Friday, February 10, 2006
Chechakos Initiation!
Newcomers to Alaska are known as Chechakos, a title they retain until they have been in the state for 30 years, and then they graduate to Sourdough status. They must be initiated. A common tactic is to take a cup of hot water and throw it into the air directly over your head—it will evaporate and float away. The Chechako is handed a cup of cold water and asked to do the same. He will, of course, get showered with cold water. Other ceremonies are performed when a person crosses the Arctic Circle for the first time. Caveat suckus! Let the sucker beware!
Tenderfoot initiation comes at an early age for most of us. If you live in a rural area you may recall going on a snipe hunt at the tender age of eight or nine. A group of teenagers and an older brother, if there is one, will take you into the woods at night and give you a tow sack and a flashlight—if you are lucky—and tell you to place the sack on the ground and pick up the other side so that you can catch any snipes that will wander into your bag. You are told to make a funny clucking noise to attract the birds. They then take their sacks and spread out to cover more territory. In reality the only territory they will cover is a fast retreat to the car and they will drive off unnoticed while you are busy clucking. Sometimes they will come back in a few hours, but it may not be until after sunrise.
The next great initiation comes as a college freshman. When I first matriculated, everyone across this great land of ours was still required to wear little beanies on their heads—generally for six weeks. Although at times the period could be shortened if some miraculous event occurred such as winning a big football game. It was sort of like Groundhog Day. If you won, you got to ditch the hated beanie, but if you lost you were stuck with it for another two to three weeks. Other obstacles could loom as well. At Rice University every Sunday a beanie would be placed on top of a twenty-foot pole. If you could somehow get the cap, then freshman initiation was over. There were three problems with which the frosh must contend. First, the pole was in the midst of a drilling mud pit. Secondly, the pole was greased. Thirdly, there were hordes of sophomores waiting to take anyone down who attempted to climb the pole. Some of the best mud wrestling that I ever saw took place at the pole. The year before I landed on the campus a group of precocious freshmen came up with a simple remedy to all the problems. They hired a helicopter and flew over and grabbed the beanie. Smirking freshmen, however, just cannot be tolerated. Next year helicopters were ruled ineligible and freshmen were once more subjected to sophomore torture.
When I was a freshman at Southern State College I was forced to parade around campus with the hated beanie—which marked you as fair prey to all the vindictive sophomores, which is to say all the sophomores. After all they had been waiting a full year for payback time and all is fair in war. Please note there is no mention made of love because the sophomores bore no love toward their newly arrived victims. For the first two weeks of school I managed to fall under the sophomore radar. But then one day I found myself in the company of two of them as I left my algebra class. As we walked along together in a tight formation, they proceeded to tell me what I could not do, such as date freshmen girls. They then said they would be happy to accompany me back to their dorm room in Cross Hall where they would give me lots of tips on dating. Since I was not permitted to date freshman girls and I knew that the two guys did not bear any real sense of noblesse oblige to a lowly freshman like me, I was naturally suspicious of their offer of assistance. It was an offer that I would gladly have refused under more ideal circumstances. However, since they had had rather tight grips on both my arms and I had been literally unable to touch the ground with my feet for the last two or three minutes, it was an offer that I could not refuse. Inside their dorm room I was given one important piece of advice. Never approach any female unless your shoes were thoroughly shined. After shining their shoes and the shoes of everyone else on that floor (they were apparently anticipating a lot of dates with freshmen girls), I was convinced that I had spent enough time on dating homework. When they moved slightly down the hall, leaving their doorway unguarded, I made a mad dash out of there. Thereafter, until our beanies were trashed, I never went anywhere alone but always traveled in packs of five or six other beanie clad friends.
It could have been worse. Homer Stout told me many years later that one night they rounded up a large group of freshmen boys. They took them to a manhole cover that concealed the underground steam tunnels that crisscrossed the campus. They escorted their prey into the tunnel and left them there while they climbed out. And then they parked a VW on top of the manhole cover. Freshman enrollment was way down the next year.
Newcomers to Alaska are known as Chechakos, a title they retain until they have been in the state for 30 years, and then they graduate to Sourdough status. They must be initiated. A common tactic is to take a cup of hot water and throw it into the air directly over your head—it will evaporate and float away. The Chechako is handed a cup of cold water and asked to do the same. He will, of course, get showered with cold water. Other ceremonies are performed when a person crosses the Arctic Circle for the first time. Caveat suckus! Let the sucker beware!
