A Seargent's Story, of the Great White North

It was a hard decision to make, re-entering the Air Force after being out for over a year, but it was 1982 and the economy just stank. I had to trade my Swiss army knife for a tank of gas to get to the military recruitment office to raise my right hand once again, and swear to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Unfortunately for me I was living on North Dakota street at the time, and someone in the assignment office must have thought it would be real funny to give me orders to Grand Forks Air Force Base in North Dakota. A Strategic Air Command SAC bomber base poised to strike the USSR right over the North Pole.

I was able to get an advance on my travel pay and purchase a used Volkswagen 412 to drive across Idaho, Montana, and into North Dakota in the dead of winter. I had never driven on snow packed freeways for hundreds of miles before, and I was sort of enjoying the adventure. I had a tire blowout in Idaho and was able to purchase some used studded tires that came in very handy. The heater didn't exactly work very well in my Volkswagen with no radiator, so I spent a lot of time scraping ice from the inside of the window that accumulated from my breath.

Per Potentiam Pax, Latin for Peace through Power.

After a couple days of driving, and sleeping at a rest area in my car in sub zero weather, I finally arrived at Grand Forks. Not exactly what I would call a winter wonderland with it's flat bleak landscape, and blowing snow snakes. Coming from a place where you always saw hills and mountains the flatness everywhere was unreal. I was able to get a room, and the next day showed up at my duty assignment, the Radio shop at the 319^th Avionic Maintenance Squadron. I rang the doorbell to the secure room and I was greeted by a familiar face, John Treadaway an old high school acquaintance that I had run track and cross country with in High School. I really couldn't believe I was going to work with someone I went to school with, but those High School days were long gone, and we never really developed a friendship. I was a Sergeant and he was an Airman First Class with a chip on his shoulder. I suppose he looked at me as one of the authority figures that he had a grudge against.

After processing, and training on B-52 bombers I was assigned to the swing shift; 4PM to Midnight. The swing shift supervisor's name was Staff Sergeant Johnny Blane. Johnny was great to work with, a charismatic leader who knew how to motivate his people. I soon became second in charge, and after testing, and making the cutoff was waiting for a promotion to SSGT myself. Johnny was on top of his game, but his life took an unexpected twist after a random piss test. It came back positive for THC, the active ingredient in marijuana. The Air Force had a zero tolerance policy toward drugs, you could get drunk every night if you wanted to, and if the police weren't involved, nobody cared. But don't Bogart that joint my friend, because if you did, they would find out, and make you miserable before they shoved you out the gate.

Johnny claimed that his brother had sent him some funny brownies as a joke, and that he wasn't a pot head. Of course it didn't work (it never did), and Johnny was demoted, forced to clean toilets for months, then booted out. At about this time I received my promotion, and took Johnny's place as the swing shift supervisor. Johnny got married to a woman in our shop before getting busted, and she got orders to Alaska. We received a post card from Johnny months later with a picture of him surrounded by a table of pot. I guess those brownies really must have been addictive.

SSGT Daniel LaFollette re-enlisting in the Radio Shop. I drew the Garfield in the background.

I was a pretty easy going boss, all I really cared about was that we got all of our work done. If we got everything done we would get off work early on Fridays, and head into town for Margaritas. Lunch usually consisted of boxes we affectionately called box nasties. When mystery meat sandwiches on white bread where placed in our box nasties, someone would usually declined to eat theirs and the Glad wrapped questionable food item would become a baseball. Mystery meat sandwich baseball was always a good lunch time activity in the shop, and we tried to remove the meat and bread chunks out of the million dollar satellite communication radio tester before we left for the night, but the day shift supervisor did find a chunk of meat one morning, no big deal it was blown off as being left by a sloppy eater. It was handy to have a lock on the door because of our secret equipment in the room, this way nobody ever hit a sandwich home run just as the Squadron Commander walked in. SAC officers just didn't have a sense of humor.

Grand Forks was really a depressing place in the winter, and most of the time it seemed to be winter. The only thing that there seemed to be able to do was go to bars or restaurants. They had great bars, and drinks like the Suffering Bastard in a skull mug were my favorite drinks, I don't think it was safe to drink more than one of those unless you liked a pounding head in the morning, they really lived up to their name.

living in the barracks as a Staff Sergeant meant I had my own room; it did however come at a price. I was put in charge of half the hallway on the third floor, and I had the key to the room where the vacuum cleaner was stored. Anyone wanting to clean up after hours would could come to me asking for the key. It became a little annoying when I received a knock on the door at 1 AM from a drunk (Suffering Bastard) who wanted to use the vacuum.

