One Percent: A Thanksgiving Hike.

Since transferring back to the Sedona store, I have to admit I've been grappling with the green monster. Serving people who seem to have unlimited resources while I, at the age of fifty four, still have to fight for every penny has just kind of gotten under my skin a little bit. It's not that I envy their wealth or the trapping of said wealth. I get out of my 15 year old pickup with 190,000 miles (that I'm still making payments on) and stroll by the BMWs, Lexuses, Mercedes and Range Rovers on my way into the store without a second glance. I do, however, resent their causal sense of entitlement. The idea that I have money so I get what I want, when I want it, the way I want it and inconvenience will not be tolerated rubs me the wrong way. Sometimes its like we don't even live in the same reality.

I cannot even comprehend walking into a store, any store, and just buying whatever the hell I feel like without calculating the cost.

Yeah, it's been bugging me. I work my f@%&*ing ass off and I can barely pay my bills while some the privileged housewives I deal with on an day to day basis has never worked a day in their life. It leads to resentment. To miscommunication. To... I don't know, what's the antonym for empathy? I'm sure I'm not alone. Income inequality in this country has never been higher. Upper management looks down the company ladder from their office suites and see nothing but shit. The workers look up and see nothing but assholes.

Welcome to America 2015.

Yeah, since coming back to Sedona, I've been in a position of semi-management, taking over for the meat manager on his days off and vacation, running the cutting room, ordering and taking my share of blame from the new set of zealous supervisors who are pounding on us because we're an “affluent” store and need to be held to a higher standard (but no better pay of course). I took over this job because, well, the company needed me. It's no more money—in fact I haven't even got a cost of living raise in eight years—but hey, thanks for helping out. Anyway, I've been stressed, been working longer hours and well add in the short days and the impending holiday grind and...

So I do what I do when I'm depressed. I walk. We're not talking around the block here. We're talking filling daybag with food for a day, a couple canteens of water and lighting out. I have some favorite spots and on one particular day last week day I chose one close by but still remote enough for some real solitude—Lower Sycamore Canyon. It's a stunning little creek that cuts through some of the most bizarre and unique geography you'll find anywhere and it's just far enough off the grid (Sedona) that its still feels like Arizona to me. Plus there was a storm moving in so the place would really be deserted.

And so I walk. I start out fast. I want to beat the storm, but also I have anger to burn. I stride into the wilderness alone and with testosterone. Some guys lifts weights and scream with rage. I hike. With attitude. Depending upon what kind of funk I am in, the miles start to loosen me up. Sometimes it's a couple. Sometimes it's eight. Or ten. Or twelve. But I've never ever been in a funk deep enough that a walk doesn't loosen it. And sure enough somewhere around the four mile mark, I realize I am having fun. Damn it if I ain't f%^*ing happy.

I keep complaining that my body is breaking down, that I come home from work a mental and physical zombie. So tired I can't hardly feed myself. But it can't be the real truth, it has to be mental, because my body is loving this strain. I am flying over rocks, skipping across the stream crossings with ease, jumping up the boulder steps and skipping off the ledges. The miles are peeling away like paper.

By the time I reach the turn around point at Parson's Spring, I have slowed down a little and am enjoying the scenery. The silence is immense, the canyon is gorgeous and the world is wide open. I no longer know why I was so stressed. This is why I live here. This is why I “threw away” my education. This is why I work a menial job that society judges is next to worthless. It just doesn't matter. I don't own much, but I don't owe much. There is little I want or need. At home, my family waits for me understanding my need for solitude and space. Right now, right here, I'm moving swiftly and gracefully through this heartbreakingly beautiful place and I am the happiest man in the world. I cannot think of one place, one thing I would rather be doing.

And that makes me the real one percent.

How to Smoke Your Turkey/Backyard.

         A few years ago, I decided to smoke our Thanksgiving turkey. Roasted turkey was fine, if a little bland,but the whole process of opening up a bird, plopping it in the pan and sliding it into the oven was a little lacking… Where was the challenge? Where was the culinary passion? Sure, I could experiment with a lot of exotic dressings but, with every government agency from here to Washington D.C. issuing terrorist-level warnings about the danger of undercooked stuffing, I decided to go in another direction. I decided to smoke my own bird.

Finding a smoker was easy. Like ab-crunch machines and bread-makers, every thrift store, and rummage sale had one or seven of the things. I soon realized why. The cheap low-end smokers are water-based smokers. The coals go in a pan at the bottom, the grill goes in the top and suspended, somewhere between the two, is a pan of water to lower cooking temperatures. Online I found pages of advice on how to smoke a bird in this manner—the most common of which was to throw the piece of junk out and buy a more expensive box-style smoker. Undaunted, courageous and cheap, I assembled the old parts and threw the turkey on.

The grill immediately collapsed, fell into the water pan that buckled, spilled the entire pan of water into the coals and extinguished the fire I’d so carefully started at 7 a.m. That first year I had no idea what I was doing, no idea how long it was going to take or any kind of thermometer to tell when it was done. We ended up eating pink turkey at 7 p.m. Unknown to us, smoke often gives the white meat a pinkish tint, but at the time, we were convinced we were eating raw turkey. We were also so hungry we didn’t care.

