The White Horse

      You don’t want to tell every story.  I remember one such story from my days as a referee.

     As part of being a registered referee, we had to attend two or three meetings for referees held during the season.  They held meetings twice a month or so, but we only had to attend two or three during the season.  The one we had to attend was the rules meeting held before the season started.

     The coaches also had to attend the rules meeting, so four or five of us loaded up and went.  When all the rules had been discussed and we departed, we made the mandatory visit to a local watering hole.  An hour or so later, in a much better mood, we started for home. 

      We were laughing and having a good time when a bright light zoomed across the sky seemingly right in our path.  There was a brief silence.  “Did you see that?” we all said. 

     We had had a drink or two.  Could we all be hallucinating the same hallucination?  Before we reached the lot where we had parked our cars a few hours before, we agreed not to say anything about what we saw.

     We abandoned our vows of silence a few short hours later.  Many folks had seen the same thing and were comparing notes the next morning at work.  The story even made the local news.  A piece of space junk burning up as it returned to earth’s atmosphere.  No need for us to keep mum.

     The white horse was seen by only one person, Uncle Ricky.  He wasn’t “Uncle” then.  He was my oldest brother.

     He was coming home late one night.  As usual, he was going hell-bent-for-election.  It must have been ’58 or’59.  He was driving his ’50 Ford with its three speed on the column and the overdrive lever below the dash on the left side.  It would go fast.  And usually did.

       He came up a rise in the road near an old homestead site, the only remnants being a few  bushes along the side of the road.  Suddenly, a white horse dashed out of the bushes and into the road in front of him.

     He hit the brakes and went into a skid.  He missed the horse and began to deal with straightening out the skid.  As he whizzed past, the horse turned into a woman wearing a white nightgown.

     As soon as he could divert his attention from avoiding a one-car accident, he looked back.  Nothing.

     I don’t remember when he told me the story.  The next day?  A few days later?  I just remember that he did tell me the story.  Who else did he tell?  I don’t know.

      Years past.  Somehow, at a family gathering, that incident came up in the presence of Uncle Walter.  When Ricky said the horse turned into a woman in a white nightgown, Uncle said, immediately, “Maria Ange”(MAW-rrree-uh) (AN-gee).  “Going across the road to do chores.”

      Uncle went on to reminisce about the Ange family, who would have been their close neighbors in the olden homestead days.  Otto, he said, would have been a good politician, worked hard for the Republican Party, but couldn’t run for office because he didn’t speak English well.  What else did he say that I don’t remember?

      I don’t remember the story ever coming up again after that gathering.  But something set me to thinking about it lately.

      Some stories are built, like a snowball, with a small nucleus that gets expanded layer by layer.  The time gap between layers of this story span years.  I can’t help but feel that there are more layers to be added.

      Why would Maria haunt the abandoned homestead site?  What would bring her back to a lonely place with only bushes to indicate that humans once lived there?  What was her story?  Why, after many years, would I think of this incident? 

     

A Trip to Paris

     We had been down this road before. We were returning from our Seattle trip with the Ranger loaded with packaged crates.  

     I was driving and the Goodwife was navigating.  I missed the junction.  Not much of a difference in mileage, really.  It was whether we went south along the east side of Bear Lake (we did) on the Wyoming border, or south along the west side of Bear Lake into the corner of Utah before turning east into Wyoming.  (For map, see,  https://www.google.com/maps/@42.0477867,-111.140537,10z)

        This time we stopped, really stopped, like in overnight stop, before proceeding along our chosen route.  We spent the night in Montpelier.

     I asked the friendly motel clerk lady where the junction was to go through Paris.  She pointed through the office window front where a couple of blocks away, we could see a stoplight.  “Turn right at the stoplight.  Don’t blink,” she added.  “You’ll miss it.”  She wasn’t referring to the stoplight.

     It was a lazy Saturday morning, not much traffic, not much reason to be stirring on a coolish weekend morning.  We met a couple of pickups towing stock trailers.  Sale day somewhere?

      We could slow down, pull over and snap a picture or two without worry of being rear ended by someone in a hurry to get somewhere.

