When I quit my Facebook account several said they would be sad to miss my dog. “What about Gunther!!” exclaimed one enchanting young woman. She clutched her hands together in anguish. She certainly did. Would I sign back up to Fb?
Stop. I am not jealous of Gunther. He may be — is — handsome, intelligent, cheerful and relentlessly progressive in his thinking, but, I feel I cannot stress too emphatically, that I don’t mind. I love him. Love him despite some drawbacks. He often has a disgusting smell. But then, who doesn’t? Dr. Juday, chemistry professor at the University of Montana, in 1979 wondered aloud why Proctor and Gamble manufactured perfumed soap? “You pay a fortune for good perfume,” he said, “and then you wash with soap that stinks.”
Gunther isn’t the only stinker. Well, he does have unusually fishy smelling breath. I hope he doesn’t have to have his teeth cleaned under a general anesthetic. And he farts, but those are pleasant smelling.
June 24, 2024
Mental health: at least 60% of normal, or “pretty good.” I’m not sure I’m ready to go through the hassle of a change in my antidepressant meds, although my psychiatrist would be more than glad to help me in that regard. Today I’m at my daughter’s house in Poway, California. Getting here was fraught with difficulty. Because Las Vegas. One hundred ten degrees, Fahrenheit.
My nephew Jon drove me from Billings, Montana, to Kanab, Utah, last week in his Honda pickup, towing his 1956 Airstream. The first day of the journey Jon drove to Spanish Fork campground, close to Provo, where we spent a pleasant night, interrupted by a train a couple times. The approximately 10-foot trailer has two beds.
Jon drove fully twelve hours the first day while I read to him from Julie Schumacher’s book, “Dear Committee Members.” Made the driving time seem less onerous. Mark Fryberger recommended the book, and I do too. Get it from the library.
Second day, we arrived in Kanab, place where my namesake, Daniel Rohrer, was to marry Madi. Daniel is my sister’s grandson. Trouble is, Kanab was hot, about 100 degrees Fahrenheit.
Did I mention I had Gunther? You see, Gunther has diabetes and must receive insulin shots twice a day. No one else was available to administer the insulin. While we went to Kanab P. flew to San Diego to stay with daughter Clara’s three children while Clara visited her friend in Australia.
It’s complicated, yes. Staying in Kanab with Gunther was complicated. My sister, most of my nephews and my niece and their familiars were in Kanab, poised for serious partying, and yes, a wedding.
Gunther is not high maintenance, but he cannot stay in the air conditioned hotel room alone because he barks. (I tried leaving him alone, but I received a telephone call from the hotel management.)
I kept G. with me in the hotel lobby. I had two of nephew’s mixed drinks one evening, but I couldn’t afford to become confused or rummy whilst caring for the dog. The revelers soon left G. and me alone. The pavement was too hot for his paws. The wedding was outdoors at a beautiful natural location. I couldn’t risk taking him out into the heat with no way of getting him to a cool place. I resolved to abandon the plan Jon and I made to drive to San Diego in his truck; I hitched a ride to Las Vegas to catch a flight instead. Me and Gunther. And a suitcase. Stuff to drag all over the airport.
Problem #1. Got to terminal 3 at Harry Reid in plenty of time. Checking in, I discovered I’d inadvertently booked the flight in August. Called P. for advice. Then I cancelled the August reservation. Booked a 47-minute flight to San Diego on Frontier at about 3 pm. Gunther and I were in good shape.
As the plane slowly taxied at the end of a long line of aircraft, waiting more than an hour for take-off, the Captain announced the fuel temperature was too hot because of the 110-degree air temp. Couldn’t fly. We needed to return to the terminal. (Groans from the passengers. A woman shouted “No!”)
We were hopeful again. The captain told us the fuel could be cooled when mixed with even cooler fuel. He told us to stick close to the gate. No visiting the bar and, presumably, drinking too much and missing the flight.
At the terminal, an hour later, we learned our flight was canceled. We looked at each others’ sad expressions, but uttered no moans, groans, cries of anguish, nor did we shed visible tears.
