HOW LOOK 10 years YOUNGER; still NO goat show!

5/29/16

The beer cans and charcoal from where the fire had been in the road about ten feet from the driver’s side window of the bus set lonely in the morning mist.  The rain had coated the window and quenched the flames of the fire, as well as the flames in the hearts of the boisterous drunkards who had surrounded it the night before. 

They had stayed up until the rain began at around midnight, washing their numbers away slowly.  I had worried, not about the drunks, but about my brothers Subaru.  A brand new Subaru Forester, black, with tinted windows, a black and silver roof rack, and black powder coated rims wrapped in performance tires.  It was, to say the least, a vastly more impressive car than the F-150.  The next camp site over, the one next to the rowdy NASSCAR drunkards, was driving in posts.  “TING, TING, TING, CRACK, CRACK” went the sledge hammer, as he drove in spikes for his carport, occasionally missing and slamming the handle in to the steel spike.  A smile slowly marched across my tired face.  I was not hung over, the ring of the sledge hammer on the steel spikes was a bell of mindfulness reminding me to be thankful for my life as it now was. Free.  It was 07:00.  

I sat and enjoyed my bitter Folgers dark roast instant coffee while the sun slowly began to glow through the bank of clouds to the east.   After a gentle yoga practice, and some karate kata, it was time for morning meditation.  My body felt good.  In the past I would have been the drunkest fella at the bonfire. This morning, I was up, alert, clear eyed, and ready to do some good in the world.  My body was not the best it had ever been, but it was the best it could be.  James and I emerged, assessing the car, and the side of the Tardis.  No visible damage.  We loaded up and headed off to meet the day.  Life is good, I thought, as I reflected on the Einstein quote from my morning reading:  

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us ‘the universe,’ a part limited in time and space.  He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separate from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of consciousness.  This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and affection for a few persons nearest to us.  Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening the circle of understanding and compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.”

Time passed.

As I pulled up next to the Tardis James went in to an excited full body wag.  After a long day he was ready to be home!  The heats from the race track were thundering rhythmically as the cars unleashed their horsepower on the straightaways, and slowed for the corners.  The dog kennels and high dollar RV’s had multiplied.  Spreading to almost every site.  The NASCAR racers had gone. The mess of empty beer cans and half burned logs had left with them, cleaned up by the park attendant.  Today we would experience the goat show, I smiled as we walked towards the goat barn.  Not much is cuter than a baby pigmy goat. 

He really peed on a hydrant! Just like on cartoons!

The dog show was setting up in a barn nearby.  The beautiful springer spaniels with their soft floppy ears and brown and white colorings were being washed and primped inside in preparation for their big day tomorrow.  Just like on the movie Lady and the Tramp, or is it more like Best in Show, I wondered.  I reckoned I would find out tomorrow.

Walking down the asphalt we enjoyed the noon sun.  The warmth was a welcome change of pace from the all-encompassing cold and misty fog of the last several days, which worked its way deep in to my body chilling my bones.  As we approached the goat barn, it was quiet.  A little too quiet, I thought to myself.  NO DOGS ALLOWED, read a big sign on the side of the barn.  Fortunately for me James can’t read, we went in.  The barn was empty except for the smell of pigmy goat manure, empty cages, and straw.  Two men were spraying disinfectant in backpack sprayers to prevent contamination of other stock with the remnants of the last herd.

Nothing's sadder than an empty goat barn! NOTHING

 “Looks like we found a new thing we need to go check out James” I said, as we turned and began to walk towards the antique farm equipment museum next door. 

I’d rather check that out anyway, I thought to myself.  The industrialization of modern agriculture has always been a passion of mine.  People not starving, in fact enjoying a longer lifespan, with lots of free time, and overall better health is in large part due to advances made by modernized agriculture.  I love seeing the roots of history, imagining the old ways.  We’ve come far but not too far, I thought, looking at the old tractors and oxen driven plows in front of the museum.  OPEN, read the sandwich board reader sign, with a big red arrow, pointing to the museum.  I walked over and pulled the handle on the door. Nothing.  It was locked, inside the lights were off.  

