Stories | Idle Minutes

Category Archives: Stories

Happy Bike

27-Aug-07

I never had a basket on my bike when I was a kid.

I’m a guy.

I was a guy even when I was a boy. If I’d had a basket on my bike, you can safely assume there would never have been any hydrangea blooms in it.

I know what you’re thinking.
“Hmmmm…what has changed then Mr. Don? I mean you’re sketching a little purple bicycle with pretty little hydrangea blooms in the basket.”

Trust me. Nothing has changed. I’m still a guy. I sketched it to sell on eBay. People like little paintings of this sort of thing, flowers and stuff. Generally speaking, it sells well on eBay. I do like the picture, but that doesn’t make me “not a guy”. Understand?

Then a Story Came To Mind…

As I sketched the Happy Bike, a story from my past came to mind and I thought the sketch and the story would be ideal for Idle Minutes.

You see, from my early childhood I had a friend down the street who would’ve loved to go riding around the neighborhood on just such a bike…purple with hydrangea blooms and a little bell. The terminology back in the sixties was “sissy”. We had no clue as kids what “gay” was or what “queer” was. We were just a bunch of sixties suburban kids from Georgia; not very sophisticated and very naive.

I was pretty much the only kid in the neighborhood who would visit him. That was because he went to my church and none of the other kids did. So, aside from him living in my neighborhood, I also went to church with him and we became friends. We all went to the same schools but I was the only kid in my neighborhood who would consider him a friend. Everybody else just said “ahhh, he’s a sissy” whenever his name came up. I was convinced he just needed a friend to show him the ropes of how to be a kid.

I tried to get him to try out for little league. Nope.
“Come up the hill and play football with us.” Nope.
“Let’s go ride our bikes on the pipeline.” Nope.
And at recess…
“When you kick the kickball, put your whole leg into it and stretch out your stride when you run to first base. Run hard!” Nope.

As we grew up, at around age eleven or twelve, I thought it would be a fine idea if I invited him to go with us to Daytona Beach on vacation. Perhaps a lot of sunshine, a tan, and half naked women would snap him into shape. Besides, everybody else was headed off with their families and thus not available to tag along with me to Daytona. I was at that age where I wanted somebody to hang out with on vacation besides mom and dad. He was, I suppose, a last resort.

Mom said sure. He came along.

On the way to Daytona as we two kids sat in the back seat he warned me about something.

He said quietly, “I scream in my sleep.”
“Huh?”
“I scream in my sleep.”
“What kind a scream?”
“High, long and loud.”
“How come you scream in your sleep?”
“I don’t know I just do.”
“Well what are we supposed to do when you scream?”
“I’ll probably wake up but if I don’t just wake me up and I’ll stop.”
“OK.”

It never occurred to me that Mom or Dad might want to know this information. Hell, I still sucked my thumb. Screaming in your sleep didn’t seem too far out of line from my perspective.

Sure enough, on the first night, around three in the morning, in the Suez motel, in our ocean view room on the second floor, my family was awakened by something akin to what I imagine the screams would be like in Hell. It was a high, loud, primal, hurting, non-stop scream. A scare the hell out of you scream.

All three of us, Mom, Dad, and me, sat bolt upright in our beds and screamed too. We each screamed different things but all at the same precise moment.

Dad screamed: “Good god stop it! Hey! Stop that!”
Mom screamed: “What’s the matter! Whats the matter sweety?!”
I screamed: “He screams in his sleep! Wake up! Wake up!” And I shook him as hard as I could.

He snapped awake to all of us screaming, the neighboring guests thumping on the walls, and me shaking the hell out of him.
All in the dark.
From my parents viewpoint, we two kids in the next bed were but silhouettes sitting in the moonlight coming through the sliding balcony doors.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “I’m soooooo sorry!”
“Are you OK sweety?” my mom sighed.
“Yes ma’am. I scream in my sleep. I’m sorry.”
“Well you don’t need to scream sweety. You’re safe here with us.”
“You OK Don?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“OK, well then, let’s go back to sleep.”