“I -hic-” “need the vacuum cleaner” A swaying, slurring young man said to me as I opened the door.

“It's 1 o'clock in the morning go back to bed man.” I say to the weaving drunkard, as I squinted through one eye.

“I um, got a pile of ralph here, and a pile of ralph there” He says to me still looking like he could hurl again at any moment. Apparently he had barfed all over the hallway in front of his room.

“I'll tell you what, you let your ralph dry up, and then you can get the vacuum cleaner in the morning” I say to him with a half awake smirk, and shaking my head up and down.

“Oh -hic-, good idea” He said stumbling back toward his room. I went back to bed, I had to be at work at 7AM and needed my beauty rest.

2:12 AM I am awakened by screaming, apparently someone stepped barefoot into our drunks puddle of ralph. A lot of profanity ensued but then it died down after a few minutes.

6AM I get up to go to work, I see our now hungover suffering bastard cleaning up his puddle of vomit. Apparently he was passed out in his room, and didn't hear his victim stepping into his mess.

No harm done, nobody punched, mess cleaned up, nothing to report.

Yes, there was a lot of drunkenness, and I remember on New Years Eve one fellow swinging outside of the second story barracks window in a make shift New Years baby diaper. He luckily didn't kill himself and provided a few minutes of “look at the jackass” entertainment. I had one friend who would be drunk every other day, and on a hangover on the rest. He used to stop by my room and play video games on my Commodore 64 computer. He would always offer some of his B&B or Drambuie and I actually grew to like the stuff after a while. That same friend had a wealthy family and when we both got orders to Europe, he offered to let me come along with him across the Atlantic. He was going to live on this small ship in Spain and planed to captain it himself. I don't know about you but I really didn't want to depend on a drunk to get me across the Atlantic ocean in a boat. I've often wondered if he made it, or if he ended up swimming with the fishes.

I had the honor of attending Non Commissioned Officer Leadership school at Minot AFB down the road also in North Dakota, in the middle of winter of course. In the Air Force there is a saying “Why not Minot? Freezen's the reason.” Corny yes, but it was a way of passing along that this wasn't a choice assignment. My school was 6 weeks of concentrated training on how to supervise, and handle subordinates. We had an inspection every morning, and we had to sort of march on the ice to the classroom. It didn't take long for me to be pegged as a funny man, and the instructor who couldn't pronounce my name dubbed me SSGT La La. Some of the material was pretty dry and I did my best to keep them entertained when I could. To tell you quite honestly it was one of the best experiences of my life.

Grand Forks wasn't all fun and games, and my job was deadly serious. Working around B-52 bombers loaded with nuclear cruise missiles meant having to go through checkpoints where if you forgot your password you ended up on the ground with your face in the snow with the barrel of an M-16 pointed at your head. You always performed work in pairs and if your partner started sabotaging the plane you were required to take them down with any force possible. Simply working around aircraft is hazardous, especially large ones. One of our bombers exploded, and burned to the ground with four people inside after an electrician pushed in a circuit breaker that had popped to a fuel tank boost pump. I remember going out to retrieve a portable radio out of the small pickup truck that had melted in front of the plane with a pair of tongs; a chard winter boot had been tossed into the bed of the toasted truck.

The cold war is now over, the nukes are gone, and the base no longer hosts a wing of strategic bombers. The base has a different mission now, serving as a squadron of in-flight refueling planes. In many ways I really miss my time at Grand Forks, I think the harsh weather and the semi remote location made everyone closer, but I don't think I would really want to live through those winters again. I still communicate with a few people I knew then in a group on Facebook. I keep looking for the drunk that sailed his boat across the Atlantic, maybe some day I will get a surprise and he'll turn up alive.

Spacy

While sitting here listening to “I Ran” by A Flock Of Seagulls I was thinking about outer space, specifically outer space TV shows and movies. Over the years I've become quite a fan of letting myself get amerced in space dramas. Star Trek with it's military order, and all of that exploration. Star Wars with it's Good Force vs Dark Side bad Force theme. Like all good nerds my very favorite was Firefly that lasted for 14 episodes and a movie. It was like the space wild west with smuggling.

