Snack Sneaker

Are you a snack sneaker? I am. Perhaps a definition is in order.

snack

  [snak] 

noun

1.

a small portion of food or drink or a light meal, especially one eaten between regular meals.

2.

a share or portion.

verb (used without object)

4.

to have a snack or light meal, especially between regular meals: They snacked on tea and cake.

sneak-er  

 1 .      one that sneaks

          2.       a sports shoe with a pliable rubber sole 


Yes, I am a person who sneaks snacks, a snack sneaker.  There are people, I am told, that  don't have this problem.  Actually there are two kinds of people who don't have this problem. Some (Oh, how I envy them) can et with wild abandon and not gain weight. The other group can eat with wild abandon and become mobile mountains of humanity.  And then there are people like me when every waking hour has the temptation to eat but we can't because we feel the need to maintain a reasonable body weight either for health or appearance reasons. Usually the impetus to maintain any such dietary regime is supplied by either self discipline or the discipline on one's significant other. My discipline is split although unequally. My biggest problem is between meal snacks. This is the reason I am a snack sneaker. Over the years I have become quite proficient at sneaking snacks. (Or at least I think I'm proficient.) When my mate is not around is a great time to snack. I still feel like I'm sneaking even though she's not even the house. It's difficult to enjoy something like gorp while listening for the garage door to go up. I lock the door to the garage to impede her progress. You must keep the crunching sounds to a minimum to hear well.  One handy trick I've discovered is to have an extra container.  I buy an extra container of nuts, when that's is what I'm sneaking out of the pantry. As I eat the nuts from the container in the pantry, I replace the ones I've eaten with ones from my "stash". I have to buy my "stash' with cash because my dear wife checks all credit card receipts.Another problem I have is with the cat, Sophie. I do not like to share my snacks. One of my favorite snacks is string cheese.  Sophie loves cheese. She's a mouser though. I think she chases mice because they know where the cheese is. The string cheese comes in the form of a stick in vacuum sealed plastic. I am not positive how Sophie knows when I have a cheese snack but she does. I thought maybe it was the opening of the refrigerator door because when I would get the cheese stick for the frig, she would be right there looking up at me with those big blue eyes pleading. There have been rare occasions when I've retrieved the cheese without her there but as soon as I start to remove the plastic she's there. Once I was able to remove the plastic and hide it in my hoodie pocket from her. But she would not leave.  When overcome by hunger I pulled the cheese from my pocket to eat. I had a fine coating of lint. I pulled off the outer layer and gave it to Sophie.  She would not eat it! So, what could I do but share. Sophie has developed discriminating tastes. My frugal wife has started buying the store brand of cheese sticks now. Sophie does not prefer these. I get to enjoy more of the less tasty string cheese. I think that there is a female conspiracy. Not all snacks agree with me.   There was a certain brand of almonds which gave me a stomach ache. I preserved through the entire package before I acknowledged the ill effect. I also like chocolates and peanut butter. You can dip your finger into the peanut butter jar for a quick snack. Peanut butter breath is a dead giveaway to this sneak. Of course there are healthy snacks. There are carrot sticks and celery sticks and carrot sticks and celery sticks. But these are not fit food for human snack consumption. More like bait for a rodent trap. There are times (Thank goodness there aren't many.) when snack sneaking can have a detrimental effect on marital bliss. For example, when my wife was baking a citrus cake.  I had to fess up to having eaten all the macadamia nuts.

I guess I need more training in snack sneaking. Maybe there is a YouTube video. I do have a twelve-year-old friend I could consult with...

Two Brothers From Dayton

Many of you who read this blog know I have a fondness for airplanes. One thing a true aerophile must do is to visit the place it all began. That place would be Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. Recently, we were there at Kill Devil Hills, the actual spot the first flights took place. It was cold for March, or so I thought. Forty-five degrees and windy. Interestingly enough this temperature almost mirrors the average December temperatures. The Wright brothers, Wilbur and Orville, first flew a powered and controlled flying machine in sustained flight on December 17, 1903 under very similar weather conditions. 

