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Saving The Old Rustbucket--My 1982 FJ40 Tale
- Thread starter Sea Knight
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Thanks for the tip, commander! The story and Drool make the bitter taste of a blown up engine go down a bit smoother.
Carry on.
Carry on.
Merry Christmas Lee and all of you that have kept this thread alive
It has been a tough road between my father and I. We are very similar and therefore tough headed and stubborn. I know he probably is not long for this world because he is bloated and turning orange but then again, I said that five years ago. My mother says, "he's got one tough liver." I know as time has past, and I have gotten older, I haven't foregiven him for what he has done to the family but I can understand it somewhat better. I too am a vet of the US Army although I was lucky and never went to war. But as a police officer who has worked a large metropolitan inner city ghetto in southern Cal and been an undercover narc, I have seen my share of horrible things.
Thank you everyone for your insight and your thoughts. I will let you know how it turns out with my father. The last time I tried to make ammends and took the first step with getting back with my father was about seven years ago at xmas. Both of his parents were still alive and we planned to have dinner together. When he showed up at their house and saw the additional place settings, he asked who else was coming. They informed him that I was going to be there with my new wife. He stated, " This is bull****. I'm outta here" and walked out. I know deep down inside he still cares about me and it was never anything that I did. I believe he is embarrassed from his drinking, womanizing, joblessness, and suicidal thoughts over the years. As I told Sea Knight, I grew up with with a vietnam vet as my father and it has greatly impacked the family. I know he has some deep demons. I know some cops who do as well. Some are better at hiding it than others. It has made me who I am today.
Once again, thank you to all. There are some really good and insightful people on Mud and I am glad to have met your acquintance.
.....
Merry Christmas Commander Lee, hope all is well for you.
Tomorrow marks one year since I purchased my 82 fj. I have been restoring (rolling restoration) her and getting her up to a reliable daily driver ever since. I have surffed this great site for many answers the FSM can't seem to answer with great success thanks to all of its members.
I had run across Commander Lee's post a number of times but never seemed to read past what appeared to be a story...Well, I started reading it over the holiday's and just finished the most current page. I must say I have felt every emotion a man can feel though out the great read. This includes all the comments from other members as well. Thank you all for the great gift this has been for me.
I too share the loss of a father of few words and with my only son serving some 2000 mi away I find working on the FJ more than therapeutic. Thanks again!
Respectfully, Paco Nieto
Tucson,Az
Happy New year to all you mudders
I had run across Commander Lee's post a number of times but never seemed to read past what appeared to be a story...Well, I started reading it over the holiday's and just finished the most current page. I must say I have felt every emotion a man can feel though out the great read. This includes all the comments from other members as well. Thank you all for the great gift this has been for me.
I too share the loss of a father of few words and with my only son serving some 2000 mi away I find working on the FJ more than therapeutic. Thanks again!
Respectfully, Paco Nieto
Tucson,Az
Happy New year to all you mudders
- Thread starter
- #1,287
Happy New Year!
Morning Everyone, and Happy New Year!
Sorry I've been off the radar. Holidays, family issues, and the unfortunate death of our 80 have taken precedence over writing for several weeks, but I'm still here. There is an almost finished chapter in the incubator and the story is a long way from being over, so keep the faith.
Back on topic, I recently received some sad news from a friend in Montana concerning the old Blue Sky Motel, which was featured in the Bozeman chapters. I say that it's sad news, because staying there was the catalyst for a crazy series of events that I won't ever forget. Here's the article from the Bozeman Chronicle, and a couple of nostalgia pics--Blue Sky, The Turtle, and some Montana girl.
"The Blue Sky Motel in Bozeman, is being sold to a businessman who has plans to re-develop the property into a three-story office and residential building. A local developer has filed preliminary paperwork with city planners to turn the Blue Sky Motel — better known for its long-term rates than plush accommodations — into a three-story building with office and residential space.
The Flathead Bank of Bigfork currently owns the property at 1010 E. Main St., real estate records show. Shahan Enterprises plans to tear down the motel and construct a more than 40,000-square-foot, three-story building, according to a site plan filed with the city planning department. The sale of the property, which was assessed at $1.1 million, is pending. Shaun Shahan, president of Shahan Enterprises, declined to discuss plans for the property.
