"Echoes from the Thundermug": Grown Up in Creede, Part Three

Welcome Home

I exercised my visiting privileges with the larger portion of my tangible assets and my in-laws, Paul and Mary, this last weekend in Montrose. Mary is always glad to see me and little wonder with what she has to face between visits. Paul is wrapped up in his manure concoction, which is just where he should be, and acknowledges my presence by stirring the broth furiously so the smell drifts in the kitchen and coats my adenoids as Inez briefs me on the financial situation and malfunctioning appliances.

This visit, I replaced an element and fast heat switch on the electric range. The last touch is to check voltage on two 240-volt connections and one 120-volt connection before wiring the little red light in. I have never had a voltmeter and in the past relied on the 50/50 odds of having it wired correctly. You lose some and you win some but this time I thought I would use Paul and a couple of hot wires. I figured if his eyes spun clockwise, the 120-volt circuit was OK and if he expired in a shower of sparks the 240-volt circuits would need switching. Better old Paul going to glory than having to buy another fast heat switch. He has never been one to tempt the hand of fate and hid in his compost vapors as I flipped the breakers. We won this one, partially.

Californians are now No. 1 in the nation for fielding the most idiots on mountain roads, at least by my vote. A black Porsche carrying two sun-bleached hopheads passed me and two other scared souls on a blind curve in a narrow canyon without missing a snort.

Another vehicle with California license plugged my exhaust pipe for a mile while flashing his lights on and off before I found a wide spot to let them zoom by, cursing me for only going the posted speed limit. They were evidently out of beer, as I didn't see them throw any empties out the window.

The trip did have its rewards, however. I had four meals without having to do a hitch at the sink and Inez took me to five yard sales where I didn't buy a gold dredge, a home made sluice box or two boxes of pipe fittings. I feel right proud of myself when I resist temptation in such an uptown manner.

Talking to Yourself OK, But Don't Start Believing It

Dick Wilson is a likable fellow. He's getting a trifle slow from having a size 11 brain being rattled around in a size 13 cage, and walks on the backs of his heels, but, all in all, I like the guy.

Dick talks to himself. There is no stigma to talking to yourself. Herb "Pee Wee" Hutchinson, who worked in Creede many years ago, could carry on a three-way conversation with himself and laugh at the proper time. Charles Steele talks to himself, Ed Hargraves talks to himself and Billy Wills might just as well have talked to himself.

The trouble with Dick Wilson is he believes what he's hearing. I talk to myself, but I know I'm a damned liar so I don't believe a word I say. Dick thinks his information comes straight from the horse's mouth, when actually it comes from the other end.

Dick gets on his tractor dragging cow pies around the meadow while his tongue gives him all kinds of advice. By noon he has worked himself into such a frenzy that he stomps into Alice's kitchen and barks, "Where's my lunch, old woman." Thirty minutes later, he's trying to see out of swollen eyes as he wipes blood from his nose and his tongue is scolding him for not using an uppercut followed by a right cross as manure scatters behind the drag.

Last time we went up to check the homestead, the first gossip we heard was about old Dick Wilson shooting at a coyote that was hassling his calves and clipping one wire of the transmission line, effectively cutting power to all the upper Cebolla ranches and summer homes. With each repeat of the story it got smellier and smellier. For one thing, the calves were in the meadow and the power line is on the hillside. For another, the coyotes are as afraid of Alice Wilson as the rest of us and never ventured near the Wilson calves.

The Wilsons are on a party line on their ranch on the Cebolla. Getting the telephone on that line is somewhat like drawing for a sweepstakes with only one prize. When the truth emerges, we will learn that Dick was trying to call Gunnison while two old biddies up the creek were discussing female problems. That is at least a four-hour subject, without a coffee break, on any eight-party line. After picking the receiver up and slamming it down over a period of an hour, he heard himself say, "I'll cut their water off." With that he slammed out the door, jerked his hunting rifle from the hangers in his pickup and took dead aim on a telephone insulator.

