Thanksgiving 2012

Over the past week or so, I have been spendin' most of my spare time over at my father-in-law's place in Clifton.
Clifton is an old neighborhood near downtown Louisville- old two and three -story houses. I'm guessin' most are gettin' close to a hundred years old. Some have been converted into apartments, with long sets of stairs and small landings zig-zaggin' along their sides, supplyin' entrance and egress to the less fortunate not on the first floor. Some are still single-family, housin' young couples who enjoy the urban vibe or older folks that have amassed many years in their respective dwellings. A number of small restaurants and bars are within walkin' distance, as well as grocery and drug stores, quirky little shops... Cool spot.
Mike and Evelyn had been shoppin' for new kitchen flooring and had settled on a vinyl plank product- peel-and-stick, four inches by three feet, faux wood pattern. I had a couple friends at work that had recently used a nearly identical product and they were quite satisfied. I had taken some measurements, told them what they would need, then offered to put it down and replace the trim. Evelyn refused to let me do it for nothin', so I agreed to do it for a couple hundred bucks and some Guinness. The toughest part would be makin' from scratch the transition pieces where the new floor would end and the old floor began. But that would be the fun part. Also, they were havin' people over for Thanksgiving Dinner, and I wanted to get as close to done as I could, wanted it to look nice for 'em.
One afternoon, I pulled up all the base trim, gettin' lucky and not breakin' a single piece. Over the next couple evenings, they had given the existing vinyl the big cleanin', and the plan was to go right over the old vinyl with the new.
Sunday, I got to work layin' the new flooring- it was goin' well and it was lookin' good. By Tuesday night, all that was left was the completion of the transitions. I had picked up a number of small pieces of red oak and some flat-head brass screws for this. I would ease all the top edges of the oak, use the thicker boards to reconcile the height difference, then cap it with the thinnest pieces, coverin' the edge of the new flooring. I already had stain and polyurethane. Perfect.
I took the oak blanks home with me. After work on Wednesday, I would work them down with a sander, stain and seal 'em, then head to Clifton where I could cut it all to length and get it in place. By the time company started rollin' in on Turkey Day, the floor would be in great shape. (Baseboard paint touch-up would have to wait until another day- not enough time.)
I left work at two o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, usin' two hours of discretionary time, allowin' me to get a slight jump on the sandin' of the oak. I had forgotten: the red oak was hard as freakin' stone. Even with my head start, I was losin' time. And this was my last day before the Holiday.
I hustled through the sandin' then stained all the blanks and set 'em on an old sheet inside the rear gate of Angela's old 2003 Town and Country.
(This was a good vehicle. Two hundred plus mile and still in fairly good shape- ran well, decent gas mileage, radio was good and the heat and air still worked. It had hauled my people to countless ballgames, family get-togethers, birthday parties. We used it to move the two oldest off to college, traveled together to Florida, the list goes on...)
The stain could dry on the way to Clifton. I would put a coat of polyurethane on 'em as soon as I got there, caulk the baseboard and quarter round while that dried, then get to cuttin' and placin' the oak. Good plan, with no time wasted. I headed out for the final round. It was eight o'clock. It had already gotten dark.
I made it to Mike's, gathered the oak from the rear of the van, and headed in to begin the execution of the plan. I laid out the blanks across two sections of two by four in the basement floor, Black Friday sale ads spread beneath to catch the overspray. I shook the can of polyurethane for a minute or so, coated the nine pieces of stained oak, then moved upstairs and used a wet scrap of an old tee shirt to run the painter's caulk along the trim.
After the caulk was run, I checked on the sealed blanks- they were ready. I immediately set to work cuttin' and fittin' the thresholds. Slow and tedious. There were five spots, and each had different measures. By the time I had completed the last, it was three o'clock Thanksgiving Morning.
Mike had put a pillow and blanket on the living room couch. After midnight, I had told him I would stay and catch a few before I headed home. I loaded all my hand tools, my old beater chop saw (that weighs around sixty pounds and is over twenty years old), and my work backpack into the van. This took three trips. The night was clear and still. It wasn't even cold. Cool, but not cold.
So, at three thirty Thanksgiving Morning, standin' on the sidewalk in Clifton, I decided I would break for home. Wake up in my own bed in a few hours, shower, head on down to Dad's place. I made one last trip into the house and pulled the Guinness carton from the kitchen 'fridge. It held only two bottles, but I had a good idea that the garage 'fridge at home didn't hold much more. No cause to leave 'em here. I locked the front door behind me as I left.
The thirty minute or so trip home lay before me. At this point, I had been up for about twenty-two hours. This had been a crazy busy week, and it was gonna be good to get back to the house. My house. I made my way down Frankfort Avenue and circled 'round to I-64. Up and on and runnin' East. Home in thirty.
