"Normal" Is a Setting on a washing Machine

“Normal” Is a Setting on a Washing Machine

Have you seen the post on face/book which features the little girl asking her mother what “normal” is? Mommy responds, “‘Normal’ is a setting on a washing machine.”

The analogy works for me, as a guy whom many would find to be anything but normal. Being incapable of sleeping much more than three or four hours at any given attempt, I find myself functioning nightly in a world of muted sound and light, unless the sound is coming at me through my headphones, and the light is blinding me from the halogen-bright bulb inside my brain.

I wonder if that explains why it is that my mind is anything but muted during these expeditions into “normalcy.” I give little thought to what it would be like to go to sleep at night, secure in the knowledge that what will awaken me in the morning is the shrillest alarm clock that money could buy.

Alarm clock? What is this thing of which I speak so blithely?

I generally make an effort to remain in bed for at least six hours, which means somewhere around two in the A of M, I surface. I nurse a couple of cups of coffee, gulp eighteen ounces of water, and have another cup of coffee. 

I devote those several hours to any one of a number of endeavors, all involving components of the right side of my brain. This region of my cranium, heretofore locked up and unknown, was recently unleashed when I managed to finally escape the prison of my own mental morass, with its panic attack syndrome and the subsequent diagnosis of my having a mood spectrum disorder.

This brings me to a second f/b post, one that sums matters up, clear as mud. “I hate being bi-polar; it’s awesome!” The truth of the matter is, I embrace my newly discovered side and cherish it, despite the inconvenience of functioning on half the sleep that “normal” people get.

When I asked that nice Dr. Mulligan at the Veterans Clinic in Ukiah for something to help me sleep, she was very understanding-empathetic even-but nonetheless implacably firm in her refusal to grant my request. She informed me that it was not in my best interest to take that fork in the road.

“People get by on four hours of sleep quite regularly,” she said, “and quite well, I might add. Sleep is overrated.” I do see the value of her logic because I am opposed to putting anything into my body that originates in Corporate ‘Merica’s pharmaceutical factories. 

I prefer that which originates in my own backyard, guided through its glorious journey from April through October, by none other than myself. When I need it I have it. When I have it I can cope.

It’s those long early AM hours that keep raising the question of normalcy in the first place. Music through my headphones sets the tone for my artistic forays, music which is still reasonably new to me and captivates my imagination as no other has ever done.

With my mind already suffused with the vibrancy of what I am hearing, I write, I fiddle with my photography, and I allow myself the luxury of pursuing any intellectually stimulating path that floats my boat. Hours later, when the rest of the world starts to surface, and I have a cup of fresh coffee waiting for Annie, reality returns, and I go back to the other “Normal.”

Since I have no choice in the matter, I am here to tell you, quite emphatically, 

“I hate getting no sleep-it’s awesome!”

Growing Older Faster Than Growing Up

Growing Older Faster Than Growing Up

Not to steal Jimmy Buffet’s line, but I am growing older faster than I am growing up. Growing up means assuming the mantle of one’s age and acting like, well, a grownup. I want to act my age but that would mean I would have to act like a 63-year-old, and that is just not going to happen-yet.

If I were going to act as though I were 63, I would have told Lito to shove his construction project instead of going on over to serve as sawyer for the rafters. I am an excellent sawyer and know exactly how much shy to cut a board, if I am given a measurement of 71-and-a-half inches, light.

I also know precisely how much a c**t-hair is (one thirty-second of an inch), when instructed to remove that amount from a board which has already been sent up on the roof. In last Thursday’s gig there were no returns from the roof because, let’s face it, it’s just not that much fun to convince twenty-foot-long, two-by-ten-inch, green Douglas fir rafters to assume their position on the roof and then return to the ground.

Put another way, they come down a lot faster than they go up, if we are not careful. Laugh out loud. Silly me, I said “we.”

I do not do rafters. I cut them-I don’t actually do the moving. So in this instance, I can act my age.