 

      If you didn’t know Bear Lake lay six or seven miles away (pretty hard not to know if you read the road signs advertising local businesses), you would think Paris was a small town in the middle of nowhere, with mountain ranges in the distance, with not much to recommend it.  But it must have had something to recommend it in the olden days, enough to earn it the county seat with all the trappings that go along with that designation.

 

      There are other historical buildings and historical sight markers.

     And a city hall building where one would find the Justice of the Peace if he wanted one:

 

    Many years ago, a young couple eloped to Paris.  They could always say they got married in Paris.  No need to mention “Idaho”. 

     Like filling up the gas tank in Sinclair, seeing Paris, ID was a dimple in the bucket of my bucket list.  Paris was a bit more fulfilling than Sinclair was.  It was quite picturesque, actually.

 

     We drove around a little, mostly to view a chateau on the hill to the west, which turned out to be somewhat of a modular the closer we got.  There are lots of older houses, with “character”, I’m told. 

 

      After the last shutter snap, we proceeded down the road.  The road and the shoreline of Bear Lake drew together, but it was hard to see the lake.  Between the highway and the water are “cabins”, from modest bungalows to huge multi-story mansions.  Many homes are going up on the opposite side of the highway, too.  Most are vacant this time of year, as the place seems to be a summer refuge for those who can afford to maintain a vacant house during the winter months. 

     Somewhere near the southern tip of the lake, you cross over into Utah.  The road bends around the southern tip of the lake and leads into Wyoming.  It is a pretty drive.  It would probably be prettier going west and north (we were going south and east).  You get a better glimpse of the lake and there are mountain ranges to the north and west that you don’t really see going the way we did.

     As the sun slowly rose higher in the east, we headed to Kemmerer and our way home.

   

     

  

Ninety-Year-Olds

      The invitation came towards the end of September.  A quick glance at the calendar revealed three or four Veterans’ Day performances the week of the celebration.  We could not go.

      I thought we might get away the week following Veterans’ Day, but that week got filled in, too.  As it turned out, it would not have been a good thing.

      It was a 90^th birthday party for two, a surprise, prepared by their daughter.  The parents were both born in 1927.

    The birthday girl is the last survivor of “the cousins”, the grandchildren of Ole and Anna, my great grandparents.  She is the last connecting link to a bygone generation. 

     Last summer, we lost the last of my cousins who actually knew my paternal grandmother, Martha.  While I did visit with Barbara, I lacked a lot of getting everything she had experienced with our grandparents.  I thought of other missed opportunities.  Aunt Dell would have been six years old when the family moved from Minnesota to a homestead in the desert of Eastern Colorado.  She would have remembered that trip, but I never thought to ask her about it.

     I decided it was now or probably never, so we set off on our trip to Boise.  We could have flown.  The Goodwife found fares as low as $60 round trip.  We would have had to go on Tuesday and return Thursday.  It didn’t seem right to make a flying trip.  So we drove.

    It was a two-day trip by automobile.  We left on Tuesday and returned by the following Saturday.

     We arrived in Boise mid-afternoon Wednesday.  We found the 90-year-olds in good shape for having lived nine decades.  Both use walkers, but they get around.  Both are sharp mentally. There have been issues.  Had we visited in November, we probably would have had to visit one of the guests of honor in a hospital or rehab, recovering from spinal surgery.

      We originally intended to rent a motel room for our stay, so as not to be a burden, but they were fully prepared to have us stay with them, so we did. 

       We jumped right in to sharing what we knew about our extended family.  Out came the old suitcase with pictures that don’t see the light of day very often.  We also reviewed the family history book. 

     We dined on lasagna thoughtfully provided by daughter Mary (my second cousin).  Mary’s constant attention makes it possible for her parents to remain in their nice modern home. 

     It was midnight before we gave it up Wednesday.  Among the family “secrets”:  a bootlegger who had a hollow doorframe where pints could easily be hidden and easily removed for sale to customers. She would lie in the dark by the railroad tracks waiting for the train car that would expel a keg.   The keg’s contents would be transferred to pints, the pints hidden in the hollow doorframe.  She may have been a madam as well.  She was one of the few financial success stories in our family.