We had dropped our bags off at the Shutters Hotel before exploring that famous airstrip. The Shutters was oceanfront, very nice, and cheap. The off-season rate was only $47 with a coupon.

The Wright Brothers National Memorial was only a few blocks away in this town that was still pretty much boarded up for the winter.  But the Memorial had a goodly number of visitors. Inside the modern visitors center a full size replica of the Wright Flyer takes center stage. We were told that original airplane cost $700 but the flying reproduction cost $1.3 million. On the walls are the portraits of the famous siblings as well as vintage photographs. Display cases held memorabilia of these early flights. There were photographs and portraits of other famous aviators as well. At the information desk we were told the the next lecture would be given in about an hour so we went outside to look around. The landscape has changed quite a bit since 1903.  What was once a flat sandy area is now covered with grass and the ocean is no longer visible. But the hill is still silhouetted against the sky.  Atop that hill is a monument to the first flight. From that hill Orville and Wilbur Wright made over one thousand glider flights. From the base of that hill they launched the powered aircraft. Today there are markers indicating the distances of those first flights. 120, 175, 200 and 852 feet, respectively. Interestingly enough the duration of the first two flights were the same, twelve seconds. Could Orville have been learning to fly or was the wind a factor? There are replicas of the barn-like structures or hanger and a

workshop building which also served as lodging for the brothers is replicated as well. The lodging/workshop is furnished according to the period in which it was used. With the overcast sky and wind the forty-five degree temperature felt quite frigid much as it did on that famous December day in 1903.

We were back inside the visitor's center before the lecture. One of   the    docents     or    rather    park    rangers    gave    me    a
close up look at the aircraft inside the secure area.  I had always been curious how the control surfaces on the airplane were operated. The airplane cannot be touched by human hands. Therefore my guide had a handkerchief between his hand and the wing struts when he showed me how the wing was warped to produce roll while the plane was flying. The wing warping was linked to the rudder which controlled yaw. These control surfaces were linked together by piano wire. The pilot, laying prone on the wing, shifted his body to the left or right to initiate movement which turned the airplane.  The up or down attitude of the aircraft was controlled by the elevators in the front and actuated by a lever at the pilot's left hand. The airplane, with the Wright designed 12 hp. engine, only weighed six hundred pounds. When the lecture started there was very little for me to learn.  The lecturer delivered the facts at the fourth grade level since school students were his normal audience.

Later we visited the only wind-powered brew-pub in the United States for barbecue and crab cake sandwiches. It was good although I'm not particularly fond of the North Carolina vinegar based barbecue sauce. The crab cake had a lot of crab. And the local brew was good too.

The following morning we headed south.  The Outer Banks are a chain of islands most of which are uninhabited and connected by bridges. The weather was the same as the day before except for the addition of rain. As we left Kill Devil Hills we were soon in the Hatteras National Seashore. Many times there were dunes on either side of us and in many places the sand was encroaching on the highway. There is only one highway, Highway 12. There are frequent areas to pull off the highway for you to enjoy the landscape. But it was raining and we had seen the sea many times. Occasionally there was a village but very few. The landscape in some areas is densely wooded but no palm trees like further south. We stopped on one of the more inhabited islands for lunch and had great grouper sandwiches.  Very fresh fish. It was my kind of place a little tattered and torn with a squeaky floor and sort of "beachy". And, yes, The Hag was on the jukebox. We continued

on and had to wait about an hour for hour our first ferry. It was much larger than I expected. Since it was raining we stayed in the car for the relatively short voyage. Soon we were on on Ocracoke Island famous for wild horses. It seems some horses escaped from the Spanish in the eighteenth century and their descendants are still there. We saw them in a pasture. Not quite the same as the ones we saw near the Little Big Horn River, Wyoming. The last ferry ride was over an hour in duration. Claudette busied herself reading a book on her iPad and I did some drawings in my sketchbook.  Normally, I would have used my phone for the drawings but the battery was dead.

Soon we were back on the mainland and moving in a southerly direction. We'd like to return on a rainless day.

The Great Marijuana Plane Crash of 1979

As most of you know I occasionally get a letter from an old boyhood friend of mine, Bubba. Here is the latest.