I recall comin' over the ridge about a half mile or so from the house. It would be across the creek bridge, around the last bend, and into the straight stretch that passed by the drive. A right turn would drop me off onto the drive and up to the house.
I didn't make it.
You know how you hear those stories about people managin' to crash close to the house?
At around fifty miles an hour and four hundred yards from the house, I fell asleep.
As best as I can tell, blowin' through the woven wire fence did not awaken me. Crossin' the drainage ditch that passed under the road and across the field at a roughly ninety degree angle did. A couple feet deep and about four feet wide, this ditch was just a tiny bit more than the ol' Chrysler could clear cleanly. As the front of the van caught the far side of the ditch, a whole lotta stuff happened in an instant: both front wheels were sheared away, air bags deployed (and, yeah, they do kinda smell bad), and I took the first lick to my head. It was then that I woke up- to an incredibly compartmentalized car crash. The doors had sprung, which had, in turn, lit the interior lights. The headlight buckets were gone. So, after what was, I suppose, about a five second nap, I found myself a participant in a Wreck in Progress, devoid of exterior lighting.
For all the lack of visual input beyond the cabin, it was still immediately obvious that me and the Chrysler were partners in far more than takin' out a few mailboxes. With each successive jolt, I was pitched upward, hard, and the top of the van was pushed down a tiny bit more, to meet some part of the top of my head. I remember thinkin' that this vehicle was definitely gonna be a write-off, and couldn't help but wonder what my physical state would wind up bein'. If I got clear at all.
But, in true car crash fashion, it was over as abruptly as it had begun. The van had completed three complete end-over-end flips and had covered around four hundred fifty feet "off road".
There I sat. Upright. The remaining two wheels on the ground. Headlights gone, dome lights on, radio still playin'. The airbags hung from the dash like giant, wilted Mornin' Glory blossoms. The top of the cabin only a few inches from the top of my head. The lone piece of glass was the windshield, crazed and jammed into the deformed, pinched-down hole in front of me. All other panes had broke rank, disintegrated and scattered.
I forced the sprung driver's door open enough to squeeze my skinny-ass out. Shoes were on my feet, wallet and snips in my right-hand hip pocket, my phone still in my left, front. My right hand is completely covered in blood, but, after all, I'm takin' thinners. This ain't nothin'. I've seen worse than this.
I drag out my phone and flip open the cover. My glasses are gone. Bars? Couldn't tell ya. I can see well enough to choose the dial pad and dial home- recording. Somethin' to the effect of "middle of nowhere, coverage sucks..." Somethin' like that. I shuffle around the Chrysler's lifeless carcass, continuing to try and get through to the house. Finally...!
Hello? I've crashed the shit outta your van. I'm close. Turn left off the lane, I ain't far...
Are you drunk?
No....!
I mill around the vehicle- it's a debris field. Wasn't nothin' left inside but me and a shitload of broken glass. I assumed I had dropped into the ditch, then rolled the Ol' Gal a couple times. But I can't find no blacktop.
I hear a car comin'. Can't be Angela- I'm close, but still too soon. I move close to the van. Don't wanna get tagged. In seconds I'm gonna have a grip on where the road is. I watch as a car comes around the bend and passes me by. Damn! I ain't even remotely close to the road! Gotta be a hundred feet away, at least.
The next car is Angela. She passes me up, but backs into the space in front of the gate I had just barely missed. I head that way- passin' tools, car body parts, wheels, and make my way through the ditch and up to her car. I have her point her car lights down toward the "scene", and I manage to locate my work backpack that holds my pad and my laptop, along with all my other day-to-day tools. I also spot and retrieve one of the two unopened Extra Stouts that I had plucked from Mike's 'fridge earlier.
Home. The plan was to get some shut eye, then on to Renfro Valley for dinner. Instead, I wash the blood from my face and hands, change my shirt, and Angela drives me to the hospital in Shelbyville. (Angela picks up extra hours here, part time, and the place is small, so the comfort level is quite high.) I call the sheriff's office on the way- fell asleep, just me, interior lights on, out in a cow pasture, highway 148, around the fourth mile marker.
CAT scan and some poke around and questions and I am pronounced Lucky as Hell. Deputy Kennedy shows up and we cover the necessary details. (A good man.)
Angela takes me home. The worse thing I come away with is a funky bloody left eye. That, and some knots on my head, general car crash soreness. But, my eyeglasses and the spare vehicle are no more.
We scratch our original Thanksgiving plans of scatterin' in different directions and, instead, Angela makes a grocery run. The two from Lexington show up, and we pull a fifth chair from the desk in the living room and we all sit around our tiny kitchen table and have Thanksgiving Dinner together. Just the five of us. Just us. Hours before, in the blink of an eye, I questioned my own survival. Now, here we sit.
Thanksgiving?
Yep. I'm thinkin' this fits.

