Olongapo in My Dreams

It's been an awfully busy morning. This heat wave we're under is about to sap my energy. It forced me to drive to work with my truck windows lowered, and to top it off, I had to switch out my long sleeved wool cover shirt to a nice light short sleeved Columbia. This sun....what can I say, it's awful.

I'm fairly certain my left arm has a tan, you know, since I have a habit of riding with my arm on the trucks window sill...bug splatter and sunburn is always the result.

Sorry, tear drops in my milk...

Please, cherish your winter. Its so very fleeting.

*****

This morning two old timers came into the shop. I can never remember the two of them in here together, which is good, because they hate each other. Both retired Navy men. Old farts and a half. Within five minutes they put on their game faces and squared off for a rumble. Each had served for a period of time in Olangapo Subic Bay. Both are well aware I too served there as part of a detachment of the 'Screaming Green Meanies.'

The place was awful. Olongapo reeks of grilled monkey and dog meat cooked over little street side fires tended by either old women or girls, or at least those young women still too young for the street trade. The town of Olongapo is separated from the base by a brownish river aptly named, 'Shit River.'

Long story short as business is brisk...

These two old fellas had one heck of an argument about the town. One loved it for its ready supply of girls, night clubs and the awful skunk beer, San Miguel. It has the taste and flavor just this side of horse tinkle...but I'm not a beer drinker.

Old timer number two hated the place for its abundance of pick-pockets, murderers in the form of Hucks, the prostitutes, poverty and because he'd been stuck there for months and missed other ports of call.

I took a neutral stance.

They almost came to blows. I held 'em back. Old timer number two flew out the door in a pretty darn good rage.

Me, "What the heck is his problem?"

Old timer number one, "Oh, he's okay. You know we've known each other for years. Attend the same church. See, here's the thing. When he was stationed at Subic he met and married one of those pretty little street girls, know what I mean? Yep, he sure did." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "Well, one day at church, way back when, he introduced his wife. Nice little lady, 'bout four foot nothing. Later that week we bump into each other at the Publix."

He reaches and flicks his ear, smiles, then turns and gives me this evil smile. I'm liking this stuff.

He continues, "Me and him chat a bit and I mentioned he had a nice wife, good stock those Asian ladies. I didn't think really. Went on in a joking manner I'd met her before. He asked where. Said back at Subic in '71. Told him her and I had quite the evening together. I know, stupid of me, but still."

Me, "Ah, man, you didn't." From this guy though, it didn't surprise me.

"Yes, I did and I'll forever be sorry. It was just a stupid joke. Thing is I believe he feels guilt. After all these years, with him in knowledge of my, and now your, service in that cesspool of a town, and knowing we know what those girls did for a living, and then he ups and married one...well, it just about kills him."

I can understand.

"See, thing is, she's been a fine wife and mother. She's a citizen now. Bright lady. Attends church, but he just can't get the image out of his mind she had loved hundreds of other sailors all those years ago..."

Me, "So now you guys fight."

"Yes. He was once my best friend until that day at the Publix."

Stephen

Boogie Men

Had an email from a nice reader, Robert. He asked if I'd ever read Adrian's Undead Diary. I replied yes, I'm a fan. I do believe towards the end of the story it took a hard right and jumped the shark. Still it's worth your time.

Anyhow Robert informed me the Diary is now available in print and Kindle. It can also be read online.

If you are interested, click here.

I really liked the first three or four sections of the book. You decide.

Just thought you should know.

Really, its a good story.

Stephen

Spring

Just my luck. I give the old truck a good bath and she's all shiny and ready to rumble. I walk from the garage this morning to find her coated in a light shade of lime - pollen. Pine pollen. I almost whipped out my piece in order to put a round thru her headlight - they shoot horses, don't they.

It is indeed spring here in the deep south. When the pine trees spit green stuff winter is but a distant memory. I just came inside from a walk around the shop. The air is fresh and the sun shines bright and it's warm. One nice advantage of living on a peninsula stuck between to great bodies of water is our air is scrubbed clean by winds either east or west. Of course those very same winds spread this ugly green catkin sputum everywhere. The pollen gives flavor to your coffee.

Each sip leaves an aftertaste of pine.

