Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale (26 Viewers)
- Thread starter Sea Knight
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Awesome Commander. Good to be riding shotgun again. Hopefully our louisiana brethren can all read this to pass the time. Rain and wind picking up here in jackson. NOLA must be a swimming pool by now
Just what the doctor ordered as I watch the rain zip by sideways and the trees disentegrate here in Baton Rouge!
Least we still got power and plenty of beer. This new installment from the Commander was perfectly timed!
yooper
SILVER Star
woohoo! back in the saddle!
Good to have you back CMDR, was hanging for this.
Dan
Dan
Thank you, Sir.
I have refrained from commenting thus far but have been following this thread religiously. And I must chime in with a well-deserved "thank you". I can't help thinking about all the emotions this thread has stirred. Here is what I've observed (in no particular order)...1) I have been toying with the idea of selling my '68 FJ40. I have had it since '94 and don't know why but it seemed like time to sell. SeaKnight's tale has inspired me to keep it and do some of the things I have always wanted to do in it and to it; 2) I love old iron and I'm going to continue to love it and keep trying to save vehicles that I deem deserving (I also have a '74 Scout II and '82 Cherokee). I will continue to expose my 15-year-old son to classic vehicles and hope that he one day has the same appreciation as I do. But know that it's okay if he doesn't; 3) a friend bought and totally outfitted a Cherokee XJ for his son's 16th birthday and surprised him with it when he came to visit for the summer. The son lives in Oregon and we are in Savannah, GA. I suggested (with the buzz of this yarn flooding my brain) that they make the cross country trip together to get the vehicle back to Oregon. He was planning to have it shipped. He thought the drive was a great idea and permanent father/son memories were made along the way. They particularly enjoyed their time out west and he is currently penning an article for the magazine that I manage, 4) I miss my dad. He died too young in 2006 of a brain tumor. We didn't always see eye to eye but he left me with lasting lessons about the values of hard work and self-respect. He was in the auto parts business for most of his life and was my inspiration to learn how to wrench on my own vehicles; 5) I miss good beer. Just a little. I got clean and sober a little over 3 years ago and it's the best decision I have ever made. I'm glad I can vicariously partake alongside those of you who know how to enjoy finer brews responsibly. You're having one for me whether you know it or not!; 6) On the advice of SeaKnight and others I picked up "Robbers" by Christopher Cook. I started it last night and am thoroughly enjoying it. I am always appreciative when literary suggestions prove worthwhile. Thanks again!
- Thread starter
- #1,147
Butte-Part 3: Johnny at the M&M
I walk out the door of Gamer's Cafe onto Park Street, execute a perfect left face, and walk several paces to the corner, five seconds max. To my left, a few steps up Main Street, a big M&M sign hangs from the second level facade of another 19th century building, smaller and less ornate than the Curtis Music Hall, but more interesting, an old girl with character. According to my tourist pamphlet, the M&M is the last of the great "cigar stores" that dominated uptown Butte during its boom town days. Cigar stores did sell tobacco, but they were actually all-day and all-night drinking and gambling houses, always open and catering to thirsty miners. Many of these establishments, including the M&M, remained open during prohibition, selling cigars and illegal libations, and staying afloat in the lean years by hosting back room poker games. Legend has it that the owners, a couple of entrepeneurs named Martin and Mosby, flushed their door keys down a toilet on opening day, assuring customers that the bar would never be closed. Their plan must have worked. Since opening in 1890, for over 115 years, the doors of M&M have never been locked. Yet even with its long and colorful history, everyone seems to agree that the M&M was made famous by Jack Kerouac. He first visited Butte in 1949, and immortalized the little bar in a few short sentences, published in Esquire magazine. Kerouac wrote:
"It was Sunday night. I had hoped the saloons would stay open long enough for me to see them. They never even closed. In a great old-time saloon (the M&M) I had a giant beer. On the wall was a big electric signboard flashing gambling numbers ...What characters in there: old prospectors, gamblers, whores, miners, Indians, cowboys, tobacco-chewing businessmen! Groups of sullen Indians drank rotgut in the john. Hundreds of men played cards in an atmosphere of smoke and spitoons. It was the end of my quest for an ideal bar..."
