Posts
It's kinda cold outside. Fall is here! At least for a day, anyway. Back in the 80's today. This really is a great time of year. No, it's not the "best" time of year. Remember, I am your friendly neighborhood storm spotter so I reserve best time of year for the rough and tumble of a Nebraska spring. Fall is the settle back and enjoy it part of the year. Go bike in the country. Take a gun if you really do think there are lots of hungry mountain lions out there.
And if gas wasn't so high, a trip to Nebraska City would be in order. What a gem of a little town this is! The Arbor Day Foundation is there in the J. Sterling Morton mansion. (He had something to do with TV dinners and ended up the hondo of the plant a tree business.) And do they have trees! Lots of them have apples on them. So Nebraska City comes alive in the Fall with caramel apples, apple juice, apple eating apples, apple pie, apple cobbler, dried apples, apple cider, apple fig cake...I just threw that one in there. I am sure the folks in Nebraska City are appled out by Thanksgiving. Have you ever seen a montain lion eat an apple?
If you are into a little color, take your camera along. Wait a couple of weeks though. This is the first cold day so we need a freeze to get some genetic thing to do the color whamo inside of the tree and tell all of the the leaves to change color and well...leave. Any dummy can aim a digital camera at that countryside and get a breath-taking picture. (It will only be breath-taking if you happen to get a mounntain lion eating an apple.)
Besides the color, fall has another REALLY big bennie. The snakes head for the holes. You can stomp around all you want and not worry about a little rattler laying in wait. I hate snakes. Save a bullet for the mountain lion but go ahead and unload on the snakes. They should be in the holes anyway.
Pheasants start to get a little paranoid about now. It won't be long before grown men with bad taste in clothes stumbled through picked corn fields to try and get them. If they do, some wife has to try and fix them. And if she does, some kids try and eat them. All to make a dad feel good about his ability to hunt and provide. These guys won't find the mountain lion, however. They make too much noise stumbling through the fields. The hunting dog might lose a few years growth if he comes face to face with, well you know who.
I used to work for Remington Arms Company. God, that was a long time ago. I could almost be retired and weathly by now but I decided to hunt in different fields. Remington taught me about color because I had a chance to work with the GREAT outoor artist, Bob Kuhn. I even started to paint back then and wasn't too bad. If I had stuck with the paintinng, who knows?
Maybe I could be sitting on a hillside in Nebraska City painting a beautiful fall landscape with a mountain lion in it and add to the apple indigestion.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Sunday, September 25, 2005
That was an interesting week
In fact, it may have been one of the most interesting weeks of my life. I went to CERT school which stands for Community Emergency Response Team. We are now the guys that will be roaming the disaster areas that your local fire department can't search, reach, and treat.
No, we are not going to get all that heroics but we are trained in lots of stuff including...small fire supression, first aid, search and rescue, extraction, not the dentist type; and communications. It took 20 hours to complete the course and graduation was a moch disaster in the totally dark basement of the Nebraska Capitol building. Your's truely was in charge and to be honest, I didn't do all that great of a job but learned a bunch. We all did.
I now have a disaster pack full of gear. A green helmet that makes me look like a Pez dispenser. And, lots of confidence that I can help out big time. I also got a day's worth of CPR/AED training from the Red Cross.
Sound interesting to you? I encourage you to take the training. It really is great! Call your local emergency management office and they should be able to give you more information. By the way, it's FREE!
And in this day and age, it's more important than you will ever know.
PS Dannie had her surgery last week. She made it through it. I talked to her and she is improving but has a big hill to climb. If you have some prayer space, please put in a good word for her.
No, we are not going to get all that heroics but we are trained in lots of stuff including...small fire supression, first aid, search and rescue, extraction, not the dentist type; and communications. It took 20 hours to complete the course and graduation was a moch disaster in the totally dark basement of the Nebraska Capitol building. Your's truely was in charge and to be honest, I didn't do all that great of a job but learned a bunch. We all did.
I now have a disaster pack full of gear. A green helmet that makes me look like a Pez dispenser. And, lots of confidence that I can help out big time. I also got a day's worth of CPR/AED training from the Red Cross.
Sound interesting to you? I encourage you to take the training. It really is great! Call your local emergency management office and they should be able to give you more information. By the way, it's FREE!
And in this day and age, it's more important than you will ever know.
PS Dannie had her surgery last week. She made it through it. I talked to her and she is improving but has a big hill to climb. If you have some prayer space, please put in a good word for her.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Facing the knife
OK, I have more stitches in me than a cheap Sears suit. I know the routine. I have done a mask full of ether to get me under and the more modern shot with the count back system. (Never made it past 97 I think.)
The being said, I have nothing to offer my favoritest, yes faroritest, non daughter in the world. (No she isn't my daughter but she may as well be.)
She had a tumor removed from her brain. It was the size of a grapefruit. Think about that for a second. Hold a grapefruit in your hands and think about checking it into your head and having someone whack it out and nothing bad happening. Amazing.
But, she is amazing. Got more fire in her than an exploding Colorado fir during a forest fire. She's creative, and funny, and pure hell for the first half of the morning. Animals follow her around like there is a second coming of Noah's Ark and she isthe one handing out the tickets to the first class section. She scuba dives and takes on the gritty challenges of the day like a Jew walking across Gaza. She is a a pretty good writer but doesn't much. That is a loss.
And she grows tumors. Again. Not as big, mind you, but again.
There is a growing hush starting in my mind as the day approaches when the latest little lump will come out. I am worried and I wish I was there.
But I am not and worse, I have to be in school all week while this goes on.
I should be there, really. But then again, she just has to take a look at all of the hounds around her and know the old dog is there, too.
Cowboy up, babe. Let the sun rise in your soul.
The being said, I have nothing to offer my favoritest, yes faroritest, non daughter in the world. (No she isn't my daughter but she may as well be.)
She had a tumor removed from her brain. It was the size of a grapefruit. Think about that for a second. Hold a grapefruit in your hands and think about checking it into your head and having someone whack it out and nothing bad happening. Amazing.
But, she is amazing. Got more fire in her than an exploding Colorado fir during a forest fire. She's creative, and funny, and pure hell for the first half of the morning. Animals follow her around like there is a second coming of Noah's Ark and she isthe one handing out the tickets to the first class section. She scuba dives and takes on the gritty challenges of the day like a Jew walking across Gaza. She is a a pretty good writer but doesn't much. That is a loss.
And she grows tumors. Again. Not as big, mind you, but again.
There is a growing hush starting in my mind as the day approaches when the latest little lump will come out. I am worried and I wish I was there.
But I am not and worse, I have to be in school all week while this goes on.
I should be there, really. But then again, she just has to take a look at all of the hounds around her and know the old dog is there, too.
Cowboy up, babe. Let the sun rise in your soul.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
The cost of clearing
I just heard it is going to cost the US taxpayers four billion dollars to move all of the Jewish settlements out of Gaza.
Excuse me? How did they pull the wool over are eyes on that one? We have to pay about $1000 per person to remove Jews from Gaza?
The cost to us for other people's problems is getting just a bit out of sight. Just what do those idiots in the State Department think we are made of...cheap gas and and expensive corn?
And while we're at it, what is the cost to the American taxpayers to house the poor of Mexico? (Someone on the radio suggested we quit paying foreign aide to Fox and maybe he will get the flood stopped.) By the year 2016, there will be enough Mexicans in this country to permanently control the government of the United States, including electing a President. Think about that super power?
It doesn't do any good to write senators and congressmen and it certainly doesn't do any good to talk to them. If you listen to them, they have no clue what an honest answer is. What do we do? What options do we have?
Perhaps we should start at home. I suggest Nebraskans start squatting in Colorado because the secenery is more in tune with our Indian vision of Mother Earth and that if Colorado wants to move us, they will have to pay us $1000 a head and build energy-efficient teepees in Arizona. Then, the senators and congressmen from Colorado can slip the cost of the program into an amendment on the national highway safety bill.
If they don't, we'll just keep crossing the Colorado border until we can elect a Nebraskan, Governor of Colorado.
If that doesn't work, let's move Washington to Idaho and leave the press in DC. That will fix 'em.
Excuse me? How did they pull the wool over are eyes on that one? We have to pay about $1000 per person to remove Jews from Gaza?
The cost to us for other people's problems is getting just a bit out of sight. Just what do those idiots in the State Department think we are made of...cheap gas and and expensive corn?
And while we're at it, what is the cost to the American taxpayers to house the poor of Mexico? (Someone on the radio suggested we quit paying foreign aide to Fox and maybe he will get the flood stopped.) By the year 2016, there will be enough Mexicans in this country to permanently control the government of the United States, including electing a President. Think about that super power?
It doesn't do any good to write senators and congressmen and it certainly doesn't do any good to talk to them. If you listen to them, they have no clue what an honest answer is. What do we do? What options do we have?