If I were really 63, wouldn’t I rock a crewcut and a neatly trimmed, bristly mustache, with a three-day growth of white whiskers, instead of a musteard, my two braids which extend down from my chin, a foot or so? I mean, how juvenile can one get?

Actually, I’m not sure I should say this, but I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

I have always said that I wish to age gracefully, but in lieu of that, I will settle for aging memorably. Instead of retiring to my front porch in a rocking chair, I will chain that rocking chair to the front end of somebody’s 4-wheel-drive vehicle, so I can still go where the action is.

With me in the chair or inside the vehicle, whichever suits my mood.

I waited until this summer to go to Reggae on the River, so now I must make up for lost time. I am going to Hawaii with Annie this coming February, in an effort to gather as many of my siblings together in one place as possible. 

I am not responsible for getting the whole thing organized, but I am sure going to take advantage of the opportunity to go on a real vacation, something that has never been very high on my list of goals and objectives.

I started wearing sandals a few summers ago, but took a huge stride forward this summer: I ditched the socks...

Everyone ought to have something he or she does well that can be presented to the world. I emerged from a 48-year-long mental morass of confusion in 2010 and I no longer have any fear of making a fool of myself. 

In fact, World, I am getting pretty good at it.

Fork Kills Another Innocent Child!

Fork Kills Another Innocent Child!

They say the one who is calmest in any debate is the one who is in control, and that kind of scares me when it comes to dialogue concerning gun control. Without exception the issue produces spontaneous combustion from Second Amendment  rights advocates who just barely stop short of frothing at the mouth in their unwavering-nay, undying-need to share with one and all how we will have to pry their cold, dead fingers away from their “guns.” Those who do not agree with this stance seem to be able to retain their equanimity while dialoguing. 

Oh, that it were the reverse.

I wish we could bypass the drama and simply rationally discuss gun violence in this country, compared to gun violence in ANY other civilized (hmmmm) nation on earth, and have both sides show up.

Those who favor gun control can repeat calmly that we do not want to take away your “guns,” until our vocal cords bleed, for all the good it will do. There is no hearing us or our questions, only the bleating that, “No. I will not give in. My protection is my right. My beliefs are my right. And my second amendment is my right. Guns are not the problem.”

It’s that last sentence that is a real attention-getter. Funny that guns are not the problem. I know. Spoons and forks make you fat and pencils misspell words, so let’s ban them too. The only difference that I can see in the analogy is that forks, spoons and pencils, when misused, do not result in instant death.

If that is too esoteric of a difference for you to wrap your mind around, then try this: One child overeating does not kill another innocent child, when his fork accidentally goes off and kills her.

Please, stop inundating me with your rights, and talk to me about the rights of the innocents who get blown away because some jerk insisted on fulfilling his or her rights to the Second Amendment.

Never has one concept been twisted so pervertedly as that of the Second Amendment. Yet I politely respond again and again just to let these otherwise wonderful human beings know, that there is still a sense of civilization out there, even if they would have it otherwise.

Human right to life takes precedence over the preposterous extension of the Second Amendment rights in this country by gun enthusiasts, perpetrated and paid for by the NRA.

If I’m wrong, take me out and have me shot. 

I Smell A Rat

I Smell A Rat

A wise person once advised me to never talk politics or religion with loved ones because they would not stay loved ones long. It is therefore with great trepidation that I wade into the murky waters of the political arena, boxing gloves on, to accuse Dick Cheney of treason, and write about it.

In case you have never attempted it, writing with boxing gloves on is fiendishly challenging to do, but when I hear of atrocities performed by wealthy men, in the name of capitalism, and profits made on the backs of veterans, men and women who shouldered the burden of enriching the coffers of Halliburton, I feel I have a responsibility to share my views.

