Tidy boyz in the 'hood

Our neighbors are very tidy guys.

For example, we know when Paul's girlfriend is coming for the weekend, because he always does a thorough cleaning.


When Michele came home from work this afternoon, she asked quietly, so as not to disturb the process, "Did you see what Mark is doing?" I told her I hadn't and asked what he was doing. She said, "He's washing his car." I'm glad he could repurpose a commercial-grade tool for home use.

The silence of the Kool-Aid stand: the Rock Fight

Of that ingenious heroine who travelled to the end of the street and ruined the Kool-Aid of David J. and his sibs, sing Heavenly Muse. Sing, O Muse, also of the one who ended the fight, the one who did not throw like a girl but like Achilles hurling the arrows of death from his silver bow.

In fifteen minutes, David J. and his minions had assembled at the south end of the dirt service road behind our houses. We ourselves gathered near the water tank. The rules were clear: get the rocks, continue the name-calling, and then start throwing. Silence reigned in the woods as both sides gathered rocks in preparation for the battle to come. After a few minutes we had our piles of rocks at the ready.

Because Bobbie had done our bidding with the dog-doo, she was allowed the honor of the first epithet.

"Fart face!"

The silence of the woods was immediately rent by the bitter, malicious names we hurled at each other.

"Poop head!"

"Booger brain!"

"Puppy breath!"

"Wait!" Beth turned to the kid. "You can't call them 'puppy breath.' Puppy breath is nice. It smells really cute, like the puppies. You've been over to see Lulu's puppies at the Jennings's, haven't you? Didn't you smell their breath? It's nice!"

"Hey, you wanna go over to the Jennings's and see the puppies? We could smell their breath! Hey, Kenny, can we go pet Lulu's puppies and smell their breath?"

"Pay attention, you guys! Get some rocks! You can see the puppies after the battle."

"Well, what can I call those creeps? They just called me 'booger brain.' What are my options for a retort?"

"Anything but 'puppy breath.' How about 'fatty' or some other term that describes what they look like?"

"Yeah! FATTY!"

"Potty mouth!"

"Snotslinger!"

"Pooter scooter!"

Someone from David J.'s side threw a piece of tuff. The battle was joined.

Throwing tuff is a lot like throwing potato chips: you can do it, but the rock lacks sufficient heft to go very far or inflict much damage. After five minutes, a cairn began to grow between the two armies. We continued to hurl tuff and insults. It was easy to dodge the rocks that did make it to our lines, because they fluttered and whiffled and piffed like dying knuckleballs. At this rate, the rock fight could go on for days and not injure a soul.

I had to take action. I left the lines and ran behind the water tank. Hiding myself behind the trees and circling through the woods, I was soon even with David J.'s line. From behind a tree I picked up a heavy piece of rhyolite, stepped out, and let it fly. It bounced off Paul's head. He started crying, and David and his minions raced toward home. We won! We marched in triumph down the road from the water tank to the street.

Someone decided that we should rub a little salt in David J.'s wounds, so we headed down the street to gloat. When we got just past the Kirkpatricks' house, we saw David and his sibs standing in the front yard. They saw us. Paul immediately fell to the grass, and Jackie began pouring water on his head. "You knocked him out!" she bellowed in her deep, guttural voice. David looked around for an avenue of escape. The fir tree! He'd climb up and hide in it. Assuming a position like the Russian letter Ж, he leaped up and grabbed a low branch. He swung for a moment and then dropped to the grass beside his brother.

It was pitiful, just pitiful. They weren't worth gloating over. They were a pack of sissies. We turned and went back up the street. Kenny said, "You wanna go see the puppies? We can smell their breath!"

The silence of the Kool-Aid stand: the Catalog of Epithets

We watched as Bobbie trotted down the street with David J.'s paper cup in hand. David and his sibs seemed to be relieved that they were getting their cup back and stepped forward to receive it with thanks. But when she got back to the punch bowl, she announced, "Your lemon Kool-Aid tastes like potty. In fact, your Kool-Aid looks like potty." And she upended the cup, which contained a large piece of fresh dog doo, into the punch bowl.

The J siblings looked in horror at the turd floating in the Kool-Aid. Paul, the youngest, began to gag. Bobbie laughed, and she was off! David and Jackie ran after her, leaving Paul to guard the punch bowl from further violation, apparently by sitting on the front steps and gasping with his head between his knees.

Jackie and David skidded to a halt as soon as Bobbie crossed the demilitarized zone. The air became blue as we hurled vitriolic epithets at each other.

"Gunky!"

"Doo-doo head!"

"Booger brain!"

"Toe jam eater!"

"I'm gonna kick you in your B-U-T!"

"Zoo breath!"

"I know you are, but what am I?"

