Finn and Charlie's Cabin - A 'how to' video / slide presentation

I put together a video / slide presentation about my recent project to build Finn and Charlie's log cabin.  If you've an interest in the 'how to' part of this endeavor, then take a gander by clicking on the link below.  Thanks.




https://apps.facebook.com/authorstream/presentation.aspx?pid=3327587

Spain

OPWA Update

September 2017

Spain

Some of you may have pondered the matter of public nudity on Spanish beaches.  I can now speak with a modicum of authority having spent an entire afternoon strolling Barconeleta's famed waterline.  The weather was perfect; it was a holiday weekend, the last before local schools started; and the Mediterranean shoreline was packed with thousands of sun worshippers.  Few were in the chilly water, so one had to carefully pick one's way through the throngs. 

Ben, Deb, and I would later agree that 25% of the females were topless and 5% of the multitudes were totally nude, the latter group tending to cluster together.  The sea was a deep blue and busy with sailboats and small watercraft, which mostly occupied my attention, but I did occasionally look groundward causing me to observe the following. 

The level of pulchritude was highly pleasing and perhaps unsurpassed. While nudity is not flattering to a meaningful portion of the population, such was not the case in this locale. It was like Mardi Gras taken to the fourth power.  Everything was extremely tidy.  There were no beach umbrellas or chairs, everyone lay on towels or beach blankets.  Vendors trod through the masses of unclad people offering cotton beach blankets.

Several months earlier son Ben and his bride of one year Deb called to inquire if Judy and I would like to join them for 11 days in Spain.  After a few milliseconds of contemplation we agreed and made plans for a trip that would take us to Barcelona, Seville, Cordoba, and Jerez de la Frontera.  Over a million Americans travel to Spain each year, along with another 70 million from other parts of Europe, so I don't pretend to have any great insights based on my first visit to the Iberian peninsula, but I do have some observations:

Barcelona's La Sagrada Familia is one of the most inspiring edifices I've encountered.  Construction began in 1882, and it is still a work in progress with a projected completion date of 2026.  It's open and functioning while construction continues and hosts nearly 3 million visitors a year.  It is a testament to human ingenuity. 

Spanish cities, like most of Europe, feature old districts surrounded by and quite distinct from newer portions.  Wealthier citizens and tourists are attracted to these venerable areas because they are so unique.  Hotel Neri, where we stayed in Barcelona, was originally built in the 12th century, with an exterior little changed but now featuring uber-modern rooms and conveniences.

We were fortunate to fly from Barcelona to Seville and from Jerez back to Barcelona on sunny, cloudless days affording an aerial view of the many older towns still enclosed by walls.  Buildings are confined within these boundaries leaving the countryside devoted to fields of cotton, olive trees, vineyards, melons, and oranges.  It's all very tidy and pleasing to the eye.

It's mildly incongruous to stroll around a large city, hearing only Spanish yet identifying the speakers as blue-eyed blonds. 

It's increasingly difficult to tell someone's nationality by attire. Fellow tourists are readily identified following their tour guides communicating with their charges via ear buds, but it is not as easy to specify their country of origin without hearing them speak.  I'd suggest lederhosen, berets, or bowlers be worn in the future to assist the unwashed like me.

We traveled by rail from Seville to Cordoba and from Seville to Jerez de la Frontera.  The trains are clean, on time, quiet, inexpensive, and take you to the central city where most activities are within easy walking distance.

Deb is proficient in Spanish, which was helpful but not essential.  I accompanied Ben and Deb as they checked into their hotel in Seville.  The hostess greeted them graciously in English.  Deb responded to one of her queries in Spanish, and the lady brightened, "Habla Espanol?"  Then they conversed in Spanish until Deb used the word, "el billette."  Then the hotelier bristled slightly and inquired, "Oh dear, did you learn Spanish from a Mexican?"

We never had a meal that was less than delightful.  Ben and Deb are meticulous planners, relying extensively on Yelp and Trip Advisor, which may have aided us in our dining experiences.  I'm more of a stumbler, "Hey, this place looks good."  After I noted that the food and wine are every bit as good as any we've enjoyed in Italy, Ben observed, "They just haven't branded Spanish food as well as the Italians.  The food is so varied, it doesn't easily lend itself to simple characterization." Cheese and butter are used sparingly, replaced by olive oil.  This pleased me owing to my dairy aversion.

