Thankfulnessapalooza 2023 - Part Three (of Three)

 

Whose Waves? Floyd's Waves! Photo by Joe

Can he do it, folks? Will he do it? Will Joe come up with ten more things for which he's thankful, this year? Yes! Ah, but will there be any repeats from previous years' lists? Also yes. Sorry. To review, here are links to PART ONE and PART TWO of this year's list. Did anyone notice that in part one, the items were numbered, and in part two they were not? I didn't - until now. Whimsy! Okay, let's wrap this up...

21. Waves. I like waves. Bonus points for waves crashing into things - like jetties, rocks, sea walls, or those WWII-era observation towers that still stand staring at the ocean from the Delaware shore.

One intrepid little pony car, near Port Arthur, TX - Photo by Joe

22. My impractical but oh so sweet little mechanical soul mate. I'd say she's my midlife crisis car, but really that was the car that came before her. She's driven through swamps and train yards and all sorts of places no Camaro should ever see - capably and without complaint.

N&W Class J #611, near Manassas, VA - Photo by Joe

23. As long as we're admiring things in black and white... Trains. I love 'em. I've always lived within earshot of them, and I hope I always will.

24. For all my bitching about my new ELEVEN TIMES LONGER commute, there is a part of it for which I'm thankful - but only when the weather's nice. The walk from DuPont Circle to 23rd Street in DC, mostly by way of N Street. Behold...

Little daycare kiddies, strung together and singing "Baby Shark!" Photo by Joe

Historic Heurich House - Photo by Joe

Alley weirdness. I have questions. Photo by me

Next...

Endangered black-footed selfieferrets - photo by Bingo

Ask me about the Flying Spaghetti Monster

Empty offices have weird shadows - Photo by Joe

25. Weirdness in general. Always on the lookout for it, because it keeps popping up when and where I least expect it. Now more than ever, we could all use a daily dose of weird.

Okay, maybe not THIS empty... Photo by Joe

26. The empty office. What can I say - I got used to it, when in 2020 I suddenly found myself with (more or less) the run of the place. This year, I've readjusted somewhat, as there are people around slightly more often than there were over the preceding three years. Fortunately, when it gets people-y, it tends to be some really swell people. Okay, I'm thankful for the office, just in general. I do wish it was still five minutes away, of course...

Portland Head, Maine - Photo by Joe and [Maris]

27. I'm thankful for lighthouses. That is all.

28. Cartoons. I've preached this for years. Ren & Stimpy, The Simpsons, South Park, Aqua Teen Hunger Force, Family Guy, American Dad, Archer, Home Movies, Bob's Burgers, Futurama... Some of these shows are blessed to have positively brilliant writers and voice actors. We've seen a lot of episodes dozens of times. Granted, they're usually just playing in the background, but there's a certain comfort in hearing Family Guy's "Bag Of Weed" song from the next room - again. These characters are like old friends, and they ask so little of us.

All glory to the Hypnotoad - screen grab from the interwebz

29. Speaking of cartoons - I'm thankful for Hypnotoad. Coolest sound I've ever heard come out of my TV (apart from the clank of Howie Kendrick's go-ahead homer off the foul pole in game 7 of the 2019 World Series) - and those hypnotic EYES. Yeah - he's good enough to make the list twice.

 No, I don't wear them all at once. - Photo by Joe

30. Rings. I don't know why or how, but one led to another and here we are. I figure it's less gross than tattoos or piercings (on me - I'm sure they're fine on you tattoo/piercing people).

Well, look at that, campers! We made it through three posts and thirty things for which I'm thankful, this year. Well-done, you three! Well-done. See you tomorrow...

Ambidextrous Stang: Is This Your Lint?

The stories one can hear at the nursing home, if one is willing...

Herbert Stangle, either 98 or 100 years old, told me a little bit about his life.  I was wearing a t-shirt bearing the sleeping cat logo of the Chessie System Railroad, and he brightened considerably when he saw me.  At first, I assumed that that was because he was mistaking me for a loved one, perhaps one of his grandsons, but after five solid minutes of TRAINS, TRAINS, TRAINS, I knew better.

