Is The Plural of Doofus Doofi?

The Old Man has had a number of moments of extreme doofus-ness through out his life. We all have, I suppose. When I look back, I think, "I did THAT?". "What was I thinking?". Most of my doofusonian exploits were in the company of fellow doofi. There always seemed to be some one among whatever group I happened to be a part of at the time who would give words to a brain fart and we would be off on another adventure. One of the oddest was the series of caving experiences.


The Virginia foothills around Roanoke are home to a number of caves. Caverns, actually. One has long been developed into a tourist attraction. The Happy Doofi Caving Company, however, would have no part of such commercialism. Oh, no, no, no. We chose to head out into the surrounding countryside and explore one known locally as Murderers' Hole. Now, any clear-thinking non-doofus would catch a clue from the name. But not us.

We cobbled together what passed for some gear. Army surplus helmet liners were painted white and became our hard hats. Someone came upon several carbide lanterns. You filled the canister with carbide granules and added water. This created acetylene gas which bubbled up through a little orifice. You then lit the gas and got a small flame in front of a reflector. They worked pretty well as I recall. Miners used them for many years. Thus armed and equipped, off we went.
You got into Murderer's Hole through a small round opening in the ground. The small opening was at the bottom of a large pit, much like a rock quarry. Once you were in, you could stand up and look around. Pretty unbelievable, actually. The limestone formations from both the floor and the ceilings, stalactite's and stalagmites.....I could never keep straight which is which, were all around. There were passages, dark and, of course, very inviting to a doofus. Other than being down there in the first place, the second attack of doofusism came when we all extinguished our carbide lanterns to experience true darkness. Cave darkness is difficult to imagine. It is a total and complete absence of any light whatsoever. The closest description I can muster is that it must have been that dark before the universe was formed. The Happy Doofi Caving Company never acknowledged the thought of what we would have done had none of the lanterns started up again. Not only were there passages to blackness, but deep black holes and fissures, all waiting to enjoy doofus for breakfast.


As we worked our way through the cave, we came upon what was called a "slide"; a ramp down to a deeper level sitting at about a 30 degree angle. The slide was coated with an odd smelling mud. As I was roping down, about half way, I lost my footing and my hand hold on the rope. I slid the rest of the way down on my sitter.


When I reached the bottom, much to the delight of my fellow doofi, I mentioned that that was the worse smelling mud I'd ever seen. The head doofi who had been there before explained. "That's because it isn't all mud. Look up." The ceiling was where the bats were. Thousands of them. Through the years, I think some of them had developed digestive problems. One thing about bats; they have no need for Myrilax.


I was a pretty sad sight, 200 feet underground, covered with a mixture of mud and bat ............stuff. By corporate vote of the Happy Doofi Caving Company, I brought up the rear on our exit from the cave.


I haven't been in a cave since. But I must confess; I kind of miss that little "pop" when a carbide lantern lights.

Bandits At 4 O'clock

The Old Man has always had a thing about airplanes. From watching a neighborhood "big kid" fly his models to building my own, I grew to love the whole concept of flying. My first ride was as a 6 year old, sitting on my mother's lap in an old Piper flown by a co-worker of my dad's. We took off from a grass strip and flew around over my house. That got it all started. As an adult I got my own pilot's license and flew a bit on my own until the family came along and a lot of other money priorities jumped in. Even then, I built scale plastic models. Got pretty good at it, too.


So you can see, aviation has most always been an interest of mine. I've been fortunate enough to pilot a plane around the Wright Brothers' Memorial at Kitty Hawk, do tight 360's around the Hatteras Light, and take countless commercial flights. I've had some rough flights and some scary experiences. But the wackiest one of all was a thing called the Ground Observer Corps.


In 1952, the Korean War was in full swing. The foundations for the Cold War were being laid and a degree of national paranoia came into play. We had atomic bomb drills at school during which we were instructed to get under our desks and cover our eyes. I felt really secure and safe under my desk. "Ain't no atom bomb gonna get ME....I'm under my desk."
The U. S. Air Force came up with a program that established a network of observers all across the country. Volunteers would serve at "Observation Posts" during daylight hours. About the tallest point in Bedford was what was known then as "Reservoir Hill". There were several of the town functions that operated out of that building, and it was a natural point for the establishment of our very own Observation Post.
As Boy Scouts, we were unofficial observers. We could spend time at the Post and assist the adult observers who were there. Mostly this consisted of pouring coffee.
The Corps had it's own manual that outlined procedures.