Fish

No Free Lunch

I happened to be privvy to a conversation the other day, (post-Presidential Election) and it got me thinkin'...

It started out innocently enough- someone statin' that they felt that the teachers in our public school system were underpaid and how much they appreciated them and the work that they do. Another person commented that they felt the teachers were overpaid and failed to do the job with which they are tasked.

(Obviously, both of these statements are generalizations. One would assume that each of these folks may have intended for some quantifier, such as "most" or "some" or "many", to be implied. Nothing is absolute, right...?)

The first person responded with what seemed to be an attempt to clarify what I had felt was a very straightforward statement, appearin' to be startled by the coarse response from her friend.

I watched and listened, both fascinated and shocked as the conversation quickly took an abrupt and bizarre turn.

The second person then continued with a string of comments in rapid succession. The first proclamation- that the food being served to her children during school lunch was positively inedible and that (I ain't makin' this up), it was all the fault of Michelle Obama. Yeah, that Michelle Obama. Pretty sure the only Michelle Obama you know of. The President's wife.

Her friend countered, politely, that the meals at her childrens' school were actually not bad for cafeteria food, and that the cafeteria personnel were quite creative when it came to the menu and preparation of the food. She added that during her volunteer opportunities there, she had, relatively speakin', enjoyed what was served.

But the cap was off the bottle and had been tossed away.

Next, her friend countered that some children weren't even required to pay for their lunch and, via some obscure logic, she posited that this shortfall in the revenue stream lowered the quality of school meals for all, and that it wasn't fair that her children should have to "suffer" because the parents of others could not pay "their share." Ultimately, this stream of thought devolved into the proclamation that this group of unfortunates was not her problem. I don't recall much beyond this, other than that it was basically more of the same. Thankfully, the conversation burned out quickly. Me? I was havin' a tough time gettin' past this irritation with hungry children.

When my family moved from Indiana to Brindle Ridge, Kentucky, Rockcastle was one of the poorest of all one hundred, twenty counties. I was in third grade and I remember clearly on that first day of school, Mrs. McKinney (a woman I fondly recall as a beautiful, dark-haired twenty-somethin') called roll, then immediately followed it by callin' for a show of hands from all the kids present that were gettin' "free lunch." This was typically around one in four of the kids in my class. I also noticed that these same kids had the three cent cost of mornin' milk break waived. Three cents. Three. If I am not mistaken, the cost of lunch was twenty-five cents.

This concept of "free lunch" was a new one for me. Near the end of the first week of school, I had to ask one of my classmates why he didn't pay for his meal. I remember him explainin' to me, in as few words as he could, that his family did not have enough money for him to pay. I wasn't a dumb kid, but the thought that someone couldn't afford what was literally this small amount of change never entered my mind. Maybe the fact that there were no fat kids in Mrs. McKinney's third grade class should have tipped me off. That, and the fact that the room was filled with worn shirts with stick arms hangin' from the sleeves, and pants that were worn at the cuff, but were now too short to cover the tops of their socks.

