Hardpan Curmudgeon SASS #8967

I'm glad I gots my LCRx when I did (I likes me a hammer!), but with a MSRP of $310 less than the Ruger, the new S&W's gonna be a contender.

Five Oh Four October 17, 1989. Five o’clock in the afternoon and life was good. Most of my co-workers had vacated. But I was still in the office, and undoubtedly would be for some time. The third game of the Best World Series in History was about to begin and I was going to miss it… but wasn’t worried one bit – I’d set my VCR, and it would just be starting. My hometown Oakland A’s versus the San Francisco Giants! I’d make a point of not listening to the game on the radio, and when I did finally make it home I’d settle back with a nice dinner and watch from the start. It was going to be great! Well, as Bobbie Burns said, “The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!” Five o’clock. I puttered about, seeing the backs of the last stragglers headed for the elevators, eager to begin the 18 floor descent to ground level and their own dashes toward home or to join the throngs at a local “watering hole.” A small handful remained to tend the finish of the days settlements; me, Mabel Woo, Huey Cassidy, Brenda Bagis, Marie Tarantan… Four minutes later life changed. With the first tremor we took note. Almost automatically, we all looked for our resident NYB’s (pronounced “nibs.”) New York Bankers. We were infested with ‘em. Brought in by hordes to “save us from ourselves” after a major system conversion had gone south a couple years earlier. By and large an unpleasantly intense bunch. Predictably, your typical NYB was capable of increasing the collective blood pressure of a conference room full of natives by his or her mere presence… frequently causing downright unhealthy spikes. The fortunate thing was that this tended to be a condition with a built-in terminal date. Invariably, after an indeterminate period of one to three years, an invisible switch would *click* and a most amazing transformation would occur – the NYB would experience an instant conversion to Reborn Californian, surrounded by a “mist of Mellow.” Take David Steinberg or Bob Lyons, for example. A year and a half we suffered with Steinberg… even if he walked into a conference room unseen and unheard, the hairs on one’s arms and back of the neck would lift and tingle. And then one day, David (now “Dave!”) strolled in with a smile, dressed in shorts, sandals, and an aloha shirt. We all smiled… Dave had been ASSIMILATED! Bob always had one in a defensive state, readily lacing his monologues with degrading statements such as his “definition of the West Coast Work Ethic – ‘DON’T!’” Then one morning, Bob drove up in an old MG Midget, strolled in with a smile… he had become One of Us. Downright endearing. But this current batch was still pre-conversion. Difficult to live with. One of our few pleasures was watching them react to local events, such as demonstrations, riots, and of course, earthquakes. And what a delight they were when the earth quaked! Why, they KNEW what to do… they’d been told before they ever made the migration West. So, at the instant they detected a shiver and determined it was not someone trundling past with a pastry cart, they would immediately brace themselves in a doorway. If it became anything more, we “natives” would find great delight in noting their expensively-clad butts poking out from beneath desks. Great fun! But not today. Not October 17, 1989. Not at five oh four p m on this day. One of my clearest memories of that afternoon was the few NYBs in sight freezing in situ. Not a one of ‘em made a dash for a doorway or desk. But we natives did! Because we KNEW. We knew this was “The Big Eye-Tee.” This one was IT! I ducked into my office doorway and grasped the doorframe on each side. As desks hopped, acoustic ceiling tiles flew like errant Frisbees, and desktop items crashed to the floor, I watched Huey, Mable, and Marie scramble for cover. Hearing a plaintive yelp, I looked out and spotted Brenda. Evidently returning from the Lady’s, she had been just entering our department when IT hit. And there she was… she’d grasped the doorknobs on each side of the door, and was hanging on like it was a narrow motorcycle handlebar. Her feet were off the floor; she was squeezing the door with her knees, riding it as it swung to and fro, weakly crying “Mama! Mama!!” Soon, Brenda was drowned out by a cacophony of rumbling and crashing. By now all the ceiling light fixtures had popped from their moorings and were swinging by the power cables. I heard another heartsick sound – the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase slamming shut. We were trapped. Eventually, it stopped. After a few ending shudders and rolls, we “natives” crawled or stepped from our shelters. The