My Worst Job.....EVER!

I've had some pretty awesome jobs in my life time....and some not so pretty awesome jobs. The worst was, by far, the job right after my first year of college.

I was fortunate to get a pretty good paying job working for Wasco County on their weed abatement team. This was actually the second year I had worked for them. 

The first year had gone great. I rode a 4 wheeler around all summer long looking for weeds in the fields.  Not too difficult, and it was a blast changing from one field to another. When we finished a field it was an all-out race to the next field. All eight of us riding with throttles wide open down the dirt roads that connected the fields.

So, my expectations coming back the next year were pretty high, and for a few weeks I did get to ride the 4 wheelers. Then came an offer I couldn't refuse.

"Dave, we've got a new project that we need to get started on. We're hiring another crew to work in the Gorge eliminating wild-growing fruit trees that attract fruit flies. We want you to be crew boss" my boss says.

This sounded like a pretty good gig on the surface. New job, pay raise, and at 18 years old, I was a crew boss for the county. I was proud that as an 18-year-old, they were choosing me over some of the older crew to be crew boss. In hindsight, I was probably the only one dumb enough to take the position.

The next week, we assembled a new crew and I was anxious to learn what it was that I was going to be doing the next couple of months. I had been reading up on the prime culprit that we would be trying to eradicate. 

Warning bells should have sounded when I learned the name of the tree. It was called a Hawthorne tree. You might notice that the name of the tree contains the word "thorn' in it. Don't let the cute "e" at the end of the word fool you. It should have been called, "Did-you-see-the-two-inch-thorns-on-the-branches-of-that-tree?" or "You-can't-pay-me-enough-to--cut-down-that-tree".

My first encounter with Mr. Hawthorne tree was almost my last. 

I grew up around chain saws. My dad was a logger when I was young, and I learned from him and my uncles basic chain saw safety. But they never had to cut down a tree that was bent on destroying anyone dumb enough to venture within ten feet of it.

The first day was chainsaw safety day. Since I had the most experience operating a chain saw, it fell upon me to do the training.

All morning long we instructed the new crew on safety. That afternoon we went out into the field to do some actual cutting. 

When we piled out of the crew cab, I got my first actually sighting of Mr. Hawthorne. From a distance, it looked pretty harmless. But as we got closer, I began to notice the thorns. And what thorns they were. On average they were about two inches, but there were some thorns that were a good four inches long. And these were true thorns. They were stiff and brittle and incredibly sharp. 

I couldn't help but feel some foreboding about my new job.

But I had a job to do, so I strode confidently towards the Hawthorne tree.

"As you can see, these trees aren't very large" I explained to my new crew. "This will work to our advantage because they will be easier to manage."

Firing up the chain saw, I cut off some of the lower limbs off the tree.

"You'll want to cut away any of the limbs that might catch your saw blade. Give yourself some room to maneuver around the base of the tree" I said with some authority.

I then began to cut at the base of the tree to show my crew how to drop a tree in the direction you choose.

I made a "face cut" with ease and walked around to the back of the tree for the "back cut". I hadn't been as particular about clearing some of the lower limbs on the back side of the tree. One teenie-weenie limb hung harmlessly down on my back. I hardly even noticed that it was there. 

Now, the thorns on a Hawthorne tree are stiff and brittle, but the branches are more like a willow tree limb. Long, thin, and springy. And strong. This will become very important to the rest of the story.

Cutting through the tree proved to be easy. I worked my back cut to the point of almost falling over and I shut off my saw.

"I've got my face cut and back cut almost meeting" I said to my crew. "Only a few more inches and the tree will topple over. At this point you need to be very careful and make sure you can safely get away from the tree before it falls on you."

My demonstration was going extremely well and I was proud of my clean cuts.

I strode again to the backside of the tree to finish the job. It only took a few seconds until the tree began to slowly tip away from me. Pulling the chainsaw free of the falling tree, I turned to make my way clear of the danger zone.

It took me only a step or two to realize that something was wrong. The teenie-weenie branch that had been lying across my back had attached it's thorns through my shirt. In panic I tugged at the branch. Hundreds of thorns dug into my back. Ignoring the pain, I tugged harder trying to break the teenie-weenie branch. The teenie-weenie branch did not break. The thorns dug deeper. The tree began to fall faster. I turned away from the tree with the intent of jumping out of the way even if the thorns shredded my shirt and puntured my skin.

Taking a step, I suddenly found myself being pulled backwards, and then to my dismay, I found myself airborne with a live chainsaw in my hands. Keeping the chainsaw out and away from my body was priority one. 

Crashing to the ground, I tossed the chainsaw off to the side. And then came the pain. Hundreds of thorns sunk into my skin as I fell onto the limbs of the tree. Some sinking a good half inch into my skin.

Alarmed, my new crew came running up to help me. One of the older crew members shut off the chainsaw that was still running. Others gingerly waded into the limbs of the Hawthorne with the intent of saving me. 

The sounds that the crew made trying to rescue me told me that they, too, found the thorns unbearable.

It took several minutes to get me untangled from Mr. Hawthorne tree. When I did get free, it looked like I had gone through a hamburger grinder. Blood covered my shirt, arms, and legs.

Half of my new crew quit that day. They were the smart ones. They are all probably doctors and lawyers by now.

I bet you're wondering why I chose a photo of a blackberry bush at the top of the page. There is one more tidbit of information about Mr. Hawthorne tree.

You see, he loves to live in dense brush. And for some reason, Mr. Hawthorne loves the company of Mr. Blackberry and Mrs. Poison Oak the best.

