Those Were the Days: Another Humor Filled Chronicle from the 'Travels with Susie' Series

© 2011 by Gordon Grindstaff. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/13/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3997-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-3996-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

How not to buy an RV in one easy lesson

Tell Laura I love her

The little Neighbor Girl

Dear Tater

Sweet Jehovah God, He’s a comin’ in

The merits of Iodine

Pass the Sears catalogue, please

Blue Light Special!

Lansing, Michigan

Mooresville, Indiana

Susie’s Glue Gun

Anyone out there eat liver?

Every little girl should have a kitten

Good God! My grandmother???

Mongo’s d-e-d!

For God’s sake, Sheila!

Loogootee, Indiana

Aboard the Santa Ana NWR bus

Progreso, Mexico

Rio Grande River

Santa Ana NWR

Alamo, Texas

Del Rio, Texas

Where’s everybody going?

Shell, Wyoming

Yellowstone National Park

Laramie, Wyoming

Promontory Point, Utah

Mount Shasta

Pahrump, Nevada

Traveling Route 66

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Newport, Oregon

Franklin, Kentucky

Atlantic City, New Jersey

New York City

Daydreams on the Turnpike

Seattle, Washington

Fort Myers, Florida

How to get out of Florida

Me? Obsessive?? Not a chance!

Wild Bill. Buffalo Bill. Who cares?

Emigrant Springs State Park, Oregon

San Juan National Historic Site

July 4, 2010

Shingles? It must have been the lamb.

For God’s sake, Susie. Hurry up

Lopez Island

Captain George Pickett

Tide Pools

On the way to Anacortes

Will the owner of the black Jaguar XKE???

Back to Indiana

Sickness and the Wedding Vows

Next time, hold the mustard and onion

Oh crap! Is this where it starts?

Those crazy Wall Street Bastards

A Heart Surprise

Paying attention to Suppositories

She had me at Ta-ta’s.

Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette!

A load of wash

You can stick your Old Spice where the sun…

S w/ J? What is this?

An ironing board tale

But I love orange shag carpet

There’s a bit of thespian in all of us

Why, you young whippersnapper…

Touch my pouf and I’ll break your arm

A death in the family

Underwear struggles

Epilogue

Those were the days

About the Author

In memory of my siblings.

Ron Grindstaff.

October 17, 1941-November 20, 2010

Vera Rose Grindstaff Lunsford.

December 15, 1931-June 6, 2009.

Jimmy Ray (né peter Bernard) Grindstaff

April 5, 1946-April 5, 1946.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my family:

Julie Grindstaff Lesh, many thanks for taking the time out of your incredibly busy day to edit these pages.

Riley Marie Lesh, thanks for sitting on my lap when the stress and strain of finding just the right word dictated a break in the action and some encouraging words for Grandpa.

Carole Speck Grindstaff who remained quiet and supportive when I took to the keyboard day after day instead of mowing the grass, hanging up my bathroom towel or helping her preserve our tomato crop.

Joe and Michele Campbell Grindstaff who have given me a new grandson to cherish and the impetus to leave something behind so that William Joseph will someday come to realize just what it was that made his paternal Grandfather tick.

And of course, Jason Grindstaff who has done his best not to let me grow old without a fight.

A tip of my hat also goes to the folks who get up every morning, go to work day after day to earn their daily bread and contribute their 15 percent to the Social Security Fund to keep it solvent, just as I did for the better part of 50 years. Your efforts are helping to keep me in front of my computer monitor. I appreciate it.

Also, on the other end of that financial security spectrum, here’s the tip of my middle finger to all the folks at the New York Stock Exchange, the bankers, mortgage brokers, Hedge fund managers, wealth redistributors, oil speculators, politicians of any ilk, middle eastern despots and any other 30 pieces of silver con-men that have, despite their best efforts, somehow failed to completely destroy what is left of mine and Susie’s little nest egg. Had you idiots succeeded, there would have been no ‘Those were the Days’ book.

Introduction

Putting together a book of essays would seem to be easier than writing a Novel. There’s no plot to develop, setting to describe, mystery to solve or an interesting cast of characters to introduce. Still, there is the matter of writing the essays. Somebody has to find the words to string together interesting, thought provoking and occasionally humorous Tomes. I have been blessed in this regard in that I have a whole hard drive full of these compositions. I owe my thanks for this lucky happenstance to the readers of my Newspaper column and their insistence that my newspaper editors actually print my ramblings, therefore forcing me to produce something every week. The hardest part of putting this book together was choosing which of those works I thought readers of this book would enjoy the most.