Tenderfoot initiation comes at an early age for most of us. If you live in a rural area you may recall going on a snipe hunt at the tender age of eight or nine. A group of teenagers and an older brother, if there is one, will take you into the woods at night and give you a tow sack and a flashlight—if you are lucky—and tell you to place the sack on the ground and pick up the other side so that you can catch any snipes that will wander into your bag. You are told to make a funny clucking noise to attract the birds. They then take their sacks and spread out to cover more territory. In reality the only territory they will cover is a fast retreat to the car and they will drive off unnoticed while you are busy clucking. Sometimes they will come back in a few hours, but it may not be until after sunrise.
The next great initiation comes as a college freshman. When I first matriculated, everyone across this great land of ours was still required to wear little beanies on their heads—generally for six weeks. Although at times the period could be shortened if some miraculous event occurred such as winning a big football game. It was sort of like Groundhog Day. If you won, you got to ditch the hated beanie, but if you lost you were stuck with it for another two to three weeks. Other obstacles could loom as well. At Rice University every Sunday a beanie would be placed on top of a twenty-foot pole. If you could somehow get the cap, then freshman initiation was over. There were three problems with which the frosh must contend. First, the pole was in the midst of a drilling mud pit. Secondly, the pole was greased. Thirdly, there were hordes of sophomores waiting to take anyone down who attempted to climb the pole. Some of the best mud wrestling that I ever saw took place at the pole. The year before I landed on the campus a group of precocious freshmen came up with a simple remedy to all the problems. They hired a helicopter and flew over and grabbed the beanie. Smirking freshmen, however, just cannot be tolerated. Next year helicopters were ruled ineligible and freshmen were once more subjected to sophomore torture.
When I was a freshman at Southern State College I was forced to parade around campus with the hated beanie—which marked you as fair prey to all the vindictive sophomores, which is to say all the sophomores. After all they had been waiting a full year for payback time and all is fair in war. Please note there is no mention made of love because the sophomores bore no love toward their newly arrived victims. For the first two weeks of school I managed to fall under the sophomore radar. But then one day I found myself in the company of two of them as I left my algebra class. As we walked along together in a tight formation, they proceeded to tell me what I could not do, such as date freshmen girls. They then said they would be happy to accompany me back to their dorm room in Cross Hall where they would give me lots of tips on dating. Since I was not permitted to date freshman girls and I knew that the two guys did not bear any real sense of noblesse oblige to a lowly freshman like me, I was naturally suspicious of their offer of assistance. It was an offer that I would gladly have refused under more ideal circumstances. However, since they had had rather tight grips on both my arms and I had been literally unable to touch the ground with my feet for the last two or three minutes, it was an offer that I could not refuse. Inside their dorm room I was given one important piece of advice. Never approach any female unless your shoes were thoroughly shined. After shining their shoes and the shoes of everyone else on that floor (they were apparently anticipating a lot of dates with freshmen girls), I was convinced that I had spent enough time on dating homework. When they moved slightly down the hall, leaving their doorway unguarded, I made a mad dash out of there. Thereafter, until our beanies were trashed, I never went anywhere alone but always traveled in packs of five or six other beanie clad friends.
It could have been worse. Homer Stout told me many years later that one night they rounded up a large group of freshmen boys. They took them to a manhole cover that concealed the underground steam tunnels that crisscrossed the campus. They escorted their prey into the tunnel and left them there while they climbed out. And then they parked a VW on top of the manhole cover. Freshman enrollment was way down the next year.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
No Sex Appeal!
Back in June I saw a rare sight here in Anchorage—two men on Segway Human Transporters scooting along on Fifth Street. In December 2001, Dean Kamen brought to the market a product that was going to revolutionize transportation—a motorized, self-balancing scooter with maximum speed of 12 mph. No matter how klutzy you might be, supposedly there was no way to fall off—unless the battery ran low—in which case all bets were off. Thus far the Segway has failed to live up to its hype—selling only 6000 in the first 21 months after its introduction. Sales have picked up a bit since, but the buzz surrounding its debut has long since faded. Many reasons have been cited for its lackluster sales record. It is high priced. It is slow—very slow when compared to high-powered pickups on the road today. Its passenger capacity is limited to one person at a time. Think bicycle built for two. Obviously there is no sex appeal. Most men will not buy a mode of transportation unless they can use it to pick up their date, race it, add headers to make more noise, play the radio very loudly and lean on the horn—since it does not have one. Moreover, it is not particularly comfortable. Mailmen who were identified in focus groups as likely buyers, found they could not sort mail or use an umbrella while riding one. It does provide relief for pedestrians with sore feet, but so does a good pair of walking shoes.