I turn toward the M&M, take a couple of tentative steps, and stop to get a better look at the building. It's old and weathered, but clean, not even close to fitting my image of a $hithole dive bar, and if it's a tourist trap, I'm not seeing the evidence. Maybe it's too early for tourists. In fact I only see one person, a guy standing in front of the business next door. It's a men's clothing store, an old fashioned haberdashery, and if I thought anything at all, I probably assumed he was waiting for the store to open. I walk a bit further toward the front of M&M, and the guy approaches. "Good Morning," he says, and I return his greeting. He asks if I'm visiting Butte and I tell him that I'm just passing through and wanted to have a look at the famous bar. He says "You know the writer, Jack Kerouac? He used to drink here." I tell him that I have heard the story, that it's one of the reasons I wanted to see this "ideal bar" before leaving town. He extends his hand, his left hand and says "How do you do? I'm John, call me Johnny." I'm not accustomed to left handed shakes but I started life as a lefty, so it's not awkward to accept his hand. It's a calloused hand, a hand that's seen manual labor, a solid firm grip. He goes on..."Yeah, I knew Jack. Used to tip a few with him, right here. Every time he was in town we'd get together. Buy me a drink and I'll tell you about him."
Yeah. Sure you will.
I know a little about Jack Kerouac. I'm no student of literature, but I know who he is, and like most red-blooded American males I've read On The Road, more than once. I've also confessed to suffering attacks of wanderlust, so there's a bit of brotherly kinship between us. And I remember when he died. It was October of 1969. Why would I remember something like this? It was the week of my birthday. I was still in-country, but I'd managed to wrangle a few days leave and hitch a ride from Da Nang to Sydney. I'd been there before, during the summer, and there was a girl I wanted to see again. Jean was her name. She was an aspiring actress I'd met at a cast party for the Australian production of the musical, "Hair." We'd hit it off and spent some time together, and I was convinced we were the real deal. I know what you're thinking. Is there a worse cliche than the naive kid in the service, far from home, who thinks he's in love? Yessir, I was one of those kids, and I was going back for more. A friend in the states had sent a care package with a copy of Desolation Angels, Kerouac's autobiographical tale, and I was slogging through his prose during down time, a few pages at a sitting. The story hadn't really grabbed me, but I was trying to get interested. As an afterthought I'd tossed the book in my flight bag, thinking I'd try to read a bit on the plane. It's a ten hour flight and I figured I could finish reading and pass the book on to someone else when I returned.
We land in Sydney and it's springtime in Australia, flowers in bloom, spectacular weather, and I've made it back in one piece. All is good in my world, at least for the next few days. Jean meets me at the airport. She has a new red Mini-Cooper, and says she plans to show me parts of New South Wales that only a native would know. I'm on board with that; the last time I was here, I was in recovery mode and on crutches, but now I'm healed and eager to see more of Oz. Wednesday, October 29, my birthday. Only two more days in paradise; I leave on Friday and I'm already feeling glum about the short fuse on my departure. It's a beautiful day and Jean has a proposal that she feels will cheer me up. We'll drive down the South Coast highway in her Mini, stop wherever we please, and have a picnic. I say "Sure, let's go," and with no particular destination, we leave the big city behind, heading south on Highway 1. We stop for supplies at a little market near Wollongong, buy a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and some cheeses, then continued driving. At Sanctuary Point, 100 miles south of Sydney, we find a deserted beach and stop to eat. Unloading the car, I notice a newspaper in the back seat. It's an Aussie paper, a week old, but I'm hungry for any news from the civilized world. Old news is better than no news, and maybe I'll even find some comics inside. While Jean breaks out the food, I lean against the Mini's fender and flip through the paper, browsing the headlines. One jumps out. From the New York Times wire service:
Jack Kerouac, Novelist, Dead; Father of the Beat Generation
October 22, 1969
Jack Kerouac, the novelist who named the Beat Generation, died early yesterday of massive abdominal hemorrhaging in a St. Petersburg, Fla., hospital. He was 47 years old. "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time," he wrote in "On the Road," a novel he completed in only three weeks but had to wait seven years to see published.
