Truckdrivers don’t get enough exercise; they usually end up with bad backs and atrophied leg muscles. That’s why, after driving truck for many years, I decided to start walking the 8K or so, round trip, everyday to work, and I’ve never been sorry. Everything from petting a young fawn to confronting two bear has happened in the woods on my walks. Toting a good 50 lbs of books, thermos, jacket, lunch, etc., and trying to keep ahead of the mosquito hoard, kept me in pretty good shape.

Well, one hot afternoon I left for work after instructing each family member to stay far away from the melting blob on the wall we called the fusebox, ironically, because it was the greatest fire hazard there ever was–and had no fuses in it. I had temporarily hot-wired it, because we had a new breaker box coming to replace it in a day or so. What can I say, we needed juice!

When I was about midway between my house and the reporting building in area 6, I heard the city siren go off; turning, I could see a column of black smoke rising from behind the trees–RIGHT WHERE MY HOUSE WOULD BE!

It was so hot that day, that out on those open hills it felt like a blast furnace. Still I ran with that pack full tilt all the way to the buildings. I grabbed the phone and called… it kept ringing…FINALLY! Jody, my wife answered. The fire had been at an old contractor’s trailer on the edge of town–right in line with my house.

It was a good thing I didn’t run the other way, toward home. I might have decided to stay, and they would of had to pay another driver time-and-a-half to fill my spot. Or was it? Turns out that before the night was over, my reporting to work would cost them a million dollars.

To pay for that new breaker box (to never have to buy another fuse!), Jody and I had agreed that if any overtime was offered, I would take it. So it was that night.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever driven for long, long periods before, but every trucker knows how time slows down behind the wheel, and on really long trips (like the 16 hours in the saddle I was pulling), it was accomplished mostly on auto-pilot.

And that’s where I was at 4:00 AM the next morning, auto-pilot. I had just pulled the snorting, metal beast up onto the rock dump, and backed up alongside the cat. The catskinner, surprisingly awake, guided me back with his flashlight and then flipped it off.I raised the box for the umpteenth time that night, only this time, it came too close to a power line. There was a tremendous explosion (waking us all up), and a huge fireball that lit up the whole sky as 100,000+ Volts fried my truck, instantly blowing out the windshield and gauges, as well as a rear tire and the Halon System. I just sat in the seat without touching anything metal (I found out later, that might’ve saved my life), and I wouldn’t get down until an electrician said it was safe.

So they had to call up an electrician at 4:30 in the morning and have him come out to work. Meanwhile, the insides of the front tires were somehow burning, and I began to get a bad feeling about them. I grabbed the steering wheel and held on tight and, sure enough, one tire blew, and then the other. These are those giant wheels for the biggest truck we had,(240 ton), and when they blow, the whole front end drops down a couple of feet, and the noise…well, let’s just say people from Hoyt Lakes, Biwabik, Aurora, and even Embarrass have told me they heard it.

By now there were firetrucks, and foremen, most of my crew, and even Barry Grivette, the Head Cheese was there. The electrician arrived, assessed the situation, had the power line shut down over his phone, touched the truck, and gave me the all-clear. I crawled down to everyone clapping and even Barry gave me a hug. It had been 40 or 45 minutes since I’d been zapped, and now, only after I was safely down, the tires burst into flames and soon the whole truck was engulfed.

None of it was my fault, and if anything, by the way Barry was hugging me, I might have been able to sue them, but I’ll just go with the honor of holding the record for the number of blow-outs on one truck.

I was living with my sister Marilyn and her husband Jere in South Minneapolis, and working at the Hi-Vee bagging groceries on Lake Street. Jere and I were heading to Macalester  College in St. Paul one night to see a friend, and he was showing me how to maintain a certain speed in order to hit all the lights green.

We passed Bonnie’s Tap, one of our haunts, where we played foosball. We were actually quite good; I played ups (the fastest right hand on the planet), and Jere was good at goalie, something I sucked at. We had a regulation-size foosball table in our apartment, and I think we won a tournament once at Bonnie’s (don’t recall a lot of those days).

Any way, we came upon an intersection just as the light turned green, and a lady coming from the side street had punched it to make a late yellow. I could see that she was going to T-bone us, and it almost seemed like it was happening in slow-motion while we just sat there waiting, when actually it all happened very quickly and there was no time to react. She hit us broadside on my (passenger) side, and the last thing I remember was my head smashing out the side window, and the loudest noise I ever heard.

When I came to, it all seemed so surreal. Jere was somehow stuck under the dash, and there was a big, blinding bright light shining in my face. Apparently, our car had been spun around and into the path of an oncoming city bus. Because I had bounced off Jere (while the bus hit him on the other side), I was relatively unhurt, and escaped with minor injuries; Jere wasn’t as lucky, and he would have to convalesce for some time.