 Yep. Worst job....EVER!

Another Reason I Hate Yoga

Being the oldest of six kids has both benefits and pitfalls. I was fortunate enough to be able to do things that the younger kids couldn't do, but I also got into more trouble than they did. Some of which, I repeat SOME of which was actually my fault.

We had a rule at my house for early morning cartoons. The first one up got to watch the cartoons that he or she wanted. Not a problem if my brother, Gary, or I was the first one up. We generally liked the same cartoons. The real problem came when my sister, Jeanne, beat us to the TV.

I have often speculated that my internal clock was developed during these years. I'm pretty accurate, plus or minus 15 minutes, of what time it is at any given hour.  I could look at the sun while I was out playing in the woods behind our house and determine that "Hogan's Heroes" was about to start. Or, I could pop out of bed at 5:30 AM on the nose beating my sister and brother to the television early Saturday morning. With eerie accuracy, I can still wake up 5 minutes before my alarm clock goes off.

Gary learned fairly quickly that I had a gift for waking up right on time to watch the morning cartoons. Keep in mind, this was long before cable TV. Stations would sign off for the night, then sign on bright and early in the morning. Cartoons were a "Saturday only" affair back then, so getting up in time to watch an entire morning of children's programming was a serious business.

Gary devised a whole series of gadgets to wake him up whenever I got up.

The most memorable was the "Two by four" alarm. We slept on bunk beds as kids. I was always on the top bunk, and as you can imagine, there was a large bulge in the mattress when I laid down. Gary's design was simple and ingenious -- with a couple of exceptions. 

Taking a discarded length of 2 x 4 board, Gary propped one end of the board on his stomach and the other end on the bugle I created in the mattress. The idea being that when I got up to watch cartoons, the bulge would disappear and the board would fall and wake Gary up.

Now, I have a habit of not just rolling over when I turn at night. This habit developed as a safety mechanism from falling off the top bunk more than once. In order to stay in the middle of the bed, I will bounce and turn in one spot so as not to roll too close to the edges of the bed. You can see where this is going.

During the night, I shifted to a more comfortable position using my "special" turning technique, and heard a loud, "Ooooooof" followed by a loud "SMACK". Peeking down at my brother, I could see him panting like a fish out of water, obviously out of breathe. He was also sporting a bloody nose.

"What's wrong" I ask. I couldn't help but wonder what Gary was doing with a 2 x 4 in his bed.

Gary took a long time before he could answer.

"Nothing" he croaked, still out of breathe.

"What's with the board?" I ask.

"Monsters" was his reply. Of course! Why else would a person sleep with a 2 x 4? He had obviously been attacked and had successfully defended himself with the board.

So -- what does this have to do with Yoga?

Somehow, my sister Jeanne also developed this internal clock. Jeanne wouldn't wake up just in time for the station to come back on the air like I did -- she would wake up an hour before and stare at the station identification signal until programming resumed for the day. 

And when Jeanne got to choose what shows she wanted, she NEVER EVER WATCHED CARTOONS. Instead she watched a show on PBS entitled "Lily Yoga". Gary and I would sit in agony as Lily Yoga went from pose to pose accompanied by a tinkling bell.

*Ping*...."Now gracefully transition to 'downward facing dog' like a swan gliding on a pond filled with lily pads and warm sunlight."

This horror would go on for two hours...TWO HOURS (one hour a new episode, one hour a rerun)...of prime cartoon watching. When Lily Yoga's tinkling bell tinkled for the last time, Jeanne would jump up and go grab a bowl of cereal, relinquishing the TV controls back to us.

With the speed of light we would change the channel to catch the credits to "The Bugs Bunny, Roadrunner Hour."

Years later, I would find myself in a required Yoga class for my Theater degree. 

*Ping*  "Welcome gentle people. We will now gracefully transition to 'downward facing dog' like a swan gliding....."

The Tenderfoot

In hindsight, maybe frightening the bejabbers out of the largest scout in the troop might not have been the smartest thing I've done....but I couldn't help myself. 

The problems was that he was a bully to us younger scouts - stealing our food, popping our tents in the middle of the night, sending our underwear up the flag pole, shaking the outhouse while we were inside.

Now I don't want to sound like a baby, because those things when done in the right spirit are downright funny, but "Fred" didn't do these things in the spirit of fun. He just wanted to terrorize us and try to make some of the younger scouts cry.

When he stole "Kenny's" sleeping bag and dropped it into one of the outhouse holes -- well, that was going too far. But what could three 12-year-old scouts do to get back at a 6'0 tall muscular 16-year-old?

"Why don't you tell on Fred?" one of the scouts asked Kenny.

"No, way!" said Kenny. "Don't you remember what he did to Larry when Larry told on him? Whenever there wasn't an adult around, Fred would punch Larry and call him a baby. That's why Larry stopped coming to scouts."

I knew what Kenny said was true, but I have never liked bullies. I vowed to get even with Fred. Even if it meant getting beat up.

We were at a week-long scout camp located on the Oregon coast. The camp was beautiful situated right next to the Pacific Ocean. A small lake was just a stone's throw from our campsite. Because of the ample rainfall, everything was lush and green. The berry bushes and undergrowth beneath the old-growth forest grew several feet over our heads.

This was perfect for a game called "Sentry".

The rules of "Sentry" are pretty simple. In fact, they are a whole lot like "Hide and go seek" except with a manlier sounding name. And we always played it at night.

A base was chosen for the "Sentry" to protect. We would all scatter and hide while the "Sentry" came and looked for us using a large high-powered flashlight. If he caught us and identified us by name, then we were out. When one of us made it back to the base without being caught, we would get a point. The one with the most points at the end of the night won.