      Tragedy—the youngest brother died in the flu epidemic during WWI.

      A suicide using the gas from the lamps that provided the light in those olden days.  When the homeowner returned and struck a match to light the lamp, a mini explosion occurred.  Unfortunately, that isn’t the only suicide.  Suicide is a family plague.

      The number of violin or fiddle players in the family.  Music has been a part of the family for a long time, as Ole was the song leader at church where there were no musical instruments.  He apparently had near-perfect pitch.  Many of his children were musicians.

       The self-same Ole was somewhat of a sex fiend who mistreated his wife.  Some of his sons built a house for their mother and forbade Ole to enter therein.

      The homesteaders who ventured from Minnesota to Colorado.  My grandfather and two of his brothers made the first foray in 1907.  Carpenters all, they built a “suitable” dwelling (my older aunts referred to that house where they grew up as “the chicken coop”) and returned to Minnesota for the winter.  In the spring of 1908, the entire family moved to their home on the planes.

     Apparently, all three brothers filed homestead claims.  Two relinquished their claims and returned to Minnesota when Ole died.  They took over the Minnesota farm and cared for their widowed mother.

      A story I was able to add concerned my good Neighborly and a conversation we had one day.  He asked my Grandfather’s name.  I said John or Johannes.  No that wasn’t the right name.  Was it Joe?  No.  How about Ingeman?  That was it.

      The story Neighborly told involved his late wife and a grandson.  They were at an auction where the grandson took a liking to a framed document, which was apparently a charter for an insurance company, maybe Modern Woodsmen or something similar.  Shirley bought the thing for her grandson, who still has it today. The charter is signed by the charter members.  Among the signers was Ingeman, who apparently was around the country long enough to help start the organization.

      “Uncle” Joe, Mary’s grandfather, was a great letter-writer.  I remember a letter or two Papa got from Uncle Joe.  They were indeed entertaining.  He encouraged Papa to keep on living, as he was about to make it to one hundred.  (Papa lacked three or four years of making 100.  He always protested that he never asked to live so long.)  Uncle Joe was the last of Ole and Anna’s family.  He died in 1979.

        We spent much of the day Thursday immersed in the olden days until we all grew tired and had to take a rest.  Thursday evening, we were guests of Mary and Lance.  The evening was only slightly marred by the malfunction of the meat smoker, and for the locals, a bigger disappointment with Boise State’s defeat in the first round of the Mountain West basketball tournament.

      We took our leave on Friday morning.  Parting is always hard, particularly when you realize this may be the last time to visit each other on this earth. 

     I had hoped to visit Yellowstone on our return trip, but it would have been late afternoon Friday when we arrived.  We had no reservations and I wasn’t sure what the weekend traffic might be, so we opted for a more direct route.

       I had also hoped to find a hot springs to visit, maybe spend the night there.  My wires got crossed.  I thought Soda Springs, ID would be the place.  We went through Lava Springs on our way to Soda Springs.  No hot springs in Soda Springs.  Go back to Lava Springs, the store clerk told us.  We didn’t want to back track, so we pressed on, thinking maybe to stop in Kemmerer, WY for the night.

       We found a better solution, Montpelier, ID.  It had a nice motel at a not-too-bad-a price.  It was much quieter than the motel in Pocatello where we spent a noisy Wednesday night (a place two more than the one that keeps the light on for you).

       After a peaceful rest, we got some advice from the motel lady on which roads to take to Kemmerer.  At Kemmerer, we visited Fossil Buttes, which really took us back into the past, billions of years.  We lunched in Green River, WY, filled with gas at Sinclair, home of Sinclair gasoline refinery.  What a disappointment!  The refinery is less than a mile away, yet gas was $2.55.  (We paid $2.32 in Kemmerer.  We paid a high of $3.19 near Burley, ID.)

     We supped at our used-to-be favorite Korean place in Laramie (Goodwife says she won’t go there again).  We elected to go to Cheyenne and catch I-25 home—probably not the fastest route from Laramie to Loveland.  We arrived home about 9:30 p.m.