Back in the fifties there was another mode of transportation with zero sex appeal, until they finally wised up—the old Cushman Scooters sold by Sears. My firsthand acquaintance with one was limited to a 1946 or 1947 model in badly worn condition. It was red and boxy and always in need of repairs. We decided to get rid of a paper route and had found two boys who were eager to get into the paper business. They needed to learn the route so I became the designated trainer. What they brought to the table was a weak work ethic and the dilapidated Cushman. We agreed that I should drive the Scooter and one of them would ride behind me and throw the papers. We figured that it would take about a week for them to learn the route. Everything went fine the first two days. The third day things sort of got out of hand. Dan told me that he had made some repairs and somehow or another the gas throttle on the handlebar was now reversed. If you let off the throttle you would gun it and if you tried to gun it, you would slow it down to a crawl. We were on the last leg of the route, when I rounded a corner a tad fast and I decided to let off the gas—only this time I gunned it and my natural throttle instincts kicked in and I kept gunning it. He kept yelling, “Let off the throttle!” and I kept gunning it. The Scooter banked sharply to the right and we both went flying off—skidding on the grass. Luckily, neither of us got a scratch.
Two days later neither of the brothers had time to run the route and asked me to do it by myself—handing me the keys to the Scooter. I should have known then that something was wrong with the Cushman. But it was my last day on the job and I was eager to get it over with so it never occurred to me to ask, “What is broken today?” I zoomed down Height Street at full speed, expecting to brake and make a right turn. When I hit the brake—nothing and I do mean nothing happened. Having already experienced the sensation of flying off the dang thing two days earlier, I decided that one such experienced was more than enough. I elected to continue straight down the street. Then I saw what was staring me in the eyes—a dead end with a high embankment. I extended my feet and eased my shoes onto the payment. My shoes began to feel rather warm and when I glanced down to my right, I saw that it was actually smoking. Fortunately, I got the Scooter stopped about two feet before my impact point. I jumped off and immediately ripped off my shoes. When my feet quit burning, I looked beneath the machine at the brake lever. It was completely detached. I scouted around and found some haywire and eventually had working brakes again. It was the last time I ever delivered papers and the last time I ever rode a Cushman.
Back in June I saw a rare sight here in Anchorage—two men on Segway Human Transporters scooting along on Fifth Street. In December 2001, Dean Kamen brought to the market a product that was going to revolutionize transportation—a motorized, self-balancing scooter with maximum speed of 12 mph. No matter how klutzy you might be, supposedly there was no way to fall off—unless the battery ran low—in which case all bets were off. Thus far the Segway has failed to live up to its hype—selling only 6000 in the first 21 months after its introduction. Sales have picked up a bit since, but the buzz surrounding its debut has long since faded. Many reasons have been cited for its lackluster sales record. It is high priced. It is slow—very slow when compared to high-powered pickups on the road today. Its passenger capacity is limited to one person at a time. Think bicycle built for two. Obviously there is no sex appeal. Most men will not buy a mode of transportation unless they can use it to pick up their date, race it, add headers to make more noise, play the radio very loudly and lean on the horn—since it does not have one. Moreover, it is not particularly comfortable. Mailmen who were identified in focus groups as likely buyers, found they could not sort mail or use an umbrella while riding one. It does provide relief for pedestrians with sore feet, but so does a good pair of walking shoes.
Back in the fifties there was another mode of transportation with zero sex appeal, until they finally wised up—the old Cushman Scooters sold by Sears. My firsthand acquaintance with one was limited to a 1946 or 1947 model in badly worn condition. It was red and boxy and always in need of repairs. We decided to get rid of a paper route and had found two boys who were eager to get into the paper business. They needed to learn the route so I became the designated trainer. What they brought to the table was a weak work ethic and the dilapidated Cushman. We agreed that I should drive the Scooter and one of them would ride behind me and throw the papers. We figured that it would take about a week for them to learn the route. Everything went fine the first two days. The third day things sort of got out of hand. Dan told me that he had made some repairs and somehow or another the gas throttle on the handlebar was now reversed. If you let off the throttle you would gun it and if you tried to gun it, you would slow it down to a crawl. We were on the last leg of the route, when I rounded a corner a tad fast and I decided to let off the gas—only this time I gunned it and my natural throttle instincts kicked in and I kept gunning it. He kept yelling, “Let off the throttle!” and I kept gunning it. The Scooter banked sharply to the right and we both went flying off—skidding on the grass. Luckily, neither of us got a scratch.