Maybe it was the hunger, but, even that first year, everybody loved the taste. After that, I was trapped into doing it every year. While I improved my techniques, every year brought a new challenge and crisis. One year, while I desperately tried to get the coals re-stoked, I dropped the turkey in the dirt. Another time, the water pan collapsed again—this time spilling greasy water over my brand new jacket. One year the turkey came out purple. No clue. But each year, the problems were worked out. Each year the product seemed to improve.

This past Thanksgiving was the pinnacle. Still using my now antique smoker, the finished product was something you’d see in a glossy magazine. Not only were there no mishaps, but also I had the entire process timed to perfection. The coals died away just as my digital thermometer hit 170 degrees exactly at the hour I’d invited the guests. People actually ooh-ed and ahh-ed as I brought the bird in from the patio. The only tense moment was the scramble for the last piece of delicious, succulent turkey…

There’s satisfaction in taking on a challenge, learning the craft and mastering it. Thus I was kind of congratulating myself the next day as I cleaned up the patio, swept up the wood chips, gathered the empty charcoals bags and dissembled the now trusty, old veteran smoker. I cleaned the outside, scrubbed the grill clean and tossed the ashes into my compost heap. I guess I was still reliving the glory of the perfect smoked turkey when I went to bed Friday night.

My self-satisfied sleep was soon interrupted. Matt, my stepson home from Scottsdale, woke us up sometime after midnight pounding on our bedroom door. He was yelling something. Something that sounded like, “Get up! The backyard is on fire!” I rolled over and mumbled to my wife. “What did he say?” “Something about the backyard being on fire…” We both suddenly leaped out of bed. Dressed in skivvies and a t-shirt, I rushed out of the house and into the freezing morning darkness. Matt had not been exaggerating. The entire backyard appeared to be on fire. In the middle of our yard, just beyond the patio area, we have a series of compost bins—one for dry material, one for wet and one for the finished compost. The wet pile was ablaze and so was the wooden bin for the finished dirt. A giant pile of brush and dried weeds sat next to the now encroaching flames. The entire back yard was lit up and burning ash floated crazily all over the yard.

Initial shock quickly wore off. Get the hose! I ran to the outdoor faucet in the back of the house, spun the hose onto the faucet and turned it on. Nothing came out. It’s frozen! Shit! The flames were now leaping higher—so bright you could hardly look at them. My wife ran to the front to get the hose there. I grabbed the first thing I could find—a small six-pack cooler and ran back into the house and the kitchen sink. Our kitchen faucet is notoriously slow, so I stood there waiting for the tiny cooler to fill while outside the window I could watch the bonfire.

Deb returned from the front yard with the shocking information that the front hose was frozen too! Imagine that! She quickly redeemed herself by remembering that we owned a fire extinguisher. “The fire extinguisher!” “Yes! We should get the fire extinguisher!” “Where is the fire extinguisher?” “The fire extinguisher is around here someplace!” Of course the fire extinguisher was hanging by the back door that we’d charged through a half dozen times already. Matt looked at us like we were retards. He ripped the thing off the wall with brute force and ran into the back yard.

Meanwhile my six-pack cooler was almost full of water.

By the time I returned to the yard with my half gallon of water—Matt had emptied the entire fire extinguisher on the inferno. While it had definitely dampened the worst of the flames, the fire was already coming back. My six-pack of water had virtually no effect.

Deb then reappeared with yet another fire extinguisher she remembered we owned. I ran back to the house for more water and almost tripped over the dogs’ five-gallon water bucket again. A light bulb went on in my soggy brain. It wasn’t near as bright as the fire but… Dropping my six-pack cooler, I grabbed the five-gallon pail and threw it on the burn. That made a difference.

Running back to the outside faucet, I had to fumble with icy hands to take the hose off we had just moments earlier put on. Finally I got it off and turned the handle. Water shot everywhere. The outside faucet is connected directly to the well pump and the water pressure is intense. Suddenly my underwear is soaked and I’m standing barefoot in a couple inches of cold water. I didn’t care. Now the bucket was filling fast. By the time I got back to the flames, Matt had emptied the second extinguisher on it and had now found a shovel and was throwing dirt on the flames. I threw another five gallons and suddenly we were making progress.

Now I’m starting to look around and see if a crowd has gathered to watch the show. Incredibly all our neighbors are apparently asleep. I listen for the sirens, but so far hear only the hissing of the fire. Deb found another couple buckets and we started running back and forth from the faucet to the flames. Most of the compost bin was gone-- only the far wall next to the dry pile was still standing. I looked at the ten-foot high pile of dry branches and shuttered. If that caught—and the dry wood plank fence behind it… I dropped my bucket and started hauling wood away from the rest of the flames. Matt started to bust up the reminding pieces of the bin and Debi pitched in to help--running a board and nail into her foot in the process. They don’t make house slippers like they used to… I was still expecting to hear police and fire truck sirens any minute. I imagined myself attempting to explain to the firemen why exactly I dumped hot ash on a rotting pile of plant material. Obviously, sir, alcohol WAS involved…

I don’t know how long we continued to throw cold water on the now soggy ground, but by the time we went inside, we were soaked, shivering and covered in soot. Bright side to the story I reflected, we could now understandably give up the whole smoked turkey tradition. Time to go back to the good, old, safe roasted bird. The other two looked at me like I was crazy. “Are you kidding?” Matt said. “This is the BEST THANKSGIVING STORY EVER.”

Obviously alcohol was involved.                                      

A f