"Piddle pants!"

"Snot!"

"Poot toot!"

"I'm rubber and you're glue! Whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you!"

The two enemy camps faced each other in front of the Kirkpatricks' house. Only the width of a sidewalk square was between us. Only the width of a sidewalk square stood between a peaceful summer day filled with the innocent laughter of children and an entire neighborhood going up in flames. "You owe us for a whole bowl of Kool-Aid!" David screamed.

"Yeah, well, come get your money then," someone on our side taunted.

"Give us the money!" Jackie roared. She had a deeper voice than David did, and she meant business.

"Come and get," we repeated. "If you want it, meet us on the service road in five minutes."

"We need more time to get more people," David explained.

"Fifteen minutes," we said.

"Fifteen minutes," David said

It was on.

The silence of the Kool-Aid stand: the Opening Salvo

There's a lot to be said for cherry Kool-Aid: everyone loves it; you can eat the powder plain at recess; it's red, my favorite color; it's refreshing in the summer; you can color your hair with it; you can buy from the neighborhood kids on a hot day and realize too late that they've sweetened it to Kid Taste, and then feel the enamel sliding right off your teeth.

When we were kids, about the only way to earn a little money was by selling Kool-Aid. We'd pester our mom ("Who's going to pay for all the supplies? Sugar isn't free, you know!") until she finally relented. We'd dump a 5-cent packet of cherry Kool-Aid into a pitcher, add a scant 3/4 cup of sugar, add water and ice, and mix. Mmmmm! Then we'd set up in front of the house with a metal can from frozen juice concentrate to drink from, and a pan of water to rinse it in when our customer was finished. (Even back then we were good stewards of resources.)

"Kool-Aid for sale! Five cents a glaa-aaa-aaassss! Three cents a half a glass!" Usually the neighborhood kids and Seferino the letter carrier would come buy from us. But one day business was down. Did I say down? I should have said nonexistent. What was the problem?

The problem, as it was so often in the neighborhood, was David J. He and his sibs were selling Kool-Aid on the same day! The little jerk was taking all our business! But why? How? What made his Kool-Aid so special? We had to find out. We needed reconnaissance.

When you need somebody to do something without question, to follow instructions exactly, to risk life, limb, and being grounded in perpetuity in pursuit of another crack-brained scheme, and to keep her mouth shut afterward, you get Bobbie.

We gave her a nickel and told her to go buy some Kool-Aid from David J. and his sister Jackie and brother Paul. She was to learn as much as she could about the operation while she slowly sipped her Kool-Aid. When she was finished, she was head back to the house.

We watched her as she completed the transaction at the end of the street. Suddenly she turned and ran, a paper cup in hand, with David, Jackie, and Paul in hot pursuit. Bobbie beat it past the Kirkpatricks' house, which marked the demilitarized zone between the south side of 48th Street, where the losers lived, and the north side, where all the cool kids lived. David and his sibs screeched to a halt.

"Give us back our cup!" they screamed.

"You want it? Come and get it," we sneered. Bobbie waved the cup to taunt them. They took a step toward us. Our friends Lynn, Kenny, Ralph, John, Susie, Doug, Mike, and Gail closed ranks around us, and we took a threatening step toward the interlopers. David and his posse high-tailed it back to their house like the pale, rabbity little cowards they were.

Bobbie reported that David was selling the new lemon-flavored Kool-Aid. He presented it in a punch bowl with a ring of ice and had a stack of paper cups. David would daintily ladle out a cup of the brand-new flavor and present it to customers with a flourish.

Son of a—

We needed a plan. We conferred for several minutes and agreed on our next step. We called Bobbie over and whispered the plan to her.

"Okay, Bobbie, here's what you do. Go back to their Kool-Aid stand with the cup. Only this time, wspppsh shssh spshwhsp whsp shhspwhsp."

"AH-hahahahaha!"

"Be quiet! And when you get there, wspppsh shssh spshwhsp whsp shhspwhsp, then wspppshshssh spsh whspwhsp shhspwhsp really fast, okay?"

"Got it." She went into the back yard with the cup for a minute, then set out toward David's Kool-Aid stand.

Our old neighbor David Jones passed away

David Jones, who lived across the street from us next to the Black Path, died recently. I used to babysit him, and he was a little scamp. Later he was on my team at LANL, and he was a little scamp then, too. Here is the article from the Los Alamos Monitor.

David Lance Jones of Pipersville, Pennsylvania, died peacefully at his residence on Sunday, November 7, 2010 following a two year battle with Melanoma. He was born October 10, 1956, in Los Alamos, N.M. where he was raised.

He is survived by two children, Mary-Carol Jones and Cody Jones, both of Denver, C.O. He is also survived by his two sisters Sandra Worth and Phyllis Mcloed and brother Clifford Craig Jones.

