Oil Can

[Weezer]

does this mean Rusty is an old hippie ?

Worse. A Judy Garland fan.

 

[Orangeslice13]

Following.

 

[The Ron Mexico]

Worse. A Judy Garland fan.

So gay?

 

[Weezer]

So gay?

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

 

[Tin Man]

 

[Tin Man]

Worse. A Judy Garland fan.

You get an official Friend of Dorothy button.

 

[Tin Man]

The Charge

In 1969, my brother and I accompanied my Grandmother on her touring trip to Africa. A bunch of memories and stories arose from this trip - what passed for bathrooms, baboons, Stork beer, whiskey sours, orange squash, ice, 42s, old airliner seats, boats & crocodiles... This is one about an outing on the East African savanna to see and photograph wildlife.

We had stayed at a tent camp the night before. The tents were huge things with raised wooden floors and framework. We'd been advised to "do our business" before retiring. A trip to the latrine in the dark of night risked encounter with hyenas, which were unlikely to go well.

In the morning, they packed up our group into a gigantic Land Rover with three rows of seats behind the driver & front passenger. In addition, there were two folding jump seats in the small cargo area at the back. My brother and I were assigned these.

Our view was great out the back, but otherwise limited. We weren't particularly happy with this, but being the youngest and slightest of the group, we accepted our lot and determined to enjoy ourselves. The vehicle's back gate was closed, but we traveled with the "window" above opened.

It was a fine day. We saw giraffe, zebra, wildebeest, warthogs, Thompson's gazelles, Impala, kudu, and gerenuk, as well as elephants & lions from a distance. Finally, we came upon a lone black rhino. We were able to approach within twenty yards. The browsing beast seemed oblivious to us.

After countless shutter clicks, the driver turned away from the rhino and came to a stop. To our surprise, he began to slow back towards the rhino. My brother and I were able to get clear pictures with our little Instamatic cameras. Our tour companions were leaning over the backs of their seats, jostling to do the same. Then, there were murmurs up front.

One of the fellows in the third row told my brother and I that the driver was going to try to induce the rhino to charge. We eagerly looked out the open back of the vehicle, watching the rhino intently for any change in behavior. The huge Land Rover lurched backward. The rhino raised its head, then obliged. As the rhino charged, we were thrilled... Until it became evident that the cumbersome Land Rover was not pulling away quickly enough.

With the rhino gaining upon us, my brother and I became alarmed. We pressed ourselves into the back of the third seat and were met by our companions hell bent upon getting pictures. The rhino reached the Land Rover and little more than an arms length away began to hook its horn into the bumper and the gate. We could see it, smell it, hear it, and feel its jarring collisions with far more detail than we ever imagined.

Eventually, the lumbering Land Rover gained enough speed and momentum for the rhino to desist. It had driven off the big, intrusive thing and with head held high strutted back to the area where it had been browsing. The passengers erupted in yelps, exclamation, and animated chatter. The heart rates of my brother and I eventually returned to normal.

That evening, while our grandmother napped before dinner, my brother and I joined the adult men for drinks. My brother had whiskey and Coca Cola. I had a whiskey sour. For the remainder of the journey, we lads were expected to join the adult men at cocktail hour. We had shown our mettle, being damned good sports with a rhino bashing about mere feet from us.

 

[malinoisvol]

The Charge

In 1969, my brother and I accompanied my Grandmother on her touring trip to Africa. A bunch of memories and stories arose from this trip - what passed for bathrooms, baboons, Stork beer, whiskey sours, orange squash, ice, 42s, old airliner seats, boats & crocodiles... This is one about an outing on the East African savanna to see and photograph wildlife.

We had stayed at a tent camp the night before. The tents were huge things with raised wooden floors and framework. We'd been advised to "do our business" before retiring. A trip to the latrine in the dark of night risked encounter with hyenas, which were unlikely to go well.

In the morning, they packed up our group into a gigantic Land Rover with three rows of seats behind the driver & front passenger. In addition, there were two folding jump seats in the small cargo area at the back. My brother and I were assigned these.

Our view was great out the back, but otherwise limited. We weren't particularly happy with this, but being the youngest and slightest of the group, we accepted our lot and determined to enjoy ourselves. The vehicle's back gate was closed, but we traveled with the "window" above opened.

It was a fine day. We saw giraffe, zebra, wildebeest, warthogs, Thompson's gazelles, Impala, kudu, and gerenuk, as well as elephants & lions from a distance. Finally, we came upon a lone black rhino. We were able to approach within twenty yards. The browsing beast seemed oblivious to us.