Dead at 47. His half read book is still in my bag. I promise myself to finish it on the return flight. We sit on the beach, open my birthday wine, and offer a toast to Kerouac. So yeah, I remember when he died, and I seriously doubt he was ever hanging out in Butte, Montana, drinking with this Johnny character.
Johnny: "Say, you don't happen to have a smoke?"
Me: "Nope, don't smoke."
Johnny: "How 'bout that drink? I could tell you some things man...some great stories."
Me: "I don't think so."
But I am curious, and I enjoy talking to random people. Everyone has a story to tell, and most have something they can teach you. Johnny doesn't look like your average street person, and he hasn't asked for money. He's offered to trade stories for a drink, stories that would almost certainly be bogus. So what's his deal? I give him a closer look. He's a couple of inches shorter than me, boyish face, dirty blonde hair going to gray, clear blue eyes, but he isn't young. I'm not good at guessing ages, but he could be anywhere from early 40's to early 60's. He's thin, almost frail looking, clean shaven, longish hair neatly slicked back, wearing khaki work clothes that hang off his slender frame, and cheap generic work shoes. His shirt has short sleeves and I notice that his right arm is withered, noticeably smaller than the left, and covered with old scar tissue. On his left forearm is a faded tattoo that I can't identify without being obvious. And there's more scar tissue on the right side of his neck, extending downward and disappearing under his shirt collar.
Me: "Johnny, how old are you?"
Johnny: "Born in 1951, whatever that makes me. Why?"
Me: "What do you know about Kerouac?"
Johnny: "I know everything man."
Me: "Then you know he was here in the late '40's, early 50's. And he died in 1969."
Johnny: "Yeah, so what?"
Me: "So you couldn't have been drinking with him at the M&M."
His face reddens. He looks down at the sidewalk, embarrassed...
Johnny: "Well, you got me there."
Me: "So what's going on? Why do you do this?"
Johnny: "I've read everything the man ever wrote. Read it all in the hospital, for the first time. I'm guess I'm sort of a self taught expert."
Me: "And?"
Johnny: "The tourists eat it up. They come to see the bar. They don't know when he was here. I tell them what they want to hear. They buy me drinks. Sometimes they'll even ask me for an autograph."
Me: "You do this when you aren't working?"
Johnny: "I used to just do it on weekends. Now I have trouble working, so I come over here most days. Something to do, and free drinks."
My Mother did her best to teach me proper manners, and I'd like to think most of her lessons stuck. One thing she drummed into me was respecting the privacy of others. Asking personal questions, no matter what the circumstance, was taboo. On this day, I violated the rule.
Me: "What type work did you do?"
Johnny: "Construction, some carpentry, poured foundations, whatever I could pick up."
Me: " And what happened?"
Johnny: "I've got a bum arm. It just got too hard and I wasn't worth a damn any more."
Me: "What's your tat say?"
He holds up his arm for me to see. The tattoo looks crude, but it may just be faded with age. Lettering, above and below some type insignia.
Across the top: "All Gave Some"
In the center, a shield with a horse. It looks familiar but I can't make it out.
Across the bottom: "Some Gave All"
Me: "You served?"
Johnny: "Yeah."
Me: "What's that in the middle? The shield."
Johnny: "1st Cav"...."1st Air Cav"
Me: "And your arm. What happened to your arm?"
Had my Mom been there and heard my question, she'd have elbowed me in the ribs, apologized to Johnny, and pulled me away for a tongue lashing. I can hear her now. "What were you thinking? Didn't I teach you anything? I want you to go back over there and apologize to that poor man." She'd have been right too. I had no business asking, and I regretted it before the words were out of my mouth. Johnny doesn't answer. He turns away and appears to be looking at something further up Main Street. I look too, and don't see anything unusual, just cars and a few pedestrians, tourists. I consider the possibility that I got lucky and he didn't hear me, but of course I'm not that fortunate. He stares up the street for a time, then glances back over his shoulder toward me and I see the tell-tale thousand yard stare. It's one of those things you can't describe. You just know it when you see it, that hollow, far away gaze, some have described as mind numbing sadness. That look.