My favorite breakfast dish featured fried eggs served over a bed of French fries, adorned with Iberian ham (think proscuitto).  We dined at a highly ranked tapas restaurant in Barcelona called Tickets.  Reservations must be made 60 days in advance. They have a menu from which one might select their choices, or one can choose the 'surprise' option. We chose the latter and embarked on a sixteen course, three hour extravaganza including: Foie gras with eel, paper thin beef wrapped around a salted bread stick, caviar on puffed pastry, suckling pig tacos, puffed fried potatoes (like those served at Arnaud's and every bit as good), tomatoes wrapped in basil leaves, smoked cherries over a bed of dried ice, Wagyu steak served in strips, steaming portobello mushrooms, figs, exploding olives, octopus fried in bread crumbs served on a bed of rice (mindful of lobster tail), and for dessert a smoked cherry served in a rose, passion fruit gelato, and sponge cake.  Each dish was served exquisitely with separate plates and silver. Of course, the biggest surprise arrived with the bill, but it was worth it.  After dinner, we waddled to a neighboring cocktail bar.

Coca Cola and John Deere are dominant brands.  During our train travels I never saw a tractor that wasn't JD green.

I called my brother while we were gone.  He said, "Where are you?"  I replied, "Seville."  First words out of his mouth, "Be sure to get a haircut."  Surely he's the first to use that line.

I'm happy to report that statues honoring Columbus remain unmolested in Spain.  We toured his tomb located in the Seville Cathedral, the largest Christian Church in the world, completed in 1502.  The Giraldi Tower adjoins the cathedral and is noteworthy for Kansas Citians.  J.C. Nichols travelled to Seville in the early 1900's, surely inspiring his subsequent creation of America's first shopping center in the 1920's, the Country Club Plaza, featuring a smaller replica of the famed tower.

Google Maps is essential for pedestrians navigating the streets of the old towns.  Apple's app lacks the needed precision.

Selfie sticks are a curse.  Everywhere people walk around taking videos of themselves with tourist attractions in the background.  In contrast, I annoy people by writing about my travels.

Jerez is the smallest of the cities we visited and less touristy.  Situated 20 miles from the Atlantic port city of Cadiz and about 60 miles from the Mediterranean port city of Gibraltar, it is known for flamenco, Andulucian horses, and sherry. We toured the Gonzalez Byass winery, the makers of Tio Pepe sherry.  We learned that Magellan spent more on barrels of sherry than armaments for the first circumnavigation of the world, undoubtedly contributing to the loss of all but 18 of the 230 departing adventurers.  We also learned that the oak for the 10,000 casks in storage came from Missouri.

Deb treated us to a dinner at a local wine festival.  We were seated at long, white table-clothed tables in the Alcazar gardens (formerly home to Spanish royalty).  Before each of us were six empty glasses and tableware for a five-course dinner.  A flamenco guitar player performed while we waited.  Then two ladies sat at a table facing the 60 guests.  One looked very much like Lady Mary in the television show 'Downton Abbey'. They spoke about 15 minutes in Spanish, the first glass of wine was served, then the first course of food.  The ladies again spoke, presumably about the next wine we were drinking.  This continued for over two hours with copious pours, elegant service, and wonderful food.  Ben observed her speech becoming increasingly slurred as the evening progressed.  It could have been a perfect SNL scenario, aided with some exaggeration, with Lady Mary increasingly in her cups.

  

The city streets in the old sections of towns are tiny.  On our cab ride from the Seville airport to our lodging, I was amazed that a cab would actually enter some of the streets.  Fortunately, he had electric retractors for his mirrors leaving several inches of space between buildings. 

The cabs were uniformly clean and air-conditioned, a very good thing as it was hot on many days.  I never once heard a cabby use their horn.  They were uncommonly patient and particularly courteous to the pedestrians who blocked their path.

Police / military were highly visible around all the major tourists attractions.  They carried pistols and automatic rifles.  Most noteworthy, they were big and uncommonly fit, no donut munchers in their midst.

I loved everything about Spain, but the best part of the trip was spending time with Ben and Deb.  And that is that.

OPWA

Sadly, book sales languish.  I'm optimistic there will be a Christmas rush.  Look for my ads in the NYT.

All the best,

Chuck

OPWA Update - June 2017

OWPA Update

June 2017

Guitar Stuff

I counted eight carryon guitar cases as I boarded the flight from Kansas City to Nashville, including mine.  I was the only one not wearing hipster black.  I was heading to Maryville College in the eponymous east Tennessee town nestled in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains to attend the weeklong Steve Kauffman Acoustic Music camp.  My Ome open back banjo also accompanied me on trip.

It all started in the spring of 2016 when I started playing banjo backup for a solid musician in Sanibel, FL.  He plays keyboard and sings, and he decided he needed banjo accents for the Mark Knopfler tunes he performs.  He graciously coached me for several months until it was time for me to return north.  After our finale he said, "Your playing is not bad, but you need to work on your timing.  You might consider taking up rhythm guitar.  That will help, and it will make you more versatile for the tunes we play."

While flying to NYC for Thanksgiving I met a guy on a plane who had been playing guitar for forty years.  I told him of my musical journey, and he echoed my musical coach's suggestion.  He subsequently invited me to his house to view his collection of 40 exquisite instruments, and he gave me a brief intro to the acoustic guitar.  As an aside, the fellow is a corncob magnate. One of our sessions was briefly interrupted when he took a call from China ordering several hundred tons of corncobs.  Who knew such an occupation existed.

