NNAOPP Update

August 2022

Lost Valley Ranch

We first journeyed to LVL in 1986 when Lucy was 11 and Ben 5. Judy wrote to the Colorado Chamber of Commerce inquiring about dude ranches, received numerous brochures, selected Lost Valley Ranch, made a reservation, sent in a deposit, and awaited our date with destiny. 

Upon leaving the pavement near Deckers, CO one first travels two miles along a treacherous, narrow shelf road. It offers a frightening prospect of sliding into oblivion especially when encountering oncoming traffic. Then there is another seven miles of washboard gravel roads before arriving at a gate featuring the LVL brand. On our first trip we were certain we'd been duped, cheated out of our deposit, and sent on a wild goose chase. 

But we were welcomed by young men on horseback in ranch attire to begin the first of many trips to this tranquil valley. 

The founding Foster family accumulated about 640 acres that run along a three-mile stretch of Goose Creek located smack dab in the middle of the Pikes Peak National Forest. About 100 horses graze in the verdant valley bracketed by the Sawtooth Mountain range on the west and Sheep's Rock on the east. 

The blue skies frame the scenic vistas that alone are worth the price of admission. One can hike or ride for miles on dozens of distinct trails and never encounter anyone other than the 100 guests or 60 staff members. 

There are two dozen red-roofed cabins, each with a porch swing, scattered around a large lodge, a trading post, swimming pool, horse barns, spacious lawns, and rodeo arena. The facilities are well maintained, suitably rustic yet well appointed, peaceful, and isolated. 

Riding is the primary activity. One can choose a head-to-tail walking ride or something quite vigorous featuring trotting, loping, creek running, and log jumping. It's a very kid-centric place. A wrangler and kid counselor are assigned to each age group (3-5, 6-8, 9-10, 11-12, and teens). Parents see their kids at meal time, bed time, and some of the group activities such as the square dance, hay rides, melodrama, and picnics. The food is plentiful and excellent. It's basically a cruise ship in the Rocky Mountains with horses. 

The secret sauce that keeps people coming back year after year is the staff. They recruit uncommonly wholesome college age kids as wranglers, kid counselors, and dining room, kitchen, housekeeping, and maintenance staff. The hiring philosophy is to recruit character then train them for their respective tasks. They do a mighty fine job as each staff member exemplifies a quality service ethic. I know it sounds corny, but the staff serves as role models for the younger kids. As parents we ate it up. 

At the end of our first week at Lost Valley, Lucy and Ben bade farewell to their new best friends forever, pledged to stay in touch, and we signed up to return the following summer. 

Fast Forward to 2022 

So, last week we returned to Lost Valley with grandchildren Waverly (13) and the twins Finn and Charlie (12) for our 18th visit. And the place is still enchanting. Wavy quickly became fast friends with two other 13-year-old girls and the boys found an equally amenable bunch of buddies. 

I can no longer ride, so my activities consist of hiking, reading, banjo practice, and taking pictures of the kids. I hike the trails I used to ride and get in about 5-7 miles/day. On Monday a guy about my age catches up to me as I was walking along the creek and says, "Mind if I join you?" And we chatted while strolling. Dan asked if I was a serious hiker, and I said, no, but I've done some fun hikes mentioning walking across England. He then told me he recently completed 7 marathons, in 7 days, on 7 continents at age 76. (Antarctica, Capetown, Perth, Dubai, Barcelona, Rio, and Miami). "Wow!" I said humbled. Turns out he's a Harvard College grad, an attorney in Madill, OK, has three daughters, and is hosting their families at LVL, their 25th visit. It's apparently a quite accomplished family including one of his sons-in-law, Paul Ryan, former speaker of the house and VP candidate with Mitt Romney in 2012. 

Later in the day, Judy reported her first encounter with Paul: 

Judy walked up to a fellow guest, "Are you Paul Ryan?" And then, as is her custom, she answered her own question before letting the responder respond. "Of course not. I'll bet a lot of people ask you that. It must get tiresome." 

Paul, "Yes I am, but no it doesn't get tiresome." 

Judy, "No, you're not really Paul Ryan." 

Paul laughingly, "I can show you my driver's license if you'd like." 

And his brother in law weighed in, "Yep, that's him. He's from Wisconsin and we're married to sisters."

 

Judy reports he's youthful looking and very nice. I had a chance to visit with him later. He asked where I was from, and when I told him, he said, "Oh, yes. I met your wife." 

Over the next couple of days, I would come to meet an interesting assortment of people either through hiking, dining, or watching kids head out on rides. 

It's fairly common for there to be multi-generational guests. Larry from San Francisco is with his two sons and one daughter and their kids. Jen operates a fashion company / church mission in Uganda. Her husband is a cyber security guru. They live in MD. Chris is in charge of drone operations for Calfire (the state agency charged with fighting wildfires), and Steve is an architect in Santa Barbara. Larry was an electrical engineer who worked for the CIA and NSA, and said he would have to kill me if he told me what he did. 

Slim, short for Salim, was born and raised in Kenya to an Indian dad and a Canadian mom. He owned and operated a company that makes and services helicopters in Africa, but sold it several years ago. Now he and his wife do early stage investing in tech companies in Africa. He looks just like Elon Musk. He apparently inherited a strong streak of entrepreneurialism from his grandfather, who, in WWII was awarded a contract to weekly cut the hair of the 50,000 British soldiers then stationed in Kenya. He parlayed those earnings into a coffee plantation. Slim and his family live in the DC area and are neighbors of the clan of which Paul Ryan is a part. 

Mark is a single Dad with sole custody of three kids from Boone, NC. His twin sons, Philip and Amos are now best buds with Finn and Charlie. He earns his living via real estate development, but his real passion is music. He plays mandolin and sings lead in a southern gospel band. I heard him sing and play on a couple of occasions, and he's extremely talented. And he's a very nice guy. He's graciously agreed to work up a new and improved version of my song, "Three Funerals Shy of Paradise." 

On Sunday at the welcoming rodeo, I overheard one person say to another, "I heard the whistler is here this week." This meant nothing to me, until the Wednesday night cookout at the jail (a Potemkin-village-like western town) followed by a program put on by the staff of songs and funny skits. While dining on burgers and brats, we sat at the table with Chris and his wife Chris from the DC area. They have two college age kids who work on the staff. We soon learned that Chris once won first place in the World Whistling contest held in NC. This feat earned him a guest spot on the Jay Leno Show. He said, "Whistling is my passion, but it's certainly not my day job." He graciously performed two tunes during the show, clearly demonstrating his exceptional abilities. Tom, one of his friends later explained, "In his day job he's the director of PR for the Carlyle Group, a large private equity firm." 

Tom is ten years younger than I, a recent widower, and we shared several hikes and, being cabin neighbors, shared several glasses of wine before dinner. He was a Washington Post reporter for over 30 years, recently retired, and told many interesting stories about the changing world of newspapers. His primary focus was the business of sports. I mentioned I recently met a young woman from Tribune, KS who just bought the local newspaper. He was shocked, "Oh my, why would anyone do that?" He's now dating an MIT electrical engineer from Turkey where they will soon travel. Surprisingly, he's a thoughtful political conservative. 

We dined several times with a couple in their late 50's from Scotland, who now reside in Greenville, SC. They're very nice, but I have to listen closely to understand a word they say. Richard is the head pastor of a 3,000-member Presbyterian church, he and his wife Ruth have been in the US for 15 years, they're both US citizens, and they love Greenville. He always offers a prayer before dining, which is a nice touch.

Another NC couple is living in the cabin next to us. They also have two college age kids working on the staff. Dale owns and operates a cable channel that features old Western tv shows. We learned that the most popular is the B&W versions of Gunsmoke. Barb is a retired prosecuting attorney formerly working in Philadelphia. She said, "Sadly, they no longer need prosecutors in Philly, as they no longer prosecute crimes." 