In 2010, 17.2 million U.S. households (14.5 percent/approximately one in seven) were "food insecure." Food insecurity is defined as "limited or uncertain availability of nutritionally adequate and safe foods or uncertain ability to acquire acceptable foods in socially acceptable ways." This can lead to malnutrition. It is also estimated that at least thirteen million of our country's children go to bed hungry every night, or about one in four.

Malnutrition has been shown to affect cognitive development among young children and can affect school performance in children of all ages, as well as contributin' to a host of other health issues. Research shows that with hunger comes more frequent sickness and therefore higher health care costs. It can alter the brain architecture, stunting intellectual capacity and a child's ability to learn and interact with others.

I'm not gonna say that everyone should volunteer regularly at their local food bank or homeless shelter, or that everyone should make it a point to make regular contributions of time or money to organizations and agencies that work to combat this problem so that the world would be a better place. I think this goes without sayin'.

But, I will say that I personally find begrudgin' a hungry kid a decent meal borders on despicable.

So, when you sit down at the table and pick up your fork and spread your napkin in your lap, you should remember the people that, at that same moment, are doin' without enough food to eat and sustain their bodies and keep them in a reasonably healthy state. And, at the end of that good meal, when you have eaten all you cared to eat and have pushed away from the table, satisfied and lethargic, remember that many of those hungry are children, and are in that situation through no fault of their own.

If you feel that your taxes are too high, don't bitch about the small portion that might allow a skinny grade school kid to focus on his or her schoolwork, rather than the emptiness gnawin' at their gut. It's actually quite ugly.

Fish

James S. Fish, U.S. Army

This is somethin' I put together for Dad a couple years ago. I had spent several years either askin' to "borrow" old pictures of his Time in the Service, or siphonin' 'em away when he wasn't watchin'. I had posted it a while back on the Facebook, but I thought I would drop it out here. Used the cheesey Windows Movie Maker, which I knew nothin' about. I thought the scannin' of all the pictures was tough, but my ignorance and lack of experience with the process proved to be far worse. I had chosen the music years before, when I had first thought of doin' this. Turned out okay. Dad was stunned when I queued it up on his DVD player. He was a litlte misty when it was over. Then he asked for all his pictures back... Fish

http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=z1SOtSUBgVg&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3Dz1SOtSUBgVg

Little Timmy's Election Year Dictionary (Abridged)