He didn’t scream again the whole trip.

We hung around the pool and met a girl our age who had a little piglet sister. We walked the beach with them and lounged at the pool each day. I became smitten with the girl. Oddly (in my mind at the time), the girl liked him and snubbed me. They suggested I hang out with the piglet.

I was very miffed and confused by this. I wanted to say “Um, hello! He is a sissy. I am a Little League AllStar. Why are you finding yourself liking him and not me?” But of course I didn’t say that.

Instead I hung out by myself or with guess who at the pool…Mom and Dad.

Kind of defeated the reason for inviting him in the first place. After five days, it was a quiet eight hour ride home and I was not a happy little league allstar.

Through middle and high school I grew far, far away from all the kids in the neighborhood including him. I rarely spoke to them. It just worked out to be that way. I made other friends. After graduation I never saw the neighborhood kids again for several years.

Then at our first class reunion he was there. I felt inclined to ask everyone I recognized what they had been up to. When I worked my way over to his table his response was “I live in Dallas and I have my own hair salons and I’m doing really, reeeeally well.” Then, with a limp wrist, he snubbed me and flitted off to a conversation with the fellow sitting next to him.

At that moment, I came to the conclusion he was gay. Dunno what took me so long.

Also at that moment, I instantly understood everything I knew about him from age six onward. Why I could not convince him to try out for little league baseball. Why he was so timid. Why he didn’t kick the kickball very far at recess. Why he ran like a girl. Why he threw like a girl. Why he never went outside much after school. Why he liked to play “house” with his girl cousin. Why he never joined in the neighborhood shenanigans we kids were prone to get into. Why he dressed differently in high school. Why I never knew him to be interested in girls except as friends…giggly friends. Why the Daytona girl liked him and not me (he was harmless). And maybe, why he screamed in his sleep.

That was the first time in six or seven years I had spoken to him, and the last time I spoke to him.

Not long after that reunion, a year, maybe two, maybe less, I heard through church folk that he had AIDS. Then I heard he had died. Then I heard the funeral was at our old church and that they released a “zillion” balloons outside to symbolize that he had finally been set free.

I trust that he is. His life was certainly a riddle to me as a kid and young adult. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was a riddle to him as well.

Also filed in ACEO Art Cards, Machines | | Comments (2) »

Johnny Rockets

18-Aug-07

We visited Johnny Rockets today for a lunch burger.

We were seated in a two person booth. These are itty-bitty booths. Once seated, there is room for a burger a drink and your elbows. Not much else. That is because of the assorted paraphernalia which joins you for your meal.

There is a nickel jukebox on each table which takes up a fair chunk of space. I started pumping nickels into it and choosing songs, my wife anxiously looking for nickels of her own so she could start pumping them in as well.

When our waitress finally showed up, we were informed that the “jukeboxes were out”. Not being entirely well versed in “waitress-ese”, I took that to mean they didn’t work. She confirmed my assumption and made no offer to reimburse my twenty-five cent contribution to their establishment.

Of course music was playing in the place, loudly, and oddly the same tunes listed in the jukebox as available for a nickel.

Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky. No signs stating the jukeboxes didn’t work. I lost twenty-five cents before they passed along the little tidbit of information and finally, by chance I reckon, I heard one of the songs I had selected.

Oh well. Live and learn eh? At the end of the day they probably empty the jukes and split the money. Or could be I’m the only boob in years that has ever put a nickel in the dang things anyway.

Along with the nickel stealer on the table were the ketchup and mustard bottles, a napkin holder, little stems with ads at the top plugging their most expensive burgers and milkshakes. Plus a little black thingy holding packets of those cancer causing sweeteners we all use. And a vase with red carnations…which was nice.

As we sat there, cramped and very close to all our table wear, I sketched the jukebox and a salt shaker. They were the only things far enough away for me to keep in focus.