There's the usual smattering of doctors, lawyers, and such, and Lord knows what of the folks do that we've not met. It was fun to interact with this nice group of people. 

I took a hike led by a 19-year-old staffer on the maintenance staff. He's from Birmingham, AL and goes to small college in Mississippi. He's hard working kid and told of the various jobs he's had since age 14: working at a Jiffy Lube, being a soda jerk at an ice cream parlor, and his favorite, as an apprentice with a cabinet maker. He also plays mandolin and guitar quite well accompanying many of the performers during the Wednesday night concert. Not surprisingly, he is quite conservative. I opined, "At your current school, you must be spared the strong liberal bias so common in today's universities." He replied, "Sadly, that is not the case. I've had several professors who are really more like indoctrinators than they are instructors. If one reveals conservative leanings your grades will suffer. If it happens at a Southern Baptist college in Mississippi I can't even imagine what it's like up north." 

Helen's Rock 

On Friday morning I decided to hike up to Helen's Rock. It's a four-mile roundtrip ascending 1,000 feet from the ranch. Serendipitously, I arrived at the same time as a ride of the younger kids. As I rested, I listened to the outrageous and lengthy story being told by one of the wranglers. I couldn't begin to recount it all, but the tale did incorporate a few of the following elements: 

Back in the 1700's a man was playing a game similar to the Price is Right. He had to guess which was more valuable, a lifetime supply of jalapeno-flavored Cheetos or a ranch in the middle of nowhere, in what some day would be Colorado. Our hero won the contest and chose the ranch. 

A Chechen woman danced the Chechen wedding dance for our hero, but he couldn't marry her because he was already married. A sniper later took out some villains trying to interfere. 

Helen's Rock is really an accumulation of centuries of horse poop. 

Horses have to be trained to trot, fart, and poop at the same time. 

And so much more. I do remember clearly though his final words: 

"So, kids, remember there are three morals to this story. One, treat your horse well, and it will treat you well in kind. Two, don't date more than one person at a time. Unless you plan really well. And Third, don't let anyone tell you what you can or cannot be. Only you can choose your destiny." 

Music 

After the Friday night melodrama, several of us sat around a campfire and my new, musical friend, said, "I think I need to hear some banjo music.?" I retrieved my Ome open back and complied. Mark borrowed a mandolin from one of the wranglers and we played a few fiddle tunes. We even did a passable version of Dueling Banjos. Then we were joined by two guitar playing guests who were every bit as talented as Mark. I was reminded of the old line by George Gobel, "Did you ever consider that the world was a tuxedo, and you're a pair of brown shoes?" After a bit, I could no longer keep up and instead muted my strings and strummed a percussion rhythm. It was mighty fun though. One of the wranglerettes had a voice like an angel. 

Fun Fact 

Did you know that the guy who played the banjo on the porch in the 1973 movie Deliverance was paid $500 for that iconic scene? He didn't know a lick of banjo, but it was disguised as the camera avoided close-ups of his hands. He now works for Wal-Mart retrieving carts from the parking lot. He looks like a nice, normal small-town guy. Apparently, it was the make-up that made him look like the product of successive generations of inbreeding. 

Tits Up 

On Monday I was taking pictures of the kids as they rode off with their respective age group rides. Wavy was in the middle of the pack of teen riders. She was kind of slouched, so I suggested she improve her posture. She basically ignored me until I shouted, "Tits Up!" She groaned theatrically, "Oh Papa!" But she straightened right up for a great picture. 

And, as everyone knows, thirteen-year-old girls have thick skin, so for the remainder of the week whenever she saw me she would shout, "Papa! Tits up!" Kind of makes me tear up. 

LVL may be one of the few places left where one can see 50 college aged kids without a single tattoo. Although ranch leadership has transitioned over the decades, the successors to the Fosters continue to recruit staff that are exceptionally personable, hardworking, and comfortable conversing with the adults and interacting with the kids of all ages. 

One of the subtle benefits of the ranch is that there is no cell coverage, and Wi-fi is limited to the main lodge. Waverly, Finn, and Charlie reduced their screen times at least a hundredfold and instead became free range children, at least for a week. 

And then our enchanting week was over, and we had a nice, uneventful drive back to KC, and we signed up to return next year.

NNAOPP - May 2022

NNAOPP Update

May 2022 

I am currently recuperating from Covid. It's day 4 after testing positive. Right now, the symptoms are largely like having a bad cold. Judy tested positive on the same day, so we're fortunate to not have to stagger our quarantine periods. It's nowhere near as unpleasant as the flu episode I had a few years ago, but it's definitely not fun. 

Being cooped up has left ample time to cogitate over things, leading to an effort to locate a copy of the basic training yearbook I failed to buy some 52 years ago. Trainees were given the opportunity to acquire the chronicle which was similar to a high school yearbook. At the time I thought to myself, "With few exceptions, I hope to never see these people again." Now, a half century later, I feel the same way, but I would like to see pictures of them. 

Here's what I've learned in my so-far-unsuccessful search. If you google some combination of 'basic training' and '1970' you will find yourself at an American Legion (legion.org) site where the featured article is an unabridged copy of my Basic Training Chapter 1 from Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People. I have no idea how they found it, but I'm pleased they did. 

Further cogitation led me down memory lane. Read on, if you've an interest. 

Fort Polk, LA - Part II 

At the conclusion of basic training we had a graduation ceremony and parade. Many family members and loved ones attended to celebrate this micro-achievement, unique only to the five million young men who shared the experience during the Vietnam War era.  My loved ones were apparently busy that day.

I thought I was scheduled to travel to Ft. Sam Houston in San Antonio to take a 4-month training course for dental assistants. But, there was a SNAFU. For reasons I would never learn, I was instead ordered to stay in Ft. Polk and enter Advanced Infantry Training in Tiger Land. I was more than mildly concerned about this, so I wrote Colonel Hume, the commanding officer of my home dental detachment in Springfield, MO. I was particularly indebted to Dr. Hume, as he made room for me in his highly desired unit. He wrote back saying, "No big deal, just go with the flow, we'll train you when you get home." 

So off I went to Tiger Land. The welcoming sign at Ft. Polk, says "Home of the Combat Infantryman." Tiger Land was designed to replicate Viet Cong villages and surrounding terrain. There was a section with barracks and chow hall, but mostly we lived in tents or in the replica villages. There were thatched huts, guard towers, M-60 machine gun emplacements, punji stick traps made of sharpened bamboo, systems of tunnels, strands of concertina wire, et al. NCO's and returning veterans were dressed as VC or villagers, never revealing which. Most memorable, were the systems of trails that were all booby trapped with punji sticks traps, spidy holes, and mines. It was all pretty terrifying. 

The Tiger Land people proudly boasted that trainees who graduated from their intensive AIT, were spared having to undertake the one-week unit training course upon arrival in Viet Nam, and could go directly into lethal combat. No delay. What a deal. 

If it wasn't so life-threateningly serious, elements of the training were pretty darn cool. Who wouldn't want to shoot an M-60 Machine Gun? Unless of course there was someone else with equally deadly weapons shooting at you. 

After a week in Tiger Land, a drill sergeant took me aside and asked, "Can you type?" I replied in the affirmative, and he told me I was being reassigned to clerk duties at Company HQ. I never learned if this was due to Colonel Hume's intervention or someone decided it was a waste of bullets to train a dental assistant as an infantryman. In a matter of hours, I traded my M-16 and combat fatigues for a Smith Corona and Class A's, and I was re-situated into the comforts of an air-conditioned office. Thank God for my eighth-grade typing class at Indian Hills Jr. High. 

My new boss was an E-6 (staff sergeant) and a pretty good guy. He was tall, had real greasy hair, and was probably in his mid 30's. We underlings called him Phil, in large part because that was his name. But this being the military, first name familiarity between trainees and cadre was not commonplace. 

One of my new workmates was a young black man. He was very effeminate and had a beautiful singing voice, reminiscent of Johnny Mathis. He was constantly singing, much to the delight of anyone within hearing range. I often wondered if he ever made it big. He was really good. 