      We agreed this was probably the last trip for the old 2001 Chrysler.  Things are starting to fail.  The heater doesn’t work exactly right.  Everything, heat, AC, comes through the defroster now.  We had cold toes a place or two during our trip.   It’s hard to turn loose of the big old thing.  It averaged 30 MPG on our trip of 1600 miles.   But it turned over 189,000 on the odometer, or distance indicator, as we say these days.                

     We were glad we made the trip.  We were glad to be home.

Window Repair Project

    The window sash hangs at a slight angle in the frame.  It has been that way for a couple of years, maybe since we moved in.  I have put off trying to correct the problem for various reasons. 

     I assumed it was poor quality work on the part of the window installers.  The frame must not be square.  Correcting it would mean taking off all the trim, cutting or pulling nails or screws, depending on what the installer used.  If there was caulk involved, it would have to be cut so the window frame could be jiggered into square.

       It was easy to find something more important to do.  After all, it didn’t leak a whole lot of cold air.  The imperfection wasn’t really noticeable there hidden by the curtains.  Lurking in the back of my mind, the possibility that wall studs may be misaligned and require some major surgery to correct the problem.

      Last week, the time arrived when I had nothing on the priority list higher than correcting the window problem.  My confidence had been buoyed by the completion of another project I had put off for the same two years.

      Under the kitchen sink, there were hoses and shutoffs spread across the cabinet floor.  It made it difficult to store the usual suspects, soap, cleansers, spray bottles, dish drainers, trash can, etc.  I took it on one day while the Goodwife was off on an all-day quilter meeting of some sort.  I could live without water at the kitchen sink all day, if needed.

      This job was the result of a former owner’s do-it-yourself installation of washer and dryer in the garage.  The hot and cold water supply and the drain all run for five or six feet horizontally behind the corner kitchen cabinet.  They emerge in a corner of the garage adjacent to the kitchen wall.  I think the job must have been done when they replaced cabinets or at least the counter top. 

      Anyway, to supply water to the washer, the installer used braided hoses.  They connected to the hot and cold water supplies for the kitchen faucet.  Rather than fasten the hoses up out of the way on the back wall of the cabinet, he put the hoses on the cabinet floor and fastened two more shutoffs to 2 X 4’s screwed to the cabinet bottom.  The cabinet floor looked like a plate of spaghetti noodles.

      The shutoffs strapped to the floor were really superfluous.  He had installed double shutoffs on the pipes that rose up through the cabinet bottom for the sink.  I had prepared for the occasion by buying compression tees and laying in a supply of 3/8” copper tubing.

    The normal sink water supply would have water going to the dishwasher and maybe the refrigerator ice maker.  This one has those branches, plus the supply for the clothes washer in the garage, and a countertop water heater that never worked as long as we owned the house.  Quite a few branches.

       I removed the unneeded shutoffs and the hoses that led to them.  From the double shutoffs on the pipes coming through the floor, I added the compression tees, using copper tubing.  I eliminated the feed to the water heater that never worked.  All the pipes and hoses are now towards the back of the cabinet, and off the cabinet floor.

      Thankfully, the 2 X 4’s that held the hoses and shutoffs to the cabinet floor were held in place with screws, not glue.  They were easily removed.  Voila!  A blank space to put stuff.  It’s still crowded under there, but now, you can move stuff around without hitting pipes and hoses and causing something to leak.

     Buoyed by the success of the kitchen sink reform, I decided it was time to take on the window.  To start, reconnaissance to scout the enemy.  Out came the square.  Well!  The window frame was square.

     I pulled the sash out of its tracks.  These windows are easily removed so you can clean them.  The window sash was very slightly out of square, but not nearly enough to explain the gap in the upper left had corner when the window is closed.

      Back in its tracks, the sash would slide all the way to the top and the gap disappeared.  But when I closed the latch connecting top and bottom sashes, the left side of the top sash sagged, and there was the gap again.

       In the olden days, sash windows had a channel on the outside of the window tracks, where the sash slides up and down.  In that channel were window weights tied to ropes.  The ropes went around a pulley at the top of the window frame and hooked into the top corners of the sash.  The weights served as a counter balance to help raise the sash and keep it in place.   If the installation was done properly, the weights and the window balanced, so that wherever you positioned the sash, it stayed.  If the job was not done so properly and the counterweights and sash were out of balance, the sash would fly up or fall as soon as it was unlatched. 