The motel had fallen into disrepair. Four complaints were filed with the Gallatin City-County Health Department against it over the past year. The building will be torn down and replaced, Shahan’s preliminary plans show. In its place, a three-story building tentatively called Park Place will be constructed. Plans show it will have nearly 6,000 square feet of office space on the first floor, 16 residential spaces on the second and third floors and a garage on site."
Morning Everyone, and Happy New Year!
Sorry I've been off the radar. Holidays, family issues, and the unfortunate death of our 80 have taken precedence over writing for several weeks, but I'm still here. There is an almost finished chapter in the incubator and the story is a long way from being over, so keep the faith.
Back on topic, I recently received some sad news from a friend in Montana concerning the old Blue Sky Motel, which was featured in the Bozeman chapters. I say that it's sad news, because staying there was the catalyst for a crazy series of events that I won't ever forget. Here's the article from the Bozeman Chronicle, and a couple of nostalgia pics--Blue Sky, The Turtle, and some Montana girl.
"The Blue Sky Motel in Bozeman, is being sold to a businessman who has plans to re-develop the property into a three-story office and residential building. A local developer has filed preliminary paperwork with city planners to turn the Blue Sky Motel — better known for its long-term rates than plush accommodations — into a three-story building with office and residential space.
The Flathead Bank of Bigfork currently owns the property at 1010 E. Main St., real estate records show. Shahan Enterprises plans to tear down the motel and construct a more than 40,000-square-foot, three-story building, according to a site plan filed with the city planning department. The sale of the property, which was assessed at $1.1 million, is pending. Shaun Shahan, president of Shahan Enterprises, declined to discuss plans for the property.
The motel had fallen into disrepair. Four complaints were filed with the Gallatin City-County Health Department against it over the past year. The building will be torn down and replaced, Shahan’s preliminary plans show. In its place, a three-story building tentatively called Park Place will be constructed. Plans show it will have nearly 6,000 square feet of office space on the first floor, 16 residential spaces on the second and third floors and a garage on site."
2thdoc
SILVER Star
Happy New Year to you Lee and everyone following this thread! Sad to hear about the Blue Sky...
Happy New Year, sir. That's a shame about the Blue Sky. Another piece of history gone.
yooper
SILVER Star
Happy New Year to Sea Knight and his readers.
My family and I just returned home from visiting Uncle Meldon and his family, including his new first born son, my nephew Thomas, in Kona for Christmas. The Turtle, now named Buela, is alive and well and we drove her all around. We even did some jungle wheeling up in Koloka Mauka looking at some rural property at 4200' elevation. Definitely the coolest vehicle in town, except for maybe the FJ45 trayback soft top that we see occasionally.
Uncle Meldon's weiner
My family and I just returned home from visiting Uncle Meldon and his family, including his new first born son, my nephew Thomas, in Kona for Christmas. The Turtle, now named Buela, is alive and well and we drove her all around. We even did some jungle wheeling up in Koloka Mauka looking at some rural property at 4200' elevation. Definitely the coolest vehicle in town, except for maybe the FJ45 trayback soft top that we see occasionally.
Uncle Meldon's weiner
We stayed at the Blue Sky last summer. It was memorable. Bozeman's downtown has been expanding eastward on Main street since I went to school there 2002-2004. There is this new mixed-use, Bozeman-style architecture thing going on there too. It's nice, but spendy. What do you expect from a dirt mountain town which had one of the first 10 boutique Audi-only dealerships in the U.S.?
Happy New Year!
Happy New Year!
Blue sky news is another echo of a fallen American icon...(unfortunate)
Happy New Year to all and Aloha to Buela.
Happy New Year to all and Aloha to Buela.
Happy New Year everybody!
Sad to hear that about the old motel. Another icon gone.....
Sad to hear that about the old motel. Another icon gone.....
Don't you guys realise that in the New America we place top value on office parks and chain stores and no value on ma and pa outfits and classic Americana? Common, get hip and hapnin', buy a smartphone and a prius, have a latte at Starbucks and surf the Web....it's what all the cool kids are doing. Life is about what brand of clothing you wear, not who you are or what you've done; that's so 1970s.