Phil somehow took a liking to me. One day he invited me to travel to his home after work. It was always a treat to get off base, so I quickly accepted his kind invite. I hopped into his beat-up pickup, and we traveled down a series of dirt roads running through the dense pine forests of western Louisiana. He pulled into a ratty looking place with a couple of derelict vehicles littering the yard. The front porch was decorated with an old icebox and a couch. The 'Walton's' style house was in dire need of freshening. If Hollywood were attempting to paint an unflattering stereotype of a redneck home, this was it. 

We walked in, and Phil yelled, "Hey hon, we've got company, can you grab us a couple of beers?" Hon turned out to be a very pretty girl. I'd guess she couldn't have been older than 15. Hon delivered the beers, and Phil said, "Let's sit on the porch and shoot the shit." And we did, and the shit was shot. And I thought to myself, "Is this even legal?" I don't remember a single morsel of our conversations, other than it was a whole lot better than being in my barracks. This was to be the first of four visits to Phil's home. 

We shared office space with the company commander, a captain, and occasionally we had contact with a major or even a lt. colonel. In spite of my limited exposure, I surmised that the cadre of officers assigned to basic training units were not the best and brightest. In later life I read the quote by the German General Kurt von Hammerstein-Equord which seemed apropos: 

"I divide my officers into four groups. There are clever, diligent, stupid, and lazy officers. Usually two characteristics are combined. Some are clever and diligent - their place is the General Staff. The next lot are stupid and lazy - they make up 90% of every army and are suited to routine duties. Anyone who is both clever and lazy is qualified for the highest leadership duties, because he possesses the intellectual clarity and the composure necessary for difficult decisions. One must beware of anyone who is stupid and diligent - he must not be entrusted with any responsibility because he will always cause only mischief." 

And Kurt probably never even traveled to Ft. Polk. 

Phil had a good sense of humor and a bit of vengefulness. On a few occasions he had us mail personnel folders to the wrong military installation insuring that the target's orders and payroll data would get lost. Company clerks were not to be messed with. I was getting close to my 6-month end of active duty, and was counting down each morning, '31 days and a wakeup'. 

On May 4, 1970 we were in the office and someone walked in and asked, "Did you hear the latest scores? National Guard 4, Kent State 0." We would later learn this referred to the incident when the Ohio National Guard fired on student protestors killing four and wounding nine. It set off a chain of protests on college campuses all over the country. Unfortunately, this tragedy played an outsized role in turning public sentiment against the boys in uniform, not just the politicians. I would experience this wrath on numerous occasions over the next 5 ½ years of my reserve duty. 

Inexplicably, I received orders to go home about three weeks early. I gleefully complied. 

Cousins' Reunion 

Judy and I traveled to Carlsbad, CA to attend the tenth holding of the Welsh cousin's reunion. Ten of the thirteen living grandchildren of Jesse and Mayme Welsh, along with spouses and partners, gathered for a few days of merriment. Jesse, as you may recall from earlier stories, was born in 1892, had one of his eyes pecked out by a chicken when he was a baby, served in WWI in France, became a teacher then principal in schools in SE Missouri and fathered five kids, my Mom, Helen, being the first born. My grandkids are totally freaked out by poultry pecking part of the parable, "Who would leave a baby near a chicken?" 

We rented a car at the San Diego airport and drove north to Carlsbad on I-5. At one point in the drive we descended from a hill down to a bridge crossing a lagoon. It afforded a view of several miles of the nine lanes of congested traffic each way. I told Judy it made me feel like an ant. Gas was over $6 a gallon. 

The reunion was great fun, and I enjoy the company of my cousins. One evening our host, assembled about 300 family pictures which we watched as a group on a wide screen television. We could identify most everyone pictured, but several remained mysteries. On one occasion someone quoted the oft-repeated aphorism misattributed to Einstein, "Repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity." 

Cousin Steve, a retired nuclear physicist, calmly interjected, 

"Einstein did believe that, but he was proven wrong. What he described as insanity is, according to quantum theory, the way the world actually works. In quantum mechanics you can do the same thing many times and get different results. That is the premise underlying great high-energy particle colliders." 

No one argued the point. What a great group of cousins. 

Waverly 

Lucy was picking up the kids on their last day of school. Finn got in the car first with his yearbook. She asked to see it, and Finn mentioned that an older boy drew a picture of a penis in it. He was nonplussed, said he tore out the offending page, no big deal. 

A few minutes later, Waverly got in the car, and Finn told her what happened and who. She espied the flagitious miscreant awaiting his ride and raced out of the car before Lucy could stop her. Waverly confronted the junior shit-weasel, who stood a foot taller, and planted her face inches from his. Lucy reports she was concerned she was going to hit him. But she didn't. 

After she returned to the car, Lucy asked what transpired and was told, "I didn't say a word. I just gave him 'The Look' ". What a kid.

NNAOPP Update - March 2022

NNAOPP Update March 2022 

With the threat of nuclear war looming in greater measure than any time in my lifetime since the Cuban missile crisis of October 1962, it may appear unseemly to send out another round of my mindless musings. I well remember sitting in Mr. Cartwright's Spanish class at Shawnee Mission East when our principal, Carl Isen, came on the PA system to instruct us to 'duck and cover' under our desks in the event of a nuclear attack. I figure the following mirthful missive is no more ridiculous than the now-long-departed Carl's admonitions. 

I should caution potential readers that the Mardi Gras update contains some mature themes, perhaps more accurately characterized as immature. For those offended by such material, please skip the first section. 

Mardi Gras 2022 

Plato once cautioned, "Boys under 18 shall not taste wine at all, for one should not conduct fire to fire. Wine in moderation may be tasted until one is 30 years old, but the young man should abstain entirely from drunkenness and excessive drinking. But when a man is entering his fortieth year…. he may summon the other gods and particularly call on Dionysus to join the old men's holy rite and mirth…. which the god has given to men to lighten their burden - wine that is, the cure for crabbedness of old age, whereby we may renew our youth and enjoy forgetfulness of despair." 

Rather than quibble with Plato's designation that old age begins at 40, my fellow Mardi Gras celebrants, all well north of 40, once again dressed up in our finery and gathered to take the ancient Greek philosopher's advice to heart with our Friday-before-Mardi Gras- luncheon at the Rib Room. Our numbers were reduced to seven this year, but we did manage to down the seven bottles of wine, including one magnum, each served after several rounds of pre-lunch cocktails. The four-hour, bacchanalian feast successfully cured any hints of 'crabbedness.' 

Afterwards, we journeyed to Patrick's Bar Vin for further merriment and more wine. A band played, and the crowd consisted mostly of locals who knew one another from their membership in the Krewe of Cork. 

While visiting with a woman dressed like a upside-down, plastic box of popcorn, I received a phone call from a friend. I excused myself to go out onto Rue Bienville where it was quieter. I walked almost to Royal and stood on the sidewalk with the phone to my ear. There was no one else around when I couldn't help but notice two extremely attractive young women walking my way. I would guess them to be college age. They had selfie sticks and were exposing their breasts presumably for their own amusement and to record for posterity their uncommon pulchritude at this stage in their lives. 

They noticed me, and one of them walked over and stood beside me. As I was still on the call I said, "Bob, you're not going to believe what is happening. I'll need to call you back." The young lady then said, "You look like a kind man." And she proceeded to proffer a generous viewing of her perfectly shaped breasts. I thanked her for her willingness to share, and she again told me that I appeared to be a kind man, and she trotted off to join her friend. 

It goes without saying, that this doesn't happen to me every day. But when it does, I find it pleasing. 

Iris, Muses, and Nyx 

One of our lunch crew, and the youngest, is the CEO of a local construction company. She is also a member and rider of Muses, a group of women who organize a parade on the Thursday night before Mardi Gras. Muses is known for dispensing ornately decorated high heel shoes to the parade viewers. Our friend told us that she makes 30-35 shoes each year to give away to complete strangers, and she makes about 5-10 'special' shoes to give to friends. She reports that she loves the time spent with her glue gun. She brought a nice assortment of Muses paraphernalia for all of us. 