     In the newer days, spring-loaded strings attached to little gadgets in the window tracks catch the bottom of the sash and help raise the sash.  To keep the sash in place whether opened or closed, the little gadget has a floppy metal clip that acts as a brake on the spring-loaded string. 

      When removing the window, the little gadget does not go flying up like the old fashioned spring-loaded shade.  The metal clip will hold the gadget in place, so when you reinstall the sash, you need to make sure you are putting the bottom of the sash above the gadget in the window tracks. 

     In theory, you get the sash back in its tracks, pull down on the window, thus releasing the gadget, sort of like a ratchet.  The gadget released then assists you in raising the sash and holds the sash wherever you place it.   A closer inspection revealed that the left gadget was not releasing.  It lollygagged down where it was when I lowered the sash to remove it.  The gadget wasn’t doing its job.  Or maybe doing its job too well.

      I have had a painful experience with those little gadgets.  The metal clip has some sharp edges that dig into the window track if things are moving too fast.  If you accidentally release the metal clip, the gadget shoots up like a released rubber band, only with a lot more power.  Once I accidentally released one while trying to clean a window.  Sproing!  The thing went up and caught my finger on the way.  I didn’t bleed too much.

      But I knew enough to take a screw driver to the stuck gadget on this window.  I got it to release and go up where it belonged to help hold the window in place.  No more gap at the top left corner.

     There still needs to be something done to get the thing to work properly.  I don’t know what, yet.  But it isn’t major surgery.  The cold wind shut out, the window has scaled down quite a few notches on the priority list. 

      We have three styles of windows in our house, horizontal sliders, double hung sash, and casement.  The casements are best for closing tightly and sealing out the heat and cold.  They are somewhat of a pain to clean the outside pane.  The sliders are also a pain to clean and leak where the two panes meet.  The sash windows are easiest to clean, but also have problems with leaking.

        I guess I would go with casements.  They are probably most expensive.  Go figure.

Millet Sample

     I thought I planned ahead.  I did a Mapquest and a Google map Sunday evening.  Hind sight being twenty-twenty, I could see where I went wrong.

      I painstakingly followed the instructions, “Turn left here, go X number of miles, turn right here for X number of miles, etc.”  The peanut butter jar on the seat beside me contained millet.

     On Sunday, it warmed up enough to trek out to the grain bin with probe and jar in hand.  The sun was shining, but the southeast wind bit wherever it found bare or barely covered skin.
    Gathering a sample took some time.  The old probe has only two holes in the business end, and the ramrod holds about a tablespoon worth of grain.  It took several jabs through the “window” behind the bin door to fill the four-pound peanut butter jar.  It was too cold and icy to even think about trying to get a sample from the lids on top of the grain bin.

      So here I was, Monday, out in the middle of nowhere, some fifteen miles north of Highway 14 a dozen or so miles west of Sterling.  “Turn right, your destination is 1.5 miles on Road 13.”  Road 13 was a cow trail with some snow filling the two wheel tracks.

     For an instant, I thought the GPS would laugh and say “April Fools.”  Complicating matters, the gas gauge was challenging the quarter mark.  Experience told me it goes from a fourth to empty a lot faster than it goes from full to three quarters.   

     Stopped in the middle of the road, I recalculated.  No way was I going down road 13 in my little light-in-the–rear pickup.  Besides, a grain-handling facility should be visible for miles in this flat land, with tall bins and elevator shafts extending above them.  I had been looking for the last five or six miles.  Nothing to see.

      In pilot training, when you are lost, you contact someone on the radio and “confess”.  You outright admit you don’t know where you are or how to get where you are going.  That’s pretty hard for a pilot, that icon of self-confidence and independence, to admit.

     I called Garren.  “I’m trying to find your facility, but I think I’m on a wild-goose chase.”

     “Where are you?”

     “Road 56 and 13, north of Highway 14.”