Perhaps we should start at home. I suggest Nebraskans start squatting in Colorado because the secenery is more in tune with our Indian vision of Mother Earth and that if Colorado wants to move us, they will have to pay us $1000 a head and build energy-efficient teepees in Arizona. Then, the senators and congressmen from Colorado can slip the cost of the program into an amendment on the national highway safety bill.
If they don't, we'll just keep crossing the Colorado border until we can elect a Nebraskan, Governor of Colorado.
If that doesn't work, let's move Washington to Idaho and leave the press in DC. That will fix 'em.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
To catch a trout
I could be a little early on this one. But, I think the worst of summer is probably over. The "worst" of summer in Nebraska are those days when the temp in near 100 and the humidity is not far behind. You feel like you are stuck inside of a hot washcloth. Yuck.
It's during those days that my mind turns to trout fishing. No, I am not taking about trout fishing in Nebraska. I am talking about trout fishing in the distant hills...Colorado or Wyoming. It's been a while since I have been trout fishing. In fact, it has been so long I can't find my pole. That's sad and also a true sign of aging when a guy can't find his pole. And, I can't find my flies either. That's sad and a true sign of aging when a guy can't find his flies. Do you suppose I could find Colorado?
That's not all that easy, either. No, I can find the state. And I can find the mountains. And I can drive right through Denver without getting shot at or returning fire. It's finding a trout stream that is getting to be the problem. Or should I say, finding access to the stream.
Up around the Vail area, the streams and small rivers bubble along the Interstate rushing along to their meeting with the soon to be mighty Colorado river as it heads for the thirsty mouths of Californians and soon to be Californians about half dead in the desert between the river's bank and Old Mexico. Hopefully, the big trout put on their turning motors before they get swept into the muck of California living and politics. (Yes, I know the river has to do some battle with Arizona and the Grand Hole but I am not a tour guide for the great West. This is Colorado trout story.)
Where was I? Oh yes. Access. That is the problem today. Access. The once grand mountains now are covered with homes. Where the fires once raged and burned out the brush, now they burn out a California Brie and her forth husband. The own the land. They become the stewards of the land. The block access to the trout streams and somehow, they become far superior in their stewardship of the land than folks like me who have been going to Colorado since Boy Scout days.
They get it your face.."Hey, you can't park there. Hey, you guys are ruining the moutains and you make the fish suffer."
If you do find it to a nice little stream, the California backpackers come along and start giving you grief about what is the "right" way to take care of the rivers and the fish. The right way, of course, is to ban fishing so everyone can see the beauty of a big rainbow swimming along in Gore Creek. Where is a bear when you need one? Sick 'em snaggle tooth! Sick 'em.
I can only imagine what Colorado is going to be like in 10-20 years after all of the California outdoor experts move their because they are tired of climbing over mountains of illegals and want to climb mountains of mountains.
I guess iff I wanted to be remembered for my gift to conservation, I need to find a way that will make living inside of a hot damp washcloth appealing to a California no-it-all.
Here fishie fishie...
It's during those days that my mind turns to trout fishing. No, I am not taking about trout fishing in Nebraska. I am talking about trout fishing in the distant hills...Colorado or Wyoming. It's been a while since I have been trout fishing. In fact, it has been so long I can't find my pole. That's sad and also a true sign of aging when a guy can't find his pole. And, I can't find my flies either. That's sad and a true sign of aging when a guy can't find his flies. Do you suppose I could find Colorado?
That's not all that easy, either. No, I can find the state. And I can find the mountains. And I can drive right through Denver without getting shot at or returning fire. It's finding a trout stream that is getting to be the problem. Or should I say, finding access to the stream.
Up around the Vail area, the streams and small rivers bubble along the Interstate rushing along to their meeting with the soon to be mighty Colorado river as it heads for the thirsty mouths of Californians and soon to be Californians about half dead in the desert between the river's bank and Old Mexico. Hopefully, the big trout put on their turning motors before they get swept into the muck of California living and politics. (Yes, I know the river has to do some battle with Arizona and the Grand Hole but I am not a tour guide for the great West. This is Colorado trout story.)
Where was I? Oh yes. Access. That is the problem today. Access. The once grand mountains now are covered with homes. Where the fires once raged and burned out the brush, now they burn out a California Brie and her forth husband. The own the land. They become the stewards of the land. The block access to the trout streams and somehow, they become far superior in their stewardship of the land than folks like me who have been going to Colorado since Boy Scout days.
They get it your face.."Hey, you can't park there. Hey, you guys are ruining the moutains and you make the fish suffer."
If you do find it to a nice little stream, the California backpackers come along and start giving you grief about what is the "right" way to take care of the rivers and the fish. The right way, of course, is to ban fishing so everyone can see the beauty of a big rainbow swimming along in Gore Creek. Where is a bear when you need one? Sick 'em snaggle tooth! Sick 'em.
I can only imagine what Colorado is going to be like in 10-20 years after all of the California outdoor experts move their because they are tired of climbing over mountains of illegals and want to climb mountains of mountains.
I guess iff I wanted to be remembered for my gift to conservation, I need to find a way that will make living inside of a hot damp washcloth appealing to a California no-it-all.
Here fishie fishie...
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Summer
Wow. It's summer already. And how! Lincoln is in the mid 90's today and may flirt with 100 tomorrow. The humidity is higher than a Arizona State fan in Omaha. (Yes, they beat the Huskers in the College World Series. Hell of a game!)
I could either choose to stay in and stay cool or go out and fry. Fry won. Rebel, my old red z-24 storm spotter car overheated again so I had to walk down to the shop to get it. I guess I even missed storm spotting in my month or so off. I have been out three times and the last time was the most fun. It was about two weeks ago on a Friday night that the ole' ham radio went off, sounding the alarm for spotters. I was South of Lincoln over by a little town called Hickman. Radar indicated a possible tornado in my area so I put the glasses on the storm overhead and sure enough, it was rotating. (You need that ingredient to generate a good tornado.) No funnel was evident but it could drop at any time. Rebel was in the "ready" position and running in case we had to bolt out of the way of Mother Nature's super broom. I had my back to the car and when I turned around, it looked like it was on fire--lot's of white coming out from under the hood. Fortunately, it was just steam from overheating but what a time for that!
I can jog a little, but these conditions would call for a bolt out of the gate like a Saudi race horse near the Crete horsemeat plant. But, no tornado. Just a tornado spotter with car trouble.
The problem was a broken wire between the fan and the gauge which wasn't working anyway.
It is now and the problem is hopefully solved.
The only other problem is there are no storms to go watch. It's beastly hot and there is a "cap" in the atmosphere which stops the development of super cells--the best of the thunderstorm best--which are the breeding gounds for tornados and an instant ticket to fun.
I guess the only steam you'll see from me is the steam coming out of my ears. I went for a 20 mile bike ride. Heck, it is only 95.
Have a happy summer and enjoy yourself.
I could either choose to stay in and stay cool or go out and fry. Fry won. Rebel, my old red z-24 storm spotter car overheated again so I had to walk down to the shop to get it. I guess I even missed storm spotting in my month or so off. I have been out three times and the last time was the most fun. It was about two weeks ago on a Friday night that the ole' ham radio went off, sounding the alarm for spotters. I was South of Lincoln over by a little town called Hickman. Radar indicated a possible tornado in my area so I put the glasses on the storm overhead and sure enough, it was rotating. (You need that ingredient to generate a good tornado.) No funnel was evident but it could drop at any time. Rebel was in the "ready" position and running in case we had to bolt out of the way of Mother Nature's super broom. I had my back to the car and when I turned around, it looked like it was on fire--lot's of white coming out from under the hood. Fortunately, it was just steam from overheating but what a time for that!
I can jog a little, but these conditions would call for a bolt out of the gate like a Saudi race horse near the Crete horsemeat plant. But, no tornado. Just a tornado spotter with car trouble.
The problem was a broken wire between the fan and the gauge which wasn't working anyway.
It is now and the problem is hopefully solved.
The only other problem is there are no storms to go watch. It's beastly hot and there is a "cap" in the atmosphere which stops the development of super cells--the best of the thunderstorm best--which are the breeding gounds for tornados and an instant ticket to fun.
I guess the only steam you'll see from me is the steam coming out of my ears. I went for a 20 mile bike ride. Heck, it is only 95.
Have a happy summer and enjoy yourself.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Cell phone spam
I heard it was coming. It already has become as popular as poached liver overseas. But, so far, not one little half ring on my trusty Cingular phone until today. It happened about 4:oopm. Willie started singing "On the Road Again." There is a reason I have that ringtone. I answered. Nothing. I looked at the ID and it said "unknown." Finally, a little message started to play about the Republican cantidates in the local election and why I should vote for them. 1 minute. 2 minutes. 3 minutes. BOOM!