I'm told that Iris is the most prestigious of the women's parades, they ride on the Saturday afternoon before MG, one of the most desirable times, and they distribute elegantly decorated purses. One doesn't join this club unless their NOLA ancestry goes back a few centuries. Next is Muses, which was founded about 25 years ago. Our friend was on a wait list for four years before being admitted to the club, with another two-year wait before qualifying to ride on one of the floats. Nyx, was then formed to open up the festivities for the masses, with a membership once reaching 3,500 celebrants. This group suffered a sad unraveling after one of the prominent members posted a message 'All Lives Matter' during the George Floyd BLM days. This was not well received by some, and the friction splintered the once fun-loving group into three bitter rivals. 

Mardi Gras was cancelled in 2021 owing to Covid. Alcohol was banned in the French Quarter. To add further insult, the high temperature on Mardi Gras 2021 was 30. Brrh! This year it appeared that people were ready to party and to spend money, much to the delight of the local merchants. 

Hurricane Ida also wrought its wrath on NOLA. Our favorite source for the mighty tasty Muffaletta sandwich, The Central Grocer, was closed as Ida blew off their roof. Fortunately, we discovered the tiny deli, Verti-Mart, near Esplanade and Royal, that makes an even better version. While picking up our lunch at the Verti-Mart I also picked up a King Cake, also a very tasty concoction. I couldn't help but notice that the label on the package contained the following warning, "Caution, there is a plastic baby inside this cake. It is not edible." I then wondered if Barbie Doll packages contain a similar warning. 

It was gray and chilly on Saturday afternoon which greatly reduced the crowds, painted torsos, and general levels of merriment, but we soldiered on drinking Abita beer and watching the people pass by our balcony. 

Dining was exquisite as usual with Arnaud's still reigning supreme, followed by brunch at Stanley's, a close second. 

While walking through Jackson Square on the way to meet friends for brunch at Stanley's I overheard snippets from two homeless men shouting at each other. "Yea, I did hard time there too, it was a bitch…. Some social worker chick told me to get up and leave. I told her to go away. And she did." 

I'm told that NOLA is now short 300-400 police officers owing to partial defunding, retirements, and unfilled positions. What could possibly go wrong? 

We arrived on Thursday afternoon. Bourbon St. was already wall-to-wall partygoers. A big black guy stood next to a sign, "How much ass can you haul?" and was then seen lifting two fat girls in a fireman carry. Good start. 

During one of my strolls through Vieux Carré, I encountered a young woman sipping on a straw inserted into a container that resembled an IV blood packet. I inquired as to its contents, and she said, "It's sangria. I bought it from a guy dressed like a vampire. He's just down the street. See?" I love this place. 

The building across from our balcony is being somewhat renovated. It could well be one of those old structures in the French Quarter that rests on a foundation made of straw bales. One of our structural engineer, dining compatriots once opined, "The only reason those buildings still stand is habit." Even after the work, the windows and shades are more in the shape of parallelograms than rectangles. 

There was no sign of our transgender acquaintance this year. They would have undoubtedly found us had they been here. Even if they weren't looking for us, it would be hard to miss they, as they is over six feet tall without counting the typical 3' tower of hair they wear. 

First Date 

Judy and I dined with friends recently at Doc Ford's, one of our favorite spots on Sanibel Island. Also joining us were the 27-year-old son of one of the other couples and his fiancé. The younger folks were delightful companions, and in the course of conversation we asked how they met. And we heard the following story: 

"I asked her out several times, and she kept putting me off. She seemed to block out her day in 30-minute segments and could never fit me in. I was totally smitten, so I kept trying and being rejected. So, I finally told her, 'I'm only going to ask you one more time.' And she finally accepted my invitation to take her to dinner. She suggested a nice BBQ restaurant in town, and I said that would be fine. 

"She told me she would drive and pick me up. Much to my surprise, when we got to the restaurant she drove through the drive-through. After we got our food, she dropped me off at my house. We didn't even eat together. I was sharing a place with eight guys at the time, and I walked in from my extremely short date holding a paper bag with my dinner. My roommates were astonished, "Dude, that must not have gone well." 

At this point of the story, the fiancé weighed in and said, "Yes, I told my Dad all about our first date, and he said, 'Way to go girl.' " 

Christmas time travels with the family 

Judy and I were waiting for a flight in the Denver airport. We were traveling with Fred, Lucy, Waverly, Finn, and Charlie, but they were sitting quite some distance away. We had our backs to one of the giant people movers and were surrounded by other travelers. Waverly then walked by, but she didn't see us. I called out, "Hey little girl, want some candy?" She looked my way and said without a hitch, "Sure mister. Whatcha got?" The man sitting next to me instantly got up and left. 

**** 

A few days later, I found myself at a beach concert in Chileno Bay, Mexico (near San Jose Del Cabo) featuring the Spazmatics from Austin TX. I had not heard of this band prior, but found them to be highly energetic and hugely entertaining. The event featured a dozen food and drink trucks, and one could even get their face painted and wear Hells Angel's hats and bandanas, but I declined. 

The sponsor of the event couldn't have known it was Judy's and my 53rd wedding anniversary, but it was. The crowd was extremely well dressed and attractive. I'm guessing the next oldest person might have been 50. I couldn't help but notice the number of strikingly tall and provocatively dressed young women. Many, but fortunately not all, had duck lips. This might be pleasing to Donald and Daffy, but not to me. 

Judy, Lucy, and the boys left early as the venue was too noisy for their tastes. Waverly and Fred stayed to dance the night away, and I was pleased to be totally invisible and just take in the sights and sounds sipping on a fine wine. 

Fred and Wavy joined me at my table to take a breather as the band took a break. When Waverly left to grab something from one of the nearby food trucks I mentioned to Fred, "It appears, there are a lot of professional women here." Unbeknownst to me, Waverly had returned and was standing behind me. 

The 12, soon to be 13, year-old then queried, "What do you mean, 'professional women?' " 

And I responded, "You know, veterinarians, architects, doctors, and such." 

And she said, "I'm not buying that." 

**** 

Fred, Lucy, Waverly, Judy, Fred's parents, and I were brunching on the patio of the Querencia Club. An attractive woman in her 40's accompanied by an older man I presumed to be her father, approached Fred and Lucy and inquired, "Are you the parents of Charlie Coulson?" Everyone rolled their eyes and undoubtedly shared the same thought, "Oh dear, what has Charlie done now?" 

Instead of responding, "Why do you want to know?" Lucy fearlessly acknowledged that she was indeed Charlie's Mom. 

The young lady then offered a $100 bill to Lucy, which she courteously declined. The visitor then explained, "Charlie found my diamond ear ring at the bottom of the pool. It was a very expensive diamond, and it's only appropriate that he receive a reward for his kind and honorable deed." After a bit of back and forth, Fred graciously accepted the reward on 11-year-old Charlie's behalf. 

A few minutes later Charlie and Finn arrived, and Fred explained what happened. Charlie then asked, "Would you invest that for me, Dad?" 

**** 

Lucy, is a bit of a germophobe. This condition has taken on even greater import with the onset of the Covid pandemic. For reasons I can't explain, I get sniffles when I eat. I often dab my nose with a tissue, then apply Purell to my hands. Instead of kudos from my favorite daughter for this thoughtful hygienic behavior, I received the following lecture: 

"Dad, think of it this way. You've got an intrusion of cockroaches crawling all over your kitchen counter. Purell kills the nasty critters leaving them in place. Hand washing clears them off the counter, and they go down the drain. Go with the latter."

NNAOPP Update - December 2021

NNAOPP Update 

December 2021 

Charlie Armstead 

Out of the blue, I received an email from Dave Hungate, someone whom I've never met and the son of one of the boys pictured below. His Dad, Bill Hungate, later became a U. S. Congressman and then a judge on the Missouri State Supreme Court. Dave sent me several photos including those shown below along with some newspaper clippings.