I looked back at James.  James looked up at me.  “Well James, I guess you win. Stock car races it is.” I said, he loved the races yesterday.  Though in fairness I think it’s because of the piece of ham he got from the guy sitting behind us.  We turned to walk toward the race track, again passing the dog show that was being set up.

As we passed the building a woman in her late fifties with silvery-brown hair, and who was about thirty five pounds overweight, matched our pace going the same direction.  “Are you going to the dog show?” I inquired, as we walked past the show arena.  “Yeah, I’m a vendor.  But I’m thinking about checking out the stock car races tonight.” She replied.  “Oh, I don’t think you’re drunk enough, or rowdy enough to watch them.” I said “I had to camp next to the race car drivers last night, they were in the RV site next to me.  They were up all night burning a fire pit in the middle of the road, and getting loaded.”  “I think I’ll be ok,” she smiled, “I used to race stock cars, and drag racers growing up.  I had a Chevy Camaro.  Fastest one in town.” Her smile widened with the memory, as we passed the dog show arena.  “Never thought I’d race, until I came out from my work one day and there was a note on my window.  ‘If you want the drag gears put in this car I have them’ it said.  I called the number.  The guy did the work for free! He was my mechanic for a while, then my boyfriend, then my husband.” Her smile grew warmer, and for a fleeting moment she was young and in love again.  “I’m zach.” I said, outstretching my hand to her.  “Beverly.” She replied, with a firm handshake given by very soft chubby hands.   “I gave up racing when I began to appreciate being alive more.” Beverly chuckled. “Yeah, that happens.” I said, “I remember when that happened to me.  Life is more precious when we realize it ends.”  “Yep.” Beverly replied.  We continued our walk towards the rhythmic chorus of the big V8 motors. High on the straightaway, low on the corners.  A thunderous melody.  Beverly followed me to the entry gate.  

I quickly sighted the dark haired girl, to whom I had given the gratuity to the night before so that James and I could enter.  She waved me over quietly, passing a ticket under the glass of the ticket booth and smiling.  “I wondered if you two were coming back.” She said, her eyes twinkling mischievously.  “Well.” I said, “The goat show was closed when we got off work!”  “Guess you’ll have to settle for racing.” She said, glancing down at James.  “Yep.” I replied, as we walked past the entry gate, and in to the bustling ant nest of human activity under the stadium.  We found a seat at the end of the bleachers in the family friendly area.  NO SMOKING, & NO ALCOHOL IN SECTIONS G-H; read big red signs at the front of the rows of bleachers. James hopped, and I stepped, over the rows of empty bleachers.  The race hadn’t started yet and the section was completely empty.  I laid back against the row behind me, stretching my back and my sore muscles.  It had been a long day.  The sun warmed my neck and chest as I took in a deep breath.  The air was thick with the smell of burned rubber.  The cars squealed around tight turns as they fought to win the heat.  The race to determine their starting position in the final contest. 

We watched the cars tear around the track.  The classic modified cars, some of them, burned nitrous oxide.  The smell took me back to the drag races that our dad would take us to when we were young.  It was a big expense, but sometimes he would take my brothers and me in the summer if there was a little unexpected money left over after a construction job.  It was not often, but it happened.  I watched the classic cars race around the track.  One of them went spinning in to a barrier made of tires, crashing through them it squealed like an injured boar fleeing through a board fence. Tires flew in to the air, and in a plume of dust the drivers arm signaled out the window that he was ok. 

The engine of the car rumbled to life as the yellow flag waved and the cars all fell in to line slowing down.  The injured car limped off of the track, with the track EMS crew vehicle in tow. 

The stock cars flew around the track with recluse abandon.  No modifications allowed, just stock, most of them without exhausts.  A lot of them resembled the junk cars my brothers and I used to race through the woods when I was young, and as Beverly would say; a little more invincible.  The speeds we ran our rally cars at were fast, not as fast as the cars running a figure eight pattern to qualify for the next race, but pretty fast.  I thought about what it would take to put together a stock car racer. It would be an adventure, I thought to myself.   

