Off The Cuff - Have You Ever Had...?

Have You Ever Had...? - © Kent Fletcher
March 11, 2007

Yesterday was not a particularly fun day. I've been working at changing out the U-joints in my 82 Volvo for a solid week, now, and I thought I'd be able to put a wrap on the deal in the late afternoon. Let me go back a few days, and you'll be able to see my frustration.

Last Saturday I removed the driveshaft in toto. Not a particularly easy task as I could only get the rear of the car off the ground to a workable height. The bolts to the differential weren't that difficult to remove, just a tight space. Thankfully I'm not claustrophobic, cause the driveshaft was literally in my face for the entire process.

Long and boring story, short, it's taken me a week to get the driveshaft repaired and ready to reinstall. Lots of running up and down the road, lots of frustration.

Yesterday - Saturday - got the driveshaft all put back together, assembled my needed tools and nuts and bolts and went back under the car. I didn't get very far, however, as I've got to find a way to support the shaft while I'm attempting to get the nuts and bolts in. That's for later today, once I finish this little epistle.

So I was sitting and watching the boob tube for a bit last evening, just about ready to go to bed, when a very pregnant cat - Miss Sophie - hopped into my lap, all lovey-dovey, purring to beat the band, wanting her belly rubbed. Such a tiny thing anyway, she was moving around every few minutes, getting a more comfortable position in my lap, sucking up to that belly-rubbing, when the last time she rolled over, I felt a warm fuzzy on my left thigh. Her water had broken in my lap! And then I watched her sides and I could see the contractions beginning. "This isn't going to work," says I. So I moved her to a chair with several layers of blankets, got her settled down for the long haul - for her - and finally went to bed.

I got up this morning and asked my roomy if we had kittens yet. She said Miss Sophie had been up earlier, had drunk a lot of water, and had disappeared again. She also mentioned her rear end was not a pleasant sight. Imagine that! I think she birthed under the dining room table, back in some dark corner. I'm sure she'll reveal her brood to us in time. However, I'm concerned that because she is so small anyway, that her first litter may not make it. The same thing happened to another cat outside, she lost the first litter but soon birthed another, and cute ones, too.

Hah! Another "first" for me, having an animal in my lap and her water breaking! Has anyone ever had this experience? Made my day, that's for sure! Forgot all about the driveshaft for a little while. Ain't life grand!

Off The Cuff - A Sea Story (kinda)

A Sea Story (kinda) - © Kent Fletcher
March 6, 2007

This morning on a writer's board I frequent, someone brought up the notion he had been attached to a Navy Reserve unit in Millington, TN, way, way back in the 1950s whose duty was a submarine tracker. Another person noted she didn't know there were submarines anywhere around Memphis, TN. This all reminded me of a time in my life that, well, just read on, and I'll tell you a short story.

In 1975, I reenlisted in the Navy Reserve at Millington, TN, not for drilling purposes but to sign on for the TAR Program (Training and Administration of Reserves). The title was retired/deleted from Reserve nomenclature a couple of years ago, but the personnel who served under it before, still do, just under another title. Something like FTS (Full Time Support). One night several weeks later I got a call from the Recruiter, saying he had my orders in hand, but to a place he could not pronounce. So he started spelling, "P-U-E...", and I finished it for him, "B-L-O, Colorado! Yes, I'll take those orders! I accept!" I was yelling and jumping for joy. When I finally came down, he asked me how I knew how to spell it. I told him I had kinfolk there, and I had tried unsuccessfully to get work there in 1974 when I got off active duty. So in a matter of a couple of weeks, I was driving down the road, heading west to begin another chapter in my life.

When I reported onboard, I found out just exactly what I was going to be doing - handling personnel records across the board. But I was a Yeoman (YN) not a Personnelman (PN). Didn't matter, I was an admin type and that's what the job called for. So I had a very tense learning curve for a year or so, even got to go to a two-week school in New Orleans to learn the tricks of the position. Of course, there is always the school way, the Navy way to accomplish a mission, but mostly there is simply the way that gets the job done, school and/or Navy be damned. I had gotten enough under my belt before I attended the school to run circles around most everyone else in the class. Heck, I was even promoted to PN2 for my efforts, ceremoniously, of course.

