Parrothead Ramblings

Grandma and Grandpa at their Golden Anniversary celebration in 1972.

Well, cooler weather is rapidly taking over, and The Valley of the Sun will become paradise again until about the middle of May. You just can't find a better place to live during the winter.

But there's a down side to everything. Cooler weather brings higher green fees, which means the working class slob like me and my best golf buddy Steve-o have to cut back. Bastards. But cooler weather also brings with it another scourge. That wrinkled, blue-haired, cane leaning, RV driving bunch we lovingly call "snowbirds."
Suddenly, those streets in Apache Junction that were deserted last month are crowded with golf carts and bicycles being operated by people absolutely convinced that there is no one else on the road besides themselves. Actually, those aren't so bad. You can just kind of nudge them right off the road with your car. They can't see well enough to read your license plate, anyway. It's the ones in the Buick Roadmasters, Crown Vics, Tahoes, and motor homes that scare the bejeezus out of me.

OK: If you are over 65, from the midwest, and just visiting for the winter, here's a refresher:

Red means stop. Green means go. If you're going to turn left, wait for that Toyota with the mom and three kids in it to go by first. If you're going to turn right into a parking lot, you really, really don't have to stop in the middle of the road before doing so. If you want to drive 45mph, that's great. But please. Please. Don't do it on the 202. Got it?

My Dad is one of those drivers. He's retired and can sleep, eat, bathe, and shit in his R.V., which is roughly the size and cost of an aircraft carrier. Why should he ever be in a hurry? He came by his driving ability honestly, though. My grandfather was a geezer behind the wheel for many years before his death in 1981 at the ripe old age of 85. He did all the driving, since Grandma never had a license and never learned how to drive. It just wasn't on her to-do list. Grandpa was dead solid perfect with tobacco spit out his pickup window. He could perfectly adjust his Day's Work for airspeed and windage to pick off unsuspecting grandkids riding in the back. It became a challenge for us to recognize the telltale head nod that inevitably preceded a launch, so as to take cover and avoid taking the hit. Yep, he had some top-notch skills for a man who could barely see past the hood ornament. Which reminds me of a story. Imagine that.

Grandpa and Grandma headed into Roswell to see their doctor one lovely spring day in 1972, and Grandpa ended up backing his pickup into a tight spot right in front of a VW Beetle at the medical center. Grandma thought it was too tight.

"You went too far. You bumped that little car back there."

No, I damn sure didn't!

"Yep, you did. Not much, just a little ol' bitty tap."

Goddammit, I'd know if I hit a car, and I didn't.

I'm sure it went something like that for a while. Grandma was the only person who dared to argue with him, and his language coud get....well, colorful, to say the least. The last thing he would do would be to actually look to see if he bumped the car. That would indicate a level of uncertainty. Later, as they began to pull away, the uncertainty began nonetheless to creep in.

The Beetle was following them. So closely, in fact, that Grandpa could just see the roof sticking up above the rear of his truck.

Would you look at that sonofabitch? He's right on my ass.

"He probably wants to talk to you about hitting his car."

Horse shit! I didn't hit that Hippie sonofabitch's goddamn car!

A slow right turn didn't help. He stayed with them. Another right. Still right there on his tailgate.

Back off, before I stop this pickup and stomp a mudhole in your ass!

Undeterred, the Beetle held its ground.

He's gonna drive up my tailpipe! All right, goddammit! That's it!

Grandpa pulled off to the side of the road. The Beetle followed, still clinging to his ass like a hemorrhoid.

I'll show this sonofabitch!

Grandpa bailed out with his trusty sawed-off pool cue, and stomped back to meet his antagonist. It took a second to register.

There was no driver.

A quick inspection revealed that Grandpa's bumper hitch had tapped the Beetle's bumper. Just enough for the bumper to slip over it and attach itself to his pickup.

"See? I told you so."

Hell, I didn't do that. Wind musta blowed him into me.

By that time, they were a couple of miles from the scene of the crime. Grandpa thought it through and convinced himself that to return there would be to invite unfair criticism of his driving skills.

"We'd better get back to the doctor's office. This ol' boy might be looking for his car."

Shut up and get the jack.

So there they left it, alongside the road. I have no idea how long it took for anyone to find the car. Grandpa didn't come back to town for over a month, so convinced he was that his picture would be in every squad car in Roswell, not to mention the Post Office.

My grandfather: Cowhand, country philosopher, car thief. I'd like to be like him. I'd like to be the guy that, long after I'm gone, people smile when they think of me, and tell amusing stories about me. Maybe I will. Who knows? Just pay no attention to that deserted Beetle at the end of my cul-de-sac.
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