American Adults in the Woods

September 2, 2015September 2, 2015 Meredith HardwickLeave a comment

If you want to witness just how typically ‘America’ Americans are, spend some time in the service industry. When I say ‘America’ I don’t mean the good qualities; freedom, pride, patriotism, dreams, industry, opportunities etc… I mean the qualities that say, how a European may describe Americans; wimpy, loud, over fed, un-athletic, unable to ‘disconnect’, impatient, complainers and other poor qualities. I’ve worked a few customer service jobs but the place that displayed the over all childishness of the American people was a Dude Ranch in Wyoming I worked at for two years.

I worked as a wrangler, which basically means caretaker of the horses, mountain guide on horseback, and in general ‘clown’ for the entertainment of people willing to pay thousands of dollars to ‘experience’ the west. It was a lot like working at Disney World, which I’ve not done, but I feel like they are very similar experiences. Guests, as we called them, found our outfits so completely intriguing that they arrived already mimicking them. Like children with Mickey Mouse ears, they arrived with poor quality cowboy hats, boots and jeans that fit like SNL’s ‘Mom Jeans’. Our outfits were utilitarian to us as we were all riders in our actual lives and were not costumes, but we did play up the unnecessary wearing of spurs (we were mostly walking for god’s sake), and because this was in Wyoming- we wore a lot of scarves and vests, which REALLY got the guest’s goat for western wear.

Aside from our attire was our general interaction with the guests. We worked very hard everyday, up at 5 am to bring the horses in from pasture to begin doctoring horses that needed to be doctored as well as saddle the horses for the guests that were going out for a ride that day. Rides were typically all day endeavors so our chores were complete before breakfast and the sleepy headed guests arrived full bellied and ready to complain in the saddle for the remainder of the day as I answered questions about flora, fauna, my potential ranch romances and if I was a rodeo queen.

The adults were the worst as they just could not stand the fact that saddles were made from leather and wood and not purple satiny velvet or La-Z Boy couch material. The minute they got into the saddle their ability to listen or use motor functions just vanished completely. Arms are all over the place, reins were on the ground after REPEATEDLY being told to not let go of the reins to take photos, remove jackets, eat food that they can’t live without for ten minutes, pick their noses… anything really. I mean human arms become incredibly active the minute we ask them to do one activity, and one activity only. JUST HOLD THE REINS.

We had the opportunity to ride in some of the most beautiful country in the West, the landscape of Wyoming’s Gros Ventre valley is so diverse and geologically impressive especially when observed with the explosive arguments of dysfunctional families yelling at each other, or the quiet subtly of a creepy couple hinting at an offer for a private threesome in the native Douglas fir trees. Not every guest was lazy, loud, or rude, most were endearingly honest and good listeners. One of the most entertaining situations was when the guests found out that they would have to use the bathroom outside, I always enjoyed holding their horses and handing them a smooth rock while I wished their pouting faces good luck.

Hours would go by before the inevitable questions, “Why do horses poop so much? Was that a fart! MINE JUST FARTED!!!!”

“Uhmmmmm… Meredith… How do I make my balls not hurt? They won’t stop hurting… how much further are we going? Can I just walk!?”

And my all time favorite question from a showy- wealthy, probably owned his own personal Jet type, question was “Meredith… my butt is sweating. Do other people’s butts usually sweat!?”

This guy had to of graduated from Yale, Harvard, Princeton… somewhere prestigious, but had managed to skip the biology class that informed him that bodies cool themselves by sweating from the skin and that the skin on your ass is still skin. Skin that sweats. I had to explain this to him, and the way I did sounded like a children’s tale, “The Story of the Sweating Ass” and he wasn’t even embarrassed.

Not everyone was this bad, in fact most of the guests were incredibly interesting people and I would have payed to listen to them talk all day. I keep in touch with most of these guests and would gladly guide them to the end of the world. I learned a lot from them and enjoyed teaching them some things as well.

Although this job was exhausting and frustrating at times, I loved it. Guests would stay for a week and be awkward and uncomfortable for the first half, but by the end of their stay, everyone felt like family. They were thrown completely out of their element and by the time their departure date came, they did not want to leave our magical little western Disney World. I enjoyed watching how these people changed in just a week and could write pages and pages about the people, the situations, the funny questions I was asked, the scenery… all of it. But the Guests were definitely the most colorful part of those summers in the Gros Ventre Valley.

The Owl, the Buddha and the Texas State Trooper

August 31, 2015August 31, 2015 Meredith HardwickLeave a comment

One of the most colorful phases of my life, thus far, was the ‘Free Tibet’ stage. My junior and senior year of high school I discovered the Dalai Lama and Marijuana. I’m sure I am not the first person to introduce these two things to myself at the same time… but it was an interesting couple of years. Most people that have known me for only the past five years or so would find this shocking, as my current nickname in Wimberley is Goat Roper… because I ride horses and wear a lone star beer hat I guess.