Then the lights dimmed, a disco ball in the ceiling lit up and started slowly spinning, and all the staff marched into a line right beside us and started dancing to the BeeGees song which was just starting to play…even louder than normal. I stopped sketching and ate my french fries…the traditional appetizer of Johnny Rockets…as the Travolta wannabe’s strutted their stuff so close to me I could feel the swishes of air pass my face with every move.

The burger was excellent as usual but each time I eat at Johnny Rockets, I swear I shall not return. It’s the noise level and slow service and sneaky jukeboxes and other annoyances, which I forget about between visits. But, once a year or so, while running Saturday errands, I find myself saying to my wife “wanna go to Johnny Rockets?”

Upon exiting into the great outdoors I relished the lower volume of the parking lot and traffic noise. But sweat already forming on my brow, I missed the air conditioning inside the restaurant.

Life is a trade-off.

Also filed in Everyday Objects, Machines, Passing Time, Quick Sketches, Restaurants and Such | | Comments (4) »

Colle Alta, Tuscany, Italy

15-Aug-07

Painting scenes from Italy is altogether fun. Not only is Italy full of intact, ancient buildings, it is that very aspect that makes it scenic. The thing I like most is the variations in the blocks, forms and angles of the buildings and roof lines. Everything seems to simply follow the existing terrain. A novel idea, eh?

This scene is of a place called Colle Alta. At this early point in my journey into sketching and painting scenes from Italy, I’m not going to pretend to be in tune with Italy, or that I’m some hip, seasoned traveler, in the know about all things Italian. Heck, I’ve never been there. I do eat a lot of pizza though. And I grew up happily listening to Dean Martin on the record player. So I’m just going to learn about the places I paint, and enjoy painting them, and imagine what it would be like to be there. One day I’ll go, and then I’ll be hip, and justifiably travel snobby if I so choose.

So dear reader, let’s have a tiny geography lesson shall we?

Colle Alta is the well preserved medieval center of a town of 20,000+ called Colle di Val d’Elsa. This means “Hills of Elsa Valley”, Elsa being the river that passes through the valley. The town is located in Tuscany, in the province of Siena. Perhaps one of the most beautiful parts of Italy. Certainly from the viewpoint of an artist.

Colle Alta is in the upper part of the town and is the oldest part. Have you ever heard the phrase “so and so is as old as dirt”? Well dating from the 9th century AD, this town qualifies. When I hear that phrase, my mind always conjures up an ancient scene like this.

Most people agree it is a real treat to tromp around such a place and experience the ancient-ness of it. I would certainly be one of those people. One day I will likely do that. In the mean time though, I simply look at the skyline of the Blue Ridge Mountains when I’m tooling around in North Georgia and remember that Mother Earth Herself is so dang old it isn’t funny. I marvel at the ancient geology right here at home and try to make sense of it…much like I marvel at the idea that this man made town in Italy is still intact after so very, very long.

It’s a wonderful thing that which is ancient…all of it…here or there.

If you get a wild hair to own some Idle Minutes art…
This painting is being auctioned on eBay

Also filed in Building details, Landmarks, Landscapes, Postcard Art, Sketching and Drawing, Travel Sketches | | Comments (0) »

Watermelon Table

13-Aug-07

Sometimes life is simple.

My grandfather kept a weathered, beaten up wooden table in his carport. It was kitchen counter height, about two-and-a-half feet square. It remained up against the red brick half wall surrounding the carport, in front of the white Chevy Impala, next to the decorative wrought iron corner post supporting the roof. Sometimes objects would be on it, like a bucket, or some fresh picked vegetables, or a stone, or hat.

The only time I knew that table to ever leave its assigned post was when it was time to cut up a watermelon. He would drag it away from the house out into the yard. On it he would place a large watermelon, ice cold from a galvanized steel tub of ice.

Then, from behind his back, stashed between his belt and waistband, would appear a very large, almost machete looking kitchen knife. With the compact and sudden swing of Babe Ruth’s bat, he would come down on the unsuspecting melon with that knife…and in the blink of an eye…it would lie in half on the table. He would proceed, less dramatically, to cut the halves into smaller, people sized pieces.