Happy new year Lee. Keep spreading the love and reminding us that life is about more than buying the latest techno bull**** and tweeting the loudest.
Cheers,
Josh
Happy new year Lee. Keep spreading the love and reminding us that life is about more than buying the latest techno bull**** and tweeting the loudest.
Cheers,
Josh
- Thread starter
- #1,296
Next Chapter Comin' Right Up
MUD Peeps:
The following chapter is a continuation of Johnny's story. If you're new to the thread, he's a guy I met outside the M&M bar in Butte. Initially I thought he was a homeless person or a panhandler, but I was badly mistaken. I took notes on our conversations, but for obvious reasons, not while he was looking. He said a lot more than what I've written, but I attempted to capture the essential Johnny and get it down just as he told it. I hope I've done him justice.
The chapter where Johnny was introduced is on Pg 58, Post 1147. His story continues on Pg 64, Post 1262. This is Johnny's third chapter. There will be more about him before The Turtle and I finally get out of Butte.
Disclaimer: This chapter is barely more than a draft. No editing yet. Any bad grammar, crappy sentence structure, faulty punctuation, misspellings...gimme a break. I'll fix it all later.
Lee
MUD Peeps:
The following chapter is a continuation of Johnny's story. If you're new to the thread, he's a guy I met outside the M&M bar in Butte. Initially I thought he was a homeless person or a panhandler, but I was badly mistaken. I took notes on our conversations, but for obvious reasons, not while he was looking. He said a lot more than what I've written, but I attempted to capture the essential Johnny and get it down just as he told it. I hope I've done him justice.
The chapter where Johnny was introduced is on Pg 58, Post 1147. His story continues on Pg 64, Post 1262. This is Johnny's third chapter. There will be more about him before The Turtle and I finally get out of Butte.
Disclaimer: This chapter is barely more than a draft. No editing yet. Any bad grammar, crappy sentence structure, faulty punctuation, misspellings...gimme a break. I'll fix it all later.
Lee
- Thread starter
- #1,297
Butte--Part 5: Johnny, The End of The Innocence
Johnny: "Why not? What is it?"
Me: "You ever watch James Bond flicks? Old Bond...the real Bond? Connery."
Johnny: "Yeah, I've seen a few of 'em. Why?"
Me: "Remember Goldfinger, and Bond's Aston Martin?"
Johnny: "I've seen Goldfinger. What's an Aston Martin?"
Me: "That was his tricked out sports car. Remember the mods? Tire slashing hubs, oil slick sprayer, smoke screen blower, and...."
Johnny: "Yeah, I remember."
Me: "And a passenger seat ejector."
Johnny: "Yeah, so?"
Me: We modified this truck for the road trip, same as Bond's car. Push that button and you'll activate the ejector seat. You'll blast through the roof 30 feet into the Montana sky."
Johnny: Pauses...furrows his brow...looks at the button, looks at me, then finally, laughing..."You're $hittin' me. Right?"
Me: "Yeah. I'm $hittin' you."
The intersection clears, and I tell Johnny he can satisfy his curiousity and push the button. He taps it twice and there's a barely audible beep-beep, sounds you'd expect from the roadrunner cartoon character, but weaker. Few bystanders even bother to glance our way. Johnny laughs again. "That's some horn you've got there." At least he's laughing. Whatever it takes.
He tells me to drive north on Main, leaving uptown Butte behind. We climb Granite Mountain, crossing streets named after rocks and minerals--Granite, Quartz, and of course Copper. Johnny is quiet, at one point gesturing to the left in the direction of an older neighborhood. He says "We live over there, in my Grandfather's house." I tell him that it looks like a nice area. He nods, says "Yeah, it is, or was," but doesn't offer an explanation, and we continue up the mountain in silence.