“Can my daughter and I pet your animal?” asked a stout clean shaven man, wearing the same style hat I was wearing. “Yes you may.” I said to him, nodding.  He stood up from his seat and limped heavily with the assistance of a bamboo cane ten meters to where James and I were lounging in the sunshine.  “That’s a good looking service animal.” He said, motioning to James.  “What’s his name?” “James.” I replied.  “My boy is named frank.” He replied, pulling out his phone and showing me several pictures of him and his service dog “he’s about 60 LBS *28KG.  I woulda brought him tonight, but he might not do well with the fireworks.  Do you think that he will do ok?” he asked, looking at James. “He will be fine.” I said, “He’s pretty calm.  He’s very good for me.  He helps keep me mindful.”  I reached over and pet James, who looked up at me lifting his chin off of the bleacher in front of him to receive my affection fully.  The man reached over and stroked his ears, James stood up, and moved over to him.  “I’m Mike, but everyone calls me sarge.” He said, extending his hand and giving me a firm shake with rough warm skin.  “My guy does this thing where he will put his head on my leg and push down.  I got blown up in Iraq.  My spine got broken, and my right leg.  They said that it gave me a bad traumatic brain injury.  I guess I’m quick to temper some times.” He said, looking away in embarrassment.  “My service dog, he keeps me from punching people in the face.” He finished, laughing nervously.   His pale blue eyes looked to me with nervous apprehension, hoping for understanding.  A 30 year old man afraid to be judged for his emotions, his short comings.  A man now used up.  His marketable value expended.  “James keeps me pretty calm too.” I said, “It’s amazing how calming a service dog can be.  James does that too, he’ll put his head across my lap when I’m stressed.  It calms me down good.”  I said warmly.  “Yeah, after I got him, the therapist said I should apply for disability.  Sometimes I can’t walk without falling.  I wanted to be a crane operator, but I can’t climb anymore.”  His daughter was now petting James, who lay stretched out in the sun, enjoying the heat and extra attention.  I wondered if he could remember my nieces, his previous humans.  They were a little older than Sarges’ daughter.  “Seems like bridges and overpasses give people coming back the most trouble.” I said.  “Yeah.  Last year we came for the fireworks.  I heard them start going off.  I hit the deck, and pulled my wife down.  She didn’t get hurt bad, but she hit the concrete and the bench.  Fucking fireworks.” He lamented.  “This year I’m going to stay until the end, and watch them.” He said, his eyes narrowing with determination.  “You’ll do it.” I said, “You have earned it.  You’re doing the work, the hard work.  You’ll make it.”  “I hope so.” He replied “It was fucking embarrassing last year.  All these fucking people looking at me. I hit the ground.  I could hear the fireworks hitting the metal of the building.” He pet James for a while and then with some effort stood unsteadily and limped back to his seat. 

The color guard from the local prison did a flag presentation.  Everyone stood as requested by the announcer, in respect for the flags.  Sarge stayed seated a hard gaze fixed on the horizon.  I wondered what he thought about the sanctity of the flag ceremony.  The color guard finished, whirling and twirling their fancy chromed rifles.  The national anthem was next.  I looked over.  Sarge still sat clenched, and staring in to the distance.  The crowd obediently faced the flag, and covered their hearts with their hands, and their caps.  Still he looked toward the horizon, his jaw, and now his fists clenched tightly.  I wondered, what must be going on inside the head of a man who had his life consumed in the continuous ‘fight for freedom’ that the country had been in since WWII, since WWI for that matter.  Now he was reduced to begging for disability.  His wife appeared after the anthem, and sat next to him.  She was a heavy set woman, with long black hair, and two chins.  She was about the same age as him.  She held their three year old daughter on her lap and her daughter held her dads fist and it melted in to an unclenched hand. 

The demolition derby cars hit the track, and the bumper shoot races began.  The announcer spouted out thank yous’ to the fallen veterans who had ‘kept us free’ by making the ultimate sacrifice.  Regularly reminding us that this was not just a holiday for BBQ’s and Mondays off.  I stood up, I had to go.  James and I waded through the beehive in the base of the stadium, weaving through lines of people waiting for concession food.  The smell and sound of elephant ears frying filled the air as we passed one stand.  It took me back to the small fair that my parents used to take us to.  We were happy then, my brothers and I.  Life was easy, all there was to worry about was nothing back then.

