Congratulations Team Tierra Buena! Way to get on your one year
anniversary, and your 300 feat! Great Poetry also!
-Frobro Goose
-----Original Message-----
From:
az-geocaching-admin@listserv.azgeocaching.com
[
mailto:az-geocaching-admin@listserv.azgeocaching.com] On Behalf Of Team
Tierra Buena
Sent: Wednesday, October 30, 2002 7:59 PM
To:
listserv@azgeocaching.com
Subject: [Az-Geocaching] The Anniversary Present
The Caching of Stan McBee
(With profound apologies to Robert W. Service, whose poems should be
read and enjoyed by all.)
There are strange things found on the caching-ground
'Neath the Arizona sun;
There are rattlesnakes sly, and cholla that fly,
And temps that reach one twenty-one,
What's 'round the next bend could make hair stand on end,
But the strangest sight you'll ever see,
Is if you find the cache that has nothing but ash --
The remains of old Stan McBee.
Now, Stan McBee always went out with glee
To locate the latest site.
He found quite a few, even placed one or two,
Just to keep his Cache Karma right.
He lived all alone, so the urge to get goin'
Was no cause for family strife.
'Twas but one little fly in the ointment, or I
Would say Stan had a cache-perfect life.
That flaw had to do with his left and right shoe;
Seems he never once got them to trod
As a pair, or a team. Sad to say, it would seem
That my caching friend Stan was a clod.
Ten yards with his gait, sure as flush beats a straight,
He'd be sprawling out flat on the trail.
He fell once too often, and started to soften,
Old Stanley was getting quite frail.
He called me one day in his affable way,
And said, "Meet me. I'll buy you a beer!"
But when I got there and saw him in the chair,
I knew there was no cause for cheer.
"I just came from the doc's. I've tripped too many rocks,
Son, I ain't got much more time to stay.
When I take the last fall, my attorney will call
You, and please do what she has to say."
I was saddened no end, but a friend stays a friend,
And I promised I'd honor his plea.
We shook hands in farewell. Though it hurts me to tell,
'Twas the last time he ever saw me.
Weeks passed, one or two, then a phone call came through
from a law office down in Tempe.
"At our office near Mill, we'll be reading the will
Of the late cacher, Stanley McBee."
I arrived right at ten, and was soon ushered in
To the office of Mary Sinclair,
She asked me to sit, and I near threw a fit
When I saw there was only one chair.
"You were Stanley's one friend, it was right at the end
He left all his possessions to you.
But to get his bequest, he left one last request
That you alone can and must do."
With that she reached o'er, and up from the floor
Moved a green ammo case to the table.
"Stan's been cremated. His will clearly stated
You must do this task if you're able.
Here's a long and a lat; now you must go seek that
Site, and under a cottonwood tree,
Hide this ammo-can cache, though it be filled with ash.
It stays secret between you and me."
Armed with my GPS, and just barely a guess,
I set out to seek the location
Of that place in the land where my good old friend Stan
Wished to rest his remains of cremation.
Without too much grief, and to my great relief,
'Round that waypoint I steadily tightened,
As I drew near the spot, my nerve endings were shot,
For some reason I felt rather frightened.
The site suited him, it was up on the Rim,
(Maybe not. These are beans I won't spill.)
And in spite of the trees, I got signals with ease:
There's the spot, just atop a small hill!
As I set down the case, my heart started to race,
Beause someone had been here 'fore me!
There's a lined yellow sheet, that was folded so neat,
'Neath a rock by that cottonwood tree.
"Son," said the note, and you know who wrote,
"You're a fine cacher and a good friend.
In spite of my spills and my physical ills,
You were here for me right to the end.
Now I want you to savor the depth of the favor
You've done me. It's not overstated:
Thanks to you and your Garmin, this clumsy ol' varmin'
Can at last say: I'm COORDINATED!"
There are strange things found on the caching-ground
'Neath the Arizona sun;
There are rattlesnakes sly, and cholla that fly,
And temps that reach one twenty-one,
What's 'round the next bend could make hair stand on end,
But the strangest sight you'll ever see,
Is if you find the cache that has nothing but ash --
The remains of old Stan McBee.
C Copyright 2002, Stephen N. Gross. All rights reserved.
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