This is a picture of my Dad taken on July 4, 1941 in my home town of Bowling Green, Missouri. He's the guy on the far right with the baton. Charlie would have been 27 on that fine summer day. The depression continued its crippling grasp on the economy, most pronounced in the nation's heartland, but you wouldn't know it from the well-dressed people in this Norman Rockwell-esque setting. Pearl Harbor was still five months in the distance, although there would be few in this picture whose lives wouldn't be touched by that tragic day and the four years of war that followed. 

Dad spoke often and fondly of his B.G. band students (from the years 1940-1953) and their subsequent achievements in life. In turn, they often celebrated their shared experience by hosting reunions and roasts of 'Prof' Wells. Judy, Lucy, and I were honored to attend one such event in 1976 when Lucy was just a wee baby. On these occasions I was told by most everyone, "Your Dad had very high expectations of his students, and we didn't want to disappoint him."

For some reason, these photos spoke to me, not just because they show my Dad as a young man, but because they reflect a largely now forgotten era. These are the youngsters that would become the 'Greatest Generation.' By my counting, there were at least 60 kids marching in that band. I'd guess more than half of the BG high school student body were then in the band given the population of Bowling Green in 1940 was only 1,975. Notice that even the little kids are marching behind the band in the first photo. 

It is important to recall that America was still in the grips of the depression, yet somehow these kids had access to trombones, saxophones, clarinets, trumpets, French horns, flutes, and snare drums. It's too late to ask Dad, but I'd guess that most of these instruments were provided by the school. I recall visiting Dad's band room as a child in the late 40's and early 50's and being fascinated by all the instruments stored there. Bowling Green was certainly not a wealthy town, but it is clear that music was a high priority in their budgeting. 

Schools were not integrated in BG in the 1940's, so the viewer will note the monochromatic tone of the students. However, if one looks closely, you'll note that quite a few of the spectators are African Americans. 

Then there was Charlie. He looked so dapper in his double-breasted suit and tie. For the seven years preceding this photo, Dad led a swing band named The Charlie Armstead Band that played mostly at college venues in mid-Missouri along with summer time gigs in tourist settings in Minnesota, Michigan, and Indiana. I've excerpted some articles from the Fayette, MO newspaper about Dad's band: 

Fayette, MO 

September 15, 1936 

Armstead Band Back After Summer at Resorts 

Charlie Armstead and his band have returned to Fayette en masse from a successful summer. Armstead, whose real name is Charles Armstead Wells, is a graduate of Central College and last year was assistant director of the Central bands. Many members of the organization are attending Central and the band will operate from Fayette during the school year. This dance band was one of the most popular with Missouri dancers last year and has been very well liked in its three locations during the summer. The band opened at Waco Ballroom, Lake Wawasee, Indiana, one of the state's most popular resorts on June 13 for a two weeks' engagement. Armstead's band next opened at the Crystal Palace Ballroom on the shores of Lake Michigan. All attendance records were broken. The largest crowd the ballroom ever had coming on July 4 when 3200 people were on the dance floor at one time. Their final engagement began August 15 and ended Labor Day at the Melody Gardens in South Bend, Indiana. Buck Rogers and his orchestra played the gardens one night during the band's stay and Guy Lombardo had been there the Sunday before they opened. Armstead has contracted to play at the same places next summer.

Charlie is on the far right in this 1936 picture of the Charlie Armstead band. I'm taken by how mature the college-age band members look. 

Then came the last dance. 

Fayette, MO 

February 28, 1941 

Charlie Armstead's Dance Band Changes Name After Seven Years 

Charlie Armstead's band, a phrase which has meant dancing for seven years of Central College students, exists no longer under that name. The last dance played under Armstead's ownership was the UDC Ball Friday night, and it was announced there that John 'Ben' Dover had purchased maestro Armstead's interest. The personnel and management of the band will remain the same with Bobby Smart, popular trombone player, directing and booking. The only change will be that Dover will front the band on jobs while Smart takes over the trombone chair. Dover, a trumpet man, will probably not play except on special choruses. 

Everything that formerly had a part in the Armstead setup went into the hands of the new owner. Stands, lights, trailer, stock, and special arrangements, contracts, public address system, and eleven musicians. Several innovations will be introduced, including comedy, specialty acts, and glee club singing. Next year a girl vocalist will be an added feature. The dance band, which has a following all over central Missouri will continue to use the name 'Charlie Armstead's Orchestra' until the end of May, when all the advance bookings have been completed. Bookings from now on will be made under the new name, 'Ben Dover's Band.' 

For the time being, the original theme, 'Time to Go', a distinguishing feature of the Armstead band, will be used. Later a new theme song will have to be selected. Dover said 'Time to Go' will still be played as part of the regular repertoire. 

And that was that. 

Charlie started his new position as band director of the Bowling Green Bobcats, and presumably could no longer juggle the two distinct careers. He was also newly married to my Mom, then 20. Helen graduated from Central College at the precocious age of 18. She started at age 15. Her Dad, Jesse Welsh the high school principal in West Plains, MO, was not terribly enamored by his oldest daughter's engagement to the 26-year-old, peripatetic, zoot suited musician. Jesse's plan was that Helen would use her newly acquired teacher's salary to help support the Welsh family of seven. It was not to be as Mom and Dad wed on December 22, 1940. Jesse warmed up to his son-in-law only after grandchild #1, William Wylie Wells joined the family in 1944. 

Dad was not just the band director of the high school band. He was also the music teacher for the primary school. I remember being terribly proud when my Dad would come to our first-grade classroom, hand out sticks, and we could bang them together, presumably in some rhythmic fashion. 

Dad loved everything about his teaching days in BG, and would maintain contact with his former students the remainder of his life. But he also had a practical side. In 1953, he took a position selling band instruments for McLean's Band Instruments in Kansas City, MO. Many years after the move, I asked Dad, why we moved, and he said, "I was earning $300 a month as a teacher, and I could see no way to pay for three kids to go to college on that income. Mac McLean offered me $10,000/year. I couldn't pass it up." 

The new position gave Dad an opportunity to call on schools all over Missouri. He served as a judge in music contests for many years. I'm told he was a very tough judge. Charlie continued to play clarinet with some local groups, and he would occasionally jam with friends in our living room. He was later inducted into the Missouri Music Hall of Fame.

I'm certain of one thing. If you ever met my Dad, you'd like him. If you're still reading, thanks for joining me on this journey down memory lane. 

Other Stuff 

American Royal 

In October I joined son-in-law Fred and twin 11-year-old grandsons, Finn and Charlie, to attend the American Royal Junior Livestock Show. It was quite a treat. In case you've never been, think Westminster Dog Show, but with cows, pigs, sheep, and goats. I've never seen such tricked-out, well-tended critters in my life. Young people, typically aged 9-17, stand by their animal and greet the spectators and potential bidders. 

The kids with whom I visited were amazingly mature. One cow caught my fancy, as it was the color of Lassie with balls of fur trimmed around the ankles, or whatever you call ankles on a cow, and at the end of the tail. The skin/fur was luxuriously groomed, and the cow's name was Ricky. The 14-year-old owner from a small town in Iowa told me how she gets up at 5:30 every morning to feed and groom him, then repeats after school and before going to bed. The cow gains 5 lbs. a day. I noticed that all the cows were poop free, and I inquired how this can be. The young lady said she uses paper towels to clean up any mishaps. What a kid. 

Then I talked to a nine-year-old pig owner from a small town near my hometown of Bowling Green. Her parents stood nearby and entered into the conversation. Turns out they are in the business of selling 'starter pigs' to 4-H kids interested in livestock shows. They have a farm with an inventory of 1,000 Hampton piglets. I asked how much such a pig costs. Answer, a 60-pounder goes for between $500 and $5,000. Wow! I said, "Do you Fed-Ex them?" "No, we do a lot of driving." 