Two days later neither of the brothers had time to run the route and asked me to do it by myself—handing me the keys to the Scooter. I should have known then that something was wrong with the Cushman. But it was my last day on the job and I was eager to get it over with so it never occurred to me to ask, “What is broken today?” I zoomed down Height Street at full speed, expecting to brake and make a right turn. When I hit the brake—nothing and I do mean nothing happened. Having already experienced the sensation of flying off the dang thing two days earlier, I decided that one such experienced was more than enough. I elected to continue straight down the street. Then I saw what was staring me in the eyes—a dead end with a high embankment. I extended my feet and eased my shoes onto the payment. My shoes began to feel rather warm and when I glanced down to my right, I saw that it was actually smoking. Fortunately, I got the Scooter stopped about two feet before my impact point. I jumped off and immediately ripped off my shoes. When my feet quit burning, I looked beneath the machine at the brake lever. It was completely detached. I scouted around and found some haywire and eventually had working brakes again. It was the last time I ever delivered papers and the last time I ever rode a Cushman.
Monday, February 06, 2006
None and Lil’ None!
The Riley family took great joy in living on a crime free street in Tucson—a location like that did not come along very often. Some attributed it to the fact that an alleged boss of a Mafia family lived just a few blocks down the street, but people in the know offered a far different interpretation. It was due, they whispered among themselves, to the two Riley girls. They comprised a gang of two known not quite unaffectionately as the Riley gang. The ten-year-old was the top dog and bore the handle None because she had no middle name. The redheaded eight-year-old was known as Lil’ None since she too had no middle name. They were a pair of firebrands to be reckoned with as any ten- or eleven-year-old boy who used to live nearby could clearly attest. When the two of them dressed up they donned buckskin dresses, put on war paint and a war bonnet and when they invited you to a dance, you knew in advance that it would be a war dance. They prowled the streets on a daily basis just looking for an unsuspecting victim. They spent a good deal of their time bemoaning the fact that Tucson’s reputation seemed to have gone to pot. Tombstone, they whined, had the reputation of being the nastiest town in the Arizona Territory. Forget the Earp brothers and the OK Corral! They would like to do something to put Tucson back at the top of the country’s top ten bad towns. Little did they know on that day back in the sixties that opportunity would come calling on that very day.
Steve and his mother had unexpectedly appeared on their doorsteps one morning—just a friendly little neighborhood visit they explained. Stevie, as the Riley girls quickly christened him, either volunteered or was volunteered perhaps by his mother to go outside and play with the two of them. They suggested a game of sheriff and outlaws. He unwittingly agreed. But the Riley gang thought he was a tad tall for them so they suggested that he get down on one knee and pretend to be peg-legged. He said that he did not think that that would work very well. They then agreed that perhaps he was right so he should have two peg legs, meaning that he would be reduced to scurrying around on his knees. He had not scurried very far when None and Lil’ None confronted him with their six-shooters blazing and told him that he was under arrest. “Ok,” he said. “I surrender. What now?” They explained that it was too far to the nearest jail and besides that he was too heavy to cart off anyway. He would have to be apprehended where he was. He soon found himself apprehended to a clothesline pole, still down on his knees and tied securely from head to feet with what seemed like a mile of rope. Unable to move or scarcely breathe for that matter, he pondered what was likely to happen next. Lil’ None who had disappeared just a few minutes earlier soon returned with some old dead branches and a metal rod and a match. She soon had a tiny little fire going with the metal rod parked in the middle of the flame. Then she explained that they would be compelled to use the branding iron to make Stevie talk. Of Course Stevie took umbrage to that idea and shouted out: “Listen you little stink! If you so much as come near me with that ‘branding iron’ of yours, I promise I will give you something to remember for the rest of your life.” Now Lil’ None who was wise beyond her years was pretty confident that he was not talking about that saber tooth necklace that she had been coveting for the last year. She took out her six-shooter and whacked him across his forehead, figuring that he would be more cooperative if he were unconscious. However, he was not unconscious and was now less cooperative than before. “Listen,” he shouted. “When I get free, I have a good mind to turn you over my knee and give you a spanking within an inch of your life. Do you understand me?” Now exactly what happened next has become clouded in history. But this is the version as told to me. None, who was becoming a little concerned about all the ruckus he was raising, decided to muffle his protests with a handkerchief. He said “Don’t come near me with that fifty little rag of yours!” None would later explain that it was quite clean. But since she was a ten-year old, you can judge for yourselves. With Stevie now trying to spit the handkerchief out of his mouth, he said something to the effect of “My God! You little beast…!” None later swore that he said “Thank you Lord for the feast we are about to receive.” Since he was still struggling and was showing no signs of cooperation, Lil’ None whacked him across the forehead once again. Then the Riley gang grew tired of Stevie and sauntered off into a nearby arroyo to see if they could uncover any tracks of desperadoes trying to escape. After several hours of friendly visiting, Steve’s mother allowed as how that although she was sure that Steve was having a wonderful time, they really must be going. She finally found him still apprehended to the clothespole. That night None and Lil’ None slept soundly. Stevie did not!