High school was a hell of a lot of fun for me, especially the time that I threatened to wear a Cookie Monster costume (stoned of course) on the football field when I was nominated for homecoming queen, which just about sums up my high school experience. I ended up wearing a dress, and I still really regret that. Among my favorite belongings at this time was every book the Dalai Llama had written, my thrift store tin can pot container, my ‘Free Tibet’ T shirt and bumper stickers as well as my Donovan’s Greatest hits album. I don’t smoke anymore really, I already have the blood sugar levels of a sloth so I prefer Coffee, Cigarettes and Whiskey as my primary vices.

I had made the transition to college with the same life style, but after a few months at the University of Oklahoma, I became a neurotic runner, and quit smoking (weed) and never really drank. The college lifestyle was not something I enjoyed, so I literally ran away from it. By the time Christmas break came along, I had the 8 hour trek back to my hometown of Midland TX, and a friend of mine from down the hall asked me to stash her pot pipe while her mom visited to help her move. I did this gladly, but in the rush of the next morning to get on the road and head south to Texas, I had forgotten to return the pipe to her.

I loaded all of my belongings in my 2001 extended cab GMC Sierra and hit I-35. I have a sincere love for any truck that I own. I name them, I decorate them with stickers and other knickknacks that I feel suit the trucks ‘personality’. As I pulled through Weatherford, TX- in Parker County, which is notorious for its abundance of speed traps, I was pulled over for speeding. I don’t remember how fast I was going, but I do know it was not the warp speed this greenhorn officer made it out to be. The officer was young and attractive, but with the disposition of an SS general.

“Just where in the hell are you goin’ there ma’am?”

” I’m on my way home from College in Oklahoma to Midland, Sir”

“MIDLAND? You’re driving around Midland Texas with that Free Tibet sticker on your car and an Owl and a Buddha statue on your dashboard!?”

I felt a little flattered he had noticed what I thought was a subtle flair to the Free Tibet-mobile’s accessories.

“Yes sir. These ornaments were gifts, I like them, I’ve lived in Midland my whole life.”

“YOU ON ANY DRUGS MA’AM!?”

A little shocked at how the conversation escalated, I was annoyed at his brashness and decided to give him a little scoff with my firm, “No sir!” reply.

This proved to be a big mistake.

“Well alright Missy, if you’re so drug free, let me take a look in your purse!”

I was thoroughly offended and knew I had the right to say no, so I felt determined to make his balls shrivel when I proved him wrong. I handed him over my green paisley bag with a large embroidered owl on it, and as he began to rifle through my belongings I remembered just as a grin came across his face.

AMANDA’S PIPE WAS IS IN THERE.

“Uh yahhh… that’s a friend of mine’s, man. I don’t smoke anymore.”

“Hilarious, now get out of the truck. I’m calling for back up.”

This seemed erroneous to the discovery of just some paraphernalia, but I needed a break from driving anyway, so I sat on the highway median and was surprisingly calm as a large German shepherd tore through everything I owned in my truck.

About fifteen minutes later, the young officer approached me with what was my old thrift tin pot holder can. When I saw it I smiled like I had seen a long lost friend by happenstance. The officer was annoyed by this and pulled out a little Zip Lock baggie inside the can that had seeds and stems, from a year or so ago, most likely, in it and told me I was lucky there was no evidence of live marijuana in my vehicle. I asked if I could have my tin can back, he rolled his eyes, handed it to me and asked me to come stand by my truck with him.

“I’m going to give you a ticket for paraphernalia but before I do this, I want you to stomp on this pipe right here on the ground and remember this experience before you go around smoking dope ever again!”

Now I just felt insulted and compelled to play up the hippy girl role I had been un-willingly cast into by officer Dick Head.

“But officer, that pipe is a thick, blown glass and I’m wearing hemp sneakers with recycled rubber– I probably weigh around 115, there’s no way I can stomp it.”

Annoyed, he grabbed his night stick and went to hand it to me, “Then smash it with this!”

“Are you really asking me to litter glass on the Texas highways right now?”

With a huff and a puff, he picked up the pipe, threw it across the road– wrote out my paraphernalia ticket and told me to get gone.

I lit and cigarette and Donovan and I continued west.The ticket cost me about seventy five dollars and I had to replace my friend’s pipe, But I think my little owl and Buddha dashboard decorations got a pretty big kick out of the entire scene.