The demolition derby raged on, the collisions punctuated the roar of V8’s with zummies, and the occasional backfire.  Walking across the grassy fairgrounds, I felt the earth soft under my feet.  The feel of grass under the soles of my approach shoes changed to a crunch as we transitioned to the gravel parking lot in which the bus was parked.

It's as much a sport as bowling

5/28/16

I woke up to a loud southern drawl, punctuated with profanities, amidst a sexual antic dote that i could not fully discern.  Lifting my blind and looking out my window I saw three typically fat middle aged American white men talking loudly, and drinking miller light.  It was 0800.  One of them drank coffee, and leaned against the side of the F150 my baby brother had lent me.  His cup sitting on the side of the bed.  What in the ever loving shit! I thought.  I took a deep breath, and let my frustration melt away.  After I got out of bed and practiced some yoga, I wondered how people could not understand property rights, or personal space.  I would never lean on someone else’s car, let alone put a drink on the side of it!  But, I thought, maybe I’m just strange.  The roaring of morning warm up laps drifted over from the track.  

Emerging from the Tardis after my bitter instant coffee, and packing an extra to go cup with me.  I could smell the unmistakable odor of burning rubber as I stepped out the door.  I remembered my days of playing race car with my brothers, big kids, I thought.  I engaged the neighbors with a broad toothy smile.  It is worth noting that my brother’s truck was parked right next to my bus, well away from my neighbors rig.  “Morning!” I said cheerfully.  “That’s my truck.”  “oh.” Said the guy leaning on it, as he picked up his cup and moved off of it.  “Do you need me to move my car?” asked one of the men.  “I’ll be leaving for work in about a half hour.  Are you guys gonna be racing today?”  I asked, turning to walk James down to the green space after grabbing his leash from inside the cab of the truck.  “Yea, we’ll be racin’ till midnight!”  Said my portly neighbor, who had been in my space the day before, obviously quite drunk.  “No, it’s only until eleven.” Said the guy who asked me if he needed to move his car.  “Well, no matter what.” Said the portly man, “were gonna drink a shit load of beer.”  The smell of rot gut domestic beer, and Irish cream, presumably in the coffee was unmistakable.  

The lot was almost full now, of semis with car hauling trailers and expensive RV’s with dog kennels lining their exterior.  James and I watched as a huge semi chassis RV pulling a toy hauling trailer passed us.  A more diverse group of people I have never seen, I thought to myself.  The dog people, prim and proper.  The race people, drunk and disorderly.  Kids and grownups, I thought to myself.  But all of them in old person bodies.

  

James and I headed off to our daily task.

CLOSED.  Read the sign on the big blue goat barn.  After deliberation, and thought, well a FB pick your own adventure survey.  I had chosen to go to the goat show instead of the NASSCAR race.  Apparently the choice was made for me by fate.  People making a series of only right handed turns at high speed it is, I thought to myself as James and I turned from the barn walking the wet asphalt sidewalk towards the roar of the arena.  The event had started an hour ago.  The race was scheduled to go until 23:00.  As we approached the stadium there was a flash of sound, followed by a flurry of lights.  Nearing the gates I saw several cars were being driven away on roll bed tow trucks, with what appeared to be minor damage.  

As we approached the gate a large portly white bearded man in an official looking capacity stood drinking beer from a clear solo cup.  His tremendous gut, a tribute to his apparent love of fizzy drinks composed of decomposed barley.  The loud speaker rang out announcing the sponsor of the race was Coors light…..and proceeded to thank a slew of other sponsors.  The irony made me grin.  The official sponsor of this race was a beer company, who coincidentally told people not to drink and drive.  

I thought about the demolition derbies my brothers and I used to have.  We, well mostly I, would see how drunk we could get while driving and running the other drivers off of the dirt race tracks we built.  I always drank the most, I always was willing to drink alone.  Ironically, even though I was fairly well educated, this never sounded an alarm for me.  