Dear Tony,

The other day I saw Sonny Cockrell down at the doctor's. Hadn't seen him in a long time. He'd moved up north, you know. Well, he's back and living at his wife's grandma's place. That got me a thinking about that plane

crash site me and him went to way back in '79.

You see, me an' Sonny had just got off work at the cotton mill when we heard about it. We had worked the graveyard shift, midnight til eight in the mornin'. Sonny and me was lintheads, y’know.  Some folks don’t know a linthead is someone who works in a textile mill.  The lint from the cotton cloth is in the air like a fog and sticks to your clothes and skin.  It gets all over you.  We can call each other lintheads, but there’d be hell to pay if a non-linthead called you that.  

We was gettin' a breakfast of grits, eggs, sausage, gravy, and biscuits over at that mobile home that Lucille Davis turned into a small cafe. Lucille catered to lintheads like us and the construction trade.  She seemed to hire the most buxom girls to work there. They always wore tee shirts a couple of sizes too small and tight jeans. Some said there were other services offered but I didn’t think so.  People talk, y’know. Linda Sue worked there so I knew the straight story.  Linda Sue was the love of my life. I had known her in high school, and we had dated a few times.  But then I had joined the Navy and we had sorta lost touch for a while. When we met up again after my discharge we kinda hit it off. Being the only two unmarried twenty-five-year-olds in town might have had something to do with it. I’ve never went out with married women. I don’t monkey with another monkey’s monkey.

Linda Sue had been at work an hour or two before we got to the cafe. I was usually pretty tired after my eight hour shift at the mill, but seeing Linda Sue always put spring back in my step. She was the best lookin' thing I had ever laid my eyes on. I wasn’t concerned ‘bout her working around those roughnecks ‘cause I knew they'd feel the full force of her 110 pounds up side their heads if they tried to cop a feel. It had happened to me...but that was a long time ago. Me and Linda Sue had been seeing each other regularly for about three years. We had talked of getting married and decided that if I got that second hand job I was in line for at the mill we’d tie the knot.

We was diggin’ into the last of our biscuits and gravy when Linda Sue asked us if we’d heard about the plane crash. I said, “No.” She said a plane had crashed over near Sleepy Summer’s farm down near the creek.

Well, me and Sonny decided we’d take a look. It was Friday morning and I didn’t have to be back at work until midnight Sunday. I didn’t have nuthin' else to do that day but visit my old maid aunts. Mama made me go visit ‘em once a week. They were a curious lot  though. In their 70’s and 80’s they lived alone. Lord knows nobody could put up with ‘em. They were kinda weird. Toe (yes, that was her nickname) always ate her dessert first. George (Grandpa wanted a boy.) always called people by their less common name. Prissy was a dope addict. It seems that sometime way back she got hooked on morphine.  I don’t know what for. As a kid I would see her wrap a band around her skinny arm and jab a needle in it after she had melted the drug in a spoon and filled the syringe. Never realized there was anything wrong with that. Aunt Prissy was simply taking her medicine. Recently the doctor that prescribed her morphine died and her medication was getting harder to find. Several cousins were looking for sources but none had been found. 

“You gotta check on them old maid Bible thumpers today?” Sonny asked me.

“I’ll do it after we check out this airplane crash.  I promised Mama,” I said. “Wasn’t Johnny Ferguson doing some bulldozer work for old Sleepy down by the creek?”

“Yeah, I asked Johnny ‘bout it when I saw him at the pool hall a coupla weeks ago, he acted real funny about it.  Didn’t say much, like it was some kinda secret or sumpin’,” Sonny said.

It took us about an hour to get to the place Linda Sue said the plane crash was.  It wasn’t really that far away but we had to stop by the “GasSpot” to get some gas for my car.  Bucky Thompson, he runs the place, always has some long tale to tell.  You practically have to leave him talking!