Next stop was another nine-year-old pig tender from Arkansas. From my meanderings I noticed that all the exhibitors had a sign with the name of the animal and the owner's name and hometown. Most of the names were Ricky, Bobby, Susie, et al. But this little girl's pig was named Collide. I inquired about the unique name, and the tiny tyke explained in her extreme southern accent. "Well, some nice lady called me and asked the name of my pig, and I said C'lyde, and that is how she spelled it." 

We were all impressed by the work ethic and poise of the kids we met. Fred offered, "These are the kids I want to hire right now." 

After viewing the various exhibits, it was time for the auction, but there was a problem. Charlie was having none of this. Charlie asked his Dad, "You mean these kids spend a year raising these animals, they name them, and spend hours of every day with them, and then they sell them to rich people to slaughter?" Dad, "Yes, that's about it." Charlie is periodically and nominally a vegetarian, if you don't count Chicken McNuggets or bacon, and he was horrified. So, we skipped the auction. 

In case you're curious, the prize-winning cow went for $250,000. 

Numbnuts 

As I was driving back from the farm one day with Finn and Charlie, I encountered a fellow driver whose motoring skills left something to be desired. I calmly muttered to no one in particular, "What a numbnuts." 

Charlie then inquired, "Did you learn that word from Waverly?" 

"No," I replied, "It's the other way around." 

"Well, she's using it now." 

This knowledge filled me with joy, knowing that, even at my advanced age, I can still make a contribution to the grandchildren's verbal development. 

Augie 

Returning from the farm party, Ben asked Judy to get the Sunday night Chiefs' game on the radio. She didn't know where it was and fumbled a bit. Two-year-old Augie in the backseat said, "Alexa, play the Chiefs' game." 

Stump Grinding 

If you ever find yourself feeling a little low, you might consider renting a stump grinder for a few days and obliterate a few hundred of those annoying, equipment destroying projections. In my case I spent five days at the farm with a 31-hp Baretto S30 rented from a local vendor. It was an extremely gratifying experience. As I was cheerily returning the powerful machine, my mind wandered to one of my favorite tunes from the past written by Mason Williams, "Them Toad Suckers." The final stanza says it all: 

How to be a toad sucker, no way to duck it, 

Gittchyself a toad, and rare back and suck it 

And I thought how easily the song could instead be a paean to stump grinding. 

Fairway Magazine 

Amazingly, I was featured in an article in Fairway Magazine, a local publication. The headline, "Mission Hills Writer Shares Stories About Not So Ordinary People." Somehow, the editor obtained copies of both Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People and of Ordinary People Who Aren't. And she excerpted elements from each book for the article. The editor had me review her choices and asked for info to include on how people might obtain copies. I mentioned Amazon and my blog, nudenuns.blogspot.com. Regarding the latter, she said, "That's too provocative, I'll pass on printing that." 

I've encountered this problem on several other occasions, so I will soon be creating a newly named blog to replace the old. This will mean conceding the thousands of visitors to the blog from Yemen, Armenia, and Russia, who I can only presume are disappointed porn seekers. I'll keep you posted on the new name. 

Sales continue to trickle in, but not yet in sufficient quantities for me to reinstate my yacht order. I get inquiries and commentary totally out of the blue that pleases me greatly, serving as a mild recompense. 

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. May the blessings of the holiday season be with you and yours. 

Chuck Wells 

Charles A. Wells, Jr. 

Author of Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People and Ordinary People Who Aren't 

Available on Amazon 

Follow my blog at http://nudenuns.blogspot.com/ 

Or contact me directly at: mailto:charlesawellsjr@gmail.com

NNAOPP Update - July 2021

 

Jim's Last Campsite

For the better part of the last decade, Jim would spend a month camping in one of the many majestic national parks in Colorado. Each winter he would peruse maps and internet searches to select the perfect spot. His favorites were Gunnison National Forest and Grand Mesa National Forest, preferring western CO to avoid the crowds ascending from Denver. He would typically host shifts of one or more of his eleven grandchildren and their parents for the first three weeks of his trip and then spend a week on his own before returning to his home in St. Augustine. On several occasions he would come through KC and spend a week with me at the farm helping with whatever project I had going. 

Every summer he would pick up a grandchild or two or more in Jacksonville, Charlotte, or Kansas City for the long drive to western CO. Once he got to his preferred park he would reconnoiter to find the perfect campsite, preferably one isolated from other campers, yet on the south-facing shore of a mountain lake. Grand Mesa, near Grand Junction, offered precisely such a site for Jim's last trip. If you've never been to one of these national treasures, it's hard to grasp their size. Think Rhode Island. 

With Covid limiting options for solemnities in 2020, Jim's widow Mary decided it would be a fitting memorial for family and friends to visit the final campsite on the anniversary of his death. 

I flew to Eagle, CO on Thursday and enjoyed a delightful dinner at the home of co-grandparents, Fred and Carolyn. The plan was I'd take a leisurely 3-hour drive Friday afternoon to Olathe, CO to join Mary and her family and Jim's son Jason and his wife Megan. I Googled the route that morning and was puzzled to see a Byzantine route indicating a 6-hour drive. I investigated and learned that I-70 was closed to all traffic in Glenwood Canyon (my intended route) owing to forest fires in the area followed by torrential rains and mudslides. 

Todd, a friend of Fred and Lucy's, stopped by and offered some advice. He said, "Since you're going to be driving the Jeep, you can take a rocky, mountain road south of Gypsum that will eventually wind its way over an obscure pass and down to Carbondale. From there it's all paved roads west to Olathe. There could be a problem though if there are a lot of other people taking that route. All it takes is one knucklehead to get stuck on one of those shelf roads, and you could end up spending the rest of your life there." 

The other options were a northern route through Steamboat Springs, Craig, and Meeker rejoining I-70 at Rifle, or a southern route through Leadville, Buena Vista, Gunnison, and Montrose. I chose the latter. Driving south on Highway 24 out of Leadville was like visiting old friends, Mt. Elbert, Mt. Huron, and La Plata Peaks, all formerly visited 14ers that are part of the Collegiate Mountain Range. At Salida, I turned west on Highway 50 and noticed signs saying the road is closed west of Gunnison. I thought to myself, 'Surely they wouldn't close this major east/west thoroughfare with I-70 closed,' and I drove on. Sure enough, the road was closed west of Gunnison as they were blasting. 

On the bright side, the detour took me to some places I'd never been before, most of which offered breathtaking scenery. I drove along the north ridge of Black Canyon before heading north to Crawford, Hotchkiss, and Delta, CO. Fortunately, westbound traffic hugged the inner most lane on the mountain so I was spared the terrifying views of the Gunnison River as it carved its way through the canyon.

Six hours after leaving I arrived at the spacious, log cabin dwelling Mary rented outside of Olathe. The 6-bedroom home was surrounded by irrigated fields of corn, soy beans, milo, and marijuana. All crops appeared to be prospering. Shortly after I arrived we were treated to a 30-minute torrential rain then we dined on a home-cooked meal of elk, steak, lamb chops, and peach pie. 

On Saturday morning, we left Olathe, elevation 5,300' and headed north. We stopped at one of Jim's favorite haunts, The Creekside Café and Bakery in Cedaredge, CO, for a tasty creekside breakfast, made even more memorable by 9" swirling propellers on 12" wooden stands sitting on each table. I was told they were automatic fly swatters. We drove about an hour and a half up into the Grand Mesa eventually reaching Jim's campsite at an elevation of 10,200'. It would be very easy to get lost among the many miles of rocky roads without the benefit of GPS. 

Fourteen-year-old grandson Thomas and his Dad, Ryan, were the last family members to see Jim alive after being delivered from their campsite to the airport in Montrose. When we arrived at the campsite Thomas enthusiastically gave me a guided tour. "This was our campfire, here's where Papa's tent was, this is where I chopped wood, here was one of our favorite fishing spots. This is where Papa parked his car and set up a clothesline so no other campers would wander near our special place. Papa would give me $50 if I could split a large log with one swing of the axe." 