We were having fun until Kenny sidled up to me holding his ribs.

"Fred just punched me in the ribs" said Kenny holding back the tears. I could tell that he had had the wind knocked out of him. He was taking in large gasps of air.

"Yeah" said Leroy. "He chucked a rock at me and caught me right in the head." 

The lump he showed us looked swollen and tender.

Sure enough, when I looked over at Fred, he had an evil smile on his face confirming what Kenny and Leroy said was true. He drew his finger across his neck and pointed at me. I knew I was next.

"Let's stick together" said Leroy. "Safety in numbers."

As we went to hide, we realized that Fred was following us. We picked up the pace and tried to find a good hiding place, but all the good places had already been scouted. We needed someplace that Fred would never think to look.

As we walked along the trail, we realized that Fred was closer than we thought. We found a large tree and stepped behind it. It wasn't a great hiding place because it was right next to the trail, but it was the best we could do with Fred so close. 

As Fred got closer, we edged around the tree to stay out of his flashlight beam. 

Suddenly, Leroy disappeared with a yelp! One moment he was standing there next to me, the next minute he had vanished into thin air!

Fred must have heard the yelp because the flashlight beam froze on our tree.

Fearing Fred would find us. Me and Kenny stood perfectly still.

"Pssssst!" came a hiss right beside my right foot.

To say I jumped is putting it mildly. I almost started to yell when I heard a "shhhhhhh!"

"It's me!" said Leroy somewhere right below us. "I've found a hiding place!"

Kneeling down, I felt around where Leroy's voice was. There was a large hole in the ground that went under the tree we were standing next to. It was the perfect hiding place for three scared scouts.

As quickly and as quietly as we could, me and Kenny slid into the hole. Wild ferns hid the hole from view.

"I know you're there you little punks. You might as well come out and get what's coming to you" said Fred.

As he got closer, we realized that there was a small hole that looked out onto the trail above us. The hole was just big enough to fit a hand through, but not large enough to expose us.

The hiding place was excellent! Fred wandered back and forth trying to find us. We could hear him cursing as he realized that we had given him the slip.

"It's only going to be worse if you don't give yourselves up. I swear I will make you hurt!" Fred said.

All the time, I kept getting angrier and angrier.  

We waited in silence until Fred came walking by again. We could tell by the light of his flashlight that he was getting closer. He stopped in front of the tree. I could see his shoe through the hole.

I quickly made up my mind.

Without making a sound, I reached through the hole and grabbed his foot. With all my strength, I began to pull it into the hole.

The surprise was complete. Fred tripped and fell giving me more leverage to pull his foot partially through the hole.

"Ahhhhhh! Help, help!" yelled Fred at the top of his voice. Fred began to kick his foot to get it loose. One of the kicks caught me right on the cheekbone, but I held on for dear life. My fellow scouts realized what I had done and grabbed his foot to help drag it in, but with a mighty kick fueled by fear, Fred got away still screaming at the top of his lungs as he ran back to camp.

We waited several minutes before returning to camp. All of the leaders and most of the older scouts had heard the commotion and were now listening to Fred.

"...it must have been a bear because it grabbed me and started pulling me into it's lair" Fred was saying.

Nobody paid any attention to us that evening. But once in a while, uncontrollable laugh would issue from our tent. For several hours the leaders and older scouts hunted through the bushes with flashlights looking for the "bear". If only they knew that the bear had the giggles, they might have found it.

Fred continued to try to terrorize us for several months, but suddenly we were no longer afraid of him. Whenever he tried to pull something on us, we would look at each other and start to laugh as we remembered the night Fred got mauled by the bear.

Genetics

"Does Dave answer his texts or phone messages?" This question is asked by my sister-in-law, Pam,  to my wife Julie.

"Oh, no." Julies answers emphatically. "He NEVER EVER answers his phone."

"Neither does Gary" says Pam.


Both of then shrug their shoulders and shake their heads like my brother and I are the strangest creatures on earth.


"How do you get Dave to get chores done? Do you make a list? Gary just ignores the list." asks my sister-in-law.


"We have a porch light that has been out for six months. Dave is the only one tall enough to reach it, but it's still out." says Julie. 


"When Willis retired a couple months ago" interjects my mom "I thought of all the projects we could get done, but all he does is go fishing."


Now, you might think that this conversation, which actually took place right in front of Gary, my dad and I made me uncomfortable and embarrassed. 


Nothing can be further from the truth.


"See?" I say to my wife triumphantly. "It's not just me, it's hereditary!"

Julie and I were the last of the family to move out of Oregon. My parents and most of my siblings live in Utah where we have recently moved. So for all these years, Julie thought that I was doing everything on purpose. Now that we're constantly around family, she can see that I have quirky habits because of genetics. It's not my fault.


"I bet Dave and Gary can't name all of Becky's (my sister on the east coast) kids" says my youngest sister Jaimie.


"I bet I can't either" says Gary.


"How many kids does Becky have?" I ask.


"Is it all girls, or do they have a boy?" asks Gary.

"That's why you get married, so you don't have to remember stuff" says Stewart.

Genetics.


Of course, Julie knows the names of all of my sister's kids.


Sitting on the couch, I have removed my wedding band and I am tossing it up in the air and catching it. My goal is to barely ping it off the ceiling. Gary is laying on the floor throwing a rubber duck up in the air. His kids are trying to take the duck away. My dad is throwing a Lego block between the rotating ceiling fan blades. Stewart (my brother) is not throwing anything in the air. It's his house we're all at.