That's enough. I don't need a stupid cell phone call from the Republican party, even though I am one, telling me to vote for some of the lamest critters in the known world. Plus, those minutes are minutes I pay for, not the Republican party. They deserved a response.
"I would like to speak to whomever handles your telephone calling program," I asked the male voice who answered at the state party office.
"I guess that would be me," he answered.
"I am calling about your practice of spamming cell phones for local cantidates in the Lincoln city election."
"I am not sure that is us," he said.
"Well, the call was from the Nebraska Republican Party. Would that be you?"
"Yes, that would be us."
"So you admit you do that type of rude marketing?" I asked.
"Well, if you mean do we do telemarketing, yes we do," he said.
"Did you know it was illegal to make a telemarketing call and not have your organization identified in caller ID?" I asked.
"No, it isn't illegal," he answered.
"You're sure?" I asked.
"Yes, pretty sure."
"99% sure?"
"Yes, pretty sure."
"Well," I suggested, "let's try your knowledge with the Federal Trade Commission and see how good it is."
I hung up on him and filed the complaint. Even if you list your telephone number on the DO NOT CALL list, you can still be legally called by a political party. Nice touch from the lawmakers, don't you think? I am not sure they can make that call and not identify themselves on caller ID, however.
Most important, the call is even worse than a standard telemarketing call. It's to a cell phone and up until now, my cell phone had been spam free.
Just for that, I am going to vote Democrat this time. The Republicans have lost their class and have gone from steak to spam.
That's enough. I don't need a stupid cell phone call from the Republican party, even though I am one, telling me to vote for some of the lamest critters in the known world. Plus, those minutes are minutes I pay for, not the Republican party. They deserved a response.
"I would like to speak to whomever handles your telephone calling program," I asked the male voice who answered at the state party office.
"I guess that would be me," he answered.
"I am calling about your practice of spamming cell phones for local cantidates in the Lincoln city election."
"I am not sure that is us," he said.
"Well, the call was from the Nebraska Republican Party. Would that be you?"
"Yes, that would be us."
"So you admit you do that type of rude marketing?" I asked.
"Well, if you mean do we do telemarketing, yes we do," he said.
"Did you know it was illegal to make a telemarketing call and not have your organization identified in caller ID?" I asked.
"No, it isn't illegal," he answered.
"You're sure?" I asked.
"Yes, pretty sure."
"99% sure?"
"Yes, pretty sure."
"Well," I suggested, "let's try your knowledge with the Federal Trade Commission and see how good it is."
I hung up on him and filed the complaint. Even if you list your telephone number on the DO NOT CALL list, you can still be legally called by a political party. Nice touch from the lawmakers, don't you think? I am not sure they can make that call and not identify themselves on caller ID, however.
Most important, the call is even worse than a standard telemarketing call. It's to a cell phone and up until now, my cell phone had been spam free.
Just for that, I am going to vote Democrat this time. The Republicans have lost their class and have gone from steak to spam.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Toranaders
Yesterday was one of those Nebraska days that you could safely bet the farm on a good chance of a tornado watch. Warm. Very humid. More milk in the sky than in the cows.
Sure enough, around noon, the watch box showed up on my computer, now hooked up and purring in my car as I sat in a truck stop south of Lincoln. (I was playing work hookie because I was so sure that something was going to happen!)
I scanned the skies looking for a thunderhead, as we used to call them. We don't call them thunderheads in storm spotter school--they are build ups with features like overshooting tops and mammus under the anvil and flanking lines and lowerings and of course, wall clouds. A wall cloud is a tornado's nest. If you find a good wall cloud, your chances of seeing a tornado improve dramatically.
The key word is "chances." I am almost 60 and have spent most of my life in Nebraska and have never really "seen" one. In my flying days, I have seen the famous "hook return" on radar that indicates one, but as far as seeing one actually form and roar down from the sky like a freight train and destroy a barn or tie a pivot irrigation system into a perfect sqare knot, put me in the nada column.
Not for him.
We had a debrief, which is code for "let's go get something to eat" at the local Village Inn after the all clear came from emergency management. I decied to attend the debrief for my first time. The head dog had signed me out with lots of praise on what good reporting I did for the day. No, there were no tornados today--just build-ups with overshooting tops and flanking lines and rain foots and hail shafts. Interesting but boring.
"Seen about sixty of 'em," the spotter across the table from me said. "Ya don't want to see one." The guy next to him knodded in agreement.
"Why not?" I asked. "That would be a kick!"
"They're loud, it's dirty when ya get close, and they'll scare the hell out a ya," he said as he turned his pointing fork from my face and back to his hot beef sandwich. He is a tradesman--kind of a simple, salt of the Nebraska earth kind of guy--no bull except what waited under the bread covered with brown gravey on his plate. He didn't care if I believed him or not. I did.
It takes a special breed of alley cat to volunteer to go sit on top of a hill and wait for Mother Nature to throw some of her best stuff at you. Don't expect any credit. This is a blue collar guy's volunteer job or a weather scientist or a nut like me. The guys looking for credit and a story with pictures in the paper praising their vounteer work, are not found in this group.
"Was out where you was several times," he continued. "Good spot for one to set down. Was looking back South from there onces when they called and asked if could confirm a funnel sighting. "No, clearing South," I said into the mike.
"Then it dawned on me that there was a little something going on," he continued. "It was getting loud and the stop sign was twisting sideways so fast I couldn't read the stop. I had one of them moonroofs and looked up just as the tornader came down and touched down in the field right next to me. It was loud and dirt was flying everywhere. I punched the mike button and told 'em I had a funnel on the ground next to me and got the hell outta there."
I smiled. He put the fork back into the mashed potatos.
He told me about other ones he had seen. Big F-4's. Skinny rope ones. Conical ones that jumped out from behind a rain foot to surprise him. We compared notes about the monster that ate Grand Island many years ago. He was on the ground. I was in the air. We both saw it but I was looking at it on radar and he was on the ground dancing with the single-legged devil.
"Patterns are changin," he said. They are movin more East."
He explained the places that usually had some tornado action each year. He laid the tracks out as if they were maps to his favortie fishing holes. He drew visual lines in my mind across the Nebraska countryside. He backed up his case with dates and tornado events I recalled instantly. When he was through, I had no doubt my spotter position was the yellow line on Nebraska's tornado highway. If he was right, Lincoln's time was running out. It was just a matter of time.
"Your spot should be a good one if ya wanna see one," he said as he finished his cherry pie. "Personally, I seen enough." The other guy nodded again.
Maybe I have seen enough, too.
Sure enough, around noon, the watch box showed up on my computer, now hooked up and purring in my car as I sat in a truck stop south of Lincoln. (I was playing work hookie because I was so sure that something was going to happen!)
I scanned the skies looking for a thunderhead, as we used to call them. We don't call them thunderheads in storm spotter school--they are build ups with features like overshooting tops and mammus under the anvil and flanking lines and lowerings and of course, wall clouds. A wall cloud is a tornado's nest. If you find a good wall cloud, your chances of seeing a tornado improve dramatically.
The key word is "chances." I am almost 60 and have spent most of my life in Nebraska and have never really "seen" one. In my flying days, I have seen the famous "hook return" on radar that indicates one, but as far as seeing one actually form and roar down from the sky like a freight train and destroy a barn or tie a pivot irrigation system into a perfect sqare knot, put me in the nada column.
Not for him.
We had a debrief, which is code for "let's go get something to eat" at the local Village Inn after the all clear came from emergency management. I decied to attend the debrief for my first time. The head dog had signed me out with lots of praise on what good reporting I did for the day. No, there were no tornados today--just build-ups with overshooting tops and flanking lines and rain foots and hail shafts. Interesting but boring.
"Seen about sixty of 'em," the spotter across the table from me said. "Ya don't want to see one." The guy next to him knodded in agreement.
"Why not?" I asked. "That would be a kick!"
"They're loud, it's dirty when ya get close, and they'll scare the hell out a ya," he said as he turned his pointing fork from my face and back to his hot beef sandwich. He is a tradesman--kind of a simple, salt of the Nebraska earth kind of guy--no bull except what waited under the bread covered with brown gravey on his plate. He didn't care if I believed him or not. I did.
It takes a special breed of alley cat to volunteer to go sit on top of a hill and wait for Mother Nature to throw some of her best stuff at you. Don't expect any credit. This is a blue collar guy's volunteer job or a weather scientist or a nut like me. The guys looking for credit and a story with pictures in the paper praising their vounteer work, are not found in this group.
"Was out where you was several times," he continued. "Good spot for one to set down. Was looking back South from there onces when they called and asked if could confirm a funnel sighting. "No, clearing South," I said into the mike.
"Then it dawned on me that there was a little something going on," he continued. "It was getting loud and the stop sign was twisting sideways so fast I couldn't read the stop. I had one of them moonroofs and looked up just as the tornader came down and touched down in the field right next to me. It was loud and dirt was flying everywhere. I punched the mike button and told 'em I had a funnel on the ground next to me and got the hell outta there."
