This one was originally posted in 2009.  I noticed the date this morning, and had an almost identical post written when a little voice told me I’d already told this story.  So instead of a reboot you get a rerun.

In 1989, the Loma Prieta earthquake struck San Fransisco. Damage was heavy, and there were a few casualties.

At the time, I was in the final days of basic training. That means no contact with the outside world that my leadership didn’t provide. No newspapers, no CNN.

So we were unaware of what had happened.

At morning formation the day after the earthquake the senior drill sergeant stepped out and shouted:

“Are any of you brain dead individuals from the San Francisco Bay Area?”

I and about 10 others raised our hands. I’m not from the Bay Area, but my family moved there a couple of years previously and I’d finished out high school.

“There was a massive earthquake last night. San Francisco is in flames. Your families are all dead!”

Of course, that caused quite a stir. We were reminded not to talk in formation when 3 or 4 guys got dropped for pushups after they said some variation on “Oh,crap”.

“All of you guys from San Francisco have 15 minutes to call home. Move!”

Of course, all the phone lines into the Bay Area were down or busy, so none of us had any luck. This did nothing to ease our worries.

Luckily, the chaplain took pity on us when he found out what had happened, and he contacted the Red Cross to contact our families and make sure they were OK.

Noone lost anyone, so it ended up being no harm no foul.

However, if I ever have to break bad news to someone, I’ll use that as an example of what not to do.

The mark of a good belt and holster combination is that you can walk around all day long with a loaded CZ-82 on your hip and forget it’s even there.

Life is intruding and the laptop is in the shop to have the air in the tires rotated.

Tidbits and goofy humor to follow.

OldNFO tagged me, so here we go:


What was your first car?  Model, year, color, condition


My first car was a 1959 Chevrolet Apache pickup, with a HUGE straight 6 engine and a manual 3 speed transmission.  

Mine wasn’t this pretty, but might be its original paint scheme.  I found hints of white and red paint under the primer.


I got it the day after my 15th birthday in 1986 from a farmer outside of Grand Forks North Dakota for $200.  It had a two-tone paint job, primer red and primer gray.  It leaked more fluids than I did, smoked like a chimney, required gasoline to be poured directly into the carburetor to start, and had a top end of 15 miles per hour. It had been rolled onto its side at least twice, but the body didn’t have a lot of rust on it other than the fenders and parts of the bed, which were almost transparent.   


My buddies and I spent over a year tearing that car down and making it right.  I did a lot of the body work using a ball peen hammer, a slide hammer, and bondo.  I buffed off the rust that wasn’t too bad, and spot-welded sheet metal to the places that I had to cut off then ground the edges down and added a layer of bondo.  My two partners in crime were real motorheads, and when I could afford parts, they’d work on the engine and transmission.


We dubbed it “The Beast”.


What adventures did you have in it, good or bad?


After about 14 months of on again off again work, The Beast would start without having a fire extinguisher handy, the body was back together, and we put four retread tires on it.  My parents still didn’t want me driving it, so it sat in the garage.  Luckily for me, they were heavy sleepers.  We’d put my step-dad’s Jeep in neutral, push it out of the way, then push The Beast about half a block from the house before starting it up.  We’d go pick up some other friends and go for rides in it.  This was back when you could still ride in the bed of a moving pick-up.  When it was time to come home, we’d stop half a block from the house, kill the engine, push it back in the garage, then move the Jeep back.  As far as I know, my parents never knew.


One night we almost became a statistic when the darn thing stalled out as I was trying to get across a highway.  A semi came around the corner just as we finished pushing it to the other side so we could figure out what was going on.  


What happened to it, what’s the end of the story?  


Just when my parents started to believe that it was safe for me to drive, my step-dad came home from work, announced that he’d quit his job, and we were moving to be near his family in California.  Since the top-end on the pickup was probably less than 60 miles an hour, he told me we had to sell the truck because he didn’t want to be going slow on the trip west.  After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I called my motorhead friends.  Their dad bought it for what I’d paid for it.  It was in memory of The Beast that I started taking the step-dad’s Jeep after he fell asleep once we got to California.  Again, due to deep sleep, I don’t think they ever knew.  

Apparently Boo wants to be a mummy for Halloween.

It’s blurry because I couldn’t stop laughing.

Today is the anniversary of the first printing of “Winnie the Pooh” in 1926.  We’re on our second generation of Winnie the Pooh here at Casa de Oso.  I grew up on both the stories and the Disney movies, and I’ve carried on with my kids.

A.A. Milne did for me the same thing as Dr. Seuss:  he made reading fun and interesting to a young child.  Interest the child in reading, and you will have a reader as an adult, and both will find learning easier.  Something tells me that my experience was not unique.  Children around the world have enjoyed Pooh Bear and his friends.

In celebration, I plan on having a bit of honey today, and possibly doing a little bouncing before I sit down in my thoughtful spot for a good think.  Of course, I’m a bear of very little brain, so that may take a while.