As I wrote at the start, old Dick is getting a little slow and he never was much of a marksman. He squeezed the trigger and all broke loose. The power line, a full five feet above the telephone wire, parted and skittered along through the brush, starting six separate fires before wrapping itself around an old horse carcass and blowing a fuse.

For the first time, Dick received information straight from the horse's mouth when his tongue rattled out, "I'll cut their water off." He didn't hear from the ladies monopolizing the phones, but the two taking showers when loss of power stopped water pumps believed his story even less than myself. You can now hear him lisping through the space where four upper teeth once resided as he goes through his daily chores.

Heifer Checker Sets Tone on Powderhorn

Life could get dull during the winter on the Cebolla if we weren't blessed with the presence of Dick Wilson. Dick, if you will remember, is the fellow who blasts coyotes walking power lines. He hasn't yet hit a coyote but he is death on power lines, much to the chagrin of the power company and the consumers affected most by his errant aim.

Dick has gone on to bigger and better pursuits since his last coyote hunt. He is the uncontested professional pregnancy tester of the cattle herds near Powderhorn. Don't anyone sneer. This requires a gentle touch, a knowledge of heifer anatomy and a rugged constitution as this operation is generally scheduled when snow is on the ground and temperatures hover below zero. No rancher wants to feed a dry cow through the winter and the only way to weed them out is to check the bassinet and feel if it is occupied. This requires the tester to wear a rubber suit and a surgeon's glove with gauntlet to the shoulder. The cows don't like it at all and they release all bowel control to show their distaste for Dick's fingers walking through the bellow cages.

He plays his role to the hilt. Everything is planned and laid out to his specifications. His two assistants are hand-picked and he insists on the most sterile of conditions. However, over the past two years there have been grumblings reverberating down the valley from a few of his hosts that dry cows are making it to the range and pregnant cows to the packing houses.

Ed Howard, Glen Sammons, Bill Van Dyke, Pat McKee and Wendel Wilson have all been staunch supporters and have sworn by their old friend Dick Wilson. Dick is the first one there in time of need, he always has time to help a neighbor and his equipment is used by all and sundry but calves are their bread and butter. If the old stumblebum is losing his touch, they want to know.

There they were, gathered in Ed Howard's corrals, 250 head of range cows protesting the confinement and being herded toward the testing shoot at old Dick's orders and the first cow's neck was yoked tight by the assistants.

"Pregnant," he yelled as he withdrew his arm. "Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant, dry," echoed in the shoot as the cows came by in rapid succession.

Unknown to Mr. Wilson, his compatriots had rung in a couple of steers well back in the herd. On they came and Dick's decisions were recorded by the ear tag number of the cow just tested. Dick was getting tired, no doubt about it. It was cold, it was windy and he still had half the herd to go when the first of the two steers passed by his position and was locked in fast. Pregnant came the diagnosis. His assistants looked at each other questioningly hoping Dick would reconsider. "Hurry 'em up, we haven't got all day!" he hollered as two more pregnant cows cleared the shoot. Then came the other steer, bucking and snorting. "Pregnant as hell," he yelled.

That group of ranchers held a meeting after the testing and Dick was well on his way home. You have never seen a loyal or more trusting organization, but if two steers aren't nursing calves by spring Dick Wilson will be back shooting at coyotes on power lines and he will have to be pregnancy tested to find his surgeon's glove.

Antiques in Yard, Waving Part of His Style

In a rare happenstance, I am able to relate to nearly all of the columns in the Sept. 4 issue of SLV Midweek and The Mineral County Miner.

Rhonda Spencer's words on friendly waving reminded me of a tradition in the Powderhorn Valley which includes horn honking as well as waving. Everybody waves to everyone on the road, and nearly everybody gives a toot or two with the horn as they pass the homes.