NYB’s continued to stand in place, stock-still… each apparently stunned. But we were still trapped. Obviously, the elevators were off-line, and the magnetically controlled access doors to the emergency staircase were still shut – and could not be opened. And it was dark. Not completely, but electrical power was lost. The only illumination was from the exterior windows and a few scattered emergency lamps. Surprisingly, the phones were still operable – others quickly checked with loved ones; I reached my missus at home and made a tentative plan for her to meet me at the ferry terminal in Vallejo. As I recall, somehow those doors were eventually freed, allowing us to make the absurdly long hike to ground level. While en route I took a slight detour two floors down to check on my dear friend Dona Johnson. As expected, she was still there. Not as expected, the normally calm and unflappable woman was in shock and barely functional. “Dona! Let’s go – we need to get out of here!” With a vacant expression, she would only say “I think we should wait and see what happens… don’t you?” After she’d repeated this twice, I grabbed a phone and found that my boss (who was an otherwise creepy fella) was still in his office. I knew that he had taken BART to work and would not have a way home, so I quickly came up with a plan: Dona was in no condition to drive home to Richmond – and had she been, we had not yet heard of the partial collapse of the Bay Bridge. Jeff would use her car to get home, but would first drive us to the Ferry Terminal. I would put Dona on a boat to Richmond, and I would board one bound for Vallejo. I gently but insistently helped Dona to the ground floor, working our way through a crowd of dazed and lost-soul looking bankers. Just before we rendezvoused with Jeff, Eric Mendelson spotted me and dashed over. “Rocko! The Bay Bridge is down! Look… you can stay at my place in the Marina district for the night – or longer, if need be…” I thanked Eric, and told him what we were about. Then I looked to the northeast. The sky in that direction was covered by a wall of smoke. “Eric…” He followed my gaze, and groaned. Indeed, it would be many days until he would be able to reach home – and then only to gather belongings and evacuate. I wished him well, and Jeff and Dona and I made our way quickly to the garage. I had Dona give Jeff her keys, and we found our way onto the city streets. Jeff was only able to get us to within three blocks of the Ferry Terminal – the roadways were filled with mobs of people; indeed, the scene immediately brought to mind the countless Godzilla movies of my youth, with half of Tokyo desperately trying to escape the monster. I also noticed that in places the sidewalks were littered with rubble – mostly chunks of masonry; brick cornices and window ledges. It’s all still a blur, but after leaving Jeff, I steered Dona to the terminal. Amazingly, there were two boats there – I managed to get her a ticket and aboard the Richmond-bound ship. When she saw the collapsed section of the bridge, her mind cleared and she realized what she needed to do. I don’t recall how she made it home from the terminal in Richmond, but we had that figured out before she embarked. Seeing her safely aboard, I made my way through the crowd to the Vallejo dock. Oh Christ, NOW what? I thought as I saw the boat standing off from the dock. Her captain was evidently unsure about the wisdom of trying to tie up, pointing to the bent spire of the terminal building. Finally, as a result of either pleads and cajoling or shouted threats of his fate later if he did NOT dock, he came in. Needless to say, the boat was more crowded than I’d ever seen. Despite mental images of those Phillipine ferry tragedies we all read about (boats capsizing when overloaded), we boarded and eventually got underway. If there was one fortunate twist to this it is the timing – the ferry had been delayed almost an hour, giving me the opportunity to get aboard. And of course, the boat ride was both memorable and forgettable. I do recall the on-board bar doing a bang-up business, pretty much depleting their stock by the time we reached our destination. And of course, there were NO “earthquake discounts.” But we made it. When we disembarked, Lisa was waiting for me, wide-eyed and astonished. We transported another ferry passenger home then drove to our own. Later that night, after ascertaining that the Carquinez Bridge was open, she drove me to Concord to fetch my li’l Ford Ranger, parked at a bank garage near the BART station. Then back home, for a well-deserved glass of “adult beverage.” The following morning would begin the next part of the story – to be shared later. And by the way – my recorded tape of the ball game turned out to be a remarkable documentary. * * * * *