By the time we got to the place where the plane had crashed there musta been at least fifty cars parked on the shoulder of the road. We pulled in behind the last car in line and parked. We had no more than got out of the car when the man with the star approached us. Good thing for us it was Bill Shaw.  I had gone to high school with Bill.  He had joined the Marine Corps the same time I joined the Navy. He wore a white hat and was a deputy sheriff. Bill was a good guy, unlike that so and so he worked for. Seems like there had always been bad blood between the sheriff of McCormick County and me. We passed the time of day with Bill, and I told him the latest Gamecock joke. He said to hurry if we wanted to look around 'cause the "big men" were coming.

It was turning into a beautiful day in early November.  The leaves on the hardwoods had changed color and were beginning to fall. It would soon be time to clean up the old Winchester Grandpa had left me and get ready to

spend some time in the tree stand waiting for that trophy buck to come by. I had put my jacket  on over my tee shirt. I only wore a tee shirt in the mill because it was hot in there but I needed the jacket to knock off the morning

chill.  As we approached the wreckage I noticed it was a DC-4. I had flown in one while I was in the Navy.  Both wings had been sheared off by the old growth pines. The fuselage and tail were a mass of tangled metal in a burned area. Dozens of people were clamoring through the underbrush picking stuff up and putting it into brown paper bags, the kind you bring home groceries in. I noticed that most of the people looked a lot like hippies left over from the sixties.   There had even been some of those old Volkswagen microbuses all painted up with flowers on the side of the road too.  I didn't get to see what they were picking up.

We hadn't gotten within fifty yards of the wreckage before some federal government looking people showed up. They had on black windbreakers with D.E.A on the backs and started chasing everybody away. Sonny and me obliged.  We were almost back to the car when Sonny said, “Hey, Bubba.  Ain’t that your old maid aunts up there?” He pointed in front of us.

“Well, I’ll be..., I think it is.  I wonder what the devil they're doing out here?”  I responded.

We caught up with them as they approached the ratty looking Studebaker they drove. “What y’all been doin’ out here?” I asked.

“Oh, Gilbert, so good to see you!” George said. Gilbert was my middle name. Very few people even knew that it was my middle name much less used it. Actually, my Mama never told anybody that was my name. She had named me for an uncle who turned to a life of crime stealing cars after I was born. The old maids all had their makeup on and, of course, their hats. Since they had never been married they said they always had to be ready to be seen by the “right “ man.

I hugged Aunt George and said, “Good to see you too!” I hugged the other two as well, but Sonny stayed well back.

“Gilbert, I hope you've been reading your Bible. The Lord is so good to us.”

“Yes, Ma’am. He sure is.”

“You know we've been having trouble finding medicine for Prissy...”

“I know.  I've been looking around,” I interrupted her.

“Praise the Lord, Gilbert!  The Lord sent an airplane down with medicine for Prissy!  The good Lord has solved our problem. He even sent Jesus to help us out!”  She said excitedly.

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, Gilbert. There’s more to it than that.  Jesus showed us how to put those leaves that fell out of the airplane into a  pipe. He lit it up and gave it to Prissy,” she said excitedly, “And you know what?”

“No, what?” I was gettin’ tired of this conversation.

“Prissy’s pain went away when she smoked it!”

“Now, Aunt George, you musta been in the sun too long.  There ain’t no Jesus around here!”

“Oh yes there is…  and there he goes!” she said as she pointed down the road.

I looked where she pointed and saw a young man with a brown beard and long brown hair and headband walking toward one of the Volkswagen buses. I had to admit he had an uncanny resemblance to that picture of Jesus in that Bible story book Mama used to read from when we was kids. 

“He just looks a little like Jesus,” I said.

What could I say?  I was pretty sure that that “Jesus” would be able to supply Aunt Prissy with medication for the days to come.

Well, me and Sonny still got a lot of catchin' up to do. I'll talk to you later.

Your old buddy,
Bubba

For a factual account of this event click "event".
FACTS A DC-4 crashed in McCormick county near Long Cane Creek on the morning of November 19, 1979, in a wooded area near a primitive airstrip. The cargo of marijuana was valued at $6.5 million. Of the 214 bales onboard 184 were confiscated by D.E.A. and destroyed. The balance supposedly burned in the crash. No one was ever prosecuted for building the airstrip, although there were rumors. The pilot and co-pilot perished in the fiery crash. The ground crew for off-loading the cargo was never found.