"I got banned from throwing stuff" he says sadly as he watches us. "I knocked a couple of things down."


Genetics.


"Julie actually quizzes me about our conversations when we're traveling" I say.


"Well, you never talk, so I don't know if you're listening" says Julie.


"Gary just nods. Our car rides would be silent unless I say something" says my sister-in-law.


"I know" says Julie. "We can travel all the way to Hood River and Dave won't say ten words."


"Willis will be silent for hours, then out of the blue 'look at that rock formation'" says my mom. "Of all the things to talk about as we travel and Willis talks about rocks."


Gary, Stewart and I all perk up.


"What kind of rock formation was it dad?" asks Gary.


Genetics.

Honey and Crackers

"Would you like a little pepper on your eggs?" my grandpa asks holding the pepper shaker above my plate.

Instinctively I jerk my plate away --- but not because I hate pepper. I happen to love pepper. I especially love pepper on my eggs.

So what would cause me to pull my plate away? Wasn't my grandpa just being nice and helpful? Wasn't the man that took me mushroom hunting and salmon fishing just looking out my best interest? He who taught me several new chords on the guitar -- just striving to increase my enjoyment of the breakfast he had prepared with his own hands?

His face is sincere and inscrutable. Why would grandpa peppering my eggs twig my survival radar? 

Ahhhh...there it was. It was grandpa's "tell". The one way I could always know things weren't as they seemed and it was time to proceed cautiously even with the most innocuous of requests. 

Grandpa had that twinkle in his eye that he was never able to hide once I knew what to look for. The "twinkle" was his "tell".

"Sure grandpa" I say " I would like some pepper".

I held out my plate as he leaned over with the pepper, but before he can turn the pepper shaker over, I snatch the shaker out of his hand. In the process the lid of the pepper shaker falls off onto the floor, along with a healthy dusting of pepper. Had I let grandpa pepper my eggs, I would have had a little eggs to go with my mound of pepper that morning. 


The funny thing about grandpa was that he actually got a kick out of being caught in the act. His laughter would ring out just as loud when he was caught pulling tricks on us as when he successfully pulled a trick on us.


Grandpa's tricks were oftentimes subtle.


"Do you want some honey and crackers?" he asked me and my cousin, Jeff. Grandpa held up a box of saltines and a large honey jar. He was standing at the porch rail and Jeff and I were playing in the yard.


"Sure!" we both replied and ran over to the rail where grandpa handed us both a cracker.


"Hold your cracker up and I'll pour some honey on it" grandpa said. 


We both held up our crackers above our heads. Grandpa was still on the porch and us on the ground, so we had to reach high so that he could pour the honey on our crackers.


Since I was the tallest, grandpa poured honey on my cracker first. He "accidently" got a little too much on my cracker and it spilled over the cracker and onto my hands. Thinking nothing of it, I ate the cracker and then licked the honey off my hands. Jeff, too, had a little honey trickling down his hand.


"Ready for another?" grandpa asks.


"Yes!" we both reply.


Again we hold up our crackers. This time more honey seemed to run off our crackers. By the time I was done with my cracker, I had to lick honey off my fore arms. Jeff was even worse. Honey had dripped down the front of his shirt.


Grandpa didn't even ask if we wanted another. Instead of one cracker, we both were handed two.


"Hold up your crackers" he said.


We both held our crackers high.


As grandpa leaned over to pour the honey, he lets out groan.


"Oooooh!" he said "my back hurts. You'll have to hold your crackers higher so I don't have to bend over so much."


Dutifully we hold our crackers high above our heads and grandpa pours the honey. With two crackers came more honey. 


"Hold still" grandpa says "just a little more".


When he's done, Jeff and I have honey all over our hands, in our hair, down our shirts, and in our arms pits. Remarkably, very little honey is on the crackers.


Years later, Jeff and I would concoct our revenge. 


Grandpa kept his chewing tobacco in the refrigerator. Curious, we took off the lid of one of his cans of "snoose" to see what it looked like. 


"It kind of looks like damp dirt" said Jeff.


"It does" I say.


We both got the same idea at the same time.


Running out the the garden, we empty the tobacco contents out onto the ground then replace it with dirt. Mixing water with the dirt to make the same consistency of the tobacco took us several tries, but we were persistent. We replaced the lid and left the can in the fridge right where we had found it.


All day long we waited near the kitchen. We knew that grandpa liked to have a "chew" after a meal, so we waited anticipating dinner time.


Normally after we finished a meal, we would run outside and climb the walnut tree. Not today.


Sitting in his easy chair, grandpa reached into his pocket and brought out his can of tobacco. Jeff and I could hardly contain our laughter.


Taking a large "pinch" he tucked the wad of "tobacco" in his lip.


After a second or two, grandpa made a terrible face and began spitting into his spittoon. Jeff and I couldn't contain ourselves. We were laughing so hard that tears streamed from our eyes. 


"I think I've been had" said grandpa. This sent us into more laughter because grandpa's teeth were black from the dirt.


That afternoon, grandpa took us both out to cut firewood. Looking across the meadow, grandpa suddenly puts his finger to his lips and points to a clump of trees.


"Do you see that bear?" he whispers.


"No" I say "where is it?"


"I can't see the bear either, grandpa" says Jeff.


"It's right over there. Hang on, I'll get my binoculars" says grandpa.


Returning from the truck, grandpa hands me the binoculars first.


"It's right there, just left of that large tree" he says.


I look through the binoculars just left of the large tree....and see a black stump.


"It's not a bear, grandpa" I say "It's just a stump".


"Let me see!" says Jeff.