Ambivalent- having ”mixed feelings about someone or something; being unable to choose between two (usually opposing) courses of action.
Balanced- being in harmonious or proper arrangement or adjustment, proportion, etc.
Bigot- a person who is intolerant of any ideas other than his or her own, esp on religion, politics, or race.
Bigotry- stubborn and complete intolerance of any creed, belief, or opinion that differs from one's own.
Bipartisan- representing, characterized by, or including members from two parties or factions.
Buy-to acquire by exchange or concession, to buy favor with flattery, to hire or obtain the services of, to bribe.
Cheat- to deceive; influence by fraud, to elude; deprive of something expected.
Cheater- a person or thing that cheats.
Contribute- to give (money, food, etc.) to a common supply, fund, etc.
Contributor- a person who contributes money, assistance, etc.
Citizen- an inhabitant of a city or town, especially one entitled to its privileges or franchise, an inhabitant, or denizen.
Citizenship- the state of being vested with the rights, privileges, and duties of a citizen, the character of an individual viewed as a member of society; behavior in terms of the duties, obligations, and functions of a citizen.
Competent- adequate but not exceptional.
Conservative- disposed to preserve existing conditions, institutions, etc., or to restore traditional ones, and to limit change.
Conservation- the careful utilization of a natural resource in order to prevent depletion.
Deceit- an act or device intended to deceive; trick; stratagem, the quality of being deceitful; duplicity; falseness.
to mislead by a false appearance or statement; delude.
Decide- to determine or settle (something in dispute or doubt).
Decision- the act of or need for making up one's mind.
Dishonest- not honest; disposed to lie, cheat, or steal; not worthy of trust or belief.
Fair- free from bias, dishonesty, or injustice.
Fascism- any ideology, movement, programme, tendency, etc, that may be characterized as right-wing, chauvinist, authoritarian, etc.
Fascist- a person who is dictatorial or has extreme right-wing views.
Fact- something that actually exists; reality; truth, something known to exist or to have happened, a truth known by actual experience or observation; something known to be true.
Factual- based on or restricted to facts.
False- uttering or declaring what is untrue: a false witness, not faithful or loyal; treacherous: a false friend.
Falsehood- something false; an untrue idea, belief, etc.
Fear- a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined.
Fearmonger- a person who creates or spreads alarming news.
Flipflop- to change suddenly, as from one side or party to another.
Free- exempt from external authority, interference, restriction, etc., as a person or one's will, thought, choice, action, etc.; independent; unrestricted.
Freedom- exemption from external control, interference, regulation, etc., the power to determine action without restraint, political or national independence.
Hatemonger- one who arouses hatred for others.
Honest- honorable in principles, intentions, and actions; upright and fair: an honest person, showing uprightness and fairness: honest dealings.
Honesty- truthfulness, sincerity, or frankness, freedom from deceit or fraud.
Honor- honesty, fairness, or integrity in one's beliefs and actions.
Incompetent- not possessing the necessary ability, skill, etc. to do or carry out a task; incapable.
Integrity- adherence to moral and ethical principles; soundness of moral character; honesty.
Interests- a business, cause, or the like in which a person has a share, concern, responsibility, etc.
Liberal- relating to or having social and political views that favor progress and reform; giving and generous in temperament or behavior; tolerant of other people.
Liberty- the power of choosing, thinking, and acting for oneself; freedom from control or restriction.
Lie- a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood.
Manipulate- to manage or influence skillfully, especially in an unfair manner: to manipulate people's feelings.
Mislead- to lead or guide wrongly; lead astray; to lead into error of conduct, thought, or judgment.
Morality- conformity, or degree of conformity, to conventional standards of moral conduct.
Myopic- unable or unwilling to act prudently; shortsighted; lacking tolerance or understanding; narrow-minded.
Nationalism- exaggerated, passionate, or fanatical devotion to a national community.
Outsourcing- paying another company to provide services which a company might otherwise have employed its own staff to perform.
Pander- a person who caters to or profits from the weaknesses or vices of others.
Patriot- a person who vigorously supports his country and its way of life.
Patriotism- devoted love, support, and defense of one's country; national loyalty.
Politics- any activity concerned with the acquisition of power, gaining one's own ends, etc.
Prejudice- unreasonable feelings, opinions, or attitudes, especially of a hostile nature, regarding a racial, religious, or national group.
Racism- the belief that races have distinctive cultural characteristics determined by hereditary factors and that this endows some races with an intrinsic superiority over others.
Right- ( sometimes capital ) of, designating, supporting, belonging to, or relating to the political or intellectual right; conservative or reactionary: the right wing of the party.
Righteous- morally justifiable or right, especially from one's own point of view.
Steal- to take (the property of another or others) without permission or right, especially secretly or by force; to appropriate (ideas, credit, words, etc.) without right or acknowledgment.
Subtilise- to elevate in character; sublimate, to introduce subtleties into or argue subtly about.
Tax- a compulsory financial contribution imposed by a government to raise revenue, levied on the income or property of persons or organizations, on the production costs or sales prices of goods and services, etc.
Trick- a crafty or underhanded device, maneuver, stratagem, or the like, intended to deceive or cheat.
True- being in accordance with the actual state or conditions; conforming to reality or fact; not false; sincere; not deceitful.
Truth- conformity with fact or reality; verity: the truth of a statement; a verified or indisputable fact, proposition, principle, or the like.
Virtue- moral excellence; goodness; righteousness; conformity of one's life and conduct to moral and ethical principles; uprightness; rectitude.
Wrong- deviating from truth or fact; erroneous: a wrong answer; not correct in action, judgment, opinion, method, etc., as a person; in error.

Work In Progress...

This is a mockup of an idea I've been haulin' around in my head for about fifteen years, but never executed. A couple weeks ago, I sculpted the figure from a clay-like material that you can fire at home in your oven. It's about an inch and a half long. The butterfly was made by another. This is actually a screen image of a butterfly on my tablet, with my tiny sculpt just laid on top of it. The actual butterfly is around four and a quarter inches across. Once I scratch up about forty bucks I can purchase this butterfly mounted in a simple shadow box. Then I'll have a couple small decisions to make and I can assemble the finished product. I'll let y'all see how it turns out...
Fish

Daddy Long Legs

     So, over the weekend, I'm out movin' around, doin' what I do on the weekends- stayin' in constant motion, bein' careful to not  accomplish too much.  (If you actually "accomplish" too much, in too short a period of time, then you limit your future options.  The best tack is to start as many things as come to mind, then leave them is various states of  incompletion.  This way, your options forward are nearly limitless.)