I do participate in the election process, having voted in every election since I filled out my absentee ballot the first year I was eligible in 1972, from 7,000 miles away in The Land of the Morning Calm, South Korea. The 26th Amendment was passed on March 23, 1971, lowering the voting age to eighteen and I was drafted nine months later at age nineteen, the last year a draft was ever held.

In case there is any confusion, had I any choice in the matter, I would never have gone into the service. The notion repulsed me at the time and that view has never wavered. If I had possessed the necessary cajones to have avoided it, I would have fled to Canada.

I took the path of least resistance, and subjected myself to the total control of a system run by individuals who had not the least interest in my well-being. I was simply an instrument of control, educated in the art of killing.

Of course, we were taught all of the tactics employed during WWII, which the drill sergeants assured us would do us no good in Vietnam, but what’s new with that? Soldiers do not question why; there’s is but to do and die.

I mention this simply because I have earned the right to speak about my country’s status, without being lambasted by individuals who have not paid their dues. By paying their dues, I mean that they have not donated a two-year chunk of their lives, with an additional four years of having a dagger hanging over one’s head. 

This dagger came in the form of inactive duty, with the caveat being that until a total six years was up, I was subject to the whim of the US Government. If that’s six years more than you have logged in, then the best you can do in contesting what I am saying, is to state your piece and withdraw.

I respect all opinions, of course, and would never think less of someone for disagreeing with me. I simply will not expend the energy to argue my point if we are not on the same plane. You are welcome to have and state your opinion, and I am welcome to state mine.

Here’s my rant:

Succinctly, the third definition of the word “treason” at Dictionary.com is the betrayal of a trust or confidence, breach of faith, or treachery. I posted a classic face/book blurb yesterday which stated, “I hereby nominate Dick Cheney and Halliburton to pay the unemployment benefits of the 285,000 veterans that the GOP has turned their (sic) backs on, from the 39.5 billion dollars the company made from the Iraq War.”

It was a simple black and white post, with red letters across the bottom imploring those in favor to say, “Aye.” I cannot verify the numbers; I have no idea how many veterans were involved, and how much plunder was racked up in the coffers of the perpetrators, but I know a rat when I smell it, and the stench is deafening.

I am repulsed, I am angry and I am ashamed. I demand that men and women who first donated their time (no draftees, these people), their energy and their lives to a superficial entity such as Halliburton, and then were shunted aside, be compensated out of the profits of this immoral capitalist enterprise.

I demand that those responsible for a scandal so gratuitously self-centered as to defy comprehension ($39.5 billion with a b), be held accountable for their insidious actions. These soulless vessels have betrayed the American public, besmirched our country’s reputation, filled their pockets so full with gold that it can’t be concealed any longer, and then they defiled my brothers and sisters who served as nothing more than lackeys.

Contemporarily speaking, our vets served as Halliburton’s bitches.

I cannot put it any more crudely than that and that is exactly my point. Crudeness begets crudeness, and I have lowered myself to the same level as Dick Cheney because I think to do anything else is to never get his attention. 

People like Cheney do not have the capacity to see anything but the sides of the cavernous cement septic tank in which they dwell. They have no concept of what it means to live outside that impenetrable concrete vault that houses them and their greed. 

The rest of us, the 99% of us, have no concept of what it is like to live in a septic tank and we don’t want to learn.

We just want to see a modicum of accountability for those who violate the principles upon which our country was founded, and who trample over others with impunity.

We want to see Dick Cheney brought to justice.

Mr. Farmer

Mr. Farmer

When I was younger, I worried a great deal about what people thought of me, a characteristic instilled in me by my sainted mother. During the sixteen years I taught in the Laytonville School District, Annie and I certainly felt the fishbowl effect, any time we ventured out in public.

Pop into Video Outreach for weekend entertainment on a Friday afternoon? Only if you are ready to have at least two impromptu parent/teacher conferences as you try to select a film that, you know, wouldn’t raise any eyebrows of the other patrons of the store.

