A Mosey Down Copperhead Road

I've been toying with the idea of trying something like this in the recent past.  Doing a deep dive into the lyrics of some of the songs that I enjoy.  Try to makes some sense of it all, because on closer inspection, some of the shit I enjoy, musically, doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  Or maybe it does and I'm just blowing smoke out of my ass.  Who the hell knows?  First up, is Steve Earle's 1988 classic, "Copperhead Road".  I constantly hear it on the radio, and I enjoy it as much as I'm sick of hearing it.  Now sit back and enjoy my idiocy for a moment.  Maybe this will work.  Most likely it won't.  That's my confidence level, at this juncture.

Main character is John Lee Pettimore, the third.  Saying it this way, makes him sound more distinguished than the penniless shlub that he actually is.  He comes from a long line of moonshiners who concoct their swill up the holler down a local road called Copperhead Road.  A busy life, making moonshine.  So busy that John's grandfather, John Lee Pettimore the first, only makes it into town a couple of times a year.  Not a real people person, I guess.  Doesn't possess the gift of gab and gets annoyed making small talk with strangers.  Or I presume, anyway.

This aspect of the song reminds me of when I worked at Princess Auto.  I'm sorry to get off topic, but it's only for a moment and I think it's pertinent in some way.  I was working one day when this kid, maybe 16 or 17 in age, asked me a question.  I gave him a quick answer, but he looked confused.  He explained that he came from a wee little town and never made it into the city more than maybe once a year.  Inquisitive as I am, I had to ask where he came from.  Delisle, he said.  Instantly I figured he was full of shit.

Delisle is a small town, yes, but it's like twenty minutes from the city and it barely has anything in it.  A Co-op gas station, a hotel bar, where me and my pal used to get hammered and stumble back to his place. The town also has a liquor store - IN the Esso gas station on the sound end of town.  "Don't Drink & Drive, but IF you do, you may as well fill your gas tank up over here, too, while you buy your booze!"  There may be a golf course, too.  Anyway, there's f*ck all in Delisle and the idea that a family can self-sustain in a tiny armpit of a town like this, is a complete farce to me.

When John's grandfather did peek his head out from Copperhead Road, he'd grab  the shit he needed then f*ck off back to the woods to continue perfecting his craft.  Granddaddy must've been making some serious cash, as a revenue man came to town seeking the man out.  Wanted to ask him a few questions, I guess, about where he was getting all this money to pay for copper line and yeast, I suppose, and followed the man down Copperhead Road.  It was well before John Pettimore III was even a twinkle in his daddy's eye, but apparently, the tax man never returned from Copperhead Road and no formal investigation was ever commenced.  Guess the Pettimores wielded a serious sword in town.

The next generation to follow in granddaddy's footsteps was John Lee Pettimore, Jr.  I don't know what his father, John Lee Pettimore, Sr was running his shine in, but it must have been shit compared to what John Jr was about to bring to the table.  John went to a state sale and bought himself an old Johnson County Sheriff's car.  A big block Dodge that he and his brother rebuilt the engine on, to go even faster than it's original output, then shot a coat of primer on it to cover up the Sheriff's badging on the outside.  I always thought it would have been smarter to keep the badging, to throw off anyone suspecting them of running booze.  What do I know, though.  I'm not a criminal so I can't possibly understand the criminal mind.

Well, unbeknownst to the Pettimore clan, there was a raid on Copperhead Road and in his haste to escape, via his new-to-him Dodge, John Jr crashed and died.  You could see the red glow of the burning moonshine for miles and the smell of burning whiskey filled the air.  It was quite a sight, I'm sure.  John Lee Pettimore III wasn't filled with awe from the spectacle, but with concern.  Concern for his mother who got the news from the local sheriff that her husband, Little Johnny's dad, had succumbed in the crash.  Poor kid.  The only role model he ever had, a shitty one, but a role model all the same, was now gone.  What was the boy to do?

