Seems like the older I get the more I feel like an old fir tree growing somewhere on a ridge deep in the forest. Considering my surname it might just be part of my destiny come'n through, but it's true just the same. Like that old-growth fir, I've got lots of rings inside my trunk. A new ring with each year that passes and every ring has a batch of memories attatched.
    I've got memories sharp as shards of glass; memories that cut my very soul. I've got memories that send a chill down my spine. I've got memories that make me warm all over and I've got memories that make me smile.
    Memories are like life itself. It's not all good and it's not all bad, but you've gotta experience some bad stuff if you're every gonna appreciate the good stuff. Somewhere along the way I've learned to make peace with the bad memories and savor the hell out've the good memories. And I'd be quick to tell ya, the good memories do far outweight the bad ones. So . . . here's one of my favorites.
    Spending time with my friends down at the Busted Knuckle Garage was one of those memories that live on and on and on. The Spady Brothers, Al and Joe were without a doubt two of the finest mechanics I've ever had the pleasure of calling my friends. And they were completely FULL of mischief. I stopped in one sunny Saturday around noon-time to have them bench test a distributor for an old Ford I was repairing. They'd just sat down to eat lunch, so I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined them. Al loved roast beef sandwiches but his wife insisted on making him salami or bologna sandwiches for some reason. Joe knew this so he'd make sure and bring roast beef sandwiches to work most days as a way to torment the dickens out've his brother.
    Al opened his lunch box and much to his dismay, there was another salami sandwich. "God dammit! I ASKED Rose to fix me roast beef today and she said she would! So what'd she make? Another flame'n salami sandwich!"
    Joe gave his brother one of his famously sly grins and pointed to his lunchbox. "Know what I got in here Al?"
    "Piss on you Joe!" Al was in no mood to be toyed with.
    "Aw quit bitchin' and gimme your sandwich. I'll give you the roast beef." Joe handed over his sandwich.
    "Thanks! It's 'bout damn time you did somethin' decent, you frigg'n cull."
    "Eat the sandwich and shut the hell up." There was just a hint of a grin on Joe's face as he looked my way and winked.
    Al unwrapped the sandwich and bit into it. Then he bit into it again. I could see he was having trouble chewing. Exasperated, he finally pulled out his pocket knife and began to cut the sandwich in half. It didn't cut easily. "Jeez Joe! What the hell kinda cheap shit meat did Shirley buy you?"
    Joe shot his brother an innocent look. "Cheap? That's Boar's Head Beef you halfwit. Best stuff the deli's got. If ya don't want it, give it back and eat your salami."
    Al didn't bother to respond and bit into the sandwich again. Finally he threw the sandwich on the counter. "I'm tellin' you Joe, this's the toughest god damn roast beef I've ever seen. I can't chew this shit!"
    Rather than give up entirely, Al decided to dismantle the sandwich and eat some of the meat separately. That's when he discovered the gray shop rag neatly hidden between the layers of meat.
    When I left the shop, Al was chasing Joe around the counter. I think they may have setttled down eventually. I didn't want to stay and find out.
   

There's a few things the old captain's addicted to in his life; Mrs Morgan of course, cigarettes, the blues, brown milk and oh hell yes! Oreo Cookies. Ain't nuthin' that'll make your tastebuds dance like a fistful of Oreos and a pint carton full of Alpenrose Brown Milk. Shared of course, with someone ya love!

