Almost drowned

I almost drowned once. The circumstances of my almost-demise were bizarre enough that I would have certainly made the "New of the Weird" column in the newspaper had I not survived.

Last June, I was wheeling my 55 gallon trash can back from the curb in front of my house. It was trash day and the garbagemen had just left. Unfortunately, a bag of used cat litter had broken inside the trash can and the smell of the trash can...even though it was now empty...was pretty horrific.

I decided to clean out the trash can...I couldn't envision it smelling that way for another week in the hot garage. I dumped an entire bottle of bleach into the bottom of the can, then filled it up about one third of the way full with a garden hose. I got an old broom and scrubbed the sides and bottom of the can.

So far, so good.

I then faced a dilemma as to where to dump my now-toxic suds. I ultimately decided to wheel the can around to my back yard and dump the trash can out back in the woods.

In order to do this, however, I had to negotiate a rather steep hill on the right side of my house. I gingerly eased the trash can down the fifty-degree incline, angling it downward. The top flap of the can flopped open...and I accidently stepped on it.

Things happened very quickly after that. When I stepped on the lid, the can immediately stopped rolling...but I didn't stop moving. I pitched forward and fell face first into the soapy bleachy cat-crappy water. My forward momentum caused the trash can to slide very fast down the hill, my face and chest underwater, my legs thrashing wildly near the top of the can.

I desperately tried to roll upward within the sliding can but the trash can rolled as well, keeping my head underwater. I could not catch my breath and was panicking...I kept thinking, I am going to die in this catshit swamp.

Eventually, though, we reached the bottom of the hill and the can slowed to a halt. I managed to force my head above the water, but I was still essentially upside down inside the trash can. My predicament was so ludicrous I couldn't help but laugh...

then...the coup de grace....my cell phone popped out of my jeans pocket and hit me in the face. It bounced off me and fell into the water next to my ear. I heard it make a soft buzzing sound right before it died in its watery grave.

I eventually managed to crawl out of my reinforced plastic tomb, and couldn't hit the showers fast enough. I scrubbed every inch of my body for what seemed like a half an hour...and when I got out of the shower I noticed my dark brown hair had been turned into a completely unappealing shade of dark orange, requiring me to get a crew cut that day for the first time since I'd left the Army.

When I tell this story, sometimes people laugh....other times, they tell me I'm full of garbage.

Two Nights (Part one)

My youngest daughter just received an “A” in her college folklore class. Her semester final exam was a project entitled “Tales of My Father: an Oral Tradition”. She told her class my “Two Nights” story.

Day One

I was honestly looking forward to my very first two-week summer drill commitment when I joined the US Army Reserve. I was interested in seeing how different it would be after recently completing three years of active duty in the Army. I was slated to teach advanced CPR and lifesaving techniques at Fort Devens, Massachusetts.

Our platoon sergeant at Ft. Devens was a genuinely scary Sergeant First Class named Crow. I’d heard things about “Crazy Sgt. Crow”, none of them good things. He was 100% Choctaw Indian, had a crew cut and an odd way of tilting his head that made him look like a bird. He was 100% muscle and had a tendency to stare intently.

He also seemed to think we were back in basic training. We got up at 5:30 in the morning and did two hellish hours of PT (Physical Training) with Crazy Sgt. Crow leading the way, followed by a 3 mile run….definitely NOT the way I had planned to spend my “summer vacation”.

After my first long day was finished, I was ready for a drink. I didn’t have a car, so I walked to the front gate of the base and asked if there was a bar nearby. The front gate guard told me about a club called the Wagon Wheel “just down the road”.

So I walked down the road.

And walked…

And walked…

I walked three freakin' miles before I found that place.

That first beer never tasted so good.

A group of four girls were pointing at me and giggling. “Did I pass you on the road? Did you walk all the way from the base here?”

Why, yes, yes I did.

For some reason they thought this was pretty amusing, and introductions were made all around. They invited me to sit with them.

The bar had live music and I danced with each of my new friends. I was having a pretty good time, even if my muscles were a bit sore.

Returning from a quick trip to the restroom, I happened to look over to a dark corner of the bar.

Sitting there, alone at a two-seat table next to the pool table, was Crazy Sgt. Crow.

Now, if I hadn’t had four beers in the past hour and been dancing non-stop, I might have just ignored him.

But I had had four beers and my mind works in devious ways.

I went back to my newfound lady-friends and asked them to follow me. We went over to Crazy Sgt. Crow’s table and I introduced him to them, and them to him.

Seeing the look of outright panic in his eyes was the highlight of my night (so far). It seemed Crazy Sgt. Crow had more than a few major anxiety issues around women.

One of the girls asked Crazy Sgt. Crow to dance and he shot me an evil glance…nope, sorry Sarge, I didn’t put her up to it. I watched as she basically dragged her “prisoner” out onto the dance floor.

I’d have given a month’s salary for a video camera, watching him attempt to dance…Life did not get much better than this.

About this time I felt a poke. I turned around and saw that it was a local townie guy holding a pool cue. He'd poked me with his cue!

“You guys shouldn’t be here…you have your own clubs on base”.

Hey, I’m just here to have a few beers and dance, there are plenty of women here for everyone, buddy.