The Riley family took great joy in living on a crime free street in Tucson—a location like that did not come along very often. Some attributed it to the fact that an alleged boss of a Mafia family lived just a few blocks down the street, but people in the know offered a far different interpretation. It was due, they whispered among themselves, to the two Riley girls. They comprised a gang of two known not quite unaffectionately as the Riley gang. The ten-year-old was the top dog and bore the handle None because she had no middle name. The redheaded eight-year-old was known as Lil’ None since she too had no middle name. They were a pair of firebrands to be reckoned with as any ten- or eleven-year-old boy who used to live nearby could clearly attest. When the two of them dressed up they donned buckskin dresses, put on war paint and a war bonnet and when they invited you to a dance, you knew in advance that it would be a war dance. They prowled the streets on a daily basis just looking for an unsuspecting victim. They spent a good deal of their time bemoaning the fact that Tucson’s reputation seemed to have gone to pot. Tombstone, they whined, had the reputation of being the nastiest town in the Arizona Territory. Forget the Earp brothers and the OK Corral! They would like to do something to put Tucson back at the top of the country’s top ten bad towns. Little did they know on that day back in the sixties that opportunity would come calling on that very day.
Steve and his mother had unexpectedly appeared on their doorsteps one morning—just a friendly little neighborhood visit they explained. Stevie, as the Riley girls quickly christened him, either volunteered or was volunteered perhaps by his mother to go outside and play with the two of them. They suggested a game of sheriff and outlaws. He unwittingly agreed. But the Riley gang thought he was a tad tall for them so they suggested that he get down on one knee and pretend to be peg-legged. He said that he did not think that that would work very well. They then agreed that perhaps he was right so he should have two peg legs, meaning that he would be reduced to scurrying around on his knees. He had not scurried very far when None and Lil’ None confronted him with their six-shooters blazing and told him that he was under arrest. “Ok,” he said. “I surrender. What now?” They explained that it was too far to the nearest jail and besides that he was too heavy to cart off anyway. He would have to be apprehended where he was. He soon found himself apprehended to a clothesline pole, still down on his knees and tied securely from head to feet with what seemed like a mile of rope. Unable to move or scarcely breathe for that matter, he pondered what was likely to happen next. Lil’ None who had disappeared just a few minutes earlier soon returned with some old dead branches and a metal rod and a match. She soon had a tiny little fire going with the metal rod parked in the middle of the flame. Then she explained that they would be compelled to use the branding iron to make Stevie talk. Of Course Stevie took umbrage to that idea and shouted out: “Listen you little stink! If you so much as come near me with that ‘branding iron’ of yours, I promise I will give you something to remember for the rest of your life.” Now Lil’ None who was wise beyond her years was pretty confident that he was not talking about that saber tooth necklace that she had been coveting for the last year. She took out her six-shooter and whacked him across his forehead, figuring that he would be more cooperative if he were unconscious. However, he was not unconscious and was now less cooperative than before. “Listen,” he shouted. “When I get free, I have a good mind to turn you over my knee and give you a spanking within an inch of your life. Do you understand me?” Now exactly what happened next has become clouded in history. But this is the version as told to me. None, who was becoming a little concerned about all the ruckus he was raising, decided to muffle his protests with a handkerchief. He said “Don’t come near me with that fifty little rag of yours!” None would later explain that it was quite clean. But since she was a ten-year old, you can judge for yourselves. With Stevie now trying to spit the handkerchief out of his mouth, he said something to the effect of “My God! You little beast…!” None later swore that he said “Thank you Lord for the feast we are about to receive.” Since he was still struggling and was showing no signs of cooperation, Lil’ None whacked him across the forehead once again. Then the Riley gang grew tired of Stevie and sauntered off into a nearby arroyo to see if they could uncover any tracks of desperadoes trying to escape. After several hours of friendly visiting, Steve’s mother allowed as how that although she was sure that Steve was having a wonderful time, they really must be going. She finally found him still apprehended to the clothespole. That night None and Lil’ None slept soundly. Stevie did not!