Oh, good Buddha. Gertrude’s mother is in the parking lot and I think she’s heading this way. Time to shift into Plan B or we’ll be here all night...

Or how about the quip both Annie and I overheard in Geiger’s one Friday afternoon, by none other than one of the labor force of the shop? Upon observing that we had included amongst the smattering of groceries deemed imperative to survive the weekend, a six-pack of MGD, this staunch paragon of virtue noted archly, 

“Hmmph. That’s nothing. Usually it’s a twelve-pack.”

Well, I’m glad we’re keeping track. Be sure and file your observations with the Mendocino County observer. Besides, if we weren’t so f**king poor, it WOULD be a twelve-pack...

For most of my career, I had little connection with cannabis, simply because I was not growing and had no loot for frivolities. When Casey waltzed off the Pacific U up near Portland, things perked up. 

The day he departed, our relationship took a significant step forward, with me accepting Casey as the adult he was. Therefore, with that new-found status, I also accepted the fact the he embraced cannabis of his own free will, the same as I had at approximately the same age. I was a senior in high school, seventeen years old, when I began my lifelong affair with the sacred herb.

The apple don’t fall far from the tree...

I didn’t know it then, though it became much clearer when I began to teach in the District, but I have had a mood spectrum disorder all my life, which emerges in the form of a benevolent mania. I go at full-speed 24/7, my mind racing so far ahead of my 62-year-old frame, it’s ridiculous. It’s like the race between the turtle and the hare, only it turns out as expected-every time.

The hare leaves the turtle in the dust, just as my brain leaves my body in a heap. With only four or five hours of sleep per night, my mind on a hamster track, my body can only sigh and try to keep up. 

I use cannabis to try and corner that skittish beast of a brain, and it helps reduce my mania from hurricane-like symptoms to simply overcast with a chance of rain. A bong rip soothes the white-water-crested waves surging about in the narrow confines of my little BB-sized brain.

I’m sorry if I do not meet the standards that you feel I should possess, but I’m not really that sorry...

When I started growing my own medicine after I retired, I still worried incessantly that there would be many who disapproved of my actions, though why I cared is still hard to pin down. As I alluded to earlier, it is a trait that I attribute to Pauline, a product of an earlier era in which reputation was of paramount importance.

I personally ascribe to a philosophy handed down from above by the Divine Bette Midler, who once stated quite eloquently, “F**k ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

It took just seven sessions of therapy to remove my lifelong panic attack disorder, and along with it went any desire on my part to meet up to others’ expectations.

Not any more.

I have revealed much of this in the recently-complete series on Reggae on the River, but I want to climb one more rung on the ladder to my own emancipation from the criticism of others: I am proud to grow the ganja.

As with any farming endeavor, the amount of work is overwhelming, unless you are quite passionate about what you are doing. It is no secret that here on the farm, we take great pride in growing organic produce and medicinal cannabis for our community. By us, I mean the younger generation.

I do not move dirt any longer, nor till the soil with my hands. I do not even enter the picture until the girls have been in the ground for a month or so, and I can start the trellising, a three-month-plus process that never really ends until Harvest. Even at that the lads still pound the four, ten-ft-high corner t-posts in place, because I can no longer pound much of anything into the ground, except maybe a pitchfork into loose soil.

However, what I lack in quantity, I make up for in quality, and my girls are healthy, happy and burgeoning. I no longer worry that I will be perceived as some kind of degenerate hippie who “grows his own pot.”

“Now Mr. Farmer 

Please fill the earth with some good marijuana

I ned ya medicine, this herbal dr.

Now burn it up for me.

Blaze up your medicine, and it’s just fine...”

The lyrics of "Farmer" haunt me with their power.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dIzJbXVIoQo

Now, suppose one of my favorite artists on the planet just played at ROTR, 2015, and I did not know about it, though I have been perusing the lineup since last February, when I found out Stephen Marley would be there. How is that possible?