He, too, looks through the binoculars and confirms that it is just a stump.


Looking over at Jeff, he has two large black rings around his eyes. He looks like a raccoon. How did that happen?


Jeff has been looking oddly at me, too.


"David, you've got black all around your eyes" he says.


We both look over at grandpa.


Yep. There it was. His "tell". Grandpa had gotten us again.

"The Hay Field"

For those of you who haven't worked in the hay fields, the process is fairly simple. 

The "swather" cuts the hay and lays the cut hay into windrows. Hay will mold and mildew if you bale it too wet, so the hay is left out to dry in the sun. A "hay rake" is used to turn the windrows over for uniform drying. After the hay dries, the "baler" takes the loose hay in the windrows and compacts it into bales wrapped with baling twine or wire. A "hay wagon" then comes and picks up the bales and automatically stacks the bales on the wagon bed. When the wagon is full, you simply back the wagon up to where you want a stack and it will deposit a fully formed stack without a single human hand touching a single bale of hay.


......or so I've heard.


I have worked in hay fields since the time I was twelve years old. But I worked for farmers who thought it was beneath them to use the "new fangled" hay equipment. If you wanted to move hay from the field to the barn, you put on your "big-boy" pants and none of that sissy complaining about blisters, sunstroke, or not being able to move your hands because they were permanently locked into claw-shape from gripping the hay hooks or the baling twine.


No-sirree. Each and every bale was moved at least twice by hand.....if you were lucky.


The truck we loaded the hay on was an all-purpose truck that also functioned as a wheat truck. Because wheat is extremely heavy, these trucks had a great deal of suspension so that the bed of the trucks were about four feet high to begin with. Not so much a problem when loading the bottom two layers. Progressively more difficult when adding additional layers.


Three people are needed to hand-load a hay truck. The driver, a guy on the ground who walks along the truck and throws the bales onto the bed of the truck, and the stacker who stays on the truck bed and stacks the bales as they are thrown up to him.


Oh, I forgot. A three man crew was also for sissy's. I only dreamed of this so-called three man crew. Nope. I was all three - driver, thrower, stacker.


"How does that work?" you ask.

Well, let me tell you about my first day on the job.

"You ready for this?" asked Jim.

Jim was a friend of the family and was the one that offered me the job. 

"Sure thing" I say, confident that I was up to the task. Idiot.

"Well, I'm going to be cutting hay in another field, so you're going to be on your own" he says.

"Huh?" I ask.

"Don't worry. It's a pretty simple process. Just drive the truck over to that field over there..."

"I'm twelve" I say.

Apparently he didn't hear me.

"...just drive up to each of the bales, jump out and grab the bale and throw it up on the truck bed..."

"I've never drove a stick shift...." I begin.

"...then jump up on the bed and stack the bales so they won't fall off..."

"What's that second brake for...." I ask looking at the clutch.

"....stack the bales about five high with a tie-off bale on top...."

"A tie-off bale?" 


"Any questions?" he asks as he's walking toward the tractor.


"Yes! What if...."


"Good, then get to it" he says and drives off.


Now what?


The 200 yard drive to the hay field took me a good fifteen minutes. The clutch was really touchy, and I found myself killing the engine over and over.


Driving up to the first bail, I was overjoyed to have made the harrowing trip safely.


Jumping out, I reach down for the bale to lift it onto the truck. I weighed 150 lbs. the bale weighed 90 lbs. I can lift the bale to about my waist, but any attempt to get it higher is beyond me. I lift one end of the bale and set it against the truck, then lift the other end and wrestle it the rest of the way onto the truck. I then climb onto the back of the truck so that I can arrange the bale on the bed. One bale = five minutes.


Bale after bale I follow the same routine until the entire bottom of the truck bed is full. I now have a large dilemma. How do I get the second row onto the truck? It's way too high for me to do it the way I was.


I then learned the "bale-bucker" secret. The right knee. 

Resting the bale on my right thigh, I hoist with my arms and then "knee" the bale upwards. It worked like a charm! The added momentum enabled me to get the bale onto the truck bed!


Happily I jump onto the back of the truck and begin my second row.


I drive from bale to bale, jumping out, throwing the bale onto the truck, jumping onto the back of the truck, stacking the bale, jumping down, getting into the cab, and repeat. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.


After about 45 minutes, I felt like I was getting the hang of it. The clutch was getting easier and easier to use as the weight of the truck increased. Looking ahead, I saw that the rest of the field was located on a hillside. I'm dumb enough to think I could handle it.


Two lessons about driving an almost full hay truck up a hill.


One: the clutch has been lulling you into a sense of well-being. It is not your friend. It secretly hates you and is just waiting....waiting. It was been waiting all day to spring it's trap on the hillside.


Two: always BACK the truck up the hill so that the bales have the cab of the truck to rest against on an incline.

I spent another hour re-stacking the entire load that had fallen off the truck when I accidentally "popped" the clutch going up hill. 


As the days and weeks went by, I began to get better and better, and my confidence grew more and more -- to the point of vanity.  I could single-handedly load a truck and down stack it almost as fast as some of the adults. The muscles in my arms grew.


"You know, Dave" says Jim "you can speed up the process."


"How so?" I ask.


"Instead of driving from bale to bale, you can just leave the truck in low gear and let it idle along. It will follow the tractor tracks and you can just walk beside it and throw the bales on as you pass by them. There's no need to jump in and out of the cab" he explains.


What a great idea! Why didn't I think of that?