Two options to do in a small southern town, when you're as dirt poor as the Pettimores were.  Commit petty crimes and get your ass incarcerated or join the army and head to Vietnam.  John III chose the latter, citing that he would have been drafted anyway.

John doesn't move up the ranks of the army, while stationed in Vietnam, but he managed to keep his head down, do the job that needed to be done and survived two tours of duty.  All the while, he's keeping mental notes of the guerilla warfare tactics of Charlie.  Tactics and strategies that he'd later put into practice when he returned home after the war.

Ditching the efforts of making moonshine, which wasn't a lucrative business, anymore, John III decided to start growing marijuana.  Having never learned the art of making good moonshine, anyway, growing the herb by combining the seeds from Colombia and Mexico, then plant it in the rich earth up the holler down Copperhead Road, where his father and grandfather had their successes with the moonshine. Now, through some hard work and very little tears, John was able to make a strain so sweet, so good that it took America by storm and made him a rich man.

Johns success didn't fall on deaf eyes, though.  Much like in the past when the State police raided his father's stash down Copperhead Road, the U.S. D.E.A. (Drug Enforcement Agency) began flying choppers overhead, spying on the operation, trying to get eyes through the thick brush that lined Copperhead Road.  Did they dare send troops in on foot?  If they did, they were in for a hell of a surprise.  John Lee Pettimore III wasn't the stupid country bumpkin they perceived him to be.  He didn't just come home and stumble onto a fortune in the weed business.  He put some heavy thought into the operation and he wasn't going to lose this shit without a serious fight and in fight mode he was.  Suffering from PTSD from his time in Vietnam, the constant barrage of choppers flying overhead, John was having nightmares.  He was prepared to put up a good resistance.

Song ends before we find out the conclusion of the DEA's involvement, but rest assured, some of the DEA's foot soldiers likely wouldn't be walking right after that invasion, if they were able to walk at all.

This concludes my breakdown of "Copperhead Road".  Not as amusing as I'd originally concocted, but for a first effort, it might be....  Meh.

Lyrics

One, two, three, four

Well, my name's John Lee Pettimore
Same as my daddy and his daddy before
I hardly ever saw grandaddy down here
He only came to town about twice a year
Buy a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line
Everybody knew that he made moonshine

Now the revenue man wanted grandaddy bad
Headed up the holler with everything he had
It's before my time but I've been told
He never came back from Copperhead Road

Now daddy ran the whiskey in a big block Dodge
Bought it at an auction at the mason's lodge
Johnson county sheriff painted on the side
Shot a coat of primer then he looked inside
Well, him and my uncle tore that engine down
I still remember that rumblin' sound

Then the sheriff came around in the middle of the night
Heard mama cryin', knew something wasn't right
Headed out to Knoxville with the weekly load
You could smell the whiskey burnin' down Copperhead Road

Volunteered for the army on my birthday
Draft the white trash first 'round here anyway
Done my two tours of duty in Vietnam
I came home with a brand new plan
I take the seed from Colombia and Mexico
Just plant it up the holler down Copperhead Road

Now the D.E.A's got a chopper in the air
Wake up screaming like I'm back over there
Learned a thing or two from Charlie don't you know
You better stay away from Copperhead Road

Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road

Thank you

Break A Leg

As a child, my dream was to grow up to be an actor.  Not a movie star, but a working actor.  As a troubled youth, I'd find solace in watching movies and TV.  It was my escape from the horrors I'd face at home and as a result, I hoped to, one day, be allowed to permanently escape into the world of pretend by becoming interesting characters.

Alas, as I revealed my hopes and dreams to those around me, it was told unto me, that I'd never be able to do that, as I lacked the skill or the talent to do so.  Resist those words of negativity all I wanted, eventually the negativity will break down those barriers of resistance and belief sets in.  Look at me now.  Today, I still have my face pressed up to the proverbial glass window, peering in at what might have been, rather than what is.

"Break A Leg" is an idiom used by amateur and professional theater folk. It's a term affectionately used to wish someone luck.  Wishing someone ill will, tricks the trickster gods into granting the opposite and as a result, good things will happen.  Superstitious?  Perhaps, but given what's happened throughout my life, I can't deny the logic.