     But, I digress.

     So, I'm movin' through the garage and some motion catches my eye: low on the wall, nearly on the floor.  I look down an see a pair of daddy long legs, their spindly legs entangled, their tiny oval-shaped primary bodies touching.  My initial reaction is to look away, embarrassed.  (I thought they might be doin' it.)  Then, mammal reason/curiosity gets the best of me, and I am compelled to look closer.  After a two second study, I realize that this is a conflict.  A conflagration. 

     This begged a plethora, (yes, I used that), of questions.

     First, what do a couple of spindly spiders have to fight about?  A girlfriend?  What could she be that's worth fightin' for?  Gotta be as ugly as they are.  In fact, gotta be exactly as ugly as they are.  They all look the same, right?  Wait a minute- is this a couple males fightin', or a couple females mix in' it up?  Or, is this a primal "domestic" dispute?  Is there even such a thing?  You know it ain't a fight over "stuff".  These are spiders.  And like most bugs, they would be considered poor, due to their lack of possessions.  (An't got no house.  Ain't even got pockets.)

     That brings us back to the basic point:  Maybe spiders don't need a good reason, or even a bad one.  Maybe they would fight simply because they're in the same place at the same time.  Maybe it's in their nature.  The only way I can stop the confrontation would be to crush them both.  An incredibly simple solution.  Then again, it ain't really none of my business.  So, if this be the case, then the identity of the victor is inconsequential.

                                                                                                                                         Fish

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

       

Tuesday Night...