On the very next field, I did just that. Dropping the truck into low gear I opened the door and jumped out. What Jim failed to tell me was that when you do this, you don't shut the door completely. You close it just enough so that it doesn't latch. That will become important to the story shortly.

The other critical thing that Jim didn't tell me was that there was an adjustable idle knob on those older trucks. That too will become important to the story. 


Jumping out, I closed the door shut. When the truck is in low gear as you drive it, it seems deceptively slow. But when you're actually walking beside it, it is a pretty brisk walk to keep up. Had Jim remembered, he could have told me to adjust the idle down so that the truck crept along giving me plenty of time to keep up.


The first couple of bales seemed to work fine. I could grab one on the way and throw it up onto the truck. After several were loaded, I would then jump up and hastily arrange them, then jump down and grab several more.


But then the stack on the truck grew and it became increasingly difficult to hoist the bales onto the second and third level. I sometimes had to try several times to get a bale onto the truck. Pretty soon, I was getting winded. I was now running to keep up with the truck, and I was getting tired.


I decided to stop the truck and take a break. Then I could finish loading the rest of the truck my usual way.


Grabbing for a bale, I accidentally grabbed only one of the sets of wires. This caused the bale to "banana" on me. The bale now had a large bow in it and it could break if not fixed. It only took a moment to lay the bale on its' side and then I knelt on the "bow" to force it back into shape. Looking up, I could see that the truck was further along than I anticipated. 


Ditching the bale, I sprinted for the cab. It took a great deal of effort to reach the cab, and I was breathing hard and seeing stars from the effort.


I reached to door and grabbed the handle. It was then that I realized that I had inadvertently locked the door on the way out. And we were nearing the end of the field. My only hope was to run around to the other side of the truck and hope that the passenger side door was unlocked.


I slowed and let the truck pass then sprinted up to the passenger door. It was unlocked! But also stuck! It took two or three frantic tugs to get it open, all the while the fence line was getting closer and closer.


Yanking the door open, I dove across the seat to the drivers' side and and slammed on the brakes just a few feet shy of the fence.

I was breathing so hard that I had tunnel vision. Fearing that I was going to pass out, I turn off the ignition. Several minutes go by before I can catch my breath.


Looking up, I see Jim sauntering towards me from the next field over. He has a grin on his face. Leaning through the drivers window, he points to the idle knob.


"I forgot to tell you that you can use this to slow the truck idle down. That information could be useful to you in the future" he says and walks off laughing, while I wonder if I can open my claw-shaped hands wide enough to reach around Jim's neck.

"Cutting Firewood"

"Mom, grandpa is going to get a load of firewood. Can I go with him?" I ask.

"Doesn't he have a whole stack of firewood? What does he need more wood for?" she asks.

I just shrug my shoulders. I've learned that moms tend to ask baffling questions when a simple "yes" or "no" will do.

"When is he going?" my mom asks.

"He said tomorrow before the sun comes up." I reply. 

My dad is sitting on the couch watching T.V. He has heard the entire conversation and has a funny smirk on his face. I can tell he's holding back laughter, but doesn't want my mom to notice.

"Um, sure" she says. "You'll need your old clothes and some gloves."

"Grandpa said I didn't need gloves, but be sure to bring...." I begin. In the background dad is waving me off like I'm a fighter pilot trying to land on a carrier, but heading way too far off course to land safely.

"What?" mom asks.

"Um, nothing" I say. Dad gives me the "O.K." sign to let me know I did the right thing.

The next morning dad comes in a wakes me up. My dad was a logger back then, and he was routinely up long before the sun came up. I look over at my Micky Mouse alarm clock and the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the five. I have no idea what that means. Digital alarm clocks are still several years away in the future, and I'm only six years old.


"Grandpa's waiting for you. You need to dress warm." he says.


The weather has been getting steadily warmer and spring is on the way. The last couple of days got up to a whopping 50 degrees -- almost swimming weather in Eastern Oregon. This particular morning is a little brisk with frost on the ground, but the sky is clear and it will warm up soon.


"Hi, grandpa!" I say as my dad lifts me into the passenger seat of grandpa's truck.


He has the heater going full blast to ward of the crisp air.


"Are your ready to get some firewood today?" he asks. I was young, but I didn't miss the wink he gives my dad.


As dad closes the door and starts to walk away, he glances into the pickup bed and then laughs and shakes his head as he walks away.


Now, you should know that the nearest town to where we lived was six miles away. A creek (pronounced "crick") ran past our house, and on more than one occasion, we found bear tracks near the house. It was definitely a wilderness area.


For several miles we stay on the highway, but then grandpa slowed down and we pulled onto a dirt road. Let me rephrase that. A dirt road has the connotation that the road is somewhat maintained and driveable in almost any vehicle. What we were driving on was called a "skid trail". Once upon a time, another vehicle bumped some stumps out of the way and lefts some tracks in the ground. That's what we were driving on.


"Hold on" said grandpa as he down-shifted into low gear. I loved when we drove on those back roads. Grandpa's truck had one of those bench seats that had actual springs. We would hit a bump and it would launch me in the air. When I came back down, I would bounce off the seat like a super ball (this was also before seat belts became popular). It was way better than most carnival rides.


After several minutes of driving, grandpa parked the truck and got out and stretched. Coming around to my door, he opened it and lifted me down from the seat. 


We were in a little clearing surrounded by pine trees. The same creek that ran past our house also ran past the clearing.


Grandpa opened the tailgate of the pickup and lifted me into the bed.


"You stay here. I'm going to go drop that big dead tree over there, and you need to stay in the pickup."