I smiled. He put the fork back into the mashed potatos.
He told me about other ones he had seen. Big F-4's. Skinny rope ones. Conical ones that jumped out from behind a rain foot to surprise him. We compared notes about the monster that ate Grand Island many years ago. He was on the ground. I was in the air. We both saw it but I was looking at it on radar and he was on the ground dancing with the single-legged devil.
"Patterns are changin," he said. They are movin more East."
He explained the places that usually had some tornado action each year. He laid the tracks out as if they were maps to his favortie fishing holes. He drew visual lines in my mind across the Nebraska countryside. He backed up his case with dates and tornado events I recalled instantly. When he was through, I had no doubt my spotter position was the yellow line on Nebraska's tornado highway. If he was right, Lincoln's time was running out. It was just a matter of time.
"Your spot should be a good one if ya wanna see one," he said as he finished his cherry pie. "Personally, I seen enough." The other guy nodded again.
Maybe I have seen enough, too.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Everything finally worked!
I love technology especially when it works. No, I am not a Microsoft fan by any stretch, but they are a necessary short in the whizzing circuits of a great mind like mine. :o)
Anyway. Last night everything worked just great. Best of all, the tech stuff was inside of my little car out on a Nebraska country road on the top of a hill in a lightning juiced spring thunderstorm. No, I wasn't stuck. No, I wasn't courting an old babe on a starry night gone south. I was there because I wanted to be there--right in the raging middle of it.
I love weather, especially thunderstorms. I love it so much that I even endured getting a ham radio license just so I could become one of the storm spotting crew for Lancaster County Emergency Management. I was trained for the job even though I had over 3,000 hours of professional flying experience and flew over the massive things. None the less, I endured stuff I really don't really care about just so I could be out on that lonesome hill with juiced arrows hitting everywhere and the rain pounding my little car. I was nice and calm inside and dissecting the monster with my laptop, hooked up to my inverter, hooked up to my cell phone, hooked up to the live radar. I looked at the radar and reported what I saw on the ground. It all worked great!
I haven't had that much fun in years! No, there was nothing of significance to deal with but I am sure the folks in the little town just a mile or so away may have felt a little better that me, and 41 other volunteer storm spotters, dotted the countryside looking at the skies.
Good night little Hallam. No need to worry tonight.
Anyway. Last night everything worked just great. Best of all, the tech stuff was inside of my little car out on a Nebraska country road on the top of a hill in a lightning juiced spring thunderstorm. No, I wasn't stuck. No, I wasn't courting an old babe on a starry night gone south. I was there because I wanted to be there--right in the raging middle of it.
I love weather, especially thunderstorms. I love it so much that I even endured getting a ham radio license just so I could become one of the storm spotting crew for Lancaster County Emergency Management. I was trained for the job even though I had over 3,000 hours of professional flying experience and flew over the massive things. None the less, I endured stuff I really don't really care about just so I could be out on that lonesome hill with juiced arrows hitting everywhere and the rain pounding my little car. I was nice and calm inside and dissecting the monster with my laptop, hooked up to my inverter, hooked up to my cell phone, hooked up to the live radar. I looked at the radar and reported what I saw on the ground. It all worked great!
I haven't had that much fun in years! No, there was nothing of significance to deal with but I am sure the folks in the little town just a mile or so away may have felt a little better that me, and 41 other volunteer storm spotters, dotted the countryside looking at the skies.
Good night little Hallam. No need to worry tonight.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Not enough engines
The intersection of 48th. Street and Vine Street is one of the busiest intersections in Lincoln. I am not for away from it because I am so regular at the Kinkos store they call me Metamucil. Over the last couple of years, I have been at or near the Kinkos front door when that wrenching sound of of whap, crunching metal, and screeching tires fills the air. This intersection is the home of the whopper--not the sandwich--the car accident kind.
Yesterday was that kind of day. I was just getting out of my car when those all to frequent sounds filled the air. I looked and saw a pickup about halfway through the intersection and an old white Buick sitting on the median, smoking and crushed. The pickup won this contest.
With cell phone in hand, I dashed to the Buick. Two ladies, both dazed, were in the car. The passenger was in the most pain and rolled around in the seat. Another man soon was at my side. Thankfully, he was a volunteer fireman with some paramedic experience. He jumped into the back seat and we made a quick evaluation of what was going on. Diver would be OK. Passenger needed medical help. She complained of side pain and held her head.
I called 911 and gave them the necessary and what seemed at the time, alot of unecessay information. Help was on the way. 10:37 am.
One of Lincoln's finest was on the scene pronto. The young policeman hopped out of his car and put his car in a protective mode in the intersection. He made some notes, identified the drivers, collected their insurance information and had the pickup drive move his truck from traffic.
Where are the nice folks from the fire department? In past times, Engine 9 or Engine 2 and in a couple of really bad cases, Engine 7 or Engine 5 could already be heard off in the distance or they were already here. Not today. Not even a hint of one.
"Did fire get the call?" I asked the cop.
He punched his microphone and soon looked back at me. "Yup, they are on the way."
Strange.
I looked to the South down 48th Street and their was a fire department ambulance about 100 yards away. The unit was just sitting there. No lights or sirens. Just stuck in backed-up traffic like a ton of other Lincolnites.
Then, the unit suddenly came to life.
I am sure there were a few sudden surges in blood pressure as the ambulance made itself known. I waved at the officer and pointed at the ambulance. Unfortunately, he had parked his car in the one place that would have allowed the ambulance to zip right up to us if the cop waved a few folks through. With a few waves, a zig and a zag, the ambulance was on scene. It sure would have been nice to have some firemen and a big pry bar to get the passenger side door open and get the lady out. As it was, she would be coming across the driver's side and out. Still no sound of siren or blarring air horn off in the distance.
The paramedics relieved the volunteer fireman who had been holding the lady's head to reduce any cance of neck damage until a collar could be put on here. I am sure his arms ached. It had been quite a while.
Finally, off in the distance, just coming over the top of the hill on Vine Street, a fire truck emerged with full lights and siren. His air horn blasted away. Engine 1 pulled into the intersection and stopped.
Engine 1? That company was from the downtown Lincoln station. No wonder it took so long.
Where were the neighborhood guys? Engine 2? Engine 9? Engine 7? Truck 7? Engine 5? Truck 7?
I zipped an email off to the chief expressing my concerns about response time. I got an email back that the response was within limits. I remailed and wondered about where all of the above were that they had to send Engine 1 from downtown. Busy he said. I waited a day and checked the fire department run logs. They must have been called out for training at stations 7, station 5, and station 2. Engine 9 had a call.
Had the ambulance not happened along, the poor lady would have waited a very long time. So would the volunteer fireman. Her ambulance was sent out under code "Bravo" which means the fire engine is coming with blarring air horn and lights and siren. The ambulance, head injury or not, was just coming.
At least for one day in Lincoln, there were not enough engines.
Yesterday was that kind of day. I was just getting out of my car when those all to frequent sounds filled the air. I looked and saw a pickup about halfway through the intersection and an old white Buick sitting on the median, smoking and crushed. The pickup won this contest.
With cell phone in hand, I dashed to the Buick. Two ladies, both dazed, were in the car. The passenger was in the most pain and rolled around in the seat. Another man soon was at my side. Thankfully, he was a volunteer fireman with some paramedic experience. He jumped into the back seat and we made a quick evaluation of what was going on. Diver would be OK. Passenger needed medical help. She complained of side pain and held her head.
I called 911 and gave them the necessary and what seemed at the time, alot of unecessay information. Help was on the way. 10:37 am.
One of Lincoln's finest was on the scene pronto. The young policeman hopped out of his car and put his car in a protective mode in the intersection. He made some notes, identified the drivers, collected their insurance information and had the pickup drive move his truck from traffic.
Where are the nice folks from the fire department? In past times, Engine 9 or Engine 2 and in a couple of really bad cases, Engine 7 or Engine 5 could already be heard off in the distance or they were already here. Not today. Not even a hint of one.
"Did fire get the call?" I asked the cop.
He punched his microphone and soon looked back at me. "Yup, they are on the way."
Strange.
I looked to the South down 48th Street and their was a fire department ambulance about 100 yards away. The unit was just sitting there. No lights or sirens. Just stuck in backed-up traffic like a ton of other Lincolnites.
Then, the unit suddenly came to life.
I am sure there were a few sudden surges in blood pressure as the ambulance made itself known. I waved at the officer and pointed at the ambulance. Unfortunately, he had parked his car in the one place that would have allowed the ambulance to zip right up to us if the cop waved a few folks through. With a few waves, a zig and a zag, the ambulance was on scene. It sure would have been nice to have some firemen and a big pry bar to get the passenger side door open and get the lady out. As it was, she would be coming across the driver's side and out. Still no sound of siren or blarring air horn off in the distance.