Minutes pass and Johnny says "When I was a kid we used to call this Butte Hill. Like Boot Hill. Get it? Boot Hill....Butte Hill. Like in the western movies. We played up here, cowboys and Indians, imagined it was Dodge City. I was always Marshall Dillon. Just a silly kid thing I guess." Kid thing indeed. I never missed an episode of Gunsmoke. It always began with the marshall facing off against a bad guy, quickly dispatching him with his trusty Colt .45, then walking through Boot Hill Cemetery philosophizing. I memorized his words and rattled them off at every opportunity to anyone who'd listen, usually embarrassing my parents. Funny how these things burrow deep into your brain and surface decades later. I could probably still recite Marshall Dillon's soliloquy and not be off by more than a few words. It went something like this...
"Each time I come up here to Boot Hill, I think of all the men that I watched die. Some died a coward's death, some died standing up in good style. More than a few of these, I've had a part in--I'm Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall. Standing here looking out over the high plains, I try to remember that Dodge is a pretty rough camp, but there's a lot of good to be found there."
Once a kid, always, so yeah Johnny, I get it. He says we'll drive all the way up Main Street to Walkerville, on the outskirts of Butte. In the late 1800's Walkerville was a mining boom town, but now only a few hundred people remain; what's left is part of the Butte historic district. Not quite a ghost town, but getting there. We reach the end of Main and Johnny tells me to turn right onto the dirt road just after Saint Lawrence Catholic Church. I turn at the little white church and less than a mile down the road there's a small parking lot, and a foot path leading to the Granite Mountain overlook.
I read about this place in a pamphlet at Gamer's Cafe and it didn't hold much interest, but Johnny insisted that I see it, and here we are. I follow him up the path and notice again that there's a little hitch in his gait. We're at 6,800 feet; the temp is hovering around freezing, and there's a slippery glaze on the path, making it treacherous even for the sure footed. I see that he has some difficulty negotiating the slight grade, but I know he's proud and this time I don't offer to help. He soldiers on without complaining and eventually we make it to the overlook. According to a sign at the entry, the Granite Mountain Memorial "is dedicated to the 168 men who lost their lives in hard rock mining's greatest disaster," the Speculator Mine fire of 1917. It's an open air plaza, a simple slab of concrete that looks like a big chess board, paved with red bricks inscribed with remembrances of those who perished. At one corner of the plaza are cement pillars topped with plaques honoring the dead. The memorial itself isn't much to see, and of all the places in Butte he could have suggested, this seems a strange choice. Others must feel the same, because there's no one else here.
Johnny walks to the far corner of the plaza and leans against one of the cement pillars. I do the same, and begin to understand why we're here. The sight is surreal, a panoramic view of the Highland Mountains and the Continental Divide, and scattered down the mountainside there's Butte, and decaying remnants of a once booming mining industry. Parts of the vista look like battlefields, low hanging clouds of smoke hovering in the air, and it's quiet, eerily quiet. The city extends from Walkerville on down the mountain, a patchwork of old and new spilling into the flats of the valley below. From the overlook we can see a sprawl of new houses and strip shopping centers hugging the interstate highway, but even an outsider can tell that the soul of Butte remains on the hill, in it's abandoned mines and tattered city center, in an uptown marred by vacant lots interspersed with magnificent old buildings, many of them now boarded shut. Looking east, the central business district falls abruptly into the toxic Berkeley Pit, and on the west side it melds with an old neighborhood of brick houses in varying states of disrepair. Johnny tells me that mine bosses and engineers once lived in the better homes, and higher on the hill stand row upon row of modest wooden houses, miner's houses, snaking upward in bands among the hulks of abandoned mine yards.
I walk around the plaza, take in the views from every direction, snap a few pics, and make a show of checking my watch. We've been here for at least 15 minutes and I'm sure that I've seen everything there is to see, but Johnny is still gazing into the distance and hasn't moved from his pillar. I walk toward him intending to suggest that we move along, and notice that he's shaking again. I'm hot natured and rarely bothered by the cold, but wind gusts are ripping down the mountain and across the plaza, slicing through my windbreaker, and I'm beginning to feel a chill. He's a skinny little guy, not even wearing a jacket; if I'm cold, he has to be freezing.
Me: "Hey, you're shaking. Want to borrow my windbreaker? Or a jacket? I have a jacket in the truck."
