carolyn Harris´ reminiscences
• Doris Dignard and Jean Sterling have enjoyed Carolyn´s stories
• Geoff Goodship writes about flying small planes
• Anne Rahamout is reminded of an unhappy incident in her childhood
• Burke Dykes sends a story about a fortune teller
• Jackie Stevens presents one problem with seniors having babies
• Don Henderson forwards a number of things to think about
• Jack Peaker suggests this week´s websites

Carolyn Harris reaches the end of her stories about an early logging camp in California:

MY BROTHER THE PEST

My brother Stevie was always trouble. He´d eat the last of the Cheerios, leave the milk out on the kitchen table, and collect empty beer bottles around the single men´s cabins, though he knew he didn´t belong there. Most summer days, he´d roam around camp looking like a hobo with his best friend, Melvin, and our dog, Shadow.

Stevie didn´t look like trouble. He had my mother´s pale blue eyes, dark curly hair, and smiled a lot. But he was trouble. He´d jump up, belly onto the kitchen sink, and drink out of the faucet stream, until he choked on a polliwog. Camp water came from a spring. He had a matted Davy Crockett cap he even slept in, and sang ´Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier´ at the top of his lungs, when Jo and I needed to talk about important things.

He and Melvin burned down the pigpen barn when he was seven. Many men chewed Copenhagen because they couldn´t smoke in the woods. They´d spit in the dirt, spit in the kitchen sink on a pile of dirty dishes, or open the lid of a trash burner, aim for the hole, then let it spatter across the hot top. One night, I listened to the radio in a friend´s house. His dad rocked and spat, bending his head over the wooden chair arm, plunking globs of tobacco spit into a tin can, never losing his rocking rhythm.

Melvin, also seven, tried to chew, but puked. That´s probably why they decided to smoke instead. Stevie didn´t chew. He swiped cigarettes from my mom´s silver case. One day, he and Melvin hid in the hayloft and lit up. When the hay blazed, they couldn´t get back down the ladder. His jacket on fire, Stevie jumped from a window, then rolled in a pig water trough. Nobody noticed his singed eyebrows or the burn on his belly. I rubbed butter on him each night and wrapped gauze around him, reminding him he had to quit acting like a brat.

One night during a kick-the-can game, Stevie jumped across cabs of the company pickups parked for the night at the boundary road. In his rush to get back to kick the can, he jumped through a pickup windshield, slicing his leg to the knee. He hobbled home with the help of two friends and hopped in the back door where Jo and I were making popcorn.

"Dad will get fired and they´ll beat me up if they find out," he whined.

Nobody ever beat anybody up in our family, but I believed you might get fired for having a pest for a son, so Jo and I got him drunk, sewed him up, and cleaned up the mess.

By eight, Stevie stopped smoking, but started drinking. Our family made frequent trips back to the Napa Valley. My mother needed to visit her friends and her family. My dad needed to buy some good wine. He´d spend the day with an Italian friend who owned a small winery in St. Helena. They´d siphon a little from each barrel, then sit and sip while I poked around the winery, hoping he´d quit sipping and find a barrel he liked so we could fill up our wine jugs and get back to Nana´s for dinner.

Cases of Dego Red were stored in Stevie´s closet. He didn´t need a closet, anyway, since he just stuffed his clothes in a chest of drawers or threw them under the bed.

The same summer he jumped through the windshield, Stevie and Melvin borrowed a jug of Dego Red from the closet. Jo and I came back from her house ready to wash up, listen to the Hit Parade, and crawl into the army cots we´d set up in our backyard. Stevie was sprawled in the grass near my cot in a pool of blood. I´d listened to the Whistler on the radio often enough to believe an axe murderer might be stalking a logging camp. I screamed and held him, telling him how sorry I was for calling him a brat. Just as I smelled him, he puked on me. Melvin was passed out in the tomato plants. Jo and I hosed them off, put them in our cots, and spent the night in my bed where it didn´t smell so bad.

When I said nobody beat on Stevie in our family, that wasn´t quite the truth. I used to swing at him and smack him, when he wasn´t quick enough on his feet to see it coming.