The opening sentence of the manual, "We are in a dangerous position", set the tone for the rest of the book. The first half was dedicated to procedures for observers to follow. Basically, you were instructed to ignore small private aircraft and concentrate on the "possible bandits". When one was observed, you were to call the Filter Center and say "This is an aircraft flash". You then reported a set of facts, (estimated altitude, number of aircraft, direction, etc.) The manual cautioned that it was always best if the telephone line you used was a private line and not a party line. A "party line"? Imagine you've just spotted a squadron of Russian Migs scooting north. You pick up the phone and hear, "Well, then he put his hand on my knee and....." .



The second half of the book, pictured all different types of aircraft from around the world. Each page dealt with two airplanes.

You will note that there is a panel of silhouettes showing the dreaded MIG-15 from various angles. Take notice of the top one. If you see this perspective in real life, it is now time to haul ass......or get under your desk.
Perhaps the most interesting instructions in the manual deal with actual hostilities. I quote, "If you see an airplane engaged in action that seems to be hostile---for example dropping paratroopers or strafing a road---please report this under item 9 on your flash sheet." SEEMS to be hostile?....strafing the road? Dude, screw the phone call, that is unless the cord is long enough to reach under my desk.


I don't know what's up on Reservoir Hill now-a-days. You probably aren't allowed to drive up there any more. But if you can, be alert. A MIG can come screaming over at any minute.

News Flash: Explosion Rocks Nicotine Alley...Many Butts Vaporized

The Old Man remembers Nicotine Alley. That's what we called the smoking area of Bedford High School. For those unfamiliar, Nicotine Alley was located on the front steps of the school between the 1st and 2nd column on the right.

We smokers usually spilled over onto the steps, but had to return to the "butt barrel" when time came to put down the "weeds". The barrel was nothing more than a bucket filled with sand. In my 4 years there, I can't say that the sand was ever changed. There must have been 1000 cigarette butts as deeply entrenched as Strom Thurmond . Every now and then someone would stir the sand around a bit and give the impression that the sand was fresh, but a quick stab below the surface and you'd find more butts than would be on the lawn at a Jimmy Buffet concert.

A recent posting by a friend of mine related how her dog was traumatized by the fireworks being set off in her neighborhood on New Year's Eve. The explosions sent the poor little fellow into a fit of terror. It set me thinking...

In that time, one could walk into a hardware or farm supply store and buy any length of dynamite fuse and blasting caps. The clerk would simply fill your order and say, "Be careful". There was never any paperwork and background checks were limited to ladies who looked to see if their slip was showing.

You know how it is; useful information quickly finds it way into any gang of kids. One tidbit we knew was that dynamite fuse burned at the predictable rate of 1 foot per minute. Simple formula. Light one that was 6 feet long and you had 6 minutes to haul your stupid self out of the area. The blasting cap was a brass cylinder about 2-3 inches long. You stuck one end of the fuse in the end and then the whole mess went into a stick of dynamite.

The dark ages of January and February were upon us. Nothing to look forward to until Easter, and that seemed a century away. The same drudgery....day in and day out. And finally, intense boredom got to be more than a guy I'll call Rupert could stand. Poking around somewhere, he found some fuse and a couple of blasting caps. Plans were laid and the next day Nicotine Alley was hopping with excitement. Rupert carefully measured 4 feet of fuse and set it up with a blasting cap. This he stuffed about 2/3 of the way down into the butt barrel. When the first bell rang, we had 3 minutes to get to home room. Rupert lit the fuse.

One minute into home room, we were saying the pledge of allegiance. Along about, "and to the republic for which it stands", "Kerwhamo"! There was a terrific explosion. The home room teacher (we called her Snuffy behind her back) ducked under her desk, kids squealed, and some of us could hardly contain ourselves. Rupert wore his halo when the principal stormed into the room. It took me a long time to figure out why he came to our room first, but after all these years and recollections its obvious to me. He knew where his most fertile hunting ground was.

At lunch break, we casually walked out to survey the scene. Bits and pieces of cigarette butts were stuck to windows, in the lawn, in the trees and shrubbery, and I wouldn't be surprised if they weren't in Malcome's gas station across the street.

That episode remains "unsolved" in the mists of time. I went back a few years ago and toured the old school which now serves as an elementary school. There's no Nicotine Alley anymore, but I'm not too sure I didn't see a cigarette butt that had been painted over on a door post.

Rupert is gone now.....so he's beyond the reach, but he'll long be remembered by a few as the well deserved holder of the award for "most notable prank".