Johnny: "No. I'm good. I'm not that cold. I don't get cold. My condition makes me shake. It's a nervous thing."
Me: "We should probably be going anyway."
Johnny: "I want to thank you for bringing me up here."
Me: "You're welcome, but I thought you brought me. You can come here any time."
Johnny: "No, I don't get up here much. Too far for me to walk, and I don't drive. Can't drive."
Me: "It is peaceful."
Johnny: "Yeah, and usually there's no one here. It's not easy to find, not that big of a tourist attraction."
Me: "I can see that."
Johnny: "I've been coming up here since I was eight years old. Not to the memorial; it's new. To the mountain. Used to ride my bike up here. I've climbed all over this hill, camped, hunted, drank bootleg beer. Brought my girl up here to park when I was in high school. The city lights are really something. You should see them at night."
Me: "I'll bet they are, but, ahh, I've gotta get on the road pretty soon."
That was a hint, but Johnny doesn't answer. He turns away and stares down into the valley, toward the city. I'm getting impatient and start to clear my throat, but he starts talking.
Johnny: "You ever have a time in your life when everything changed? Like a dividing line between the first part of your life and the rest of your life? One day you're one person, something happens, and the next day you're someone else?"
Me: "I don't know. Maybe. I guess I never thought about it."
Johnny: "I came up here with my girl the night before I shipped out. Parked right over there. I remember we talked all night."
Me: "Lot of memories for you here."
Johnny: "Yeah...I had a sweet '64 Chevelle. A red Malibu; we called it whorehouse red. Loved that car. Never saw it again after that night. Or my girl. Came back three years later and everything was different. My girl was gone, my car was sold, and I was messed up worse than I am now. That's my dividing line--that night up here. That's the last time I remember being a regular person. The last good time. I was eighteen."
What do you say to that? I can't think of anything. Not a damn thing.
Johnny: "You still want to know what happened to my arm?"
Me: "Look, I already apologized. It's none of my business and I'm sorry I asked."
Johnny: "The truth is, I don't know what happened. I was Army, 1st Air Cav, halfway through my tour. In the Nam, ya know. Never even got to take my R&R. We were on patrol. I guess there were four of us. They tell me I was on point. Depending on who you believe, I either got us lost, or they were sprayin' that $hit in the wrong damn place. I remember hearing a chopper, I remember screaming that I was on fire. Then nothing. I woke up in a hospital. Spent the better part of two years in and out of hospitals, part of it in a burn unit down in Texas. Army hospital in San Antonio. Good people, but they couldn't do nuthin' for me. F**kin' napalm."
Again, I don't know what to say. I wonder where he was taken first. I wonder if I could have picked this guy up in the bush and deposited him at a field hospital, or one of the Navy hospital ships off shore. Highly unlikely; that only happens in the movies and besides, there's no way to know. I don't even mention the possibility. He keeps talking.
Johnny: "I'll tell you one goddam thing. I know I didn't get us lost. They gave me a bronze, so I must have done something right. Ya know. I did my job...I did my job."
Me: "That's something you should be proud of. That they honored your service."
Jesus Christ, what a lame ass thing to say to this poor guy. If that's the best I can do, I should just shut up.
Johnny: "Bull$hit. Everybody got medals. At first they said I couldn't remember because I had a stress disorder. Later they said I had post traumatic amnesia. Hell, I could have told them that. A shrink at the VA hospital said he could help me remember. I told him I'd appreciate it if he didn't help me remember. The only thing I want to remember is what I'm remembering right here, before the dividing line. You know that song "White Rabbit? Grace Slick from back in the 70's?"
Me: "Yeah, I know it."
Johnny: "I'm not sayin' I understand it, but it kinda describes the way I feel most of the time. Like some days I'm half crazy, and other days everyone else is crazy and I'm not, and I have trouble figuring out which is which."
He gestures at the chessboard pattern of the plaza.
Johnny: "That's what this reminds me of, White Rabbit. I know the lyrics by heart, most of them. And Alice...that was my girl's name."