The paramedics relieved the volunteer fireman who had been holding the lady's head to reduce any cance of neck damage until a collar could be put on here. I am sure his arms ached. It had been quite a while.
Finally, off in the distance, just coming over the top of the hill on Vine Street, a fire truck emerged with full lights and siren. His air horn blasted away. Engine 1 pulled into the intersection and stopped.
Engine 1? That company was from the downtown Lincoln station. No wonder it took so long.
Where were the neighborhood guys? Engine 2? Engine 9? Engine 7? Truck 7? Engine 5? Truck 7?
I zipped an email off to the chief expressing my concerns about response time. I got an email back that the response was within limits. I remailed and wondered about where all of the above were that they had to send Engine 1 from downtown. Busy he said. I waited a day and checked the fire department run logs. They must have been called out for training at stations 7, station 5, and station 2. Engine 9 had a call.
Had the ambulance not happened along, the poor lady would have waited a very long time. So would the volunteer fireman. Her ambulance was sent out under code "Bravo" which means the fire engine is coming with blarring air horn and lights and siren. The ambulance, head injury or not, was just coming.
At least for one day in Lincoln, there were not enough engines.
Saturday, January 08, 2005
The last steps of a young girl
We stood almost slient, our breathe turning white against the morning sky, as the Sheriff told us what was ahead.
There were 150 of us. More had come but they only took the first 150. None of us were law or rescue people. Just people.
"This is something I can do," the small engine mechanice standing next to me said. "I haven't done my part for years but this is something I can do." Others nodded.
There was a woman with her college-age daughter. A bunch of hunters stood close by in their hunting browns and blaze orange vests. A black lady in a leather coat shivered but said she was warm.
The school bus pulled up and we started to board as the deputy called out each name. Soon, the crammed bus took its place in a convoy of police vehicles, fire trucks, and thirty or so trucks with ATV's in the box.
We were leaving the safety of town for the countryside along the Platte River. The countryside was covered in at least six inches of undisturbed snow. It would be our job to disturb it.
Hopefully, someone's boot would come into contact with the body of a twenty year old college girl who had gone missing with her boyfriend three days before. Others similar to our group had found the boy's body the day before. He lay barely visable in the snow and wore only a hooded sweatshirt. There was no way he would have survived.
The harsh Nebraska winter had claimed his young life, his brain somehow not functioning clearly enough to heed the warning of the 911 operator to stay in the safety of a small shed they had found. They left that safety, to try and find safety, and found death instead. Sadly, another heated building with a phone was only a few short steps-- separated from their sight by sleet and the numbing cold.
Even though this girl had not been found, the mission had switched from search to recovery. There was no chance she would have survived the ice storm, the six inches of snow, and the below zero Nebraska nights. No one doubted the winter stillness that gripped this place had also stilled her.
"I am here because I have girls and I couldn't stand the thought of someone's kid being out here," a man said.
I listened to some of the officers express their latest theories.
"They told 911 that they were talking to some black people who didn't understand English," a tropper said. "We think they were disoriented and were actually talking to some cows along the road."
Can you imagine being that cold, that lost, and that scared? His truck had slid off the road and it was almost two miles away from where he took his last step. But where was she?
Before long, the officers had us stretched out, shoulder to sholder, and we were slowly walking through fresh snow about mid calf deep. Sometimes the snow drifts were knee deep. Sometimes you would fall into a little hole and be waist deep. Is that what happened to her?
"Raise your hand if your feet hit something," my team leader barked out.
Once in a while, someone did. But for the most part, the uneveness was some form of clod or junk that littered the place.
We walked away from where the boy was found. The others the day before had already searched the ground close to him. Did he leave her in some safe place and set off alone? Was she out ahead of him? What did he say to her? What story did his path tell? Could she be in something like the discarded deepfreeze close to the road or some of the construction equipment that lay, drifted in the snow? We checked and rechecked. We used sticks to poke holes through the drifted snow. The landscape went from a perfect shining sea of white to endless boot tracks as we crossed the quarter section and then returned back the other way.
"That's exactly what we want," the deputy said. "We want to see all of that snow disturbed."
But we had found nothing.
The gravel pit lake and the river close by were frozen over. But the kids had gone missing in a sleet storm. Could she have fallen into the lake before it froze? They wouldn't let us get within 50 feet of it. This was a sand pit and dredging creates a hollow shelf of sand over the lake. They worried that we might break off the shelf and maybe end up in the lake.
Is that what happened to her? We may never know because the winter snow had covered everything. Where are you little girl? Where are your last steps so we can find you?
There was a sea of simple prayers coming from this place that said simply, God help us find you.I know because I could see it in everyone's eyes.
You belong with the family who loves you little girl. Not here. Not in this forbidding place.
We searched on because somehow, the cold we should have felt never came.
There were 150 of us. More had come but they only took the first 150. None of us were law or rescue people. Just people.
"This is something I can do," the small engine mechanice standing next to me said. "I haven't done my part for years but this is something I can do." Others nodded.
There was a woman with her college-age daughter. A bunch of hunters stood close by in their hunting browns and blaze orange vests. A black lady in a leather coat shivered but said she was warm.
The school bus pulled up and we started to board as the deputy called out each name. Soon, the crammed bus took its place in a convoy of police vehicles, fire trucks, and thirty or so trucks with ATV's in the box.
We were leaving the safety of town for the countryside along the Platte River. The countryside was covered in at least six inches of undisturbed snow. It would be our job to disturb it.
Hopefully, someone's boot would come into contact with the body of a twenty year old college girl who had gone missing with her boyfriend three days before. Others similar to our group had found the boy's body the day before. He lay barely visable in the snow and wore only a hooded sweatshirt. There was no way he would have survived.
The harsh Nebraska winter had claimed his young life, his brain somehow not functioning clearly enough to heed the warning of the 911 operator to stay in the safety of a small shed they had found. They left that safety, to try and find safety, and found death instead. Sadly, another heated building with a phone was only a few short steps-- separated from their sight by sleet and the numbing cold.
Even though this girl had not been found, the mission had switched from search to recovery. There was no chance she would have survived the ice storm, the six inches of snow, and the below zero Nebraska nights. No one doubted the winter stillness that gripped this place had also stilled her.
"I am here because I have girls and I couldn't stand the thought of someone's kid being out here," a man said.
I listened to some of the officers express their latest theories.
"They told 911 that they were talking to some black people who didn't understand English," a tropper said. "We think they were disoriented and were actually talking to some cows along the road."
Can you imagine being that cold, that lost, and that scared? His truck had slid off the road and it was almost two miles away from where he took his last step. But where was she?
Before long, the officers had us stretched out, shoulder to sholder, and we were slowly walking through fresh snow about mid calf deep. Sometimes the snow drifts were knee deep. Sometimes you would fall into a little hole and be waist deep. Is that what happened to her?
"Raise your hand if your feet hit something," my team leader barked out.
Once in a while, someone did. But for the most part, the uneveness was some form of clod or junk that littered the place.
We walked away from where the boy was found. The others the day before had already searched the ground close to him. Did he leave her in some safe place and set off alone? Was she out ahead of him? What did he say to her? What story did his path tell? Could she be in something like the discarded deepfreeze close to the road or some of the construction equipment that lay, drifted in the snow? We checked and rechecked. We used sticks to poke holes through the drifted snow. The landscape went from a perfect shining sea of white to endless boot tracks as we crossed the quarter section and then returned back the other way.
"That's exactly what we want," the deputy said. "We want to see all of that snow disturbed."
But we had found nothing.
The gravel pit lake and the river close by were frozen over. But the kids had gone missing in a sleet storm. Could she have fallen into the lake before it froze? They wouldn't let us get within 50 feet of it. This was a sand pit and dredging creates a hollow shelf of sand over the lake. They worried that we might break off the shelf and maybe end up in the lake.
Is that what happened to her? We may never know because the winter snow had covered everything. Where are you little girl? Where are your last steps so we can find you?
There was a sea of simple prayers coming from this place that said simply, God help us find you.I know because I could see it in everyone's eyes.
You belong with the family who loves you little girl. Not here. Not in this forbidding place.
We searched on because somehow, the cold we should have felt never came.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
When it gets cold.
Everytime it gets really cold, like today, I think of my grade school parka.
I was in the fifth grade when mom and dad went off to Sioux City to buy me a new parka. The hand-me-doown one, an off-green military style one, was about shot and I was a growing boy. It was my turn for a brand new off-green military style new one like the other kids had.
After all, back in those days, we needed warm clothes. Recess was outside. Even on some of the coldest days, recess was outside. We walked to school and home from school. It was safe to do it back then. And outdoor play took on great adventure as we sledded down the biggest hills at the golf course and looked for beasts along Little Creek. It took a good parka to be a tough kid back then--an off green military style one that looked the same as all of the other kids.