"Did you ever cash in?" 

"Yes, a couple of times. I cut, split, and stacked enough wood to last Papa for his final week." 

Mary later told me, that when she and son, Aaron, arrived to retrieve Jim's car and camping gear, all of Thomas's fire wood was gone. Jim had a lot of gear, a tent of sufficient size for him to stand, a cot, sub-zero sleeping bag, fishing gear, his well-used Coleman stove, and a newly acquired chainsaw and giant ax. Fortunately, nothing but the firewood was taken. Mary recalled, "Jim had accumulated so much stuff. A deputy brought a lot of it down to Grand Junction. I will always reflect on how caring and helpful Mesa County Sheriff Jeff Burne was during that terrible time." 

Thirty minutes after we located Jim's last campsite, we were treated to another major rainstorm. We retreated to our 12-passenger van, where we stayed for the next two hours. We'd see flashes of lightning followed by the roar of thunder. One lightning strike had to be very chose as the thunder followed immediately. We figured that was Jim's way of saying hi. 

I sat next to Jim's youngest granddaughter, 6-year-old Nora, during the wait, and we shared a couple of stories. I told her about the Magic Mermaid Princess and her adventures with sidekicks Willy and McGregor, the singing dogs. She said, "That is a very good story, but I have one that is better." 

"I'm all ears." 

Nora said, "This is a story about a boy whose life was saved by bubble gum." 

"Once upon a time there was a boy named Billy who loved bubble gum. He was tall and thin, kind of like a green bean. One day he begged his Mother to give him some money so he could buy more bubble gum. The Mom told him that he already had enough bubble gum, why would be need more. The boy begged and begged, and finally she relented, and Billy went to the store to buy more gum. He bought a big wad and put it in his breast pocket." Actually, Nora didn't use the words 'breast pocket' instead she demonstrated by patting her chest. 

Nora now paused for a while, and I thought that might be the end of the story, and I said, "How does the gum save Billy?" 

Nora replied, "You silly, I was just about to get to that." 

"So, one day Billy was walking through the forest and he came upon a long poisonous snake. The snake sprang up trying to bite Billy in the face, but it instead bit him in the pocket that held his bubble gum. This surprised the snake, and it slithered off leaving Billy unharmed." 

I said, "That is a great story. But I have one question. Did the snake blow bubbles as it left?" 

"No, you silly. Snakes can't blow bubbles." 

I told Nora I was very impressed by the sophistication of her language. She said, "Thank you," and added, "Old people usually don't know how to talk to kids. You know why?" 

"Why?" I asked. 

"Because they talk to us like we are children." 

"Good advice." 

When the rain stopped we got out and continued to enjoy Jim's final resting spot. Granddaughters Madelyn and Ashley explored on their own, and the adults hiked on various trails around the campsite. 9-year-old Samantha caught eight good sized rainbow trout. Later, when we were loading the van, a large 50ish man wearing a Red Sox hat walked by and noticed Sam holding up her stringer of fish. He was wearing an elaborate fishing vest with a million lures and flies and an abundance of gear, and he carried a fishing net suitable for Jaws. He was fishless, and asked Sam what she was using for bait. 

"Wal-Mart Trout PowerBait." She answered. 

The man's wife chuckled loudly. Sweet! 

We stayed until it was almost dark largely leaving unspoken the reason we all had gathered. 

On July 24, 2020 James Milton Sneed delivered the last of his guests to the airport in Montrose, CO. He returned to his lakeside campsite in the Grand Mesa National Forest, built a fire, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat in his camp chair to enjoy the scene. Nearby campers discovered his body the following day. Here's a picture of Jim's last campsite:

NNAOPP Update - November 2020

NNAOPP Update

November 2020

Freddy's

I stopped at Freddy's for dinner after another productive day at the farm. To the unknowing I may have looked like a bedraggled geezer. I was wearing dusty farm clothes, my hair has grown wings, my last haircut being in February a week before traveling to Mardi Gras. My beard was unkempt, although partially hidden by my face mask, and I was wearing my trusty weather-worn and sweat-stained blue baseball cap with an embroidered American flag on the front. I ordered my typical and tasty burger / chili dog combo and looked to put my credit card in the gizmo designed for such purposes, when I noticed it already had a card inserted. I pulled it out, read the name, and called out, "Anyone here named so and so?" A large young man ambled over, took his card, and said thanks. He started to walk away, but paused, turned and said, "What years were you in Southeast Asia?" 

I replied, "I wasn't in Southeast Asia, although I was in the army during the Vietnam War." I failed to mention I was merely a lowly fighting dental assistant. I could have told him our unit motto was 'all we are saying is give teeth a chance', but I didn't. 

He said, "Thanks for your service." And he went on to speak proudly of his own military experience in Iraq. 

You meet the best people at Freddy's. 

Grandkids 

The grandkids spent the night recently. Finn, Charlie, and I were sitting around the kitchen while Judy was cooking a meat loaf. Finn was reading a book about Greek Gods, and we entered into the following exchange: 

Papa: "Finn, why do you think it is that the Greeks had so many Gods? Mimi and I are Christians, and Christians believe there is only one God." 

Finn replied, "I've not thought about that. Maybe it's because there were so many things that were unexplained. 

Papa, "Perhaps it was merely a matter of hospitality. The Greeks were always invading other city/states and immersing them in 'Greek' culture. They just kept adding the Gods of the conquered peoples to keep peace. 

Finn, "No. I don't think so. People need something to believe in. Lots of Gods made it easier." 

***

A few weeks earlier we were at the kids' house. Before we assembled for a viewing of 'Beetlejuice', Finn and I grabbed paddles and hit a ping pong ball back and forth. Finn asked, "Do you know how to play?" 

I said, "Yes, I do. In fact, I won the intramural ping pong championship my senior and junior year at Drury College, and I won a second place while at Harvard." 

Finn said, "Did you go to Harvard?" 

I replied, "Yes." 

Without a moments hesitation, Finn said, "I thought you had to be really smart to go there." 

Ouch! 

*** 

I took Wavy to the hardware/paint store in Corinth to get the needed supplies to paint her desk, the one her Mom had as a girl and had since been stored in the barn. While there I asked the paint guy for advice regarding the grade of sandpaper to use, prime or not, high gloss/low gloss, etc. While walking to the car with our stuff Wavy said, "Papa, you've built a fort, a cabin, a pole barn, and a bridge. I thought you'd know a lot more about this job." 

Unsaid was the implication, "Or else I would have asked someone more knowledgeable for help." 

Jim Sneed (1945 - 2020)

Allow me to say a word or two about my dear friend Jim Sneed, who recently completed his earthly journey. Jim loved his family, his friends, his work, his recreation, just everything. He was playful, loud, outrageous, ornery, uncommonly generous, hard-working, persistent, civic minded, not notoriously woke, and on and on. He was a true and steadfast friend, always upbeat and hugely fun. His was a life well lived. But one final coat of luster was added upon his death.  

Jim loved camping in the mountains of Colorado. Each year he would select a site and travel from his home in St. Augustine, FL with a carload of equipment and one or more grandchildren. This year he found a spot located on the shore of a remote Rocky Mountain lake in the vicinity of Grand Mesa and planned to stay a month. During the first three weeks he hosted his son and stepsons and their kids over varying stays. I can attest from personal experience that he was an exquisite chef on his Coleman stove, so I'm certain his guests were well fed. They would hike, fish, and enjoy one another's company and the scenic vistas. On the return trip to Florida he planned to spend a week with me at the farm and help on my project completing Augie's Bridge. He also planned to spend his last week in CO as a solitary camper. On the Friday preceding his final week, he drove the last of his guests to the airport in Montrose. He returned to his campsite, built a fire, poured himself a glass of red wine, and took a seat in his camp chair to enjoy the majestic setting. The following day fellow campers found Jim's body slumped in his chair with a half full glass of wine at his side. 

