As Brian and I were talking about our wonderful new blog, a mutual friend of ours commented, "I never knew you guys grew up in a trailer park," intending it, I'm sure as a jibe. My response was something along the lines of, "It was more like a farmer's field mowed down for Mexicans to live in; 'park' makes it sound like a nice place."
Dove Meadows, as our neighborhood was known, consisted of two streets off of Power Line Road, White Wing and Mourning Dove, ours being the latter. I never strayed over to White Wing very often, even though it was so close, except to visit the creek where it met Power Line. Mourning Dove was about a quarter to a half a mile long and ended in a cul-de-sac. We saw the place go through a lot of changes. When we first got there it was a dirt road (although I'll need confirmation on this one, seeing as how I wasn't born or was very young when they changed it). Next came gravel and tar, the way I remember it the most. There was typically a smooth part with mostly tar at the center of the road, much more comfortable to run on than the gravel in our constantly bare feet (shoes are for white boys). On a scalding hot day in Fort Bend County, Texas, the black tar, however became incredibly hot (so hot bubbles would form which we would fit each other to pop walking home from school), so we cut irregular paths down the road, running half the time on the smooth but burning hot tar and half the time on the sharper but cooler gravel. By the time we left it was a more respectable asphalt. My most vivid memories of that road were walking to the bus stop in the morning, kicking rocks to each other and dodging slug trails in the fog. We saw people move in and out, but mostly in as more and more trailers (and by the end two honest-to-goodness houses) popped up. Each lot had an acre of land, and we remained the only white people on the street besides a crazy 'Nam vet and his sun fearing family, plus a retired cop with his two ex-police dog German shepherds. Even the name of the road changed to Morning Dove when a sign maker made a mistake. I don't think anybody cared, although some might have been glad that they finally fixed the spelling.
Our neighbors to the left had one of the houses, a nice Mexican family, probably the nicest on the street, but the least fluent in English. On the other side was an incredibly drunk family (they filled multiple trash cans a week with booze cans), and past them were the Delgados, a family with two kids our age, Eric (between me and Craig) and Britney (about my age). Other than that I'll leave the description of the neighbors to those that knew them better.
Thinking back to the old homestead, I think of Brigham Young's words praising the harsh Salt Lake valley as the perfect place to raise righteous Latter-Day Saints. Our own little barrio was filled with crime and poverty and blessed little else besides mud and ditches, rocks and sticks, but I can't imagine a better place to raise a pack of Ruggles...es...ei...Rugglei...
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Magic Bike Reflector Shield
Even as an infant Craig scared me with his rage. He couldn't have been more than three when he charged me from behind with a butcher knife because I had probably taken a lego piece from him. If it wasn't from Brian's warning, I may not be writing this story now.
Craig always acted on some strange sort of mojo that seemed to always end in luck. Being the only white family in our neighborhood called for quite a bit of attention. There were six of us brothers and about six to eight neighborhood kids that we spent time with outside. We normally had rock fights with two teams: Mexicans against the Ruggles boys. We would set some sort of boundary that created a distance between you and the opposing boy wishing to hit you between the eyes. Usually the loser was the first group to retreat or start crying. On our team, we would have the twins supply the ammo by finding rocks or creating mud balls while Brian, Craig, and myself would try to bring home the head of one of our beloved friends.
During one battle, we were losing ground due to one of the twins getting hit and our ammo production slowing down, and all of a sudden Craig pulled out his lucky bike reflector and stood on the line holding it towards our enemies. Those Krauts started throwing rocks straight at him totally distracting them to allow Brian and myself to get them where it hurt. The amazing thing was that Craig was never hit other than his reflector that he held in the palm of his hand! I remember the reflector getting hit at least four times.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I never did name it.
My memory of this story is hazy and I still don't believe it but I was there and it happened to me. Pleas correct me if I'm wrong. I'd like to hear others recollections of the story too.