I had charge of four units' records, two surface types (gaining commands were ship commands, but I don't remember which ones), one SeaBee unit, and one Volunteer Training Unit (VTU) for those reservists who could not get a pay billet, or who just wanted to drill for retirement points, nothing else. One of the surface units' Commanding Officer was LT David Leroy out of Colorado Springs, CO. He would drive to Pueblo one weekend a month to "play Navy" for two days. He would also be the leader of the pack when the unit performed a yearly Active Duty for Training (ACDUTRA) exercise, usually in San Diego. Of course, a Navy plane could be had for transportation to and from San Diego, or even commercial tickets could be had upon request. But Mr. Leroy had other things in mind when the yearly trip was planned. So he would convince some of his unit personnel to drive out, and to take passengers with them, effectively saving the Navy lotsa money in travel expenses over the long haul. He would also be at the helm in procuring various and sundry tools and equipment to bring back to Pueblo so that his unit could have bonafide Navy training in the year that followed. Being a surface-type unit, there were Enginemen (EN), Electricians Mates (EM), coxswains, Boatswains Mates (BM), Firemen (FN), ordinary sailors (SN), and the nominal YN or PN to keep the unit records straight. Yeah, right.

I guess it was the first summer I was onboard, 1976, a short period of time after this unit completed its training duty and returned home, that a big old flatbed truck showed up, with an ancient Captain's Gig on it. Mr. Leroy was contacted, as was ENC Ernie Tafoya, the unit Chief, and BMC Bob Borgstedt to supervise the off-loading of this "thing" onto a trailer the unit had built over the previous year.

The SeaBees were paid their final fee, and soon this boat was becoming an eye-sore of sorts on the back property of the Naval Reserve Center, Pueblo, Colorado. LT Leroy wasn't overly concerned, however, since the members in his unit were getting hands-on, ground-up training on a real boat, not exactly a ship, but a floating boat, nonetheless. As I believe I remember being told it was floating somewhere in San Diego when it was spotted, it was deemed seaworthy from the get-go, with a little touching up being required.

The diesel engine was pulled and overhauled on drill weekends for the next year or so, the hull was scraped and repainted the old standard Navy Gray, all the cables and joints and hooks and crooks were checked, repaired, and replaced, mostly being funded by Mr. Leroy, and possibly a few other ranking personnel in the unit. You see, this boat was not officially graced by the Headquarters, Naval Reserve Force in New Orleans, but was a "personal" endeavor for Mr. Leroy. As he stated, and even I know, only so much book learning can be had at a reserve center some 1,500 miles from any real blue water. And Mr. Leroy had tried on numerous occasions, to the best of my knowledge, to convince Headquarters that their training was hurting their individual career advancements by not being able to have hands-on training and experience. Thus, with no backing from HQ, Mr. Leroy and company took it upon themselves to support the unit members, and all unit members participated somehow.

The day finally came when the unit was ready to launch the boat. The event was quite the "to-do" for the drill weekend, and All Hands showed up early. There were necessary things to be done, like getting a suitable truck to haul the monstrosity, like a whale out of water on a home-made trailer, stowing all the life-jackets onboard, fueling ahead of time, and finally making a convoy-type run to the reservoir. It was also the day the US Coast Guard Auxiliary Unit was to authenticate the boat and license it. Once the unit got gone, the Reserve Center was pretty quiet. Until about 1500. Then all hell broke loose.

First of all, BMC Borgstedt came in the office, swearing up and down, stomping around, daring someone to get in his way. A couple of us station-keepers tried to talk to him, but he definitely was not in a talking mood, only a dark mood, full of frustration, full of anger at the world at large. The rest of the unit finally appeared, and everyone was somewhat "down". They held the afternoon muster, all were accounted for, and most everyone went home for the day. BMC Borgstedt was still onboard, however, still venting. Even ENC Tafoya had departed, as had LT Leroy.

