"Echoes from the Thundermug"
By John Richard Jackson, writing as "Thundermug"
John Richard Jackson collected this, his most extensive volume, in 1997 — drawing on his long-running newspaper column as well as more recent stories, printed by B&B Printers of Gunnison, Colorado. Like all six Thundermug books, it went out of print years ago. It is reproduced here, in sections, exactly as John wrote it, with his sister's blessing as his sole heir.
What follows is reproduced in John's own words, exactly as he wrote them — nothing edited, softened, or left out. It carries the same broad, joking, tall-tale narrator he uses throughout "Please Go to Hell" and "Once Around the Thunder Mug," playing up a folksy small-town-goofball persona that was a deliberate comic choice, not a reflection of how he actually wrote or spoke. Where a spelling or spacing slip appears below, it is almost certainly an artifact of scanning and optical character recognition on the original printed book, not an error of John's.
John signed his newspaper column and this and his other self-published books with the pen name "Thundermug."
Contents
The book's own front matter — Dedication and Foreword — in full below:
The book's collected stories and columns, grouped into sections and added as they're transcribed:
- Creede Boyhood, Part One
- Creede Boyhood, Part Two
- Grown Up in Creede, Part One
- Grown Up in Creede, Part Two
- Grown Up in Creede, Part Three
- Memories
- Married Life and Mining Camps, Part One
- Married Life and Mining Camps, Part Two
- Married Life and Mining Camps, Part Three
- Married Life and Mining Camps, Part Four
- In Respectful Memory Of — the book's closing memorial and tribute pages
The handsome gentleman in the photo above (1955 version) is the main perpetrator and instigator of this publication. Mr. Leonard was a columnist for the Monte Vista Journal, a civic luminary and manager of a savings and loan institution among his many and varied accomplishments. He was also a toper of spirits, a hell raiser and fun lover which drew a gentle person like myself under his influence. I'm sure he will not be offended and it will not further tarnish our reputations if I tell you, in a spirit of philanthropy, we once signed "ORGAN DONOR" cards. They were returned to us stamped "FERTILIZER ONLY". Let us live until the Owl calls our names, old pal.
Dedication
Alice Josephine "Jo" Jackson loved children. She was long on patience and short on discipline so the children, also, loved her. In her later years when she tired more easily she employed a game she called "tick-a-lock" to harness the kids when they became too rowdy. When she called out "tick-a-lock" they had to stop and maintain the positions they were in at that exact moment. They couldn't move until she said "unlock". I don't recall if there was any punishment if they involuntarily moved, probably not. I do remember that the game continued until the children were so tired they readily accepted nap-time and she would then have an hour or two to read and relax.
Charlotte Lane McClure, a half sister to Jo, used a different method but achieved the same result. When she needed a reprieve she would tear off a small piece of Scotch tape and hand it to the child. After thirty minutes to an hour of pulling the tape from the fingers of one hand only to have it stick to the other hand the youngster was ready for the sand man.
For the past thirty-five years and for a reason that eludes me, females have been trying to prove their equality or even superiority to males. It appears an effort in futility because males have never been equal to females. Please, show me one male who has given birth to a child. Show me one male who has breast fed a baby. It must be balm for the soul for those who have so ardently supported the Equal Rights Amendment and organized groups to advance the cause for women in the workplace and politics, but I believe their priorities got mixed up in the shuffle.
Mothers hold families together and provide the atmosphere that allows children to mature at a proper pace. Mothers have always been the strength of the family, the stability of a family and the source of nutrition and learning. I can't believe that being the Chief Executive Officer of a large corporation, a lawyer or a successful politician could possibly give a woman the satisfaction equal to raising a well-adjusted child with the knowledge that her love and devotion created something man, with all his strength and bravado, his endurance and cunning, could never equal.
We dedicate this publication to those wonderful, beautiful ladies who aspired to the highest position offered by our Lord and Saviour. The position of Motherhood. They deserve every accolade we can offer. May they savor the love and respect of their children forever.
Special thanks to a loving wife and dear friends who encouraged me to dwell in "The Thundermug" where memories, the very essence of life, are stored.
Foreword
From my earliest recollections I have never felt comfortable being a part of what is called "civilization". I was a tongue tied, towheaded youngster with a shock of hair a comb would never be able to tame. My earliest memories are of nightmares. The dreams started as soon as I drifted off to sleep and seemed unending; terrible dreams designed to terrorize me and leave me a sweating, screaming mass of weak flesh that brought Mom Jo from her own fitful sleep to soothe me and convince me I was only dreaming. In those early years I was never sure which stage was living and which stage was dreaming. I would have departed either with no regrets.
My mind had more questions than answers and I begged, in silent thought, for a reason for my existence. I still try to fathom why I am here or, for that matter, why man was created. We work, we play, we eat, we drink, we grow old and we die without seeming to improve the lot of those around us or the planet that gives us shelter. Do we live only for that which pleases our senses? I have tried to list, on scale, the most pleasurable moments of my life and the top spot never fails to be some event or circumstance that evoked laughter. Comedian Bob Hope could walk to a microphone, smile and the audience would start laughing, an outpouring of love for this man who could make you forget your problems with eye contact. I believe love and laughter are bedfellows. Either can bring relief to the most depressed soul and, together, can conquer old Satan himself.
Whether or not we question the whys and wherefores of our existence we are here for a predetermined period of time and for a reason that will elude us until we venture from this medium to another of higher or lower requirements. Our many and varied religious beliefs have failed to give me the solid, unequivocal answers that would better enable me to face each day with the assurance that my efforts and attitude will provide something of worth for mankind as a whole.
So I write. I write of many things in hopes you, the readers, can relate to a part or parts and will laugh with me in humorous episodes or will shed a tear when I describe the loss of a relative, a friend or a pet. I have always treasured the written word whether in book form or the rough sheet of a cheap tablet that someone has laboriously printed a message for my eyes alone of his or her innermost thoughts or special occasions. Spelling and punctuation are not important in letters between friends.
I was a hard rock miner for most of my years but kept both a mental and written chronicle that served me well when I began writing a weekly column for THE MINERAL COUNTY MINER AND SOUTH FORK TINES, a weekly newspaper originating in Creede, Colorado. The following stories are reprints from that period of my life as well as recent stories.