Testing Super Powers

There was a magic time in Branson, MO in the 70s. The town was on the dawn of becoming an entertainment mecca. In this infancy there were jobs for many young musicians and entertainers; not yet replaced by the aging refugees from Nashville.

They spent summer days and evenings playing for the tourists, and nights playing with each other.

Big R was one of these. Perhaps the best natural musician I've ever known, and one of the great personalities produced by the Ozarks, a land known for eccentrics. His advance planning skills extended only about an 8 bar jazz ride into the future. R would go on to back some of the biggest names in music, but this summer, he was playing rag time piano for a Melodrama Theater, rendering tunes in a fashion he called, “Sportin' House Piano.”

At this time, US 65 was two lane blacktop leading down from Springfield, through Branson and Hollister, and on to Harrison, Arkansas. About 3 miles south of Hollister, sitting near the highway, was a 10 story structure for the Forestry Service use of watching the National Forest for fires. Natives called it, “the Far Tar.” Such is Ozark spoken. The facility didn't appear to be manned very often.

Adolescent boys, and just-post adolescent men. often have a fixation on certain bodily functions. Such was the case with our hero. Thus, every time R and friends drove past the “Tar,” he would make some observation about how cool it would be to take a leak from the platform surrounding the little house 100 feet up. These observations were fueled by Beer Bladder.

One night, a friend responded with the Hillbilly equivalent of the Double Dog Dare. “R, You ain't got a hair on yore ass if you don't go do it raht now.”

Manhood having been questioned, the car screeched to a halt beneath the structure. It was dark, with no car or truck parked beneath, so could be presumed to be unmanned. Grabbing a can of PBR to be sure of a full “fuel tank” on arrival, R began to noisily clamber up the many flights of metal stairs to the top.

R was of a generation raised on comic book superheros. So, was engaged at times in the speculation of the wonders of personal super powers. In fact, one of his pet phrases, when he missed a note in a performance, or slid his car into a ditch, or struck out in his attempts on a girl, was, “My powers were somewhat under a cloud just then.” That cloud was often a beer mist.

As R clambered ever upward, his pit crew on the ground shouted encouragements, and began to gauge the weather so as to be up wind of any yellow rain that might soon descend.

R reached the top and climbed through the man hole onto the platform. He went straight to the railing, leaned his thighs against it, un-zipped his Wranglers, and presented Little Richard to the evening breezes.

Let's pause to examine some points of logic not considered by our hero and his minions:

Point 1: It was a ­dry, drought plagued August. A time when the threat of forest fire would be at its highest.

Point 2: Night duty in a watch tower would be on the low rung of the Forestry Service, so it was more likely that Rangers would be dropped off at a series of towers, rather than that each would have a vehicle to drive to the duty.

Point 3: In order to preserve night vision, a watcher would sit in a dark tower.

Not considering those points, R began to sigh the sigh of relief sighed by men since the days of peeing out of the mouths of caves.

From behind R, inside the dark tower cabin, came a low, growling voice. “What the hell are you doing.”

Forever after, R referred to that night as, “The time I damn near tested my power of flight.”