Once everyone was gone, a couple of us began calming the BMC down, asking him if anyone had been hurt, or had someone falling in the water, a lot of trivial questions. The BMC finally settled down, and actually started smiling, laughing about something. As it turned out, all the labor that had been done on refitting this boat was perfect, with only one, itsy-bitsy glitch. The running lights on the boat had been reversed. Green on the starboard side, red on the port side is correct, but not in this case. Then to top off the day, whoever had been in charge of the lines, failed to un-tether the boat from the dock when the coxswain hit the gas. Kinda tore up the dock. At least the transom wasn't ripped out, which is a good sign of a well-made boat. Could have been even more embarrassing.

In 1977, Reserve Readiness Command 18 out of Olathe, Kansas, came to Pueblo for a command inspection. I won't go into that fiasco other than to write the boat was put in permanent drydock at Naval Reserve Center, Pueblo, CO, as it was not authorized from New Orleans. I thought sure the senior inspector was going to have a heart attack.

But for the year prior, each drill weekend from early spring to late fall, the unit was on the water, training coxswains, improving boating skills, being taught the intricacies of rope tying and general boatswain training. When the unit returned to its gaining command in San Diego, said gaining command was completely impressed with the unit for knowing their Blue Jackets' Manuals, something obviously quite rare from a land-locked bunch of sailors. Several Letters of Commendation were issued to the unit.

And let it be known there never was any recorded confrontations on Pueblo Reservoir, either from foreign submarines, or from Special Operations teams from the Fort Carson Army Base in Colorado Springs.

An Epistle or An Opinion - Please send to all on you mail list!!!

Please send to all on you mail list!!! - © Kent Fletcher
March 6, 2007

In my short life, the degradation of the English language, American English at least, has continued unabated. Take the above sentence, for instance. I received an email this morning, more propaganda than anything, about the issuance of the new dollar coin which does not, evidently, have the statement, "In God We Trust" (IGWT) on it. This epistle does not concern the IGWT statement, but rather the sincere lack of upholding and using the English language as I was brought up to know it.

"Please send to all on YOU mail list !!!" This statement, and statements like it, just irks the hell out of me, to no end. It reminds me of ebonics, that guttural language used in the ghettos of our nation, and which has spilled out into the common street languages. It was interesting some ten years ago, that while the ebonics culture/language was glorified as a new age communication venue, and was openly 'welcomed' in Oakland, CA, that nearly as soon as the boil came to a head, it was pricked and the ebonics was mostly forgotten as front-page news. By most. But I haven't forgotten.

No, I have never lived in a ghetto, and have only passed through a couple of ghettos in my life, getting in and out as fast as I safely could, speed-wise. I do not envy the folk who are forced to live in them, nor do I envy the folk who must go into them, police and firemen, among others. To be able to communicate with the residents of these God-forsaken places, from my point-of-view, one must be able to quickly interpret the common language spoken within its boundaries.

For instance, from http://www.cal.org/resources/digest/ebonic-issue.html:

The idea that Ebonic is very bad English is obviously false to linguists who have studied it in detail (e.g., Mufwene, Rickford, Bailey, & Baugh, 1998; Wolfram & Schilling-Estes, 1998). Outside the realm of academic linguistics, however, the idea that Ebonic is bad English is generally held to be uncontroversially true. Hence, it is necessary to demonstrate that this notion is untenable. It is clear on examination that Ebonic, far from being bad English, is actually superior to English in one of its subsystems, the verbal tense aspect system. In addition to the verb structure that English also has, Ebonic provides its speakers with rich resources for making distinctions among kinds and times of actions and states that can be made in English only awkwardly through use of a longer and more awkward expression. For example, Ebonic has several aspect markers; one is the habitual, exemplified below:

*She be eatin/She do be eatin.
She is sometimes/usually/always eating.

*She don't be eatin.
She is not sometimes/usually/always eating.

I suppose that within a culture, it is tolerated to use whatever language is acceptable to the masses. However, when a member of a culture has the opportunity to move out or into another culture, should the cultural language be allowed to move with the opportunity? Let me take it one step further: Let's say a Burkina Faso citizen, who has no working knowledge of American English, makes his way to the shores of these United States, where for the most part American English is the accepted language of the culture, for business purposes. Should this Burkina Faso citizen, upon wishing to be accepted into the American society, for business purposes, be allowed to conduct his business in his native language, to force his counterparts in a business purpose to understand HIS language first? Personally, I don't see that happening with any success on either party's part.