Ever since I first saw Han Solo I've loved the space smuggler, and often played one in space games. I've joined virtual smuggling gangs, and have lived out my space smuggler fantasies. We would work together to smuggle contraband through space patrolled by the police, the navy, and groups that weren't too happy with us supplying to people that they didn't like. All of the unimaginative smack talk, and the “HALTs” as I ran away from my pursuers with my load of embargoed contraband always gave me a terrific rush. I always talked to my pursuers when I could to give them complements on their piloting abilities, or ask them about their intimate relationships with Wookiees. This usually threw them off long enough to bust a smart move and land at a friendly base.

I have no doubt that aliens live among us, have you taken a good look at your neighbors lately? What is that strange panel in the front yard, and what is living in that pond on the other side of the berm? Baby aliens? Space chickens maybe? Does a space chicken cluck? Do they taste good with barbecue sauce? That's a silly question we all know everything tastes good with chard on barbecue sauce. And those things growing in your neighbor's front yard, are you sure they are zucchini, and not body snatching pods?

Of course a lot of what you see on a show like Star Trek is a little implausible, inter species mating with half this, and half that as offspring. I mean hell you don't see half cat, half dog combos running around.

“Meow, rar rar rar” Is what a Chihuahua / Maine Coon would sound like before it bit and scratched your ankle to shreds. Give it a space helmet and call it an alien, then send it out on a little space ship with a crew of Guinea Pigs. What would happen if the Borg tried to assimilate their ship?

"We are the Borg, you will be assimilated." and "We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own..."

The Borg scan their ship.

“Oh, um, never mind.”

Maybe there are places on earth filled with aliens, and maybe they have erected huge antennas like the Eiffel Tower, or the “Space” Needle to talk to their planets. Maybe they congregate on earth in hot spots like San Antonio with its Tower of the Americas. All of those places serve food that could be contaminated with mind control powder that makes you shake your head up and down when Glenn Beck talks. Maybe the ten gallon hat is really an antenna to relay messages to the mother ship! Maybe “YEEHA!” really means “We are the Borg resistance is futile.” It's just a theory, you never know.

Tonight I'm going to drink three beers and stick my thumb up in the air while wearing a towel on my head; maybe I can hitch a ride to a new world. I could just toddle around experiencing all of the wild things there are to see without the expense of an expensive spacecraft. I'll watch out for those damn Vogons, they might recite some poetry and I would be in real trouble. But I think if I drank enough beers I wouldn't really care, I hear Vogons like to sing drinking songs.

But if it weren't for the expense I would love to have a space ship. It would have to be able to visit other solar systems without taking a life time to get there. I'm not to worried about the Borg, alien probes, or Siths. The universe is unimaginably vast, completely amazing, and we are all bits of it. I can feel it coursing through me when I lay quietly in silence, even without wearing a ten gallon hat.

A Treasure Hunt With a Map!

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Here is a short pictorial journey of a trip I took with my family a couple of years back through the Oregon Outback. It was a quest for the Steens Mountain, the Hart Mountain Hot Spring, and Plush sunstones.

Located between French Glen and Plush in the Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge in south western Oregon the Hart Mountain Hot Spring is an oasis in the middle of nowhere, and a welcome refuge in the wilderness to wash off some of that desert dust. We spent a few days at the base of the Steens Mountains fairly close to Frenchglen, and were making the 80 mile trek across the desert to Plush, a so-called town that has a Store/Gas Station/Bar combo.

But Plush is no ordinary place, it's the last place for gas and supplies before embarking on the washboarded road to the sunstone mines. Sunstones can also be collected for free on Federally owned land managed by the BLM. Here is a treasure map so you can find your very own trinkets. We camped out in the desert and picked up stones for an entire day.

On the Steens Mountain road

On the Steens Mountain road

A dry lake bed

Hart Mountain Hot Spring pool

Hart Mountain Hot Spring

Hart Mountain Hot Spring pool

The desert can be beautiful

Entering the Refuge

An Antelope

The road down to Plush

The road down to Plush

A flat just as we hit pavement

Finally at the sunstones

The ground is full of them

My treasure

Rosemary Potato Soup

With Autumn in full swing, I thought I would share with you one of my favorite soups. This flavorful potato soup will warm you up on those chilly Fall evenings, and have you coming back for seconds.

