Truman Horton

 

 

Truman Horton

1922 - 2014

My friend Truman Horton liked poems.

 

            "A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute Saloon,
            The kid that handles the music box was hitting a jag-time tune . . . ."

            "When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the                                       glare,
            There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty and loaded for                                               bear."*

Or,

            "There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun
            By the men who moil for gold.
            The arctic trails have their secret tales
            That would make your blood run cold."**

            I had occasion to re-read these great Robert Service works while preparing for Truman's funeral.  They've stuck in my mind off and on ever since the time I listened to him recite them - the time he asked me to tickle the ivories in the background while he read. 

            "Jag-time"?  Do people "moil" for gold?

 
Indeed they do.  For most of his ninety-one trips around the sun, Truman loved poems -- and reading and good writing -- because he loved words.

            Truman would say, "So and so's as happy as a sand boy."
            Me, after hearing this many times:  "Ok, Tru, so what's a sand boy?"
            Truman, thoughtfully:  "Don't really know.  Somebody that's happy."

I looked it up this week: It means exactly that, and it's been around since the eighteenth century!  Once, he bought me the collected works of Walt Whitman.

            The other day we were talking about dogs.

            Truman:  "We had a dog growing up.  His name was Slick."
             Me: "Slick?"
             Tru: "Yeah. We got him from Slick Willis."
             Me: "Wait a minute.  You named the dog after the guy you got him from?
             Tru: "Yep."

You can't make up dialogue like that! 

            We'd arrive at his and Mary's house and find him up in the woods above the creek weed-whacking and cutting brush.  Later, he'd put the usable branches against a big granite rock black with soot, split some logs, and start a fire where we'd roast hot dogs and make s'mores -- the smoke disappearing up into the trees. 

            Maybe he never outgrew the teenaged boy who hopped freight cars going west during the Depression, slept in hobo camps, and scrounged a piece of fresh pie when he could.  This was before he got himself educated and eventually retired after an engineering career on the Pacific Coast. 

            Truman wanted to build a boat, so he did.  From scratch.  He wanted to sail it to Hawaii,  so he and Mary did.  Twice.  They built their own house.  For twenty-five years he was the go-to guy at his church every time something went "clunk," from the belfry to the basement.  He wrote his memoir.  He was married to the wonderful Mary. 

            I loved him.  Lots of folks did.  Sail on, Truman Horton!  If God wants to hear a good story, Truman's his guy.

* The Shooting of Dan McGrew

** The Cremation of Sam McGee

Pharma

Warfarin to keep my blood from thickenin',

Flecainide to keep my ticker tickerin'.

Losartan keeps my BP low,

Atenolol blocks betas, my pulse to slow. 

EmergenC and Cold Snap start my day.

Airborne later keeps colds at bay.

Acetaminophen, chlortrimeton,

Lunesta at night - I'm good 'til dawn! 

It's not I mind taking all these pills

For one or another assorted ills.

But I sometimes wonder as each is popped,

What would happen if I stopped! 

Would I start to exfoliate,

Perhaps explode, self-immolate?

We'll never know, it's safe to say,

'Cuz I live life the Pharma Way.

The Honest Truth

 

           Angela sat on the passenger side, grey sweatshirt spotted with rain, hood covering her head. She stared straight ahead into the dark night at nothing, looking less like my sixteen-year old daughter than the ten-year old I’d coached at soccer.

            “It’s not my fault he was driving fast,” she tried.
            I let my silence answer her as we watched the tow truck’s flashing lights mark its movements like a strobe. The red numbers on the dashboard read-out said one a.m. The rain continued A warm wind whipped through the roadside trees, but I shivered even in the car with the windows rolled up..
Boyfriend Ryan’s semi-upright Ford Bronco was in a miserable drainage ditch and would be a tough pull. Harnessed up, the rear wheels and axle made a sucking sound as they pulled free of the muck. Angela started crying.
            She really sobbed, her head rocking forward against the dash.
            “A little longer and we can go home, Honey.” I reached over and massaged her neck. The trooper came alongside and I rolled the window down. Rain dripped off his hat brim and into the car when he handed me the paperwork. Not a citation – she hadn’t been driving – but a notice to appear.
            “I’d still take her to Valley, Sir.” He referred to the hospital.
            “Maybe tomorrow. We’ll watch her tonight.”
            We drove off. Behind us, Ryan’s folks sat in their car, the boy in the backseat like a busted drunk in a squad car and the three of them backlit against the still laboring tow truck.

The Finger

           

             The ponderous green and white ferry crept slowly through gray fog that had covered us like a shroud since we'd driven aboard. Up on deck, chilly in windbreakers and scarves, my wife and I watched a seagull hover ahead of the bow, then disappear into the thick mist. We feared this would be a wet and dreary weekend. 

            Our goal was Lopez Island, one of the four in Washington state's San Juan Islands that are accessible via the state ferry system. The San Juans consist of four hundred islands (more or less, depending on the height of the tide), most of which are uninhabited and unnamed. They make up a gorgeous archipelago that lies in the Salish Sea between Washington and Vancouver Island. Granite scarps rise out of the sea, and evergreens, oaks and madrona trees climb down hillsides all the way to the water.