Johnny: barely audible...."f*ckin' napalm."
He takes a couple of steps, turns around and walks back toward me.
Johnny: "I'm sorry. I apologize for my language. I don't usually talk like that."
He's trembling. It's hardly noticeably but I can see his shoulders shaking beneath his shirt. A tear trickles down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away.
Johnny: "Sorry man. Sorry to trouble you. Have a nice day."
Before I can reply, Johnny turns and briskly walks up Main Street, long ground eating strides. He's at least a half block away before I can react. Whatever is happening here, is all on me. I have to go after him.
to be continued....
Everybody's askin' why he couldn't adjust.
Adjust to what, a dream that went bust ?
He was on the baseball team, he was in the marching band.
When he was ten years old he had a lemonade stand.
He was a clean-cut kid, and they made a killer out of him.
That's what they did.
--Bob Dylan
Adjust to what, a dream that went bust ?
He was on the baseball team, he was in the marching band.
When he was ten years old he had a lemonade stand.
He was a clean-cut kid, and they made a killer out of him.
That's what they did.
--Bob Dylan
I walk out the door of Gamer's Cafe onto Park Street, execute a perfect left face, and walk several paces to the corner, five seconds max. To my left, a few steps up Main Street, a big M&M sign hangs from the second level facade of another 19th century building, smaller and less ornate than the Curtis Music Hall, but more interesting, an old girl with character. According to my tourist pamphlet, the M&M is the last of the great "cigar stores" that dominated uptown Butte during its boom town days. Cigar stores did sell tobacco, but they were actually all-day and all-night drinking and gambling houses, always open and catering to thirsty miners. Many of these establishments, including the M&M, remained open during prohibition, selling cigars and illegal libations, and staying afloat in the lean years by hosting back room poker games. Legend has it that the owners, a couple of entrepeneurs named Martin and Mosby, flushed their door keys down a toilet on opening day, assuring customers that the bar would never be closed. Their plan must have worked. Since opening in 1890, for over 115 years, the doors of M&M have never been locked. Yet even with its long and colorful history, everyone seems to agree that the M&M was made famous by Jack Kerouac. He first visited Butte in 1949, and immortalized the little bar in a few short sentences, published in Esquire magazine. Kerouac wrote:
"It was Sunday night. I had hoped the saloons would stay open long enough for me to see them. They never even closed. In a great old-time saloon (the M&M) I had a giant beer. On the wall was a big electric signboard flashing gambling numbers ...What characters in there: old prospectors, gamblers, whores, miners, Indians, cowboys, tobacco-chewing businessmen! Groups of sullen Indians drank rotgut in the john. Hundreds of men played cards in an atmosphere of smoke and spitoons. It was the end of my quest for an ideal bar..."
I turn toward the M&M, take a couple of tentative steps, and stop to get a better look at the building. It's old and weathered, but clean, not even close to fitting my image of a $hithole dive bar, and if it's a tourist trap, I'm not seeing the evidence. Maybe it's too early for tourists. In fact I only see one person, a guy standing in front of the business next door. It's a men's clothing store, an old fashioned haberdashery, and if I thought anything at all, I probably assumed he was waiting for the store to open. I walk a bit further toward the front of M&M, and the guy approaches. "Good Morning," he says, and I return his greeting. He asks if I'm visiting Butte and I tell him that I'm just passing through and wanted to have a look at the famous bar. He says "You know the writer, Jack Kerouac? He used to drink here." I tell him that I have heard the story, that it's one of the reasons I wanted to see this "ideal bar" before leaving town. He extends his hand, his left hand and says "How do you do? I'm John, call me Johnny." I'm not accustomed to left handed shakes but I started life as a lefty, so it's not awkward to accept his hand. It's a calloused hand, a hand that's seen manual labor, a solid firm grip. He goes on..."Yeah, I knew Jack. Used to tip a few with him, right here. Every time he was in town we'd get together. Buy me a drink and I'll tell you about him."