We would sit, family and neighbors…all ages, genders, and levels of refinement…and bury our faces in those watermelon pieces until nothing but hard rind was left. Slurping and spitting seeds and stopping for a breath, a chuckle, maybe a comment or two. It made for coolness on hot summer evenings. It made for wet faces, laughs and fine memories. It was simple entertainment…fun.

It is one tiny, maybe even mundane experience of many, that I associate with being a child of the South.

I know people all over this country have eaten watermelon outside in the summer and happily enjoyed it. They too have fine memories I’m sure. But to do so with the sweet, polite, drawled voices of Southern women bouncing comments back and forth…and the loud laughs and wheezing snickers of the Southern men sitting in a roughly formed circle of nylon webbed lawn chairs…and the cicadas buzzing loudly in the tall trees over our heads at dusk…that is what makes it a uniquely Southern experience for me and something I am very glad I can recall.

Also filed in ACEO Art Cards, Foods | | Comments (2) »

Row Boat

11-Aug-07

Do you like boats?

I do. I’ve learned over the years though, that what I like about them is their beauty. How did I learn that?

I learned it by actually buying four boats. I learned that owning a boat is a royal pain in the ass and that building one is not practical. I’ve learned that restoring one is a money pit.

It started with a desire to own a wooden canoe. I wanted one for years but could never afford one. Finally, the dream came true. I bought a large square stern Grand Laker made by Indians (Indians who spoke French) in Canada.

I still have it. It’s very beautiful, with white cedar ribs and cane seats, and long clean lines. It sits on sawhorses in my garage. I no longer own a vehicle on which to hoist it. Even if I did, I don’t know that I’d go to the trouble of performing the hoisting maneuvers anymore.

Why not Mr. Don? It’s your dream boat.

Because the dang thing is impossible to keep in one place if there is even the slightest breeze. It’s high sides act like sails. One constantly drifts unless anchored. It has even pulled the anchor along in a stiff breeze.
Because you have to sit in the middle (where there is no seat) to prevent the bow from rising two feet out of the water and ruining the beautiful appearance of a canoe gliding on the water.
Because the nearest lake that is not a threat to life and limb from power boats and jet skiers is two hours away.

The next two boats were “projects”. You know, the kind of projects that one undertakes to satisfy the urge to be a craftsman. To re-create beauty from that which is in horrible, misused condition. By working wood and finish into a piece of utilitarian art. Or to adjoin parts and pieces from a kit into a homogeneous, glistening form which in the end, is a beautiful, waterworthy, wooden boat. The intent of course, the vision, is to have others then oogle over your creation and craftsmanship…to have created something so beautiful and rare that others stop you to inquire “hey, that’s beautiful. Did you build that boat”.

Those two projects cost about $4000 in the end and never amounted to a usable boat. One in fact, the kit, went in the trash. The other, the restoration, will soon be given away or cut into pieces and burned if I can’t find a taker.

I have a fine wife. She has tolerated the above insanities among others which have cost far less.

The last boat is a sixteen foot outboard which sits in the mountains of North Georgia near a large lake. That boat was my wife’s dream boat. It is old, built in 1972. It is in good condition though. That is because some other sap restored it as his project and then sold it to me. Not considering his time, he probably made money on the deal. Considering his time, he lost a few thousand. Most people who get the afore mentioned urges to create or restore boats forget that time is money too.

Anyway, we have not used that boat in three years. I simply grew tired of hauling it to the boat ramp, wrestling it into and out of the water, and scooting around the same lake weekend after weekend until I had seen every cove ten times and caught a disappointingly small number of fish. Plus, I despise the smell of gasoline from the two containers by the motor. In a small old motor boat, that is part of the experience. My wife though, enjoyed the experience of being driven about on the water, having nothing to do with the difficulties of getting there.

And so, I have come to learn the pleasure of boats is in observing their beauty. Most often as they sit still in the water, or slowly glide along with almost no wake…their reflections gleaming below them. My father used to sit on the balcony of a rented vacation condo overlooking Destin’s harbor in Florida and watch boats for hours at a time. That is what I intend to do with boats from now on…watch them. I can truly enjoy them that way.