This past winter, I was unemployed.  Like previous winters, ever since I slipped on that patch of ice, that fateful evening in March of 2018.  So for the past few years, I've been employed at a job that was seasonal, so I'd be laid off in the winter.  Perfect for a guy who has some form of PTSD, when it comes to icy surfaces.  That company I worked for, went bankrupt, last year and I had to scramble to find another job.  As luck would have it, the job I had, sucked and they let me go after about a month and a half and I'd, by then, accrued enough hours to go on E.I. for the winter.  Come spring, though, I had some trouble finding work.

Every interview I'd set up, I'd get excited and post to Facebook that I was about to embark on this interview and there'd be a slough of friends and well-wishers sending love and 'good luck'.  Then as well as I'd do in those interviews, I wouldn't get the job.  This happened a lot.  A LOT!!  I have one friend, bless her, who would always send a loving message of "Good luck!  I believe in you."  As grateful as I am to have a friend who cares that much for my well-being, I feel that sentiment was the biggest curse of them all.  Whatever Gods overheard those thoughts of positivity, sought to quickly shit on my parade and prevent me from any sort of success.

Tuesday, I officially become a professional driver.  A bus operator for the City of Saskatoon.  It's a job that I've wanted for many many years.  So much that I almost faced charges of Grand Theft in my pursuit.  At the time, they gave me a choice, resign from my job or face prison.  The choice was a simple one. 😂

I'd had job interviews in the past for civic transit, but failed to get the position.  I can't recall if anyone wished me good luck on that interview, but suffice it to say, probably.  So this time around, when I got the call, I never spoke a word.  Nothing, not to anyone.  Not even my mom.  I wanted this shit more than anything and by keeping my mouth shut and not receiving all the words of positivity and luck, I managed to lock down the position.  Next came five weeks of classroom lessons and practical driving and now, come Monday morning, I'm about to be unleashed on the world.  I hope that I don't jinx myself by releasing this blog a day early and have some kind-hearted soul, inadvertently f*cking me over and having me crash into a pole or a f*cking school.

I had a dream last night or maybe it was early this morning.  Doesn't matter.  In the dream, I set out on my first day of driving alone.  I was given the articulating bus, like the photo seen here.  In training I drove it and loved it.  In the dream, my affection was short lived.  For some reason, while stopped at a traffic light, the bus malfunctioned and the bus began pulling back in reverse.  The transmission was in drive, but the mechanisms had failed and the bus was now pulling in the opposite direction.  I quickly put the emergency brakes on, but to no avail.  The pulling power was stronger than the brakes and screeching tires were being dragged backward, up the street, against oncoming traffic.  All I could do was to attempt to steer the bus and avoid catastrophic collisions with one hand and scream into the phone calling for supervisors to help me out of this jam.  Oddly, the supervisors weren't the competent folks I've been interacting with for the past few weeks, but Kev Dogg (Kevin Schiele from TVs "Bitchin' Rides")

I can't remember what happened next, but suffice it to say that the articulating bus came to rest on a patch of grass, off the road and professionals were on their way to investigate and tow the vehicle back to the garage for further investigation and repair.

In the dream, I was shitting bricks, fearing I'd lose my job after one single day, but Kevin, Kev Dogg, assured me that my job was safe and that I'd reacted properly and in a safe manner.  I hope this dream was one of luck.

When I was a kid, growing up on a farm just west of the city, we had horseshoes hanging over the doorways into the barn.  You always hang a horseshoe with the tangs facing up.  This is to contain the luck, rather than allowing the luck to spill out, if hung upside down.  If I ever move back to an acreage or am in a position to hang another horseshoe, I'd like to recreate this practice.  

I don't necessarily believe in luck.  I've been lucky in life, not in love, but in life in general.  As bad as shit gets, I've always known I'd bounce back.  I don't know if you'd call it lucky or just fate.  I know that when I won that $1000 on that scratch ticket, a couple years ago, the vendor who sold me the ticket, was rude and never uttered anything to me.  I know that when I buy tickets and I'm greeted with a smile and a wish of good luck, I never win.  All circumstantial and coincidental, but I don't believe in coincidence, either.  Only cause and effect.

