President Johnson - Naked Boys and Snapping Turtles!

"Snapping turtles! Snapping turtles..." President Johnson said laughing slightly on his death bed trailing off  from this life to the next as the receiver slipped from his hand. The senior Secret Service agent on the other end laughed along knowing this was the President's way of saying goodbye. "Snapping turtles"he chuckled. How could he forget? He remembered the incident so vividly and smiled knowing how the story of those 'snapping turtles' that often brought a chuckle and a modicum of solace to a rather tumultuous presidency which had been rocked by the riotous disapproval to the Viet Nam War. 

President Johnston's last few minutes on this earth didn't necessarily end that way... but it could have. As "Rosebud" was to Citizen Cain, "snapping turtles" was to Lyndon Baines Johnson.

No matter how far fetched this next story sounds, WHAT I'M ABOUT TO TELL YOU,  IS THE ABSOLUTE TRUTH (plus or minus a 2% margin allowed for literary license) 

I'm in seventh grade in Sister's Edith Mary's class and over the summer we took one of our wild adventures across country to visit my dad's Swedish relatives in Michigan. Only this time, my mom thought she would  spare the girls the arduous journey by sending them ahead on an adventure of their own.  So my 14-year-old brother, Ulrich, escorted my 12-year-old and my 7 year-old sisters on a once in a life-time train ride across this fruited plain. 

My mom wasn't taking the trip this year which meant that in our brand new,  "top of the line" 1967 Ford Country Sedan station-wagon that had a 390 motor, electric windows, a two way tailgate (which was very cool) and even had FM stereo radio - we would have only 6 bodies for a change.

Only SIX BODIES!       

That meant only two people would be in front, two would be in the second set of seats and 2 got to stretch out comfortably in back on a fluffy stack of sleeping bags that put The Princess and the Pea to shame! What made this trip so groovy, and so awesome, was the fact that there was no Ulrich beating me up every mile of the 3000 mile journey back East. And Secondly, because I wasn't shoved in someone's armpit or crammed in a corner, stuck between a metal ice chest and pressed up against a cold window at night and a hot window by day. We had never traveled across country this way before - it was heavenly (I always tried to bring my guardian angel along and this time there was room for him). 

None of that changed the fact that my dad still had a very frugal operating system. Without mom and the girls, this meant that he could cut back on luxuries like meals and potty stops. Dad  figured he could change drivers with a couple of the older teenage boys, we could pee in old Folgers cans and keep right on going. My dad reasoned that with the money he spent on the train, he would make it up in food cost by starving us to death until we got to Michigan, where we would gorge ourselves at a different aunt and uncle's houses - every night of the week  - eating like Viking Warriors returning from a pillaging conquest. 

On the seat next to him was a box of Triscuits and a block of Jack cheese. My dad would pull out his well used fishing knife, cut off thin squares of cheese that we would sandwich between those baked wheat cracker-like-things.  This was about all the food he planned for for our entire journey...as we chocked down cheese that had turned a yellowish-brown as it hardened more and more - each successive day. By the time we had arrived in Michigan it was like trying to tear off a piece of an ice hockey puck with your teeth,  I wonder if this is what the Israelites felt like having to eat manna for 40 years. I don't know who was luckier - us or them?

Once my dad started somewhere, he never liked to stop... that's why he was so upset with the Highway Patrol Officer who demanded that he GO BACK  to SALTON SEA and PICK ME UP- where they had left me behind (BLOG POST 5/13/2013). 

Anyway, by the time we got rolling through the top of Texas on the I-40 something in the car started smelling pretty skanky.  Since this was a "guys-only" trip, no one knew it if the rank smell was the rotting cheese my dad kept in the box of Triscuits, if it was Dooh-Dooh Pants "Cutting the Cheese" or if was simply the grody smell of ripe teenage armpits! Didn't matter - might have been a combination, never-the-less, it was gross. "How bad was it?" you ask! Bad enough for my dad to pull our station-wagon over, so the boys and I could skinny-dip in some murky Texas river.  There we were, far away from everywhere, parked under the shade of an overpass trying to escape the awful heat of that Texas sun; 5 naked, blonde-haired boys frolicking in that mucky shallow brown river.

Being in our birthday suits we were a bit nervous at first when we heard the caravan of cars overhead, but really began to freak out when they circled off and a line of black limos pulled up behind my dad (who, had been sitting in the station wagon). The fact that my bothers were hippies made it seem like the police never really liked us very much, and therefore, by default, felt that we were in some-kind of big trouble.

Worst was...these armed "Men in Black" cautiously approached our direction, followed by this tall fella in a dark suit. We could see from where we were splashing around that my dad nearly had a seizure. This only served to confirm our suspicions and began to think that this just might be one of those infamous "two-lane-highway, in-the-middle-of-nowhere, alien-abductions."

That distinguished looking fella with gray hair (the one who seemed to be in charge) walked down to the edge of that murky water and screamed a warning to us with the sound of terror in his voice and a sense of urgency.

"Hey, you guys...there. Be careful of your worms. Don't you know, this river is full of snapping turtles!" he shouted with resolute hands firmly planted on his hips then turned and laughed all the way back to his presidential motorcade with this small army, who also were having a good chuckle at our expense.  As a good democrat, my dad stood and saluted as the boys cupped their hands over their taliwakers, charged out of the dangerous waters and ran bare-bunned across that dirt field to the car where dad sat laughing.

My escape wasn't so quick!  My feet were stuck in the molasses-type-mud and had a much more difficult time breaking the suction of that mud than did the older boys. With all those turtles and only one worm left in  that 'O brown stream, I panicked... grabbed my boy parts and sluggishly my way back through the mucky bottomed-bog. 

