Mostly Anecdotal

I used to be a repo man, mostly cars, but sometimes we were asked to repossess other items. One job was to pick up Clint’s credit card. I call him Clint because I can’t reveal his real name, and well, you’ll know soon enough. This was in the mid-sixties when manual imprinters were used to record credit card transactions and merchants received lists of revoked cards that were seldom up-to-date and seldom referred to anyway.

Lloyd and I went to the address provided and knocked on the door, a twenty-something man answered our knock. We explained the purpose for our visit and he invited us in. A mistake we soon regretted. He invited us to sit down and asked if we would like a cup of coffee or perhaps tea. I said if he already had coffee prepared that would be nice he left to get my coffee and Lloyd looked at me with his what-the-fuck-are-you-doing expression. Clint returned and we explained again why we were there. He said he understood and would be happy to comply, but then his hand slid into the space between the cushion and the chair he was sitting on and returned with a gun, a 44 magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world. Okay, it wasn’t a 44, at least I don’t think it was, but I know my heart was beating decidedly faster than it was a few moments earlier, and when Lloyd started to get up Clint said, “Sit down.” He meant it, and Lloyd sat.

“I have some questions before I give you the card,” he said. It would have been nice if he had finished his sentence with, and then you can leave. He didn’t, and my heart rate continued at its accelerated rate. I felt like I might faint. He asked why anyone would take a job as a repo man. We explained that it just a way to put food on the table, we told of our families. Lloyd told of his children and I said I was looking forward to having children, and we told him what nice guys we were, really. The gun was sitting on the table next to him. He said, he was sure we were just ordinary guys trying to make ends meet. He said, “we don’t choose our jobs, our jobs choose us.” What the hell does that mean, I thought. I couldn’t read him, his voice was flat and lacking in emotion. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. He sat for a moment longer and then handed Lloyd the credit card, he also reached for his gun moving it from the table to his lap, his hand on the grip his finger near the trigger. Both of us had gone from very nervous to terrified, was this how our lives would end? Lloyd said, “hey man if you want the credit card it’s no big deal,” he extended his arm toward our host offering to return the card. No he said, still not giving us a clue as to what thoughts were running through his head though I’m sure he had a good idea of what we were thinking.

We stood, I felt fortunate that I was closest to the door, perhaps if he shot Lloyd I’d be able to make a break for it. I was not thinking heroic thoughts, survival mode was kicking in. Lloyd stood also; he offered to return the card one last time. Our host declined, and we both turned toward the door and started to walk. We had taken only a couple of steps when we heard him cock the gun the hammer clicking into place. I know I was telling my legs to move faster, but to be honest I was surprised they were moving at all, I was nearly paralyzed with fear. We continued to walk not a sound from our host, but the echo of the gun cocking was still ringing in my ears, though any sound had dissipated long ago. We were out the door my heart still pounding, Lloyd was saying something but I couldn’t hear him. I glanced back, our host had not followed us and the door to his apartment was shut. I started to relax, Lloyd was speaking again, “that scared the shit out of me,” he said. “Yeah, me too,” I replied. “No, really,” he said.

It was 1953, the year before ‘one Nation under God’ was added to the Pledge of Allegiance. I was eight, and I spent my afternoons practicing the violin. “Can I go out and play with Jim,” I asked my mother. Jim played the trumpet, and his mom made damn sure he practiced every day. “Have you finished your homework,” she said. “Didn’t have any,” I replied. “Have you practiced yet?” she said. The only condition Mom had placed on the use of her beautiful violin was that I promised to practice every day. So I went to my room took out the violin and practiced.

It went well for a day or two, and then I realized the violin was not for me. I lasted a week at school before quitting, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mom, so day after day I went to my room and pretended to practice, putting off the day of reckoning. I no longer played at school, and I sometimes forgot to take the violin with me. When I got home Mom would mention it and I lied that we didn’t play that day. It was getting more complicated with each passing day, but I didn’t want to disappoint my mom.

I felt as though I’d be letting her down, she had trusted me with the violin her brother Merle had purchased for her, the violin, a Morelli dated 1750. So I did my best to maintain the charade, but with no motivation, and no one to teach me, practice became nothing more than pretending to play. It was working though, Mom didn’t say anything. My pretend playing must have sounded good. I continued day after day, though I was starting to get worried, my pretend playing wasn’t getting any better, and there was a parent-teacher conference coming soon.