My poor truck....

Stephen

Be There or Be Square

Tonight, season premier, nine.

Stephen

Afternoon Delight

The truck is clean and shines. The engine oil has been refreshed with an addition of a bottle of Marvel's Mystery Oil - even dumped a bit into the gasoline. (Its that red bottle at the auto shop.) The truck tires are stuffed full of new air and I even cleaned the friggin leaves out of my windscreen vents.

The driveway is leaf free too. I swear six tons of leaves have fallen since last week. I, of course, was careful not to allow any to escape into my neighbors yard....she's so prissy about leaves from her oak, which the winds dump onto my driveway, finding their way back into her yard. Last time we had words I told her I was certain she wanted to mulch them and only wanted to help. So instead I was careful to blow the pile deep into her shrubs. She'll never know the difference.

Earlier as I hosed clean an area of our brick walk I passed by one of my old clay pots where once a beautiful healthy basil grew. I glanced around at all the other now empty pots and felt like old cat poop at a dog show. I believe it's time for me to rebuild my herb garden....such as it was, all in pots.

I haven't a single solitary pepper plant. They've all died. I place all the blame on my six day work schedule and this friggin depression. Anyhow, it's time for change.

So, next weekend, on my day off, I shall make time and visit a local plant nursery. (They, the lovers of northern climate change, giggle. Nursery? Well yes. One of such is located but a few minutes from my front door and guess what, its open.) There I shall pick through their sorry stock and find something, some herb, to plant.

I have an itch to grow food.

It's been a short weekend.

Stephen

Sunday

Here it is, my favorite day of the week. I've finished reading the paper. Had my pot of tea and eaten an English muffin. Time to rise and work just as soon as the tiny Carolina Wren outside my window finishes her song.

There, she's done. As soon as my lovely wife arrives home from church I will gently push her out the garage door and place a bucket of soapy water near her feet and a sponge in her hand and point towards my truck. It's filthy. I'm embarrassed to drive the thing. There are standards, don't 'ya know.

I'm sure she'll not mind the mixture of cold water on a fifty degree windy morning. She's made of tough good Georgia stock, fine breed those Southern peaches. I'll, of course, lend a hand. The tires could stand a bit of air. Oil level requires a check, and perhaps the coolant needs a topping off.  Don't worry, I'll stand by in case her wash water needs another shot of liquid soap.

As I wait for her I should make preps for our dinner. Remember the tease I posted, of course you do, the chicken dish...yep, that one. Thing is the dadgum chicken, a whole beauty, is partially frozen. My Georgia peach forgot to take it from the freezer. I'd left instructions, in plain simple English, over the phone. It a whole chicken...needs to be butchered, reduced to portions, but in its current state that's kinda hard. To give her credit she did remove a package of pork chops and they are nicely thawed.

I'm sure she'll not mind spanking a sparkle onto my dirty truck.

*****

The weight of procrastination sits heavily on my shoulders. So, I sit and wait her return and think of you.

I envy you, all my Northern friends with your deep cold snow and your houses all snug with the warmth of wood fires. The smell of freshly baked bread or biscuits with perhaps a bottle of honey, or better yet, a big bottle of real cane syrup proudly placed at the center of the breakfast table with fresh ground coffee all enjoyed by the light of your Aladdin lamp. I bet you've taken your grandmother's black and crusted dutch oven and placed it on the old wood stove and it simmers a wonderful venison stew.

Later you'll settle back with a good book, wool clad feet towards the fire. The dog nestled nearby and you'll listen as the winter winds howl you towards nirvana. Do you truly understand just how lucky you are to live so far from that imaginary Mason-Dixon line. Well, do you....

     
 Here I sit. The morning temperature now stands at fifty-seven degrees. The weather bug predicts sixty-seven under partially cloudy skies. The river is flat since the wind has died to nothing and a half. I suppose I should get outside and move my truck and get her bucket of water and sponge ready, maybe an old towel so she'll be able to dry the spots from the trucks finish....it just isn't cool to drive a spotted truck under this Florida sunshine.

You bunch of lucky people you...

Stephen 

Well, why not

Chuckle.

TIHK

Maybe I'll order two.

Stephen