Being the son of a logger, I have had similar instructions hundreds of times


Reaching under a tarp, grandpa pulled out his chainsaw. I couldn't help but notice that he also had his tackle box and two fishing poles under the tarp.


In a matter of moments, grandpa had dropped the tree and had cut the butt of the large tree into several large segments.


Whistling, he returned back to the truck and lifted me down. Still whistling, he reached under the tarp and grabbed the fishing gear.


"Well, David. The wood cutting is done. Let's get some fish." he said.


The fishing was spectacular! We were pulling in fish left and right! During the summer when I normally fished, an 8 inch fish was considered a keeper. Today, if it wasn't over 12 inches, we would throw it back.

I noticed that grandpa was particularly alert. He kept scanning the surrounding area.

"What are you looking for, grandpa?" I asked.

"Bears" was his reply.

After awhile, we had caught a whole lot of fish. We decided to pack up and head out. After loading our fishing gear under the tarp, grandpa drove the truck over to the tree. Grabbing several of the largest segments, he threw them into the truck bed and arranged them on top of and around the tarp. You could hardly tell that there was a tarp there at all.


Driving back home, we happened to pass a policeman going the opposite direction.


"Just keep going Mr. Policeman" grandpa muttered. He kept a careful look in the rear view mirror until the policeman was out of sight.


Then grandpa began to whistle.


I started school that year. I remember telling my best friend about the great luck we had fishing that day.


And that's when I learned of that thing called a "fishing season".

"I Only Look Like a Mechanic"

"I need you and Kate to change the oil and filters on the crew vehicle this afternoon" my boss says. 

It's my first real job right out of high school. I had been hired to work for the county on the weed abatement team. Kate was also newly graduated. She was slightly built and very shy. As a football player and track star, I was sure I was going to impress her.

"Um....Okay. Where do you want us to take it?" There were several gas stations in the area that performed these services. It seemed sort of weird that I needed Kate along.


"No. I mean I need YOU to change the oil and filters on the vehicle. We're trying to cut expenses. Drive it over to the county shed. You'll find all the materials you need there. I'm sure you can find something easy for Kate to do while you're doing the mechanical stuff. Have her clean out the inside of the rig. Just something to keep her busy" says my boss.

Uh, oh. Me change the oil and filters? This was not going to be good. How was I going to explain to my boss that I didn't have the foggiest notion how to do this.


"About changing the oil..." I begin.

"And grease the wheels. These older vehicles need a new application of grease on the bearings once in a while" he says.

"When you say 'wheels' what...."

"You'll probably have time to change that balding rear right tire and put on new wiper blades, too."

"But..."

"I've got to go spray a patch of Skeleton Weed near Dufur, so you'll be on your own" he says as he strides out the door.

"But...." too late.

Great. For some reason, people look at me and assume that I have some mechanical skills. The truth is -- I have no idea what the various tools in a tool box are used for. They are all different sized hammers to me.


I go find Kate.


"Well" I say, trying to sound nonchalant in front of Kate "let's go get this thing done."


The shed had one of those oil pits that you can drive the vehicle over and easily access the underside of the vehicle. The only thing I did right was to center the vehicle over the pit. After that, it was all downhill. 

After giving cleaning instructions to Kate, I climbed down the stairs in the pit and tried to identify what I was supposed to do. I had no idea what I was looking for. And it was really dark. After boinking my head and catching my shin on something in the pit, I let out a stifled moan.

"Uh, Dave" says Kate from up above. "Do you want the work light?"

"Yeah, I was just about to get that..." I say nonchalantly as I wipe away the blood as it trickled off my forehead. 


The work light did wonders to illuminate the underside of the vehicle, but did little in assisting me in how to drain the oil or change the filters. After a very long time I hear footsteps coming down the ladder.


"Are you Okay?" asks Kate.


"Yeah, uh, sure. Just, you know, working on the car...these older models are kind of tricky." I say.


"Maybe I can help." says Kate.


"I don't know about that" I say trying to act knowledgeable and superior. "It's pretty technical. You probably should just keep cleaning."


"What are you doing first?" Kate insisted "The oil and filter change or greasing the wheels?"


"Oil and filter. I just can't find the oil drain on this older vehicle." I say as I'm looking at the rear axle.


Kate gives me a funny look at points straight up from where she is at.


"It's right here on the engine." she says.


"Wow" I say. "So that's where they hid it."


"Have you ever changed the oil and filters before?" Kate asks.


"What? Of course I've changed the oil...." I begin. 


"What do you use to remove the oil filter?" she asks with her hands on her hips.


"Well, everyone knows that." I say. "That's too easy."


"Do you even know which one is the oil filter?" she asks.


"Do YOU know which one is the oil filter?" I ask trying to divert the attack away from me.


"Yep. I help my dad change the oil on his tractors that he uses in the cherry orchard."


Oh.


So, while Kate changed the oil and filters and greased the wheels, she assigned me to clean out the rig. Just something to keep me busy. I was, however, very useful in changing the tire because I was assigned to hold the lug nuts and make sure they didn't get lost. Only one got lost. You would have thought I had killed someone the way Kate reacted. Heck, there was still four more left.


Years later, my wife gets to be the recipient of my mechanical talents.


Once, when we were returning from a long trip, we got a flat tire on the van. Fortunately, we had one of those little doughnut-sized spare tires to get us home. But as luck would have it, the tire must have been made for another model of car. When we tried to drive on it, it seized up and wouldn't turn. It was the wrong size or something. 

Walking to the next town, I called my dad to have him drive the two hours to come get us. When he arrived, he had brought his tool box that he used to repair his logging equipment when the equipment broke down.