Yeah. Sure you will.
I know a little about Jack Kerouac. I'm no student of literature, but I know who he is, and like most red-blooded American males I've read On The Road, more than once. I've also confessed to suffering attacks of wanderlust, so there's a bit of brotherly kinship between us. And I remember when he died. It was October of 1969. Why would I remember something like this? It was the week of my birthday. I was still in-country, but I'd managed to wrangle a few days leave and hitch a ride from Da Nang to Sydney. I'd been there before, during the summer, and there was a girl I wanted to see again. Jean was her name. She was an aspiring actress I'd met at a cast party for the Australian production of the musical, "Hair." We'd hit it off and spent some time together, and I was convinced we were the real deal. I know what you're thinking. Is there a worse cliche than the naive kid in the service, far from home, who thinks he's in love? Yessir, I was one of those kids, and I was going back for more. A friend in the states had sent a care package with a copy of Desolation Angels, Kerouac's autobiographical tale, and I was slogging through his prose during down time, a few pages at a sitting. The story hadn't really grabbed me, but I was trying to get interested. As an afterthought I'd tossed the book in my flight bag, thinking I'd try to read a bit on the plane. It's a ten hour flight and I figured I could finish reading and pass the book on to someone else when I returned.
We land in Sydney and it's springtime in Australia, flowers in bloom, spectacular weather, and I've made it back in one piece. All is good in my world, at least for the next few days. Jean meets me at the airport. She has a new red Mini-Cooper, and says she plans to show me parts of New South Wales that only a native would know. I'm on board with that; the last time I was here, I was in recovery mode and on crutches, but now I'm healed and eager to see more of Oz. Wednesday, October 29, my birthday. Only two more days in paradise; I leave on Friday and I'm already feeling glum about the short fuse on my departure. It's a beautiful day and Jean has a proposal that she feels will cheer me up. We'll drive down the South Coast highway in her Mini, stop wherever we please, and have a picnic. I say "Sure, let's go," and with no particular destination, we leave the big city behind, heading south on Highway 1. We stop for supplies at a little market near Wollongong, buy a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and some cheeses, then continued driving. At Sanctuary Point, 100 miles south of Sydney, we find a deserted beach and stop to eat. Unloading the car, I notice a newspaper in the back seat. It's an Aussie paper, a week old, but I'm hungry for any news from the civilized world. Old news is better than no news, and maybe I'll even find some comics inside. While Jean breaks out the food, I lean against the Mini's fender and flip through the paper, browsing the headlines. One jumps out. From the New York Times wire service:
Jack Kerouac, Novelist, Dead; Father of the Beat Generation
October 22, 1969
Jack Kerouac, the novelist who named the Beat Generation, died early yesterday of massive abdominal hemorrhaging in a St. Petersburg, Fla., hospital. He was 47 years old. "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time," he wrote in "On the Road," a novel he completed in only three weeks but had to wait seven years to see published.
Dead at 47. His half read book is still in my bag. I promise myself to finish it on the return flight. We sit on the beach, open my birthday wine, and offer a toast to Kerouac. So yeah, I remember when he died, and I seriously doubt he was ever hanging out in Butte, Montana, drinking with this Johnny character.
Johnny: "Say, you don't happen to have a smoke?"
Me: "Nope, don't smoke."
Johnny: "How 'bout that drink? I could tell you some things man...some great stories."
Me: "I don't think so."
But I am curious, and I enjoy talking to random people. Everyone has a story to tell, and most have something they can teach you. Johnny doesn't look like your average street person, and he hasn't asked for money. He's offered to trade stories for a drink, stories that would almost certainly be bogus. So what's his deal? I give him a closer look. He's a couple of inches shorter than me, boyish face, dirty blonde hair going to gray, clear blue eyes, but he isn't young. I'm not good at guessing ages, but he could be anywhere from early 40's to early 60's. He's thin, almost frail looking, clean shaven, longish hair neatly slicked back, wearing khaki work clothes that hang off his slender frame, and cheap generic work shoes. His shirt has short sleeves and I notice that his right arm is withered, noticeably smaller than the left, and covered with old scar tissue. On his left forearm is a faded tattoo that I can't identify without being obvious. And there's more scar tissue on the right side of his neck, extending downward and disappearing under his shirt collar.