Once back in Florida, I bought a Taylor 210e acoustic guitar from a guy on Craigslist and started strumming away, relying heavily on YouTube videos for instruction. I now play at two instruments wherein the modesty of my abilities cannot be exaggerated.  But I am enjoying the process, and I'm definitely better now than I was. 

It's mindful of the 90-year-old woman telling her friends that she's going to law school, and it will take 4 years to get her degree.  A skeptic exclaims, "My God, Marge, you'll be 94 when you finish." Marge replies, "Yes, but if I do nothing I'll still be 94 in four years.  This way I'll be a lawyer."

Acoustic camp is fairly similar to the banjo camps I've attended, except it is longer and more focused.  I loved everything about it. Most of the male attendees I met were technical types and most of the female campers appear to have artistic backgrounds with strong musical foundations in piano or violin.  Campers came from as far as Canberra Australia; Paris France; and Leominster, England.  There were a smattering of folks from throughout the country, but most hailed from the Appalachian states.  We wore name badges with our hometowns prominently displayed serving as tickets for meals and concerts.  As the only attendee from Kansas, I predictably received numerous comments about Dorothy and tornados.

Most of participants were retirees, but there were also quite a few young people and a handful of teenagers. Classes were offered for every stringed instrument you can imagine save piano.  The bass fiddlers were easy to spot given the ubiquity of their unwieldy, wheeled conveyances as they strolled from venue to venue. Every evening campers and faculty would gather for open mic time featuring the amateurs followed by a concert from the professionals excepting Wednesday that featured a contra dance.  The performances were foot-stompingly outstanding.

We lived in dorms and ate communal meals from a campus dining service, which wasn't half bad, save for the lack of fine wine.  I had a spectacular view of the nearby Smokys from my Spartan room.  My suitemate is a petroleum geologist from Houston, an advanced flat pick guitar player, and he was both interesting and exceedingly nice.  In days gone by when someone asked, "How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" the response was, "Practice, practice, practice."  Now I can honestly say, I've played Carnegie Hall, leaving out the part about it being the freshman dorm in a small Tennessee college.  My suitemate patiently played the guitar parts on several fiddle tunes while I played clawhammer banjo.  He patiently stayed with me as I speeded up, slowed down, and missed beats.

I signed up for finger picking guitar, lacking any real sense of direction, and our group of five 'advanced beginners' rotated through three different instructors.  The camp also offered ample opportunities to branch out, so I also attended sessions on rhythm guitar, Old Time banjo (aka clawhammer), and Old Time mountain singing.  The latter is where old men and old women holler, ideally in pitch.  I'm not very good, awful in fact, so fear not, no one reading this will ever hear these sounds out of my thin, reedy, voice.

Over the course of a week, complete strangers became less strange and downright friendly.  By attending open mic sessions one could get a pretty good calibration of one's musical ability making it clear there is an abundance of upside in my musical wayfaring.  My talented suite mate encouraged me noting, "Everyone has to pay their dues by playing in front of other people.  You'll suck for a long time, and then one day, you'll no longer suck quite so much."

Over meals I had occasion to listen in on some interesting conversations.  One guy told of attending a banjo building camp in Pisgah, NC.  For $2,000 you can spend a week shaping the neck from a log, building a fret board, adding inlay, setting the tuning ring and drum head, fitting the tuners, and so on.  At the end of the week you get to take your new banjo home with you.  Alternatively, you can buy roughly the same banjo for $1,000.  This vignette prompted another woman to share her story:

"My neighbor decided he wanted to go to a 14-day camp teaching you how to make cowboy boots.  It was located somewhere in rural Texas, and there were no places to stay, so he bought an RV.  Once there he loved the whole cowboy boot building thing, so he bought an $8,000 specialty sewing machine and hauled it back to Tennessee along with the one pair of custom made boots he had crafted while in camp.  Then he broke his leg unloading the machine from his RV."  This is where country songs are born.

Royals Stuff

Every now and again you have a really good day. Judy and I attended a Kansas City Royals v. Houston Astros game a few weeks ago.  Royals' leftfielder Alex Gordon, who recently signed a 4-year $72 million contract yet was batting a feeble .172, came to the plate.  He flailed at the first two pitches appearing certain to add to his lackluster league leading strikeout count.  The guy sitting in the next seat and I were groaning in unison heaping verbal abuse on the $18m/year ball player, whereupon Gordon hit the third pitch over the center field wall for his first homer of the season.   Hey things are looking up!

Then, in the sixth inning Judy and I were featured on the kiss cam.  I texted son Ben, who replied, "Did you kiss her?" And I responded in the affirmative.  In the seventh inning the Royal's mascot Slugger, an anthropomorphically-pumped-up-lion-with-muscles-made-of-sponge, jumped down from the top of the visitor's dugout into our row and gave me a high five.  Wow!  Now I'm now living large!  Again I texted fellow Royals fans informing them of our good fortune noting that all now lacking was a victory as the home team boys were then losing 1-7.