Remember when the days were long
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky
Didn't have a care in the world
With mommy and daddy standin' by
But "happily ever after" fails
And we've been poisoned by these fairy tales
...This is the end of the innocence
--Don Henley
And rolled beneath a deep blue sky
Didn't have a care in the world
With mommy and daddy standin' by
But "happily ever after" fails
And we've been poisoned by these fairy tales
...This is the end of the innocence
--Don Henley
Driving north on Main, we stop at the first intersection and wait for a group of tourists to cross. Johnny relaxes his grip on the roll cage and surveys the cab interior like a curious child. "So this is a Toyota. I see these around town. Always thought they were old Jeeps." I tell him it's a common mistake, but assure him that an FJ40 is vastly superior to any Jeep. He grunts, doesn't seem impressed, but he has questions. He points to the lower steering column where I'd strapped my old SOG survival knife. "What's that for?" I decide to lighten the mood. "Protection against highway bandits. And grizzly bears." No reaction. Maybe he didn't hear me. More likely it wasn't funny. His turn: "What's up with that little steering wheel? You steal that off some kid's go cart?" Score one for Johnny. I tell him the steering wheel is a temporary fix, that all FJ40's are works in progress. Another disinterested grunt. He studies the dash for a moment, then leans toward the center, tentatively extending his good arm toward the redneck engineered doorbell button. It looks as though he's about to press the button and assuming it still works, blasting the horn will scatter these tourists like a covey of quail flushed from cover. I blurt out "STOP! Don't touch that," and he jumps back, looking startled. Maybe I overreacted. I'll go for humor again.
Johnny: "Why not? What is it?"
Me: "You ever watch James Bond flicks? Old Bond...the real Bond? Connery."
Johnny: "Yeah, I've seen a few of 'em. Why?"
Me: "Remember Goldfinger, and Bond's Aston Martin?"
Johnny: "I've seen Goldfinger. What's an Aston Martin?"
Me: "That was his tricked out sports car. Remember the mods? Tire slashing hubs, oil slick sprayer, smoke screen blower, and...."
Johnny: "Yeah, I remember."
Me: "And a passenger seat ejector."
Johnny: "Yeah, so?"
Me: We modified this truck for the road trip, same as Bond's car. Push that button and you'll activate the ejector seat. You'll blast through the roof 30 feet into the Montana sky."
Johnny: Pauses...furrows his brow...looks at the button, looks at me, then finally, laughing..."You're $hittin' me. Right?"
Me: "Yeah. I'm $hittin' you."
The intersection clears, and I tell Johnny he can satisfy his curiousity and push the button. He taps it twice and there's a barely audible beep-beep, sounds you'd expect from the roadrunner cartoon character, but weaker. Few bystanders even bother to glance our way. Johnny laughs again. "That's some horn you've got there." At least he's laughing. Whatever it takes.
He tells me to drive north on Main, leaving uptown Butte behind. We climb Granite Mountain, crossing streets named after rocks and minerals--Granite, Quartz, and of course Copper. Johnny is quiet, at one point gesturing to the left in the direction of an older neighborhood. He says "We live over there, in my Grandfather's house." I tell him that it looks like a nice area. He nods, says "Yeah, it is, or was," but doesn't offer an explanation, and we continue up the mountain in silence.
Minutes pass and Johnny says "When I was a kid we used to call this Butte Hill. Like Boot Hill. Get it? Boot Hill....Butte Hill. Like in the western movies. We played up here, cowboys and Indians, imagined it was Dodge City. I was always Marshall Dillon. Just a silly kid thing I guess." Kid thing indeed. I never missed an episode of Gunsmoke. It always began with the marshall facing off against a bad guy, quickly dispatching him with his trusty Colt .45, then walking through Boot Hill Cemetery philosophizing. I memorized his words and rattled them off at every opportunity to anyone who'd listen, usually embarrassing my parents. Funny how these things burrow deep into your brain and surface decades later. I could probably still recite Marshall Dillon's soliloquy and not be off by more than a few words. It went something like this...
"Each time I come up here to Boot Hill, I think of all the men that I watched die. Some died a coward's death, some died standing up in good style. More than a few of these, I've had a part in--I'm Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall. Standing here looking out over the high plains, I try to remember that Dodge is a pretty rough camp, but there's a lot of good to be found there."