Me: "Johnny, how old are you?"
Johnny: "Born in 1951, whatever that makes me. Why?"
Me: "What do you know about Kerouac?"
Johnny: "I know everything man."
Me: "Then you know he was here in the late '40's, early 50's. And he died in 1969."
Johnny: "Yeah, so what?"
Me: "So you couldn't have been drinking with him at the M&M."
His face reddens. He looks down at the sidewalk, embarrassed...
Johnny: "Well, you got me there."
Me: "So what's going on? Why do you do this?"
Johnny: "I've read everything the man ever wrote. Read it all in the hospital, for the first time. I'm guess I'm sort of a self taught expert."
Me: "And?"
Johnny: "The tourists eat it up. They come to see the bar. They don't know when he was here. I tell them what they want to hear. They buy me drinks. Sometimes they'll even ask me for an autograph."
Me: "You do this when you aren't working?"
Johnny: "I used to just do it on weekends. Now I have trouble working, so I come over here most days. Something to do, and free drinks."
My Mother did her best to teach me proper manners, and I'd like to think most of her lessons stuck. One thing she drummed into me was respecting the privacy of others. Asking personal questions, no matter what the circumstance, was taboo. On this day, I violated the rule.
Me: "What type work did you do?"
Johnny: "Construction, some carpentry, poured foundations, whatever I could pick up."
Me: " And what happened?"
Johnny: "I've got a bum arm. It just got too hard and I wasn't worth a damn any more."
Me: "What's your tat say?"
He holds up his arm for me to see. The tattoo looks crude, but it may just be faded with age. Lettering, above and below some type insignia.
Across the top: "All Gave Some"
In the center, a shield with a horse. It looks familiar but I can't make it out.
Across the bottom: "Some Gave All"
Me: "You served?"
Johnny: "Yeah."
Me: "What's that in the middle? The shield."
Johnny: "1st Cav"...."1st Air Cav"
Me: "And your arm. What happened to your arm?"
Had my Mom been there and heard my question, she'd have elbowed me in the ribs, apologized to Johnny, and pulled me away for a tongue lashing. I can hear her now. "What were you thinking? Didn't I teach you anything? I want you to go back over there and apologize to that poor man." She'd have been right too. I had no business asking, and I regretted it before the words were out of my mouth. Johnny doesn't answer. He turns away and appears to be looking at something further up Main Street. I look too, and don't see anything unusual, just cars and a few pedestrians, tourists. I consider the possibility that I got lucky and he didn't hear me, but of course I'm not that fortunate. He stares up the street for a time, then glances back over his shoulder toward me and I see the tell-tale thousand yard stare. It's one of those things you can't describe. You just know it when you see it, that hollow, far away gaze, some have described as mind numbing sadness. That look.
Johnny: barely audible...."f*ckin' napalm."
He takes a couple of steps, turns around and walks back toward me.
Johnny: "I'm sorry. I apologize for my language. I don't usually talk like that."
He's trembling. It's hardly noticeably but I can see his shoulders shaking beneath his shirt. A tear trickles down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away.
Johnny: "Sorry man. Sorry to trouble you. Have a nice day."
Before I can reply, Johnny turns and briskly walks up Main Street, long ground eating strides. He's at least a half block away before I can react. Whatever is happening here, is all on me. I have to go after him.
to be continued....
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Texican
s-Moderator
DAMN.........TALK ABOUT A CLIFF HANGER.......
give this a listen, my current favorite song........Travis Linville- Lefty
http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/song_12768020
give this a listen, my current favorite song........Travis Linville- Lefty
http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/song_12768020
most excellent......man I LLOOVVE this ride
Texican, Great minds must think alike, I also went looking for a musical interlude this fine evening. I was looking for LA Freeway by Jerry Jeff Walker but came across this which left me thinking of Army, who I was introduced to via this thread.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aGxSuU9ymYw&feature=related
Captain thank you for continuing the journey. I was catching up on this thread this summer, some of it while sitting with my father after surgery, it was a reminder to me how precious the time is that we have with family and friends. My father turned 83 this month and is now home and doing well.