The Other Name

Lefty Frizzell (Wikipedia photo)

My name is Tony! It always has been.  I get tired of people asking me, "Isn't it Anthony?" I can, in retrospect, understand their asking when I was a child. But this has been going on for more than 60 years! My name is not Anthony. This declaration leads me to think about nicknames. That name we give someone other than their given name. I know Tony can be a nickname. As can Joe, Tom, Jack, Harry, Pat and others derived from the given name. The names Joseph, Thomas, John, Henry and Patrick lend themselves handily to nicknames. Does anyone know how this started?  I don't quite understand it.  If a boy is going to be called "Jim" why not name him "Jim" instead of James? Probably if he was named "Jim" he would have to go go through life being asked "Is it really James?" This would even work in New Jersey and Chicago where they tend to prefer one syllable names.

What about those other nicknames that are based on physical characteristics. Slim, Fats, Chubby, Shorty, Red, Lefty or Rabbit. Everyone remembers Slim Pickens, Fats Domino, Red Buttons, Lefty Frizzell and Chubby Checker.  I've known fellows whose nicknames were  Shorty and Rabbit. Shorty was height challenged while Rabbit was very fast afoot. I've also known Four-eyes, Snake and Turtle. Turtle earned his nickname because he wasn't very fast.I 'm not real sure about Snake.

Perhaps the military does the best job of reducing sir names to nicknames. Robinson becomes Robbie, McKenzie becomes Mack, Smith becomes Smitty and Kolinsky becomes Skee.  The military also gives nicknames according to occupation.  For example a Gunners Mate is known as "Gunny" and a Hospital Corpsman is known as "Bones". The Commissaryman becomes Cookie and the Electricians Mate becomes Sparky. I was a "Twiget" or "Pin-jockey", and Electronics Technician.

The field of sports have given us scores of nicknames. Dale "The Intimidator" Earnhardt, "Mean" Joe Green, "Refrigerator" Perry, "Catfish" Hunter, "Shoeless" Joe Jackson and Billy "White Shoes" Johnson.

"Shoeless" Joe Jackson (Wikipedia photo)

Some of these are quite easy to understand.  Earnhardt was simply intimidating on the racetrack. was a fast race car driver. "Mean" Joe was exactly that on the football field but much nicer in Coca-Cola commercials. (see below) "The Frig" was simply a big Bear on Chicago's football team. Of course the white shoes of Johnson were obvious and Jackson wore no shoes.  But I never did figure out the "Catfish" moniker.

Another interesting thing about nicknames is in every instance, except those derived from given names, are gender specific. How many girls or women have nicknames? I can't think of any. Why is that? I can't imagine a woman referred to as "Chubby" or "Slim"?  But then there was Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan.  But that was in the movies.

Did the Native Americans have nicknames?  What would have been the nickname of Red Cloud?  maybe simply "Red"? What about Cochise? "Coch?"  Actually, most of my research shows that most nicknames are products of Western Civilization. I'm not sure where the Native Americans fit in the East-West classification.

I believe this nickname phenomena is probably a cultural thing.  Maybe Anglo-Saxon.  But then  I'm not certain because "flaco" means "skinny" in Spanish and there's the great squeezebox player named Flaco Jimenez.   And he's not fat. And not of Anglo-Saxon ancestry.

I do know that my name is Tony and not Anthony!

The Center of the World

In our travels we have visited churches, mosques, temples, cathedrals and basilicas seemingly ad infinitum. They are always at the top of places of interest in various locales. Though many are opulent and some simplistic none quite compare to Saint Peter's Basilica of the Vatican City in Rome. We were there on a Sunday in October. There were also thousands of other tourists there as well. On this occasion we decided to take a guided tour which was unusual for us.  Our tour guide was a cute young Italian whose name was Gabriella.   She spoke very good english but used the term "ladies and gentlemen" so frequently it became annoying.