Our job: retrieve our luggage at the carousel, proceed to the ticket counter to rebook. About sixty of us filed through the airport, then waited patiently for several hours while three agents rebooked us. I learned the next direct flight to San Diego was scheduled in three days. Then the ticketing agent brightened. You could leave for there tonight!
She said I could catch a flight at 1 a.m. to Denver, then transfer to a flight from Denver to San Diego.
I opened the crate so Gunther could hang out with the people waiting in line. He pooped, to everyone’s delight.
Eventually, it worked out fine, although Frontier seats are v. close together and I’m 6’4” tall. Frontier managed to fit 40 rows of seats in “economy” class. These knees of mine kept me awake, pressed against the seat ahead.
While waiting in Denver I needed to get water for Gunther. $6 for a plastic bottle of water.
Us passengers did have a sense of shared suffering, of camaraderie. Gunther didn’t pee from the time the initial flight returned to the terminal until we arrived in San Diego. However, once out on the sidewalk at San Diego, G. peed much wetness and pooped an unusually large amount.
The day I arrived at my daughter’s house P. and I visited the grocery. Well, I did take a nap before then. But I melted down at Albertson’s and had to leave the store. On the way to Clara’s I wept silently and my tears dried, itching on my cheeks.
Our house on Burlington Avenue
The summer of 1983 we’d been renting this place on Burlington Avenue in Billings. At 421 Burlington, next door to Mr. and Mrs. Frank, whom I thought could have been children of immigrants who came to the U.S. from Germany after World War I. Mrs. Frank sounded like one who grew up speaking German and English. Many who settled south of Billings in Joliet and Red Lodge came from German stock. According to the Library of Congress website, conditions in Germany triggered many to leave the country. Our Struckmann forebears exited Germany in 1849 when hopes for democratic reforms were crushed. Several waves of German immigrants followed. Then, according to the NLC, “When Germany’s Nazi party came to power in 1933, it triggered a significant exodus of artists, scholars and scientists, as Germans and other Europeans fled the coming storm.”
Mrs. Frank complained of our beautiful yellow cat, Burton, because he was an outdoor cat, inclined to sit on the hood of her car to get warm. This was back in 1983, when the globe was cooler.
Mrs. Frank confronted me. Stopped me, really, on our shared driveway. She told me in her most strident tone that when she drove to church, the paw tracks on her car looked “dumb.” She emphasized the last word, sort of spitting it out, then mumming the “m” sound with her lips.
For my part, I agreed with her. Her car was dumb, but what the hell. It ran. Our car was in pieces, because I was trying to rebuild its engine.
Because she parked her mid-size Chevy under a carport, I fantasized draping a net down the front and sides to keep Burton off. Did she catch Burton, specifically, on her car? I’m thinking maybe, maybe not. Mrs. Frank thought I was one of the motorcycle gang who rented 421 before us. I suggested the motorcycles had long gone, but she wouldn’t have it. I had a beard, didn’t I?
Is this the house I’m addressing in this essay? No, go east on Burlington two blocks.
P. and I loved the house we rented at 421, and we would have wanted to buy it, but I was a pharmacy intern at Deaconess Hospital, earning about $6/hour. Sometimes, to entertain ourselves, we’d stroll the neighborhood, because a few blocks away were mansions. At 215 Burlington we walked past a pickup with its brake lights on. I knocked. A young man with long hair thanked me, said he had a faulty brake pedal spring. We heard him trot over to his truck as we headed the two blocks home.
This house with the faulty pickup brake pedal spring became our home when the long-haired kid’s father, John Frasco, sold it to us about three months later.
P. and I have lived here more than 40 years, and the house—and its contents—is the subject of my list. All the contents with terse notations. Room by room.
July 2, 2024
To Whom it Concerns,
I did it! Took a bit of courage, too!
I recently permanently deleted my Facebook account, but I’d like to maintain many of the friendships I’ve developed over the past 10-12 years. Some of the friendships go back more than 50 years.
Without exception, people I’ve informed have given me kudos. I’m anxious about losing touch with important people, admirable people, people like you.
That’s one issue. The other is my redundant email account. Hotmail.