On shopping trips to Gunnison, we were surprised by the number who waved at us until we learned that Sam Hutchinson, a permanent fixture there, has a white Chevrolet pickup like ours — the only difference being that I have two spare tires mounted in the rear of the bed and Sam has only one. I'm better looking than old Sam, too, but I realize they were waving at the vehicle and not me.

It is hard to break such a habit, so I wave as a natural reaction to meeting a car. I was on my way to Montrose one day when I met a highway patrolman. I was acquainted with Ellis Nash, one of the original 25 Courtesy Patrolmen in 1940, so I waved to this fellow like he was an old buddy as we passed somewhere near Cimarron.

The patrolman traveled on for less than a half-mile, made a U-turn and followed me until he could be certain I wasn't wanted for theft or vagrancy.

Mary Schroder had a column on yard sales. My chubby little dough mixer sold the house kit and kaboodle at a yard sale eight years ago. Cross my heart, it's true, I was against the production from the start.

It was on one of those weekends I was home from exploration duties and all I wanted to do was rest and enjoy my own bathroom. We lugged tons of excess living and reading material to the yard, set out the signs and waited.

I had never seen such commotion as the early arrivals snatched every bargain that in another week or two would grace their own yard sales. I left amid the pricing confusion and when I returned, Inez said, "I sold the house."

I poured a cup of coffee and tried to be as humorous.

"I'm not joking," she went on. "I really did sell the house.

"Do you remember the elderly gentleman and lady who walked around the yard and wanted to see the kitchen?"

I didn't remember, but I nodded anyway.

"Their son is getting married to a widow with two children and they are looking for a house in this area. He is a real estate agent and will have the papers drawn up for us to sign tomorrow and we have 30 days to move."

There are times when I wish Kansas had closed its borders before this girl decided to immigrate.

Al "Hoots" Colville & Co. had to pass by our spread on his way to Slumgullion Pass according to his column in the Upper Grande newspapers. He surely saw a number of antiques scattered around the homestead, though this isn't the place he quoted the rancher when asked what he did with all those antiques.

"Mainly, I farm with them," he replied.

We had company not long ago who loved our place. The husband joined me on a tour of the North 40. We passed a bulldozer, a backhoe, a tractor with plow and a battered vehicle.

"Are you going to tell me you actually use all this junk in ranching?" he asked.

"Sure," I answered. "I've got one even older than these working in the kitchen right now."

Smooth as a Biscuit

I came home the other night and found my bride all hunched over with a death grip on the sink, looking as pale and shaky as Les Turnipseed when he learned Charlotte was pregnant for the fourth time.

I figured she had either met the UPS lady, who drives like a bat out of hell on our winding narrow road, or she had lost a foot race with one of the bulls in the pasture near us.

As it turned out it was far worse, in her estimation. She had been using more water than on a normal day from our limited supply and had gone up the hill to check the depth of the water in the culvert-type storage sump, where she found a mouse, hairless and bloated, floating in silent repose. She had spent the remainder of the day retching, choking, gagging and dragging herself around.

Thirty years ago when Scooter and I were sinking a winze in the Holy Moses mine, I had installed a water tank in First Gulch opposite the mine in East Willow Creek for both drill water and drinking. It became less than potable after several weeks, not putrid but with what could be considered a very distinctive taste.

Scooter had long since quit drinking from the overflow pipe, as had the crew from the Phoenix Mine but Pete Walker, who hauled our ore, and myself drank our fill each day, replenished our canteens from this icy cold, snow melt and remarked to each other at times that the pipe must be rusting to cause the peculiar taste.

When we had mucked out and drilled the floor of the winze for another day's hoisting of ore, Scooter would leave me to tamp the explosives and time the round while he did maintenance work outside and hauled a couple of barrels of water for compressor coolant and a pressure tank used in drilling. I had notched the fuse and lit it with a carbide lamp flame, climbed the ladders and waited several feet from the hoist station to count the reports.