David, a dedicated security professional who has devoted his life towards the protection and preservation of National Security interests, most recently worked for URS Washington Division in Princeton, N.J. where he was employed as the Deputy Director of Corporate Security. Throughout his life and career, Dave had held numerous positions in security and intelligence where his talents and expertise had proven most beneficial in securing both domestic and international interests in the private and governmental sectors. Prior to joining URS, Dave had also worked with the Los Alamos National Laboratory where he was instrumental in safeguarding nuclear materials and projects of concern for a number of years. He was also an honorably discharged U.S. Veteran from the United States Army and National Guard, having served as a security specialist and as a Russian linguist and translator. He was a member in good standing of numerous professional security and intelligence societies and organizations and will truly be missed amongst the league of specialists. Dave’s devotion towards his profession was second only to his commitment as a father, however, as his true adoration was for his loving children.

He enjoyed many outdoor sports as hobbies, including hunting, fishing, and sport shooting. He also enjoyed motorcycles, cars, billiards, and reading.

Memorial services will be held at Fuller Lodge in Los Alamos, NM on Saturday, December 18th, 2010 starting at 2:00 PM with food and drinks following.

Hero pictures and visitors

"One goes, not so much to see but to tell afterward."--John Steinbeck. These images prove that we went on vacation.

Michele at the Painted Desert

P-Doobie, ditto.

Here I am at Newspaper Rock. I was tickled by the visitors who were there with us.

Our companions at Newspaper Rock were some folks from France. I wish this image included sound, because they were all making gladsome noises and talking rapidly at once.

There's a reason for the guard rails, friend. Nice socks.

Here's Michele standin' on the corner in Winslow, Arizona. She's gonna Take It Easy.

We met our friends Jean and James, who flew in from New Jersey (and boy! were their arms tired!) at the Grand Canyon. We walked part of the Rim Trail together.

Michele and I went to the eastern part of the Park and sat for a while at a viewing area we now call Michael's Point. A young mom and her son, Michael, who had a developmental disability, stopped and asked us to take their picture. Michael's heart's desire was to see Meteor Crater, and the mom wanted to know whether they could see the crater, the Painted Desert, and Petrified Forest before they caught their 8:30 flight from Phoenix that evening. I hope that Michael got to see the crater. Here I am at Michael's Point.

We went on to Grandview Point, where a group of visitors from Japan used good teamwork to take pictures and stay out of the sun.

Michele took a break from the sun in Sedona.

Michele and I enjoyed the gentle hike along Oak Creek outside Sedona with Jean and James. We were near one of the energy vortexes.

Ash Wednesday

On Ash Wednesday, the nuns would herd their catechism classes in double file--boys in one line and girls in the other, with at least a foot of space in between for the Holy Spirit--from the parish hall to the church so that we could get ashes daubed on our foreheads. "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return," Father Shuler would mutter as he made the Sign of the Cross on our foreheads with his thumb. After a few minutes of prayer and reflection--preferably an Act of Contrition but more likely "Oh, man, I am so happy I don't have to spend 40 days fasting in the desert"--we'd hit the road and go back to class.

Back at the parish hall, one of the smart-ass boys would invariably ask Sister Mary Europeandasia, "Is it true what Father Shuler said? That we are dust and to dust we shall return?" And Sister Mary Europeandasia would say that it was true. Then the smart-ass would say, "Well, there's somebody under my bed either comin' or goin'!"

To the sound of muffled but moist and explosive nose laughs, Sister would escort the offender to sit with the girls, leaving a foot of space for the Holy Spirit between the perp and the girl next to him.

Then we'd have to stand up and tell what we were giving up or doing for Lent, what we were sacrificing to make up for the other 325 days of sinfulness. "I'm giving up homework!" one of the boys would say, and, without being told, we girls would scoot down the row so the little felon and the Holy Spirit could sit with us.

The lamest sacrifices were things like "I'm going to say extra prayers for the poor souls in Purgatory" or "I'm going to study my catechism harder." How will people know when you've slipped up? Saying that you're giving up watermelon or persimmons was just asking for it. And, of course, Sister's pets would say things like, "I'm going to go to daily Mass" or "I'm going to visit the elderly neighbor with the colostomy bag every day after school."

When I was a freshman in college, my friend Kris and I did indeed go to daily Mass during Lent at the St. Paul Newman Center (that is, the Newman Center dedicated to St. Paul, not the center dedicated to the star of Hud and Cool Hand Luke, who really is a saint, if you ask me). Every day Kris would push me through the swinging doors so that I hurtled into the sanctuary and looked more eager to attend Mass than I actually was.

