The way things used to be.

It is now time for me to offer my thanks albeit tardy to all of our Vets. Thank you all and happy Veterans day. The above picture is of 5 staunch Republicans atop Mt. Democrat (irony) in Colorado and all pictured are current or former members of our Nations fine Army.

Kemmerer:
What a HOLE! What does it say about a town when your claim to fame is "The Fossil Fish Capitol of the World." or better yet "Home of the 1rst JC Penny's." It's a coal town filled w/ folks that are aptly suited to the coal industry. At first that may sound rude but think about it, the people of Kemmerer are as self sufficient and industrious as any. Hard exteriors and hard lives. I don't profess to have a profound knowledge of the town or its people but for the last couple of years basically living in these tiny bergs I have come to the acute realization that I really like small town folks. Most people in the civilized (if you indeed consider it civilized) world look at small town folks as country, slow, or backward. While there are some who fit that stereotype they are without doubt the exception. Rural folks are the same as all of us they just appreciate differently. They appreciate hard work foremost. They appreciate responsibility, your word, and good conversation over a warm beverage at the local cafe talking about the way things used to be. This morning such a conversation was carrying on when we walked in for breakfast and all the good old boys at the bar noticed the UP truck and invited us to join them. It's odd but small town folks consider all Railroaders kin and so we got to talking w/ Vern, Carter, Bill, and T with their respective ages Old, Older, Oldest, and Dusty, the script turned to days gone by. The longer I listened to my new and aged friends I couldn't help but think that in a small town the way things used to be are still the way they are. I love that. These old boys were great, they carried on w/ everything from how many bullets T had to put in that steer after it got "wired" over in Opal before it would stop breathing (9), and how soft their "gitt'in" over at the mine now that they've switched to 12 hour shifts. They truly appreciate the simple life. I envy these folks, I really do. Imagine living a life where you don't have to worry about all the B.S. that we plague ourselves w/ while living in suburbia. B.S. like traffic, unless Leroy is moving his herd to the lower forty cause then US30 is gonna slow for a bit. Or crime, unless the boys wrestling team steals a toilet from the hardware store and puts it on a ex-girlfriends lawn and hangs a sign "Debbie is a lying piece of S#!+, please leave your piece of S#!+." Or immorality, wait, every 16-19 year old female in a small town is knocked up so never mind. Just kidding, it's another untrue, but kinda true stereotype. I would love to live in a "HOLE" or a place whose claim to fame was "Home of Demaris Millicent the Guinness world record holder for longest toenails." But if for some reason or wife I am unable to enjoy permanent residence in a small town I hope that I'll be able to glean a bit from their way of life and maybe when I'm gone someone will be talking about the way things used to be and I'll make one of their stories, "Oh that old sunofabitch Rob..."

View from my office window

When ya gotta go, ya gotta go!

Randy's quite a picture taking phenom himself isn't he.

So I'm a little fired up tonight about a few things. Actually just two things; Levi Strauss and Joseph Glidden. You know who Mr. Strauss is and call me a nerd for knowing who invented barb wire. The frequency that I'm going through jeans is unacceptable. You always hear about how revolutionary the copper riveted denim jean was back in the day but my current battle of "barb wire vs. trouser" where trouser never wins is leading me to believe that Levi's invention was a fraud. Today I tore out the crotch in my fourth pair of pants in as many weeks and my patience is wearing as thin as the seat of my drawers. I guess part of the problem is that there must be an unwritten rule in the agricultural realm that if there is a railroad bridge on your land it is the absolute best and proper place to anchor your fence to. Every bridge in my world has the devil's rope attached to it in one way or another and unfortunately as I have determined the proper height at which Farmer Ted chooses to install his wire coincidentally coincides w/ my crotch. My worst fear is that some day I might have the sad misfortune of losing my footing wilst crossing over one of these dreaded baricades and give a whole new meaning to bareback rodeo at which point my pants become the least of my worries. Toot's you might not get that little girl you want. Or maybe you would depending on the severity of the straddle only you would be married to her. OUCH;-} Of all these wistful thoughts I can't help but be saddend by the idea of living in the time of old Levi Strauss. Think about it, the poor sacks that bought his pants thought of them as a Godsend, I think they suck. Pre-Levi pants must of been the shits! That's what is sad, no man should of had to live his life in such an unproper pair of britches.