I was really excited when mom and dad got home from Sioux City. They unpacked the car and mom handed me a big sack. I ripped it open and there it was. It was a military style parka, all right. It fit fine. Mom zipped it up and pulled the rabbit lined fur hood over my head and there I stood, ready for the cold in my red military style heavy parka.
Red?
Mom, you bought me a red parka? Not a green one like the other kids had?
I raised hell for days about wearing that red parka. The kids made fun of me. I felt really stupid about being the only kid in town who wore a red parka.
But my parents were ahead of their time. By the time I went off to college at Nebraska, a coach named Devaney had come along and the entire state was Go Big Red crazy.
In spite of myself, I was ahead of my time.
How do parents know these things?
I was in the fifth grade when mom and dad went off to Sioux City to buy me a new parka. The hand-me-doown one, an off-green military style one, was about shot and I was a growing boy. It was my turn for a brand new off-green military style new one like the other kids had.
After all, back in those days, we needed warm clothes. Recess was outside. Even on some of the coldest days, recess was outside. We walked to school and home from school. It was safe to do it back then. And outdoor play took on great adventure as we sledded down the biggest hills at the golf course and looked for beasts along Little Creek. It took a good parka to be a tough kid back then--an off green military style one that looked the same as all of the other kids.
I was really excited when mom and dad got home from Sioux City. They unpacked the car and mom handed me a big sack. I ripped it open and there it was. It was a military style parka, all right. It fit fine. Mom zipped it up and pulled the rabbit lined fur hood over my head and there I stood, ready for the cold in my red military style heavy parka.
Red?
Mom, you bought me a red parka? Not a green one like the other kids had?
I raised hell for days about wearing that red parka. The kids made fun of me. I felt really stupid about being the only kid in town who wore a red parka.
But my parents were ahead of their time. By the time I went off to college at Nebraska, a coach named Devaney had come along and the entire state was Go Big Red crazy.
In spite of myself, I was ahead of my time.
How do parents know these things?
Monday, January 03, 2005
Diving into winter
Well, it's over.
So much for the holiday season. Nice for me and I hope for you and your's. Now it's time to dive into winter. I spent a good deal of time making plans and setting goals for 2005 and have actually already completed some of them. This is going to be a fun year for me.
Lincoln is getting an ice storm this morning. Buc got me up at 0:dark thirty to go do his outdoor stuff so I saddled up, clipped the leash on him and opened the door. He dashed out and went right on his snooter of course. The ears when up in complete surprise. He tried to stand and two of the four--one on each side--went out and he went down on the snooter again. He got back up, looked at me standing on the frozen grass as if he was waiting for me to unslick the sidewalk. No luck Bucco boy.
He worked his way over to the "spot" and got things done so it wasn't long before I was scraping windows and on the way to the Coffee House downtown. That was a good time to go since the streets were a tick or two above a mirror and no one but me was on them. Granted, a re-rack was in my mind but I left that up to my trusty dog and shortly after his breakfast, he was on top of the bed fast asleep.
It's time to dive into winter. That means it is time to get another going so it can turn out to be a challenging one for me. I have things to learn, places to go, and things to do.
The plans are in place and it's time to just dive into winter and make the best of it.
Thank God I only have two legs and a little more experience than my fall on his snooter dog.
So much for the holiday season. Nice for me and I hope for you and your's. Now it's time to dive into winter. I spent a good deal of time making plans and setting goals for 2005 and have actually already completed some of them. This is going to be a fun year for me.
Lincoln is getting an ice storm this morning. Buc got me up at 0:dark thirty to go do his outdoor stuff so I saddled up, clipped the leash on him and opened the door. He dashed out and went right on his snooter of course. The ears when up in complete surprise. He tried to stand and two of the four--one on each side--went out and he went down on the snooter again. He got back up, looked at me standing on the frozen grass as if he was waiting for me to unslick the sidewalk. No luck Bucco boy.
He worked his way over to the "spot" and got things done so it wasn't long before I was scraping windows and on the way to the Coffee House downtown. That was a good time to go since the streets were a tick or two above a mirror and no one but me was on them. Granted, a re-rack was in my mind but I left that up to my trusty dog and shortly after his breakfast, he was on top of the bed fast asleep.
It's time to dive into winter. That means it is time to get another going so it can turn out to be a challenging one for me. I have things to learn, places to go, and things to do.
The plans are in place and it's time to just dive into winter and make the best of it.
Thank God I only have two legs and a little more experience than my fall on his snooter dog.
Friday, December 24, 2004
The Night Before
T'was the night before Christmas...
We ain't got any snow,
It's 4 below zero,
So take a blanket if you go.
Don't hang any stockings,
Leave 'em on your pink feet,
Cause if you get frostbite,
It won't be to neat.
On Target, On Wal-Mart,
Bark Pet-Co too
If you have any
last minute shopping to do.
What happend to Miller & Paine
where the wrapping they'd do.
Now I have to do it
and it will be late when I'm through.
Then on dancer and blitzen and
red Rebel too
It's off to Omaha to see
what is new.
The babies will be there
with rosy red cheeks
Hoping that Santa will
stop with some sweet little treats.
So a night with the fam
will be kinda neat.
Then it's home to my
hound,
To give him his treat.
And to you and your family
on this cold snowless night
Merry Christmas to all
and to Wal-Mart, good night.
We ain't got any snow,
It's 4 below zero,
So take a blanket if you go.
Don't hang any stockings,
Leave 'em on your pink feet,
Cause if you get frostbite,
It won't be to neat.
On Target, On Wal-Mart,
Bark Pet-Co too
If you have any
last minute shopping to do.
What happend to Miller & Paine
where the wrapping they'd do.
Now I have to do it
and it will be late when I'm through.
Then on dancer and blitzen and
red Rebel too
It's off to Omaha to see
what is new.
The babies will be there
with rosy red cheeks
Hoping that Santa will
stop with some sweet little treats.
So a night with the fam
will be kinda neat.
Then it's home to my
hound,
To give him his treat.
And to you and your family
on this cold snowless night
Merry Christmas to all
and to Wal-Mart, good night.
Saturday, December 18, 2004
My Christmas story for you
There was a little old man standing out in front of a Wal-Mart store. He was a obese, short, and he had a scruffy white beard to go along with his long white unkempt hair. He wore a red and white Santa hat and had a smile and a Merry Christmas for everyone who walked by his kettle as he rang the bell for the Salvation Army. His gentle disposition and his physical characteristics made him very special at this time of years. This was his kettle and he did his job very well.
'Look, there's Santa," the kid exclaimed as families went in and out of the store. True enough, he looked like Santa. Then the unthinkable happened. The bell dropped to the cement and rolled away as he clutched his chest and fell to the ground.
A gasp went up as people watched. Some came quickly to his aid. A man took out his cellphone and dialed 911.
"He just fell over,"the man said. The operator got more information and it wasn't long before you could hear a siren off in the distance. Help was on the way. But for this old man, would help arrive too late.
Soon, the big red and white fire engine came to a stop in front of the store. You could hear the whoosh of the air brakes as firemen dressed in dark blue sweat shirts came out of the doors and opened compartments to take out a bag with lifesaving gear inside. A paramedic went right to the old man who lay motionless on the ground, his hint of white breath against the cold winter air now gone.
"Is Santa dead?" a little boy about five asked his mother. He grabbed her leg as she tried to spare him from the unfolding sad scene. He held his ground and watched. Tears formed on his face as he watched the firemen work on the old man.
"Is Santa dead?" he cried out. "Is he? Is Santa dead?"
"No honey," his mom said as she reached down and turned his face away from the scene. She tried to get him to go but he held firm.
The paramedic stopped working on the old man. He took his stethoscope out of his ears and put it around his neck and looked up at the engine's captain and shook his head from side to side.
The boy struggled with his mom and finally bolted free. He ran from her reach and over to the paramedic. Tears were streaming down his face as he looked at the old man who lay motionless on the ground. He shook the paramendic's shoulder.
"Is Santa dead?" he cried.
The paramedic turned and looked at the boy. He took a 4x4 cotton bandage out of his kit.
"No son," the paramedic said as he tore open the package, took out the bandage and wiped the tears from the boy's face.
"Santa isn't dead," the paramedic said as he looked back at the old man. "He is just a dead ringer."
'Look, there's Santa," the kid exclaimed as families went in and out of the store. True enough, he looked like Santa. Then the unthinkable happened. The bell dropped to the cement and rolled away as he clutched his chest and fell to the ground.
A gasp went up as people watched. Some came quickly to his aid. A man took out his cellphone and dialed 911.
"He just fell over,"the man said. The operator got more information and it wasn't long before you could hear a siren off in the distance. Help was on the way. But for this old man, would help arrive too late.