I wuz there.

Thank yew, Joe! I thought so. The kid has talent! Ms Brimstone was plumb tickled with it... and also very much appreciated the "Happy Birthdays!" She's definitely into faeries ~ here's one that's been in her back yard for a few years:

LOL... Not for a long time, but the short answer would be ~ yup!

Whazzat Sheldon...?

So it's time to celebrate Ms Helen Brimstone's birthday. And no, I will NOT state her age - but she is a mite younger than me. Anyway, I thought I'd give her something totally whimsical for her b'day. And Ms Helen happens to really like faeries. And, it also just so happens that I have a great-niece who does a bit of sculpting, when she's not busy with school or farm chores. So, I contacted the young lady, and "commissioned" her to make a Faerie House. Yesterday, the mail brought a package, which contained one faerie house - with faerie, seated on a mushroom! Below are pictures. I think she did a wonderful job! She started with a glass jar for an armature, and built it up with clay. I'm impressed with the detail; even the roof mushrooms have gills on their undersides. And an interesting feature is that it is not painted! Rather, it is literally made with different colors of clay... if she does not have a desired color, she will mix clays to create the shade she wants. Oh - and with an electric tea light inside, the windows magically glow! I don't know if she could tell me how many hours she put into it, but I'm sure it was quite a few. And here's a kicker: The lass just turned fourteen! One Faerie House, With Faerie

Ya know... mebbe we could get Elon to fund building a prison there. That'd bring a whole new definition to "Maximum Security~!" They'd be tighter than "Super Max!" Mebbe... "Ultra Max??" It'd make Guantanamo look like "Camp Cupcake!"

Uh... Alps... purty sure that ain't ketchup. Nor catsup. That's a Turkish restaurant; most likely, that's a generic squeeze bottle filled with a Turkish-style chili sauce (aci sos). Make some and squirt it on yer kabobs! Turkish Kebab House Chili Sauce (Acı Sos) 🧂 Ingredients 1 cup tomato passata (or smooth tomato sauce) 2 tbsp tomato paste 1–2 tbsp red pepper paste (biber salçası) (key ingredient if you can find it) 1–2 tsp chili flakes (Aleppo pepper preferred, or crushed red pepper) 2 cloves garlic, finely minced 2 tbsp olive oil 1 tbsp white vinegar (or lemon juice) 1 tsp sugar ½ tsp salt (adjust to taste) ½ tsp cumin ½ tsp paprika (smoked if you like) Optional: pinch of dried mint or oregano 🔥 Instructions Warm the oil in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Add garlic and cook gently (don’t brown it). Stir in: tomato paste pepper paste Cook 1–2 minutes to deepen flavor. Add tomato passata and mix well. Stir in all remaining ingredients. Simmer gently for 10–15 minutes, stirring occasionally. Taste and adjust: More vinegar = tangier More chili = hotter More sugar = smoother balance 🥣 Texture tip (important) For that squeeze-bottle consistency, thin with a little water until it pours easily but still coats a spoon. For a smoother restaurant feel, you can blend it briefly.

Dang, I had put that in; evidently it got deleted with a correction. Anyway, 'twas a sandwich, on dark rye.

@Subdeacon Joe's thread exploring the world of ketchup raised some memories of odd food encounters... mostly with my old pard, Half-Breed Pete. There have been others, to be sure, but Pete's have been particularly memorable. One of the earliest was... oh, some 54 years ago. Walked into the kitchen of the Kappa Phi Delta house one morning, and there sat Pete. Poor guy was on the "puny list," with a pretty bad case of the flu. But, even sick, he had a strong appetite - his motto was "Feed a Cold, Feed a Fever." So there he sat, enjoying breakfast: Kippers and Liederkranz (think limburger) cheese with horseradish. For breakfast! My own appetite disappeared. Another popular breakfast with the lad was to take a bowl of oatmeal, then toss in a handful of pumplin seeds and... sliced jalapeños. "Pretty good... but get real interestin' on the other end!" One can only imagine! A bunch of us had once gathered for a weekend in Cayucos, a small beach town on the central coast. Pete offered to cook dinner... his "famous Hide the Weenie" roast. He took several tri-tip roasts, cut "sleeves" length-wise through them, and inserted a variety of sausages, treated with a variety of herbs and spices, then roasted over coals. I will admit, the outcome was tasty... but visually jarring. I'd post pictures*, but quite honestly, they'd likely get me banned. When poor Helen Brimstone saw the outcome, she literally broke into hysterical laughter to a point where she couldn't breath. Thought she'd need CPR! When her adult daughter saw one, she literally screamed, then yelled "Get it away! Get it away!" *Available only upon request The man has no limits when it comes to spices and condiments - his imagination has no bounds. Mustard and sour cream on a fried chicken leg? Why not! Sauerkraut burrito? But, of course! However, I did intervene during a visit a couple years ago - I'd made breakfast. From scratch. Hollandaise... Canadian bacon... poached eggs... "Pete! Put that bottle down! You are NOT going to drench my glorious Eggs Benedict with Crystal Hot Sauce!" But for all that, the man does have a - albeit slight - twinge of squeamishness. "Menudo? Oh, NO WAY! That's 'gut soup!' I ain't gonna eat that!" And when I once served up a classic presentation platter of raw oysters, the man actually turned a fair pastel green. I will give him one, though... for decades I resisted his suggestion of pickeled jalapeños with... peanut butter. It took raising my son first, who finally relented and tried one - "Hey, Dad! This is actually pretty good!" I finally tried one, and was pleasantly surprised! Present day Half-Breed Pete