It goes like this: I recently got introduced to Fortunate Youth through Pandora, thumbing-up every one of their songs, including Mr Farmer. By recently, I mean just within the last couple of months. When I first started planning for ROTR, I did not recognize any of the artists in Thursday’s lineup, so I mentally scratched Thursday off the agenda, and focused on Friday through Sunday.

Imagine my shock-and chagrin-when I mentioned my affinity for Fortunate Youth recently to Conner, who looked confused.

“So...did you just see them?” knowing pretty well that I had not been in attendance at ROTR on Thursday.

Now it was my turn to look confused. “Where might I have seen them?”

Oh, No. Now I know where I might have seen them.

In the time it took to ask the question, the blind became enlightened, and I felt as though I had been socked in the gut. Sucker-punched by poor Conner, who probably thought I had finally slipped my mooring.

In any case I have recovered well and am pushing ever onward and upward, no pun intended. I will continue to take pride in producing that which provides such stellar relief from my own regimen of mental idiosyncrasies, as well as those of others.

“Mr. Farmer say please

You grow it for the doctor

It seems they need relief.

Oh Farmer, say please, You grow it for the nation

To put their minds at ease.”

And I am proud to say that I do indeed grow it “to put their minds at ease.”

The Conclusion: Yikes!

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#21: The Conclusion: Yikes!

I have never been incarcerated, unless you want to count the 21 months and three days I spent in the US Army, which I guarantee you, I did count for about forty years or so because I got drafted. I got over it, though, and now I have free VA health insurance.

Why are we talking about jail? I mentioned in yesterday’s post, “Uncle,” that we had two chores to perform on the Tuesday following the end of Reggae on the River, 2015, that required strong backs and weak brains. 

The first was to break down the two kitchens, including returning the mammoth Wolf stove/oven back to the Mateel Community Center in Redway, and the second was to haul the leftover supplies from the kitchens, to the base camp for the firefighters battling local wildfires. 

Unlike the Herculean job that moving the stove a week ago had been, today it was a breeze. Nine guys and one old jaboney scurrying around looking incredibly industrious made short work of it. If only I had had a clipboard.

These guys need me like they need powdery mildew and I’m a lot more willing to stay out of their hair, if it means I do not have to try and help move the aircraft carrier anchor.

Someone had a clipboard when it came to sorting through the huge refrigerated storage trailer, separating out what was to be donated to the firefighters, from what had other destinations, unknown to me. I only knew that by the time we had loaded up two trucks and a trailer with food, and a third truck with two pallets of cases of bottled water, there was a lot of quality free supplies being laid on the firefighters.

A funny thing happened to me and Casey, though, as we caravanned our way up to Redway, and pulled into the base camp. Instead of a welcoming CalFire insignia, the sign read, somewhat frostily in the August heat, “California Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation Facility.” 

Oh boy. How fun for us, though I can’t imagine anyone giving us the remotest of hard times. Famous last words and all, you know.

“Everything good under the hood?” I asked Casey, who shrugged and remained noncommittal. We followed Nate until he pulled up in front of a low, wide structure, which had a long concrete sidewalk running the length of it, to facilitate just such deliveries, I imagined.

An inmate, dressed in one of those fashionable orange jumpsuits, operated a forklift which then transported the pallets of supplies over to the front of the low building. There the pallets awaited the next step, certain to come soon because it was well over ninety degrees in that parking lot, and most everything had come out of the refrigeration unit in French’s Camp.

I had been asked by kitchen director Melody to take some pics of the whole happy transaction, hopefully with lots of personnel dressed in blue, beaming and shaking hands, gracious in their appreciation not only for the valuable supplies, but for those of us hardy enough to deliver it.

She asked the right guy at the right time and I was endeavoring to carry out her instructions, focusing on the two pallets of just-unloaded bottled water, and taking a couple photos from different angles. Out of the corner of the lens, I saw what had to be a bigwig making his way in our [my] direction, even as I included him in one of my renowned photographs.