Soon, the big red and white fire engine came to a stop in front of the store. You could hear the whoosh of the air brakes as firemen dressed in dark blue sweat shirts came out of the doors and opened compartments to take out a bag with lifesaving gear inside. A paramedic went right to the old man who lay motionless on the ground, his hint of white breath against the cold winter air now gone.
"Is Santa dead?" a little boy about five asked his mother. He grabbed her leg as she tried to spare him from the unfolding sad scene. He held his ground and watched. Tears formed on his face as he watched the firemen work on the old man.
"Is Santa dead?" he cried out. "Is he? Is Santa dead?"
"No honey," his mom said as she reached down and turned his face away from the scene. She tried to get him to go but he held firm.
The paramedic stopped working on the old man. He took his stethoscope out of his ears and put it around his neck and looked up at the engine's captain and shook his head from side to side.
The boy struggled with his mom and finally bolted free. He ran from her reach and over to the paramedic. Tears were streaming down his face as he looked at the old man who lay motionless on the ground. He shook the paramendic's shoulder.
"Is Santa dead?" he cried.
The paramedic turned and looked at the boy. He took a 4x4 cotton bandage out of his kit.
"No son," the paramedic said as he tore open the package, took out the bandage and wiped the tears from the boy's face.
"Santa isn't dead," the paramedic said as he looked back at the old man. "He is just a dead ringer."
Monday, December 13, 2004
A month late...
I don't think it is global warming. I think the calender is screwed up. In fact, I think it is one month off. Just imagine if the retail community suddenly started making a big deal out of that...two Christmas seasons. Kind of like daylight Christmas season. How awful would that be?
OK, I am not a Christmas season fan. In fact, I am not even a winter fan. I would have made a lousy indian running around in those skimpy hides.
But back to the point. It's been really, REALLY, nice for December in Nebraska. Cool but not cold. Rain but not snow. There are still plenty of leaves on the trees. Nature is still in the late fall mode. Get the picture?
I think it is really November and somehow the calender got enough frequent dayer days to come up with an extra month and inserted it without anyone knowing. That's good for the crowd that doesn't see much future in ski Nebraska. Bad for the guys who rely on ice skating.
But for me and the trusty hound, it's good. The walks continue and I am also running three times a week--leash in hand--hound under foot. He likes aerobic stuff and since he is moving into dog teenager years, I suppose he is thinking about how he looks and maybe wants to get rid of the puppy fat and buff up as it were.
Well as long as the weather stays like this, it's outdoors for us.
Now that's a Christmas gift I can appreciate.
OK, I am not a Christmas season fan. In fact, I am not even a winter fan. I would have made a lousy indian running around in those skimpy hides.
But back to the point. It's been really, REALLY, nice for December in Nebraska. Cool but not cold. Rain but not snow. There are still plenty of leaves on the trees. Nature is still in the late fall mode. Get the picture?
I think it is really November and somehow the calender got enough frequent dayer days to come up with an extra month and inserted it without anyone knowing. That's good for the crowd that doesn't see much future in ski Nebraska. Bad for the guys who rely on ice skating.
But for me and the trusty hound, it's good. The walks continue and I am also running three times a week--leash in hand--hound under foot. He likes aerobic stuff and since he is moving into dog teenager years, I suppose he is thinking about how he looks and maybe wants to get rid of the puppy fat and buff up as it were.
Well as long as the weather stays like this, it's outdoors for us.
Now that's a Christmas gift I can appreciate.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
The old house
I just learned something horrible.
Our old family home is empty and has been empty for over a year! That's awful. It was a great old place as old homes go. It sits on the corner in a big lot in Hartington, Nebraska. It's a big two story wooden house with lots of windows that my mother used to hate to clean. It's dark gray with white shutters. And it's empty and silent now. That's awful.
Especially this time of year. Add a foot or so of snow and freshly scooped sidewalks which defined the lot and big bushes holding up the puffy white stuff and you have picture-perfect, Christmas card kind of house. The local photographer once braved the snow and the cold to take a picture of it with a fresh, unplowed and unscooped snow--the big flake fluffy kind--making it a the home for the holidays.
Plus we had Rudolph. My mom found a stuffed deer head above the beer cooler in dad's bar. The bar was, and I think still is called, The Chief Bar. During the holiday season, all kinds of little displays showed up from the liquor salesmen. One had a big red flashing bulb. Mom spotted that flashing red bulb and it was gone before the holiday liquor bottles were. She taped it to the stuffed dear head's nose and hung it on the porch. Instant Rudolph, blinking red nose and all.
People from all over drove buy on snowy nights to see Rudolph and her stuffed santa. The Cedar County News did a story about her creativity. It was the perfect touch to the smell of sugar cookies which filled every drafty corner of that big old house. And if you stopped to look at Rudolph, you couldn't miss the floor to ceiling Christmas tree in the bay windows. Late into the night, the snow glistened from the glow of the tree.
But now the house is empty. It's tied up in a typica American divorce tragedy. It stands in darkness. Mom would have hated that.
Mom and dad are gone and I am an old goat who feels awful that one of the most wonderful places ever stands dark and drafty in the cold Nebraska winter.
I hate the darkness, too. Maybe Christmas Eve I will go up there, buy a cup of hot chocolate and a sugar cookie and sit on the old porch railing, whisper Silent Night, and listen to the wind in the trees.
God Bless you Mom and Dad.
Our old family home is empty and has been empty for over a year! That's awful. It was a great old place as old homes go. It sits on the corner in a big lot in Hartington, Nebraska. It's a big two story wooden house with lots of windows that my mother used to hate to clean. It's dark gray with white shutters. And it's empty and silent now. That's awful.
Especially this time of year. Add a foot or so of snow and freshly scooped sidewalks which defined the lot and big bushes holding up the puffy white stuff and you have picture-perfect, Christmas card kind of house. The local photographer once braved the snow and the cold to take a picture of it with a fresh, unplowed and unscooped snow--the big flake fluffy kind--making it a the home for the holidays.
Plus we had Rudolph. My mom found a stuffed deer head above the beer cooler in dad's bar. The bar was, and I think still is called, The Chief Bar. During the holiday season, all kinds of little displays showed up from the liquor salesmen. One had a big red flashing bulb. Mom spotted that flashing red bulb and it was gone before the holiday liquor bottles were. She taped it to the stuffed dear head's nose and hung it on the porch. Instant Rudolph, blinking red nose and all.
People from all over drove buy on snowy nights to see Rudolph and her stuffed santa. The Cedar County News did a story about her creativity. It was the perfect touch to the smell of sugar cookies which filled every drafty corner of that big old house. And if you stopped to look at Rudolph, you couldn't miss the floor to ceiling Christmas tree in the bay windows. Late into the night, the snow glistened from the glow of the tree.
But now the house is empty. It's tied up in a typica American divorce tragedy. It stands in darkness. Mom would have hated that.
Mom and dad are gone and I am an old goat who feels awful that one of the most wonderful places ever stands dark and drafty in the cold Nebraska winter.
I hate the darkness, too. Maybe Christmas Eve I will go up there, buy a cup of hot chocolate and a sugar cookie and sit on the old porch railing, whisper Silent Night, and listen to the wind in the trees.
God Bless you Mom and Dad.
Friday, December 03, 2004
A different way today
The City was finally fixing some of the bad planks on the bike bridge over 48th street. That means pickups all over the place. Why is it when there is something little to fix, you have pickups all over? I am sure Ford knows these things.
Anyway, with a blocked bridge, Buc and I had to use a different path for the daily walk. After all, you wouldn't want to read about how I fished and dangling dog out from a hole it the bridge, would you?
I took a more social approach to the walk. Less squirrels and rabbits and more humans and cars. He needs to know more about humans and cars and how to stay out of the way, look before he crosses a busy street and things like that. I am assuming I have the smartest dog in the world and would do these things should he ever chew through his leash and choose freedom over comfort.
The path took us by a couple of big stores. Suddenly, he stopped and his ears perked up.
"What?" I asked as he held his ground with the leash. Normally, he'll prance along right next to me with a loop of leash in his mouth just to show everybody he is driving, not me. He dropped the extra hunk of leash and tilted his head up and sniffed and listened again.
"What?"
He turned and looked at the store and finally, I figured out what had his attention. Mind you, this is a 4 month old dog, or in human terms, he is a little over two. He was hearing the Salvation Army bells in front of the store.
"It's too early for that," I told him and tugged on the leash in a less donative direction. No deal. He held his ground and forced my hand. Would I have to yank the hell out of him like so many spoiled little brats inside of that big store?
"I'll start giving them something next week," I told him. "It's too early to get all mushy about Christmas and all of this stuff. Let's go."
He looked away.
"You're embarrassed?" I asked? He kept looking away from me and sniffed the air again.