So when you see me out and about, don't wish me "good luck", because chances are, you're pushing me one step closer to the grave.  Instead, tell me to "break a leg".  I'll know what you mean and that maybe, you actually read my blog.  For which I thank you. 🙂

Broken

 

I am a broken man.  Broken in so many ways, physically and otherwise.  I've endured torn muscles and broken bones, the worst of which, came in 2014, when I broke three vertebrae in my back.  My T3, T4 and T5 all receiving compression fractures after a platform that I was standing on, dropped.  Up to that point, that was the worst pain I'd ever endured.  Mere walking, after that point, was painful and laboured.  I was forced to take soft slow and methodical steps as any harsh impact on the ground or floor would result in a xylophone effect, of sharp dagger-like pain, shooting up my spine to the base of my skull and down my legs.  It's not something I'd wish on anyone.  Eventually, through physiotherapy and exercise, I was able to walk... normal-ish and without most of the pain.  It's still something that I deal with on a day-by-day basis.  I was told that the injured vertebrae would never heal completely and any plans that I might have had for adventure, would have to be avoided for the rest of my life.  So no skydiving or bungee jumping for me and to be truthful, I'm quite fine with that.

Up to that point, that was the most severe pain and, might I say, injury, as years later I would take a nasty spill in a parking lot, which knocked my fat ass out, in the process.

On a cool March evening in 2018, I'd just returned back at the warehouse where I was a courier.  The man-door by the overhead was busted and we would have to walk to the next bay to enter via that door.  In the cool darkness, I was unable to see the ground clearly, which resulted in my taking a nasty fall, thus knocking myself out in the process.  I was unconscious for nearly twenty minutes.  I know because I was happy about returning early that night.  I had arrived at the warehouse a little past 7:30pm, my usual time was mostly closer to 10pm.  When I came to, I was shivering and cold.  I reached for my phone that was in my hand, but now laying on the ice.  I was shocked to see that the clock was reading nearly 8pm.  I don't remember a lot after that.  I recall texting my boss to give him shit about being so cheap and not buying any sidewalk salt, then nothing.  I don't remember going home, nor do I recall coming back to work the next day or most of my 1000-plus kilometer delivery route the next day.  In fact, I don't remember anything up until I found myself sitting in a lab waiting to give a blood test for an unrelated thing.  That's when fear overwhelmed me and I sought out medical attention.

Over the course of my life, I've probably had a grand total of (at least) 10-12 concussions, but by definition alone, I suspect that I many have had quite a few more.  The worst prior to this event, occurred following a snowmobile accident, where I slammed my head so hard that the helmet I was wearing, split in two pieces.  I never received any medical attention at that time, my family telling me to go lay down (before anyone says anything, I know now that this was a really bad idea).  The result of that injury was just a slurry of massive headaches and migraines.  The brain injury in 2018, was much much (MUCH) worse and the lasting effects are quite intrusive and bothersome.

At the time of the slip and fall, I was experiencing a loss of vision, loss of balance, both short-term and long-term memory loss, slurred speech, an inability to remember or form complex words, and a lack of attention.  Years earlier, I'd been diagnosed with ADD.  Back in high school it was called something else, daydreaming or as my dad called it back then, "stupid".  I've always had a problem with focusing on things, which includes a learning disability.  I can learn quickly how to do things when I see it done physically or visually, but I'm unable to read anything, comprehend it and put it to use.  This is probably why I was almost in tears when I met wrestling legend, Mick Foley.  His books were and remain, the only books I've been able to read and comprehend as I was reading them.  For those of you who take this ability for granted, will never know that magic of this feeling.

Keeping my attention has always been a challenge, but since that fateful day, my attention span has been greatly challenged.  Just yesterday, I was picking up some butter for my mother and had to call her three times to ask the same question.  That's the long-term result that frustrates me most about this injury.

