DONNY BOY

In the late 1930’s, an annual race called the Rough Water Swim took place in Southern California. It was a popular event hosted by radio personalities Fibber Magee and Molly. Swimmers fought through two and a quarter miles of powerful waves and currents around Balboa Island. Those swimmers included Florence Chadwick, who also swam the English Channel. The actor Buster Crabbe often did the Rough Water Swim, his enormous feet propelling him to victory.

Another regular contestant was a scrappy young carpenter named Donald W. Tosh. With tremendous energy and upper-body strength, Don became a presence in those races, even winning a few.

After service in the Navy during World War II, the ambitious young Scotsman wooed and won the lady LaVonne, and they began a life together. The Toshes built and operated a chain of hamburger stands at Huntington Beach, did well, and went on to other ventures. In the mid-1970’s, I came to work for them at a place called Big Sur Lodge.

Don was a man’s man, affectionately known to his children as “Archie Bunker.” His political views lay somewhere to the right of Rush Limbaugh, and he made no apologies for that. Working for Don quickly yielded some basic truths: there was the right way, the wrong way and Don’s Way. And if you didn’t like it, you’d better get out of the way, because Don would shove you aside and do it himself. He was a man accustomed to hard work.

Don owned some mountain property near the Lodge in Big Sur. He was building a gravity-feed water system up there, consisting of several tanks and a network of steel pipes. In summer, we young men liked to boast of long, hot days hauling pipe up the mountain. Yes sir, that was man’s work.

In wintertime, when the rains came and the days grew incredibly short, things at the Lodge slowed down; but Don, the Workingman’s Man, always kept us busy. And so one dark, cloudy day in January, Don said we should all go up the mountain and pour a pad for one of his water tanks. Someone pointed out the threatening clouds and suggested it might be best to wait for a sunnier day. But one look at our boss gave us the answer, and off we went.

There was me, Tom, Bill, Mark, Phil the maintenance man, and of course, Don. Phil loaded up his personal truck, a beautiful, 1970 Dodge 3/4-ton pickup, while the rest of us climbed aboard another Lodge vehicle. We rode a short piece down Highway One, turned off at Don’s private gate, and began the slow climb up the skinny dirt road that Walt Trotter had carved out of the mountain with a D-9 Caterpillar. Like most Big Sur back roads, there was no margin for sloppy turns, no room for a lapse in concentration. Any mistake like that would send you right off a cliff. The road wound up the rugged west face of the mountain, around the other side through many redwood trees to the top, yielding a wondrous view of the lush Big Sur Valley below and the great Pacific Ocean beyond. Going up there brought a mix of enjoyment and dread: while it meant a welcome break from the routine, we also knew that mountain work was a time for us to really earn our keep.

On this gloomy January day however, there were no pipes to haul, no heavy tanks to erect. Just a simple, ten-foot concrete pad to be poured. Easy, right? Sure — although we did these from scratch using shovels and a wheelbarrow, hauling water from another part of the mountain.

The dark clouds converged above us, knitting themselves together ominously as we toiled below. At two o’clock, they released a cold, menacing drizzle. Working shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of us, Don shouted, “Work faster!!” And we did. We mixed and heaved and poured and spread with model efficiency.

By three o’clock the drizzle had thickened to a solid, steady rain. To compensate, Don ordered us to use less water. All of us were cold and wet, hoping the rain would let up, our clothes and shoes covered in mud and cement.

The clouds finally stopped toying with us and unleashed a raging downpour. It soaked us to the bone and turned the road into a slippery mess. Phil’s prized pickup got stuck twice, and its rear wheels machine-gunned great clots of mud into our faces as we struggled to push it free. The second time this happened, the shiny blue Dodge glanced off the embankment, scraping a fender. Phil was not pleased.

At four o’clock we were finished. Totally. I stood beside Don as the rain pelted our freshly poured cement, now a pockmarked ruin. It looked like the surface of the moon. Don, hair plastered onto his head as water dripped from his eyebrows and the tip of his nose, tried in vain to light a cigarette. He looked at me, gave his characteristic chuckle and said the only thing left to say:

“Well...maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

You know, I couldn’t really be mad at him. Another, more cynical employer once said to me, “I pay for all the mistakes around here, including my own.” Don paid the price on the mountain that day, and he acknowledged it fully.

You gotta love a guy like that.

THE END

It's not every day that an 8.8 quake hits. Reports of tsunami activity led me south to greet the incoming waves. At Garrapata Creek on the way to Big Sur, the waves seemed to be at war with each other, north against the south. Many other photographers had gathered at this spot, where the power of nature could be seen and felt to the core.

For your reading pleasure, the story of a young man and his warrior machine...

THE MIGHTY FALCOON

By Cameron Douglas

995 words

Once in a great while, a car comes along that is so dependable, so impervious and so downright stubborn that it absolutely refuses to give up — even in the worst conditions.