I put it off for a few more days, but that didn’t make it any easier. So the next day when Mom reminded me that it was time to practice I said I had something I needed to tell her, with tears welling in my eyes, I explained that I had given up on the violin, she said I know. I told her how my practice had just been pretend, and she said I know. I told her how it had been going on for weeks, and she said I know. The relief of having finally told the truth had its effect. My tears started to dry, the tension I’d been feeling left and my thoughts cleared. “Did you say you already knew,” I said. She smiled. “I’ve known for weeks,” she said. “I would have told you sooner Mom, but didn’t want to disappoint you,” I said. “You didn’t disappoint me honey.” she said. ” I know it was really hard for you to tell me, and I’m proud that you came to me. There will be many times in your life when it will be hard to do the right thing, but now you’ll know how. “

I barely remember her. She was attractive, not a knock out, but who would want a knock out, being ‘pretty’ is a real handicap if you ask me. I could describe her, I could tell you her hair is brown, neck length, soft with a bit of natural curl, but that might spoil it for you. I could tell you she is thin, not skinny, but you may prefer plump to pert and so your imagination would be tainted with my imaginings, your memories stained by my mine and no longer your own. I could speak of her eyes, but you know how it is with eyes. So I won’t describe her, but to say she is smart, and sweet, and a little shy. I like smart and I like sweet and shy leaves time for love to grow. I think about her now and then, and I think of what might have been but never was. It never was because I was young and stupid and missed all the clues. It wasn’t until years later when a snippet of conversation reached my consciousness, and I heard her say “you should come over sometime and give me a ride on your motorcycle,” that I gave her a second moments thought. What was it occupying my mind at the time that let the invitation enter my consciousness and leave just as quickly? Where was it stored, and why is it now, years later, that I recall that moment? It was an opportunity missed. I sometimes think of how it might have been different. The first ride, a casual friendship, hours spent sharing our interests, and then in time would it turn to love. I don’t even remember her name, but I could probably find the street she lived on if I were to look. I’m sure I could find the street she lived on.

He’s right he could probably find her street, though it’s doubtful she is still there. She is much older now forty plus years older with memories and regrets of her own. Does she remember him? Her memory may be better than his. He did after all go to her house, and he did give her that ride on his motorcycle, and she did invite him into her home after the ride. Her parents were not a home at the time, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He was too shy to have taken advantage of the opportunity. He was too shy to initiate any physical contact at all. He was too shy to even reach out, to show an intent, to turn an interest into something more lasting.

She could have done the reaching, but she had already reached; she had suggested the ride. She had already left him with the memory of her arms wrapped tightly around him, and her head nestled there at the junction of his shoulder and his neck. She had heard him sigh, the this-is-perfect sigh. She had done her part and left it to him, and he had failed. She made further efforts to promote the friendship; she was always there with her sweet smile while his muddled mind was always somewhere else.

Why had he forgotten the ride and sitting on the edge of her bed babbling about things now long forgotten? Was it the pain of a missed opportunity, or the failings of memory that come as one gets older, for like he said, forty plus years have passed since that time.

Most summers during the nineteen fifties I boarded a bus in Salt Lake City, the leave the driving to us Greyhound type. I liked riding the bus. I met people I would never have met otherwise. They were not like my friends or my parents, or anyone I knew. I fancied I was traveling in a foreign country. The passengers certainly seemed foreign to me.

Some hours later I would arrive in Idaho Falls. There were no freeways then, and the trip from Salt Lake took six or seven hours, it now takes four or five. My Mom’s parents, the Borrowman’s, lived in Lincoln, a small town on the outskirts of Idaho Falls. I never worried about my Grandma being there to pick me up since I knew her phone number, Jackson 2-7717. Grandma arrived right on time, driving her new 1955 Ford Victoria. I would spend a week visiting. I liked visiting. I especially liked being the only grandchild there. Usually we would travel to Island Park Reservoir. Island Park was not what you would normally think of as an island, but rather an island of lakes, woods, rivers meadows and mountains. It is twenty miles South of West Yellowstone. The fishing is great at Island Park. Grandpa and his friends liked to fish the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River or one the reservoirs or lakes in the area.

The summer of 1955 it was my favorite, Island Park Reservoir. We left early in the morning, it was cold and still quite dark, it felt even colder as we glided over the surface of the reservoir at 15-20 miles per hour. I snuggled behind my Grandpa trying to stay warm. I was anxious for the sun to rise, and for the fishing to begin. Grandpa had taught me how to put a worm on my number ten snelled hook. “If you’re going to fish you have to learn to bait your own hook,” he said. The others were using spinners, spoons, and other gadgets I didn’t even recognize in their attempt to catch a few of the many trout found there. No one had any luck at the first spot we tried so we moved on. The sun was higher in the sky now and it was no longer cold. We slowed, killed the motor, and glided to a stop. The anchor was dropped over the side. I attached a worm to my hook and cast near the boat. A few moments later I caught the first fish of the day. “Good going little guy.” Said one of Grandpa’s friends. “Looks like your Grandson is a real fisherman Lorus,” he said. A few minutes later I caught another fish, and another, I was really enjoying fishing and the praise of the expert anglers. Grandpa gave me a chain to put my fish on showing me how to put the hook through the mouth and out the gill and snap it closed. I was still the only one catching any fish.

Now two things happened. First I realized I needed to pee, and at the same time one of Grandpa’s buddies asked me what bait I was using. We were in the middle of a reservoir; I’d just have to hold on no problem. I told Dale I was using a worm. He said, “Oh God not a worm, that’s not fishing. Use a spinner, a spoon, anything, but not a worm. I’d rather not catch a single fish than have to use a worm.” Five minutes later I caught another fish and another of the purists said, “Hell I want trout for dinner pass me one of those worms.” I caught my fifth while he was still baiting his hook. Grandpa laughed and said, “Pass the worms, and started changing his gear to accommodate hook and worm. The first fellow to switch caught a trout, that convinced the others to change but not the diehard. I still needed to pee. “How long are we going to fish,” I asked Grandpa. “If we start catching them as fast as you are it won’t be long,” he said. “We’ll have our limits in no time.”

I really needed to go, but was to embarrassed to tell anyone. We would have to return to the dock. We would never find this great spot again. I could hold on for a little longer. My sixth and seventh fish came as fast as I could cast and reel them in. The others had all switched to worms. Mister I-don’t-use-worms, said “I don’t like it but Mable will never forgive me if I don’t come back with some dinner.” Everyone was rapidly catching their limits, but there was no way I could wait, my pants were wet. I remember thinking, I hope they dry before we have to get out of the boat and everyone sees what I have done. Not five minutes after I had given up the fight with my bladder. One of the men said, “I need to pee.” He stood and peed over the side of the boat. I couldn’t believe it, all I had to do was stand and pee over the side of the boat.

I quickly caught my limit as did the others in our party with the exception of you know who. He did catch enough for dinner, but not his limit. Grandpa started the Evinrude and we cruised across the reservoir back to the dock and the car I held my chain of fish in front of me as I got out of the boat. I don’t think anyone noticed. When we returned to the cabin Grandma came out of the cabin with her Brownie Camera to take a picture of my string of fish, the fish I was still holding in front of me. Boy was I proud of the fish and the embarrassment they were saving me. Back in the cabin Grandma told me how proud she was of me, and suggested that perhaps I would like to change my clothes for dinner, grandmas.

Note: The picture is of all of the Borrowman grandchildren taken sometime in the fifties, in front of Grandma’s house, from left to right. Back row: Steve’s friend Gene Hennen, Steve, David, and Keith Front row: Norm, Wayne, Doug, Betty Jo, and Janna Lee The little guy up front: Jerry

I was recently going through some old photos and came across this one of my Uncle Merle and my son Chris playing chess.

It must have been taken about 1986 at a family reunion in Pocatello, Idaho the home of Merle’s brother Reed. This was the next to the last time I saw Merle he died in 1993.

Seeing the photograph I started wondering what my cousins on that side of the family have been up to maybe some were blogging. Well if they are I didn’t find them, but I did find a memoriam about Merle. I didn’t see Merle too much when I was growing up he was at Columbia in the fifties, the University of Wisconsin Madison in the sixties, and he was Dean of the School of Education at Berkeley in the seventies.

I remember one family get together when he was telling us about the Anthropologist Margaret Mead. They were at Columbia at the same time. Apparently a group of young students and professors were meeting with Professor Mead at a get acquainted gathering. After they had talked for sometime she said let me tell you a little about each of you, and proceeded to go around the circle nailing it for each one based on their speech patterns and other clues they had revealed during the conversation. She told them where they were born, where their parents were from and how she knew. Merle thought it quite remarkable.

I also remember him talking about the demonstrations at the University of Wisconsin at the beginning of the war in Vietnam. I was a little bit slower realizing what a travesty that war was but by 1968 it was obvious to any thinking person what a terrible mistake we were making. That was the beginning for me and I suspect a lot of other baby boomers of a transition from a conservative middle of the road point of view to a much more radical outlook. Values that we had held as teens being called to question.

The reason so many of us are so cynical about the current administration the patterns the statements are starting to sound and look a lot like they did in the Sixties and Seventies. A few years later Merle said to me at a family gathering, speaking of my political evolution, well it took you a little time, but I never had any doubt where you’d finally end up.