Of Roofing and Pig Trucking.

(Names changed to protect the guilty.)

Hey Ray is of the conviction that there is no construction project a half dozen beer-fueled hillbillies can't handle in a day.

When the century-old farm house he lived in got to the point where a new roof was essential, his trip to pick up materials included a stop at the liquor store for a couple cases of Pabst and three bags of ice. He already had the galvanized wash tubs ready and waiting for the beer.

Hey Ray, was called this because his dad was “Big Ray” and would step on the porch and call his son, “Hey, Ray, get up here.”

He was a real mix up. A country-living hillbilly who taught High School math. He stood about six one, and weighed about 140 at the most. He was a master at what he called “Tom Sawyering,” getting his friends to do work for him. The friends involved in this roofing project should have known better. Some of them had previously been involved in what became knows as “The Great Christian County Pig Rodeo.” That was an afternoon when Hey Ray and three friends had, after sufficient Pabst, decided to load a 250 lb. Duroc Sow into the back of his pickup. The pig had no plans for a pickup ride that day. Let it be known, even 600 (combined) pounds of hillbilly are not a match for 250 pounds of Sow when there is a difference of opinion about transportation.

Back to the roof.

The project, and the top popping began about 9 a.m. on a sunny Saturday. It was a big job. Even the decking was bad, so the roof had to be stripped clear down to the rafters; then re-decked with plywood, covered with tar paper, and finally shingled.

After stripping the old off, the work began on the front-facing slope of the roof. That was finished by noon. As the crew took a Bologna and Beer break for lunch, Hey Ray stood on the front slope surveying the progress. He walked backwards up the slope to the peak of the roof. He wasn't thinking that so far ALL of the replacement work had been done to the visible front. Opinions differed as the story was later told as to whether it was Ray Hey's general inattention or some combination of sun and beer that led him to take that one more step back across the roof ridge. A step that led off into empty space between rafters.

You'll remember we described Hey Ray as tall and very skinny. He was also very lucky.

He happened to fall precisely between two rafters, and stayed lucky as his fall took him between, and not on, two ceiling joists. He hit above the kitchen ceiling, and the insulation, plaster, and lathing of the old house served to break his fall.

We need to introduce another figure in the tale here. Hey Ray was married at the time to a woman none of his friends much liked. As Ray said, “While we were gone on our honeymoon, she had ordered 40 pounds of ass and a ton of bad attitude from Montgomery Wards, and they delivered it all the day we got home.”

Wife was occupied with her usual mid-day activity. Sitting at the Formica and chrome kitchen table, eating chocolate marshmallow cookies, and reading a movie magazine.

In a huge cloud of plaster dust, insulation, broken lath, and a century's worth of attic dirt, Hey Ray landed flat on his back in the middle of that table.

Miraculously unhurt, (a piece of luck he attributed to The Blue Ribbon Angel) he stood up, brushing himself off and looking around a kitchen that looked freshly bombed. His gaze finally landed on his shocked, open-mouthed wife. “Dayum, woman,” he said, “Me and my friends are workin' our butts off to put a roof over you. Least you could do is take a dust rag to this place.”

There was a flag on the play.

And the Great God of the Turf sayeth, “Betwixt the Touch of the Passing, and the Downs of the Rushing, thou shalt split not asunder, for they are of the equal holy Six in my sight. Also wilt thou, with Gleesome Joy, welcome the Goal of the Field which arriveth in the seconds of finality.”

Even just driving through Texas, including the short strip across the Panhandle, it is obvious to the casual observer that High School Football is a religion, a celebration of Friday Sacraments.

Celebrated as a hallowed ritual of that faith is the biannual meeting of Texas high school football coaches in the city of Galveston. A priestly pilgrimage to the sand, sun, and sea. The stated reasons are to discuss rules, rule changes, new methods of training and safety, and for coaches to exchange tips and knowledge. (Though the thought that knowledge and adolescent concussions can actually be related is a bit problematic.)

Times back, in Houston, my wife (known by the Beagle Posse as, “The Morning Food Lady”) worked at a law firm with a woman whose husband was one of those coaches. Said coach referred to by said wife as, “Coachypoo.”

As was the custom in such Texas households, this wife was in charge of packing Coachypoo's bags for a Galveston meeting. Which she dutifully did.

Before his departure, Mr. Coach informs wife, “Don't try to reach me tonight. The first night we always spend fishing out on one of the Red Snapper boats.” (Our tale takes place in the days before Cell Phones.)