Inspired

My life has recently been effected by the mind blowing work of a artist who's work is far ahead of his time. His name is R.S. Webb and his photographic skill may have just changed my life. Below is some of my personal attempts to re-create his genius.

1.



2.



3.



4.




5.

Death Sucks

Funerals blow. Today was Gerald's service and it was nice. Here is the link to the obit. http://www.legacy.com/SacBee/DeathNotices.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonID=96787333 Come to find out the quiet and always smiley bridge inspector Gerald was a flaming Hippie! The things you find out when folks die. As we were sitting in the Funeral home waiting for the Officiators from St. Francis Assisi to begin they had a video/slide presentation of the life of the deceased and seeing pictures of Gerald from the 60's to the 90's was enlightening. Tie dye and VW vans aside my eyes were made open to the limitless possibilities of some outrageous side burns. Lamb Chops from the sixties were on a totally different plane from what I have known in my young life to be "en voge." The creativity was markedly more dynamic than what one would see on your usually UTA/Greyhound trip. The pictures were epiphanal. For the actual service it was mediocre. Not that it wasn't pleasant or solemn but for the most part it was chamber music followed by read prayers and repeat. All of which was greatly void of any English, St. Francis must of had a predilection for Latin.
The graveside was almost entirely missed by my car load in large part to the delinquence of local law enforcement in being unable to successfully run a congruent motorcade. I followed a car w/ lights on that pulled out of the funeral home parking lot that led me, and about 20 other cars that were in tow, to his house. Note** If at a memorial w/ no intentions of participating in the procession turn your bloody lights OFF! Eventually we made it to the cemetery in time to drop a handful of dirt in the hole. Speaking of holes, due to our tardiness we were at the back of the crowd, and struck up conversation w/ some of the grounds keeping personnel of which I asked a enterprising young man named Cesar a question about hole digging. "If it takes 2 men 12 hours to dig 5 holes how long does it take 4 men to dig half a hole?" He said, "Ine no good at math I juss mow de grass." I chuckled.

What am I doing?

Well Toots, its with a certain degree of consternation that I involve myself in this blogging business. However, your new found interest has motivated me to give you one more blog to read before you "hit the hay." This way I can give you a little journal of your hubbies happenings while he is away on the road.

**DISCLAIMER** This is only a trial. If at any time should my attention wane and the whole blogging sensation cease to take root in either my daily habits or my markedly puerile attention span I will quit and you will have to rely on a nightly phone call. Understanding that as is the norm I will most likely be tired, preoccupied by the evenings ball games, or asleep and I'll call you in the morning. Granted morning is a loosely used term in that often lack of cell service in many of my bergs is marginal so it might be afternoon or maybe not till the next night where any of the above is likely to occur again. Kidding, my sarcasm leads one to think that our lines of communication are non-existent or strained at best. I look forward to and enjoy our conversations while on the road and I don't mean to poke fun at our plight. I guess my disclaimer could be more simple, If blogging sucks, I won't do it. There.

Sacramento:

Flying sucks. I really don't like strangers, and even more than my distaste for unknown folks I abhor poor hygiene i.e. coffee/morning breath. Apparently the gentleman who I was priveleged to sit next to, or is it sit on, (I can't remember with the seats of a canada air regional jet being so large) can best be discribed as large and completely unaware that he might at sometime in his day be in close proximity of other folks. He was rancid. Why don't I ever get the small people next to me that bathe? At least he didn't talk to me. I wasn't entirely interested in his amature kite making hobby. (That was the magazine he was reading and I'm not making that up.)

I got alot of work done on the computer this afternoon while waiting for Jason to show up. He flew in on the trailer park in the sky and was 90 min. late. I'm almost caught up. Had lunch in Old Sac, it's kind of the historic district here in town and pretty close to the Hotel. Lots of shops, you'd like it.

I think this is going to do it for this post. I'm bored, thirsty and to be honest w/ you i'm not really sure if i'm doing this right or following the format. Trisha's blog from waaaayyy down south is the only one i've ever read. I love you.