Then a late inning rally was capped by a Mike Moustakas 2-run homer in the ninth giving the Royals a 9-7 victory.  I should have purchased a lottery ticket that night.

OPWA

OPWA sales have now reached 800.  NNAOPP sales are closing in on 1600 leaving me a mere 600 short of my 'beat Melville' goal.  I did hand out my business cards to several of my fellow music campers.  One side features the cover of OPWA and the other NNAOPP.  I'm certain these efforts will yield the desired results.

That's the news from here.

All the best,

Chuck

Charles A. Wells, Jr.

3317 W. 68th Street

Shawnee Mission, KS 66208

816 289-1924

charlesawellsjr@gmail.com

Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't: An Anthology and

Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People

Now available in all ebook formats on Amazon at:  http://www.amazon.com

Follow my blog at: http://www.ordinarypeoplewhoarent.blogspot.com

Available at:

  Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS

Abel: Going to America

Abel

Prologue

I came to know Abel (pronounced ah bell) only in passing.  He serves as the mozo (butler) for two gentlemen living in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.  Last November I was their guest for one week as I was interviewing them for a book I was writing.  I observed Abel masterfully managing a staff of five as they hosted comidas (luncheons) for as many as 100 guests, along with smaller more intimate dinners and cocktail parties.  He is now 53 years old, a father and grandfather.  He is fit and ruggedly handsome.  I've never seen him when he wasn't immaculately attired in a white tuxedo shirt, black slacks, and spit shined shoes. Upon grabbing his upper arm in a greeting one is met with solid muscle. 

He banters easily with his two employers, and it is obvious they have a good relationship, a good thing considering Abel has worked for Howard and Bill for the last twenty years.

I returned to San Miguel for a week of events surrounding the publishing of my second book (Ordinary People Who Aren't).  We didn't stay at Howard and Bill's, but we attended four or five events overseen by Abel.  I listened to some entertaining stories told by Howard about Abel, and I was curious to learn more. 

What follows was picked up by quizzing Abel while he was in the midst of serving drinks or food to hordes of needy party-goers over the course of a week:

Going to America

When Abel was 19 he was in love and decided he would cross the border into the United States to earn sufficient money to buy some land near his home in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.  This would be an important first step towards marrying his sweetheart.

In January 1983, he boarded a train to Ciudad Camargo, a border city upriver from McAllen, TX. 

In Abel's paraphrased words:

"It was very cold when we arrived.  I wasn't used to this type of weather, and we didn't have warm clothes.  The Rio Grande River was wide but shallow, and it was partially iced over. We went to a restaurant that was really just a large tent with a fire and stood close to get warm.  We were told this is where we would meet the coyotes that would help us get across the border.  I didn't have any money, and the price was $500 U.S.  Most people didn't have money, but the coyote would take us based on the promise to pay, usually from someone already in the U.S.

"We were housed and fed for a couple of weeks waiting for the right time to cross.  The coyotes became impatient with the costs of keeping us, so we were put to work in a factory soldering parts for radios.  After one day in the factory the coyote came to us and said, 'Today is the day.'

"There were four of us, three men and a young woman.  We were told to take off all our clothes and put them in a plastic bag to keep them dry.  We waded across the river naked, holding our clothes above our head.  It was chest deep and very cold.  When we got out of the water one of the guys laughed at how his companion's pee pee had shrunk.  Then he looked down and noticed that we all had the same problem.  We put on our clothes and were told to get into a car parked nearby.  We were stacked like cordwood in the back seat, at least a dozen people.  We were driven nonstop to Dallas.  They didn't even let us stop to use the bathroom, and someone in the pile soiled himself.

"We arrived in East Dallas and were put to work fixing up a house where we were taken.  Those who knew someone with the $500 for the coyote were released to go wherever they might go.  I wasn't so fortunate, so I was put to work cleaning and cooking for the others.  We were locked up whenever the coyotes would leave. After several weeks the coyote told me, 'If no one comes to pay for you, I'll have to kill you and toss your body away.'  He said it so casually it was frightening, like he was talking about going to the store.  The coyotes have no heart.  They are ruthless.

"One day the lead coyote came back and he was drunk.  He always carried a pistol, and I thought this would be my best chance to get the pistol away from him and escape.  Just as I grabbed his gun, another coyote came and aimed his gun at me.  They said not to worry; they weren't going to kill me.  They admired me for standing up to them and then took me to a 7-11 store and bought me socks.

"A few days later, a man from my hometown came and paid the coyote his $500, and I was free.

"Within a matter of days I was hired on a construction crew in Plano.  It was very heavy work, mostly hauling bags of cement and mixing concrete.  For the first few weeks I was more sore and tired than I had ever been.  We'd work from sunup to sundown, but I was finally making some money.

