Tire'd of Snow?

Flirtatious: Can I get a ride to Vegas mister?

Real Mood? Worshiping

Disclaimer: Rather than try and research the relative value of a dollar in the 50's and 60's, I pretty much told this story using today's value.

Prediction: Measureable Snow will fall in Barstow, California prior to December 27th, 2018.

The human is a pretty adaptable unit when you think about it. Both it's engineering and it's ingenuity allow it to survive and occasionally thrive in most earthly and some extra earthly environments. Thanks to greater minds than this one,  the conglomerate human has developed everything from the spoon to Sputnick (sometimes we need to be flexible in deference to alliteration). But I'd like to think that what really raises man to a higher plain than other biological organizms, is his capacity to fantasize. Don't send the kids from the room. Not those fantasies. Okay, let me give you an example to put you at ease.

I remember when air pollution really started getting bad in Los Angeles in the 1950's. I remember football practices during inverions where your lungs would just beg for mercy. (They were called SMOG alerts.)  So not only would your body be twisted into knots from push ups and tackling drills, your respiratory system would have cramps of its own. So here I am a so-called normal adolescent male, putting his head on the pillow at night?  And what crept into my brain? I fantasized this humungous exhaust fan in the San Gabriel Mountains that would just suck all that  pollution from the L.A. Basin out into the Mojave Desert.

I, of course, was being pretty self centered. I didn't really care about the people who were brain cell deficient enough to think it was okay to live in Bakersfield, Lancaster, Palmdale, Amboy Crater, and Needles.  It's true they'd found the means to adapt to one of nature's most inhospitable places, but why? There were,  and still are, all sorts of places in the Los Angeles area where they could be just as miserable. So my fantasy remained just that. The big exhaust fan remains nothing but a dream. But that's not always the case.

Here's one of the true parts of this story. In the late 60's, '67 or '68,  we set out on a ski trip from Seal Beach, California to Jackson, Wyoming. Most of us were teachers by  then, and it was the winter break. We were with our friends Nancy and Duane Laursen andtheir friend Biff. We were all packed into a rented camper. We were excited. It was the first time in more than a decade there was actually snow in the L.A. basin. What must it be like in Jackson?   Okay, now let's back up and use a little imagination for the set up to this tale.  

I'm going to give this guy a name even though I never knew it. How about Dirk (don't sue me Clive Cussler).  Dirk was big and strong and always good with his hands.  He could fix anything mechanical. He could work on any kind of vehicle made, and make it "hum."  His fantasies, let's say mixed with the normal fare, revolved around owning his own auto shop in San Bernadino. He's saving up all his money, he get's married, and just when his nest egg is big enough to buy that little starter garage?  Well, his wife leaves him and sucks the nest egg dry.

So broke, and down in the dumps, what does he do? He moves to the Mojave Desert. He gets a job in a little gas station in Barstow. There he works on cars that break down on their way to Las Vegas. It's drudgery. And seeing all these high rollers pull in with their condescending demands enhances his resentment. At first he just recoils in disgust, self hatred and despair. But he is saved by creeping thoughts, and then full blown plots of retribution. All he needed was control over something these "jerks" had to have.

So he looks around the desert and let's his fantasy build. He remembers a time in 1954 when snow actually piled up a quarter of an inch in Bakersfield. He's heard that snow even made it's way to Barstow. If  that ever happened again what would all those Cadillacs and Lincolns traveling from L.A. to Vegas need? Coffee?

So he hasn't figured it out yet, but he knows whatever it is he is going to have to stockpile it. He will be ready. Saving every penny he can from his Gas Station job, he finds the money (not much in those days) to buy an abandoned warehouse. It's Northeast of Barstow. It's near the last big grade before you coast into Nevada. Set up is over, and at this juncture this becomes a true story again.

Dirk has decided to dream big. He is not thinking coffee, and he is not thinking a quarter of an inch of snow. He is fantasizing so much snow in the middle of the desert  that these ______'s who come in demanding a gallon of gas , might be threatened with the possibility of not getting to Vegas.

So he starts stockpiling, working at the gas station, and hoping. For some people it just works out.  In 1968 his warehouse is full. A snowstorm between Christmas and New Year's day drops well over an inch of snow in San Bernadino.  And out in the Mojave, North and East of Barstow six inches of snow hits. Dirk's pulse rate is exploding.  This is it. He is so excited he quits the gas station job and heads for the warehouse. He turns on his little radio hoping to hear some specific weather news.

It's about a eighth of a mile off the highway, but accessible by a gravel road.  He scurries around the warehouse looking for some old cardboard. He grabs an old can of Rustoleum paint and scratches out his message. He wants to hear it on the radio, but he can't wait.

 He bundles up, picks up the sign and heads for the highway.  Using a rock that's probably a million years old he drives the stakes into the ground hoping his sign will be visible with the snow falling.  Then he turns, crosses his fingers, and slowly heads back to the warehouse. He takes a deep breath before stepping through  the squeaky portal. He pauses and listens, carefully, and then his fantasy ccomes true.

"The California State Patrol has just put the chain law in affect between Barstow and Las Vegas."

"Yee Haw!"

Now you know what Dirk had in that warehouse. This was a classic case of "supply, demand ,attitude."

"Come on mister I got to get to the Flamingo. What's it going to cost to buy same chains and put them on for me."

Dirk looks this high roller up and down and replies, "That'll be a thousand dollars for the chains, and another thousand for my labor. You can get them a little cheaper, but you've got about 100 customers ahead of you right now. For half that amount I could get you out of here by tommorrow, say about 6 p.m, no guarantee."

"Thief! Alright I'll pay the two thousand. I'll give you another five hundred if you can get me out of here in a half hour."

When we reached Dirk he'd already been up for 48 hours straight.  His eyes were blood shot, his hands and arms were just masses of a mixture of blood, mud and snow.  He was wearing a pair of coveralls with a whole bunch of pockets in them. Each of those pockets was overflowing with cash (no checks or credit cards).

But I said the law of supply, demand and attitude.  Luckily wewere, and looked poor. We were also humble and impressed with his story. And we only needed a couple of links to add to the chains we had.

"Alright, five bucks."

"Thanks Dirk!"

I haven't kept in touch with Dirk so we'll have to go back to hearsay and fantasy to wrap this up. Hearsay is that Dirk no longer lives in Barstow. Rumor is he moved back West, only further West to Laguna or Malibu.

My fantasy is that Dirk now has a Saab dealership in Malibu. He's also got a warehouse up near Ventura where he is working on a giant fan that can be turned on to suck all the air pollution out into the ocean on Air Pollution Alert Days. For a price.  It could happen?

True Story? There was not enough snow in Jackson, Wyoming to open the ski hill that year.