After countless shutter clicks, the driver turned away from the rhino and came to a stop. To our surprise, he began to slow back towards the rhino. My brother and I were able to get clear pictures with our little Instamatic cameras. Our tour companions were leaning over the backs of their seats, jostling to do the same. Then, there were murmurs up front.

One of the fellows in the third row told my brother and I that the driver was going to try to induce the rhino to charge. We eagerly looked out the open back of the vehicle, watching the rhino intently for any change in behavior. The huge Land Rover lurched backward. The rhino raised its head, then obliged. As the rhino charged, we were thrilled... Until it became evident that the cumbersome Land Rover was not pulling away quickly enough.

With the rhino gaining upon us, my brother and I became alarmed. We pressed ourselves into the back of the third seat and were met by our companions hell bent upon getting pictures. The rhino reached the Land Rover and little more than an arms length way began to hook its horn into the bumper and the gate. We could see it, smell it, hear it, and feel its jarring collisions with far more detail than we ever imagined.

Eventually, the lumbering Land Rover gained enough speed and momentum for the rhino to desist. It had driven off the big, intrusive thing and with head held high strutted back to the area where it had been browsing. The passengers erupted in yelps, exclamation, and animated chatter. The heart rates of my brother and I eventually returned to normal.

That evening, while our grandmother napped before dinner, my brother and I joined the adult men for drinks. My brother had whiskey and Coca Cola. I had a whiskey sour. For the remainder of the journey, we lads were expected to join the adult men at cocktail hour. We had shown our mettle, being damned good sports with a rhino bashing about mere feet from us.

Seriously, a cool story, bro!

One question: Did they have air travel back then?

 

[95 Vol Alum]

Oil Can Boyd met a rhino in Africa and drank whiskey.

 

[Unknown Muppet]

You da real MVP, VC.

 

[mcompton]

Solid 2* thread

 

[Tin Man]

Did they have air travel back then?

 

[Tin Man]

Femur Is Not A Verb

In the Spring of 2001, the drop zone, Skydive Monroe (GA) was having a CASA boogie (skydive event/party). The CASA 212 is a tailgate aircraft with twin turboprops capable of carrying 32 skydivers to altitude.

Excited, I arrived early, and set up my camp site. My beloved was to join me that evening, after work. I was stocked for a three-day weekend - cooler full of beer 'n' sech and another cooler full of edibles, including 2 whole chickens smoked at home the previous evening.

Friends were arriving and setting up around my site. Three of us went to manifest and got on the Casa flight. We joined two other boogie goers to plan a five-way formation skydive. Everything went great - the flight to altitude, the jump run, our dash off the ramp exit, our formations in freefall, our break, track, and deployment.

Break is when you release all grips and turn away from the center of the formation. Track is flying flat outward from the center to gain separation between skydivers for deployment. Deployment transitions one from freefall to under canopy. On break, my track took me towards the entry point for the main landing area flight pattern. I deployed my main parachute, flew to the entry point and executed the exact pattern as planned. I'm first in the pattern!

On the final leg of the pattern, approaching the landing area at < 100' above ground level, I espied the jumper behind me, 2nd in the pattern. He was on the downwind leg, to my right, facing in my direction. Behind me and to my left was the CASA on its final approach to the runway. This meant two things - all of the parachutists were in the air under canopy or soon to be, and there was no crossing the runway to get to an alternate landing area. So, everything should go smoothly, right?

No, the 2nd guy violates the pattern, carving in front of me. He sees that this maneuver will cause him to overshoot the main landing area. He's headed for touchdown on the tarmac. Pavement. Ouch. He begins a series of side to side turns in deep breaks, trying to bleed off altitude so that he may touchdown in the grassy main landing area. Not only has he violated every agreed upon plan for approach and landing, he is now blocking every straight-in final leg of the pattern...

Reacting to the parachutist carving in front of me, I begin my own series of side to side turns in deep breaks opposite his. I'm doing my damnedest to avoid collision. With me suspended under it, my chute is faster than his. Even in deep breaks, I'm closing on this other jumper. I'm shouting at him to hold a straight line, so that I may land parallel to him, but he doesn't hear me over his flapping slider. He's oblivious to the havoc he's causing, probably already thinking of packing and trying to make the next load (He didn't. He was thrown off the DZ, banned for a year)..

While this is going on, other parachutists see the pattern is broken and begin setting up to come in at an angle, cutting diagonally across the primary landing area. While ~10' off the ground and almost at a stall behind this jackinape, I espy two parachutists under fast canopies (affectionately nicknamed "bed sheets") coming in at an angle from the right. They pass in front of me, disrupting the ~5 knot headwind that's keeping me aloft. My canopy dives forward, dropping me onto an old ant hill. My left leg takes the brunt of my impact with the ground.