Looking at the spare tire, he just shook his head and sighed, took the tire off, spun it around and put it on the correct way.


It worked perfectly.

Why I Hate Flowers

Several weeks after I had proposed to my wife, we were sitting around with most of her family planning for the upcoming wedding. It was a pleasant evening. There was much food and laughter. The birds were chirping, the bees were buzzing. Squirrels were frolicking in the yard. It seemed to me to be a perfect evening. Little did I know that this evening was going to cause me grief for years to come.

As we were talking, Julie's mom brought in the Hornbeck family flag. She explained to me the symbolism of the figures on the flag. 

There were six different flowers positioned around the flag representing each of the Hornbeck children and their respective families. Each Hornbeck child had chosen a species of flower that they liked that would represent them throughout their life. Each flower was lovingly sewn and the craftsmanship spoke of the hours and hours it took to hand make each flower. When one of the Hornbeck children got married, a similar flower of the same species was sewn to represent the spouse. Around the flowers were butterflies that represented the children of each of the siblings. 

The flag also had many features from the area in which they had grown up. Mt. Hood, the Hood River, apple tree orchards, and other things associated with Hood River, Oregon were lovingly sewn onto the flag. I felt a warm glow knowing that I would soon have my own flower on the Hornbeck family flag.


As I was basking in the glow of happiness surrounded by my new family-to-be, Julie's dad looked at the flag and started laughing.


"Hey!" he said with his trademark huge grin and pointing to Julie's flower "Dave's going to be a pansy!"


Amid gales of laughter I looked at the flag in alarm. Sure enough, Julie's flower had the trademark deep purple, lavender, and gold colors of.....a pansy. I was going to be immortalized as a pansy. A 6'0 tall 300 lb. pansy, who could bench press a Buick.


I chuckled at the joke to let everyone know that I was a good sport. My thinking was that I would play along and soon everyone would forget about whole thing. Anyone who knows this family would now laugh at my naivety. Hornbecks don't forget stuff, and they especially don't forget funny stuff.


At the wedding reception, my stepchildren and all of their cousins dressed as pansies and sang "Little Purple Pansies Touched with Yellow Gold." For some reason, the audience thought that was funny. Heathens. When Julie's dad presented the family flag, he made sure to explain to the audience that I was being added to the flag and that my flower was the pansy.


My old scout master especially thought this was the funniest thing in the world. He would never pass up the opportunity to rib me. 


"Hey, Pansy!" he would holler across a crowded room -- making sure that everyone heard and knew who he was referring to.  To this day, I don't think he's called me Dave since then.

As the years went by, I assumed that the joke would lose steam. But alas, this was not to be.

At a family reunion and after winning at a game of horseshoes, I (rightly) was bragging to the other brothers-in-law about my physical prowess and athletic abilities. 

"At least we're not pansies" said one of the brother-in-laws.

 Game, set, match. BUT I CAN STILL BENCH PRESS A BUICK!





 

You're Fired!

Some day in the near future I'm going to get fired for saying what I really think.

I can be stealthy for a big guy, so I stood behind the husband and wife without making a sound as their eight-year-old son poked a hole is several packages of hamburger with his finger. They were laughing as if this was somehow "acceptable behavior". 

As the department manager over the area, when I throw away too much product, it reflects on how I'm graded as a manager. Waste is not a good thing in retail. 

I could tell that they weren't going to stop him on their own as I originally hoped. So I cleared my throat.

"Ahem" I said just behind the couple.

I could tell that I had startled them.

"Kaleb, please don't touch the meat" the wife said hastily after seeing that it was an employee standing behind her. At least she looked sheepish because she had been caught. The husband was a different story. His look of contempt suggested that I go mind my own business.

"Sorry" the woman said "he's at that stage where he has to touch everything".

"It's no big deal, Joyce" said the man "he can just repackage the meat, isn't that right?" He addressed the last part to me.

"Actually, no." I reply "I'm required to dispose of any meat product that is handled without gloves."

 "Well, that's pretty extreme" says the husband "why don't you just cut out the area that has been touched and repackage the meat and put it back out?"

"Why don't you teach your precious bundle of joy the difference between right and wrong" I want to say out loud.  

Instead I said "I'm just following company policy."

As I lean over to gather the several packages of meat, I hear the couple walk off. There is some sort of argument going on. I hear the wife say something about "buying the meat".


I can tell that the man is exasperated with his wife.

In a not-so-quiet voice he says, "Don't worry, Joyce. I can read that guy like a book. He's not going to throw that away, he's going to repackage it and it will be back out here in five minutes. He's just mad that he actually has to work instead of sitting around."


Sitting around? Apparently he has done me a favor by not teaching his child good behavior.


After work I decide to stop by the gas station to buy a candy bar and soda for the drive home. And guess who works there?


He had just mopped up a large spill in front of the soda fountain. A mother and her young son were standing off to the side of the spill.


"What do you say to the man?" asks the woman to her son.


"Sorry for making a mess" says the young boy. I could tell he was on the verge of crying.


"Well, next time maybe you shouldn't touch the pop machine" replies the man harshly. It was easy to see that he was angry, and the apology wasn't accepted.


I could tell the mother was shocked by the man's reply. She looked like she was about to say something, but she was obviously too much of a lady. So instead she led her son away who was now in tears. When they got outside, she knelt down and hugged the boy and whispered something in his ear. Nodding, the boy smiled and they got into their mini van.


The man walked off pushing the mop bucket and muttering angrily. He wasn't paying attention, so he didn't even realize who I was.


When I left the area, somehow size 14 shoe prints got all over his freshly mopped floor.