money. when you are a kid, you don't think of how necessary it is. you figure out soon enough though that money gets you the things you covet and the things you need. money...it doesn't suck
my father worked for a trucking company and while we had the things we needed, there wasn't much left for the the things they coveted and wanted us to experience. dreams of summer camp, maybe a music lesson here or there...things they never got to experience but wanted us to. money was tight and there was rumor of another teamster strike looming, which would mean weeks to months of abbreviated paychecks from the union. my father decided to act.
a buddy of his turned my father on to a third friend, who had the auspicious title of "firework man". well, that's what we called him once my brother and i found out what he did. the FM had, it seems, a warehouse full of illegal fireworks and sold them to friends and people who had the money and the discretion to not give up their source. the friend of my father's, who understood that times were tight at the Lory household, spoke to his friend and asked if he could help us out. a plan was hatched.
this is when my father, Cub Scout Pack Leader, Knight of Columbus and leader of Navy men during Vietnam, also became a pusher.
In 1970's Las Vegas, any type of fireworks that left the ground or exploded were illegal. Everything was banned beyond the "Fountain of Sparks", string-activated "poppers", sparklers or the stupid "black snakes", a small obsidian pill that, when lit, emitted a noxious cloud of smoke while forming into a snake of ashes. wow. What my father knew, and what I know now, was that we humans hungered for something more...craved things that left the ground in a shower of sparks and fire only to burst into amazing technicolor patterns high above our heads. Things that exploded other things like tuna cans and ant hills. None of this namby-pamby shit for Ingraham Street, NO SIR!!!
But I digress.
One early Saturday morning, Dad, Mark and I pounced into the '72 Chevy Blazer and made our way over to the FM's house. From there, we followed him in his car over to the warehouse. My anticipation level reached that of Olympian proportions; I had heard my parents talking over the dinner table after we had retreated to our rooms for homework. I KNEW what what going on!
The FM opened the door to the warehouse and inside was the most amazing array of fireworks I had ever seen. Row upon row of bottle rockets, roman candles, M-80's, bloom flowers; rockets as big around as my wrist; rockets with 3-foot long sticks; rockets that exploded, whistled and screamed. Not to mention the hundreds of 1000's of firecrackers: Black Cat, China Star...they went on forever.
While Dad and the FM slid over to the side to discuss pricing and process, Mark and I proceeded down the open aisle, our eyes googling at the merchandise before us. While Dad was starting to make a list, we of course made mental lists of our own, vowing to never tell anyone what we had seen under direct orders from our father...but also vowing to break that vow the instant we got home.
Soon, terms were agreed upon and boxes began being loaded into the back of the Blazer. Dad and the FM shook hands once that task was finished and we departed. On the ride home we got the spiel once more about keeping our mouths closed and also to stay out of the boxes. Sure Dad....no problem.
My father, upon leaving the Navy, absconded with a green fatigue jacket, an Eagle tattoo and some green ammo boxes. Some of these kept their initial use as a storage for ammo for Dad's guns; one even had a new life as a first-aid kit (which Mom, the nurse, dutifully kept full). After we arrived home, Dad began unpacking the boxes and started loading the firecrackers into the empty ammo boxes. The rockets he kept in the boxes they arrived in and hid them in their bedroom closet behind Mom's housecoats and Dad's work jeans.
Despite my father's quest to keep as low a profile as possible, suddenly it seemed that everyone knew where to get fireworks for the upcoming July 4th celebration. At dinner, there would be a knock at the door, followed by a furtive glance into the dining room from the interloper while they waited for dad to come back to the living roon with the goods, and then a mumbled thanks as the transaction was completed. Many were the time that underage kids would come to the door and my father would simply shake his head and quietly say "No." He did want to compound possible jail time by selling fireworks to minors nor be responsible for them if something happened.
Mark and I would take packages of firecrackers from time to time, using them as adolescent currency towards being popular with others my age. It worked, for a time, until that first week in July had passed, and we were merely the Lory family once more, with all pieces accounted for.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
How To Fish For Dog
if you ask me about my dad, one of the first things that comes to mind is fishing. when you ask me about fishing, the first thing that comes to mind is Tawny.
A siberian husky mix, Tawny was named for her color, a beautiful blond-brown color, which obviously was a biproduct of the "mix" part of siberian husky mix. Energetic and loving, Tawny was the perfect dog for a young pair of male children. She could stand up to the rough-housing to which she was subjected, with not a growl nor whimper to let us know she would rather be somewhere else.
