Dogs, Jeeps, Fireworks and Beer Coolers

Story Time

It’s been a while since I’ve written a “real” Sunday Story.  Over the eight years of “Our America” there’s been literally thousands of essays about politics.  But sprinkled throughout those years there have been “stories” that aren’t about foreign affairs or political machinations or Constitutional theories.  They’re just about experiences in my life; what my classes in the “old days” would call “story time”.  Maybe at the end of the tale, I would find  a way back to the “lesson plan”, but often it was just to pull the group together: sixth graders, eighth, freshmen or seniors; to that time when history was simply “his” story (and of course “her” story as well!!).

There’s a long list of those stories at the end of this essay; about dogs, cars, kidnappings, track, hiking, travel and just life.  So, after a long sabbatical (a Sunday reference) from Story Time here’s an actual, non-political, Sunday “Story”. Even more, it’s on an actual Sunday.

Long Covid

Friday was the Fourth of July.  Here in Pataskala, in the “modern age” of unrestricted fireworks sales, our house was in the middle of a “war zone”.  There were rockets to the East, Boomers to the West, Screamers to the South, and even Spinners to the North.  And it wasn’t off in the distance, downtown Columbus fireworks.  All of these were within a couple hundred feet, and all were going off at the same time.

I think that’s a “habit” (or practice) our town picked up during Covid of 2020, when the “4th of July” was cancelled.  Crowds weren’t allowed to gather, even the local teams played to empty stadiums.  But, the good folks of Pataskala weren’t having it.   And with a Fireworks store just down the road in Kirkersville, many spent thousands of dollars, their “Covid Relief Money”, to put on their own demonstration of Independence.  To be honest, I don’t think it was legal then, but the local police didn’t seem to care.   

And, in one way, that is a great way to celebrate Independence.  Americans, in small family and neighborhoods groups, firing off rockets to proclaim personal independence as well as National “freedom”.  To stand in our front yard and simply “spin” was exciting, as was the smoke of spent gunpowder, and probably the smell as well, though that sense is lost to me – thanks to Covid of 2021. 

Rocket’s Red Glare

But Fireworks, at least close to home, aren’t really enjoyable anymore.  With our four dogs, we always had one or two that got unnerved by the “swish-bomb”, and particularly the  Boomers.  And now, that’s changed for the worse.  While Atticus, our Yellow Lab really could care less (“I’m a gun dog, Dad”), the other three hit panic mode when there’s even a single loud pop.  So Friday night in the middle of the “war zone”, Jenn and I were fully engaged in dog psycho-therapy.  At first, we had the TV up as loud as possible on the New York City, Macys Fireworks.  And even though it was the picture of fireworks over the soundtrack of music (“…It’s up to you, New York, NEW YORK!!”)  they still could hear the “…bombs bursting in air”, just outside the windows.  

Lou was barking, Keelie’s eyes were white-rimmed, and poor CeCe did nothing but shake.  Finally, about 11:30pm, the roar subsided and the dogs relaxed.  We all fell asleep together to old re-runs of NCIS.

Topless

This year, Ohio went from a cold, wet spring, to the height of August Summer.  There wasn’t a lot of “preliminary warmup” days:  it was cool damp sixties one weekend, and mid-eighties the next.  In June that just kept going, with day after day of ninety plus temperatures.  Maybe it’s global warming (whoops, that’s climate change now) or maybe it’s being sixty-eight years old and the heat is more bothersome.  But it’s really hot.

Hot enough that I’ve dismantled the Jeep.  The top’s down, and  the doors, side curtains, and windows are all in the garage.  I even bought new side mirrors so I can actually see what’s happening on the highway when I change lanes!  It’s hot out, but there’s nothing like sixty-mile an hour “air conditioning” in an open Jeep, my foot posted on the door frame.  

Jeep Memory

I’ve been a Jeep guy for thirty-one years, and there’s all sorts of memories around them.  I wanted a Jeep for a long time.  But buying one was always a “luxury” that I didn’t want to afford.  It wasn’t until I was almost forty that I finally broke down and bought one.  It was more the  mid-career paycheck, than a mid-life crisis.  It was a basic Wrangler, the rearview mirror, back seat, and radio all were “extras”.  But once I drove it in the summer with the top off, I was hooked.  That Jeep lasted  fifteen years.  It’s still a “toy” in a garage of a friend now, looking better than ever.

So I’m on Jeep Two, this one now over two decades old, even eligible for “Historic” plates.  And there was one friend who enjoyed that stripped down Jeep even more than I did.  I coached with Chuck Eastham for a decade back in the 1990’s.  Chuck was a Marine Veteran, an eighteen year old who went to Vietnam and came back with a lifetime of memories. As we found out on team “road trips”,  many of those memories still haunted him in the night.  But riding in the Jeep, with his foot on the door frame, always brought back a smile, the skinny eighteen-year old in a government Jeep going where he pleased.

Summer Heat

One last summer heat memory came back in full force this week.  I spent the afternoon cutting grass.  While I do most of the mowing on an old John Deere lawn tractor, there are still sections of the yard that require push mowing.  Jenn wants me to buy a new, self-propelled push mower.  But we’ve got a perfectly fine, old one. Well, not perfectly fine.  The self-propulsion gizmo gave up in the early twenty teens, and the oil drain plug is frozen solid.  But it starts, it  runs, and it cuts.  You just have to do some pushing.

So after a couple of hours of mowing at ninety degrees, there’s nothing in this world like the first sip of a cold beer.  That is, unless the last sip last night was the last beer in the “garage fridge”.  Then, it’s jump in the Jeep, and go find more.

I went across the street to the gas station and walked into their “beer cave”.  It’s a walk-in cooler with all sorts of beer stacked up, a great idea since they need to store cases of beer anyway.  And when I stepped inside, a whole load of memories opened up.

Team Camp

When I was coaching cross country, we took the teams to Camp Falling Rock in August.  It was a whole lot of summer sun running in the hills of eastern Licking County.  The conditioning was important, but the biggest part of the “team camp” was becoming a team.  That happened on the long runs, out on narrow dirt-gravel roads. And it happened as they struggled up “Techniglas Hill”, or the climb on the dirt path from lower camp to our cabins on the upper camp.  

And the team also “bonded”  in the kitchen, as each class prepared their “meal” for the rest of the team.  By the time we left Falling Rock, we all had shared experiences, suffering in the heat, cooking in the kitchen, play “combat” capture the flag in the night, sitting telling stories around a campfire.  It was a “rite of passage” of Watkins Cross Country, from the time we started in 1996.  It still is today.

But one of the “perks” of being the coach, was that  at some point on those hot days, after the tough runs, you had to step into the walk-in cooler to get the food out for dinner.  And nothing felt as good as inhaling twenty-four degree air after sweating through a ninety degree run.  It was an instant of pure relief.  

And that all came back with the first breath,  as I searched for the “right” beer at the Duke and Duchess station across Broad from the house.   It’s summer beer “rules” for us:  Corona for me, Corona Premier for Jenn.  We’ll get back to the heavy micro-brews after Labor Day.

The Sunday Story Series

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2025

Author: Marty Dahlman

I'm Marty Dahlman. After forty years of teaching and coaching track and cross country, I've finally retired!!! I've also spent a lot of time in politics, working campaigns from local school elections to Presidential campaigns.

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