I reckon he wasn't a sailor... There is a very famous, often-cited story in the United States Navy that Admiral Hyman Rickover—the "Father of the Nuclear Navy"—would disqualify, or "fire," prospective officers who salted their food before tasting it during a lunch interview. The Rationale: Rickover interviewed all potential nuclear officers. He required absolute attention to detail and hated when candidates made assumptions. By salting food without tasting it first, a candidate demonstrated that they followed habit over careful observation, a trait that could lead to catastrophe on a nuclear submarine.

I likes it! (But I'm sure glad I gave up putting in on eggs when I was seven years old....) 🤢

So... what's the faulty "bio-pacemaker" part that causes AFib? I ain't askin' for a friend. (Might consider changin' my alias to "The Metoprolol Kid")

Well now, ain't this innerestin'.... Seems the doode that "allegedly" started the fire was so proud of hisself that he done went and posted a video on Facebook! And of course, it's the company's fault for not paying him more: Mebbe they'll give him a cell with bucket o' corncobs....

I missed it... what loading machine is this~?

It ain't your dad's shoe polish company no mo'... Shinola stopped making shoe polish sixty-six years ago! But the name lives on... sorta... SHINOLA Meanwhile, I'm still happy with Kiwi. But, just imagine...!

Nope... Mr Alpo is actually pretty darned bright. AND has a finely developed (albeit sometimes a mite skewed, but muchly appreciated) sense of humor...

Uh oh ~ time to stock up on... nope, not powder and primers - time to stock up on TP, paper towels, Kleenex... all that kinda stuff... Seems someone has done gone and burned down the nearly 28-acre Kimberly-Clark warehouse in Southern california!! Evidently they caught the scurvy low-life. Prob'ly has stock in a bidet company. Article

Ms Helen Brimstone and I started it this evening ~ unfortunately, I had to leave to play Boy Scout with fifteen minutes left in the first episode... will finish later in the week. I have to say, it was nothing like what I expected. I agree with @Choctaw Jack's assessment; it's so far Sheridan's best. Perhaps my new favorite. The opening scenes made me think of Badger Mountain Charlie....

Is it common for a backseater to be a colonel...?

I suspect there might be someone who won't get it...

Check out the "Hank" story I just posted... it's related, and makes my point...