Upon his return home 3 days later, Wifey asked Coachypoo, “How was your meeting?”

“Fine,” he replied. “Except you forgot to pack any clean underwear for me.”

“Oh, yes, I packed it,” smiled wife. (A smile NO husband wants to see.) “It was in your tackle box.”

The Cabra Portal

If there's a door in the wall, and no one will go through it, is it still a door?

The patio beagle door got delivered and installed. Now comes the process of “training.”

When put in place, the panel was something that Tommy eyed suspiciously, then backed away from and growled at. He looked as confused as a Creationist in a planetarium. Tuppence, ever so much more brave, sniffed and walked away.

The instructions said to place yourself on the opposite side from the dog, hold the flap open, and using a treat entice the dog through. Here's the problem for a guy with a bum leg like mine. If I'm close enough to hold the flap up, I'm close enough for a dog to stick just a head and neck through. Snatch the treat, and run away from the scary hole in the wall. So, all that exercise really got me was a nipped finger or two.

I tried to reason with the Posse.

“Look, I got this so you can come and go to the back yard whenever you want, and the cold won't get in the house.”

Tommy said, “What's wrong with the automatic door opener we've been using?”

“You don't have an automatic door opener,” I said.

They both gave me a slow take that would have made Jack Benny, or Tommy Smothers, or any particular Python, proud. They were disgusted at how slow I am. You'll never feel slow until a beagle makes you feel slow.

We tried a few other maneuvers, and ways of both holding and tossing treats, and they would pass through the opening to get a treat, then run right back through it. They acted like I was opening a portal to a parallel, but very dangerous, universe. They'd zip through and right back as long as I held the flap open. No way a beagle nose, their most valuable possession, was going to touch and push a flap.

I tried reason yet again. “Look, you used the screen flap this summer, use the plastic flap now.”

“It's dangerous,” said Tommy. “If we can go out, the Chupacabra can come in.”

“What?”

“Do you WANT the Chupacabra to come in and suck all of our blood? Is this part of a plan to get rid of us.”

“First of all, a Chupacabra isn't real, it is an imaginary beast. Second, it lives in Texas and Mexico, not Indiana.”

The Posse spun and walked away from me. “If it's imaginary, how do you know where it lives?”

We've got some work to do.

I think you're unclear on the concept.

Early 1970s: the “Sexual Revolution” was all the rage. And a young generation of college students thought that they, and they alone, had invented sex.

In the theater department of a Midwestern university, a student-written play was being produced, and it included a bit of business concerning a character's earrings, which were made from IUDs.

The head of the costume department, a young, “hip” female professor said she'd get those from her gynecologist.

In the rush of mounting a production, things got forgotten, and left until the last minute. So, the afternoon before Dress Rehearsal, we find the costume prof frantically phoning her doctor's office.

The nurse answering the phone said, “I'm sorry, the doctor can't come to the phone, you'll need to leave a message.”

Costumer says, “I don't need the doctor, I'm sure you can help me. I need some IUDs.”

The nurse replies, “I'm sorry, but the doctor is busy.”

Voice rising, the costume maven pushes, “I don't need to talk to the doctor. I need someone to get me some IUDs.”

There's a pause..........”SOME IUDs? How many do you think you need?”

“Well, two, of course, one for each ear.”

“I'll get the doctor. He'll explain some things to you.”

You don't know Grits from Granola.

Early mid-morning, and the laser glares from the Beagle Posse were burning the back of my neck. I turned around from the desk and sighed, “OK, what now?”

“Breakfast,” Tuppence said.

“You had it,” I replied.

“Had what?” spoke Tommy.

“Your usual, Kibbles moistened with warm water, and lovingly served in your bowl on your food rug.”

The lasers went from red to white hot. “Yes! Again.”

“Look,” I said, “It's your food. You love it. You pester me for it, and you gobbled it up this morning as you do every day.”

Tommy began to inspect his butt while Tuppy continued the conversation. “And what did YOU have for breakfast?”

“My usual, eggs on buttered grits.”

“And what did Deborah have?”

“Her usual, yogurt with blueberries and granola.”

“And we get kibbles.”

“I think of it as your doggie granola.”

Tommy looked up from his posterior perusing, “And we've decided you don't know Grits from Granola.”

“I think the real phrase is, …......You know what, never mind that. Listen, guys, you've stolen a bowl of Deborah's yogurt and granola before, and the yogurt gave you the runs. Lactose intolerance. Remember?”