Twenty-five years earlier Jim had open heart surgery. He had numerous subsequent procedures and stents, most recently in January. He knew his ticker wasn't long for this world, and he talked often about how the game might end. His lovely wife Mary called me on the following Sunday morning to share the sad news. 

I'm in no rush to join the dearly departed, but when my time comes, I would hope to be as fortunate as Jim. His exit was pretty darn sweet. I join his family and friends in declaring that I will miss him mightily. And Patti Barber, Pete Taggart, Phil Brummel, and Claudette Benson. 2020 has not been a good year. 

Hearing Aid v iPhone

On a lighter note, in June I was loading our car in Sanibel for the return trip to KC. This involved carrying massive amounts of crap that Judy had accumulated over the winter from our third story condo. The short trip involved walking along an open-air walkway to an elevator and then down to our covered parking spot. On one of the many return trips, I found myself with a towel in my right hand, and I was reading something on my iPhone held in my left. I got out of the elevator on our floor, made a left turn towards our front door and inexplicably my newly acquired, Costco hearing aid popped completely out of my left ear. I'd like to tell you that I quickly did the math and thought $600 iPhone or $1,000 hearing aid, but I didn't. Instead I reacted and thought "Oh shit", threw the iPhone up in the air, and cleanly snatched the hearing aid. It was a pretty athletic move for one of my age if I do say so myself, but the iPhone flew over the railing and bounced on the brick pavers three floors below. Then I gave voice to another epithet, "Oh shit!" and down I went to retrieve my phone. Amazingly, it was unharmed. Consider this an uncompensated Apple testimonial. 

The Bentley's

I was at the farm, but Judy was home and reported the following incident. A large car-hauling truck parked on the street in front of our house. The driver got out and approached Judy who was weeding in her gardens in the front yard. He was polite, said he had just driven from California, liked our neighborhood, and then asked where he should put our two new Bentleys. Judy was puzzled, but told the guy she knew nothing about the two cars. He semi argued with her and showed her the paperwork with our address. Judy testily suggested he call his dispatcher or someone to check it out. He did, and put Judy on the phone with his supervisor who argued again that they had the correct address. Eventually, it was determined that the cars were to be delivered to 3117 not 3317, an address that is more than a few million dollars to our east. 

Judy told me the story when I got home that evening, and I was dismayed. That may be the closest I ever get to owning a Bentley. 

Thanksgiving Memories

In days long gone, we'd load up the family station wagon early on Thanksgiving morning and head to Springfield, MO, where maternal grandparents Jesse and Mayme Welsh made their residence. Dad was an only child, his Mom died when he was 12, and his Dad died in 1948, so our Mom's parents were the only grandparents we knew, and we eagerly looked forward to our visits. 

Dad had use of a Ford station wagon courtesy of his job as a band instrument salesman for McLean's Band Instruments. Mom and Dad / aka Helen and Charlie would occupy the front seats. Bill and I would sit in the way back facing the rear, and Sally sat somewhere. She was invisible to her older brothers, although mightily cute we were told. For some reason Sheb Wooley's song, "Purple People Eater" played incessantly on the radio as we journeyed south on the cold, gray November morning, and the year was 1958. 

The roads from Prairie Village to Springfield had not yet met interstate standards, nor have they done so today. It was somewhat better than a goat track, but not by much. Somehow, we made our way into the Queen City of the Ozarks after a four-hour drive, made shorter by our silly games of counting cows and horses. When passing a big truck, we'd pump our arms like a trainman pulling on a steam whistle, and the truckers would graciously toot their horns in reply. 

The northern parts of Springfield were distinctive given the many homes and motor courts constructed with giraffe-like flat stone facings. Dad would maneuver our massive, yet exceedingly modest, land yacht through the streets of North Springfield to our midtown destination. At the time, Jesse and Mayme lived adjacent to the Southwest Missouri State Teachers College, now Missouri State University. The football stadium and an enormous swimming pool sat across the street from their boarding house. There were candy shops and tiny grocery stores within safe walking distance for little boys and girls. It was pure heaven. (All of this is now long gone owing to the expansion of the university). 

The house was modest and snuggled tightly to the neighboring dwellings, but it hosted a front porch with a swing. It was three stories, but I don't think I ever went into the basement. I remember well the fun times spent with cousins Steve, Bob, and Debbie, and I remember well the thrashing Jesse would administer to his grandchildren in the game of Hearts. He was not a playful grandpa, but he very much liked to play cards with us and to win. Apparently, his experiences as a WWI doughboy, raising a family of five during the depression, sending his sons off to a subsequent war, and decades as an educator in the first half of the 20th century had inoculated him to the illusion that everyone is a winner. But I don't remember where we all slept. They must have sent their boarders away 

Uncle Stan would always bring his very own stash of Falstaff beer. In later life I would have occasion to sample many different varieties of said beverage, and I can say with little fear of contradiction, 'Falstaff is an acquired taste.' 

Aunt Joan, my Mom's youngest sibling, was almost closer in age to the oldest of her nieces and nephews than to her older brothers and sisters. This accorded her great status to Bill and I. She was always playful and fun making the Thanksgiving experience all the more delightful. 

Mayme's meal was beyond exquisite. As a 13-year-old, I could certainly lay no claim to gourmandmanship, but I can attest to this claim as one who could put away meaningful quantities of victuals. Grandma's signature offering was green beans cooked in lard with bacon and was my Dad's favorite. Her turkey and stuffing, and her yeast ladened rolls and sweet rolls were the tastiest dishes in the entire world. There would always be a home-made pecan pie, a pumpkin pie, and a minced meat pie. The latter was something only my Mom would eat. To this day I could not name the ingredients of minced meat pie. Porcupine innards? Last year's fruitcake? Perhaps. My favorite was the pecan pie. We stuffed ourselves and enjoyed our cousinly chatter awaiting the Hearts encounter with Grandpa. 

I was 13, Bill was 14, and Sally was 10 in 1958. We had long since passed the adorable stage of life. Not surprisingly, it still has not returned in the subsequent half century or so, and I shall wait no longer. At that time cousins Bob and Debbie were reaching their acme of cuteness and Marcie was a dear wee baby. What grandparent doesn't adore cuteness? But amazingly, Jesse and Mayme distributed their love evenly. God, I miss those fine people. 

Book Sales 

After dining with Lucy and her family last week we stayed at the table and played a game where in turn one participant selects a card from a deck which poses a question. Everyone writes down how they think the card picker might answer the question. Then all the answers are read to the group. When it was my turn to select a card, the question was "What will be written on your gravestone?" Waverly guessed, "I told you I was sick." Lucy picked, "Buy my book." The lass knows me well. 

This is a long-winded way of arriving at an update of my book sales. I have now passed Herman Melville. Surprisingly, I received an electronic payment from Amazon for the sale of nine ebooks yielding a bountiful royalty of $3.15. I'm not bragging or anything, but that transaction may have put me over the top in besting Melville's total book sales (3,000) whilst he was still living. Nude Nuns has now crested the 2,000-copy mark and Ordinary People has reached 1,000. In his honor, I am now rereading Moby Dick, a treatise I last read while in high school, but failed to appreciate. I am now officially withdrawing any comparisons to Herman. In contrast, the modesty of my scrivened dribble cannot be exaggerated. I commend this brilliant book to you. 

*** 

And that's the news from here. This has been a grueling year on so many levels. I'm sure I join everyone in wishing for a return to some sense of normalcy. I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving including the enjoyment of a tryptophan induced nap. Here's a verbal toast to all for your good health and good cheer as the holiday season approaches. 

Chuck 

Charles A. Wells, Jr. 

Author of Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People and Ordinary People Who Aren't Available on Amazon 

Follow my blog at http://nudenuns.blogspot.com/ 

Or contact me directly at charlesawellsjr@gmail.com