When I asked him if the construction people cheated him, Abel said, "No. No. They treated me very well.  I was making $1,100 U.S. per week.  Once I had a little money, I repaid the man who paid my $500 coyote fee and gave him another $200 in thanks.  I also sent most of the money home to my family to save for me to buy my land.

"At first I was living in an apartment with a lot of other people.  Then I got my own apartment, but I would put people up who needed help.  Every weekend the Mexicans in East Dallas would congregate around a soccer field near where we lived.  Whenever we'd see someone new, we'd introduce ourselves and hand him $20.  If there were four of us, each would give the new man $20 to help him get started.

"After several weeks of heavy construction, the weather turned bad, and the work ended.  Someone told me that the Dallas Country Club needed a dishwasher.  I went there to meet the sous-chef.  I asked him how much he paid, and he said, '$365 a week.'  I told him that wasn't enough.  He said it was steady work, and he would help me get raises if I was a good worker. 

"When I arrived for work the first day, he told me he had a little problem.  He currently had four dishwashers from Guerrero (a state in southern Mexico), but they weren't good workers.  He wanted me to pick three other guys, and he would hire all four of us.  When the four of us arrived the next day, the sous-chef told me, 'You're going to have to work it out with the guys you're replacing.'  I was bewildered, but he told us to go out back where we confronted the guys we would be replacing.

"We were lined up four against four, and their lead guy said, 'We're not leaving.'  I told them that yes they were leaving, because we needed these jobs.  I told him that we were from Guanajuato and that our state motto is 'Life holds little value'.

"Their lead guy and I started to circle around to fight, and the other six formed a circle around us.  I was a pretty good soccer player and was pretty strong even before the construction work.  I knocked him down with a kick to the face.  Then he got up again, and I kicked him again in the face.  Then I physically picked him up and threw him in the back of a trash truck that was nearby.  It was one of those trash compactor trucks with the big hydraulic crusher.  It had a red and a green button.  I pushed the red button, and it started to close on the Guerrero boy.  He started screaming, and I pushed the green button to stop it.  He got out of the trash, they left, and I never saw them again.

"After a few months I was promoted to work in the dining room, and within a year I was promoted to bartender.  I spoke no English when I arrived, but I started picking it up little by little. (Author's note: Abel's English is very good.  He speaks and reads well, but does not write in English.)  I was learning a great deal about the world of restaurants and service, and I kept sending money home.

"After two years the sous-chef who originally hired me took me aside and said, 'I've accepted a new position in Los Angeles, and I want you to come with me.  I'll buy you a truck, and I'll pay you well.'  I was thinking this would be a good thing, then a few days later, the sous-chef walks into the kitchen, he places his arms around a refrigerator, picks it up a few inches off the ground, then drops it, and I could hear glass breaking from the mess.  Then he went out to his car, a Chevy El Camino I think.  Before he got in, it broke out in flames and exploded.

"I decided that it wouldn't be a good idea to go with him.  A few months later I decided it was time to return to San Miguel.

Postcript

Abel returned to his hometown.  He did marry his sweetheart, and they purchased a home together.  He went to work for a Tex-Mex restaurant in SMA where he stayed for eight years.  Then a friend told him about two Americans that had moved to SMA and were in need of a mozo.  Would he be interested? He said yes, and has stayed twenty years, affording his family a comfortable middle to upper middle class life style in a beautiful community.

Charles A. Wells, Jr.

3317 W. 68th Street

Shawnee Mission, KS 66208

816 289-1924

charlesawellsjr@gmail.com

Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't: An Anthology and

Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People

Now available in all ebook formats on Amazon at:  http://www.amazon.com

Follow my blog at: http://www.ordinarypeoplewhoarent.blogspot.com

Available at:

  Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS

   

Mardi Gras 2017

OPWA Update

Mardi Gras

I can't imagine the real George Washington looking any more authentic than the guy I encountered at the Rib Room on Mardi Gras evening.  He had blue eyes and was tall, about 6'2", exactly replicating the legendary figure.  Naturally, he was coiffed with George Washington hair and wore his Revolutionary War general's outfit, including the familiar colonial period tricorne hat.

I approached him and said, "Thanks for your service."  And he laughed.

This was one of the best Carnival seasons in recent memory.  Patrick, the famed owner of Patrick's Bar Vin, recapped at our Galatoire's luncheon on Ash Wednesday, "The crowds were down a little bit, but everyone seemed much more civilized."  We all agreed.

One shouldn't mistake 'civilized' for 'somber'.  From the perspective of our balcony on Royal and St. Peter our crew could attest that public nudity ran at uncommonly high levels.  Both Lundi Gras and Mardi Gras days were sunny and warm contributing mightily to the festive mood and the scantily clad celebrants. 