Bad Decisions IN 1836 SAMUEL COLT DESIGNED THE FIRST PRACTICAL REVOLVER. Despite a tremendous reluctance by the world to accept such a radically innovative machine, he eventually prevailed, and the company he founded in 1855 is still producing Colt firearms. Sam’s most iconic product turned out to be the 1873 Single Action Army revolver, the “Peacemaker.” This design, still manufactured today by a number of companies, gave rise to the saying “God created men, and Sam Colt made them equal.” Now for my story. It was early summer, 1975, as I recall, on a peaceful Sunday evening. I was relaxing, probably focused on tying flies or fletching arrows or some such, when the phone rang. “Hi, Rod. It’s Patsy.” Patsy? Uh oh… why would Tom’s wife be calling me? Omigawd! What had Tom done now? Well, Tom was off the hook. But the news still was not good. “Rod… I’m sorry to tell you this, but Hank shot himself today.” My heart jumped into my throat, then sank with an audible “thud.” But he was still alive! Evidently, there’d been an accident. Hank and Fred were going to the shooting range that afternoon, and Hank had planned on shooting his 1873 Colt. The “Peacemaker.” The venerable John Wayne, Hopalong Cassidy, and Gene Autry six-shooter. Now, without getting too technical here, it is correct to call it a “six-shooter.” But anyone familiar with the revolver also understood that, even though it IS a six-shooter, you never loaded more than five. For safety purposes, you always left an empty chamber under the hammer. Unless your name is Hank. “By Gawd, it’s a SIX shooter! Sam Colt designed it to hold six shots, and I’m a-gonna load it with six shots!” Bad decision number one. Hank had just reloaded a batch of ammunition, and decided to make sure they all fit before leaving for the range. To do so, he slipped a round into each chamber. At home. In his bedroom. Just checking. Bad decision number two. Then he figgered he’d make sure the revolver fit into its holster. While loaded. Bad decision number three. At this point, I’m going to stop counting the bad decisions; follow along, and see if you can spot any more! So there he was, holding the holster, when the revolver slipped out and fell toward the floor. Hank later described the scene as if it was playing in slow motion. The revolver falling. His hand chasing it, hoping to catch it or bat it to the side before it hit the hardwood. But the laws of physics (with a little help from Mr Murphy) sez you cannot bend over and reach faster than a hunk of iron can fall. And, of course, the revolver landed hammer first. Which caused it to detonate the round in the chamber beneath the hammer – the chamber that should have been empty. The soft lead bullet struck Hank in the shin… “Man, it was like I had a new sideways knee – the leg just folded!” Fred dashed in to the room and immediately assessed the situation. He yelled at his son to call an ambulance, and with his fingers, clamped off the artery until help arrived. As they wheeled Hank into the ER, he heard the nurse behind the counter say into her phone “why, Missus B, they’re bringing your son in now!” and insisted they detour the gurney to her station. He took the phone from her and said “Now Ma, don’t worry… it’s not serious [it was!]… I’m gonna be just fine [he was]… it’s just a flesh wound…[it wasn’t]” Finally, someone snatched the phone from him and said “Dude! We gotta get you IN there!” and wheeled him in to where the doctor and a nurse waited. His description of the process was kinda creepy – “There I was… mindin’ my own business… staring at the ceiling, sweat pouring off, listening to the ‘tink… clunk… pank…’ as the Doc dropped bits of metal and bone into this kidney-shaped steel bowl. He musta worked on me for about twenty minutes or so, then glanced at my eyes. I looked at him. He looked at me. And then he said ‘Nurse, how long has it been since this man was anaesthetized?’ “Well, the nurse looked up, kinda surprised, and said ‘Why Doctor, no one told me to give him anything!’ “Dang, man! You shoulda seen that doc! He spiked his clamp thingee into the linoleum floor and screamed at her ‘#%$^& it! Give him some o’ that [whatever it was] right NOW!’ “So she did and it was all mellow then.” Okay, jump ahead. The following Saturday. Lurch and I made the pilgrimage from Pacifica to Stockton to visit our pard. We arrived at the hospital, and found our way to his room. The door was open. We stepped up to the doorway and looked in. Hank was lying on his bed, drenched. His skin had a pallor that nearly matched his sheets. His eyes were wide open, staring toward the ceiling but focused a thousand yards away. Every few seconds he’d let out a deep breath, with just the slightest hint of a moan. We both looked and were reassured to see that he still had two legs – one wrapped in seeping bandages. Across the room, another patient lay in his bed. Awake… occasionally lifting his sheets to look toward where his feet used to be… shaking his head sadly, then lying back on his pillow. We just stood there, silently watching Hank for a few minutes. Eventually, though, his head turned toward us, his eyes focused, he actually managed a weak smile and croaked “Guys! Damn it’s good to see ya! Come on in!” 200 We walked over, made our “hullos” and shook his hand. His smile was sincere, and broadened a tad. He rolled a bit to his left, opened his nightstand drawer and pulled out a carton of cigarettes – back then, smoking was still accepted in hospitals. He pulled two packs from the end of the carton, tipped the box, and not surprisingly a bottle of whiskey slid out. He twisted the cap off, and we passed the bottle, enjoying a warming guzzle and toasting his recovery. That done, he put it away, and we started to talk. “Damn, Hank! You must really be in a BUNCH o’ pain!” said I. “Oh, I am… I am. But it’s not what you think.” I looked at his leg. “I dunno, man. It looks pretty danged bad.” “Naw, man. Yeah, the leg hurts some, but it ain’t so bad. It’s bearable…” “Well what the heck can hurt worse than a .45 Colt ball through the leg?” “What can hurt worse than that? I’ll tell ya what can hurt worse than that!” he said, with color finally returning to his face. “So I’ve been layin’ up here in this hospital for almost a week now. That’s a whole week of hospital food. Have ya ever had hospital food?” “Uh… purty bad, I’d imagine…” “It is. But the worst part is that hospital food gets in ya and it just packs in like concrete!” and pounded a fist into the other hand for emphasis. I pondered a moment. “Ooohhh…” I said, as realization dawned. Lurch nodded with understanding. “Well, so what’s the problem?” I asked. “You got nurses to help…” “Man… I gotta tell ya. There ain’t NO WAY I can use a danged bedpan!” “At all?” “Nope! Not at ALL!” “Wait! You mean you haven’t pooped for a WEEK?” I blurted. “Well… sorta… but…” “But what??” I asked with a sense of alarm. “Well – a little while ago I heard the doc stop the nurse in the hallway and ask ‘Nurse, has Mr B had a bowel movement yet?’ and the nurse said ‘No, doctor! He won’t use a bedpan!’ and the doc said ‘Well, if he doesn’t have one by this afternoon you give him an enema!’” Oh, Yikes! “So did she give ya an enema?” “Oh HELL no! So there I was… dozing off… and every time I did, I had this horrible dream ‘bout Nurse Ratched coming after me with a fire hose! So finally, I decided I had to DO sumpin’!” His eyes were wide by now… I looked down at his li’l shelf, and saw his bedpan. “Well hey – it still looks clean” I observed. “Dangit, you ain’t payin’ attention! I TOLD you I cain’t use no bedpan!” Hm. “Well then wha’d ya do?” “Well, what I did was I noticed that all them bags with tubes to my arms are on a rack with wheels. So I did what comes natural – I grabbed that sucker and wheeled it in to that john over there!” as he nodded toward the lav door. “I just crawled back on my bed just before you fellas got here.” “OMIGAWD! You took yourself to the john? Good Lord man! Your leg isn’t in a cast or even splinted – no wonder you’re hurting!” “Dammit Boy – you STILL ain’t listening! I TOLD you it ain’t my leg that hurts!” I looked at him. In a moment realization dawned. “Oooo…..! O Wow! You must’ve produced a LOG!” “Oh, it wasn’t all that much of a monument,” he explained. “It took a while, and finally… but, that first plug was about the size and shape of a tuna fish can. And THAT is what hurt!” With that, he reached for the cigarettes again, and we toasted his success. At this point the conversations degenerated and became lively, as we talked of his good fortune with the ER doctor. It seems that the doc was a recently returned MUST surgeon (Medical Unit, Self-contained, Transportable; the Vietnam equivalent of famed M*A*S*H units). He’d been called in at the last minute to cover for the “senior” medic, who had a golf date. Consensus with the nurses was that had the scheduled guy been on duty the leg would’ve been gone. Still might; to that end we spoke of options… like having one of the guys find a horse hoof, and having it mounted with a rubber shoe as a prosthetic. Good time, for a while. But his day and its tribulations was not over. Not yet. A few minutes later, his parents, Bob and Frances, arrived. Now, although this was a good thing, if you did not know his Ma, it’d be kinda hard to understand. Dad shook hands all around, and told Hank that he was “looking good.” He then took a seat to the side, pulled out his pocket knife, and proceeded to clean his nails. This was his normal routine while seated in church; the man had the cleanest nails of any farmer about. Then Mom took over. Lurch and I melted into the background as Mom went to work. A very sweet, silver-haired lady, she had totally mastered