One night, just about the time I started needing a bra, I was soaking in our chipped-up claw foot bathtub. Shaving my legs with my dad´s razor, I pretended I was Betty Grable, or would be when got a little more meat on my legs. The bathroom door swung open and Stevie and three of his friends crowded around the tub. He´d charged them each a nickel to see a naked lady.

I yelled and chased them into the kitchen. His friends banged out the back door, but I grabbed Stevie by that curly black hair, took him down and banged his head on the floor. He offered to split the money with me, but that wasn´t going to get him out of it. Only my modesty saved his life - when I realized I didn´t have anything on but a shabby towel.

Today, my brother and I are good friends. His wife says he still forgets to put the milk in the refrigerator, but he gave up smoking and drinking many years ago. He still carries a few scars, and has a dog that follows him everywhere. As far as I know, he´s given up being a Peeping Tom.

Ed. Note: Carolyn sent some pictures of the camp which may be seen on the pictorial page of Jay´s website at http://members.shaw.ca/vjsansum/

CORRESPONDENCE

Doris Dignard writes: Please let Caroline Harris know how much her story is enjoyed. She is quite a story teller with an exciting earlier time in her life.

~~~~~

Jean Sterling is equally enthusiastic about Carolyn´s last story: This story had both suspense and humor I enjoyed reading it a lot. I could almost feel that cold water and the slimy algae and hear the puffing train when it was slurping up the water.

Geoff Goodship describes the hazards and joys of

FLYING SMALL PLANES

In fulfillment of a long-held ambition, I flew to Oshkosh in July. I no longer have my own airplane, my private pilotıs license is no longer current, but I have a good friend with a generous heart and a four-place Cessna 182 Skylane. He is a careful individual who keeps his skills current and his aircraft in top shape. I had no reservations about accepting his invitation to visit Oshkosh.

Unlike driving a car, flying skills must be carefully maintained. You can be absent from the driver´s seat of a car for many months and regain your confidence in a matter of minutes. A driver can always pull off to the side of the road and regain composure. Pilots who donıt fly for a few months usually take a check ride with an instructor, even though they may have flown for years. Most private pilots consider they must fly a minimum of 100 hours a year to maintain their basic skills.

While the air traffic rules are the same for big and small aircraft, there is considerable difference between the skills required in a small plane and in a large passenger aircraft. Iıve not flown jets, but Iıve heard experienced jet jockeys say it´s easier to fly a 747 than a four-place Cessna. It´s easier because jets have the power and speed to get above or otherwise avoid bad weather or other hazards.

Youıve heard the old saying, attitude is everything. Well, in flying, altitude is everything, for altitude is life insurance, and no one has ever collided with the sky. Most small aircraft are limited to an altitude of about 15,000 feet.There are plenty of mountains that go that high. A jetliner simply climbs over them at 35,000 feet or more.

Commercial jetliners have many more automatic features, and a pressurized cabin to work in. The biggest advantage, however, is having two pilots, for it cuts in half the number of variables that need attention. With far less ability to get out of harm´s way, a single pilot in a small plane must be far more cautious. Most will tell you, ³It´s better to be down here wishing you were up there, than up there wishing you were down here.²

There are two basic sets of rules governing flight: VFR and IFR. VFR refers to visual flight rules, in which the pilot must maintain visual contact with the ground at all times. Most small aircraft fly visual flight rules. IFR stands for Instrument Flight Regulations, which means that the aircraft will navigate principally on instruments, leaving them free to fly both in and above clouds which obscure the ground.

Every pilot likes to be seen on some controller´s radar screen. It´s just safer that way. The problem for small aircraft is that they cannot always fly high enough, particularly in mountainous terrain, to be seen by a distant radar. Over the past few years there have been many new navigation aids for pilots of small planes. The GPS is just one. However, knowing your exact position on the earth doesnıt make it any easier to land in a 30-mph cross wind and it doesnıt help you stretch your fuel supply. It´s pilot wisdom that ³the only time you have too much fuel is when you´re on fire.²

