Dragoncaller (dragoncaller) wrote,

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The story of things

Everything has a story. Every, thing. It may not be a trilling, chilling, story to you, but to the thing it might have been more exciting than who shot JR, or the midnight ride of Paul Revere.

Incidentally, history shows that Revere had only a small part to play on his midnight ride and may have gotten top billing only because his name rhymed with "Listen my Children and you shall hear," If your name is Silver, or Angel or bulb or month, you're not going to be immortalized in rhyme either.

Little known fact about Paul Revere was he was a bit of a dick.

Who knew?

Interesting story there, I'm sure.

But today's story is about a stick.

This stick. It has a curve on it forming a handle and it is most commonly known as a cane which does indeed rhyme with Dane, a person with an exceedingly great chance that a past relative was a viking who may very well have a story of when they sacked one of your past relatives.

This stick's story might have been all about a tree and a Indian cane maker, but for my story, when I met this cane, began when my father was struck by a speeding car at John F. Kennedy Airport.

He was waffled good and although he had no broken bones he did have a little hip trouble so he walked with a cane for a while. Yes, this cane. It was black back then. Shinny like a piano. But the black was peeling and my Dad was healing and the cane laid in the back of his little yellow 1976 VW beetle, color National School bus Chrome.

My Dad's mechanic, unable to wrap all his skills, experience, and learnings around the hypercomplexities of the Air-Cool engine, screwed it up and the car caught fire while my Dad drove down the road. The fire gutted the car quickly, destroying everything with its fiery caress.

In the wreckage was the cane. Some how unburnt.

My Dad replaced the VW with a Toyota Camery because the cars were so similar I guess.

And the cane wound up in the closet until some Boy Scout Executive in the State of New York banned walking staves because Boy Scouts were not using them to walk with, but to hit each other with. Before that moment, no child in the history of children had ever picked up a stick and became Errol Flynn.

I dug out the cane, scrapped off the rest of the black paint, sanded and vanished it and bought a new rubber tip for it.

At my camping trip, the Boy Scout Walking Stick Enforcement Officer blew his little whistle at me and said I could not have it. My Scoutmaster at the time, NYC Detective Sgt. John Bell, said, 'No, it's a cane, not a walking stick. Show me where it says he can't have a cane.'

The BSWSEO replied, and I'm not making it up, 'But he's using it as a walking stick.'

Mr. Bell looked at him and said. 'It's a cane. He's using it to WALK.'

And that was that.

It has come in handy as my trick knee, the trick is that it convinces me that it will hold my weight before giving out and throwing me down and having a laugh over it, likes to play games, especially on narrow mountain passes.

I have sanded it again and put on a new coat of paint. I will re-wrap the handle and have it ready for my hike of the Billy Yank trail on Saturday.

And that will be another story.
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