Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

But wait... there's more! And they don't all buzz or rattle.... The Snike “Oh heck YEAH I wanna go!” I said into the phone. “You really got tickets?” “Yeah Man!” said Art, on the other end of the line. “The Kelley Girl dude dropped ‘em off just about five minutes ago! Tickets to the Niners game on Sunday… they’re playing the Bears. Prob’ly gonna lose, but what the heck, it’ll be fun!” “Alrighty, Man… usual arrangement?” I asked. “Sure!” he said. “Game’s at one… pick me up Sunday mornin’?” “Yup! I’ll be there before eleven. That’ll give us time to get there plenty early! See ya!” It was a Friday, mid September, 1976. Art Mays and I had done this before. The “usual arrangement” was that Art would provide the “free” tickets (as one of the HR managers he was often “comped” by vendors). I would provide the transportation (Art didn’t have a car), we would split the cost of beer, and it was every man for himself for food and snacks. Sunday morning finally arrived. After sleeping in, I was still up early enough to grab a quick breakfast, make sure I had enough cash money for the day (this was well before debit cards, or even ATM’s), and made it to pick up Art on time. Always an interesting event, collecting Art. You see, Art lived at the YMCA. Only man I ever knew who actually did so; I’d seen it in old movies, but hadn’t realized that some truly did – “I stays at the ‘Y’!” Art would say. So I parked, went inside and a fella behind the counter paged Art. In a moment or two, he came down the stairs, handed his key to the clerk, and we headed out… first to my yellow '73 VW Super Beetle, “Otto,” then to our favorite liquor store to stock up on beverage for the trip – about eight or ten quart bottles of beer, plus a six pack “to fill in the corners.” Oh, and a few bags of potato chips. We got to “the ‘Stick” in plenty of time to park and have a beer or two before heading in to the stadium. About three quarters of an hour before game time, we started to get ready. “Getting ready” meant each of us stuffing some chip bags into our coat pockets along with a plastic cup, and opening quart beer bottles and pouring the contents into a two gallon “igloo” type cooler I’d brought. (Yep! In those days you could bring your OWN beer to a ball game, as long as it wasn’t in bottles or cans that could be used as missiles.) We had fun, although as expected, the game was a bust, with the home team shamed 19 – 12 in the first loss of what was to be an 8 - 6 season . “Run run py-ess, run run py-ess, that’s all that coach knows how to do!” Art would exclaim in his frustrated Texas accent, shaking his head every time they’d set up for another punt. Anyway, we had fun. Ran outta beer early in the fourth quarter and actually had to buy one each to hold us over ‘til we got back to the car. And when the game was done, we let the crowd move ahead of us into the parking lot then sat in Otto, having another beer, ‘til the crowd of cars thinned significantly. When finally I fired up the li’l four-jug engine in the rear, I said “Ya know what, Art? Traffic’s gonna be a booger on 101. Tell ya what… let’s drive over Radio Hill (San Bruno Mountain) to 280 and slip into the city the back way!” “Good idea, Man! Let’s do that, then we can stop on Broadway for a beer or two before ya drop me off!” A most capitol plan indeed! But… you know what happens to two young men who’ve been sipping beer all afternoon. And we were no exception. Unfortunately, there were no “comfort stops” anywhere along the route, and after a number of miles the situation began to become somewhat dire. “Hey!” I said. “Hang on, Art! Here’s the road up to the transmitters! There won’t be any traffic and we can get up around a few curves and find a tree or two!” We did, and just in time. As we were recovering from our respective visits to trees we paused for a smoke – Art a cigarette, and me my pipe. We were standing there, enjoying the early autumn late afternoon, when Art suddenly said “Hey! Lookit that snike!” “Huh…? What snike? And what the hell’s a ‘snike’?” I asked. He pointed about 35 yards downhill, and I’ll be danged, but there was about a four foot long snake slowly wriggling his way across the road. “Damn!” I blurted. “We oughtta catch ‘im and take ‘im to Gary!” And the next thing I knew, Art was standing there holding this snake by the neck. Now, Gary Wallace was one of our computer operators in the third floor Data Processing department. We’d worked together for years, and knowing me to be an outdoorsman, had often asked me to keep an eye out for a snake for him. Didn’t matter what kind; he just wanted a pet snake. “Why, shore, Gary… I’ll be sure to do that!” I’d tell ‘im. With no intention of doing any such thing – this boy don’t do the snake thing. Nossir… not me! So there we were. Art holding that somewhat dismayed creature, and me liquid fortified enough to not only not be squealing like a girl, but I actually opened the trunk and found a light canvas money bag, which I held open for Art while he shoved ‘im in. I wrapped the cord securely around the mouth of the bag, then in turn placed it in an orange nylon air-mail bag I happened to have along, securely latching the leather strap around it’s reinforced opening. Shoved the whole thing back in to the trunk with a bunch of camping gear (the Super Beetle had a LARGE cargo area!). Then, we buttoned up the trunk and headed to The City to do some drinking before calling it a weekend. Early (but definitely not bright!) Monday morning, I made my way to work. Parking beneath the building, I slowly made my way to the second floor cafeteria for a bucket of coffee, then trudged out toward my office. As I stepped out of the cafeteria, I looked up and there was Art. He looked terrible… and justifiably so. “Oh wow, Man… I sure hope you don’t feel like you look.” I said sympathetically. “I do. Do you?” he asked. “Kinda rocky,” I said. “Kinda rocky. See ya later,” and walked past. Suddenly, Art said “Hey, Man…” I turned back. “Yeah?” “What about the snike?” Uh…huh? Where’d I hear that word before… “Huh?” I asked. “Man… what ‘bout the snike?” he repeated. Frowning, I pondered a moment, then asked “’Snike?’ What the hell’s a ‘snike?’ Man, what’re you talking about? I don’t know nothing ‘bout no S N I K E! SNAKE!! OH CRAP! THERE’S A SNAKE IN MY CAR!” “I gotta go!” and with that, suddenly wide awake and stone sober, I hustled to my desk. Got on the phone, called Computer Ops, and said “Wallace! Git down here! I gots your snake in the car! Meet me in the garage in five minutes!” and hung up. I was there in less than a minute; I knew it would take Gary a bit longer to clear security and either navigate the stairs or wait for an elevator. Eventually, he found me beneath the building in the parking area, standing safely about twenty feet from the ‘Texas Gelb’ VW. “Here!” I said, tossing him my keys. “The trunk handle is chained to the front bumper. Open the door, hit the trunk release, then find the key to the padlock. You know how this works!” He grinned, said “Okay” and did as instructed. When the lid was open, he said “Now what?” “Okay!” sez I. “You see that orange airmail bag?” “Yeah,” he said (we’d both worked in the mailroom together). “Okay… so open the bag!” He carefully did so, and peered inside. “Whadda ya see?” I asked, anxiously. “Uh… a canvas money sack.” “Okay… now, take that out.” He did. “Untie the cord and open it.” He did. “Now… look inside!” He did. “So! Whaddaya see inside that sack?” I asked. “Uh… a hole.” He said. A hole? A HOLE? “O Bleep!!” I expleted. “He’s running around loose in my trunk! “Okay… so start taking everything outta the trunk and piling it up! He’s gotta be there! Ya GOTTA find ‘im!” “Okay… but… uh… what kinda snake IS he?” Gary asked. “Damned if I know! I think he’s an argyle!” “Argyle? What the heck kinda snake is an ‘argyle’?” “I don’t know! I think he looked like a stretched out argyle sock! Just FIND him wouldya??” So Gary dutifully set about removing every single item from my trunk – tent, sleeping bag, camp stove, fishing gear, tools, lantern, shovel, small backpack, ammunition, coupla duck decoys… but never did find a snake. Meanwhile, a number of women arriving for work had wandered by and enquired as to what Gary was up to. “Just looking for a missing snake,” was the answer, and they’d scurry off to their jobs. And a bit more. Finally, we gave up. Gary re-loaded the trunk, and we made our way back into the secured building, he disappointed, and me dismayed. As I reached my desk, the phone was ringing. “CURMUDGEON! Get your butt into my office RIGHT NOW!” blurted Dona, my boss and usually very good friend. I meekly skulked through her door just as she was lifting her feet off the floor and placing them safely in her bottom desk drawer. Her eyes were sparking as she glared at me and demanded “Is it true? Did you really lose a SNAKE in the garage?” “Well… not really…” I humbly replied. “WHADDAYA MEAN NOT REALLY?” she snarled. I explained. Didn’t help much… I could see her skin literally begin to crawl – we shared the same level of affection for the no-shouldered creatures. With a piercing glare, she said “You get David Williams, you get your butt back down to that garage, and you FIND THAT SNAKE! Do you hear me??” Uh… yes ma’am. I raced out of her office, found David – he’d been briefed, and was not bothered by snakes – and off to the garage we went. David repeated Gary’s efforts, pausing occasionally as we would watch some panicked lady squealing her way from the lobby door to a car to make her escape from the office building, which by now was known to be plumb crawling with deadly vipers. But no joy. David not only completely emptied the trunk, but he removed the liner and spare tire. No snake. We re-packed everything – again – but before locking the chain around the bumper, I propped the lid open with a shotgun shell, leaving a gap through which the beastie might find his way out or at least get some fresh air. We then went back to our workstations. However, en route to my office, I detoured through the break room and posted a 3 x 5 card on the bulletin board: “For Sale: 1973 VW Super Beetle. Excellent Condition. Call Rod in Distribution.” Alas… there were no takers. I was miserable. Dona was mad. Women were terrified. Come to think of it… so was I, somewhat. Then I had an idea. I called Information, and asked for the number for Volkswagen of America headquarters, which at the time was in Fairfield, in or near what would someday be the Jelly Belly Jellybean complex. When an operator answered, I asked to be connected to some engineering type person familiar with the Type 1 Super Beetle version. A few clicks, and a gentleman answered, said his name was Bill, and asked if he could help me. I asked if he was an engineering type; he stated that he was, and asked again how he could be of assistance. I took a deep breath, then told him the entire sordid tale. When finished, I asked, “So… my question is… is there any way that snake can find his way from the luggage