     “Oh, did you use GPS?”

     “Yes.”

     “Yeah, that happens.  You’re not the first one to be misled.  Somehow, they take you way out of the way.”

      That was comforting.  Misery loves company.  The grain facility was less than a half mile north of Highway 14.  I was at least 15 miles north of 14.  That quiet little voice of memory (getting quieter every year) seemed to say that Rob, former owner of the place, told me he was “just off Highway 14.”  Had I checked the website, I would have got a lot better directions than from Google or Mapquest.

      “Call me again when you get back to 14,” Garren said.  I did.  About six miles further east on 14 brought me to the River.  “Turn north on Road 15 right after you cross the bridge.”

     I did.  I was there in ten minutes from where I made the first wrong turn off of 14.  Garren took my sample and tested it.  It was dry, 9% moisture.  It weighed ok.  The biggest drawback was the wild buckwheat seed in it.  Hard to get out, he said.  Still, he was quite interested.

     He couldn’t take it until summer.  “May, June at the latest?” I asked.  “I need the bin for wheat harvest, if there is one.”  He thought that might be possible.  He’ll get back to me. 

     That’s never good news.  I’ve waited decades for some folks to get back to me. 

     Speaking of bad news, I decided to get to the now-first priority, having delivered the grain sample.  “How far do I have to go to find a gas station?”

      “Sterling is about 12 miles.  It’s the closest.”

     “How far going west?  How far is Fort Collins?”

       “About 80 miles.”  Can’t make that.  “Briggsdale has a fuel place.”  I might be able to make that. 

     Out I set, deciding to head west rather than go another 25 miles out of my way to fuel up.  At Briggsdale, I saw a truck-fueling place, but it didn’t look like it had gasoline.  The yard wasn’t paved.  It was on the brink of freezing, but it was still pretty muddy.

    I checked the gas gauge.  It was still between one-fourth and empty.  The sign said 17 miles to Ault.  On I went.  It was beginning to snow.  I still had three hours of daylight left if I had to walk.

      I stopped in Ault.  I paid $2.59 per gallon for enough regular gas to get me home.  Mission accomplished, sort of.  I made the trip.  I saw a lot of country new to me.  I did not have to take a walk carrying a gas can.

      Maybe I have a market for my millet.     

Band Concert

       We marched in, the three of us, in red graduation robes we had borrowed for the occasion.  The band was seated on the canvas spread over the center of the high school gymnasium. 

     The key to begin our slow march from the gym doorway to center stage had been an introduction of three VIP college professors, or some other such nonsense.  Part of this was a setup, the band instructor having recruited us to play the role.  We had made a sort of run-through earlier that day during band period. 

     It was the last concert of the year.  The musicians had been to their spring contests.  They had rehearsed and practiced.  They were in peak performance mode.  Being the final performance, a feeling of relaxation and fun replaced the tension of playing before judges with sharp pencils.

    Pomp and Circumstances accompanied our slow step-pause-step entrance.  The song ended before we had reached our place in the percussion section.  Bill and I followed the principal’s lead and continued our slow pace even though the music had ended.

      We took our place among garbage bags filled with inflated balloons, garbage cans with drumsticks and mallets at hand.  We took our time getting the balloons arranged, the hammers close at hand, the garbage cans within reach.

     It wasn’t the first time I had colluded with this band instructor.  On another occasion I played the man-on-the-street (think Don Knots, complete with the nervous shakes to be on camera) selected out of the crowd to accompany a group of singers and players on the piano.  It had to be a simple piece for me to play it, but I did it.

      At another spring concert, three faculty members joined the band in the rhythm section.  I was the “Cymbal-Simon” who had one note to play at the climax of the song, but just couldn’t get it right, until after three or four tries.

      Over the years, I had joined many stage bands, filling in where there was a need or a place, bass guitar, saxophone, rhythm guitar.  No one was particularly surprised to see faculty participation in a concert, particularly the spring concert.

      I think the band played the 1812 Overture.  It called for sounds of war towards the end.  The three faculty members supplied the war noise by popping balloons, hammering garbage cans, etc.  The bass drummer helped out with booms timed much more accurately than our unorganized noise. 