“We don’t like you dancing with our women”.

I laughed at him, and noticed a bit late that he had five, count ‘em FIVE, guys standing behind him.

He started to blather on again, and I turned to ignore him.

He swung the cue. I saw it coming, and tried to twist out of the way. The stick still glanced off my shoulder blades.

All hell broke loose about then.

I stepped on the end of the guy’s pool cue so he couldn’t swing it again and got a single good swing in, connecting solidly on his ear.

That was the last good swing I got in.

His buddies jumped me and knocked me to the floor and began punching and kicking the hell out of me.

Recognizing a bad situation, I basically “tucked” on the floor, protecting my head and ribs.

In an absolutely surreal moment, I opened my eyes in between stomps and kicks…and there was Crazy Sgt. Crow, about four inches away from my face, staring at me with that all-too-familiar birdlike tilt.

“Needs some help?”

Uh…yes.

Now, most bar fights are over in a minute or less.

The next minute, however, seemed to be a blur. I’ve replayed this minute over and over in my head countless times but it still is a jumble.

Crazy Sgt. Crow cleaned house.

He grabbed two guys by their hair and smashed their heads together with such force you could hear the “thwock” sound above the noise of the band (smack two coconuts together very hard, the sound is similar). They went down, lights-out.

He grabbed another long-haired guy by the hair, and Mr. Longhair twisted violently away, which was a big mistake…Crazy Sgt. Crown was left with a handful of hair in his hand. Longhair started shrieking in pain, which got virtually everyone’s attention in the bar.

Another guy tried to tackle the sarge, but the sarge basically played matador and pushed him to the floor as he bulled by. Crow then STOOD on him.

I’m still on the floor, my pride bruised but my ribs intact and watching this guy on the floor next to me…maybe 5 feet away, turning red because someone is standing on him.

The other two turned and ran.

As is so often the case, the bouncers showed up after the fight was essentially over. One of the girls we were with explained what happened to the bouncers, and our “competition” was summarily ejected from the place.

A splendid time was had by all for the remainder of the evening. I won’t bore you with the details.

5:30 a.m. came all too early the next morning.

Our platoon grumbled and moaned as we assembled for two hours of physical hell.

Crazy Sgt. Crow was in a happy mood, which unnerved more than a few of my fellow soldiers.

“Jensen? We had some fun last night, didn’t we? Doesn’t get much better than this!” He cackled at me.

He was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

End Part One.

I've got the Backup/Restore Blues

From bitter experience, I have learned to always...ALWAYS.....back up important data. When my laptop's hard drive went to the great bit bucket in the sky yesterday, I was ready. I bought a replacement, fired up my restore program, and waited...

10% restored....50% restored.....95% restored....95% restored....95% restored...

Mr. Restore Program seemed quite stuck at 95%. Where is the problem? Hmmm....missing my Toastmaster club records (almost 3 years worth). Well, that's annoying, I'll go to last week's backup.

Still missing. Three weeks back: still missing.

What the heck?

Then a sudden horror dawned upon me...in the interests of efficiency, I'd moved my Toastmaster meeting management program and the folder with all my club records to my laptop's desktop over a year ago.

What I didn't realize is that years ago I'd set a parameter in my backup program to specifically EXCLUDE stuff on my desktop (which used to be icons and other trivial unneeded stuff).

So now I'm looking at least a solid week's worth of re-entering data at night.

Remembering Celeste

Over on Facebook, I've joined a group called "Chamblee High School Memorial", a group formed to remember those from my high school that have passed away. One of the memorials was to Celeste Marley, who passed away in an accident in 1977. I never understood the phrase "laughing until tears come out of your eyes" until I met Celeste.

Let me explain:

I took third-year French class with Celeste. The class was mostly juniors and seniors, with the exception of one eighth-grade phenom, a very tiny boy named Eric who had spent his childhood growing up in France. Third year French is mostly conversational, and the following exchange was the highlight of my year: (Note: entire conversation is in French)

Teacher: How are you this morning, Celeste?
Celeste: I am very happy, my little friend has come to visit this morning!
Teacher (slightly confused, then looks over at little Eric): Your friend came to visit?
Celeste: Yes, my little friend visits me once a month. Sometimes I don't like it when my little friend comes to visit, but I was very very happy this month.
At this point, I'm laughing, so the teacher turned to me
Teacher: Robert, is something funny?
Me: No, no, I was happy when Celeste's little friend came to visit this month too! Very, very happy!
(Celeste is giving me dirty looks now)
Teacher: Why is that?
Me: Celeste was afraid her little friend would not visit her for a long time!
Teacher: I see. Do you visit Celeste's house also?
Me: Sometimes I do, but not when her little friend is visiting.
Teacher: And why not?
Me: Because she never wants to play with me when her little friend has come to visit...
Celeste (interrupting): *ahem* I never want to play with you even when my little friend is NOT visiting.

Only now, after three minutes of conversation does the French teacher suddenly get the inneundo....I watched the light bulb go on over her head and she turned seven shades of scarlet. The entire class breaks out in laughter, I'm laughing so hard I have tears rolling out of my eyes and the French teacher is spluttering nonstop in French at me for almost a minute.

I miss Celeste.