My favorite street performer this year was a tall, hirsute young guy wearing a low-cut evening gown.  He stood on the corner of Bienville and Royal pontificating nonsensically using a stand-up microphone.  Nary a soul paid him any heed.  I circled back about 15 minutes later to join a newly formed crowd listening to him sing, badly, the title song from the movie Frozen.  "Let it Go, Let it Go." For some reason it just made me laugh.

My favorite costume was of a couple wearing potted plants on their heads growing what appeared to be marijuana.  The label 'potheads' was unnecessary.

Our Friday before MG luncheon was predictably excessive.  Eight of us, along with a smattering of sporadically appearing guests, shared several rounds of cocktails and fifteen bottles of fine wine over a six hours period.  The Rib Room staff was already greeting early dinner guests when we finally ambled out for further refreshments at Patrick's.  It was almost Hemingway-esque.

Old People

Late Monday afternoon I espied a large group of old people (roughly my age) coming our way.  They were attired in loose fitting, shiny sweat suits and white tennis shoes, and they stayed close together not unlike a school of fish.  I presumed they had been temporarily paroled from a tour bus on Decatur, thus requiring that they hoof it several blocks to reach our venue.  We were dispensing beads generously, and the geezers greedily grasped the idea of free stuff.

They resembled guppies at a fish farm feeding as they gathered beneath our balcony with their arms held up like zombies.  "Give me the yellow one," demanded one.  We graciously accommodated their rude pleadings in the hopes they'd move on quickly.

Homeless

Unfortunately, the good weather greatly increased the presence of the homeless.  I commented on the incongruity of beggars all having one or more dogs and the attendant responsibility of more mouths to feed.  I naively thought it must be a sign of true doggy devotion, a sympathy enhancement technique, or just added warmth whilst slumbering in a cold alleyway. My host explained, "Au contraire my foolish friend. Those dogs serve merely as free get-out-of-jail cards.  The cops won't arrest someone with a dog, because then they have to find someone to take care of the canine companions."  Now you know.

Christians

A new group of Christians appeared this year.  In the past one could predictably count on seeing and hearing a group of middle-aged men marching carrying signs listing the many categories of people headed directly to hell.  One of their number would shout loudly into a portable microphone declaring the same.  They are small in number and universally ignored as they spew their vile admonitions.

This year, however, a new group of younger Christians made their presence known.  On Sunday, about 40 young adults lined our street for over three hours.  They were attractive and reasonably hiply attired. Many held signs offering free hugs.  Most of their number formed a gauntlet through which all passersby were encouraged to enter.  Whereupon they received hugs, high fives, whoops and hollers, and general well wishes.  Needless to say, such wholesomeness was not totally conducive to our principal balcony pursuits, but it was better company than rappers or kids drumming incessantly on plastic barrels.

Later that night, we returned to our apartment from an evening of music listening on Frenchman Street and observed the same, or similar, group of young people.  They had set up free face-painting tables, continued to offer free hugs, and they had a DJ playing music and organizing line dances.  There were over 200 people dancing on St. Peter's between the body painting kiosk and Pat O'Briens. 

Over the years I've become acquainted with the body painting guy and his barker so I stopped to chat.  They bemoaned, "These kids are just killing us.  But they're so nice it's hard to hate them."

I told the body-painting guy, who happens to live in Hollywood, CA that he was now famous due to a letter to the editor that was printed in a recent WSJ.  I showed him a copy from my iPhone. He said he missed that particular issue but was pleased, and said he remembered the encounter.

The WSJ Editor

1211 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10036

Re:  Jerry Cianciola's 3/10/15 article "What to Do If Your Child's First Love is Art

Reading Jerry Cianciola's article "What to Do if Your Child's First Love is Art" reminded me of an encounter at this year's Mardi Gras celebration in New Orleans.  A body-painting kiosk is situated in an alley across the street from my host's apartment.  It appeared to be a slow day, so I chatted with the weathered 50ish artist decked out in a doo rag and black leather who paints women's torsos all day.  It was sunny and warm, and nearby Pat O'Brien's emits an endless stream of alcohol-impaired young women.  The paucity of customers was puzzling, and I inquired why.  He replied wryly, "If anyone tells you to paint within the lines, do it.  I'm what happens to those that don't."

Charles Wells

Mission Hills, KS

And that's the news from here.

Sales of OPWA are now at 712 and NNAOPP at 1, 550, leaving me several hundred copies short of 'beating Melville', but I will persist.

Charles A. Wells, Jr.

3317 W. 68th Street

Shawnee Mission, KS 66208

816 289-1924

charlesawellsjr@gmail.com

Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't: An Anthology and

Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People

Now available in all ebook formats on Amazon at:  http://www.amazon.com

Follow my blog at: http://www.ordinarypeoplewhoarent.blogspot.com

Available at:

  Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS

  

Finn and Charlie's Cabin

OPWA Update

January 2017

 

Finn and Charlie's Cabin 

Initially, I thought I would need about 64 logs, 10' and 12' long, 6-8" in diameter at the thickest point and 4-6" at the thinnest.  The size of the cabin had been determined by the weight of the largest log I could single handedly lift above my head.