A lot of the folks that I know are of the opinion that the United States has seen its best days. Of course, most of these folks, like me, are a bit curmudgeonly in their outlook. Although I am not in complete agreement with that notion, I do think our country will never be the same as what I remember it to be. On the outside chance that my friends are right in their predictions, I wanted to leave something in this volume for my grandchildren so that they might realize what a great and innocent place the United States used to be.

The title was going to be ‘Travels with Susie, part III’ because a good part of this book is about our RV adventures around the country. You’re going to find stories on a winter in Texas working on a National Wildlife Refuge, a section devoted to a wonderful summer in Washington State’s San Juan Islands and a segment devoted too many of the other favorite places we have visited. I should warn you, however, this is not a tour book nor a where to go guide. It’s a bit of fact, a little geography, some History and a few down home stories.

So why is my book called ‘Those were the days’? Because I wanted to use the picture you see on the cover. That’s my younger brother and I at around the ages of 3 and 2. This innocent and poignant photo is representative of a simpler time, one I want my descendants to know I lived in and also to give them a chance to get a sense of where I came from.

So what other kind of stuff will you find when you pick this book up? Obviously, with a title like ‘Those were the days’, you’d think there would be some nostalgia stuff and you would be right. We’ll go way back for a couple of tales and then move forward to life with Susie, including stories with pretty recent history because at my age and with my memory, even last month is nostalgic.

Because as I write this, I’m almost two years into my eighth decade of life, I am also including a section in the book I have dubbed ‘Getting old; not for Sissies.’ I was, and still am, concerned that this might turn off any younger potential readers who are not interested in this process yet but I am only following the edict that an author should write what he knows. And believe me, I know about getting old.

Be assured, however, you don’t need to worry that you are about to embark on some sort of old curmudgeon bitch session on the aches and pains of getting old. Old age, as you will see, is not all bad. Like everyone else, I am going through the same thing all of us who live long enough are going through and have, for the most part, learned to appreciate; a well ordered sequence of events from birth to death and it is much easier to enjoy when you are cognizant of that fact. It helps to look for the funny side when it’s your turn in the old age barrel.

Lastly, this book probably qualifies as a ‘Memoir’ since many of the stories are about real life situations that have happened over the course of my life. The stories are not necessarily one hundred percent true but I’m not going to tell you which of them are not. In this same vein, I have, on occasion, changed the name of some of the characters because I don’t want to embarrass the individuals involved and also because I don’t want to get sued.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the book. And for you, Pauline, good night wherever you are.

Prologue

How not to buy an RV in one easy lesson

Ten years ago, Susie and I decided that when we retired, we would spend a few years of our retirement living the RV lifestyle. The thing was, we hadn’t really decided what kind of RV we wanted to spend those years in. There are more different types and manufacturers of Recreational Vehicles than there are Carter’s little liver pills so I planned on taking my time in doing some research on just what kind of RV we should end up with. This was not an easy task.

I don’t want to bore you with a lot of technical talk and a page full of facts and figures but I do need to explain a little about why the research was necessary. If you’re not into research or you already know all this stuff, just bear with me for a minute while we educate our less knowledgeable friends.

RVs come in three general classifications; Motorized, Towable and slide-in campers. Slide in campers are just that. They slide in the bed of a pickup and nothing else is required. They work well for short trips but for Susie and I, there’s not enough space to keep two people cooped up on a rainy day. Especially since one of the parties in this happy marriage has a tendency to talk a lot while the other party is trying to concentrate on something. This soon leads the party of the second part to say something that gets him in trouble. You get the idea.

Motorized vehicles have the engine in the RV so you don’t need a truck to pull it. Motorized vehicles also come in several configurations identified by classes: A, B and C.

Class A coaches are characterized by the large luxurious buses you see on the highways towing an automobile behind them. They’re incredibly expensive; the top end models used by NASCAR drivers and Rock Stars approach a million dollars in cost. That’s not to say you have to spend a million dollars but well equipped coaches still can run into multiple hundreds of thousands greenbacks.

Even though I have never driven one for any distance, I imagine their size would require all the concentration that a person can muster while driving down the road. On the other hand, depending on who wears the pants in the family, the little woman or the little man can, while traveling down the road, get up and go to the bathroom or to the kitchen for a snack. That’s probably not legal in a lot of states, however, so don’t take my word on any of that.