            Each of the four large islands is beautiful in its own way and has its own personality. Eponymous San Juan is the most populous; it boasts the picturesque town of Friday Harbor, the county seat. Despite summer crowds on busy streets and sidewalks, a visitor will look in vain for a stoplight.

            Orcas Island, larger by two square miles, considers itself a bit artier. It caters to folks who want to avoid tourists but who nonetheless don't mind frequenting fairly upscale shops and restaurants that only a healthy tourist trade can sustain.

            Shaw Island (population 240) is unique, too. For many years, Washington State Ferry passengers were charmed upon arrival by watching nuns (Franciscan Sisters of the Eucharist) wearing bright reflective safety vests over their brown habits, operate the dock - hauling ropes, lowering the off-ramp, and directing cars onto the island. (No longer do they perform these tasks, nor do they run the deli and store which is located at the landing.  In 2004, the three remaining sisters sadly decided it was time to move on.)

            Lopez Island is a favorite of bicyclists - relatively flat and not terribly crowded. The only commercial center, Lopez Village, consists of a market, three bookstores, a couple of real estate offices, a bakery, a few assorted shops, a community center, a latté stand, and three restaurants. That's about it. There's a church here or there on the island, a library, a motel, a school, and not much else. Approaching Lopez that foggy day we were prepared for quiet, and also for a degree of clubbiness on the part of year-round residents since the ratio of tourists to natives there is low. As it happened, this trip to Lopez did indeed make the point. We were given . . . the finger.

Fred Florid

"People, people, people! Just listen a minute!" is what the young man said. He was about five-foot-eight, and his uniform hung on him, dark blue like a sheet you use for drapes when they're out being dry-cleaned. Somewhere in there were shoulders. He looked about eighteen and had bad hair.
            "I make announcements and take tickets. I don't drive the train. I don't own the train. I have a wife and two kids. She got laid off eight months ago. Our rent is past due."

            He paused and took a breath.
            "There's a Coke machine over there and a snack bar and a Starbucks down the street. Someone will be back in an hour to update you. Have a nice day."
            With that, the automatic chain-link gate slid closed and the long queue of unhappy, mumbling passengers dispersed.
            Except for Fred Florid. There's always a Fred Florid in situations like this. The scheduling snafu was directed directly at him. Always is.

            He hammered on the gray fencing. "Wait up, young man!"
            The boy didn't look back.
            Young man, I'm talking to you!"

            A door opened, the boy went through it, and it closed with a loud click.
            A ribbon of profanity streamed out of Fred's mouth like ticker tape. Heads turned. A mother covered her child's ears. Pigeons flew into the rafters of the ancient Central Valley railway station. Fred's collar was loose; his mustard yellow tie was undone. Despite the hot midsummer day, he had on a gray suit and drops of sweat trickled down his neck. His face was the color of a beefsteak tomato. Would he blow like Vesuvius? Would he shut up?

Little League

 

Eleven and twelve were my Little League years.

            Growing up in Sacramento, it was also when the New York Giants moved west to San Francisco. As an adult, I only now truly appreciate the magic of hearing on my backyard radio every home run Willie Mays hit those years - and Russ Hodges’s Hall-of-Fame call: “You can tell that one, bye-bye Baby!”

             On matchstick ankles disappearing into what passed for spikes, small for my age, and sporting (I use the term loosely) a Nellie Fox glove that Abner Doubleday himself must have designed, I’d decided second base was my position. (Fox, a second baseman, still shares the White Sox career record for triples – 104.) I had no arm, so pitching and the outfield were out of the question. People got hurt at third or short, playing catcher was suicidal, and somebody else always nabbed first, first. The Keystone Corner it would be then.

The Diner

            The place sat beside a forgotten north-south state highway at the outskirts of a town of about fifteen hundred souls. Pine woods ran to the east and yellow dry-grass hills to the west. Neon in the window really did say “EATS.” The tires on Alec's truck crunched gravel as he pulled into the small parking lot. Where else in the U.S. can you walk into a place after camping for three days -- unshaven, no shower, just a splash of creek water, sweat stains on a t-shirt from driving all day, a spattering of dried chocolate mocha on khaki shorts, hat-hair – and not risk being under dressed?
            He chose a stool with vinyl less cracked than its neighbors and brushed a few crumbs off the seat before sitting down. He did have standards. He slid a menu out of the chrome holder. The waitress, a heavy woman of indeterminate age, had a tangle of loose curls that obscured one eye and a smile that needed one more tooth to complete the set. She muttered a listless “Hi, hon” and plopped down a glass of water and silverware and a packet of slightly crushed soda crackers.

            “Hi, yourself. You Cindy?” – this being “Cindy’s Kitchen.”

            “Heck no, hon. Done for today.” She turned to the pass-through behind her and reached for two side salads. She balanced them on one arm and grabbed a bottle of A.1.™ with the other hand. Off she went.