     The script called for us to spread out our balloon popping in order to last through the end of the piece.  But we had planned, the idea of the principal, a little more realistic war noise at the end.  He recruited three track starter pistols, complete with shells that smoke prolifically so the timekeepers can see when the gun fires.

     Our robes provided the perfect camouflage to smuggle in our arms without alerting anyone.  At the right time, we started hammering balloons and garbage cans with abandon.  We popped all the balloons, well ahead of schedule.  At a signal from the principal, Bill and I pulled out our track pistols and all three of us began firing.

      The first crack of a pistol got the band director’s attention, but he caught on quickly and didn’t miss a beat.  Band students, those that could, turned to look at us and the unexpected smoke and noise.

     We ran out of ammunition a bit before the song ended, but it didn’t matter.  We were a big hit with the kids and the audience.  I’m not so sure how big of a hit we were with the band man.

     Unfortunately, I have the opportunity to be reminded of this event far too frequently.  I think of it every time there is a school shooting. 

      What would happen to anyone, let alone a high school principal and two teachers, if they tried to pull a stunt like that now?  Unimaginable. 

      It is easy to say that that was a simpler, more innocent time.  It didn’t seem simple and innocent when we were living it.  Can you imagine a time when what we are going through now will seem simple or innocent?

                       

      

Encounters of the Weird Kind

     It was a Tuesday.  Barbershop day.  Or night.  We usually would meet at 7 p.m.  Four of us were to meet at 6:30 this particular evening.  We were putting together a quartet for Thursday.

     We had to practice, put together a quartet, because our regular baritone retreats to the land of the wiki-wacki every January and doesn’t return until April or May.  Thursday would be February 1.

     Three of us arrived promptly at 6:30.  The fourth guy wasn’t the one we were waiting for.  He was there to attend another meeting.  We were familiar with the other group.  They, too, meet at the same church on Tuesday evening.  They put little yellow arrows on the hallway floor that point the way to their meeting.

      We struck up a conversation with the guy.  He asked us what we were doing there.  Barbershop we told him.  “My brother sings barbershop,” he said.

     Really, where, what’s his name, etc.? We asked.  Missouri, Kansas City, somewhere east of us.  Farrell was the last name.

     Farrell?  The name struck a bell. Any relation to Katie Farrell? I asked. 

     “My mother,” he replied.  Really!  I rummaged through my music and brought out a handwritten arrangement written and arranged by Katie Farrell.  I handed it to the guy.  “Yeah, that’s her.”

      I thought I remembered getting that arrangement in St. Joseph Missouri where the Barbershop Harmony Society used to hold their “Harmony University” for a week every summer on the campus of the college there.  I thought the guy who handed it out said Katie was his stepmother.  I couldn’t remember his name (imagine that) and the guy couldn’t help me clear up my misty recall.

     He was having memory issues of his own.  He couldn’t remember the name of his brother’s world champion quartet.  Actually, his brother Fred has been a member of two world champion quartets, “Second Edition” (gold medal in 1989) and “Crossroads” (2009).

      Fred Farrell’s brother and Katie’s son and not in barbershop?  Here he was in our clutches.  He confessed that he used to sing.   We got him to sing a tag with us, but we didn’t do a very good job.  Rex tried to get him to abandon his scheduled meeting and attend ours.  The best we could do was getting him to say he might attend on another Tuesday evening.

     The City of Loveland endeavors to leverage its name, and its nickname, the Valentine City.  Since the 1940’s, you can send a stamped addressed envelope to Loveland in January and the first two weeks of February and have it postmarked with an official “Loveland” stamp.  (I got one from my sweetie way back in 1969.)

      A local Rotary club sells “hearts” to suitors.  For the month of February, lovers can wear their hearts on the lampposts of Loveland.  You give a Rotarian your brief message and a fee.  They paint the message in white on a red heart and mount it on a light post or some other public place, mostly along Highways 34 and 287 that cross each other in the center of town.  All during the month of February, commuters can view the messages of endearment.