Class B units look like oversize vans and include tiny kitchen sinks and even tinier showers, which would work well if you happen to be Ken and Barbie.

Class C units are built on a truck frame and are characterized by the ‘cab over’ look. In most models, that compartment over the driver’s head serves as an extra bed. This probably works well for kids but a couple of old people with bad backs and a touch of claustrophobia, not so much. I’m also just guessing, mind you, but I would say not to make any plans to get frisky in there unless you’re a professional contortionist.

Towable RVs also have several categories, as well. Some models are pulled by a hitch mounted on the rear of the tow vehicle and include configurations like travel trailers and ‘pop up’ campers. Even before I did any research, I had pretty well ruled any of those out. I didn’t care for their towing capabilities, especially on cross country trips.

I have followed behind travel trailers when a Semi went by and the resulting sway as the trailer went this way and that would have put gray hairs on Rambo’s head. I do have to say that most travel trailers are configured to sleep multiple people, making them great vehicles for families. Another caveat; I have been told that, given the right hitch and the muscles required to attach the tension bars, much of that sway can be eliminated. Dave and Sue, friends from Quebec, are travel trailer enthusiasts and they swear by their rig, ‘Francois’. I suppose that’s because Dave, being quite muscular, has no problem with tension bars. In fact, I suspect tossing those bars around in a crowd makes for quite a conversation piece. It undoubtedly impresses the ladies, as well.

Fifth wheels are another type of Towable and are pulled by a hitch in the bed of the truck. Towing is much easier because the weight on the truck bed keeps everything stable. Many folks who plan to stay in one spot for extended periods of time choose fifth wheels (fivers for those of us in the know) over the motorized rigs while other folks choose motorized rigs for the same reason.

One added thing to consider in the fifth wheel design is the art of hitching the camper to the truck. Many retired guys stay out of their spouse’s hair, spending much of their day designing one of a kind devices to assist in this process. The camping magazines are full of helpful hints on the art of hitching. I would say in terms of popularity, this topic is second only to making lighted globe lamps out of clear plastic, 9 ounce drink cups.

Myself, I have found that hitching up can be a breeze. All it really requires is good hand-eye coordination. All the rest is window dressing. Well, except for the part about remembering to put the tail gate down. This item is very important. Susie has forgotten to remind me on multiple occasions, resulting in a windfall for our local auto body shop.

Probably the biggest drawback to a fifth wheel model is their height, which can scientifically be classified as very tall. Anytime you forget this, you will be reminded of it the first time you go under an overhanging tree branch.

Most all of these types of RVs can have slide-outs that greatly expand the room in a camper. They also add weight to the rig and more weight means poorer gas mileage. It’s a tradeoff; more room, more cost. There’s also the problem of what to call your slide out. I have heard them referred to as slide-ins, tip-outs, tip-ins, pop-outs, push-ins, pull-outs and crank-ups. Choose you own poison but I like slide-out.

That’s all the explaining I’m going to do. There won’t be a test. I went through this exercise because I wanted you to understand that buying an RV is not as simple as just buying a tent and a Coleman stove. It requires a lot of thought and research. Naturally, I didn’t do either when we bought ours.

I bought our original fifth wheel camper, Fiona I, over the internet. I was paging through some websites and there it was in North Carolina complete with a truck to pull it. All I had to do was go down there and buy it. We did just that and unlike our Canadian friends, assigned her a feminine gender. We christened her ‘Fiona’ because I thought that name to be rare enough that we wouldn’t offend anyone we knew. Naturally, on our very first trip, the lady half of the couple in the next campsite was, of course, named Fiona.

Five years later, I was still wondering if we had made the right decision. Working in campgrounds meant seeing all types of camping gear. Almost every day, I saw something different that I’d like to have. I resolved that when and if it came time to buy a newer RV, we would know what was best for us.

Susie and I talk a lot about how long we want to live this lifestyle and we have not yet reached any conclusions. We have both agreed that if we continue this, someday we would have to buy something different. I also vowed that next time; there wouldn’t be any impulse buys. I would spend months researching all the models and manufacturers and make an intelligent, thoughtful decision on a new home.

Recently, we found ourselves with a little time on our hands and decided to make a trip to the flea market. Susie needed a dish drainer and Fiona’s sink was small enough that a Wal-Mart version wouldn’t work. The flea market didn’t have one that would fit so on our way back, we stopped by an RV dealer to see if they had something that would work.