There is a considerable feeling of accomplishment to lifting a small aircraft off the ground, navigating over territory that may be mostly wilderness, then landing safely at an unfamiliar airport some 400 to 800 miles away. Flying is the second greatest thrill known to man. Landing is the first!

In the next issue: Oshkosh itself.

Ed. Note: For links to a couple of pictures Geoff sent, check out Jay´s website.

Anne Rahamut writes: I have been away, now catching up on Tale Spinner, and just reading Elsie Ayer´s story of her black gym shoes. Her story parallels one of my own:

HEY! SPIDER LEGS!

When I was in first grade in Toronto, I begged my mom to buy me long stockings for winter wear, just like those all the other girls had. In the winter of that year, our family moved to Windsor. On the first day of school, I wore my white stockings. On the second day I wore my black stockings. The Windsor kids all wore brown stockings. They made fun of my stockings and I never wore them again.

When I was in high school, my mom was a history teacher there. Our school gymnasium was public, with a gallery on three sides where, during lunch hour, spectators watched the intramural games. One day, I was playing and I could hear that someone in the gallery was shouting, "Hey! Spider Legs!" Eventually I realized that I was the target of the comment.

In the evening of that day, I asked my mom if she had said anything personal in class that day. She blushed and said that the topic was prejudice and she cited the story of my stockings as a simple example. I had totally forgotten that event from my grade one days, but here as it returned to me 10 years later, I realized how hurtful it must have been to me as the new shy girl in class to have been the target of such a cruel taunt.

Burke Dykes sends this story about

THE FORTUNE TELLER

In a dark and gloomy room, the fortune teller was startled by what she saw in her crystal ball. She looked up at her customer, sitting across the table. "There´s no easy way to say this, so I´ll just be blunt. Prepare yourself to be a widow. Your husband will die a violent and horrible death this year."

Visibly shaken, the woman stared at the psychic´s lined face, then at the single flickering candle, then down at her hands. She took a few deep breaths to compose herself. She simply had to know. She met the fortune teller´s gaze, steadied her voice, and asked: "Will I get away with it?"

Jack Peaker sends these vignettes about

GRANDKIDS

My young grandson called the other day to wish me happy birthday. He asked me how old I was, and I told him, "62." He was quiet for a moment, and then he asked, "Did you start at one?"

After putting her grandchildren to bed, a grandmother changed into old slacks and a droopy blouse and proceeded to wash her hair. As she heard the children getting more and more rambunctious, her patience grew thin. At last she threw a towel around her head and stormed into their room, putting them back to bed with stern warnings. As she left the room, she heard the three-year-old say with a trembling voice, "Who was THAT?"

A grandmother was telling her little granddaughter what her own childhood was like: "We used to skate outside on a pond. I had a swing made from a tire; it hung from a tree in our front yard. We rode our pony. We picked wild raspberries in the woods." The little girl was wide-eyed, taking this in. At last she said, "I sure wish I´d gotten to know you sooner!"

My grandson was visiting one day when he asked, "Grandma, do you know how you and God are alike?" I mentally polished my halo while I asked, "No, how are we alike?" "You´re both old," he replied.

A little girl was diligently pounding away on her grandfather´s word processor. She told him she was writing a story. "What´s it about?" he asked. "I don´t know," she replied. "I can´t read."

I didn´t know if my granddaughter had learned her colors yet, so I decided to test her. I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me, and always she was correct. But it was fun for me, so I continued. At last she headed for the door, saying sternly, "Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these yourself!"

A Sunday school class was studying the Ten Commandments. They were ready to discuss the last one. The teacher asked if anyone could tell her what it was. Susie raised her hand, stood tall, and quoted, "Thou shall not take the covers off thy neighbor´s wife."

Our five-year-old grandson couldn´t wait to tell his grandfather about the movie we had watched on television, "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea." The scenes with the submarine and the giant octopus had kept him wide-eyed. In the middle of the telling, my husband interrupted Mark, "What caused the submarine to sink?" With a look of incredulity Mark replied, "Grandpa, it was the 20,000 leaks!!"