I don't know how you actually help dragonflies when they get injured and that does not happen often. They are fierce hunters that eat anything they can fit in their mouths and move like lightning up, down, over, and through. I could never catch the big ones. their bright wings were always a few feet away from my outstretched hand. I would run around till I was dizzy and have nothing but gumbo in my toes. The dragonfly was the unicorn of my childhood. Mom always said I had a way with animals and still thinks I should be a vet. So when I saw a big reddish-maroon dragonfly injured on the ground, I decided to help it. That basically meant taking it inside away from the fire ants and look at it twitch feebly. Tim and I got to look at a living dragonfly closely for the first time.
Before our attentions spans could waver the dragonfly started flying around in our living room, but amazingly it kept landing near us. even if it landed somewhere far away it would let us come near it without flying away. We figured it was too wounded to move around much. I remember its favorite place was on top of that lamp coming out of the living room wall. The 3 of us frolicked around the living room for a little while when I got the idea to imitate Chanda calling to Nighthawk by saying "Come!" and holding out my finger. That only worked on Nighthawk occasionally and I figured Tim would get a laugh out of it, but to everyone's amazement, the dragonfly flew from the lamp to the tip of my finger. All 3 of us froze. Tim and I starred at the dragonfly while it looked straight at me and everything else in the room( it had like 20,000 eyes). I think the dragonfly was the first to move. I thought it was a fluke, freak accident, whatever, but It did it again, and it only flew to me. I can't remember who all saw it but it was amazing. My only conclusion was that I had somehow tamed an uncontrollable force of nature. I had rescued a fallen unicorn and bent it to my will.
After two days of pretending to take care of it, the dragonfly recovered and I let the thing go outside again. It wasn't right to keep it inside and once it left I never saw it again. I never fed it anything and I never had a cage for it, but the fact that it actually came when I called made that dragonfly feel more like a pet to me than most arthropods I've owned. Since then, I've never even tried to duplicate that experience, but every time I see a dragonfly I think of the one I let go.
I don't know how you actually help dragonflies when they get injured and that does not happen often. They are fierce hunters that eat anything they can fit in their mouths and move like lightning up, down, over, and through. I could never catch the big ones. their bright wings were always a few feet away from my outstretched hand. I would run around till I was dizzy and have nothing but gumbo in my toes. The dragonfly was the unicorn of my childhood. Mom always said I had a way with animals and still thinks I should be a vet. So when I saw a big reddish-maroon dragonfly injured on the ground, I decided to help it. That basically meant taking it inside away from the fire ants and look at it twitch feebly. Tim and I got to look at a living dragonfly closely for the first time.
Before our attentions spans could waver the dragonfly started flying around in our living room, but amazingly it kept landing near us. even if it landed somewhere far away it would let us come near it without flying away. We figured it was too wounded to move around much. I remember its favorite place was on top of that lamp coming out of the living room wall. The 3 of us frolicked around the living room for a little while when I got the idea to imitate Chanda calling to Nighthawk by saying "Come!" and holding out my finger. That only worked on Nighthawk occasionally and I figured Tim would get a laugh out of it, but to everyone's amazement, the dragonfly flew from the lamp to the tip of my finger. All 3 of us froze. Tim and I starred at the dragonfly while it looked straight at me and everything else in the room( it had like 20,000 eyes). I think the dragonfly was the first to move. I thought it was a fluke, freak accident, whatever, but It did it again, and it only flew to me. I can't remember who all saw it but it was amazing. My only conclusion was that I had somehow tamed an uncontrollable force of nature. I had rescued a fallen unicorn and bent it to my will.
After two days of pretending to take care of it, the dragonfly recovered and I let the thing go outside again. It wasn't right to keep it inside and once it left I never saw it again. I never fed it anything and I never had a cage for it, but the fact that it actually came when I called made that dragonfly feel more like a pet to me than most arthropods I've owned. Since then, I've never even tried to duplicate that experience, but every time I see a dragonfly I think of the one I let go.
Brian's Career Path as a Stripper
Brian has always been one to want to please his siblings. I, as his older brother, found that he would do any thing that appeared to entertain me. Things started out innocently at first. Brian would make funny faces or would constantly repeat the word crap like he had turrets. He would often get in trouble for trying to carry out my pranks and I would act like he was just another disobedient sibling trying to upset Mamma.
