“LOST MUSKET DIARY*” January 16, 2015
Mostly Sunny 74°F/25°C in Rancho Santa Margarita
Shell unleaded $2.64/gal €2.38/gal (70 cents/liter)
Buongiorno,
If gasoline in Rome, Italy sold as cheaply as it does in
Rancho Santa Margarita, California, Italian drivers would stampede to the
nearest gas station knocking over everything in their path….the Coliseum, the
Forum, the Vatican. Even Hadrian’s wall could not stand up to the surge. So if
you Patriotic, God-fearing Americans have been thinking that the oil companies
have been screwing you, just imagine the frustrations of the average Italian,
or Greek or German or even English driver who has been paying the equivalent of
$9 to $12 dollars a gallon for their petrol for a lot longer than we’ve been
paying four or five bucks a gallon. And, sorry, Charlie, but I don’t feel one
bit sorry for “Big Oil.” Maybe when the widows and orphans who depend on oil
company stock dividends to live out their “Golden Years,” begin to starve maybe
the politicians who want to take the Social Security pensions away from old
geezers like me who worked all their lives to live in relative comfort instead
of under a bridge somewhere, will back off. Somehow, I don’t envision the
former chairman of British Petroleum to come knocking on my door at my 55+ “active
senior” apartment house, begging for a crust of bread and some peanut butter to
get him through until breakfast.
I had
fully intended to mention the gas price as an “oh, by the way,” when I started
today’s blog. I had intended to write about my “project du jour,” but got
carried away. So, let me get back to the subject at hand.
This
week, between the morning when I woke up and realized that I had recovered from
“the viral condition” that had flattened me for nearly a month and the phone
call that came from my doctor’s office informing me that my shoulder surgery is
now scheduled for February 2nd, I decided that I needed to get my
house in order. First step? Organize my sock drawer. More on that in a moment, but first!
So, wow! I will be celebrating
Ground Hog Day this year under full anesthesia while Dr. Sodl opens a five inch
incision in my right shoulder and saws off the top end of my upper arm and
hammers in a new ball joint. Then he will do a matching number on my clavicle
and scapula to put a metal socket in. Then, he will join the two parts
together, reattach all the muscles and, “Voila,” I will become “Mr. Titanium!” If
that works on my shoulder, I’m going to talk to him about some other parts on
my aging body. But, first, back to the sock drawer.
One of my first realizations when I
resumed my bachelor’s life a year ago is the reality that my once vast empire lies
now within the confines of a one bedroom apartment. So for the past year, I’ve
been engaged in an overall reduction in resources. Frequent donations to
Goodwill, trips to the landfill, giveaways to family and friends, having a crew
from “College Hunks,” cart away the detritus of decades from my storage unit,
donations to garage sales and rummage sales. And this morning after unwrapping
my latest prize from Amazon.com, I decided to tackle my sock drawer.
I set a plastic storage container
on my bed next to a big trash bag. The contents of the storage bin will go
under my bed; the contents of the bag will get dropped off at Goodwill. First thing was to lay out all the socks that
have no mates. Those get trashed. I know I will find more odd socks in the
future, but for now I’m winning. Then, I found a pair of gloves that I had
bought last year at a flea market in Rome. They didn’t look right. The reason?
Two left hands. Just as was about to toss them in the trash, I found another
identical pair of gray gloves. I checked. Sure enough. Two right hands.
Wow! I thought. A matching pair of gloves. Identical color and fabric. Now I
have two good pairs of gloves. Elapsed time: 1 hour, 5 minutes. Plus,
the time to start my daily blog on the subject. At this rate, I am going to
have to live until my 84th birthday to get this job done, because
right now I have to take Lola out for her midday walk around the block. At
least the sock drawer is done. When we get back, I’ll start on the Tee shirt
drawer.
Ciao, MikeBo
*Lost Musket-approximate translation of Trabuco or musket. Spanish “conquistadors” were armed with trabucos or blunderbusses, which scared
the hell out of indigenous natives, especially when the trigger was pulled and
they went “boom.” In 1769 Spanish explorer and later California Governor-General
Gaspar de Portola and his men stopped to camp in a canyon near present day
Rancho Santa Margarita, California on route to the village of Los Angeles.
During the stop-over, one of Portola’s men lost his Trabuco in the forest, setting off a massive search for the weapon,
which was never found. The incident might have gone unreported, but for one of
the monks who accompanied Portola, who later wrote about it. As a result, the
name Trabuco has become an overwhelmingly popular place name in this part of
Southern California. One version of the story has it that the soldier walked
into the woods to answer a call of nature, leaned his Trabuco against an oak
tree, and had the gun stolen when he wasn’t looking, either by a mischievous
native or a passing bear.
No comments:
Post a Comment