There you go. He couldn’t help but notice that I got him in that last pic. He’ll love it. These honchos always do.

I guess he knew a good thing because he headed straight for me, apparently intent on thanking me for my work.

“Hey YOU!” and there could be no doubt as to whom he was addressing.

“ARE YOU TAKING PHOTOGRAPHS?” 

Here’s your sign.

He had stormed right up to me, almost landing right on top of my sandals with the toes of his polished wingtips. The way he said “photographs” he may as well have been asking if I was dropping a deuce.

That happy, huh?

Without waiting for a response from me, he asked another toughie.

“What the f**k are you doing taking pics of my correctional facility?” His nostrils flared in three-part harmony to his strident voice.

Fighting the impulse to say something mature like, “Be careful or we’ll take our food back,” I said instead, “I vass only following ze orders, Herr Commandant!” while snapping off a Heil Hitler at him.

Fine, what I actually said was, “Someone asked me to,” and waited for the inevitable backhand across the face.

“You are in a California Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation Facility,” he intoned, obviously more impressed than I. “You cannot take photographs in a California Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation facility.”

Really? I can’t? Well, someone has been snapping pics left and right for five minutes now, but not anyone I know...

“I was unaware that there were restrictions, your Honor. I was merely carrying out the request of the benevolent proprietor of the facility which kindly donated all of this food.”

“Damn right there are RESTRICTIONS. The next thing I know you’ll be posting pics on Face/Book.”

He’s not as stupid as he looks.

Now I had him. “Excuse me? Do I LOOK like the kind of individual who posts s**t on Face/Book?” Now it was my turn to draw out the word Face/Book as though it were some two-day-old vomit, just recovered from ROTR, as I stroked my musteard, extending almost down past my nipples, were they visible.

“You got me there,” he said and almost cracked a grin.

“Look,” I pressed on because I thought I had the advantage. “I was asked to take the pics, you’ve made it clear that it was not OK, I got the message, and we’re good.”

“Well, we better be good,” he went on victoriously, “Now put that camera away and don’t let me see it again.”

No problem General, Sir, just as soon as I post the one of your smiling face...on Face/Book, while tagging Jerry Brown.

I mean, I got it. There were rules and were any of the pics to end up in the wrong place, someone could come after Herr Commandant. I should have felt something more than I did. When all was said and done, he had reamed me a new one, and all I had done was stand there and take it.

On the flip side, he had to come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, and I would not be back for another year, after ROTR, 2016 was completed, and I was helping to distribute leftovers to the firefighters.

Next year I would know not to bring my camera.

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.

If you want to go a little more in depth, then you have job security, all twenty-one installments.

Great Success!

Uncle

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#20: Uncle

The End, except it wasn’t over. Reggae on the River, 2015, may have been finished, but we still had to return on Tuesday to break everything down. I wasn’t sure how everyone else felt about having to do this, but I was all about it. For one thing I was determined to stitch my name a little more broadly across the fabric that represented ROTR, and the best way to do that was to volunteer my time.

I would walk through a bed of hot coals to be able to duplicate next year, what I just experienced this past weekend, especially since there are going to be about ten of us to get ‘er done.

There were two main tasks to be accomplished on this, the final day of our participation: breaking down the two kitchens, and transporting a couple of tons of fresh supplies and water to the base camp for the firefighters combatting wildfires in the immediate area.

Casey and I truck-pooled back up to French’s Camp, though I was going to be retrieving my own truck from the Tosh Lot, and driving it home when the day was done. As we approached the main entrance, the inevitable volunteer was there to check wristbands, and we thrust our arms up into the air so that we could be waved on.

“Happy Reggae, Uncle,” Casey greeted him enthusiastically.

“Mornin’! You guys don’t have the right bands; where you headin’?”

“Kitchen breakdown crew,” Casey responded. “We’ll be going in and out of here all day.”