Once a kid, always, so yeah Johnny, I get it. He says we'll drive all the way up Main Street to Walkerville, on the outskirts of Butte. In the late 1800's Walkerville was a mining boom town, but now only a few hundred people remain; what's left is part of the Butte historic district. Not quite a ghost town, but getting there. We reach the end of Main and Johnny tells me to turn right onto the dirt road just after Saint Lawrence Catholic Church. I turn at the little white church and less than a mile down the road there's a small parking lot, and a foot path leading to the Granite Mountain overlook.
I read about this place in a pamphlet at Gamer's Cafe and it didn't hold much interest, but Johnny insisted that I see it, and here we are. I follow him up the path and notice again that there's a little hitch in his gait. We're at 6,800 feet; the temp is hovering around freezing, and there's a slippery glaze on the path, making it treacherous even for the sure footed. I see that he has some difficulty negotiating the slight grade, but I know he's proud and this time I don't offer to help. He soldiers on without complaining and eventually we make it to the overlook. According to a sign at the entry, the Granite Mountain Memorial "is dedicated to the 168 men who lost their lives in hard rock mining's greatest disaster," the Speculator Mine fire of 1917. It's an open air plaza, a simple slab of concrete that looks like a big chess board, paved with red bricks inscribed with remembrances of those who perished. At one corner of the plaza are cement pillars topped with plaques honoring the dead. The memorial itself isn't much to see, and of all the places in Butte he could have suggested, this seems a strange choice. Others must feel the same, because there's no one else here.
Johnny walks to the far corner of the plaza and leans against one of the cement pillars. I do the same, and begin to understand why we're here. The sight is surreal, a panoramic view of the Highland Mountains and the Continental Divide, and scattered down the mountainside there's Butte, and decaying remnants of a once booming mining industry. Parts of the vista look like battlefields, low hanging clouds of smoke hovering in the air, and it's quiet, eerily quiet. The city extends from Walkerville on down the mountain, a patchwork of old and new spilling into the flats of the valley below. From the overlook we can see a sprawl of new houses and strip shopping centers hugging the interstate highway, but even an outsider can tell that the soul of Butte remains on the hill, in it's abandoned mines and tattered city center, in an uptown marred by vacant lots interspersed with magnificent old buildings, many of them now boarded shut. Looking east, the central business district falls abruptly into the toxic Berkeley Pit, and on the west side it melds with an old neighborhood of brick houses in varying states of disrepair. Johnny tells me that mine bosses and engineers once lived in the better homes, and higher on the hill stand row upon row of modest wooden houses, miner's houses, snaking upward in bands among the hulks of abandoned mine yards.
I walk around the plaza, take in the views from every direction, snap a few pics, and make a show of checking my watch. We've been here for at least 15 minutes and I'm sure that I've seen everything there is to see, but Johnny is still gazing into the distance and hasn't moved from his pillar. I walk toward him intending to suggest that we move along, and notice that he's shaking again. I'm hot natured and rarely bothered by the cold, but wind gusts are ripping down the mountain and across the plaza, slicing through my windbreaker, and I'm beginning to feel a chill. He's a skinny little guy, not even wearing a jacket; if I'm cold, he has to be freezing.
Me: "Hey, you're shaking. Want to borrow my windbreaker? Or a jacket? I have a jacket in the truck."
Johnny: "No. I'm good. I'm not that cold. I don't get cold. My condition makes me shake. It's a nervous thing."
Me: "We should probably be going anyway."
Johnny: "I want to thank you for bringing me up here."
Me: "You're welcome, but I thought you brought me. You can come here any time."
Johnny: "No, I don't get up here much. Too far for me to walk, and I don't drive. Can't drive."
Me: "It is peaceful."
Johnny: "Yeah, and usually there's no one here. It's not easy to find, not that big of a tourist attraction."
Me: "I can see that."
Johnny: "I've been coming up here since I was eight years old. Not to the memorial; it's new. To the mountain. Used to ride my bike up here. I've climbed all over this hill, camped, hunted, drank bootleg beer. Brought my girl up here to park when I was in high school. The city lights are really something. You should see them at night."