I will continue to look forward to future installments.
Gregg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aGxSuU9ymYw&feature=related
Captain thank you for continuing the journey. I was catching up on this thread this summer, some of it while sitting with my father after surgery, it was a reminder to me how precious the time is that we have with family and friends. My father turned 83 this month and is now home and doing well.
I will continue to look forward to future installments.
Gregg
Texican
s-Moderator
But ya gotta hear the Master Guy Clark (author) do it....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbB5TRLF9mo
And a new version of an old classic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKo8_8OOJbE
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Thanks for that Lee, worth the wait...
Cliff hanger... MAN!
Another awesome chapter as usual!
Lucky me. I'm running a little behind on checking this thread, so I was treated to 2 episodes and a major cliff hanger..
I'll be lucky enough to be staying at a cabin on Lake Travis for a few days in a couple of weeks, so I'll get to enjoy some of your country. I can't believe I don't get up there more often. We'll see how the 80 likes towing the Hobie up the hills....
Edit: Mountains, they are mountains. The overpass at 45 & BW8 south is a hill..
A
I'll be lucky enough to be staying at a cabin on Lake Travis for a few days in a couple of weeks, so I'll get to enjoy some of your country. I can't believe I don't get up there more often. We'll see how the 80 likes towing the Hobie up the hills....
Edit: Mountains, they are mountains. The overpass at 45 & BW8 south is a hill..
A
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Thank you!
Dear Lee
I have been reading this thread for the last three days, and promised myself I would not add to it before I had caught up. But I have just read the chapter about Jen, and that was the last straw, I can't resist any more!
Your tale encompasses so much of what life really is, your dad, the people you meet, the routes you take.
I lost my dad in 2003, he was only 68, our relationship was not the easiest, at times in my late teens and early twenties I was certain that he did not approve of me and my life, but in the end I learned that was not the case, quite the opposite, he was a caring and concerned parent.
I was the last of us four kids to see him alive, I visited him at the hospital, he was very sick with cancer, and I sat at his bedside and stroked his white hair while he was laying on his side towards me. We sat like that for a long time, while time did not exist. It was at this moment that something very personal and very intimate happened between us, as I felt him letting me be the strong one, while he allowed himself to let go, and letting me be the one consoling him for the very first time. After a long while without words he said I could go in the softest voice, without any pressure or urging, but I understood that I could not argue.
I recieved the call from the hospital later that night. My father had passed on.
I do not actually know why I wrote this, but maybe Jen's longing for her father may have stirred something, I miss him...
Your very personal story about Patsy may stir memories in a lot of us about unclosed chapters in our lives, lost love, or just the memories of the pains of youth.
But most of all this tale may inspire to live, and to seek the adventure, be it large or small, to meet new people and go the unbeaten path, you have showed that the adventure not necessarily lies in the big things, but might just be a coincidence in a pub, or on the road.
Finally, my wife is planning a trip for the three of us to Montana next year, she lived in Montana for a year, fist in Scobey, later in Whitewater working on farms as a exchange student. She dreams of showing both me and our 1 year old daughter the Big Sky State. It's her birthday the 10/9, and your story about Jen made me google ""You Can Take The Girl Out Of Montana, But You Can't Take Montana Out Of The Girl" and whatchanow! I just found out I can buy her a hoodie with that on, Thanks Lee and Jen!
(I best not show her this thread before her birthday)
Here's a fast pic of Hers and Mine, she's got the pretty one!
Her's is a pristine BJ42, 3.4 diesel, 4 speed, full floater, front discs, all original, only Yota parts, down to last screw and brake pipe.
Mine's a HJ45, 2H equipped, H55f, PTO winch, HJ60 series brakes and BJ73 series rear axle.
That's tech!