In the hard winter of 1975, my friend Tom and I shared an apartment on Euclid Avenue in East Cleveland. We lived a simple life of work, hangin’ out with our rowdy friends and getting from point A to point B. The cars we drove were different than they are now. Back then front-wheel drive hardly existed. Nearly every the car on the road was propelled by its rear wheels, which, in winter, were typically shod with great, gnarly snow tires. The cars themselves were heavy, poorly suspended tanks with terrible brakes. Even with snow tires, they skated across the icy roads like Dodge-Em cars on a Teflon rink. Snowplows ambled through the gloom, showering rock salt to melt the snow and ice. Their heavy plow blades turned the asphalt into a minefield of lumps, bumps and potholes that slowly destroyed front suspensions. The road salt caused massive structural rust. (I once had a rusty ’65 Ford Galaxie actually break in half as I pulled into a driveway.)

‘Twas a land of great automotive hardship, and that year my friend and I faced a grim car situation. My ’68 Plymouth Road Runner had a bad transmission. Tom owned a broken ’64 Chrysler Newport that was up on blocks. Money was tight and we needed something to get us around.

In January, we bought a ’66 Ford Falcon for 40 bucks. That’s right: 4-0 dollars. We named it, “The Mighty Falcoon.” It was a dark green, two-door coupe with a 200 cubic-inch six-cylinder engine. It seemed to run pretty well, but the transmission leaked badly. It had no snow tires, and the tires it did have were all worn out. The heater didn’t work. Neither did the horn. Extensive body rust had left gaping holes in the floor pans, so bad that the front seat used to rock back and forth on the weakened metal. And before long the muffler fell off, adding to its charm.

It was the quintessential beater car, and we flogged it like a sheetmetal mule. We ran it through wind, rain, ice, snow, slush and salt, giving it only cheap gasoline and lots of transmission fluid. We never tuned it. We did no work on the brakes, even after the drums started grinding on bare linings. Never changed the oil. Nor did we add any oil because, quite surprisingly, the engine never leaked or burned any oil at all.

The Mighty Falcoon just kept rolling along on its bald tires, leaving a trail of bright red tranny fluid. In zero temperatures with no heat it was a handful to drive. We had to drink some hot chocolate and take a blanket, hat, coat and gloves. The blanket went across our legs, while the gloves were there to wipe frost off the inside of the windshield, since there were also no defrosters. But the little inline six ran flawlessly. It ignored the freezing weather and started right up every time.

One day, I had to drive up to Cleveland Heights for a job interview. Heavy snow had accumulated for two days and showed no sign of letting up. A bitter, Canadian wind blew in from Lake Erie, and thick flurries of snow clouded the view of the street from our windows.

As I pulled on my coat, Tom said to me, “Looks pretty nasty out there.”

I agreed with him: “Yeah, sure does.”

“You sure that car’s gonna make it?” he asked.

His question made me think. Hmmm...leaky transmission; no heater; bad tires; bad brakes. Most people would have sat down, switched on the TV and said the heck with it. But I was determined.

“No problem,” I replied. And off I went.

Gloved, blanketed and hot-chocolated, I fired up the Mighty Falcoon and made my way onto Euclid Avenue, cutting deep tracks in the snow. With the wipers wiping and my hands clearing frost, I waited to make a left turn onto Green Road, where there would then be a long, twisting, uphill grade. A hitchhiker stood near the bottom of that hill, hoping for a ride. I considered stopping to pick him up and decided against it: a running start would be my only chance.

When the light changed, I punched it and made a crab-like, sideways turn onto Green Road, climbing about 30 feet up the hill before the madly spinning tires lost their grip and the car began sliding back down. The hitchhiker stepped away: he wanted no part of this! Just when it looked completely hopeless, the car drifted over and the right rear wheel hit the curb. The downward slide halted and I felt that wheel dig in. Somewhere in my mind a voice said, “Go for it!” — so I hit the gas.

Roaring, snarling and bellowing; the mufflerless Mighty Falcoon inched forward. Smoke rolled off the tire and sparks flew as the wheel ground against the curb. The din of unsilenced internal combustion racketed off the walls of nearby buildings. The hitchhiker stared in disbelief at the ragged car waging war with the pavement. His image grew smaller as I pulled away from him. And I made it. The Mighty Falcoon took that hill — a distance of 500 feet — with the wheel screaming against the curb all the way.

In the end, rust prevailed and we had to lay the Mighty Falcoon to rest. We watched in sadness as the junk man came to haul it off. He made the mistake of hooking up to the Falcon’s bumper, which tore loose from its rusty mounts and dumped the car back on the ground.

I hope someone salvaged the engine from that poor car: it still ran like a champ.

THE END

Here is the first posting for the Consonant Cowboy, seeking to entertain readers with articles, bios, poetry, prose and photography. If there's a way to attach short stories, there'll be plenty of those. Looking forward to this adventure and feedback from you.

CC