     A couple weeks ago, Tuesday afternoon- I get a call from my Middle One.  His Mom had picked him up some stuff, and he's busy with work and school, so he asks if there's any way I could meet him in Frankfort later- bring the stuff from Mom, as well as a short stack of mail I'd been pilin' on the dresser in his old room.  A couple weeks into his sophomore year at UK.  Lexington.  Not close, but not far.  From Shelby County, East of Louisville, a run to Lexington to see either one of Two Oldest is only about an hour or so.  The Wife and the Oldest One like to take I-64 East, all the way to Newtown Pike, then South to Town and Campus.  Me and the Middle One like gettin' off the highway at Midway, then runnin' straight East.  No turns.  The Old Road.  Turns into Main.  So I tell 'em, "You ain't gotta come that far: Frankfort.  Just come out toward Midway and meet me at that little station at the bottom of the hill, right at the highway."
     That little station has been there at least since I was nineteen.  I can remember it bein' there then, when I first started runnin' this road from home.  As many times as I've been past it in thirty years or so, I only stopped a couple times.  I can remember it bein' closed for a year or two at a time.  Not really typical for an intestate exit- just this one little station, strugglin', I guess, to stay in business. Nothin' else but this station.  A small building, really steep roof.  Shape and dimensions that would look more at home on somebody's little lot down by the Lake.  They didn't sell beer, and the gas was never particularly cheap.  Maybe that played into it- me almost never stoppin'.  Others...
     So a game plan was agreed upon: I would gather up things and head that way- the longest leg, but nearly all highway.  The Middle One would have the shorter, but slower leg- Main Street West, past New Circle, the old Coca-Cola Plant, the Detention Center.  The road would narrow from four lanes to two.  City would surrender to country: fields, barns, old and older homes, dry-stack stone walls and wood plank fences.  Not a bad ride.
     I reach our shared destination first.  A right at the top of the ramp, another at the solitary caution light, then down the slight grade and into the lot.  It looks kinda dark, but the lights over the pumps are burnin' and there's an older Buick pulled along side, the driver's door open and a Big Guy leanin' against the front of the car, his arms folded tight across his chest.  I continue straight across the lot, wheel a sharp one-eighty, and back my car to the edge of the asphalt.  I shut the engine off and turn the radio down a little.  Checkin' the the time on my phone: I'm a little early.  Good.  
     I get out and head toward the store, get a pop or somethin', lookin' in my wallet as I walk.  See how close I am to broke.  It ain't until I've passed the car and the pumps that I lift my head and see the hand-written paper sign taped to the inside of the glass and wrought iron door, (a door whose obvious first purpose is to keep things out, not let things in).  "Closed".  Now things are beginnin' to seem a little strange.  I turn and head back toward my car, and then realize the Big Guy guy ain't alone.  A couple brown boy kids, maybe five years old, pop from the back seat as a back door swngs open, and begin to pogo around the car as if they had springs on their feet.  Giant kid smiles across their faces. 
     I make my way on across the lot to my car, climb back in and watch the scene of miniature chaos. The Big Guy is clearly not havin' the same experience as the two Little Ones.  There is someone else in the front seat of his car, but I can't see clearly.  After a few minutes, the Big Guy walks one of the Little Ones over near the dumpster off to my left.  There's a ragged loveseat alongside the dumpster, ditched by someone who I reckon didn't feel like payin' for garbage pickup.  I'm thinkin' that this Little One musta had to take a pee.  Broke down with little kids in tow.  That sucks.
     After the Big Guy and the Little One start back to their car, I get out and head back that way.
     "Hey Man, you outta gas?  I'm meetin' one of my sons here any time now, but after that, I can go to the next exit and bring you back some fuel..."
     "No, but thanks.  Her Dad is supposed to be comin' with some gas.  But thanks."  Must be the other person in the car.
     "Yeah, outta gas when the kids are with you, that stinks.  Just wanted to ask ya and see if somebody was comin'."  I'm feelin' kinda awkward now.  The Big Guy was already annoyed, now he seems a little embarrassed, and I'm bettin' he ain't embarrassed very often by somebody like me.
     "Yeah.  Thanks."
     I head back to my car.  I turn and lean against the driver's door, in an effort to look relaxed, tryin' not to show my discomfort. Another car turns onto the lot.  My Middle Kid.  He pulls straight down next to me.  "Sorry I'm late, Pops.  Got caught up in somethin' and lost track of time."
     "No big deal.  Ain't been here no more than ten minutes, or so."
     I reach through the window, grab his bag of stuff, and pass it to 'em.  He drops it in the passenger's seat and steps out.
     We stand leanin' against our respective rides and he tells me about how he's thinkin' about quittin' one of his two jobs because he's workin' his ass off and they're a hateful bunch.  I listen, then tell him that if he ain't likin' it, quit, and that I think he's doin' too much anyway- two jobs on top of a full plate in school...  He says he's probably gonna give 'em notice, but that he's already looked into a job to replace that one and it looks like he's in.  
     I used to tell my kids what to do.  Now, I just listen, and maybe give a little advice, encouragement.  After which they usually tell me what they have already decided to do, and I nod slowly and try and look wise.  They're movin' away from me and there ain't nothin' I can do but watch.