I'm laying on the ground. I try to sit up. My left leg isn't responding. A jumper known to me who happens to be a nurse (yes, she of the Tin Man story) walks up to me and comments aloud, "Yep. It's broken." She turns and walks away. My friends and some other jumpers have surrounded me. They gather up my chute so it doesn't drag me. They carefully undo the straps and remove my rig.

An ambulance pulls up next to me. The EMTs gingerly get me onto a board and strap me down. I'm hoisted into the ambulance and taken to the Monroe, GA hospital emergency room. Triage gets my info and vitals and sends me to radiology.

The Rad Tech has done a few skydives. He knows how expensive is our custom gear and tells me that he's going to try to remove my jumpsuit rather than cut it away. It hurts like the dickens, but I'm stoic and thank the Rad Tech for saving my jumpsuit. He proclaims that I took it so well, he's going to pull off my shorts. I cry out, No! Cut them away! but, he proceeds. He takes a series of X-rays, even has me hold a plate just so for one of them. The shock of the hard landing has worn off. I'm in pain.

He wheels me into a holding area. The attending tells me my left leg is broken and wants me to sign a release in order to begin treatment. I tell him my insurance info and ask if the hospital accepts it, advising him that if they don't, I want transport to a facility in the county next door which I know accepts my insurance. He indicates his understanding and leaves me there without administering pain meds.

My Midwestern Girl shows up. Friends at the DZ stopped her from getting out of her car when she arrived there, directing her to the hospital. I inform her that my leg is broken and tell her what has transpired. She approaches everyone, pressing for an answer on accepting my insurance. When they finally affirm that they accept it, I sign the forms and receive an injection for the pain.

The Orthopedic Surgeon on call arrives. I interview him. He's come from practice with an adult men's glee club. He's been practicing medicine for a quarter of a century. He's been sued for malpractice. He shows me my X-rays and tells his plan for repairing my broken femur. I accept and OK the surgery (After all, he sings, and I'm on pain meds.).

When I awake the next day, a stream of skydivers enter the room in which I'm recovering. They tell me that they broke down my camp site, stuffed the tent et all into my Honey Bunny's car, gave her my rig. She spent the night with work friends who lived <20 miles away. They enjoyed my beer and especially the smoked chickens. Get well soon. Don't be a stranger. See you in the sky before you know it. Blue skies.

My Sweet Darlin' visits me with my closest skydive pals. The doc wants me overnight for observation. My friends insist she spend that night with them.

The staff has me on morphine, and it's bothering me. When I tell them this, they switch me to Tylenol. Yeah. Big change in pain management, post op. I demonstrate my ability to use crutches by chasing a good looking nurse down the hall. Doc OKs discharge, and my Baby takes me home.

I spend a year recovering. I approach rehab workouts so fervently, my physiotherapist chides me for cheating to do too much, the opposite of the norm. My Orthopedic Surgeon tries to discourage me from ever skydiving again, but, one year later, he begrudgingly acknowledges he cannot stop me. I return to the air at the same DZ for another CASA boogie. My first jump back is a five-way with friends. We turn five points. The landing is without incident, boring. I'm asked often by boogie goers to show off my zipper (operation scar). The weather is wonderful. The overnight camping a delight. It's a grand boogie for my return to the sky.

 

[malinoisvol]

Ouch!

 

[Behr]

No doubt. I would have done it differently.

 

[Tin Man]

No doubt. I would have done it differently.

 

[Tin Man]

The Good Son

When I was a young lad, about seven years of age, my father came home from a long work day and asked my mother to make him a drink. Mother was frustrated by whatever she was doing and told him to make his own damned drink. Well, Dad just wasn't going to do that.

My father told me where to find the gin and vermouth and told me to place these on the counter. He then told me where to find the olives and the large Fire Chief measuring cup. He had me place some ice cubes in a bowl and add these to the assemblage on the counter. He then hoisted me up and sat me down on the counter, next to the bar fixin's.

Following his instructions precisely, I poured the gin into the measuring cup right to the mark he had indicated. I very carefully added the vermouth to the next mark he indicated. Then, I added ice cubes one at a time until he advised me the number was just right. He handed me a decorative metal spoon with a long twisted handle, bade me place it in the pitcher and coached me to place my hands flat together on the handle and make it spin vigorously by rubbing them together.

Reaching up into a high cabinet, he brought forth a martini glass and set it before me. He bade me place two olives within the glass, then told me how to use the spoon against the spout of the measuring cup to pour the chilled elixir into the glass while keeping out the ice. He tasted it and nodded his approval.