“Yeah, fine, but let me see if I can find the right wristbands so no one gives you a hard time.” He was Native and getting along in years, his long black hair tinged with gray, hanging down his shoulders, beneath his bright yellow construction helmet. He had a mustache that drooped down past the corners of his mouth, and the overall effect was to make him appear perpetually melancholy.

It just can’t be that much fun to stand out here in the heat and the dust for hours at a time. But it’s what the volunteers get paid the big bucks to do.

As he rummaged through a paper sack, looking for the correct bracelets, Casey inquired of him, “And how is your morning going, on this fine day in Paradise?”

“It’s going good, except the guy said he was going to bring me some food. That was over an hour ago and I’m hungry.”

Casey sympathized with him, saying, “No doubt. It’s hard to be happy in your work when you’re out of fuel. Here, you want sone chips?” 

He offered Uncle some of his vinegar potato chips, while at the same time I showed him the can of salted peanuts I was eating and the Baby Ruth candy bar that was on the seat beside me, but he shook his head gravely.

Sending us a lopsided grin out of a mouth that featured only a few straggling members of the original ivory lineup, he wagged his head again, intoning sadly that he was not able to chew anything hard. 

“Hard times, Uncle,” said Casey, no pun intended, I am certain. “Sure hope you get some grub soon,” and having gotten at least one wrist band, we proceeded on our way.

I hate it when I’m hungry and there is no end in sight. On the other hand, when you get to our age, you gotta plan ahead.

I felt worse for the old dude than I should have, and something kept nudging at back of my cabbage-brain, making me feel as though I were not seeing the whole picture. We cruised along towards our arena, taking in the mountains of garbage now formed at rhythmic intervals along the route, and pulled up alongside the open cement slab.

I got out of the truck and as I did so, I flashed on the little ice chest in the bed of the truck that Annie had packed and sent with us, and it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. We had six burritos that my sweetest of Apple Blossoms had assembled this morning, using some ground chicken, some left-over Spanish rice, and a whole slew of accompanying delicacies that made each of the wraps a veritable gold mine of deliciousness. 

You got something the other guy don’t got, you chair, Man...

Her intent was that any and all farm hands have something to munch on when the time came, so that included me, Lito, Conner and Rosemary, who was there but in a different part of the site. My intent was to hook Uncle up with one of those bad boys, simply because I could.

I saw that the lads had gathered in the center of the kitchen, and were conducting serious discussions about the machinations of our task. Also in attendance and being heavily utilized, was Casey’s bong.

I went over to the group and addressed Lito and Casey.

“Hey, can I borrow a truck real quick? I want to run one of our burritos out to Uncle at the gate. He’s experiencing technical difficulties ‘cause no one has brought him anything to eat.

“Sure, no problem,” replied Lito, handing me over the key to his truck. After getting a crash course on how to unlock a vehicle via the key (I know, I know) I double-timed out to his truck and got ready to unlock it when I realized I had walked halfway already to my ultimate destination.

  

I’m almost there already. Sit tight, Truck. You’re off the hook.

Uncle saw me coming from a ways off and by the time I was walking up to him, had connected me to the truck that had come through a few minutes earlier. He made a vague attempt to once more find a second wristband, because he figured that’s why I was there.

“It’s all good, Uncle. Here, I brought you one of Annie’s burritos,” as though he and Annie had been friends for years. “It’s soft, you see, so you can chew it.”

The light went on in the porch of his mind, and his face lit up like the stage when Collie Buddz came on.

“Oh! Let me see if I can find that wristband,” and he tripled his efforts to find the elusive strip of plastic.

“Uncle, no. I don’t need no band, but you need to eat this. Here, I’ll see you in a while when we take the stove to Redway,” and I left him, feeling the same glow that I had been experiencing all weekend.

It felt good to extend that glow a little while longer.

Tomorrow: California Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation facility, Redway, California