The doors were all smashed in, so I pulled Jere through the broken window and laid him on the ground as we waited for an ambulance. A small crowd formed, and someone threw  their jacket over Jere, while someone else asked, “Is he dead?” I remembered that there was a bag of weed in the glove-compartment, so I went back to the car to retrieve it, but the car door was bent in right on top of the glove-box, so I couldn’t get it.

For the next few years I had a phobia about street lights and intersections. At first, I didn’t even dare ride in a car. So when my boss told me I would have to go to St. Paul to take a physical for my new job, I didn’t know how I could get there. Finally, I decided that taxi-cab drivers must be safe, so I took a deep breath and called one. When he pulled up, and I got in, I could see he was more nervous than I was. His hands were shaking on the wheel, and he looked at me and said, “You’re my first customer!” Oh shit! I thought, buckling in. We went down two blocks and hit another car head-on. I moved back up North shortly thereafter.

As a young wanna-be guitar player, I bought one of those Mel Bay’s Guitar Lessons books and proceeded to really confuse myself to the point of pretty-much giving up. Then one day a buddy showed me tablature, 12 bar blues, barre chords, and the pentatonic minor scale, and I was off and running. I would never become an accomplished guitarist, but one night I had my 15 minutes of fame.

My wife bought me an electric guitar for $75.00 one Christmas (one she would later throw into a bonfire), and I bought a big amp with all kinds of distortion and effects. If you set the controls right, you can just touch any string and it will sound like a symphony.

My brother Brian and I were getting together and jamming, and practicing regularly, so I’d have to say I was at the height of my short-lived musical phase, when a friend called  and asked me to bring the amp to his trailer for an impromptu session. When I got there, his wife explained that he had been called away, but would be back soon, so I set up the amp and started running through a few riffs. Just then, his teen-age daughter came through the door with a bunch of friends–it was her birthday, and the party had been moved here.

More and more girls poured in, until the entire trailer was packed with bodies dancing to the music I was providing. Shy, introverted, geeky me, for a moment, a guitarman.

–Colorful Bear by Sharon Cummings

Back in the early nineties, my wife and I found an old abandoned hunting shack deep in the Minnesota backwoods of the Mesabi Iron Range, and arranged with the owner to stay there for free, providing we would work at fixing the place up a bit. We had two small children, and this place was so far out in the boondocks, the school bus couldn’t make it down our road, and a suburban was sent instead.

We had a hand pump for water; I still remember it took 145 pumps to fill the washing machine to wash, and another 145 to rinse. We used an outhouse, and only had a woodstove for heat. We were The Walton’s, but the price was right, and after living for a while in L.A., it was paradise. Apparently, we had become co-inhabitants with the local fauna by proxy. There seemed to be garter snakes everywhere, wolves were often seen in the woods, and…a bear. A big, cinnamon female who was hell-bent on getting in the house.

It all started when the kids, age 13 and 10, came screaming across the field, running toward the house with the bear loping after them. They barely made it inside, and she was there, circling the house, looking in the windows, and pushing on the glass. I had a shed full of garbage across the driveway, but she only wanted to get in the house. All I had was a BB gun, so I went out and shot her a few times, and only succeeded in pissing her off more. I jumped in my Firebird, revving it up and laying on the horn, but nothing worked.

Finally, I realized I would have to find a gun to save the day. The wife and kids went upstairs and waited for the bear to appear on the steps, while I drove to my nearest neighbor in hopes of finding a big rifle in time to save them. When I got there, I realized that they had an iron gate chained shut to keep the meandering cows in. So I had to get out of the car, unchain the gate, get back in the car, drive through, then get out of the car, chain the gate shut again, and then get back in the car…all this while imagining my defenseless wife and kids ripped to shreds while “coward father runs away.”

I drove up to the house and knocked on the door. A woman appeared on the other side, but made no move to open it. “Do you have a rifle?” I yelled, “a rogue bear is trying to eat my family!”

“I do,” she answered, “but I’m not allowed to open the door when my husband’s not home.” I couldn’t believe it. There was only one other house on the whole road, a couple of miles away, and I made it through the gate in record time.

A half-deaf old man lived there, and I shouted out my predicament again. He had an old 30.30 on his wall, and he said, “Hasn’t been shot in years, and these shells are ancient. I’m not sure it’ll work.” I grabbed the rifle and shells out of his hands, and tore down the road, my heart in my throat at what I might find.

As I came up the driveway, I could see the bear still circling the house, trying to find a way in. I slipped into the house and loaded the gun with the five shells the old man had given me. I stepped back out, but by now, it was getting dark, and the rifle had a big scope on it, so I couldn’t even aim at close range. I had shot a bear once before with a 30.06 at about 50 yards, and even though the bullet pierced his lungs and liver, he crossed that 50 yards in seconds, and dropped just yards from me. Now with the bear only a few feet away, I had to try another approach.