When my grandson Billy and I entered our vacation cabin, we kept the lights off until we were inside to keep from attracting pesky insects. Still, a few fireflies followed us in. Noticing them before I did, Billy whispered, "It´s no use, Grandpa. The mosquitoes are coming after us with flashlights."

When my grandson asked me how old I was, I teasingly replied, "I´m not sure." "Look in your underwear, Grandma," he advised. "Mine says I´m four to six."

A second grader came home from school and said to her grandmother, "Grandma, guess what? We learned how to make babies today." The grandmother, more than a little surprised, tried to keep her cool. "That´s interesting," she said, "How do you make babies?" "It´s simple," replied the girl. "You just change ´y´ to ´i´ and add ´es´"

Children´s Logic: "Give me a sentence about a public servant," said a teacher. The small boy wrote: "The fireman came down the ladder pregnant." The teacher took the lad aside to correct him. "Don´t you know what pregnant means?" she asked. Sure," said the young boy confidently. "It means carrying a child."

A nursery school teacher was delivering a station wagon full of kids home one day when a fire truck zoomed past. Sitting in the front seat of the fire truck was a Dalmatian dog. The children started discussing the dog´s duties. "They use him to keep crowds back," said one youngster. "No," said another, "he´s just for good luck." A third child brought the argument to a close. "They use the dogs," she said firmly, "to find the fire hydrant."

Jackie Stevens forwards this cautionary tale about

SENIORS HAVING BABIES

Just in case any of you were contemplating having another baby.

With all the new technology regarding fertility recently, a 65-year-old woman was able to give birth to a baby. When she was discharged from the hospital and went home, her relatives came to visit.

"May we see the new baby?" one asked.

"Not yet," said the mother. "I´ll make coffee And we can visit for awhile first."

Thirty minutes passed, and another relative asked, "May we see the new baby now?"

"No, not yet," said the mother.

After another few minutes had elapsed, they asked again, "May we see the baby now?"

"No, not yet," replied the mother.

Growing very impatient, they asked, "Well, when can we see the baby? "

"When he cries!" she told them.

"When he cries?" they demanded. "Why do we have to wait until he cries?"

"Because I forget where I put him."

Ed. Note: Sounds like the problem people have with portable phones.

Don Henderson says this has been around, but it was a while ago:

SOME THINGS TO THINK ABOUT

Can you cry under water?

How important does a person have to be before they are considered assassinated instead of just murdered?

Why do you have to "put your two cents in" but it´s only a "penny for your thoughts"? Where´s that extra penny going to?

Why does a round pizza come in a square box?

What disease did cured ham actually have?

Why is it that people say they "slept like a baby" when babies wake up every two hours?

If a deaf person has to go to court, is it still called a hearing?

Why are you IN a movie, but you´re ON TV?

Why do people pay to go up tall buildings and then put money in binoculars to look at things on the ground?

Why do doctors leave the room while you change? They´re going to see you naked anyway.

Why is "bra" singular and "panties" plural?

Why do toasters always have a setting that burns the toast to a horrible crisp, which no decent human being would eat?

If Jimmy cracks corn and no one cares, why is there a stupid song about him?

If the professor on Gilligan´s Island can make a radio out of a coconut, why can´t he fix a hole in a boat?

Why does Goofy stand erect while Pluto remains on all fours? They´re both dogs!

If electricity comes from electrons, does morality come from morons?

Do the Alphabet song and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star have the same tune?

Why did you just try singing the two songs above?

Did you ever notice that when you blow in a dog´s face, he gets mad at you, but when you take him for a car ride, he sticks his head out the window?

Do you ever wonder why you gave me your e-mail address in the first place?

A LITTLE HARD OF HEARING

Three old guys are out walking.

First one says, "Windy, isn´t it?"

Second one says, "No, its Thursday!"

Third one says, "So am I. Let´s go get a beer."

Jack Peaker suggests these

INTERESTING WEBSITES

Photography: http://www.briandilg.com/imaging/index.htm

Travel: http://www.kangyatze.com/

History: http://www.exploratorium.edu/archimedes/

Fashion: http://ohjoy.blogs.com/

You can also read this newsletter online at http://members.shaw.ca/vjsansum/and http://www.nw-seniorsonline.org/stories.html

Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and carkeys to teenage boys.