compartment into the passenger compartment?” Silence. “Uh… Hullo?” Then, a ‘clunk’ as the phone was dropped on the other end. And a sudden gale of guffaws… followed by “Hey! Pete! Jordan! Harry! C’mere!! You gotta hear this!!” and I had to endure listening to Bill relate the entire thing to his colleagues… who joined him in his mirthful celebrations. Finally, he picked up the phone, and between giggles and snorts and snickering sobs, assured me that there was no way Mr Jake the Snake could find his way from the luggage compartment into the passenger compartment. I didn’t believe him. So that evening, when it came time to go home, with a flashlight and a ruler I very carefully and thoroughly searched Otto’s interior, including under the seats, under the floor mats, and above the visors. No snake. Okay. All was good. Almost. While driving along Park Presidio, as I entered a curve, the briefcase parked on the passenger seat suddenly shifted, and it’s strap fell across the parking brake onto my right arm. I honestly don’t know who screamed loudest; me, or the fellow in the lane next to me as he reacted to the sight of a young man climbing out the window of a hurtling yellow VW, screeching in terror. Fortunately, I recovered; he recovered; and neither of us crashed. The next few days were relatively uneventful. Every morning, before driving off to work I would “sweat” the interior of the car; finding no sign of my guest, I’d continue. I’d repeat in the evening before driving home. I think it must’ve been Wednesday or Thursday when I realized I needed gasoline, and that evening I pulled into an Atlantic Richfield station on Geary Boulevard. The attendant walked over to me and asked in a heavy Middle Eastern accent if he could help me – and made it clear that my business was not really appreciated at that time as they were in the process of closing, punctuating his words with waves of the sprinkler tool he held in his hand. “Yeah… fill ‘er up with premium, please.” I said. Note – self-service was illegal in SF in those days. He started the fill, and I got out to stretch my legs. I decided to check to make sure my shotgun shell was still propping the lid slightly open. I bent over the fender to look, and satisfied myself that it indeed was still in situ. But what the heck is THAT? I asked myself. I bent closer to examine a very odd sight: there appeared to be a length of “aeroquip” hose wrapped about the bumper mount. “What the heck?” I asked myself. I leaned further, ‘til my face was mere inches from the tube, examining it, when suddenly and certainly unexpectedly, Mr Snake stuck his head out from inside the bumper, and I swear, grinned as he stuck his tongue out at me and wriggled it! “OMIGAWD! There he IS!” I blurted as I jumped back. “What? What?” asked the attendant. “Look!” was all I could say, pointing toward the bracket. He looked. He looked. And bent as closely as I had for a closer look. “What is THAT?” he demanded. “Whaddaya mean, ‘what is that?’” I asked. “Just LOOK at it!” He did. And sure ‘nuff, Mr Snake repeated the “Snake-In-The-Box” routine, complete with grin and tongue. That did it. Mr Warm-and-Friendly Gas Station Attendant reacted as if he’d been hit with a cattle prod. He stood bolt upright, his eyes glazed, then he tossed his sprinkler tool several yards as he threw his head back and began shouting in some foreign language. He then placed a foot on my passenger side fender, launched himself to the top of the gas pump, then began to bounce up and down in a crouch while babbling raucously in a strange Quasimodo fashion. The second attendant, who turned out to be his brother, rushed out to save him from whatever attack was in progress, armed with a push-broom which he was prepared to brain me with. I dodged around the car, yelling “No! No! It’s not ME!” while his freaked out li’l bro chattered and yammered and yodeled, pointing at the bumper. He finally looked, and being the braver member of the family, decided after recognizing the snake decided to defend his sibling and his territory by poking and pestering that hapless creature until finally, having had enough, it unwound itself from the bumper bracket, dropped to the cement, and started to slither away in disgust. Older bro clapped his broom onto the poor thing, and I shouted “what the hell are you doing?” “I’m going to KILL it!” he screamed. In defense of my former passenger, I barked “Like HELL you are!” We stood there arguing over the fate of the poor serpent when a group of four pedestrians – two guys with their dates, obviously somewhat into their cups - wandered over to see what the commotion was about. Being the best English speaker of the gas station trio, I told the story and eventually explained how at this point I was trying to save the unfortunate reptile’s life. Suddenly, one of the gentlemen bent down to examine it and said with glee “Look! It’s a ‘whatchamacallit snake’! “Uh… Can I have it…?” he asked with a happy, pleading expression. “Mister, if you want that snake and you can save him by all MEANS! He’s YOURS!” He gave a little laugh of delight as he scooped up Jake and rescued him from the push broom. My last sight of ol’ No Shoulders was of him wrapped around some fella’s neck, happily headed east down the sidewalk of Geary Boulevard. I did not sell Otto. Not then, anyway, and instantly regretted it when I finally did a few years later. That was the second time I’d had a snake in my car. The first is another story… but this WAS the last. Nope. Ol’ Hardpan don’ do snakes.