"You know what a hobo is?" he asked me, his voice strong, but full of either 98 or 100 years of grit and gravel.

HA!  Do I know what a hobo is.

"I dropped out of high school and left home in 1931, and I became a hobo..."

"Uh oh," I interrupted. "Your parents?"

"What about 'em?" he coughed.

"Were they, you know, alive when you left?"

He looked at me as if I might have been one of those therapy dogs that frequently visited him.  "Alive?  Of course they were alive - well, my ma was.  What's wrong with you, son?"

"Nothing.  I just... I've heard some stories about hoboes, and their parents often meet the most awful fates."

"Mine didn't. My pop died of a heart attack when I was a baby, and my ma raised me.  She worked hard, and gave me and my sister a fine childhood. She was my hero."

"Sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have assumed. So, why did you leave, then?"

"The smell."

"The smell?"

"Yes. Pop was in the ice box in the garage, and when it broke down and Ma couldn't afford to get it fixed, I tell you, he stunk like hell on earth. I couldn't stand to live there for another minute."

I nodded sympathetically. "Of course."

He continued. "Out on the road, some fellas survived by their wits, some by their brawn, others by sheer luck."

"How did you survive?"

"By sleight of hand, mostly," he sighed. "I did magic tricks - cards and shell game stuff - and a lot of pickpocket work.  They called me Ambidextrous Stang, I was so good."

"Are  you ambidextrous?"

"Nope. Just really, really good at misdirection. I tried to only steal what I needed, but it was a kind of addiction. After a while, I couldn't stop.  I stole watches and lint and wallets, pocket change, cigarettes - you name it. One time, I lifted a hundred-ounce can of kidney beans from a hobo's bindle. Got away clean, too."

"That's impressive. How'd you do it?"

The old man got quiet and stared at the arm of his wheelchair for so long, I was sure he had passed away, right there in front of me. Then, he drew a long, rattly, 98- or 100-year old breath. "The trick is to make your mark's brain focus somewhere else - away from the item you're trying to lift from him. I put my hand on his shoulder and left it there - too long to be polite - and squeezed it too much. He never knew what hit him."

"Wow. Did you ever get caught?"

"Oh, young man - I got busted all the time. It was just part of the game. In the 30s and 40s, it was easy. A night in the clink, a shower, a hot meal, and off you went. It started to change in the 50s. The hoboes were dying off, or going back to the world, and people got less... tolerant." His voice trailed off.

I sensed that he was tired, but maybe too polite or too lonely to stop, but I was searching for some sort of conclusion to his tale. "So, did you stop with the pickpocket stuff? Go back to the real world, or what?"

"I did not. I tried to. Got a job building the Class J's for the Norfolk and Western - most elegant locomotives this country ever produced - but I couldn't break the habit.  In Roanoke one night, I stole a man's jeweled wristwatch, got busted, and spent the next twenty-five years in and out of prison. The hobo life was a breeze, compared to those years. I got out for good in 1975, and got a job doing card tricks on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland. Then the 80s and those video game arcades came along - and that damnable Ripley's Believe It Or Not, and I sort of just... gave up.  Been in this dump ever since - going on thirty years, now. I think they're mad at me for living this long."

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing for a few minutes. After a while, I thanked him for sharing his story. I stood up and shook his frail 98- or 100-year old hand. He smiled kindly and chuckled to himself as I turned to leave.

"Young man?" he said. "Is this your lint?"

I turned back and found him grinning happily, holding my iPhone in a trembling hand.

"Thanks," I said, fighting the urge to be annoyed, and patting my wallet in its pocket, just to be sure.

"No, no, son. Thank you!" he said.

N&W Class J #611 - Photo by Joe Scott, 1992

Another prompted story, thanks to John Hodgman and his marvelous hobo names, and STUDIO 30-PLUS, and their "sleight of hand" prompt.