Me: "I'll bet they are, but, ahh, I've gotta get on the road pretty soon."
That was a hint, but Johnny doesn't answer. He turns away and stares down into the valley, toward the city. I'm getting impatient and start to clear my throat, but he starts talking.
Johnny: "You ever have a time in your life when everything changed? Like a dividing line between the first part of your life and the rest of your life? One day you're one person, something happens, and the next day you're someone else?"
Me: "I don't know. Maybe. I guess I never thought about it."
Johnny: "I came up here with my girl the night before I shipped out. Parked right over there. I remember we talked all night."
Me: "Lot of memories for you here."
Johnny: "Yeah...I had a sweet '64 Chevelle. A red Malibu; we called it whorehouse red. Loved that car. Never saw it again after that night. Or my girl. Came back three years later and everything was different. My girl was gone, my car was sold, and I was messed up worse than I am now. That's my dividing line--that night up here. That's the last time I remember being a regular person. The last good time. I was eighteen."
What do you say to that? I can't think of anything. Not a damn thing.
Johnny: "You still want to know what happened to my arm?"
Me: "Look, I already apologized. It's none of my business and I'm sorry I asked."
Johnny: "The truth is, I don't know what happened. I was Army, 1st Air Cav, halfway through my tour. In the Nam, ya know. Never even got to take my R&R. We were on patrol. I guess there were four of us. They tell me I was on point. Depending on who you believe, I either got us lost, or they were sprayin' that $hit in the wrong damn place. I remember hearing a chopper, I remember screaming that I was on fire. Then nothing. I woke up in a hospital. Spent the better part of two years in and out of hospitals, part of it in a burn unit down in Texas. Army hospital in San Antonio. Good people, but they couldn't do nuthin' for me. F**kin' napalm."
Again, I don't know what to say. I wonder where he was taken first. I wonder if I could have picked this guy up in the bush and deposited him at a field hospital, or one of the Navy hospital ships off shore. Highly unlikely; that only happens in the movies and besides, there's no way to know. I don't even mention the possibility. He keeps talking.
Johnny: "I'll tell you one goddam thing. I know I didn't get us lost. They gave me a bronze, so I must have done something right. Ya know. I did my job...I did my job."
Me: "That's something you should be proud of. That they honored your service."
Jesus Christ, what a lame ass thing to say to this poor guy. If that's the best I can do, I should just shut up.
Johnny: "Bull$hit. Everybody got medals. At first they said I couldn't remember because I had a stress disorder. Later they said I had post traumatic amnesia. Hell, I could have told them that. A shrink at the VA hospital said he could help me remember. I told him I'd appreciate it if he didn't help me remember. The only thing I want to remember is what I'm remembering right here, before the dividing line. You know that song "White Rabbit? Grace Slick from back in the 70's?"
Me: "Yeah, I know it."
Johnny: "I'm not sayin' I understand it, but it kinda describes the way I feel most of the time. Like some days I'm half crazy, and other days everyone else is crazy and I'm not, and I have trouble figuring out which is which."
He gestures at the chessboard pattern of the plaza.
Johnny: "That's what this reminds me of, White Rabbit. I know the lyrics by heart, most of them. And Alice...that was my girl's name."
When the men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice, I think she'll know
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice, I think she'll know
....to be continued
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Always worth the wait commander thanks
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- #1,299
40 Tech: Redneck Horn Button
Forgot to post this important 40 tech photo. This is the actual doorbell button that I mounted in the center of The Turtle's dash and wired into the horn circuit. It looked ridiculous but it worked, and it got us through the Texas safety inspection.
Uncle Meldon surgically removed the button later, in Hawaii, but kept it for sentimental reasons. He sent me this pic.
Forgot to post this important 40 tech photo. This is the actual doorbell button that I mounted in the center of The Turtle's dash and wired into the horn circuit. It looked ridiculous but it worked, and it got us through the Texas safety inspection.
Uncle Meldon surgically removed the button later, in Hawaii, but kept it for sentimental reasons. He sent me this pic.
Great chapter. Thank you!
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