One day, while Mom and Dad were gone, I thought I would try to see how far we could take Brian's desire to make Chanda and I laugh. At first we dared Brian to run to the end of the driveway and back naked. He quickly stripped down to his birthday suit and took off only to return to our laughter. Taking advantage of his current wardrobe, we decided to dare him to run to the end of the cul-de-sac and back. Mind you that to the cul-de-sac and back is about 450-500 feet both ways. I still remember Brian running down the street butt naked on a partially asphalt/gravel road while we and a few neighbors looked on. Before Brian even reached the cul-de-sac, I started to realize what a bad idea it was to do this to my faithful brother. I recall thinking that Mom and Dad should never know about this so long as I lived under their roof.
I never purposely tried to discover how far he would follow ever again...
Maybe one of the reasons why Brian didn't ever have an issue with having people know of our circumstances, is that he had nothing to hide. After all once you're standing naked in front of your neighbors what else can you hide?
One day, while Mom and Dad were gone, I thought I would try to see how far we could take Brian's desire to make Chanda and I laugh. At first we dared Brian to run to the end of the driveway and back naked. He quickly stripped down to his birthday suit and took off only to return to our laughter. Taking advantage of his current wardrobe, we decided to dare him to run to the end of the cul-de-sac and back. Mind you that to the cul-de-sac and back is about 450-500 feet both ways. I still remember Brian running down the street butt naked on a partially asphalt/gravel road while we and a few neighbors looked on. Before Brian even reached the cul-de-sac, I started to realize what a bad idea it was to do this to my faithful brother. I recall thinking that Mom and Dad should never know about this so long as I lived under their roof.
I never purposely tried to discover how far he would follow ever again...
Maybe one of the reasons why Brian didn't ever have an issue with having people know of our circumstances, is that he had nothing to hide. After all once you're standing naked in front of your neighbors what else can you hide?
Oil Well Riders
By popular demand, (Tim, you are so popular) the "Oil Well Rider" story:
Clearly, riding oil wells does not make much sense, as they are rather stationary. However, the pumps move rather rhythmically, and they are kinda fun. Once, when Uncle Tim and the girls were over at the trailer, I believe, Craig and I went on a short journey. We went to the pump just south of Powerline and just east of our road - you guys remember the one?
Anyway, we took turns grabbing part of the "head" when it approached the ground and holding on as it lifted us far into the air (as far as Texas flatlanders reckon vertical distance). It was all quite exhilarating.
After a bit of this goofiness, we noticed that Tim and Tracy had followed or gone out searching for us. We saw them plodding east down Powerline and turn and see us as one of us (I don't remember which of us it was) rose slowly into the air aboard the pump. They turned and ran homeward.
We freaked - we sprinted the half mile or so home. We arrived shortly after they did in time to hear them ratting us out to Dad mid-conversation. He turned and looked at us appraisingly. Craig, in a fit of evasive brilliance, said, "Yep. We were riding the oil wells. We're the oil well riders."
The next thing gave birth to classic post-Chanda Ruggles Legend. He began the song.
"We're the ooooiiill weeelll riders!" Over and over. I am working hard trying to remember whether Craig had the presence of mind to come up with other lyrics, but I don't think he did. Dad looked at him further. I was flabbergasted, and sorta tried to sing along, but I wasn't with it. Dad eventually got tired of it and told Tim especially to stop being bothersome. I must say, Tim's look was pretty classic as well. He was both pissed and livid, and it was all classic.
Clearly, riding oil wells does not make much sense, as they are rather stationary. However, the pumps move rather rhythmically, and they are kinda fun. Once, when Uncle Tim and the girls were over at the trailer, I believe, Craig and I went on a short journey. We went to the pump just south of Powerline and just east of our road - you guys remember the one?