The entity providing my free hotmail account told me that I’ve used up, surpassed even, my storage alottment. I’d have to pay a monthly fee.
So, instead of doing that, I want to rely on my gmail account. I was informed that my entire hotmail account will be deleted in about two weeks. Of course I have mixed emotions.
Both Facebook and hotmail inundate me with unwanted advertisements, sexual propositions, click baits, and other distractions. They waste my time and attention.
I am keeping my blog, insearchofbud.com , but I don’t know who reads it. I believe a few of you receive notifications whenever I post, but unless you reply to a post, I don’t know who you are.
Therefore, if you are a friend who reads this, please notify me. I need to know whatever information you care to share with me so we can remain in touch:
* your name (or nickname) I am Daniel R. Struckman aka Dan, Danny, Stork, Stretch, Dan the Bearded Giant, or Goofy Motherfucker. I never did enjoy the last moniker, but I include it for completeness.
* email address. Mine is dannystruckman@gmail.com
* I probably have your phone number, so don’t share it. Mine is 406-694-2829.
* other contact information, as appropriate. Remember, my blog is publicly available, so you may want to use discretion. Maybe use my gmail address instead.
I plan to send emails from my gmail account to my list of contacts currently using my hotmail.
Sincerely,
Daniel Struckman
Last week P. and I drove our van from Poway, CA, to Saint George, UT, to meet up with our high school age grandson, Cyrus. He and his friend have been driving around the west camping for their spring break in the folks’ car. We kept in touch by texting.
Cyrus’ dad, Todd, assured us that they would go with us anywhere for camping if we offered them shrimp scampi. He advised us to stuff a wad of money into Cy’s pocket. Later Todd told me he was kidding about the shrimp scampi.
Our first night, near Saint George, was dusty because we camped near a dirt road. On a road, really. In the morning a line of volunteer firemen lugged ropes and gear to practice vertical rescues. We drove to Zion NP, hiked. Cy booked 2 campsites near Virgin, UT.
From Virgin we drove a couple miles on a narrow unpaved road. Climbed to a vast meadow, a dirt road cut through. Nearby fence and trees. Distant cliffs of orange, pink, red rocks. Evening. Only a hundred meters across the meadow we turned off to a stone fire ring. We weren’t far from a wire fence and a cheerful, blue, porta potty.
I wanted to use the commode. Headed for it. Maybe a couple hundred feet.
The meadow was sparser than it looked at first. Less grassy. A few widely scattered cow pies. Old ones, dry. I soon reached the blue, plastic, portable commode. I wondered if anyone ever cleaned it. It looked bright and clean on the outside.
I heard flies buzzing as I reached for the door, pulling it open. Oh yeah! Thousands of flies. Mark Twain called ‘em God’s darlings. I hadn’t seen that many flies in one place since we camped in a Forest Service cabin years ago.
At first I stared in disbelief. I didn’t want to see what I saw.
Someone left the seat up. Usual disgusting sight. I tried to imagine sitting on a toilet with hundreds of houseflies buzzing in and out of the hole. Would they tickle my private parts? What about the thousands more flies buzzing random orbits, trapped with me if I closed the door? I hesitated. Again, I tried to imagine me dropping my pants and sitting.
I let go the door; it closed itself. I had to leave. I continued to hear the buzzing, albeit fainter, as I walked back to the fire circle. Of course, I wanted to tell everyone about the phenomenon I witnessed.
At camp, Cyrus set up the camping table and we ate jambalaya and chicken soup.
Then the youths and I played several games of Bananagrams (R). I did damned well until they got wise to me.
They told me how I’d been cheating. Embarrassed, I called their attention to four slender young men walking in a file across the meadow to the outhouse with the thousand flies. We watched expectantly. This was a pregnant moment, likely never to be repeated in this life.
The four men chatted indistinctly as they approached the porta potty. Three stood back, perhaps ten feet, as one approached the blue plastic door. The one with the latch with the green crescent that states “open.”
I watched Cy’s friend’s face. None of us paid any attention to our Bananagrams (R) game. Our eyes locked onto the man as he reached for the latch handle on the commode.