     Another car, a nice SUV, pulls into the lot, circles, and stops at the pumps opposite the Big Guy.  The Middle One is still tellin' me about his new job prospects and I'm lookin' over his right shoulder as SUV Guy messes around at the pump for a few seconds, then begins to pump gas into his tank.  I am feelin' really confused...
     "Hey Man-  I thought this station was closed..."
     "Yeah, but I think if you have plastic, you can still get gas," explains the Middle One.
     "Apparently."
     Weird.  The Middle One continues his story and SUV Guy returns the hose to its restin' place, taps a couple buttons, then takes his receipt, climbs in and bolts for the highway, never once acknowledgin' the presence of the Big Guy, the Little Ones, or Her.  Before SUV Guy can get outta sight, a fairly new pickup turns in and drives up to the pumps.  Pretty damn busy for a gas station that can't decide if it's open or closed.  A middle-aged, bearded man steps out and begins talkin' to the Big Guy, while liftin' a gas can from the bed of his truck.  His passenger, another middle-aged man, but clean-shaven, thinner than the Bearded Man, exits the truck and joins the others as they go about the business of dumpin' gas into the old car.  Wow.  Even brought a funnel. 
     The passenger's side door of the old car swings open.  A heavy-set girl steps out beside the car, and stands against the open door, a small baby in the crook of her left arm.  This must be Her. Bearded Man walks over and begins to make over the baby, while the other two finish up with the gas can.  A few minutes later, the Big Guy shoos the two Little Ones and Her back into the car while goodbyes and thank yous are exchanged.  Both vehicles pull from under the light of the pumps and turn out onto the road, East.
     "Well Pops, I hate to rush off, but I got a big day tomorrow-classes early, then workin' 'til ten."
     "Yeah, sure.  No big deal, Mister.  Good to see ya, even if for just a little bit."
     "Thanks for bringin' my stuff."
     "Ain't nuthin', Son.  A nice night.  A nice ride.  You know all you gotta do is call..."
     Time stops for an instant, then switches back on as the Middle One reaches for his door handle.
     "Yeah, yeah, you get on back, Son.  I gotta be gettin' back, too."  He drops behind the wheel and I ease his door closed.
     "Yep, five o'clock comes mighty early..."
     "Yeah, at five o'clock."
     "Funny.  You're funny, Son!"  We're both smilin'.  I'm wonderin' if my smile looks a little sad to him, like his does to me.
     Lights and sound.  I look up.  Another car?  Ya gotta be jokin'.  A maroon car loops into the lot and steers between the pumps and the shuttered building, stops for only a second, then comtinues its arc around the pumps, stoppin' near the rear of the Middle One's car.  Through the open passenger's window, I can see a skinny girl leanin' across the seat.
     "Is this station open?"  I start in her direction.  (My hearin' sucks.)
     "I gotta go, Pops..."  I glance back: backup lights.
     "Be careful, Son."
     Back to Skinny Girl: "Well, kinda.  Store's closed, but I think if you got plastic, you can still pump gas."
    The Middle One's car begins to move.  "Bye, Pops..."
     "Bye, Son..."  Dissatisfied. 
     "I don't have any cards, but I have some money."
     "You gonna be able to make it to the next exit, or are ya 'bout out?"  I'm a couple steps closer.  In the dim light, Skinny Girl looks to be in her mid-twenties.  Not pretty, not ugly.  Plain.  Brown-headed, probably cut the same way since high school.
     "No."  She seems anxious.  The Middle One's car is now facin' the road.
     "Where you headin'?"
     "Georgetown."  That ain't but about fifteen miles or so on down the highway.
     "I got a card.  I reckon I can pump ya a little gas to get ya that far."
     "Oh please!  I have some money!"
     I walk the last few steps to the pumps as the Skinny Girl makes a second loop to bring her car back around alongside the pumps again.  My wallet is out and I pull out my debit card. 
     Skinny Girl is rattlin':  "I can pay you!  I've got some money!"
     I focus on the task at hand.  "No big deal.  Don't worry 'bout it."  Pump on, gas cap off, hose in...
     The Middle One swings near the pumps and stops:  "I love you, Pops."
     I look up. "I love you, too, Son." 
     He pulls away and heads to the East.  In the direction of his life.  Away from me.  I glance back at the numbers on the pump, rolling.
     "See?  Here's two dollars... and here's fifty more cents..."  She continues to rifle through her purse.  
     "Forget it.  I'm only gonna pump five dollars worth.  That'll get you to Georgetown."
     "My Momma's in Georgetown.  I need to get to my Momma's before my ex-husband finds me. Please, take this money..."
     "Nope."
     "I don't know what to say..."  Her voice has changed somehow.
     I look up.  Crap, she's cryin'.  I look away.  I won't look at her again.
     "You don't have to say nuthin'.  Everybody needs a little help every now and then.  I have.  Don't say nuthin..."
     Five dollars worth.  That don't take long no more.  I button up the gas cap and the pump.
     "You better get goin'."  I turn and begin to walk across the lot to my car.
     "I don't know what to say..."
     "Go on.  And be careful."
     I hear the Skinny Girl's car fire up and move away.  When I reach my car I turn and see her top the grade, turn left, then right, onto the interstate ramp, East.  Away from me.  I stand beside my car for a minute.  The key in the ignition, the radio playin'.  It's cool.  Nice.  I get in my car, head across the viaduct.  One left turn drops me down the ramp toward home, West.  I reach toward the dash and turn the radio up.

Fish