the art of mothering and gushing, and set about administering her skills in a most intense manner. We watched as Mrs B mothered and gushed while her youngest son squirmed. Eventually, two orderlies arrived with a gurney. “Hank, we’re here to take you for your x-rays. Folks, he won’t be gone long – feel free to wait here or wander to the cafeteria for some coffee – back in twenty!” With smiles from the orderlies and a look of supreme gratitude from Hank they were off. We waited, engaged in small talk with Hank’s folks. Twenty minutes passed. Forty. An hour, then two. Talking had died off… we occasionally stole glances at Hank’s footless (feetless?) roommate and held our thoughts to ourselves – all thinking as one, I’d suspect. I was sure that they had decided to take his leg; knowing our pard, he would not have wanted his folks to worry and asked that they not be told. Eventually, we heard a gurney squeaking along the hall. Hank was back! The orderlies swiftly and efficiently transferred him back to his bunk, while a following nurse asked “Hank, would you like something for the pain?” “Yes, please.” “Would you like a pill or a shot?” “A shot, please.” She jabbed the boy, then took her leave. And as one, five heads and ten eyes snapped to his leg - the footless (feetless?) roommate was now into it – and the leg was still there! Encased in a marvelous, sparkling, snowy white cast with a set of nifty fore and aft trap doors for accessing the wound. Next, we looked at Hank. He appeared exactly as he had when Lurch and I first arrived… dripping wet with sweat, pale, thousand-yard stare and trembling with a slight palsy. His Ma went in to action. Her full powers of mothering and gushing were unleashed on the poor lad, but with the afterburners on. “Oh Hank, my poor Hank… are you in pain??” “Yes, Mom.” “Oh, my poor boy! Your poor leg!” “Not my leg, Mom.” “Whaddaya mean, not your leg? Of course it’s your leg! Look at it!” “Not my leg, Mom.” “Then just what IS the matter?” she demanded. “Not my leg, Mom. Mom… just let it go. I’ll be okay in a minute when the shot kicks in.” Dad continued whittling his nails, his head shaking from side to side in a disapproving manner. Mom put her fists on her hips, and assumed a commanding pose, as only a mom could. “Hank! I am your MOTHER! And I asked you what is wrong… and I want to know RIGHT NOW what is wrong! Now you tell your mother what is wrong NOW!” Lurch and I tried to shrink into the woodwork. Footless (feetless?) roommate feigned sleep. Dad’s jaw tightened as he continued to whittle. Hank looked forlornly at me. Then Lurch. Then his dad, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. Then back to his mom. He took a deep breath, and let it out… then, with as sorrowful a hangdog look as one can imagine, said: “Mom. I will be okay. It’s just that when they were fixin’ to put the cast on my leg… the technician slipped, and spilled a whole bowl of hot plaster on my scrotum.” Evidently a huge electrical short happened with Mom’s nervous system. She looked as if she’d been hit with a cattle prod… her entire body instantly stiffened as she snapped to ‘attention,’ her eyes popped, her jaw flew open and she gasped a loud “WHA-A-A-AA-T…!” I’ll admit, my jaw also dropped, as did Lurch’s. And the footless (feetless?) roommate’s – which looked kinda odd, as he was supposedly asleep. And with that, Dad had had enough. “SNICK!” went his large knife as he snapped it shut, then stuffed it into his jeans pocket. With his jaw set, eyes set, crimson points on his cheeks, he stood. Two measured steps to the bed. Hands set into fists. He leaned over the bed, propping himself with his fists on his son’s chest, and, with his face now only inches from his wife’s, he snarled: “Frances… they burned the boy’s balls, the boy is in pain, now SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP AND LET THE BOY SUFFER IN PEACE!” Meekly, she did as instructed. Hank looked at his dad with an expression of thankful gratitude. Dad gave him a soft look, tousled his hair, resumed his seat and started a normal conversation, talking about the farm. Mom remained quiet… eventually we all left, so Hank could rest. It took a couple of years or so, but Hank recovered. Not even a limp, although a noteworthy set of scars visible when he wears shorts. He went on to join the Stockton Police Department for a while, then eventually moved back to the family ranch near Reedley. He became a successful farmer, was active in civic events, married and (surprisingly!) sired and raised a son and two daughters, all of whom are doing well in life with families of their own. And henceforth, he preached the wisdom of loading but five in a six shooter. Also, as a side benefit, he became very adept at predicting weather changes! The real Hank his owndangself, shortly before the "incident," visiting me in Pacifica: