Dead Deer Coal Shed

Back in the late 1800’s many homes in the valley were actually a number of buildings. From the main house to outhouses, coal sheds and detached buildings such as carriage houses or even barns. These were not limited to homes outside of town, I am speaking to the many homes within the city limits.

As Aspen fell into a deep sleep for a few decades, many of these structures along with any abandoned homes were slowly torn down and the wood was used to heat the homes of the last hold-outs that chose to remain in the valley. Over time, land that once contained residences, long since abandoned, were reduced to vacant lots.

The remaining homes managed to keep most of their tertiary structures until carriages were replaced by cars and outhouses were replaced by indoor plumbing and then, even those structures were doomed to be ashes or repurposed wood for new homes. the last of the structures facing their demise were the coal shads and many them survived as storage sheds even into the 1970’s and beyond. That was the case for our former coal shed.

The kids in our family would often hang out in the sheds, almost like private boys or girls clubhouses. My dad used it throughout the years as a place to store truck and tractor parts and the like. Our shed had 2 rooms but I am not sure why, coal was stored in one and I do not know why it was built with the second room but it was used for a time by my Great-Grandmonther as a washroom. Perhaps that is why it was built that way in the firstplace..

Everything it was used for over the years is lost on me but there was one occasion that has stuck in my memory all the way back to when I was 7 or 8 years old. Dead deer hanging from the rafters…

Every year back in the 50’s, or maybe even earlier until the early 70’s there was an annual rite of passage when the men would head off to hunting camp. We all knew that hunting camp was more or lass an excuse for a bunch of men to drink, sleep and plot the solutions to all the world’s problems. Occasionally they would even hunt.

On this particular year the booze must have been scant and the world had very problems since every one of them came home with a deer strapped to the hoods of their trucks. My father apparently offered up the coal shed as a place to hang, cut and quarter their victims. That night in my dad’s garage the keg was tapped, the knives were being sharpened and there was even a little target shooting taking place, yes target shooting. My dad had installed a small shooting range in his garage and it was well used on this night. My how things have changed. Not sure having the kegerator so close the the firing line was a good idea but I was too young and to smart to say anything.

As the night wore on the “hunters” enthusiasm to go carve up their pray waned with every passing ounce of beer consumed. What the kids did not know was that their coal fort was now a macabre warehouse of dead, dripping, deer. We ran through the door in our usual fashion, trying to beat the girls to the punch and ran face first into this horrific scene.

Within the next few days all the corpses were gone and the entrails were no where in sight. As for me I never wanted to play in there again. Thankfully a few months later a play house arrived in our back yard courtesy on Marvin Moriarty although we are not too sure of where it came from or if someone else was missing a playhouse.

NOTE:

I wrote a similar story back on 2009 about this shed and it’s origins but felt it needed more details and a better, but true, telling of a particular event that has a lasting place in my childhood memories. That story is called “Is that a Coal Shed or a Meat Locker?” if you care to go check it out as well.

Remembering those who go before us…..

​It is funny, I lost track of many of my California friends when we left southern California in 1991.  I thought of them often but I guess not often enough to stay in touch like I should.  Then Facebook came along and with all its faults (Political backbiting, stalkers, mean people, etc….) it did help to unite old friends and bridge the gaps that existed between us.  We realized how much of other people’s lives we missed, boy it would have been fun to be there for some of their best moments and them with you in your’s.

Today one of those old friends passed away.  I miss what I missed in her life and her in mine.  We spoke on a fairly regular basis over the past year.  First, just to catch up.  then to give me strength when I went through some health issues and then for me to be there when she started the biggest challenge of her life, to live.  She is gone now… She loved Jesus Christ and for those of you who do to…. you know she is better off.  Good Bye my old friend.  R.I.P. Debbie Rosso.

Weekend in LA with my little girl

​I often forget why we have kids… It is not to meet a requirement or check a box off in the book of life. It is to have people, yes people, around to remind the world that we existed for a great and noble purpose that only you and god might understand.  We fill page after page on FB posting and talking about our kids, our grand kids or those of the ones we love.  We make them or try to make them in our own images whether they end up Democrats, Republicans, independents or “I don’t give a dams” but we care no matter what they become, not because of what they become but because of who they become.

I care more about the moments we are a part of than the moments they choose to exclude us from.  This weekend I am a part of so many “firsts” in my little girl’s life than I cannot count.  They help to make her the person she will be and I love that!  What a great realization I am going through knowing that three days can change the course of a person’s life and I get to be a part of it.
Thank you God and thank you world!  You are all part of what makes us whole….

Buzz, Buzz, Welcome Home Peter and Barbara!

By now you may have, or should have, read my other stories about my dad’s phone buzzer and all of its inappropriate uses. He liked to hook it up to light switches or other power sources that required a person to turn on the power thinking they were turning something else on. This buzzer had a nasty habit of showing up where people least expected it and never asked for it. This buzzer was, and still is, a tool of evil behavior by a mischievous person. This thing was loud, extremely loud. I know where I was “auditorily” attacked by this thing but I am sure he used it elsewhere too. Lord knows how many of his friends were subjected to these random attacks of noise.

I do know of one such occasion where some family friends were subjected to this thing. I do not have all the details but what I do know is that our long-time friends, Peter and Barbara Guy, had gone out of town for whatever reason and we had access to their house. I think it was to feed the family pets. So perhaps what happened to them upon their return was no one else’s fault but their own. They trusted the wrong people to keep an eye on things. They had made the same mistake on prior leaves of absence so you would think they would eventually learn.

At some point during their absence, my father planted the buzzer as far under their bed as he could and plugged it into the switched outlet that was traditionally used for some “bedside” lamps, or so I think that was the case. This thing was buried deep and seemed to have the ability to “throw” it’s sound as if it were coming from every nook or cranny of the room. After a somewhat frustrating search for the device, it is my understanding that Peter and Barbara opted to go without the use of the lights for the duration of their evening. Morning would soon arrive and there would be more time and energy to find the device then.

As I have said before, “I am amazed how many friends my dad has, all things considered.” Where is the buzzer now? I will never tell, but if Peter and Barbara would like to make use of it, I am sure I can make that happen. Remember, revenge is a meal best served cold.

Buzz, Buzz, Please Pass the Milk or a Beer depending upon the Time of Day

All we wanted was something from the refrigerator, it does not matter what we needed.  What ever it was we got way more than we bargained for.  From upstairs or in the basement of our house, we could always tell when someone fell victim to another one of my dad’s “buzzer” jokes. In fact, I am sure the whole neighborhood could tell.  He recycled his jokes like yesterday’s news until every family member and most of his friends and neighbors had experienced the gag. Some of my friends were too nervous to come over not knowing what to expect next.

At some point on one of my Dad’s job sites he came across one of those phone buzzers, the ones intended to be mounted on the outside of a building to alert the crew of an incoming phone call in the office. The old phone systems put out enough voltage to trigger the buzzer to go off. Like I said, I am not sure when or where he came across this device, on a job site or perhaps from a friend but I can tell you that life in the Beck House would never be the same from that moment forward. This thing had a nasty habit of showing up when we least expected it, and in the most unexpected places…

On more than one occasion it showed up inside the refrigerator. It was real simple to wire up, all you had to do was to screw out the light bulb inside on the back wall of the refrigerator, attach the cord to one of those outlets you could get that would screw into a light socket and plug the buzzer in. He would then set the buzzer inside on any one of the shelves where he could find room, close the door and sit back and wait.

With a family of six, with only one in “the know”, it did not take long for a victim to show up. Unfortunately, in the mornings that was usually our mom in the throes of making breakfast and packing lunches. Friends often showed up in the mornings as well so there were days when more than one person fell victim. How my dad had a wife and so many friends is a mystery to me.

When the unsuspecting person nonchalantly opened the refrigerator, all hell broke loose. This thing was loud, and I do mean loud! I am amazed we did not have to keep clean pairs of underwear, in all sizes, near by. Stunned by the cacophony, many victims just stood there in shock. Others slammed the refrigerator door and stormed out. If my memory serves me correctly I think a number of profanities were also uttered with “Neil” in the beginning of the rant or at then end, or at both ends. For about a year, or what seemed longer, this device showed up on a regular basis and just about all of us fell victim to its prey.

Funny how we all had a good laugh when we were not the one getting buzzed! Where is the buzzer now? I will never tell…..

Buzz, Buzz, Wakie, Wakie!

There is nothing better than a good practical joke to start out the day; For that matter, practical jokes seemed to be appropriate at any hour of the day in our house. That said, mornings tended to work the best. For the first 14 or so years of my life our old Victorian house had only one bathroom and it was right off the kitchen. When the house was originally built, a quick trip to the back yard was required in order to relieve yourself. All other bathing activities and morning rituals were done from the comfort of the house. During the depression, as a necessity as well as an opportunity to help out a relative with some needed income, my grandfather, John A. Beck, decided the time had come to add a mudroom and bathroom to the house. Additional bathrooms were not added until the early 1980’s after we had moved our house from its original location on Hopkins Street to the west end. (See related story: “Let’s Move to the West End in our Mobile Victorian“) A year or so after the move we finally plumbed in a second bathroom in the basement.

With only one bathroom for most of my formative years and six family members sharing it as best they could, it was an unwanted “focal point” in the house and located in the worst possible place. Every morning there was a constant parade of family members making their way through the Kitchen to the bathroom in hopes that it was available. With a television that was always blaring and constant activity in the kitchen, there was rarely a time that we used the bathroom without others waiting nearby or just going about daily activities.

My father had this loud, very loud phone “buzzer” that entered the picture much to the surprise of everyone near by, neighbors and all. This thing showed up in our bathroom, refrigerator (See related story: “Buzz, Buzz, Please Pass the Milk or a Beer depending upon the Time of Day“) and even in the homes of family friends.

My dad liked putting the device in the bathroom and wired it to the one and only light switch, which happened to be right next to the bathroom door, but on the outside of the bathroom. The first person needing to use the bathroom would be in for a surprise. There were often times that one or more of the kids would actually race, literally run, to get there first which only added to the surprise. As a matter of habit, we would “hit” switch halfway through the door and on those occasions where the device was wired up and ready, all hell broke loose followed by a roar of laughter, which no one could hear over the noise of the buzzer. I am sure we looked like a bunch of laughing mimes. As quickly as the victim could, they went back to the switch, turned it off and slammed the door as they entered the bathroom for the second time. For many of us, once was never enough. As the occupant of the bathroom calmed down and their pulse dropped below 200 one of us on the outside would hit the switch for a second time. That was just evil, but additional laughter ensued. Finding where it was plugged in was easy and in no time it was unplugged once and for all.

This went on day in and day out, especially when friends were over or if out-of-town guests were staying with us. No matter your age or sense of humor, you were a potential target for my dad and his buzzer. Where is the buzzer now? I refuse to tell….

The Self Cleaning Litterbox

Growing up with pets as a child is no surprise.  Neither are the unique things each pet does for no rhyme or reason.  Be it dogs, cats, horses, donkeys or rabbits, and yes, we had them all, each one did things that made you laugh or make you want to give them away. We had the usual fish, turtles and various rodents too and thankfully they did what was expected, nothing special.

It seems like we always had a dog and a cat no matter what other pets came and went.  As for dogs, the preferred and only breed my parents would get was German Shepards.  Some were long haired and others were the garden variety, short haired versions.  All shed their fur on a daily basis with an added bonus in the spring.  We had some very smart dogs while others were dumber that the sticks they played with.  Some chewed tennis balls, one liked to chew on rocks and the rest settled for sticks or whatever piqued their interest at the time.

Despite their vast differences they all shared one very discusting proclivity.  They liked to eat kitty litter, or more spcifically; what is often found buried in the litter.  You know, the reason you purchased the kitty litter in the first place.  No matter where we put the litter boxes, up high, down low, in crampted spaces or out in the open the dogs found those little golden nuggets.  If we cleaned the box every day, which we rarely did, the dogs almost always beat us to the task of cleaning out the buried treasures.  Dogs being dogs, the only thing they seemed to crave more than a snack on cat poop was a good “scratchin'” or belly rub and they rewarded us by licking our face.  Only then, or when they showed us the courtesy of belching in our face, did we realize what they had been upto before gracing us with their love and affection.

If I could have figured out how to get the cats to clean up the yard in the same manner as the dogs did the litterboxes then it would have all been worth it.

Archie, Floyd, Schwartz, Schultz and Jerome, thanks for the lasting memory!

Never Admire a 1957 Chevy Unless You are Prepared to Heist a Mine Car

In the mid-1970’s there was a gentleman who lived in Aspen’s West End near 8th and smuggler. He had a mint condition 1957 Chevy Bel Air in baby blue. I could never drive by it without slowing down to admire the car and I was not alone. Just about every car that passed it by with a man, or young man, at the wheel gave the car its due respect. It was a thing of beauty.

One summer afternoon I chose to actually stop and take a closer look at this thing of Beauty. Her interior was without flaw and the paint, although not original, was flawless. While admiring another man’s toy I was approached by its owner. To this day I cannot remember his name but I do remember him being a man of sculpted features and enough muscles to rest planet Earth on his shoulders. As he approached me, he had an ear-to-ear grin on his face. He shook my hand, good lord his hands were huge and his grip was bone crushing.

Apparently I had come at just the wrong time, for me at least.

The Chevy owner also owned a Willys Jeep from the 1940’s. It too was a work of art but did not possess the style and curb appeal of the Chevy. He was just headed out for a “jeep” ride up Aspen Mountain and asked if I wanted to earn an easy hundred bucks. Jeeping and cash were two things I could not get enough of. Aspen was still a small town back then and everyone knew everyone or someone who did so I figured I had nothing to lose. Up Aspen Mountain we headed.

For the most part the ride up was filled with small talk about the glory days of Aspen’s mining years and the many mines on these hillsides. The further we went the more I learned about what I had gotten myself into. We pulled up next to the trees on the ridge at the top of Tourtellotte Park near the lower end of the ski run called “Buckhorn.” My new employer grabbed a couple of shovels, a cable come-along and a bunch of rope. He had me grab some flashlights. At the time I figured we were headed into one of the mine shafts. I could not have been more wrong if I had tried.

A steep hike down to an old abandoned mine ensued. When we popped out of the trees at the mine, we were directly above the Country Day School on the valley floor below. We were about 200 yards below the ridge line above. What came next was the making of a nightmare. There sat, on some old rusty tracks, was a mining car. It looked as if it had not moved or been touched in eighty years. It was still filled to the rim with ore from the mine, now collapsed, behind it. My assignment was to empty the car, rock by rock if necessary. Meanwhile my “employer” headed back into the trees with his rope and cable-come-along. An hour or so later the car was emptied and hooked up to the “rigging” that was now in place.

My “employer” intended to extract the mine car from its home of eighty plus years to be sold to a willing buyer with the right amount of cash. For this I was to be paid a hundred bucks. Not such a good deal after all.
All this and all I kept asking myself was, “Why, on this day, did I stop to look at his Chevy?”
About 4 hours into the heist and the mine car was no more than a couple of feet from its original location. We determined that we had to move the car in the opposite direction before dragging it up the hill into the trees in order to avoid some large obstacles. Then disaster struck!

At some point one of the ropes, that had been stretched like and old rubber band, gave way. One end disappeared into the trees with a “whipping” sound trailing behind. The other end, still attached to the mine car disappeared over the edge of the tailing pile where we were standing. We could hear the car tumbling down the hill, taking out trees in its path and disassembling itself with every toss or turn. It seemed like the sound was never going to stop. I feared it would land on one of the buildings below.

My “employer” said very little as we packed up all of our gear and headed back to his Jeep. It was well after dark by the time we got to the vehicle, we had been on the mountain for over six hours now. I finally figured out why we had the flashlights. We never would have found our way back up the hill without them. The awkward silence was finally broken about half way down the mountain and it was suddenly filled with more expletives than I knew existed. Many were repeated numerous times for effect or to be sure I knew the importance of them. The cursing did not stop until we arrived back in front of his house.

He stormed out of the Jeep and into his house without another word. I had just wasted the better part of the day and had nothing to show for it. Nothing! I wanted to get even with him for not paying me for my time and the only thing I could think of would have been to scratch or otherwise mar the beautiful finish on the Chevy Bel Air but it was too beautiful a car and it did not get to pick who owned it. I went home knowing what I could have done but also knew my parents had taught me right from wrong.

Over the years our paths crossed numerous times and every time he acted like he did not know me. Oh well, life goes on and besides, it gave me a good story to tell years later.

Plunking for Love

In high school I was honored with the opportunity to go to one of the Young Life summer youth camps.

The camp that the High School students of Aspen went to in 1978 was in Victoria, Canada. It was called “Malibu” and was named after the family that donated their family retreat to Young Life. The donors were the heirs to the Hamilton-Beach Corporation, a Malibu Beach, California based family.

What is “Plunking” you ask?

As the camp counselors described it, “plunk” is the sound you hear when a rock is tossed into a body of water, like a Fjord, lake or even an ocean. Malibu Camp was on the Princess Louisa Fjord in BC Canada.

The first rule of “Plunking” is that you have someone in your life that you want to kiss. Not the kiss goodnight or “Hi Gramma” kiss on the cheek type of kiss. Nope we are talking about that special person you want to have fall in love with you. Once you are in love, plunking is no longer needed.

