Don't Try This at Home

So a friend in Germany asked me to write this story. So I did. I hope it does not cause her to lose her breakfast. Or you good people to lose your last meal before it’s completely digested.  I also hope that no upset �" ness is experienced.

This true-to-life story is completely true. I know this because I just happen to be there. It takes place in the sleepy month of June and in the criminal-rich town of Tacoma, Washington. U.S.A. The year was 1968. Now from this date you may grin, take out your pencils, and declare you know my age. WRONG!. Let me save you all the trouble. I was a very, intelligent, 17. Which makes me a not-so-intelligent 68 today. There. My secret is out with no beatings or flames of any kind. And I saved the readers a lot of writer’s cramp.

It is the story of my weeding. I know this will make many wished that they smoked so they could read the cigarette packages instead. But it’s my story and I was asked to write it by someone from the “Father Land”. Or should that be the “Mother Land”? Anyhow I was asked to write it by someone from Germany and it’s some kind of land.

So, as I said my terror began in June of 68, but it really began before this.  I was a “line” boy at a regional airport about 230 kilometers south. I was trying to break the record of how many planes I could store in a peculiar hanger.  There was no real record and no one would cheer and pat me on the back for this marvelous feat, but I was determined. So I taxied the planes and  pushed and pulled. And before long, or longer, the record was broken. The hanger was full and I was happy.

There was one small problem.  It seems that while I was moving a Cessna 310 I pulled it up on my ankle.  Unless you know aircraft, a Cessna 310 is on the smaller side, has two engines and is  about 4,000 pounds with no people in it. It rolls quite easy and easily  rolled onto my toe and up my ankle. But no broken bones that I could hear and the hanger was full.  The non-existent cheering squad left and I was doomed to drive to Tacoma.

This drive to Tacoma should have been a simple one and only taken about 3 hours. But I was 17 and driving a beat up 1955 Chevy. Mistake number 1. The number 2 mistake was thinking I was thirsty. My thirst was not dire or deadly but it was there and not to be ignored. So I pulled off highway and into this wide spot where the local police are not trim, or forgiving. The officer promptly declared that I had failed to stop at this town’s 1 and only stop light.  The cop seeing that I was young and driving a very used car proceeded into a full blown inspection of me and my car.

I was first and the cop radioed all my information into his office. He almost looked depressed when no “want’s or warrants” came back with my name attached. I firmly believe I could see his mind working hard on how or what he could invent. He came up with nothing and proceeded to the car.  To say that he was doing a complete job is putting it simply. I had flown aircraft without his level of detail. Again he could find nothing and again he seemed to almost pout. But there was the stop light issue and that seem to cheer him up as he told me to follow him back to the station.

Once at the station I was not brought before a judge. I was simply tried, convicted and sentenced by the cop and his cronies. Hearing that I was going to be married didn’t seem to impress anyone and I was told to pay up the $30.00 fine or spend the weekend in jail.  Not wanting to be a guest of this hotel with bars I agreed to pay-up.

Now at this point of the story, any sane person would ask themselves “what was all that about airplanes?” Here’s why. I had smashed my ankle quite well when trying to park the 310 and these defenders of the American sprit would only accept exact change. Which I didn’t have. And because they had taken my car keys away I was forced to walk to seek the correct amount or I would still be a guest. Oh yes and I still had a this marriage thing going on.

So I hobbled around this paradise next to the I-5 freeway to find my exact change. I did find it after an hour, paid the extortion and proceeded on to Tacoma and my soon-to-be bride.

With no bachelor party to go to I reached my parents’ house and lay down in my old friend bed for one last round of single sleep. Had I known then what I know now I would have run for the border and be writing this in Canadian-eze.  So I slept in my bed single for the last time and herded my dreams into their proper order.

The very next day was the “Day of Doom” and I woke to it with much expatiation.  With nothing really to do but get dressed I did the only thing that any sensible person would do. I began to mow the lawn.  When my Mother told me that the time was 10:00 I stopped mowing and went in to dress in my proper clothes for the day.

Oh yes. The day proceeded as everyone had planned. We were married and the pigeons got fat on all the rice that was thrown.

The  End.  Well not quit but that’s enough for now or forever