When dad told us who it was...Chewbacca nearly had a conniption fit.  As a pacifist Anti-War hippy,  he had sent his draft card back to the President and believed this to be another conspiracy and a plot of the President to get back at a couple those "draft-dodging hippies from Venice." 

If there were no turtles and just a practical joke - Good one President Johnson. Good One!

TRUE STORY!

If it wasn't a joke - and indeed a valid waring, it was funny just the same. Imagine what might have happened if we had not headed his advice...HA!  I guess we could have been "The Venice Choir Boys" along the line of The Vienna Choir Boys (if you catch my meaning in that). 

Maybe this is where that expression "Snap!" comes from. It's really just short for snapping turtles.

"Rosebud" "Snapping Turtles"  "Dude"

Next:  My Biggest Nightmare!

   

Hippies and Mexican Tomato Plants

Whack… slapped the stick, three times on my outstretched rump. Seriously, do you really think for one moment that after all I had been through already, that a couple well placed eraser-bombs and several smacks on my tight little derrière was going to have any effect! I was like one of those used cars for sale that looked good on the outside, but already had a million miles on it.  While still in the "position" (last blog post) I tried my darnedest to pass gas...but to no avail, because I didn't have the superpowers that one of my older brothers, Dooh-Dooh Pants, had who so magnificently mastered. There I was, stomach churning, butt pointed at everyone I wanted to payback, but was unable to channel my gastric juices into a defensive weapon.

The year is 1968 and a lot has happened in the last two years - since the 5th grade. Obviously I lived through Sr. Godzilla, the 5th grade "Templates" (blog Post June 26th) and somehow managed to make it this far.

One brother was in Viet Nam. My oldest brother, Gustav had been Honorably Discharged from the military with some lame excuse like having bad teeth or because he had a rare blood type. Three of the other brothers - the ones who were full-fledged, long-haired, Anti-Viet-Nam-War-hippies, didn't just burn their draft cards, but sent them back to President Johnson to make an even bigger statement...

Which reminds me of our chance - impossible - real-live-encounter with the President of the United States, which took place while we were driving across country on our vacation this past summer. 

TRUE STORY

Who else in the world does this happen to?  Nobody, right?  Nobody, other than the Dahlins! We'll get to that in the next couple blog post... but, seriously... what are the mathematical probabilities of running into the Presidential motorcade in North Texas and having a chance encounter.  It is about the same, I guess of having an alien abduction in the middle of New York City.  (You're going to have to wait on that one. Oh, and add snapping turtles to the story - and it must be something like, 1:100,000,000 to the 120th power).

After what happened to John F. Kennedy... it made you wonder why LBJ, the 36th President, of the United States got out of his protected limousine and pulled his dirty rotten trick on us.

Didn't he know he was messing with the "Wolf Pack." 

By this time the Lennons were beginning to wonder off the reservation and the older boys had also begun to let their hair hang low. Pat and Billy had traversed the chasm of our tarry-asphalt street and engaged in some of the bizarre behaviors of Hotel Crazy at our pad. The virus of the hippy-bug made its way across the street, past the Blessed Virgin Mary that stood guard in their front window and spread the infection in their house. Getting into this long-haired-hippy movement, the older Lennon boys began to fit right in with the Dahlins and embraced "what my older brothers had begun cultivating" in the far reaches of the backyard - hidden behind old cars, boats that refused to float, stacks of decaying National Geographics and  lots of junk that was perfect for protecting their secret garden. My older bothers told my parents were "Mexican Tomato Plants"   Heck, I don't know why they spent so much time out there caring the trimming those plants - didn't seem to do any good. The dumb plants never did grow tomatoes - go figure!  

Last year in the Sixth Grade my oldest brother, Gustav and his girl friend, Patty, took me to Sears and bought me a really cool Tobias suit. This is the famous picture that Marilyn Monroe is holding at the top of my Blog Post (until I change it, of course).
 
My Sixth Grade felt like a"life-sentence"  with hard labor. (more about that later). But, look at how cute this little guy is!

These was my first real clothes, that weren't hand-me-down-down-down-down-downs. This didn't come with blood stains or bullet holes or 17 patches over patches... Just look at him.

LADY KILLER right!

Imagine all those six grade girls drooling all over me! I wasn't keeping count and didn't have a clue.  Look into those precious eyes that seem to be lost in deep thought. What do you supposed I was thinking at that moment? Probably didn't have anything to do with girls.  I'll bet anything that I was too busy contemplating my everyday survival to be a "player."  If I had any inkling that a girl liked me, I was so insecure that I couldn't even open my mouth. I stuttered...and most people didn't know because they thought I was just being funny and a lot of my words didn't come out right. (No one in my family listened so anyone, they all just competed for floor time and had no idea that I had speech problems - except for my dad. He kept telling me that I should learn to talk with marbles in my mouth to help my pronuncification)

And what others thought was confidence was really just nothing more than the artful-dodging of a lonely street rat - still searching for the meaning of life and wanting to hear one word spoken in my HOUSE!

Next Time - The infamous story of amateur taxidermy and the SKUNK STINK-SACKS.

Please, no one tell the Blasers - because I don't think they know how their beloved collie got a hold of these things that he dragged like a crazed werewolf into the house. 


The Beatles have a song. It's been a hard days night... but for me it has been a hard-couple years..and I feel like I've been working like a dog just to survive the pits, and the jalapenos, and the big-bang-burnie, and the fights, and the mosquitoes, and leprosy, and the Veloci-rooster and the alligator...

                                                                    Just how much farther would Markie D make it?