You need to have the correct gear and mind set to Plunk. You will need Three pebbles, three is key. You need to be at waters edge, or preferably on a pier, Jetty or dock. You will need to bring the person you want to kiss. If this person has no desire to be your love interest you may want to rethink this.

Once you have done all your preparations and you have arrived at waters edge, explain to your companion that the way it works is that you will toss the first pebble and the two of you are to kiss until you hear the “plunk” as the pebble hits the water. Be sure to barely toss the fist pebble, leaving very little time to have your first kiss. Explain to them that you did a bad job on your first try and that you should toss another pebble.

This time. Give it a good toss, giving you a couple of “kissing seconds” until it hits the water. After doing so, is your companion showing a willingness to continue the activity? If so, now comes the good part.

Show them the third pebble. Now pretend to give it a really good toss but make sure it never actually leaves your hand.

I Didn’t Ask You Not To Let My Multi-Million Dollar Plane Get Destroyed

Summer 1976

The Mitsubishi MU-2B touched down at Sardy Field Mid-morning one summer day in 1976. Although the aircraft could carry six passengers and two pilots, on this day the only person on board was the Owner and Pilot of the aircraft. I guided him to the south ramp for parking and tie-down. After the MU-2 came to a stop in front of me, the pilot exited the aircraft and jumped into the rental car that had just arrived next to the aircraft, almost like it came out of thin air. Within seconds, it was just me and another ramp worker tieing down the aircraft, the owner was long gone. With chains attached to each wing and chocks under the rear tires, the aircraft was ready for an indefinite stay.

The next morning, while inspecting all the aircraft on both the north and south ramps, I noticed the MU-2 was leaning a bit to the “left” with its left wing sitting a bit lower than the right. I did not give it much thought at the time and carried on with the rest of my ramp inspection.

For the next few mornings during our rounds we noticed that the “leaning” to the left was getting more and more dramatic. The MU-2s carried their “fuel” in their wings and in “tip tanks” on the ends of each wing. During operation, the pilots can select which tank to draw fuel from in order to keep the aircraft balanced during flight. These controls managed fuel and could even allow the fuel to flow freely from tank to tank, this is known as “cross-feed.” On the ground the “cross-feed” selector should be set to closed, keeping the fuel in each respective tank. We were beginning to realize that the cross-feed setting may have been left open and gravity was slowly moving all the fuel to the left wing tip tank. This was not a good thing. We also had no way of reaching the owner to warn him of the impending disaster.

Within five days the left tip tank was inches from the ground and more serious damage could result if and when the tank made contact with the pavement. The local Airframe and Powerplant mechanic was consulted and what he had to say was not promising. Greg Murnane, was his name and he stated that we needed to do something and quick or the aircraft could sustain serious damages beyond a little scratched paint. Our first attempt was to put some old tires under the left wing to prevent any potential further damage. The problem was, with all five of us lifting on the wing we could not budge it, the fuel weighed too much. Greg’s next piece of advice was to put fuel in the right wing and as the left wing rose up, put the tires, as many as we could scrounge up, under the left wing so that it could no longer lean as dramatically.

Success!

The Aircraft sat on the ramp for another couple of days, left wing supported by the tires at an almost level position. We felt we had averted disaster for the aircraft and its “thankful” owner. We were wrong! When the owner drove up to his aircraft, as the story goes, he was livid! His next stop was back at the office and the yelling ensued. We could hear him outside on the ramp next to the FBO (Fixed Base Operator) office. First he tried to blame the ramp crew for going into the aircraft and changing the fuel selector settings. That was disputed by the fact that he had left the aircraft locked when he departed a week earlier. Next he stated that he had not asked us to protect his aircraft and because of that he was not only not going to pay for the fuel we had added to balance the aircraft, he was also not going to pay the landing and parking fees he had racked up during his visit. The management team had a few options on how to deal with the irate owner ranging from calling the sheriff to just letting him depart. With a few hundred dollars in fuel alone, the easy way out of just letting him leave was not an option they chose to make. They pulled an unexpected trick out of their sleeves. They informed the owner that he could either pay his bill or the local Mechanic could ground the aircraft pending a safety inspection which could take weeks.

Twenty minutes later the aircraft departed Aspen’s Sardy Field a few hundred dollars lighter in the pilots pocket.

Footnote:
Sadly, Greg Murnane was killed when the Cessna he was piloting crashed into Shale Bluffs, northwest of the airport on December 30, 1982. He was credited with saving the lives of all the passengers on board but was unable to exit the aircraft before being consumed by fire.