The same could be said for some poor, Southern redneck in the hills of Appalachia who has never traveled beyond his community, his ghetto if you will, suddenly being offered an opportunity to assimilate with the masses in the educated world, perhaps to be able to make mega-millions on some widget he has perfected within his ghetto, which would benefit the educated masses. If he is to hopefully come to a fruitful gain, in my humble opinion (IMHO), he would need to do one of two things: (1) learn the language of the folks he would be dealing with, or (2) force the people he would be dealing with to learn his language. I don't think the second option will happen in our "modern" world.

Let's even go another route in the usage of the American English language. A hundred or so years ago, one author, Joel Chandler Harris, wrote a series of stories epitomizing the cultural language of the black folks in the Southern United States. I ran across a website having the print versions of his stories, http://www.ongoing-tales.com/SERIALS/oldtime/FAIRYTALES/tarbaby.html, wherein is written this part of the Tar Baby tale:

"He came mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you born - Brer Fox did. One day after Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got 'im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun w'at he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot 'er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer to see what de news wuz gwine ter be. En he didn't hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road - lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity - dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin' long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he wuz 'stonished. De Tar-Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low."

On some days I can read this story with no problems at all, if I let my mind go, just read it for what it is. However, had Uncle Remus told this story in our "modern" world, he would be probably laughed off as a senile old man, using a language unheard of with modern-day readers.

From another website, http://www.otmfan.com/html/brertar.htm, an "updated" version:

"One day Brer Fox thought of how Brer Rabbit had been cutting up his capers and bouncing around until he'd come to believe that he was the boss of the whole gang. Brer Fox thought of a way to lay some bait for that uppity Brer Rabbit.

"He went to work and got some tar and mixed it with some turpentine. He fixed up a contraption that he called a Tar-Baby. When he finished making her, he put a straw hat on her head and sat the little thing in the middle of the road. Brer Fox, he lay off in the bushes to see what would happen.

"Well, he didn't have to wait long either, 'cause by and by Brer Rabbit came pacing down the road--lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity--just as sassy as a jaybird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit came prancing along until he saw the Tar-Baby and then he sat back on his hind legs like he was astonished. The Tar-Baby just sat there, she did, and Brer Fox, he lay low."

While the correct subject/verb/object context is not entirely correct, the second iteration is correct for the "modern" world. I would attempt to translate this story back to an ebonics read, but I'd probably go crazy doing it.

While all of us - black, white, brown, red, and yellow - use colloquialisms in every day speech depending on the locality, I think it all boils down to one thing: To be understood by the majority, one needs to join the majority, albeit just briefly to have a successful turn of events.

Now, to go a step further in this epistle: The same goes for the written word. To use the language of the common man/woman in a story is okay, for it makes the story as much as the characters. However, any work of communications should be, IMHO, on the up-and-up, should be correct in the modern-day world. "Please send to all on YOU mail list !!!" I'm sorry, but when I see/read this type of statement, I want to throw up, while others would probably pass it by, think nothing of it.

When I forward emails, if the subject or the substance of the email is grammatically wrong, I'll either attempt to correct it, or just toss it. To forward something that is grammatically incorrect indicates - to me if no one else - that I don't care, that I condone the behavior of the previous sender.

Am I eccentric? Probably, but when I think of the things my Mother pressed on my young mind, I just can't stand the grammatical degradation of our American English. Am I wrong? I don't think so.

Off The Cuff - Age Of Convenience

Age Of Convenience - © Kent Fletcher
March 4, 2007

In today's world, it's a wonder most of us aren't flabby in body and mind/spirit, just sitting around whiling away the days-on-end, wondering how we even survived our younger years. Technology has spoiled us all, well, most of us anyway. Today there are riding lawnmowers, cars that park themselves, coffee makers that have timers on them so we don't have to bound out of bed in the mornings and manually turn them on, computers that can run entire homes once programmed, digital cameras that have taken the excitement of developing our own pictures away.