Rosemary Potato Soup

12 strips of thick bacon

6 cloves garlic, minced

2 onions, chopped

2 tbs of oil

¼ cup of flour

½ gallon of whole milk

6 russet potatoes, diced

2 tsp. Rosemary

Salt and pepper to taste

• Cook bacon until crisp, break it up into small pieces, then set aside.
  • I usually cook bacon on medium heat with a lid. This helps the bacon cook uniformly, but you will need to keep an eye on it because it doesn't take long for bacon to go from crisp, to -setting the fire alarm off- burnt.
• In the pot you're going to make the soup in saute the onions and garlic in your oil of choice.
  • You can use olive oil, but peanut oil works better for cooking, and is still heart healthy.
• Add flour to the sauteed onions and garlic to make a rue.
• Add potatoes, rosemary, milk, bacon to mixture.
• Heat until potatoes are done while stirring frequently.

Yes, that is a lot of soup, you can cut the recipe in half or better yet, freeze small containers of the soup and enjoy it whenever you want.

Enjoy!

Eggs, Drunken Birds, and Peeps, Oh My!

With owning chickens comes collecting eggs. Fresh eggs was one of the excuses that my wife gave me for springing the little pecking, clucking, escape artist surprise on me a few years back. With six chickens you we usually get three or four eggs per day. They have to be cleaned off, then packed away in the refrigerator. Now one thing I learned while working with assembly lines for many years is that you want to use your oldest stock first, in a production environment we call this First In First Out or FIFO. So in order to ensure we were using our stock of eggs properly I instituted a FIFO process by taking a marker and marking arrows on the top of the carton. Eggs come in one side and get taken out from the other side, this seemed to provide ample amusement for my wife. If I can't manage suppliers in Singapore anymore, then I damn well will manage the feathered suppliers that poop all over my back yard.

And speaking of birds, our Mountain Ash out front is starting to drop it's berries, and you know what that means? Drunk birds of course. Every year our Mountain Ash, also known as Rowan in the UK produces bright orange little berries. The berries get ripe, then they start to ferment on the tree. Flocks of Cedar Wax Wings swarm the tree, get drunk, and start hitting our windows. We have tried stickers of hawks on the windows, and all sorts of other things to try and make them stop breaking their drunken necks but nothing works. Our cats have started their own restaurant under the window. The other neighborhood cats show up at their reserved time, get seated, then wait for dinner to fall on their plates. I guess it's an efficient way of taking care of the suicidal little drunkards. But I would rather they joined a twelve step program.

This week I had my oldest son home for a couple of days with some sort of stomach virus. I took him in to see the doctor, she said he would live and off he went back to school the next day. It's really amazing how one child can throw off your whole day. It's hard enough trying to get things done without someone hanging around making comments about everything you do. I like to talk to myself when I'm researching or writing, and my son will pick up on whatever I just mumbled and make a song out of it.

"Um, alright, uh huh, that's interesting, uh, huh ,uh, huh" he will start singing. Talk about throwing your train of thought out of the window.

And this has been upgrade week, I turn on Ubuntu, and it wants me to upgrade from 11.04 to 11.10, I turn on iTunes and it wants me to upgrade my iPod to version 5, Windows is downloading a boat load of updates. Don't I have better things to do with my bandwidth than down load hours worth of updates? I don't see any real improvement, but I'm sure they are there. I can't tell any difference at all between iOS 4 and iOS 5. Maybe iOS5 contains Steve Job's consciousness.

*Shrug.

Meanwhile on the home improvement front, I got the opportunity to replace our stove top that had one more burner finally give up the goat, so the taste of power tools is fresh. That taste got me working on plan. Even though I have a small two bedroom house, it has two garages. The space isn't being used efficiently, and I need another bedroom, a man cave, and more storage. So I drew up my master not so evil plan today. Oh the thought of shopping for more power tools, it just doesn't get better than that. Well, maybe shopping for more computer hardware would trump it. Which reminds me I'll have to wire my man cave workshop, so I can listen to tunes, and do research. I really need a little place to escape to.

Well I better get busy, and if you aren't able to read this right away because you are protesting "The man" on Wall street, or some other street around the world, then I forgive you.

"Power to the Peeps!"

Firkroy Is Getting Into a Routine!

My transformation into the house frau is almost complete. With my spouse as a full time student it is now up to me to ensure that the household keeps running, the kids are fed, the homework is done, and that pigs don't start moving in to play monopoly. It's no easy task when you consider that we have two school age children, and a menagerie of pets.

I spent the entire evening for the past few days helping my oldest son -who is now in middle school- get caught up with his homework. Apparently when he came home last week and declared that he had no homework, or that it was done in ten minutes, he was sadly mistaken. Well the jigs up and it's not only sad for him, but it's also sad for me having to be the flame under his butt that helps him play catch up for the next few days. To his credit he understood the error in his ways, and spent the hours needed to keep him out of Saturday school for students that don't like to do homework.