We left with a new fifth wheel. The ‘rig’ is not completely new, of course. Its four years old and it doesn’t have a dish drainer either. We decided to call her Fiona II and she’ll do just fine for the next few years until I get my research done. There wasn’t time to do any on this buy. The salesman said she probably wouldn’t be there tomorrow and God, she was beautiful. What else could I do??

Part One

Those were the days

This marked the third winter I had been hoping that old Charley would stop and offer me a ride, He was a faithful attendee at daily Mass and on his way to the same six o’clock in the morning service that I was, so I couldn’t understand why he didn’t stop. Either he was afraid I was some kind of 14 year old axe murderer or else he was oblivious to his surroundings. Hell, maybe he just wanted me to suffer, reasoning that it would be good for my soul. Who knew? All I really knew was that it was time for him to be passing by and I had better get moving. I knew in my heart of hearts there wouldn’t be any stopping. Still, hadn’t Sister Helen Marie just told me that hope springs eternal?

Slushy, almost snowflake raindrops dripped steadily off my glasses as I looked over my shoulder to see the approaching headlights slowly making their way up Dewey Street towards me. It was foolhardy of me to walk in the middle of a darkened road, not having any idea whether that old man would run over me or not, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Too much time had already been wasted screwing around with that bicycle tire. I wasn’t late but I couldn’t be fooling around all morning either. Father Doyle liked for the Altar Boys to be there at least 10 minutes early to get things ready for mass.

C’mon, Charley. I repeated to myself. The headlights were almost on me. And then the non-descript, gray Chevrolet, a ’51 two door, rolled slowly by me, moving along only slightly faster than I was walking. From the lights of the dashboard, I could make out Charley’s small frame, the top of his head barely higher than the back of the seat. I wondered if the little twerp could even see over the steering wheel.

Awww, Charley, you asshole. I muttered under my breath, hoping that God didn’t hear me. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I started walking.

Tell Laura I love her

The beginning of this book seems as good a place as any to tell you a story that was only resolved this year even though it started long ago when I was a lovesick teenager. The tale began about the time I was busy discovering girls were much more than just terrible baseball players. I heard a story that involved a girl, a girl I had never even met, but nonetheless had become hopelessly infatuated with over a period of a few weeks. I spent many hours sipping cherry cokes at Jerry’s drive-in, listening to music and constructing scenarios in which I would rescue her from her problems and we would run away together to live happily ever after.

However, like most of my teenage infatuations with a member of the opposite sex, that dream didn’t last long. I moved on to other musings but never completely forgot about her though and on occasion, something, an old song or a chance remark perhaps, would jog my memory and I would begin to wonder what happened to her. One such remark with an older couple at a 2010 antique auto show in Florida set in motion an answer to a question that had bothered me all those years; what had happened to this girl who had infatuated me?

I stopped to talk to a distinguished looking couple sitting in lawn chairs in front of a beautiful 1955 Packard. The gentleman’s grey hair was slicked back in much the same manner as George Hamilton’s while his wife’s, also grey, was piled on her head in a Scarlett O’Hara look. Her ring finger bore a diamond the size of a goose egg. I tried my best not to stare at it while we talked about vintage cars for a while but my eyes were drawn to it. I could probably have bought half the cars in this show for what that Diamond cost.

Then, like most conversations among strangers in Florida, the topic of discussion turned to home towns and how we got to Florida. The lady explained to me that she had originally lived in a small town in Ohio and had always planned to settle down there.

What happened to that idea? I asked her.

Oh gosh, it was a long time ago and I don’t really like to talk about it.

I explained to her my quest for observing the human condition. I really would like to hear your story.

Oh, very well. But if I start crying, I’m going to stop. I don’t want to smear my makeup. Harvey doesn’t like it.

Okay. I told her.

It actually was a series of terrible events. The first boy I loved accidentally drowned in the river and my heart was broken. She patted her husband’s arm and smiled. I was only 15 years old and I swear, if Harvey hadn’t been there to help me through that, I’m not sure I would have made it.

So that’s how the two of you met? I asked.

Oh no, She said. Harvey was actually my older sister’s boyfriend as well as my boyfriend’s best buddy.

That must have been tough, losing your boyfriend like that.

Oh, it was. But then it was even harder a year later when my sister died.

Your sister?? My God. What happened?

Oh, it was a terrible accident. Harvey’s car stalled on the train tracks just as the train was coming. He pulled her out but then she ran back to the car.