Anyway, we took turns grabbing part of the "head" when it approached the ground and holding on as it lifted us far into the air (as far as Texas flatlanders reckon vertical distance). It was all quite exhilarating.
After a bit of this goofiness, we noticed that Tim and Tracy had followed or gone out searching for us. We saw them plodding east down Powerline and turn and see us as one of us (I don't remember which of us it was) rose slowly into the air aboard the pump. They turned and ran homeward.
We freaked - we sprinted the half mile or so home. We arrived shortly after they did in time to hear them ratting us out to Dad mid-conversation. He turned and looked at us appraisingly. Craig, in a fit of evasive brilliance, said, "Yep. We were riding the oil wells. We're the oil well riders."
The next thing gave birth to classic post-Chanda Ruggles Legend. He began the song.
"We're the ooooiiill weeelll riders!" Over and over. I am working hard trying to remember whether Craig had the presence of mind to come up with other lyrics, but I don't think he did. Dad looked at him further. I was flabbergasted, and sorta tried to sing along, but I wasn't with it. Dad eventually got tired of it and told Tim especially to stop being bothersome. I must say, Tim's look was pretty classic as well. He was both pissed and livid, and it was all classic.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Fire ants
The entomological landscape of our backyard was rather...homogeneous to say the least. If it didn't fly or build a web, the fire ants got 'em. Larger grasshoppers, banana spiders, bees, wasps, flies and the occasional tenacious cricket were the only variation from fields and fields of fire ants.* Taken alone, a fire ant is not a very threatening thing. They are about the size of harmless black ants or sugar ants, albeit ominously colored in black and red, a single sting will cause local irritation only (occasionally a puss-filled wound the size of a zit if you scratch it too much), in short, not the toughest kid in school. But, what they lack in physical presence, they easily make up for in numbers and shear ferocity.
When one dares disturb a fire ant's black mound, unlike other ants who merely attempt to repair it and prevent invasion, fire ants send out scouts for retaliation. When they find you they do not attack at once, oh, no, they are much too crafty for that, a fire ant knows her weaknesses. Instead they release a pheromone, attracting squads of ants like magnet, and climb ever surely up your leg. Once thirty or so ants have worked there way up your leg, that is in when they strike and the pain begins. Many an unsuspecting Rugglet's carefree gamboling was viciously interrupted by a sprint to the hose, the only tool that could effectively remove the stinging ants, latched on by their little tiny jaws, body curled for continual stinging. Any dead animal, any pile of cat food, was sure to have a trail of fire ants leading from it to halfway across the yard. Time spent by Rugglets following these trails (or attempting to distrup their supply lines by wiping away their scent trails) all together probably totals to several months.
Despite our natural animosity to them, we generally respected the fire ants as a force of nature, uncontrollable and untamed. When we finally destroyed the armies of an invading bumblebee queen with nothing but a trampoline net and a metal pipe, we chose the fire ants, not ourselves, to be the bee's executioners. They became a symbol of toughness and resourcefulness. An invasive species, fire ants spread north from South America, but no climate proved insurmountable to them. Even Texas flash-floods weren't enough wipe them out; the conniving buggers would clump into grapefruit-sized living barges and float down ditches ready, like the rest of us Texans, to rebuild after the storm.
My first disappointment when we moved to New Jersey came when I got out of the moving truck and I found a small black ant hive and knocked it apart with my finger. The poor creatures looked more confused than angry, and I quickly let them alone, leaving me longing for my old childhood nemesis, the fire ant.
*There was one kind of ant that didn't get pushed around by fire ants, little red and grey ones that lived only in our rocky driveway. Even smaller than fire ants, they never attack humans, don't spread very rapidly, and were so little and cute we generally called them sugar ants. However, whenever a fire ant colony felt uppity and wanted to wipe them out, you could always tell by the rings of dead fire ants the sugar ants would neatly form around their modest nest.