Now this is his first Christmas season so I was highly suspect about his knowledge of giving and bells and red kettles and such. But then I thought about it. He came from the pound. That's kind of like a homeless shelter. Maybe he heard some of the stories about cold, milkbonelerss nights. Maybe he heard about little brothers and sisters being taken away, never to be seen again. Maybe he was recalling the night the old dog in the corner slept away back in that drafty cage in the corner. Maybe he knew and he wanted me to change the world starting today.
Then again, maybe not.
"Come on, let's go," I said as I drug him away.
Anyway, with a blocked bridge, Buc and I had to use a different path for the daily walk. After all, you wouldn't want to read about how I fished and dangling dog out from a hole it the bridge, would you?
I took a more social approach to the walk. Less squirrels and rabbits and more humans and cars. He needs to know more about humans and cars and how to stay out of the way, look before he crosses a busy street and things like that. I am assuming I have the smartest dog in the world and would do these things should he ever chew through his leash and choose freedom over comfort.
The path took us by a couple of big stores. Suddenly, he stopped and his ears perked up.
"What?" I asked as he held his ground with the leash. Normally, he'll prance along right next to me with a loop of leash in his mouth just to show everybody he is driving, not me. He dropped the extra hunk of leash and tilted his head up and sniffed and listened again.
"What?"
He turned and looked at the store and finally, I figured out what had his attention. Mind you, this is a 4 month old dog, or in human terms, he is a little over two. He was hearing the Salvation Army bells in front of the store.
"It's too early for that," I told him and tugged on the leash in a less donative direction. No deal. He held his ground and forced my hand. Would I have to yank the hell out of him like so many spoiled little brats inside of that big store?
"I'll start giving them something next week," I told him. "It's too early to get all mushy about Christmas and all of this stuff. Let's go."
He looked away.
"You're embarrassed?" I asked? He kept looking away from me and sniffed the air again.
Now this is his first Christmas season so I was highly suspect about his knowledge of giving and bells and red kettles and such. But then I thought about it. He came from the pound. That's kind of like a homeless shelter. Maybe he heard some of the stories about cold, milkbonelerss nights. Maybe he heard about little brothers and sisters being taken away, never to be seen again. Maybe he was recalling the night the old dog in the corner slept away back in that drafty cage in the corner. Maybe he knew and he wanted me to change the world starting today.
Then again, maybe not.
"Come on, let's go," I said as I drug him away.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
A winter run
I never got into treadmills. They are as boring as talking to the postmaster about retirement. I am an outdoor guy so, bad knees padded, shoes on, dog on the well-chewed leash, it is off to one of Lincoln's great bike trails. (I might add it is handily installed right behind my house.)
After the two mandatory stops for pooch maintenance, it's time for the run. Now mind you, I am kind of an old guy so let's not be thinking maraton here. Plus, I hate the cold and I have a small pooch out in front of me galloping along as if he was free or something.
I follow a running program from Fit for Life. 2 minute walk. 1 minute slow jog. 1 minute faster jog. 1 minute fast jog. Repeat four times plus a really fast run at the end and a cool-down. Cool down? Dude, it's winter in Nebraska. We don't need cool downs for crying out loud.
I was into the second repeat when it happened. The usually healing Buc, running at my pace to my right, spotted a rabbit running in the ditch to my left just as my left foot was coming down for the next step. No way I could stop without pulling every muscle from my butt to my toes so my tennie raked the poor pooch's foot and landed on his toes. You can't imagine the howl. I am sure the nearby neighbors were speed dialing the Humane Society to report running puppy abuse.
There he stoop in the snow, paw up, nose and ears down, looking up at me through the top of his eyes, asking in doggie silence..."what did I do to have you do this to me?" Dogs don't understand the concept of you are in the way and when that happens, accidents happen. They howl and look at you as if you were the retired, uncaring postman.
I got down on one knee to examine the damage. He turned away. I grabbed the paw. He howled more. I gently examined it. "Wiggle your toes," I ordered. (They told me in first responder class that you should do that to see if something was broken.) He just looked. See above. That look again.
I put my finger under his paw and pushed up right before the toes. They spread out. No breaks.
That was enough. "Look," I said. "Good atheletes work through pain. Let's go."
I turned to start a slow jog. He milked it again holding out the crippled paw and giving me the look again. I pulled on the leash. He tried the paw and looked at me. Finally a step. Another look. Another step. Another look. Then he bolted off after a squirrel. It was a good move because I was holding the leash lightly. He was gone. Full speed.
That's when I stepped in the hole.
Maybe the treadmill idea isn't so dumb.
After the two mandatory stops for pooch maintenance, it's time for the run. Now mind you, I am kind of an old guy so let's not be thinking maraton here. Plus, I hate the cold and I have a small pooch out in front of me galloping along as if he was free or something.
I follow a running program from Fit for Life. 2 minute walk. 1 minute slow jog. 1 minute faster jog. 1 minute fast jog. Repeat four times plus a really fast run at the end and a cool-down. Cool down? Dude, it's winter in Nebraska. We don't need cool downs for crying out loud.
I was into the second repeat when it happened. The usually healing Buc, running at my pace to my right, spotted a rabbit running in the ditch to my left just as my left foot was coming down for the next step. No way I could stop without pulling every muscle from my butt to my toes so my tennie raked the poor pooch's foot and landed on his toes. You can't imagine the howl. I am sure the nearby neighbors were speed dialing the Humane Society to report running puppy abuse.
There he stoop in the snow, paw up, nose and ears down, looking up at me through the top of his eyes, asking in doggie silence..."what did I do to have you do this to me?" Dogs don't understand the concept of you are in the way and when that happens, accidents happen. They howl and look at you as if you were the retired, uncaring postman.
I got down on one knee to examine the damage. He turned away. I grabbed the paw. He howled more. I gently examined it. "Wiggle your toes," I ordered. (They told me in first responder class that you should do that to see if something was broken.) He just looked. See above. That look again.
I put my finger under his paw and pushed up right before the toes. They spread out. No breaks.
That was enough. "Look," I said. "Good atheletes work through pain. Let's go."
I turned to start a slow jog. He milked it again holding out the crippled paw and giving me the look again. I pulled on the leash. He tried the paw and looked at me. Finally a step. Another look. Another step. Another look. Then he bolted off after a squirrel. It was a good move because I was holding the leash lightly. He was gone. Full speed.
That's when I stepped in the hole.
Maybe the treadmill idea isn't so dumb.
Friday, November 26, 2004
The Friday after Thanksgiving
To most folks, the Friday after Thanksgiving really doesn't have much meaning. Oh sure, there are a few loose bolts who got up at O dark thirty to go shopping someplace, but generally, it's a loafing lame day...except in Lincoln.
This is Colorado day in Lincoln. It's a little after 9:00 am and the streets outside of the coffee house are starting to fill with the red-clad fans of Nebraska football. It normally is a pretty exciting time in Lincoln but this is one of those seasons. If the Huskers don't win today, no bowl game and the streak of 30 something bowl game appearances comes to an end. That's a sad possibility especially in Nebraska.
There is a reason. Grayness. That's what's in store for the next three or so months. Nothing but grayness and cold and maybe lots of snow. But grayness is the big deal. Gray skies. Gray snow. Gray looking people. Just grayness.
A Colorado win would extend the color part of the year for a few more days. People would be talking about the bowl game even though it will be played a long time before New Year's Eve in some town not really known for bowl games. Rattletrap Rose will get a few more hundred hours of explaining how Nebraska football operates and what players really are deep down inside...Benson Bunnies, Lincoln Southeast Knights. He knows alot about mascots.
But even that will not stop the coming grayness. I should be more positive. Christmas is on the horizon. My bother's birthday in January. Mine in February. And then the grayness gives way to be best part of the year...
Tornado season!
Go Big Red. Beat the Buffs and hold off the gray for another day.
This is Colorado day in Lincoln. It's a little after 9:00 am and the streets outside of the coffee house are starting to fill with the red-clad fans of Nebraska football. It normally is a pretty exciting time in Lincoln but this is one of those seasons. If the Huskers don't win today, no bowl game and the streak of 30 something bowl game appearances comes to an end. That's a sad possibility especially in Nebraska.
There is a reason. Grayness. That's what's in store for the next three or so months. Nothing but grayness and cold and maybe lots of snow. But grayness is the big deal. Gray skies. Gray snow. Gray looking people. Just grayness.
A Colorado win would extend the color part of the year for a few more days. People would be talking about the bowl game even though it will be played a long time before New Year's Eve in some town not really known for bowl games. Rattletrap Rose will get a few more hundred hours of explaining how Nebraska football operates and what players really are deep down inside...Benson Bunnies, Lincoln Southeast Knights. He knows alot about mascots.
But even that will not stop the coming grayness. I should be more positive. Christmas is on the horizon. My bother's birthday in January. Mine in February. And then the grayness gives way to be best part of the year...
Tornado season!
Go Big Red. Beat the Buffs and hold off the gray for another day.
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