Why? I said, incredulously.

She had left the engagement ring Harvey had given her in the glove compartment.

A little bell went off in my head.

Tell me. I said. Was there a song written about your sister?

Why, I don’t know. I don’t believe so. Why do you ask?

Nothing. No reason.

Poor Harvey was grief stricken. He had lost the love of his life, he called her his little Teen Angel, you know.

No I didn’t I answered excitedly. But it doesn’t surprise me. So then you and Harvey…

Not exactly, She interrupted. I had already begun going out with another boy from the wrong side of town. I met him at the candy store and they told me he was bad but I knew different. He was sad, that’s all.

I suppose his name was Jimmy and he was the leader of that pack. I said.

He was. She said with a bit of puzzlement in her eyes.

But you’re here today with Harvey. That must not have lasted.

It would have. I loved him dearly but… here she stopped talking and began to cry, ruining the 50 dollars’ worth of makeup on her face.

He left you??

Oh, no. He was killed in an accident and everything was turned upside down. She paused and dried her eyes. He loved me also. Did you know his last words were: Tell Laura I love her.

Yes, I did. I answered.

How did… She stopped, shook her head and then went on talking. But, by the grace of God, a few days after the funeral, I was in the chapel saying a prayer for Tommy and Harvey… here she paused again and nodded towards her husband. Harvey owned the racetrack where Tommy was killed and he joined me in a prayer. One thing led to another and here we are.

My mind was racing around a hundred miles an hour. Tommy?? Did you say Tommy? I thought his name was Jimmy.

It was but he was using his middle name, trying to change that wrong side of town image, you know. She sighed. I told him I didn’t want any damn ring, especially after my sister… Her voice dropped off.

Ring? I said.

Yes, he wanted to buy me a wedding ring and nothing would do but for him to go out on that track and win enough money to buy me one.

I’d heard enough. So your name really is Laura?

Why yes it is. But how did you know that? My friends all call me Patches.

Patches? My head was spinning. Wait a minute. I thought you threw yourself in the river.

The river? Why would you think that? I did run away from home but why would you think I’d jump in the river?

Never mind.

Her husband seemed a bit troubled by all this talk. He stood and folded up his lawn chair.

But I was wondering about one thing, I’ve always wanted to know what caused Tommy to crash. I said.

Something about his brakes fail… She started to say.

Harvey’s head snapped up at that.

Laura honey, We have got to get going. He took her by the arm. Nice ta meet ya. he said to me.

They turned and walked away before I could get an answer on those failing brakes. From somewhere in music heaven, I could hear the words… Tell Laura not to cry, my love for her will never die. As they walked towards the gate, I considered how life can take strange turns sometimes. Tommy would have had to win a hundred races to buy a ring as big as the one Laura was wearing now.

This was quite an earth shaking experience for me. You see, Laura was the girl that I spent many an evening mooning over at Jerry’s Drive-in. She was real, after all. Fifty years of wondering about Laura and now I’m left wondering about Harvey; three people dead and Harvey was close to all of them.

Maybe Harvey wanted Laura all along. Maybe that first boyfriend was pushed into the river and maybe Teen Angel didn’t really run back. Maybe she never got out of the car in the first place. After all, we only have Harvey’s version of what happened. And maybe, just maybe, Harvey had the chance to fiddle with Tommy’s brakes. Good God! The dead girl genre may have been more than just music.

Maybe someone ought to call CSI. No, better yet, call Jack Friday. He would be more familiar with this case.

The little Neighbor Girl

Life is always full of surprises, some good and some not so much. Back in the summer of 2008, I got one of the good kind with a phone call from our friend, neighbor and fellow Southern Indiana émigré, a lady named Brenda. She still has her Southern Indiana accent and a distinctive voice so there was no need for her to identify herself.

Hey, Gordon. I found something at a yard sale that I think you might find interesting.

What is it?

If you guys are going to be home for a while, Mike and I will bring them over. Mike is her husband and another of the thousands of Southern Indiana expatriates.

Them?

I’ll tell you when we get there.

A little while later, the two of them joined us on our porch. Brenda promptly handed me a Grocery sack. Inside were 3 hardback books; the 1957, ’58 and ’59 yearbooks from Loogootee High School.

You got these at a yard sale? I was astonished. Why would anyone ever get rid of something as personal and historical as a yearbook?

Yep, in Washington. She said. Washington is the next town west of Loogootee and