I was in second grade, and I could make a martini to challenge any bartender...





I still wanted to be an astronaut.

 

[Tin Man]

One Fish, Two Fish, Huge Fish

Early one morning on the last day of my visit to my mother's home on the Satilla River delta, I decided to wet a line one last time. I took a medium weight rod & spinning rig loaded with 10 lb test monofilament tied on a 3/8 oz jig head with soft pumpkin seed curly tail and cast out into the bass pond at the edge of the front yard. Boom!

The hit was hard. The rod bent over almost in two. I reeled with all the finesse I could muster. The shape of the fish became visible as it neared the bank. Fearing it would shake off the hook, I kept the pressure on and walked backwards, dragging a huge largemouth bass up onto the grass. I rushed to the fish and grabbed it by the lower lip, freed the hook from its mouth, and held it up. The length of it ran from my belt to my ankles! It was fat-bellied, probably female. It was the largest bass I have ever caught.

I rushed into the house and excitedly showed the fish to my mother. She was astounded. I asked where my wife was and was told that she was in the shower. I dashed into the bathroom, yanked back the shower curtain and held up the pond leviathan for her appreciation. After colorfully expressing her startled surprise, she described it as big and beautiful and ordered me to return it to the pond without delay. I obliged. The monster bass swam away towards the center of the pond.

My heart pumping and my spirits high, I took up the rod and again cast out into the pond. Boom! Another rod doubling hit! Another finessed battle to bring the hooked beast to shore. Another backwards walk to ease it out of the pond. Though slimmer 'round, this bass was as gargantuan as the first.

Once more, I grabbed the bass by the lower lip, freed the hook, and rushed inside to show it to my mother. She was gleefully astonished. I burst into the bathroom to find my wife in a towel. After another outburst of colorfully expressed surprise and admonition for my entrance, she too deemed the back-to-back catches once-in-a-lifetime and urged me to return the second fish to the pond. I did. It swam away vigorously.

The two largest bass I have ever caught and on back-to-back casts into a pond... Both were over 20" in length and over 10 lbs in weight. Either could have swallowed a grebe whole. I picked up the rod, hesitated, and put it away. Big Momma and Big Poppa were enough. Karma. I set about loading the car for the trip home.

 

[malinoisvol]

One Fish, Two Fish, Huge Fish

Early one morning on the last day of my visit to my mother's home on the Satilla River delta, I decided to wet a line one last time. I took a medium weight rod & spinning rig loaded with 10 lb test monofilament tied on a 3/8 oz jig head with soft pumpkin seed curly tail and cast out into the bass pond at the edge of the front yard. Boom!

The hit was hard. The rod bent over almost in two. I reeled with all the finesse I could muster. The shape of the fish became visible as it neared the bank. Fearing it would shake off the hook, I kept the pressure on and walked backwards, dragging a huge largemouth bass up onto the grass. I rushed to the fish and grabbed it by the lower lip, freed the hook from its mouth, and held it up. The length of it ran from my belt to my ankles! It was fat-bellied, probably female. It was the largest bass I have ever caught.

I rushed into the house and excitedly showed the fish to my mother. She was astounded. I asked where my wife was and was told that she was in the shower. I dashed into the bathroom, yanked back the shower curtain and held up the pond leviathan for her appreciation. After colorfully expressing her startled surprise, she described it as big and beautiful and ordered me to return it to the pond without delay. I obliged. The monster bass swam away towards the center of the pond.

My heart pumping and my spirits high, I took up the rod and again cast out into the pond. Boom! Another rod doubling hit! Another finessed battle to bring the hooked beast to shore. Another backwards walk to ease it out of the pond. Though slimmer 'round, this bass was as gargantuan as the first.

Once more, I grabbed the bass by the lower lip, freed the hook, and rushed inside to show it to my mother. She was gleefully astonished. I burst into the bathroom to find my wife in a towel. After another outburst of colorfully expressed surprise and admonition for my entrance, she too deemed the back-to-back catches once-in-a-lifetime and urged me to return the second fish to the pond. I did. It swam away vigorously.

The two largest bass I have ever caught and on back-to-back casts into a pond... Both were over 20" in length and over 10 lbs in weight. Either could have swallowed a grebe whole. I picked up the rod, hesitated, and put it away. Big Momma and Big Poppa were enough. Karma. I set about loading the car for the trip home.

Joe gonna be jelly!

 

[joevol33]

Joe gonna be jelly!