Now you think you know where this story is headed but you don't. One summer day, my best friend Troy Shaw was over at the house. Troy lived down the street and when we weren't at my house conjuring up trouble to get into, we were at his swimming in what of course was the best pool on the street. Looking back, his was the only pool on the street and so obviously the best.
My father had recently come back from a fishing trip with my brother; the detritus of which was still scattered through the house. Fishing poles, ice chests and tackle boxes waiting to be put into the shed before my mother had a nervous breakdown. It was into his green, beat-up tackle box that we found ourselves scavenging. Like any boys our age, we collected things, so it was with interest that we peered inside the box, hoping for something cool to take to school and show everyone...claiming ownership like a good son would do.
Now, I don't know where they come up with names for fishing lures. I am sure that it is an honest job for some Mid-Western junior marketing associate, fresh from graduation and placed on the new Zebco or BassMaster account. The SuperLure 3000, the Amazing FireFly, or my personal favorite the Spinning WonderSpoon...all had names that conjured up images of a fisherman out on a boat with their new purchase, comfortable in the fact that fish would soon be leaping into his pail at the mere thought of having to tackle with one of these state-of-the-art lures. Hell, you wouldn't even have to take it out of the package. Just show it to the goddamn fish and fear would carry them up, over and onto a dinner plate! YEEHAWWWWWW!
Well, in our hands, already soiled by Velveeta and salmon egg residue (which is a new dish at the Mansion, I hear), we held the largest, baddest ass lure we had ever seen. Surely, Dad picked this one up on his recent trip or we would have seen it before. That we could remember only once ever seeing Dad catch a fish big enough to approach, let alone swallow, this monster, now that doesn't really matter does it, so there!
A thing of beauty that brought to mind images less of fishing in our little Lake Mead off to the southwest of us and more of ocean fishing...going after mackeral and barracuda, skipjack and tuna. Hell, maybe a shark. Hell, maybe a whale! As we handed it back and forth, pretending that it was underwater making seductive lure motions in an attempt to hook Orca, there was a flash of brown-white to my left, a jump and then a huge squeal of pain.
Tawny, wanting to be a part of things as always, had jumped up towards my hands, and had come down with one of the razor sharp treble hooks buried in the soft flap of her nose. Instantly, the tableau turned from one of innocent summer laziness to one of OH HOLY SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT...WHAT THE HELL..SHIT SHIT OH MAN...OH SHIT! The dog was spinning circles in an attempt to get the wasp-sting of pain away from her head, but it just made matters worse. What it the name of David Lee Roth were we going to do!??!?
Just then I hear the front door open, and see my father, tired from a long day of fighting dragons (well, it could have been that) come across the landing. His head was down but not for long as he looked at me and Troy, then Tawny, then me. He seemed confused at first by the events unfolding before him. There was his oldest son with his best friend with panicked faces and a dog who was yelping and spinning circles with a 1/2-foot long fishing lure protruding from her face. I guess walking in on Darth Vader riding a unicorn would have suprised him less. Not what he expected to say the least.
"Dad, Tawny jumped up and got hooked in the nose!"
"Okay"
"But Dad, She got hooked in the nose!!"
"Okay"
My dad calmly walked over and grabbed Tawny by the collar, rummaging into his tackle box with his free hand and coming up with a pair of needlenose pliers...one part of which had a cutting blades for wires, etc. With his left hand still on Tawny's collar, he pressed down with his arm onto her back to force her down to the ground. Slipping the pliers up to her nose, he cut the barbed end off first, then dropping the pliers, he pulled the other end of the hook through her nose and out, letting her loose in the process. Tawny took off like a stuck pig, down the hall and to the safety and security afforded her underneath my bed. He watched her run, then turned slowly towardsw me.
"So...what happened?"
I proceeded to let out a 90-mph torrent of words, none of which were understandable due to tears and overall confusion still coursing through my body.
"Calm down, son. What happened?"
I gave him the Cliff Notes version in a hyperventilative fashion. He chuckled to himself..then fixed us with his eyes that held no more questions.
"I think we need to stay out of the tackle box for a while..don't you?"
Troy and I could only nod our assent, wildly relieved to have had him walk through the door at that given moment. After a short pause, Troy mumbled something about being late for dinner and sped off out of the door. The incident was mentioned in comedic fashion by my father over our own supper, while I chose to remain silent...satisfied with being the butt of the story but exhilarated nonetheless.
A siberian husky mix, Tawny was named for her color, a beautiful blond-brown color, which obviously was a biproduct of the "mix" part of siberian husky mix. Energetic and loving, Tawny was the perfect dog for a young pair of male children. She could stand up to the rough-housing to which she was subjected, with not a growl nor whimper to let us know she would rather be somewhere else.