The Green Finger

August 25, 2015August 26, 2015 Meredith HardwickLeave a comment

I’ve always been fascinated by Dive bars. A type of bar that a typical socialite would never be caught dead in. These places have an odd grouping of people, especially in the Texas hill country. You can find hipsters, dog toters, lonely widowers, hippies and bikers. The section of the bar I tend to gravitate toward are the smokers, which also attracts the alcoholics. Misery loves company. These people are unapologetic, blunt and in general, fascinating. I’ve been going out to a bar called The Barber Shop, which was the first bar in Dripping Springs, TX since it became a wet county. The smoker group had become familiar with me, though most don’t remember each other’s names, most likely due to the geriatric state of their lives as well as the alcohol we co-consume.

One fellow I did remember, his name is Mike. He has one wild eye, but I cant tell which one it is because when he looks at you, it seems like both eyes are askew- so I just look at his nose when we talk. I like Mike because he always has a bottle of KD Whisky in his truck and since the Barber Shop serves only beer, he had become a good acquaintance of mine.

I see him most Thursdays when I make my way out and in his own odd ball eyed way, is always flattering, which of course I milk for the eventual whisky offer that awaits me. I quickly located my pal who was seated with about six thirty something year olds, smoking cigarettes and swapping stories. He offered me a shot and after we made the multi-shot trip to his green F150—we saddled back up to the smoker table. I noticed as he drank from his glass of beer that his fore-finger, next to his half missing finger, was green. I commented on it and immediately a man with gauged ears to my right requested the full story of the green finger.

With glee, he began the story and I paid full attention.

“I was out in Midland Texas and I decided to paint a room in my house green. I hired a friend of mine to do the job, he was an alcoholic, I knew that, but I figured he needed the money.”

Mark seemed sympathetic to those with alcohol abuse as he had just recently been hospitalized for three consecutive Atrial Fibrillations of his heart.

“Well of course, the guy never showed up so I bought some paint and a paint gun and started the project on my own. I had never done a paint job on my own before and this cheap paint sprayer had a leak. I got paint running down both arms, dripping off my elbows, all over the freakin’ place and I’m on two tiers of scaffolding with wheels on it. I reach over to grab a pipe to pull myself along a little bit, and start to tip over, ‘OH GOD’ I reach over to grab the hose that went over the end and the force of the paint in the gun sent it up flying. I reach up to grab it cause I think ‘ I can catch it!’ and PSSSSSSHHTTTTT it went in right there!”

Mike points to his finger that is green from tip to about mid knuckle.

“It went in right there- and it was a golf ball size lump right here!”

I hooped and hollered about this man getting injected with paint, and he told me, “Well it was a water based paint so I wasn’t too worried about it, but it was like a real, seriously large tattoo gun.”

I asked him “Was this before or after your recent hospitalization?”

He said, “Oh, no this was way before, this was in like, the mid eighties.”

I was completely blown away, “You mean you’ve had a green finger since the MID EIGHTIES?”

“Yah, but anyway. I thought oh man, I gotta finish this. So I finish painting the room and I get home I said well I’ll get a razor blade outta my truck and milk it out.”

He pointed to an old scar in the meat of his fingertip.

“Well, so I couldn’t find a razor in my truck, so I take me one of them Bic yellow and white throw away razors and boiled it in Alcohol. I handed it to my wife and told her to cut it. She made a half ass attempt, didn’t make a dent and it hurt like hell. So I told her to give it to me and I yanked that blade across there and POW! 12 foot 3 inches of green paint and blood sprayed across my kitchen floor.”

Well now I had to ask what happened to the finger next to the green finger, the one chopped half way off.

“Well that finger and the ring finger next to it, I cut off with a table saw. The ring finger they sewed back on, and it’s still a little white ’cause of the blood supply but they couldn’t get my middle finger sewed back on. So I told the doctor to give me that other finger- they gave it to me and I put it in a food jar full of Alcohol.”

A man two seats over chimed in “Also known as his urine!”

We all chucked and Mike continued.

“So I put that finger in a jar and took it to a buddy of mine whose a taxidermist—he made a key chain out of it.”

I yelled, “NO SHIT, you made a key chain outta your finger!!”

“Yah, I had a lot of fun with that, at first the taxidermist told me no, I cant do this its against the law! But I reminded him of some of the stuff he had in his freezer the law probably wouldn’t approve of… so he made me up a key chain.”

I didn’t get to see this key chain, but he ended the story with a powerful statement. That he had been through some shit. I empathized with him as the experience of his finger stories came to an end. We had a nice long pause, I think in memory of his lost members and with a look from one of his eyes, still not sure which one he uses to focus, and he said “Ya wanna’nother shot?”

“Yep”

“Lessgo”