      The Valentine City Chorus, the local affiliate of the Barbershop Harmony Society to which I belong, clings to the shirttails of the romantic tide that flows through the city in February.  We sell singing Valentines.  The problem for us is to get our product in front of the public.  Advertising is expensive.  Singing Valentines are our main source of income these days.

      Solution.  Our illustrious leader who has lived in the area all his life (graduated from Longmont in the 50’s) usually gets us into the Chamber of Commerce on the morning of February 1, the kickoff for the envelope-stamping program.   The news media is there with writers and photographers.  This year, and other years, a Channel 9 camera crew filmed the activities.

      In December, the Chamber of Commerce sponsors a Miss Valentine competition.  Miss Valentine gets to say a few words during the February 1 opening ceremonies.  She then cancels the stamps on the first Valentines with the special Loveland imprint.  The first one this year went to California, the second one to Texas.

     Often the mayor or a City counselor addresses the group.  A quartet (our quartet this year) sings a couple of love songs.  Our spokesman reminds everyone that we sell singing Valentines. Cell phones click, cameras flash, the TV camera rolls.  We hope we make it into the newspapers, maybe even on TV news.   It gets our message out.

     Thursday February 1, we were to be at the Chamber offices by 8:45, in time for the 9 o’clock meeting.  I arose, looked out the window, at the three inches of snow that fell unpredictably. 

      We were to meet at IHOP at 7:30 to rehearse our two songs.  We felt the rehearsal necessary because our regular baritone, as already mentioned, translocates to the Land of Leis every winter.  His substitute is a seasoned veteran of thirty some years, but still, there might be TV cameras there.  No room for error.

     Two of us arrived at 7:30, one at 8:00.  Ted was coming from north of Ft. Collins.  Southbound I-25 was closed by the collision of two trucks, one of which was hauling fuel.  The hazmat folks were hard at work.  Ted arrived at 8:55.

       We watched the proceedings for 15 minutes until our turn.  Things went well.  We even got called back to sing a third number after we did our two regulars.  Normally, we would have gone our separate ways, but we had a funeral to sing for on Monday.

       The family requested “Precious Lord”.  We all needed to brush up on that one. We had never sung it with this combination of guys.  There is more than one arrangement of the song.  Back to IHOP we went.

     We asked for a back room so we could sing.  Five guys at another table were ordering their breakfast as we were seated.  We thought we would wait until they were done before we started singing.  Then, an older couple was seated near us, and a single lady soon followed.

      We couldn’t wait all day.  We thought about relocating to someone’s house or the church where we meet on Tuesday nights.  But the roads were lousy and it would take some time.  Ted had an appointment.  We decided to sing and take our chances of getting evicted.

      We ran “Precious Lord” four or five times, with stops and starts throughout to get it right.  We gave it one final run-through, then moved on to “Lord’s Prayer”, which the chorus was asked to sing for Monday’s funeral.

      The single lady who came in after us was the first to leave.  She stopped by our table.  She had tears in her eyes.  Your first thought is that we did such a bad job singing that it made her cry.  We DID do a bad job some of the time.  But she thanked us.

      She said her husband, 20 years older than she is, was in the hospital waiting for a place in a rehab facility to open up so he could leave the hospital.  She was going through a difficult time in her life.  Our singing had given her a lift and encouragement.  She actually enjoyed her breakfast, she said.

     The older couple exited soon after the single lady.  The older woman went on out to pay the bill.  The old guy, about 5’6” and probably close to 300 pounds stopped by the table. He told us he was an American Indian (he didn’t say Native American), a Ute, he told us when we asked.  He started life in Taos, New Mexico and moved to Timnath with his parents.

       He spent five minutes telling us about his life and giving us a mini sermon.  He had lost a brother recently.  He, too, appreciated our singing, a breakfast concert he called it.  He thanked us for being brave enough to sing songs of faith publicly.  He told us that he used to hate people, until he saw the light.  He told us how important it was to tell people you love that you do love them, to ask for forgiveness while you are still alive, because “when you’re gone, you’re gone.”  It will be too late when you are dead.  

      It wasn’t eleven o’clock in the morning yet.  What a day we had already had.  No one asked us to cease and desist.  We left IHOP without an invitation to do so.