We kept it up, though, and didn't miss a day, and on Easter Sunday, we could feel those halos just a-shinin' on our heads.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving! I am thankful for my family and friends.

Hailstorm update

Here's the story of the hailstorm in the Monitor/Monster/Vomiter. We filed claims with our insurance agency. The line was out the door today when I went in, and the agent said that they're going to bring a catastrophe team to Los Alamos to deal with all the claims. The skylights on the back porch were smashed up pretty badly. One of the paper-wasp nests was blown down, but we're not going to submit a claim on it. Michele's vehicles are probably totaled; we'll see.

The street sweepers were out in force today sweeping up the leaves and branches from the streets.

And here's the bruise on Michele's back this morning. As you can see, the color is more intense than it was yesterday. She said that it doesn't hurt too much. The places on her shoulder and the side of her head hurt more. The knot on the back of her head is not as big as it was yesterday.

My friend Anita took this picture.

My friend Judy took this picture of her deck.

My friend TJ took this picture of a hailstone.

And here's P-doobie in today's news.

Helen Hanson passed away

Our longtime neighbor on 48th Street, Helen Hanson, passed away earlier this month. Here is the obituary from the Monitor.

Helen Virginia (Boardman) Hanson, 91, passed away peacefully on May 16, 2009, at her home at Kingston Residence Assisted Living-Memory Care in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The youngest of three children, she was born in Barron, Wisconsin on January 31, 1918, to Elisabeth “Bessie” Luella (Evans) and Raymond Coit Boardman. As a child, Helen loved school and dreamt of becoming a doctor.  After graduating from high school at the age of 16, she attended college and received her BSN and MSN from the University of Minnesota School of Nursing. She began her nursing career at Northwestern Hospital in Minneapolis.

Helen met Raymond Hanson when he moved into her boarding house and they were married on June 25, 1942. Ray went overseas shortly thereafter to serve as a photographer in the Army Air Corps during World War II. After the war, Ray returned to his position at Honeywell until he was stricken with Polio in 1948 along with daughter, Diane. With Helen’s background in nursing, they couldn’t have been in better hands.

In 1950, Helen and Ray moved their family from Minnesota to New Mexico after Ray accepted a position with the Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory (LASL) in GMX-4.  Helen, who was afraid of heights, had a harrowing trip up the main road to Los Alamos and declared that once she got up there she was NEVER coming down! Together, Helen and Ray settled into a government duplex and raised their four children. The highlight of those years was when the family spent a month each summer traveling in their 1956 GMC Carryall; camping, kayaking, fishing, horseback riding and hiking in breathtaking areas of the western United States.

Helen returned to work in 1956 as the division secretary in Cryogenics at LASL.  In 1962, the family purchased a home on six acres in Ranchitos, north of Española. After many years of commuting to Los Alamos to work, Helen returned to her first love, nursing, and worked as an OB nurse at the local Española Hospital until her retirement.

The trip of a lifetime for Helen and Ray, as well as their two youngest children John and Susan, came in 1966 when Ray accepted an 18-month long teaching position in Kanpur, India at the Indian Institute of Technology.  Their travels to and from India took them around the world.

An avid duplicate bridge player, Helen also enjoyed her volunteer work with the American Red Cross and  Planned Parenthood. She was a voracious reader who especially enjoyed murder mysteries, an accomplished knitter, a huge baseball fan, and always had a special connection with dogs. The words “feisty” and “fiercely independent” will always be attached to Helen’s memory. The influence she had on her family and friends will be long remembered.

Helen is predeceased by her husband, Raymond Hanson in 1989; her daughter Maribeth Louise Prager in 1979; her parents; her brother Howard Coit Boardman; and her sister Marian Elisabeth Marx.

She is survived by her daughter Diane Elisabeth DeMillo-Boissevain (Jan) of Boulder, Colorado; son John Scott Hanson (Carol) of Albuquerque; and daughter Susan Ann Reynolds-Trivisonno (Nick) of Charlotte, North Carolina.  Helen is also survived by her grandchildren:  Mark Prager of Waco, Texas; Theodore Reynolds of Charlotte, North Carolina; Alan DeMillo of Boulder, Colorado; Gina DeMillo-Wagner (Kris) of Erie, Colorado; Andrew DeMillo (Hilary) of Little Rock, Arkansas; Julie Martin of  Los Gatos, California; Amanda Hanson of Gulfport, Florida; and David Hanson of Albuquerque; as well as her great-granddaughter: Bronwynn Elisabeth Wagner of Erie, Colorado.

To honor Helen’s wishes, there will be no service. Her ashes will be scattered in the Jemez Caldera at the same location she cast her husband’s ashes 20 years ago. Donations may be made in her memory to the Humane Society of your choice.