Taking a tour turned out to be a good decision. Without a guide we would have been lost in the crowds. Elbow to elbow we were. They issued us these small radio receivers with earbuds. We could hear Gabriella but  we could not respond. There was a large group of us tourists and we were divided among the tour guides.  We had signed up for a specific time also.  At the appointed time we were led by our guide across the street from Italy into the sovereign nation of the Vatican City of which the Pope is the absolute monarch. The 110 acres with 840 inhabitants is the smallest country in the world by area and population. Although actually formed in 1377, it became an official sovereign state in 1929.  It's major source of income is tourism and 1.1 billion Catholics worldwide. The walled city is quite interesting from an architectural standpoint and houses art treasures galore. And we were going elbow our way through the crowds led by a diminutive Italian.

Our first stop was a large room in which there was a three-dimension model of the city. The scale was probably a fraction of an inch per foot. Our tour guide pointed out our route on the model. Soon we entered the Vatican art galleries. It was like one lengthy ornately decorated tunnel. The vaulted ceiling seemed to have gold dripping from it. The walls are covered with paintings and sculptures. These are the longest art galleries in the world. As I looked at the great wealth I couldn't help but speculate on how many of the poor and sick could have been helped by such treasure. Millions, perhaps. We continued to the attraction which we had longed to see, the Sistine Chapel. Our tour guide was not allowed to lead us through the chapel and would meet us on our exit. Although the major art work was done by the sculptor Michelangelo many other painters are represented as well. According to our tour guide many of the poses of the figures in Michelangelo's work can be seen in his sculptures of figures.  I thought it interesting that characters from Greek and Roman mythology are also included. The artist also continued the practice of painting the faces of his enemies on the villains in the paintings. Actually they were frescoes, paintings created by the addition of pigment to wet plaster. It is an incredible work of art. The area was crowded with noisy tourists. The security personnel constantly requested silence in authoritative tones. But people talked. Photographs were strictly forbidden but electronic flashes lit up the dim interior. And teenagers do what comes natural when hormones go awry. I looked at those who offer no sense of reverence in a place of worship with disgust. I am respectful of their mosques and temples.  Why should they not respect my churches? By the way, there are two exits from the Sistine Chapel.  Don't take the one on the left. It does not lead directly to Saint Peter's Basilica. After a bit of discovery by wandering around we rejoined the tour group much to the delight of Gabriella.

I suppose Saint Peter's could be considered the church of churches. The apostle Peter was told by Jesus that his church would be built upon him. The bones of Peter are buried beneath the church. Are they the bones of the first century Christian? Archaeologists say that the bones are from the first century. The basilica is an incredible structure. The building is measured in acres not square feet. I think it's the only five acre church I've ever been in. The opulence is overwhelming.  The inlaid marble floor seems very smoothe. Normally, you can detect an unevenness where the stone  has worn down.  Since different colors of marble wear at different rates and normal wear introduces unevenness.

The shear size is over delusional. The center altar seems to be tall until you see a person nest to and you realise that it is four stories high!  There are many tombs and many more in the crypt underneath. Michelangelo's most famous Pieta is in one of the chapels behind bullet-proof glass. It seems it was once attacked by vandals. We ventured outside through the huge forty foot doors into Saint Peter's Square where the Pope normally holds his audience.

It was starting to rain.  A slow drizzle.  As we entered Italy we decided to duck under the canopy of a cafe for a cappuccino and to get out of the rain. We were of course accosted by a Pakistani selling ponchos. (I think they hid in the shadows waiting for rain and pounce on tourists when raindrops appeared!)  I got into some serious negotiations about the price. We purchased two for five euros and began to enjoy our coffee. There were two guys at the table next to us under the canopy. One asked it we were Americans and we responded that we were. A conversation ensued and we found that the larger man was creating some of the music for a Broadway show. It was based on a Disney film and produced by Bette Midler and Sarah Jessica Parker.  He said he came to Europe occasionally to get inspiration. We meet a lot of interesting people when traveling. The rain stopped  while we were at the cafe and our walk back to the hotel was sans ponchos. But I had made a great deal with the street vendor. Actually, I'm sure he had made a substantial profit..

The next day we would be leaving Rome for Milan and our flight home. Italy had been interesting. But I feel it is highly overrated as a travel destination. Or, perhaps, if we had rented a car or taken a guided tour things would have been different.  Paris is still my favorite city.