We have cell phones now that are taking the old landline notions to the outer limits, traffic control lights that spot when a vehicle is approaching an intersection while watching the other approaches so the first vehicle can go through safely (hopefully), teeny tiny televisions that can be fitted under a cabinet in the kitchen so we can prepare a meal and never miss a thing from the news or the favorite soap opera. I heard somewhere that in just a little under two years, the old-style television will be a museum item, that the high definition television (HDTV) is going to be in total control of our lives. All the stations around the country will be converted to high definition, and the consumer really won't have a choice in the matter, unless, of course, the consumer simply quits watching the boob tube. I wouldn't miss it, and that'll probably be my future.

About the only true mechanics anymore are the old-timers who can simply listen to an engine, or a drive shaft, or a rear-end and correctly diagnose the problem. The mechanics today are required to be up-to-date on technology galore, required to be able to "read" some digital equipment, and to be able to take a simply switch and replace it by unplugging the old one, plugging in the new one. The charges for these "mechanics" of today are simply outrageous, I've seen as high as $95 per hour. I guess they have to pay for their tools of the trade, but with the new vehicles, hell, the mechanic can't even get in the engine compartment anymore. That's why all my vehicles (1 truck, 2 cars) are vintage, I can actually see the entire motors.

So the can-openers, traffic lights, HDTVs, digital cameras, cell phones, etc., are fine and dandy, but what happens when {gasp!} something breaks, in the time the stores are not open, or when the bucks ain't flowin' to fix or replace that something? We usually pine and lament because we have to do manual labor, something which we deem is beneath our dignity, being righteous, upstanding citizens of the community.

Well, get a load of this. A couple of weeks ago, I fired up my riding lawnmower from a deep winter's sleep, having checked the earl and the gas, pumped up the tars. Made it just about one turn around the yard and the motor quit, not immediately, but started running "funny", like it was flooding. So I stopped the forward speed, kicked the blades out of gear, and then the motor did quit. BAM! This was happening a lot last summer, be running along, then all of a sudden I'd be sitting out in the yard like one of the actors on "The Reivers", (a Faulkner story, by the way, starring Steve McQueen and Sharon Farrell) no where to go, no way to get there. Try the ignition, all I could get was click, click, click. Cuss it a little, leave it alone a little while. Well, maybe the battry was runded down, so I charged the battry overnight. Next day, click, click, click. Nothing, nada, nil. And the grass is still growing, mind you, now well over ankle-high.

Got a feller to come by, take a look-see at it. Heh, the motor is froze up, locked down, seized. Wonderful. In the meantime, that damned grass is still growing, thanks in part to all the rain we've had and the abundant sunshine. Typical for spring, donchaknow? Feller said he's stop by on another day, see if he could get the engine freed up, but in the meantime, I'm kinda in a quandary.

A couple of years ago, when I first moved into my present abode, I was without a mower of any kind. So thinking I was still a young man, I bought a gen-u-wine, old-fashioned, push-type reel lawnmower. I've always said a push mower cuts the grass better, but hooo-weeee, that's some kind of hard work! So today around noon, I decided I really needed to do something, anything, get the grass down before the city nanny patrol comes by, tells me I got to do something. Woof! I pushed and backed up, pushed and backed up, pushed and backed up for an hour or so, maybe two, decided to take a break, come in here and write this here story. I've got a swath cut now about 12' by 12' feet, and that's only in the north half of the yard. I'm gonna go out here in a few minutes and at least try to get the rest of that half cut, today. I'll finish this yarn off in a little while.

Lawsymussy! Only took about three hours today to cut half the yard. And as sore as I know I'm going to be, well, what can I say but that I ain't gonna let the grass get that high again. And tomorrow I've got to reinstall the drive shaft on the Volvo. I think I'm doing pretty good for 60 yoa, and having had back surgery just shy of a year ago.

So next time you feel like you've really worked at something, using a motor or a computer or just hiring the job out, go get you a reel-type mower, mow that yard. It'll really let you appreciate all these conveniences we have today.