And then... Snakes, Cowboys, and the Aurora Borealis A year or so here on the Wire someone queried whether any of us had seen the Aurora Borealis – the Northern Lights. One of the fellas - I think it might've been Dusty Devil Dale - responded with a tale of driving up to Fort Miller, the cowboy shooting range, with his wife in the hopes of seeing the light show. No joy. But they did have an encounter with a five-foot rattlesnake. Which brought to mind a memory…. That's a right snakey road there, leading up to Fort Miller! 'Bout... oh... fourteen years or so ago I took Ms Helen Brimstone up to show off the facility and regale her with tales of the KRR. As we began the drive back down the hill, I told her about Madera Dave's hat band - made from a rattler he ran over on that very road. Just as I said it, she pointed and said "Oh! You mean like that one?" Sure 'nuff, there was about a three-and-a-half footer moseying across the road. I made an instant decision - Sassparilla Kid had been wanting a new hat band for a while, and by golly, there 'twas, right in front of me! So I did the natural thing, and altered my course slightly with the intent of dispatching Mr No-Shoulders with a dose of Dodge. Well... he made a quick transition from mosey mode to "Duck!" mode. I missed. So I backed up, had Ms Brimstone disembark to give direction, and made another go at the critter. Now he was in scoot mode - and I foolishly attempted to match his maneuvering. Twice! I'm here to tell you, that dude was agile - and I finally found myself pretty much stuck, with the starboard drive wheel suspended over the drainage ditch, and one by now righteously pissed-off snake buzzing away under my truck. Well, with Helen "spotting" for me so I could avoid Jake, I alighted from the Dodge. I called the Kid as I started my climb back up to the range; he said he wanted the hatband and would arrive forthwith. When I reached the range I fortuitiously ran into Eagle Eye Joe. Joe was happy to drive down and pull the Dodge back into four-on-the-pavement position. And he was gracious enough to not laugh... too much. I can't say the same about Ms Brimstone. But the Kid got his snake; later that day I got a call from him: "Dad! Mind if I use your kitchen? Ma don't want no raddlesnakes cooked up in hers!"

Don't wanna intrude on Irish Pat's "Turkey Hunting" thread, but on the subject of rattlesnakes - I've got a bunch of stories. Here's one I think I posted a few years ago.... Rattleberries I do like berries. Blackberries, especially. When I was a kid, we lived in Everett, Washington for a while. In that area in those days the highly invasive, non-native Himalayan Blackberries grew wild everywhere. In season, Ma would hand me a couple of buckets and send me out to pick berries. Needless to say, I'd eat a bunch while picking, and never got tired of 'em. Huge... rich... sweet... with SO much flavor! Nothing at all like the scrawny li'l wild berries of California. Back home, I’d hand Ma the full buckets, and she'd empty 'em and send me out for more. I'll never forget the heady fragrance of that steamy kitchen as she’d put up dozens and dozens of jars of blackberry jam to be enjoyed year 'round. Ooo.... butter and jam slathered on fresh, hot-from-the-oven biscuits... and for dessert after supper, blackberry cobbler!! But, as I am wont to do, I digress. On a warm August back in 1987, I’d taken my then 14-year old cousin Joey deer hunting in the Mendocino Forest. The kid was young, eager, and excited, and had planned for this outing all year. One of the highlights for him came when he asked if he could strap on my Ruger Mk II .22 pistol while in camp. Just in case any rattlesnakes might wander through, don’tcha know. Having some memory of what it’s like to be a fourteen-year-old boy, I winked and handed it to him and he strapped it on with a proud grin. So, late afternoon of our second day, I told the lad I had a treat for ‘im. “Follow me!” I directed, and led him a couple hundred yards down a trail to a spring I knew of in a hollow choked with blackberry vines. “Enjoy!” I said. The kid’s eyes lit up and he started stuffing his mouth. The berries were small, but sweet and very plentiful. Meanwhile, I waded into the vines and was enjoying my own snack, ignoring the thorns that kept snagging my boot and pants leg. After a few moments the kid started making odd sounds. I looked at him, his cheeks were stuffed with berries, berry juice was dribbling from his chin, and he was going “Mmph! Phmmph! Glggph!” “Boy, don’t talk with your mouth full!” I admonished. I knew that his ma had raised him with better manners than that. Looking like he might choke to death in the effort, he chomped mightily a couple of times then swallowed hard. A lump of blackberries went down his throat like a pig through a snake – no pun intended. Then, spraying berry bits, he pointed toward my feet and shouted “RATTLESNAKE!” I looked down and was startled to see that the annoying vine that had been snagging at my boot and cuff was actually a very annoyed snake, futilely attempting to defend what he considered his personal domain from the giant, berry-munching monster. I obliged, and as quickly as I could, stepped out of the bush and retreated about ten feet. The kid went in to action: Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop ! “Here! Hold this!” he barked as he handed me the pistol. Astonished, I watched him dart away along the trail. Huffing, he returned about four minutes later, retrieved the Ruger, re-loaded and emptied a second magazine into the boggy berry vines. That poor snake never had a chance. I swear, you could’ve dried ‘im in the sun, then played him like a flute. And ever since then, I’ve been wary of California blackberry brambles.