“Here it comes!” my wife called from her perch, and a second later the darkness before me turned darker. I aimed the gun as best I could at the bear’s nose and pulled the trigger. Just then our cockatiel  went nuts swooping and flapping in the small room with the kids and wife, and they couldn’t see what was going on.

Luckily for me, the bear dropped on the spot with the first shot, but I pumped the other four into her to make sure. Later, my son would tell me that he assumed the additional shots told a different story. I remember the adrenaline coursing through my veins, telling me I was immortal.

I tend to agree with Sam Harris in that free will is an illusion. If you don’t know what thought is going to arise next (and you don’t), how can you think you’re the author and not the narrator? Free choice would mean deciding which thought to have ad infinitum. Consider Charles Whitman, The Texas Tower Sniper, who shot and killed several people in 1966. He left a note (he knew he’d be killed) saying that he believed there was something physically wrong in his brain, causing him to have homicidal thoughts. An autopsy revealed a large brain tumor pressing on an area associated with feelings of anger and violence. If your thoughts can be affected by the physical structure of your brain (in fact, some believe it is the changing of the physical structure of the brain that enables memory and consciousness), then free will is tentative, indeed.

I had a dream–’twas so sublime, I lingered in my bed,

The sweet phantasmagoria still swirling in my head,

And when, at length, the sun came up and finally made me perk,

I rubbed my eyes and realized that I was late for work.

The rummage sale clock I’d bought had prompted my dismay,

For twelve o’clock was blinking on its digital display.

My boss would soon discredit my occasion to be late:

An electrical malfunction I could not substantiate!

I called him up and told him–just a week since I’d been hired–

I said that I was sorry, and he said that I was fired.

So now I need a rummage sale to pay the bills and such;

I want five dollars for the clock–I hope it’s not too much.

The late, great Carl Sagan once said, “If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent a universe.” I would add to that thought that if you wish to invent a universe, you must first understand that you cannot have the sweetness of apple pie without the sourness of lemon pie. I think that was what the author of Isaiah 45:7 might have meant when he said, “I form the light and create darkness; I make peace and create evil; I the Lord do all these things.” Another way of putting it is, if every day is a sunny day, then what is a sunny day?

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were flung on the floor without care,

The tree, once so proud, now stood lifeless and bare.

Little Sue’s dolly was missing her head,

John’s truck had a wreck when the batteries went dead.

There were boxes and ribbons and wrappings galore,

Huge mountains of trash on the pine-needle floor,

And ma in her undies, and me in the buff

Had just settled down–we’d had quite enough!

I’d had too much eggnog and fruitcake with nuts

And the fudge Patty made felt like stone in my guts.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter;

Away to the window I managed to trudge,

Tore open the shutters, and threw up the fudge.

The moon on the crest of the new-fallen snow

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.

When, what did my wondering eyes behold then,

But a huge garbage truck and eight garbage men,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a flash it was garbageman Nick.

He was covered with filth from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of trash he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a hobo just toting his pack.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work–

Although when he saw me, he turned with a jerk,

And laying a finger aside of his nose,

He offered a gesture I cannot disclose.

He sprang to his truck, to his team gave a yell,

And away they all flew like a bat out of hell,

And there I stood naked, and framed by the sash,

With my gut full of pain and my house full of trash,

But I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,

“It’s last call for trash ‘fore we all go on strike!”

I felt a rotting albatross around my neck was hung

The barrel of my .38 was pungent on my tongue

A deadly glass of poison was lifted to my lips

The suicide solution was at my fingertips

But then I realized in the pit of my despair

That suicide is pointless if there’s no one who would care

I found myself decided on a plan so cold and cruel

I grabbed my automatic and I strolled into the school

And all the while thinking that the world would surely heed

The pain that they’d inflicted to make me do this deed

And when the blood-bath ended it was time to end it all

And so I blew my brains out on the high school classroom wall

And now just like the albatross I’m rotting here in Hell

And yet the world remains unchanged as far as I can tell

As I was walking home one night, a thunderstorm blew in,

But I would not be hurried though the rain would soon begin.

Lightning arced across the sky in splendid disarray

And for a moment night became as naked as the day,

And though the wind began to drive the rain against my face,

I challenged heaven’s fury, and I kept my steady pace.

The sky unleashed a deluge as the wind began to roar

And soon the blinding sheets of rain had drenched me to the core.

Eventually, the rain let up, the wind began to die

And soon a warm and gentle breeze began to clear the sky.

The stars came out like shining jewels, adorning heaven’s dome,

The storm had passed and now at last, I ran like hell for home!