Now you think you know where this story is headed but you don't. One summer day, my best friend Troy Shaw was over at the house. Troy lived down the street and when we weren't at my house conjuring up trouble to get into, we were at his swimming in what of course was the best pool on the street. Looking back, his was the only pool on the street and so obviously the best.
My father had recently come back from a fishing trip with my brother; the detritus of which was still scattered through the house. Fishing poles, ice chests and tackle boxes waiting to be put into the shed before my mother had a nervous breakdown. It was into his green, beat-up tackle box that we found ourselves scavenging. Like any boys our age, we collected things, so it was with interest that we peered inside the box, hoping for something cool to take to school and show everyone...claiming ownership like a good son would do.
Now, I don't know where they come up with names for fishing lures. I am sure that it is an honest job for some Mid-Western junior marketing associate, fresh from graduation and placed on the new Zebco or BassMaster account. The SuperLure 3000, the Amazing FireFly, or my personal favorite the Spinning WonderSpoon...all had names that conjured up images of a fisherman out on a boat with their new purchase, comfortable in the fact that fish would soon be leaping into his pail at the mere thought of having to tackle with one of these state-of-the-art lures. Hell, you wouldn't even have to take it out of the package. Just show it to the goddamn fish and fear would carry them up, over and onto a dinner plate! YEEHAWWWWWW!
Well, in our hands, already soiled by Velveeta and salmon egg residue (which is a new dish at the Mansion, I hear), we held the largest, baddest ass lure we had ever seen. Surely, Dad picked this one up on his recent trip or we would have seen it before. That we could remember only once ever seeing Dad catch a fish big enough to approach, let alone swallow, this monster, now that doesn't really matter does it, so there!
A thing of beauty that brought to mind images less of fishing in our little Lake Mead off to the southwest of us and more of ocean fishing...going after mackeral and barracuda, skipjack and tuna. Hell, maybe a shark. Hell, maybe a whale! As we handed it back and forth, pretending that it was underwater making seductive lure motions in an attempt to hook Orca, there was a flash of brown-white to my left, a jump and then a huge squeal of pain.
Tawny, wanting to be a part of things as always, had jumped up towards my hands, and had come down with one of the razor sharp treble hooks buried in the soft flap of her nose. Instantly, the tableau turned from one of innocent summer laziness to one of OH HOLY SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT...WHAT THE HELL..SHIT SHIT OH MAN...OH SHIT! The dog was spinning circles in an attempt to get the wasp-sting of pain away from her head, but it just made matters worse. What it the name of David Lee Roth were we going to do!??!?
Just then I hear the front door open, and see my father, tired from a long day of fighting dragons (well, it could have been that) come across the landing. His head was down but not for long as he looked at me and Troy, then Tawny, then me. He seemed confused at first by the events unfolding before him. There was his oldest son with his best friend with panicked faces and a dog who was yelping and spinning circles with a 1/2-foot long fishing lure protruding from her face. I guess walking in on Darth Vader riding a unicorn would have suprised him less. Not what he expected to say the least.
"Dad, Tawny jumped up and got hooked in the nose!"
"Okay"
"But Dad, She got hooked in the nose!!"
"Okay"
My dad calmly walked over and grabbed Tawny by the collar, rummaging into his tackle box with his free hand and coming up with a pair of needlenose pliers...one part of which had a cutting blades for wires, etc. With his left hand still on Tawny's collar, he pressed down with his arm onto her back to force her down to the ground. Slipping the pliers up to her nose, he cut the barbed end off first, then dropping the pliers, he pulled the other end of the hook through her nose and out, letting her loose in the process. Tawny took off like a stuck pig, down the hall and to the safety and security afforded her underneath my bed. He watched her run, then turned slowly towardsw me.
"So...what happened?"
I proceeded to let out a 90-mph torrent of words, none of which were understandable due to tears and overall confusion still coursing through my body.
"Calm down, son. What happened?"
I gave him the Cliff Notes version in a hyperventilative fashion. He chuckled to himself..then fixed us with his eyes that held no more questions.
"I think we need to stay out of the tackle box for a while..don't you?"
Troy and I could only nod our assent, wildly relieved to have had him walk through the door at that given moment. After a short pause, Troy mumbled something about being late for dinner and sped off out of the door. The incident was mentioned in comedic fashion by my father over our own supper, while I chose to remain silent...satisfied with being the butt of the story but exhilarated nonetheless.
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