Indeed

 

[Tin Man]

Pater familius

For the past few years, I have observed Memorial Day by acknowledging those born only a few years before me who died in Vietnam. Sometimes, Memorial Day brings memories of my father. My father did not die in combat. He survived WWII along with the members of his B24 crew, though they flew some harrowing missions deep into Germany from their base in Italy.

My father returned from the war a hero, having received the Distinguished Flying Cross. His military record also shows that he was disciplined for too often failing to return his aircraft to the airfield. Having been shot to hell, he did put down his aircraft short of the airfield 4 times. Once, despite being told to ditch, he brought home his wounded bird and landed it with only the nose wheel operable (I have a photo of this. It is not digitized, so I cannot post it, here.). Often I have wondered if he did so because of the disciplinary note in his record. That would be in character.

Today, I have thought of my father often. After his active service, he stayed in the reserves until his first heart attack grounded him in 1968. He retired from the USAF as a Lieutenant Colonel. I think that the loss of his pilot's license affected him more than the end of his service in the reserves. My father loved to fly. Though buddies would take him up and let him fly the plane from the copilot's seat, it's never the same. In his final years, he stayed grounded and only went aloft as a passenger in commercial airliners when work required him to travel.

After the war, my father worked as a radio announcer before finding a calling in advertising and marketing. Though never based in NYC, he was much like the mad men of the TV show - drinking, eating, smoking, brainstorming, and bringing in a contract on a prayer and a moment of inspiration when everything was on the line.

His heart attack left his right ventricle damaged. He lived on borrowed time for nine more years. I remember seeing him off at the airport and watching him pop nitro pills just to walk the stairs. I remember walking in on him having a heart attack one night, how he almost crushed my hand throwing me back into the doorway, telling me to get out (he made me breakfast the next morning). I remember his doctors being amazed at his recovery each time he went into the hospital because his heart was enlarged and not functioning properly.

I dreamt of his death the night he died. I did not learn of his death until the afternoon of the next day. My brother reached me on the phone. I went to the Copper Cellar to inform them that I could not work that night and was met with angry exclamations (I was scheduled to be the primary cook that evening). Pressed for why I could not work my shift, I simply stated that my father had died and I had to see to his final affairs. The kitchen manager embraced me and told me to go. I would have a job when I returned.

My roommate lent me his 1970 Volkswagen station wagon. I drove it to Nashville, arriving late. My aunt, my father's sister was awake and waiting for me. We drank wine and talked into the wee hours.

I received my father's uniforms. I wore his heavy wool coat into the 1980s. I still have it, along with his "pinks & greens," ribbons on the breast. I still have his DFC. I took it out and looked at it today...

My father did not die in war, but his experiences in war affected his life and his death. I remember him, even as we all remember those who did not return, who gave their lives in combat. Peace be upon them all.

 

[malinoisvol]

B24 crewmen are Men among Men.

Great memories, Tin. Please post a pic of the DFC.

TIA

 

[Tin Man]

I'll attend to your request, mal. For now, here is a pic of one plane which failed to make it back to the airfield.

Over the target, they had lost both engines on one wing. Straggling home, the crew took turns in the copilot seat, helping my father hold the plane aloft. Over the Italian Alps, they were set upon by a group of four German fighters. After receiving fire, my father angrily pitch the nose of the wounded bomber forward in anticipation of the fighter attacking from the rear. As it passed beneath, the nose gunner, top turret, and ball turret all focused their fire. The fighter was hit, and the pilot had to bail out. The other fighters broke off the attack and circled over the descending parachute of their colleague.

Further damaged, it became apparent that the bomber would not make it to the airfield. My father ordered the crew to bail out and crash landed the plane in a field. Crew members commandeered a jeep, raced to the field, and pulled my father from the burning wreckage.

Sitting amidst the remains is the tail gunner, Edwin R. Hartman.

 

[malinoisvol]

Awesome story, Tin.

When my Grandfater was alive, every now and then, he'd entertain me with a humorous story about being in the Navy during WW2. He never mentioned any combat or blood and guts stories. Guess he thought I was a little young for those.

He was assigned to an aircraft carrier in the Pacific and, for the life of me, I can't remember which one.

 

[Tin Man]

Awesome story, Tin.

When my Grandfater was alive, every now and then, he'd entertain me with a humorous story about being in the Navy during WW2. He never mentioned any combat or blood and guts stories. Guess he thought I was a little young for those.

He was assigned to an aircraft carrier in the Pacific and, for the life of me, I can't remember which one.

If he was on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific, he had combat experiences... Unless he entered service late in the war and/or was assigned to one of the ships launched late in the war.