Dear Lee
I have been reading this thread for the last three days, and promised myself I would not add to it before I had caught up. But I have just read the chapter about Jen, and that was the last straw, I can't resist any more!
Your tale encompasses so much of what life really is, your dad, the people you meet, the routes you take.
I lost my dad in 2003, he was only 68, our relationship was not the easiest, at times in my late teens and early twenties I was certain that he did not approve of me and my life, but in the end I learned that was not the case, quite the opposite, he was a caring and concerned parent.
I was the last of us four kids to see him alive, I visited him at the hospital, he was very sick with cancer, and I sat at his bedside and stroked his white hair while he was laying on his side towards me. We sat like that for a long time, while time did not exist. It was at this moment that something very personal and very intimate happened between us, as I felt him letting me be the strong one, while he allowed himself to let go, and letting me be the one consoling him for the very first time. After a long while without words he said I could go in the softest voice, without any pressure or urging, but I understood that I could not argue.
I recieved the call from the hospital later that night. My father had passed on.
I do not actually know why I wrote this, but maybe Jen's longing for her father may have stirred something, I miss him...
Your very personal story about Patsy may stir memories in a lot of us about unclosed chapters in our lives, lost love, or just the memories of the pains of youth.
But most of all this tale may inspire to live, and to seek the adventure, be it large or small, to meet new people and go the unbeaten path, you have showed that the adventure not necessarily lies in the big things, but might just be a coincidence in a pub, or on the road.
Finally, my wife is planning a trip for the three of us to Montana next year, she lived in Montana for a year, fist in Scobey, later in Whitewater working on farms as a exchange student. She dreams of showing both me and our 1 year old daughter the Big Sky State. It's her birthday the 10/9, and your story about Jen made me google ""You Can Take The Girl Out Of Montana, But You Can't Take Montana Out Of The Girl" and whatchanow! I just found out I can buy her a hoodie with that on, Thanks Lee and Jen!
(I best not show her this thread before her birthday
)Here's a fast pic of Hers and Mine, she's got the pretty one!
Her's is a pristine BJ42, 3.4 diesel, 4 speed, full floater, front discs, all original, only Yota parts, down to last screw and brake pipe.
Mine's a HJ45, 2H equipped, H55f, PTO winch, HJ60 series brakes and BJ73 series rear axle.
That's tech!
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Thanks for that post, Christian. A story like that just shows how great this thread is!
Nice chapters! I'm going to head down to Butte this Fall and check these places out. A friend here suggested The Hummingbird Cafe too, in case anyone makes the pilgrimage to Butte and needs a 2nd B-fast option.
chris777
TLCA member #12444
Just wanted to chime in for the first time, since I finally got caught up with this thread, and tell you how much I am enjoying your story.
Green Flash IPA is great. I have become so accusomted to the robust flavor of India Pale Ales, I can't even tolerate the taste of beer anymore. Everything else tastes watered down.
Green Flash IPA is great. I have become so accusomted to the robust flavor of India Pale Ales, I can't even tolerate the taste of beer anymore. Everything else tastes watered down.
Thanks David, I was actually a bit embarrased after writing, I think mostly because I did not like the thought that I could detract from the actual tale, but as I was without computer until next day, I could not delete my post. Your remark made me very glad I didn't!
Lee, I just read post 1074 "Old Men, Old Iron", and your last evening with Army is so similar to what I experienced with my dad, it's uncanny! I recieved the dreaded call 0114 AM. Today I believe that my father knew...
I don't have his first car, which was an Essex from 1926, but I have the car he had when I was born, a pale yellow concertinle VW bug from 1971. It's in bad shape, but I'll get around to fixing it eventually!
Lee, I just read post 1074 "Old Men, Old Iron", and your last evening with Army is so similar to what I experienced with my dad, it's uncanny! I recieved the dreaded call 0114 AM. Today I believe that my father knew...
I don't have his first car, which was an Essex from 1926, but I have the car he had when I was born, a pale yellow concertinle VW bug from 1971. It's in bad shape, but I'll get around to fixing it eventually!
- Status
