I’ll Show You How It’s Done

When I was in college, one of the requirements (of the HTM program) was to go on an internship.  For most of us this was a 6 month job interview.  So the hope was to learn something and come out of it with a job at the end.  At the time I was completely enamored with cutting horses.  So I chose one of the only trainers to ever win the triple crown of the cutting industry (for those that don’t know, this is the Futurity, Derby and the Classic).  I won’t use the name of the trainer; we’ll just call him Jim.  Everyone who knows me should know who this is, but if you don’t…sorry, don’t have permission to use his name.  I won’t tell any untruths, but the truth can be ugly sometimes.  I will use my friends names (again, no lies about what we did), but I can’t consider Jim a friend.

The Number One Killer Of Men

As I prepare for my yearly physical, I think back to my first time.  By first time, I mean the first time I had the physical men get when they turn 40.  For most men this is a painful degrading experience.  Men, TAKE NOTE:  You will get no sympathy from women.  They start when they are about 35 and get another examine, get them to tell you about it sometime.  Makes you shudder.

Mine was no less degrading and of course Felicia laughed and teased me about it for at least a month before it was to happen.  Now it was not the first time, I have had a colonoscopy.  The doctor told me I could do that one awake or asleep.  I told him he was sticking a hose up my behind, put me to sleep.  I don’t want to know anything about it.

I know that both examines are pretty important, colon cancer kills!   Still I did not look forward to the visit.  I have heard plenty of stories from friends about some of the reactions they have had, which I will not go into here.  I just prayed mine would be somewhat less degrading.

My doctor looks like he is at least 12 or 13, we call him Doogie.  Is it a sign of old age when everyone that is younger than you looks like they are 12?  But he is a pretty good doctor, even if I have to go to downtown Houston to see him.  AND on the plus side, he does have small fingers!

So, the visit……started out by giving blood…simple, I’m a good bleeder.  Next, go to the examine room and remove your clothes (Made me think about the first time I went to a massage therapist for my back…she said remove what you are comfortable with, so I took off my hat!).  I’m now standing there in my underwear and hat (ha! Just kidding…I didn’t have underwear on!).  He does all the normal things…feels my throat, listens to my heart, pokes around on my belly and “turn your head & cough”.  I sure wanted to bolt and run so as to avoid the next part…

I Yelled Ugly Names At Her The Whole Time

Back when we lived on Highway 350, in La Junta, we had a long driveway.  At least it seemed that way for me.  As a 6^th or 7^th grader I tended to be a little lazy.  Who would have guessed that?  It was pretty inconvenient for me when Mom and Dad asked/made me do things.  So anytime I could argue back (or whine as the case may be), I took the opportunity.  This led to some discipline.  I liked my Mom’s, she would give me a spanking and BAM!  It was over with.  Dad was a whole lot more creative with his disciplines.  Some had to do with carrying rocks, kind of like in Cool Hand Luke (yes, Boss).  All of them involved some form of work!  Which leads to this story….

Flame and His Two Torches

When I was in 5^th or 6^th grade, in La Junta just off of Highway 350, Dad was always big on burning the ditches and fence lines.  Of course, being two impressionable boys, Cully and I couldn’t wait for the time of year for this to happen.  It meant we could play with fire and not get into trouble.  Play with fire…there’s a statement that can only lead to trouble.

To preface this a little, I was the kid who always wanted to burn something.  Playing with the wax, in candles, was a lot of fun.  I still get into trouble now at 43, for playing with candles.  Sometimes, I think it’s a wonder I didn’t burn down the house!  Once I poured a gallon coffee can about half full of gas, while standing in the garage, and lit it on fire.  It was pretty cool, got the big whoosh…watched it burn for a while…pretty cool!   Then my brain power kicked in.  I knew I would get into trouble for playing with fire (never crossed my mind it was even worse if you start fires in the house!), so I leaned over the top of the can (about 6-8 inches away), took a deep breath and tried to blow it out.  Funny how a little oxygen in a fire makes the flames leap up around your head!  I’ll tell you what, it doesn’t take long to look at a can full of gas!  After running in the house to see if I still had eyebrows and hair (I did, thankfully!  I knew I couldn’t hide the fact I was playing with fire if I didn’t have any hair!), I ran back to the garage where I had left the can burning (duh, fire in the house…) and tried to think of a way to put it out!  The fire was just sitting there, cheerily burning what little gas remained in the can…stupid fire.  It finally dawned on me that if I put another can over the top of this one, it would smother the fire out.  Bingo…hair on the face and head, fire out and no one the wiser!  At least that is what I choose to believe, until now when I have confessed on my own terms.

The Only Spanking I Didn't Deserve

There has been a lot of traffic insinuating this story and thought it would be a good time to tell.  This is how I remember it and my sister can dispute this all she wants.  Cully and I are witnesses for what happened.

When I was growing up south of La Junta, in Higbee (Colorado), we pretty much had free rein to go anywhere we wanted to go (BB Gun Wars and Paintball)….which we did most of the time. Strange as it may seem, none of us knew how to swim.  So there were certain places we could not go, the Purgatory River being one of them.  That is strange in and of itself because I just don’t remember there being that much water in it most of the time.  When it flooded, it got pretty high, but on the norm it was pretty shallow where it went behind our house.  Needless to say, us boys went down there all the time.  Mom was always telling us to stay off the river.  I think the fact that she couldn’t swim either, scared her a lot when us boys were gallivanting around the country side.

But the focus of this story was a pond.  Not just any pond, but one that was less than 2 feet deep.  The bottom 12-14 inches being mud and the tip 6-8 inches being water.