We saw and heard the man slap the door shut like it was hot. Then he and his companions filed back, marching the way they’d come.
Gunther got excited and barked at them. “Sorry!” I shouted. We looked at the table. Grinning.
March 27, 2024
I was feeling like shit this afternoon so I picked up my banjo. A beautifully inlaid Fender I got three years ago from my sister-in-law when her husband died. Today, I tuned it by ear, the way I used to tune a guitar. A banjo is often tuned to an open G chord, but the strings can still be tuned relative to each other.
Clearly professional quality instrument. Nice heft, great tone. Loud, though. So, like I’ve done with everything else I’ve ever gotten, I took it apart. Well, I removed the circular wooden resonator from the back. Four knurled screws I removed with my fingers. It simply dropped off, once the screws were out.
I watched a youtube video of Tracy Newman introduce her banjo. She explained that she put a towel in to muffle the sound a bit.
I wanted to try the towel idea.
To my surprise, I found a pair of used cotton socks inside my banjo. White and gray cotton socks, balled up the way you do when you put socks together after drying. One sock had a hole in the toe. I pushed the pair up against the inside of the drum head, to get a mellow sound. Easy to tune, easy to play. With its own socks
March 9, 2024
Not much to report. I marched downtown to First Congregational to attend Alice Lundgren’s funeral. She and her husband, Charles, were often friendly to me. Once, I saw Charles at the airport and he drew near with a broad smile, a handshake and howdy. He was wearing a back brace over his clothing. He was an old man. He died a few years back.
His wife Alice periodically thrust a $100 check into my hand at church. She represented Mayflower Circle, a women’s church group. They liked donating to Family Promise, a program to help unhoused families get on their feet. Alice was always as friendly as a puppy and I will miss her. That’s why I walked to her memorial service today. Also, P. had the car for an appointment for a pedicure.
My walk took me east on Burlington, past the YMCA, where many darted in and out. Probably basketball tournament time, I thought. Children shrieked in the cage-like playground. One child huddled atop of what looked like a giant tortoise. I guessed some parents work Saturdays, so. As I hurried east on fourth avenue across the streets I hoped a left-turning car wouldn’t cut my life short. Er … cut my long life shorter. None did. I crossed fourth avenue and continued to the church, oddly dark, considering a funeral was scheduled in a few minutes. At 11 a.m.
Nobody nearby. I used my fob to unlock the church door. Dark inside. I walked to the far end of the narthex and sat on the sofa where I once saw a fellow named Little Crow sit. With my phone I googled Alice Lundgren. Learned her service is May 11. Walked home, glad for the exercise. Almost two miles.
I won’t go on long about my disappointment that our Billings Public Library declined my recently published memoir, “How I Improved the United States Marine Corps. Stork’s Story.”
The librarian examined it and found that it meandered too much. I reacted several ways: A. I’m proud she read my book. (I’m used to paying someone $25/hour to read it.) and B. I’m sorry it meanders too much. It’s going to take me awhile to adjust to honest criticism. and C. I’m proud it was deemed worthy of her heartfelt criticism. I say, let the chips fall where they may. Books can be like our lovely children; beautiful to some, hideous to others. My tears still fall, said the Chambers Brothers, in their famous album, “Time Has Come Today.”
In general. I throughly believe the players on the streets of New York, the buskers who dance, juggle, sing, strum or somersault, hone their skills on the rough and tumble of casual audiences who are apt to shout “boooo” or “huzzah,” with equal ease. That’s how they become superb craftspersons. I will be proud to dig into my wallet for a $20 for them. In fact I was.
I feel the same is true of modern writers. Find a venue, I say, such as a blog or a Facebook post, to develop your craft, your art.
A friend paints his truth on canvas, sometimes on velvet. He hones his skills on the easel and coffee house wall. Or the local communal bookstore. We have such a store, and I’m proud of it. Called “This House of Books,” it employs a woman named Julie, who is encouraging to writers and painters. Make no mistake. Writers and painters can probably work without it, but they benefit from encouragement. What goes around comes around. That’s an old Cheyenne saying. At least, that’s where I heard it. Lame Deer. Montana.
But I digress.
insearchofbud 