The real saving grace in all of this is the fact that he has some very proactive teachers, and most of his assignments are on a web page that I can access. I can even print out an assignment if he somehow neglected to bring it home. I was up late last night answering email from my son's teachers, and took a short nap after the kids got off to school. Anyone who thinks our teachers don't work their asses off is smoking Wacky Tobaky. I was writing and getting answers to email messages from two of his teachers at 11:00 PM at night. I saw my oldest son's math teacher at the end of the next day, and she looked beat. I think a lot of parents of sixth graders are trying to dial in the school routine for their children. I can only hope that maybe, just maybe soon, some of my son's teachers will actually be able to have some sleep when the rest of my fellow parents of sixth grade students get a clue.

Building a routine from scratch can be a painful experience, but I'm a process guy. Or well I used to be when there was a manufacturing industry to speak of in this part of Oregon. Gone are the days when I managed repair departments, built assembly lines, and ran customer support departments. I used to develop systems for quickly turning around broken barcode scanners, and how to manage customer support issues with a high level of integrity. But now I create check lists for my son in hopes that he will remember to wear pants to school. Not that I think a middle schooler would be caught dead walking to school without pants, but I don't want him to be late.

After having to run back to school to get text books, and knocking on windows to get the attention of the school janitor, he started to understand this was not something he could let slide. We now go over a check list when I pick him up, leaving stuff at school is no excuse for not getting homework done, it just means he has to go back in and get it.

In between dropping off kids and picking them up from school I do glamorous things like grocery shopping. I started doing more frequent smaller trips verses a large grocery run once a week. I'm having a hard time with planning meals for the whole week at the moment; I'm not sure if I'm just being resistant to the new task, or maybe I have bigger things on my mind. I do enjoy thinking about what we should have today for dinner, and then going out to get the ingredients. My wife really doesn't care as long as she doesn't have to cook it. But if you get a large basket of Italian prunes from the Farmers Market don't be a glutton, because you will pay, and I'm not just talking about the price of that extra bottle of pink stuff you'll have to drink.

I've melded the dinner cooking with the homework schedule in a way that gives predictability to the children, and time for me to actually accomplish making the meal. My first child gets his "back from school down time," then I pick up the second child. The first one does homework while second is getting his down time, then dinner prep, dinner, then second one does homework.

Meatloaf was on the menu last night! Well actually two of them. If you make one large meat load it takes too long to cook, so I like to cook two smaller ones. I mix lean ground beef with ground turkey, then add sauteed onions and garlic, along with raisins , spices, and bread crumbs. And don't forget the Ketchup!

A meatloaf sandwich sound pretty good right about now doesn't it, but no Italian prunes on the side. I don't think I can take any more of them... Although they are pretty tasty hummmm...

Now some of you may have recalled that my neighbor Daryl a few months back was distressed. He was walking up and down our street in agony after a doctor fresh out of vasectomy school botched the job, and left Daryl with a grapefruit sized scrotum. Now, when I was in the Air Force they used to scare new recruits by telling them that the inoculation they were about to receive would be administered by getting a square needle in the left nut. Well guess what, that treatment cured Daryl!

After receiving the square needle in the left nut treatment Daryl hung up the sweat pants and started wearing jeans again. Gone are the days where he wanders the streets thinking "will I ever ride my 10 speed again?"

Have a good one everyone, and watch out for Daryl, he rides that 10 speed like a maniac!

Firkroy Has an Aching Back!

Yes, it's nice to receive something free, but does it really have to hurt so much?

My wife is in the other room on the phone when I hear “We got it! Yaaa Hooo!” We were the first ones to respond to a message that was put out to the parents of my son's social group for autistic kids. Long story short, the organization owned the large wooden play structure, but it had been used by a family who lived on top of a steep hill behind an automated gate. I thought it was a strange arrangement but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I called the woman that lived in the house on the hill, and after a brief conversation she told me that she would text me the phone number of her nanny, so I could make arrangements with her to get in the gate. She is a doctor, and texting is her preferred way of communicating.

Now I may be Mr. Technology, but I really don't like texting, and being constantly tethered to something like a smart phone is not my idea of a good time. I had a Crackberry when I was on the road selling processors and diodes to most of the state, and it made sense for me to be able to see my email on the road, or to be able to find directions to a factory. But most people don't really need these things, and I'm constantly getting stuck behind some jackass staring at his wiener poking away at his gizmo as the light turns green.