The ideal trees, by necessity double the length of the desired log, are located deep in a cedar forest where they might grow straight, narrow, and tall, seeking sunlight.  Fortunately, we have an abundance of such woodlots. Unfortunately, they are difficult to access, most often quite distant from the road system I have cut in their midst.  One doesn't just cut a wedge out of one side of the tree, crosscut the back side, yell 'timber', and watch it fall to the ground.  Instead, one makes the desired cuts then watches the tree lean imperceptibly into the neighboring boughs.  This required that I pound the somewhat fallen tree off its newly formed stump with a sledge hammer and drag it to the ground either by hand or with a chain and tractor.  Then I'd trim the log to size and remove the branches with my small Stihl chainsaw. 

Initially, I removed the bark from the log in the field using a hand held draw bar.  This is an arduous task made even more difficult by the presence of a sticky substance called cambium that lies between the bark and sapwood.  I'm told that the cambium is edible once boiled into a paste, but I preferred Butterfingers for my snacks.  Once cleaned, I leaned the log against a tree for air-drying.

Fifty years ago, our 160-acre pretend farm was a real farm generally devoted to wheat and cattle.  When the owner was stricken with what neighbors would later describe as a mental illness, the property was left untended.  Eastern Red Cedar (of the juniper family), Osage-Orange (aka hedge apple trees), Black Locust trees, and bovine skeletons then laid claim to the land.

Red cedar is a pioneer species, meaning it is one of the first to repopulate damaged land.  Cedar is also considered an invasive species and was controlled by wildfires in days of yore, before the prairies became subdivisions. Their low, long branches block the sunlight over a wide area.  Few plants can live under their canopy encouraging erosion of the land.  Adding to their undesirability, their needles raise the pH level of the soil making it alkaline.  On the plus side, the abundant, bluish juniper berries on female cedars provide food for cedar waxwings, turkeys, bluebirds, and even hungry mammals.  A brief trip through the birds' intestines triples the reproductive capabilities of each berry.

I chopped, trimmed, and debarked 64 logs over the winter of 2014-2015. (I used 440 logs constructing nearby Fort Waverly, but they were only 9' x 4", and I didn't debark them.) In the following spring, I drove around the forest with my Kawasaki Mule and a trailer to retrieve my crop.  After several failed experiments, I determined the best way to mill the rough logs was to use a Makita grinding tool.  It took 30 minutes of grinding and sanding to make each log approximately round and smooth.  I would later learn that all my drawbar work was in vain, as I could easily use the grinding tool to remove the bark and cambium, but this is how the slow witted learn.

I had a mental image of the log cabin in the Walton's television show that I would replicate, only much smaller as the new dwelling would be for the use of little people.  The interior size would be 9' x 10' with a 5' porch with a wall height of 6' 8".  The cabin would feature 2' x 2' windows on each end and a 6' x 2 1/2' door on the front.  The gables would be sufficiently steep both to remain in architectural harmony with the roofline of our nearby barn and to house a sleeping/play loft.

I would quickly learn that the height of the door was problematic.  I am 6'1", add another 1" for work boots, and one can quickly deduce how many times my head collided with the unforgiving cross piece.

With 64 logs arduously assembled near the barn, I naively thought the lion's share of the task was complete.  I would later state with complete accuracy, "Had I any idea how much work this would be, I would never have begun."  So it is well that I proceeded with complete ignorance.

One June day, Waverly and Finn accompanied me to Home Depot to buy the only dimension lumber I would use in the project, thirty 1" x 6" x 12' CCA pine boards for the cabin floor and sixteen 2" x 8" x 12' boards for the floor joists.  Each had a pair of work gloves, and they helped load each board from the shelves to the trolley to the cashier to the trailer and to the work site.  I can say with a modest dose of grandfatherly pride that their assistance transformed a solitary 30-minute task into a well-spent day.  As Finn would periodically inquire, "Can we stop for a snack?"

A friend helped me align and set the foundation starting with six cedar poles arising from the ground.  I then built the decking, with reinforcements on the edges and laid the floor decking.  I discovered that my deck was slightly out of square. One end wall would be 1.5" longer than the other.  "No big deal, I'll fix this as I go."  This would prove vexatious, but manageable.

Once the deck was laid, it was time to stack sticks, think Lincoln logs. I watched numerous Youtube videos and decided to use saddle cuts to connect the corners.  Cedar trees are tapered so I had to lay the logs in a thick to thin manner insuring each course stayed approximately level.  I would eventually measure and cut about 120 saddles.  The first dozen were pretty ragged, but fortunately they were relatively hidden being nearest the floor.  The last dozen fit like a glove. I oftentimes marveled at how pioneers built these structures without the aid of Stihl chainsaws, sharp blades, and grinding tools.