If you get the urge, you can bid on this little ACEO card at ebay and have a little boat of your very own…just to watch.

Also filed in ACEO Art Cards, Landscapes, Passing Time | | Comments (0) »

Trout Live Here

31-Jul-07

If you’ve ever done any Trout fishing, then you know two things:

They live, among other places, in cool mountain streams.
They hover in the flow of the water below “chutes”, like that depicted here, and feed.

Now granted, they also feed in other places in a stream. But if there are Trout in a cool mountain stream, and they are hungry, you will most certainly find a few of them facing upstream, hovering in the flow, just below a roiling little drop in the terrain of a stream like you see here.

Why is that Mr. Don, world famous Trout fisherman that you are?

Well, thank you for asking…ahem…it’s because bugs fall out of trees, or otherwise end up in the stream (some of them begin life in the stream), and flow toward these little places where the water is directed into tighter quarters by rocks, boulders, or other debris. Thus, these chutes of water are where lots of bugs get concentrated together as they pass downstream.

Trout eat bugs. That is all they eat. (Well, they will eat…uh…er…dare I say it…”niblets” corn from a can if they are farm raised Trout. But no self respecting, expensive equipment toting Trout fisherman will take advantage of that with anyone in sight. So for the sake of my answer here, bugs are all they eat.)

So Trout, being lazy, simply wait hovering in the water, facing upstream, in the tailraces of these chutes for their food to be delivered to them by Mother Nature. And of course this is one of those places where the sneaky angler chooses to drop a fake bug, attached to some overly expensive and technical paraphernalia, in the hopes of fooling said Trout into choosing his fake bug for a snack.

If you’ve fished for Trout you might also know a couple other things:

It’s not necessarily about catching trout…in fact, catching one is a bonus…or toting expensive gear into the wilderness.

As such, you become aware that Trout live in some pretty nice digs. Really beautiful homes these Trout have established. They have Martha Stewart quite whipped and whimpering regarding outdoor decorating and entertaining. Rather surprising for a Trout, eh?

And so, naturally, you visit time and again. Eventually, you even begin to ignore the Trout, leave the fishing gear in the truck, and simply explore, see, notice, and enjoy the places where they live.

You might do this reluctantly at first, questioning whether you are losing touch with your inner woodsman. You know, that inner part of you that says “You go into the woods to catch something or shoot something and eat it, or maybe just catch it and put it back. That’s why you bought all that stuff and that’s why you go into the woods. There’s no other reason to go. Get a grip man!”

But you come to find, that indeed, nothing is wrong with you. There’s no reason to question whether you’re still a “man’s man” just because you are feeling inclined to sit by the stream and take it in…with no “gear”. You simply have discovered another way to enjoy the great outdoors and it’s as fine and sportsman like as throwing a line in the water.

Also filed in Landscapes, Nature, Sketching and Drawing, Sportsman Art | | Comments (2) »

Sunday Afternoon Exercise

22-Jul-07

Ahhhh, exercise. While most visitors to the Leita Thompson Memorial Park in Roswell, Georgia were there to walk or jog the woodlands trail for their exercise, I was their to exercise my sketching skills this Sunday afternoon. All the while happily keeping my lazy rear end parked in the comfy seat of my automobile.

My wife came along and read in her new book…something to do with deathly hallows and some kid named Harry who rides a broom for sport. And our doggie, Rosie, came along to exercise her lounging skills while stretched out in the back seat.

This fountain in the memorial garden interests me because it is built of stone. I’ve always admired the patience and skill required to build anything of substance out of stacked and mortared stones. It is a skill that at once requires thought in design, engineering, precision, layout, materials management, perseverance, and hand/eye coordination with simple tools. Your average person can’t produce stone masonry that is both beautiful and crafted to stand the test of time. It’s simply not the stuff of Home Depot clinics.

Also filed in Building details, Design, Passing Time | | Comments (2) »