“So?”

“So? I had to clean it up, and steam clean the carpet. THAT so.”

The Posse had held still as long as possible. At this point, they went into committee with a snarling, running, ear tugging tumble down the hall and back. The caucus completed, they returned to their task. “We want yours.”

“Our food isn't good for you.”

“We don't care.”

I gave it a bit of thought, and said, “How about this? Tomorrow, when I make my grits, I'll make some for your breakfast.” They began to wag and look triumphant. “The thing is, I'll do it at MY breakfast time, which is a couple of hours later than your usual breakfast.”

Posse triumphalism turned into Posse growls. “Nooooooo. Too late.”

“Well,” I said, 6 am breakfast is kibbles. 8 am breakfast is grits.” I know the power of the beagle tummy clock. It rules.

Blank stares turned back into lasers. Then, they looked at each other, got their chipmunk hunter expressions on, and headed down the hall to the patio door ready for a rodent chase.

As they walked away, I heard Tommy say, “Well, Shineola. It was worth a try though.”

Doing less of nothing.

I have been informed that there is a Beagle Posse labor action in progress.

Tommy came in, identified himself as “the duly elected shop steward,” and informed me that an action has been voted by the union membership.

I said, “Are you on strike? I hadn't noticed.”

He said, “No, for now it is a slow down.”

“A slow down? Does that mean you are going to chase fewer squirrels and chipmunks?”

“No, that's what we do on our break.”

“Does it mean you're going to eat less?”

“No. We do that for us, not for you.”

“Then, please, what does a beagle slow down mean?”

“We will be doing less of nothing until our demands are met.”

“Less of nothing?”

“Yes. We can do a lot less of it if we have to.”

I sighed. “And what are your demands?”

Tommy barked, “The BACK DOOR.”

I began to catch on. During the Spring and Summer, we had a curtain screen up on the patio door which allowed free and random beagle access to the yard. With the coming of cooler weather, we have taken that in, and are keeping the door closed to keep the house warm. The Posse is back to having to bark or “ring bells” to get in or out. (We have a strip of harness bells hanging low by the door. The dogs know to use nose or paw to ring them for us to come let them out.)

“Winter is coming,” I said, “and it's getting too cold to leave a door open.”

“Yeah, why?” demanded Tommy.

“It's that time of year.”

“What's a year?”

“That's the length of time it takes the earth to obit the sun once.”

“What's orbit?”

'That is the circular/elliptical path one celestial body travels around another. In this case, the earth orbits the sun.”
“What's the sun?”

Sheesh. “It is the nearest star. The center of our solar system. It is a natural helium-hydrogen fusion reactor that provides all of our light and warmth.”

“What's helium?”

I was losing patience. “You don't know ANY science, do you?”

Tommy said, “We watch every science show on Fox.”

“Right. You don't know any science.”

“We have noticed,” said Tommy, “it is getting colder out in our playground-slash-bathroom. Who is responsible for that?”

“I just told you. It's the natural progression of the year.”

Tuppence finally chimed in, “Ah, so it's Obama's fault. We'll need to hold hearings.”

I nearly lost it. “It's no one's fault. IT HAPPENS EVERY YEAR.”

“Umhmmm,” said Tuppy. “Every year since the Mooslum Soshlust has been in.”

“EVERY YEAR SINCE TIME BEGAN,” I yelled.

“Who knew how long that Kenyan's one-world tentacles were?” said Tommy. “We'll be in the hearing room. You may expect a subpoena.”

“Fox?” I sighed.

Tommy went back to the labor action. “We will continue to do less of nothing, in fact less and less of it, until you make the temperature right out there, and open our door.”

“Tommy, I don't have that power. It will warm up in the Spring.”

“Then we'll be doing less nothing until then. You just watch.”

“And, when it warms up, and the door opens?” I asked. (Not positive I wanted an answer.)

“Then, “ said Tuppence, “We'll go back to doing more of nothing again.”

“When you're striking, you do less of nothing, and when you're working you do more of nothing, is that how it works?” I asked. “Aren't Less of Nothing and More of Nothing pretty much exactly alike?”

The Posse strode off to a nap. Tuppy saying, “Management never gets it.”

The Last Smith on the Huey.

(This story is true, just not the names.)

Frank and Jesse were young CPAs starting their careers. They were drafted during the Vietnam war, and they were not happy soldiers. Sure, they could have been officers. All they had to do was give the Army two MORE years of their lives. They hated the two years they were in for, it doesn't take an accountant to do the math on giving two more. They both thought, “Just get it done with.”