“You can’t come in this gate.” Said the portly Santa clause looking man.  “You have to go around front to buy tickets.  That dog cannot come in, unless you tell me he is a service dog.” He said winking at me, and taking a big gulp of beer, “We only let in service dogs.”  “Thanks.” I said, as I turned and walked towards the main entrance to the arena.  As we crossed the well-manicured lawn James relieved himself several times.  As we approached the booth a dark haired girl with pale skin and a litany of cursive tattoos between her fingers greeted us.  “We need some tickets.” I said, as I pulled a wad of $20 bills out of the breast pocket of my ragged Carheart jacket.  “One for me, and one for my James.” I said, motioning to him. “He can only go in if he is a service dog.” She said, handing me the ticket.  “He must be a service dog.” She said quietly as she smiled at me and James, not returning the $10 change we were due.  “What kind of dog is he? He is super cute.”  “He’s a bitsa.”  I replied, the same old joke, the same old smile, and the same old reaction.  A quizzical look crossed her face in the form of an unsure smile, and a set of adorable dimples.  “I have never heard of that before.” She said.  “He’s bitsa everything.”  I grinned broadly, at what I knew was a line she had never heard.  She laughed.  “Well you and your service dog are welcome to go in.” she said.

James and I ascended the stairs, to the brightness of the well-lit arena.  A dull roar echoed through the tunnel leading in to the arena through the bleachers.  The halogen lights above blazed down on the track.  As we emerged the soccer field sized area in the middle was full of verandas, and pit crews.  A black oval rimmed the field.  The race cars were finishing warm up laps.  They pulled in to the pits, and a new fleet of vehicles emerged.  Several tow trucks were pulling large tires painted white.  The tires heat the track, and helped keep it dry.  Along with the caravan of tow trucks, there were various police and fire response vehicles racing around the track.  One thing is a fact: everyone likes driving fast! I thought.    The procession raced around the track at what, judging from the squats they made on the corners, must have been fairly high speeds.  They were attempting to keep the track dry by warming it up, it appeared.  The rain had started, emerging from the mists which had cloaked the area earlier that evening.  

James and I walked up the benches to find a reasonably dry perch.  I cleared the bench with the back of my coat, and we sat down.  “Can I pet your dog?” asked a dark eyed young lady sitting behind me with a grey haired gentlemen.  “Hmmm….” I said, thinking about whether or not I wanted people touching James.  “Yes you may.”  I said, as she moved down a seat to pet and sit next to James.  She wanted to talk about James, and I again made the bitsa joke.  I was focused on the procession of cars lapping the track repeatedly.  “I’ve never been to a race before.” I told her.  “Yeah, I don’t really go to them either, but my dad loves to go.” She said smiling at me.  “When will the race car part start?” I asked.  “hahaha… I don’t know.” She said, “It may get canceled because of the rain.”  For our readers, I thought, James and I will sit it out and wait to see what will happen.  Also, we had never been to a race.  My attention was fixed on the race at hand.  “Well, thanks for letting me pet James.” She said, as she moved back up the bleachers and sat next to her father.    

Several grown men also approached me.  One of them, who was mentally slow, wanted to feed him some meat from his ham sandwich.  I said ok.  His face lit up with delight as James stood in his bear pose to take the morsel, and then proceeded to lick his fingers clean.  Funny how a dog can change a 40 year old man in to a child.  Lighting a face with the glow of a smile that had not been there before.  Every dog, and animal, is a service animal, I thought.      

James and I watched as the cars chirped around the corners, and the water vapors rose from the pavement as they ran down the straightaways. The announcer echoed over the crackly loud speakers “well folks, I hate to say it, but it looks like this race is going to be called on account of rain.”   It was already 20:30, the horse show was closed.  Even if we wanted to go to it, we couldn’t go.  We got up and started back to the bus. As promised my neighbor and his fifteen friends, had a camp fire, in the no camp fire area, and drank lots of beer in the no drinking county camp site.  James and i stayed up watching Blazing Saddles, and Idiocracy.  both of which helped us understand what was going on around us.