When one dares disturb a fire ant's black mound, unlike other ants who merely attempt to repair it and prevent invasion, fire ants send out scouts for retaliation. When they find you they do not attack at once, oh, no, they are much too crafty for that, a fire ant knows her weaknesses. Instead they release a pheromone, attracting squads of ants like magnet, and climb ever surely up your leg. Once thirty or so ants have worked there way up your leg, that is in when they strike and the pain begins. Many an unsuspecting Rugglet's carefree gamboling was viciously interrupted by a sprint to the hose, the only tool that could effectively remove the stinging ants, latched on by their little tiny jaws, body curled for continual stinging. Any dead animal, any pile of cat food, was sure to have a trail of fire ants leading from it to halfway across the yard. Time spent by Rugglets following these trails (or attempting to distrup their supply lines by wiping away their scent trails) all together probably totals to several months.
Despite our natural animosity to them, we generally respected the fire ants as a force of nature, uncontrollable and untamed. When we finally destroyed the armies of an invading bumblebee queen with nothing but a trampoline net and a metal pipe, we chose the fire ants, not ourselves, to be the bee's executioners. They became a symbol of toughness and resourcefulness. An invasive species, fire ants spread north from South America, but no climate proved insurmountable to them. Even Texas flash-floods weren't enough wipe them out; the conniving buggers would clump into grapefruit-sized living barges and float down ditches ready, like the rest of us Texans, to rebuild after the storm.
My first disappointment when we moved to New Jersey came when I got out of the moving truck and I found a small black ant hive and knocked it apart with my finger. The poor creatures looked more confused than angry, and I quickly let them alone, leaving me longing for my old childhood nemesis, the fire ant.
*There was one kind of ant that didn't get pushed around by fire ants, little red and grey ones that lived only in our rocky driveway. Even smaller than fire ants, they never attack humans, don't spread very rapidly, and were so little and cute we generally called them sugar ants. However, whenever a fire ant colony felt uppity and wanted to wipe them out, you could always tell by the rings of dead fire ants the sugar ants would neatly form around their modest nest.
Requests
I thought it might be a good idea to make some requests for stories that need to be retold:
Oil-well riding, dragonfly-taming, cat-watching, and entire series of articles dedicated to bloodweed, castle building, a map of our yard, Craig getting pushed out of a window, the pits, gumbo, gumbo, the Laughmans, keifer pear harvests, "Bless our hearts...", whacking day, the first time we held a tarantula, drop kicks on the trampoline, lego wars, space wars, stick wars, mud wars, warring over the computer, etc., Cherish eating butter, Chanda eating cockroaches, all of us eating catfood, Blacky the zombie cat, cockroaches in general and the terror they inspire in us to this very day, Dad's tickling ability and secret ninja moves, that wonderful TV, using the rumble of the Beluga to dive for bed, the bay house, crazy mexican neighbors, crazy drunk neighbors, crazy French speaking nam vet neighbors, metal fans, wind tunnels, hide-and-seek, homemade bread, eggplant, wheatberries, the "bagganing", fire ants, mowing the lawn, winning soccer seasons, pathetically losing soccer seasons, blow-gun fights, Masters of the Universe, and oh, so much more.
Oil-well riding, dragonfly-taming, cat-watching, and entire series of articles dedicated to bloodweed, castle building, a map of our yard, Craig getting pushed out of a window, the pits, gumbo, gumbo, the Laughmans, keifer pear harvests, "Bless our hearts...", whacking day, the first time we held a tarantula, drop kicks on the trampoline, lego wars, space wars, stick wars, mud wars, warring over the computer, etc., Cherish eating butter, Chanda eating cockroaches, all of us eating catfood, Blacky the zombie cat, cockroaches in general and the terror they inspire in us to this very day, Dad's tickling ability and secret ninja moves, that wonderful TV, using the rumble of the Beluga to dive for bed, the bay house, crazy mexican neighbors, crazy drunk neighbors, crazy French speaking nam vet neighbors, metal fans, wind tunnels, hide-and-seek, homemade bread, eggplant, wheatberries, the "bagganing", fire ants, mowing the lawn, winning soccer seasons, pathetically losing soccer seasons, blow-gun fights, Masters of the Universe, and oh, so much more.
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