Nope. Tastes like calamari.

Naw. Fresno.

Huh! Good timing, Joe! Gonna share this with Ms Helen Brimstone... I was asking her this very question a few weeks ago; she had no idea. And she's a retired CalTrans engineer!

Tripled~!!

I betcha by now Gavin's place is surrounded by california Highway Patrol officers....

Aaand why is it called "golf?" Because all the other four-letter words were taken!

Lookin' forward to seein' 'em in Salinas this coming October.... https://www.salinasairshow.com/

Must've got caught in some hot water... it done shrunk~!

Yer right! Here's ol' Hardpan with his May of 1943 built Spring-'em-up-field~! Acquired in '87 or there'bouts from the old Department of Civilian Marksmanship (DCM), predecessor of the CMP. Stamped S. A. / E.McF. (Springfield Armory / Earl McFarland)...

That inspector stamp on the stock appear to be legit: https://www.them1garand.com/stock-identification https://www.them1garand.com/ghs Also, if you're not already a member of the Garand Collectors Association, I'd recommend joining up. It's only thirty-five bucks, a great source of information, AND membership qualifies you for CMP purchases. https://thegca.org/

Amazing! Walz beat Newsom to it...?

Tom, are ya lookin' for what we used to call "Poplin" windbreakers? Check these: London Fog, from Amazon Land's End Or, just Google "Poplin Windbreaker"

Aaaand remember... you can pet a cat, and you can pet a dog, but you can NOT 'pet a luma~!'

Back about '06, I came home from work one afternoon and found the light blinking on my answering machine. Curious, I punched the button, and was surprised to hear a voice announcing itself as one Mister Woods, my son’s eighth grade English teacher. “Mr Curmudgeon, this is Mr Woods, your son’s English teacher. I was wondering if it might be possible to have a discussion with you about your son, at your earliest convenience.” Needless to say, I was beyond intrigued, and the very next morning presented myself at his classroom door about a half-hour before the start of the school day. Mr Woods looked up, and asked, “Can I help you?” “Hi!” I said, and introduced myself. “So you said you needed to speak with me?” “Oh, yes!” he replied with raised eyebrows. “Come on in and please close the door behind you!” Uh oh. This can’t be good. I shut the door, and asked “so what’s goin’ on?” as I settled into a ‘visitor chair’ next to his desk. He offered his hand, and introduced himself. “Well, Mister Curmudgeon, here’s the deal. "The class has an assignment to write an instructional paper before next weeks Open House. And the response has been really fun, and even gratifying. For example, one young man wrote about how to score a baseball game. A young lady wrote on how to prepare a traditional Seder dinner. “But your son has come up with something totally different!” “Uh…” I said with apprehension. “So what did he write about?” “Well!” Mr Woods continued: “Well… your son, Sassparilla, wrote a paper entitled... 'How To Make Moonshine!'” I was stunned. “Oh my Gosh! I had NO idea! I can assure you, he didn’t get the idea from me!” Mr Woods leveled his gaze at me. “Well… due to the adult nature of his topic, I thought it appropriate to involve you. If you approve, I will allow his paper to stand and grade him on it. “But Mr Curmudgeon, I have to tell you: I come from a LONG line of moonshiners, and your kid has it DOWN!” With that, I decided to let the Kid get graded on his project. For the record, he did receive an A+ on the assignment; however, when the papers were displayed for the school’s Open House event, his was suspiciously but not surprisingly absent. One last item: Two or three years later, purely as a scientific experiment (ahem!), the Kid did construct an actual still in his mom’s kitchen. Purely in the name of education, of course! Anyway, he produced about a half-pint of a clear, volatile liquid. I took a sample to Hank's missus (her dad had been the family 'shiner); she examined it and pronounced it to be “About 120 proof.” Subsequently, our beverage production has since been limited to home-made root beer and sarsaparilla.

And weeds. LOTS of weeds.

Innerestin' question!

There is a difference, albeit slight.... Norton the First, Emperor of These United States and Protector of Mexico Newsom the First, Emperor of california and Benefactor of Mexico (With Hearty Thanks to Mr & Mrs Subdeacon Joe)

Not quite forty years ago I was working for a li'l outfit called Bank of America, in San Francisco. One afternoon, on a whim, I walked into a co-worker's office. "Gail," sez I to the startled lady, "Gail, are you the Gail Cain who won the Bulwer-Lytton contest??" She recovered after a moment, grinned at me, and said "Yup!" and then recited her entry - winner of the first B-L award, 1983: Nice gal!

Slightly OT, but tangentially related... Windows 11. MS is going to ceas supporting 10 (and all previous editions) this October. But my computer, which works fine, will not support 11. So... I reckon I - and a few million other folk - will be shopping for a new 'puter. *Grump!*

Very cool photo! But I do hope them front-seaters had ear plugs....

I hope they paid someone well to clean and oil all them salt-water-soaked shotguns.... And THEN slapped somebody plumb silly for comin' up wit' the idea in the first place!