They came together working in the USARV Replacement Office in Long Binh, Vietnam, and they very soon began inventive subversion.

The way Replacement (requisitioning and assigning new troops in the war) worked in those days was that major units would send their projected Force Requirements to USARV (US Army in Vietnam), and USARV would put it all together to send on to the DoD in Washington. Stateside orders would be cut, and troops loaded onto airplanes bound for SE Asia. These requisitions for people, not too different from requisitions for toilet paper, would be by Rank and MOS. An MOS is a “Military Occupational Specialty”--what you are trained to do in the Army. They run a gamut. They are coded by numbers and letters. For instance, an 11B20, spoken as “Eleven Bravo”, is a low ranking infantryman. The “2” goes up to 3 and 4 as rank increases. The “0” is a place holder for special designations. For instance, an 11B2P is a paratrooper, and an 11B2L speaks a second language. Other examples would be “71B20” Clerk Typist; or “94B20” Combat photographer.

As those planes full of new troops left the US, a lengthy “Green Bar” computer print out, just like corporations used in those days, would be sent via teletype to USARV. It would list, by name. Rank. and MOS, all inbound personnel, and would arrive about 20 hours before the plane. At the time of this tale, about 10,000 new troops a day were arriving in Vietnam. The list would be sorted by MOS. Who is not really important to an Army. “What” is.

Clerks like Frank and Jesse would count and circle blocks of names to be assigned to Major Subordinate Commands, like Divisions and Brigades. These commands had similar operations that assigned on down to the battalion and company levels. By the time a replacement landed in Vietnam, his in-country destination was already decided.

One day during Monsoon season, Jesse looked at Frank and asked, “What's the smallest command we assign to?”

Frank said, “Some independent Brigade somewhere.”

“No,” said Jesse, “SMALL.”

Frank said, “We don't assign small.” But they both got looking.

They discovered that there was a courier helicopter company in Saigon that served MACV, USARV, and the Embassy, and was subordinate to no command other than USARV. It was a company, about 200 men, that got direct assignments from Frank and Jesse's office. The game was afoot.

Jesse said, “We've got 10,000 men a day to choose from, and up to 3 days to fill a slot. What if the 334^th Helicopter Company only gets men named Smith?”

“Smith?” said Frank.

“Smith,” replied Jesse.

So they began. Smith, after Smith, after Smith.

Theoretically, a tour in Vietnam was 1 year. But men often left earlier due to injury, illness, hardships at home, educational drops, in-country transfers, and more. So, in less than 6 months, more than 75% to 80% of a unit might turn over. And our subversive clerks had been at this for more than 6 months. The Army works on alphabetized lists of names. Duty Rosters; Morning Reports; Leave Schedules and Authorizations; Sick Call lists; DROS (Date of Return from Overseas) lists; and more. These must have been getting interesting at the 334^th.

The door of the large, cube-filled office where the replacement clerks worked slammed open. A Full Bird Colonel stepped in and shouted, “Ten-HUT.” This was scary. The lowest ranking man in a group steps through a door first and calls the room to attention. And this was a Colonel.

Behind him a Two Star General stomped in, looking every bit the part. He growls out, “Which of you Sumbitches assigns to the 334^th Helicopter Company?”

Frank and Jesse timidly raised their hands. The general combat-strides over to them and says, “Smith. Smith. Smith? Fuckin' SMITH! Do you think that's funny?”

The first rule of military survival is, Deny. Frank and Jesse did, saying something like, “Huh?”

The general is at full bellow. “Every damn man going to the 334^th is a Smith, are you Peckerwoods gonna tell me that's an accident?”

“Yessir,” bleats Frank.

“Yes, Sir, WHAT?”

“Yes, Sir. It must be a coincidence. We have no idea how........”

The next Star Filled Explosion cut them off. The general continued to yell. They continued to deny. Finally, out of steam, the general said, “Accident or not, if one more, just one more, swingin' richard named Smith shows up at the 334^th, the two of you will be sent so far North, you'll be looking South to the DMZ.” And he spun and stormed out, followed by his brass-festooned minions.

The room was silent and filled with quaking soldiers, including Frank. But not Jesse. He was looking down pensively at a green bar printout.

After about 20 seconds of silence, he looked up at Frank and asked, “Brown?”

Their one-year tours ended before THAT explosion.