Through physiotherapy, I was able to restore most of my mobility in that, I no longer have balance issues, although I remain somewhat clumsy to a degree.  The headaches aren't quite as extreme as they were in the weeks following the fall.  At that time, I was forced to wear sunglasses almost constantly, when I was outside of my house.  The glaring sun and indoor lights would create a vise-like grip on my frontal lobe that would almost bring me to tears.

My speech would return, also, although I've noticed a severe stutter that rears it's ugly head from time-to-time, which is added frustration, which in-turn causes more stuttering.  Then when I'm not stuttering, but attempting to engage in conversation, I find myself struggling to remember or form certain words.  Not even complex words or as my friend, Danny calls them, "$10 words", but simple vocabulary is almost non-existent. 

I was tested a number of years ago, kind of a aptitude test of sorts.  They tested my mathematical, mechanical, literary and vocalization skills.  I failed to do well on the reading, as per my ADD, but scored well on the (basic) math and mechanical tests, but the vocalization, which I was told referred to my conversational skills.  That my verbiage skills were in the top twenty-one percentile for my age group.  When pressed, they further explained it as me being "smarter" than seventy-nine percent of those in my age grouping.  If I were to take that test today, I doubt that I'd perform quite as well.

Physiotherapy managed to restore most of my abilities prior to my concussion and for that I'm eternally grateful, but something that hasn't been restored, is my memory.  Both short-term and long-term is going to be effected for the remainder of my life, I'm told.  I find this aspect of my recovery to be the most worrisome.  Everyday is a struggle to remember simple chores and responsibilities.  Remembering how to travel to destinations where I've been a thousand times before, is a struggle some days.  I feel shame and stupid when I fight to remember.  Then other times, when I remember something, I feel like I've won the lottery.  Even the most insignificant memory, to me, is an incredible feeling.

I was pushing snow off my driveway the other day, when I was reminded of the time, as a little kid, my mom bought me and my sister snow shovels.

I grew up on a farm.  We didn't have anything like a snow blower or a blade on the front of a truck or tractor.  Instead, my dad used a scoop shovel, that he'd normally used for shoveling grain in the storage bins* that lined the hill on our property.  My dad would clear the snow out of the yard and the lane that connected the yard to the highway.  For some reason, that day, my sister and I, convinced my mom to buy us a snow shovel each, to go help our dad.  I remember the look on my dads face as we proudly marched out to the yard to help shovel snow, and the look of disappointment when we gave up on that endeavour, because it wasn't as fun as he'd made it look.  That memory flooded my brain the other morning, bringing a smile to my frozen face. (*It took me quite a few minutes to remember the word "bins", in the construct of that sentence.)

My biggest frustration, more so than the ability to access memories, is convincing others, some friends, but mostly family members that I can't remember what they're talking about.  Just the other night, my mother was telling me something that (apparently) I was a part of, but when I revealed that I had no recollection of the incident, I was met with conflict and accusations of untruthfulness.  I was accused of lying because I couldn't remember any facts about a family dinner we'd all attended many years prior.  I hate that.  I f**king hate that.

When I broke my back, I was unable to do this or that, as such injuries often restrict those with the injury.  My sister refused to believe that my injury was as severe as it was, stating that "if your back was broken, you'd be paralyzed".  She's obviously misinformed.  My sister is also one of those who accuse me of deceit whenever I'm unable to recall certain facts or elements of a story.

I've been injury free, brain-wise, in the years since that fateful night when I knocked myself unconscious in a parking lot.  I have a little PTSD from it, nervously venturing outside in the winter, for fear of falling again and possibly further injuring my brain.  I've taken a few nasty falls during this time frame, but my head has not been effected.  My struggles to remember continue and I celebrate them when memories return.  I've been known to say the words, "Praise The Positive" which was a silly thing some friends used to say when making drink toasts, but rings truthful these days.  As bad as things get in my life, I choose to praise the positives whenever they appear.  It's like discovering life all over again.