    “Peterson, I don’t give a rats damn if it takes all night! I want those parts ready for shipment tomorrow morning.  That a problem?”  Harry scowled and motioned toward the door.
    “Whatever you say, asshole!”  Peterson muttered under his breath. Harry didn’t hear his response.
    Harry was tall and slender. His facial features mirrored his temperment. Percing eyes, long nose and thin straight lips that resembled lines drawn on his face. He had a reputation as a successful business man. He also had a reputation as a tyrant.
    “Everyone in my office! Now!” Peterson shouted loudly over the din of the shop equipment. The workers filed in, unsure of what to expect. “Gentleman, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
    Stan stared at the floor. “There ain’t no way  I can get a few hours off? It’s my anniversary and I promised the wife we’d go out to dinner. Dammit! She is gonna be highly pissed!.”
    Peterson shook his head. “Stan, if there was any way I could cut ya some slack I sure as hell would, but you know Harry, he’d fire us both. I don’t know about you, but I need this job pretty damn bad.”
    It was the same for all of them. Ever since the Jorgensenn plant relocated to another state everyone in town had suffered finacially. Everyone, that is, except Harry. He seized the opportunity to amass a fortune. His holdings included the machine shop, harware store, grocery store and countless houses lost to foreclosure. Each of Harry’s acquisitions led to more resentment. He rented out the houses and soon earned a reputation as a ruthless landlord. Evictions were common and  he rarely, if ever,  provided necessary repairs until forced to do so by the city inspector.
    Morning arrived and the exhausted crew rolled crates of parts to the loading dock. Harry arrived and parked near the rear entrance.  He stopped, peering intently at the stacks of crates. “God dammit!” He screeched. “Why the hell aren’t these stacked in a single row?”
    Peterson appeared in the doorway, a bewildered expression on his face. “The first row’s for shipment to Charleston, the second goes to Pittsburgh. I figured it’d be easier to load if they were seperate.”
    I don’t give a fuck what you thought! Get someone out here to line ‘em up in one stack. Next time do it right the first time.”  Harry disappeared into the building and slammed his office door. The phone was ringing as he settled in his chair. He answered with a polite demeanor. Harry had two  modes. A polite mode reserved for customers and suppliers. He was courteous and genteel. “Yes sir, we’ll have those parts on their way  to you in an hour  and you’ll have them by tomorrow.”
    Harry dialed the phone and without a greeting, launched into a tirade. “Where the hell is your god damn truck? Jesus! You told me I’d get a pick-up first thing this morning. Do you know what time it is?”  The response he heard was unsatisfactory. “If I don’t see a truck in the yard in the next hour I’m gonna sue your sorry ass. Got that?”  
    He slammed the receiver onto the phone cradle and relit his soggy cigar. Spittle ran down his chin and dripped onto the desk. The sound of a truck pulling into the loading dock caught his attention and Harry hurried out to supervise the loading of the crates. The crane operator swung the boom over  the dock and lowered the rigging. Two men wrapped chains around  a crate and gave the signal to raise the load.
    “Wait a god damn minute!”  Harry yelled, waving his arms in the air. “What’re you morons gonna do, load this one crate at a time? Get those slings under the whole stack. Jesus! Get this truck loaded!”
    Peterson intervened. “Harry, if we pick up that much weight we’re gonna overload the crane sure as hell!”
    Harry’s face was flushed with anger.  “Did you hear what I said? Now get busy!”
    Peterson turned away with an expression of disgust and resignation. The crew slid the slings under the entire stack of crates. Karl, the crane operator shook his head and refused to move. Harry screamed at him, insisting he pick up the load. Karl jumped  from the crane cab to the ground and angrily approached. He was a powerfully-built man, his leathery face scrunched in rage.  “You fucking idiot! There ain’t no way I’m gonna lift that load. The god damn hoist brake won’t hold and I damn sure ain’t gonna risk someone gettin’ killed!”
    Harry stepped back slightly. “You will if I tell ya to! Now get busy!”
    Karl grabbed Harry by the shirt. “Do it yourself, you frigg’n piss ant. I quit!”  He turned and walked away. Harry hurried after him.
    “You can’t quit, you moron! You can’t quit! Your ass is fired!” Karl didn’t bother with a response.        
    Harry screamed at Peterson, insisting he operate the crane. Peterson gingerly feathered the controls, lifting the load onto the truck. With a sudden snap the rigging broke and crates flew in all directions. Two fell onto Harry’s new Cadillac. “You fucking idiot. Look what you’ve done now! God damn!”  Harry was livid. “Get off that god damn crane! You’re fired!”
    “That bastard’s gonna get his one of these days!” Peterson mumbled.
    Harry screamed at the crew members standing on the dock. “One of you get into that god damn crane and get this fucking mess cleaned up. I want this truck loaded by the time I get back from lunch!”
    He angrily walked away and entered  the diner near-by. The waitress glanced up as he seated himself at the counter. Without a word, she poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of him.
    “Gonna have your usual?” She asked, with no hint of friendliness. He grunted a response; she wrote his order and handed it to the cook.
    Harry perused the newspaper, scanning the headlines as he waited impatiently for his meal. The diner was full. Lunch customers came and went. Harry glanced up and scowled at the waitress. “Where the hell is my god damn lunch?”
    “You’ll get it when the cook sends it out.” She leaned across the counter.  “You can always go on over  to the Branding Iron. I’m sure they’d be REAL happy to see ya!”
    Harry continued to read the newspaper as he chewed his sandwich. Suddenly he felt a pain in his stomach. He grimaced slightly. The pain passed, but then returned, more intense than before. Harry hurried toward the bathroom, realizing if he didn’t he’d surely soil his trousers. He burst into a stall and seated himself on the toilet. He was alone and it was fortunate. The stench was nearly unbearable.
    Nearly an hour passed before the waitress realized Harry was no where to be seen. “That no-count son-of-a-bitch stiffed me for the bill. God dammit!”  She entered the rest room certain he’d exited through the window. Harry lay face down on the bathroom floor. The waitress screamed loudly and ran out the door.
    Within minutes a sherrif’s deputy arrived, examined the scene and summoned the medical examiner. Due to the mysterious nature of Harry’s demise, the coroner concluded  an autopsy should be performed.  A  lengthy examination of the body yielded no conclusive cause of death. There was a perplexed expression on the examiner’s  face. All of Harry’s internal organs were missing. Despite that, there was no sign of invasive wounds. Nothing indicated what had become of the missing organs? There was no logical explanation.
    The phone rang and the coroner answered. It was the sherriff inquiring about the cause of death.
    “I don’t know what to tell you!” The coroner insisted. ”I’ve never seen anything like this.  It’s . . . . well . . . . . it seems he just shit himself to death.”
    There was a long pause. The sherriff finally responded. “Well . . .I suppose it’s a fitting end for an asshole like Harry.”

It's said that the truest communication happens through the eyes. I s'pose it's true, but then true communication sometimes comes from just kick'n back and listenin'. Listen as opposed to just hearing. And so it is on this wintry Blue Monday. We all pay our dues in our own ways and it's why we all relate so well to the blues.

Here we are slip-slide'n through a cold week in the heart of winter and it seems to the old captain like there oughta be something to keep a little heat come'n down all around and this tune gets the job done real well. Just don't stand to close 'cause there's hot grease on the grill and the blues is cookin!