 

Wall building involved a meaningful amount of log lifting, first for scribing, then to the sawhorse for cutting, then back to the wall to check the fit and level, then to adjust as necessary.  Rarely would the first cut be the last.

I cut spaces for my front door and the two side windows using my chainsaw, repeated measuring, and wedges to keep the cut logs level. Then I framed the holes.  I cut down and hung an old door and used clear Plexiglass from Home Depot for the windows.

Early on I realized my initial design for the gables was flawed requiring a mid-course correction.  There was no way to maintain structural integrity merely by stacking gable logs and tying them together with large dowels and a ridgepole.  Instead, I would use purlins (longitudinal rails running from one end of the cabin to the other) connecting each coursing of gable logs. 

Owing to a miscalculation and the mid-course design changes, I realized I needed 36 additional 12' logs of varying diameter.  It was late August, hot, and the trees were heavy with sap, but it was back to the forest chainsaw in hand.  I had a mid-October deadline when I intended to dedicate the cabin to Finn and Charlie at our annual fall farm party. 

After cutting, trimming, debarking, shaping, and sanding the new logs, I was ready for the gabling.  This was by far the most difficult part of the construction, particularly since I was working solo.  I used wood bolts to tack each gable log to the one below it.  I used a string guide from a temporary ridgepole tacked to the cabin wall to insure the correct angles, and cut accordingly.  Then I measured, scribed, and cut a saddle at the ends of the purlin, and hooked each over the opposing gables.  I was mightily pleased and relieved when I placed the ridgepole across the top level of the gable, and it was level.

I hated the thought of using plywood for the roof sub-structure and expressed my concerns to a farm neighbor.  He said he had a stack of used Knotty Pine beaded boards in his barn that he would donate to the cause.  Perfect.  Then I headed to ABC roofing, purchased cedar shingles, flashing, and tarpaper, and completed the most unpleasant task of the endeavor.

I built a loft covering about one half of the interior accessible by a built-in ladder, believing little people like to climb into small spaces.

All that was left was chinking to fill in the spaces between the logs..  Again, I relied on Youtube and learned of a product called Perma-Chink.  I bought and used their cleaning materials to insure the chinking properly adhered to the logs.  I then placed backing (foam rods of varying diameter) in the spaces between the logs, applied the chink with a caulking gun to cover the backing, and spread the sticky substance with a putty knife and paintbrush to smooth and clean the seam.  I made most of my mistakes on the outside of the back wall, and was moderately skilled by the time I finished the insides of the walls.

I trimmed the edges of the roofline and porch with rough cedar, leaving painting and hanging the front door as the final task.  I asked the cabin's namesakes for their preference on color.  Finn wanted yellow, Charlie blue.  I recruited the boys and their sister on a beautiful fall day to paint the exterior yellow and the interior blue.

I spent about $1,200 on purchased items; dimension lumber, hardware, sandpaper discs, roofing, and chinking.  I don't choose to contemplate the hours invested, but it was truly a labor of love.

After I described the time involved, a pun-loving friend asked, "Did you keep a log?"

Now Finn and Charlie's Cabin keeps Fort Waverly and the unnamed teepee company.

Miscellany

Once upon a time there was a little boy who persistently begged his parents to get him a dog.  His pleas were continually spurned.  "Aaron, we are not getting you a dog."

Later neighbors noticed that the little boy had tied a piece of twine to a brick, and he would drag it around their cul-de-sac.  This continued for a few days, until the parents finally relented.  The boy then replaced his brick with a puppy, a just reward for a brilliant ploy.

Thanks to Mary Sneed for sharing this story about her son.

OPWA

Thanks to Jeff Zimmerman for inviting me to speak at the Shawnee Kiwanis club about my book.  Special thanks to Jim Tavary for placing my largest book order ever to share with his board, medical staff, and other denizens of Wickenburg, AZ so they might learn more about their neighbor, Art Ditto.  Thanks to all who have shared kind words about the stories.  Copies remain available on Amazon or through my bustling fulfillment center. $12.50/copy plus $3 for shipping, no shipping for orders of 3 or more.

Sales totals are now at 676 copies for OPWA and 1,545 for NNAOPP.  I remain 779 short of "Beating Melville." 

Happy New Year to All,

Your obedient servant,

Chuck

Charles A. Wells, Jr.

3317 W. 68th Street

Shawnee Mission, KS 66208

816 289-1924

cbjwells@sprynet.com

Author of: Ordinary People Who Aren't: An Anthology and

Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People

Now available in all ebook formats on Amazon at:  http://www.amazon.com

Follow my blog at: http://www.ordinarypeoplewhoarent.blogspot.com

Available at:

  Rainy Day Books, 2706 W. 53rd Street, Fairway, KS