A well placed “HONK!” usually gets him rolling, but I really think smart phones are the worst things that have happened to traffic in recent history. I use a $10 Virgin mobile phone that can painfully spit out a text if I really have to, but it's small and makes clear calls.

For two days I wait for the text message from the lady on the hill that never came. Finally I decide to use my cheap ass phone to send her a text message. “7777” gets me an S, “666” an O, this is just painful. I finally get the message out, and she finally responds back to me with the phone number of her nanny.

I contact the nanny, then go out to the house on the agreed upon date. The nanny let's me in the gate after a buzz at the intercom, and I maneuver down a narrow winding driveway with a drop off on one side, and stuff to run into on the other.

“Backing into this place with a trailer is going to be a nightmare” I think to myself.

But it's what has to be done, and “No guts, No glory” has always been my motto. The play structure was old, a little rotten where it had touched the ground, but I decide I could just make it a few inches shorter and it will be OK, so I decide it's worth the effort. I then made arrangements to come back the next Monday to start work.

Monday rolls around, and I drive out with the my old trailer that's made from half a Toyota pickup in tow. I have to drive into the wrong lane in order to back the trailer into the driveway entrance, but I manage to do it without getting killed. I get out of the car and hit the intercom buzzer. Then I wait, and wait, and wait. I then hit the buzzer again, and wait. Finally a man's voice says “yeah.”

“Hello” I say cheerfully, “I'm here to start taking away the play structure.”

“Oh, OK” the voice says as the gate starts to swing open. Backing my Blazer down that driveway was a real nightmare, with the drop off, the turns, and shrubs in pots on the other side, I really had to put my skills to the test. The man of the house was standing by the garage, a tall man that looked as if he had spent some quality time at the gym pumping iron. He watched me back up with a little concern, but once I stopped, he introduced himself, we shook hands, and he headed back into the house.

I had hoped that Mr. “Arnold wanna be” might have helped me with the dismantling of the kid castle, but it wasn't in the cards. I got to work wrenching off nuts, and loading seventy pound wooden chunks into the trailer. After a few hours I was sweaty, dirty, and experiencing new aches and pains, but I had managed to load the trailer, and made arrangements to return the next day.

I started driving down the hill, and across town looking like Jethro Bodine; a soak in a cement pond sounds good right about now. Everything was strapped down with bungees, and I'm sure I violated some sort of laws by having things stick out all over the place, but luckily no officers of the law were interested today.

The next day I once again arrive at the house on the hill. I back into the driveway entrance out of traffic, and hit the buzzer. I wait, and wait, and wait, buzz again, and wait... no answer. I resort to (yuck) texting the doctor again, “222” for C, “33” for E. It just sucked texting this lady. No reply, so I just sat there.

About ten minutes later a different lady arrives, this time it's the maid. She asked how long I had been waiting, and I pleasantly told her about ten minutes, and it was no big deal. She lets me in, and I slowly back the trailer down the trail of death once again.

It had been raining the night before so this time it was muddy around the play structure. When I got a chunk detached, I would make my way up the slipper wet grass and run it through the garage to the trailer. But today it seemed like the maid was adding obstacles. There were two open buckets of what appeared to be paint thinner that I had to tip toe around, bicycles that hadn't been ridden very much, and all sorts of things that could get bumped and fall down.

I worked for hours, and was starting to imagine driving away from this house of pain, and never coming back. A slim smile was coming over my face when with about fifteen minutes worth of work left, the sprinkler system came on.

“What the hell, you've got to be shitting me.” I say to my self.

I'm muddy, sore, skinned up, this was just icing on the cake. Do you think they could have at least turned off the (insert favorite profanity) sprinklers while I was out there? I guess not.

Well, I've only got to do a few trips through the sprinklers, so I trudge through getting a few nice cold showers lugging up the last pieces; at least some of the mud got washed off. With my mission accomplished I strap down my chunks, and do another Jethro back home with my final load.

I get a text from the doctor at about 7PM saying “she thought you were coming at 10”

I wasn't sure who she was, but I poked at my $10 phone, and thanked her.

Sometimes the things that you have to do are hard, but the satisfaction of knowing my kids will get years of enjoyment from this play structure (after I fix it, and put it back together) was well worth getting hit with the lawn sprinklers, and trudging through mud.

Yesterday we headed out to a farm, and I lugged two fifty pound pumpkins into the minivan for my kids, I guess I must really love the little stinkers. And who knows if I keep lifting heavy crap maybe I too will start looking like Arnold.