Satisfied that we had no misfires, I walked the half mile of tunnel to sunlight and fresh air and was just hanging up my diggers when Scooter handed me a piece of board with the barely identifiable remains of a mouse and chipmunk spread-eagled on the wood. "I had time to clean the water tank," he advised me, "and here's what has been fouling up the water." I wasn't very proud of old Scooter as I tried to turn myself inside out lying flat on the waste dump.

A friend once told me of the smoothness of a drink he had been mixing, Old Crow and Cranapple juice. I tried it, but as Pete Walker will attest, no drink approaches the smoothness of First Gulch ice water laced with mouse fur.

A variant of this story appears in John's third book, "Get Grandpa Off The Thunder Mug," as "Smooth as Silk A'Goin' or A'Comin'," told there with differences kept exactly as printed in each: that version names a different man, Wylie Turnquist, in a different predicament, in place of Les Turnipseed's fourth pregnancy; "Overnight Express driver" for "UPS lady"; the date given as 1953 rather than "thirty years ago"; and "the crew from the Outlet Mine" rather than "the crew from the Phoenix Mine." That book alone names William "Scooter" Jackson by his full name in the story.

Fish Dish Gave Jackson's Clan, Neighbors a Hot Time

Several weeks ago, I offered Cynthia Haynes a temporary position as camp cook to give her a respite from her slave-driving husband and snake-, mouse-, cat- and dog-gathering kids. I hereby rescind that offer.

Inez reads all the drivel the lady columnists pen for The Miner and Tines and tries most of the recipes offered so graciously by Cynthia. One of the culinary delights happened to be fish fillets drug through a litter box, tenderized with hydrochloric acid and seasoned with leftover cosmetics.

As my wounds healed, I have taken thrice daily walks around the neighborhood and along a pasture where 30 head of cattle were dropping shiny, new calves to entertain us. I knew something was amiss on one return trip when I saw city employees in gas masks removing manhole covers and checking sewage lines in a circle around our block.

Having worked with miners and geologists for 40 years, I have become accustomed to exotic smells, but when I entered Mrs. Jackson's kitchen — where fumes from Cynthia's fish fillet casserole were coating the woodwork with a grayish film — every pore in my body closed tight and even my ears struggled to tuck themselves inside.

I'll have you know that Bob Blackburn and I have eaten everything that cackled, squealed or grunted. We roasted ground squirrels on pointed willow sticks over hot coals when we thought we were Indians. We ate half-raw prairie dogs and whistle pigs, fried, roasted and stewed. When I was a hunter, I preferred grain-fed prairie dog over cottontail rabbit any day of the week. I wouldn't have touched this Cynthia Haynes hangover concoction with a ten-foot pole.

My old partner was puttering around with a soiled apron oblivious to the dark cloud or bubbles rising from the cauldron to explode several inches above the mass like penny balloons at a political rally. She smiled and slid some plates along the counter. Then a bell rang in the rear of my thinker. By God! She's going to do it. She's going to murder my father-in-law. For 12 minutes I held my breath as I helped with the place settings and napkins.

Paul Schriver may have stoked his boiler for 60 years with unfiltered tobacco leaf, but it didn't affect his olfactory organ. With the first whiff, he started on a search for a cat pile, moving papers with a cane and checking on hands and knees behind the couch and easy chairs. He needn't have been so concerned. When Lucy Cat wrinkled her nose with her first smell of the unusual, she checked her bed over, hastily checked herself, then went through the back screen door like a bullet. I was whipping Rose Garden, Lysol and Tetrachloride containers around spraying high and low, certain that if the old bugger passed one forkful down his gullet, he would evaporate without a trace.

Sirens sounded just prior to simultaneous pounding at both doors as sewer workers, police, firemen and two heroic neighbors converged on the kitchen to maneuver the casserole into a bomb disposal capsule for its journey to a watery grave somewhere in the Marianas Trench of the Pacific Ocean.

You will be proud to learn, Cynthia, that downwind of your printed creation, peach trees blossomed six weeks early, self-propelled windrowers were called on to clear the golf course of new growth, and bricks on the Baptist Church sprouted hair.

JOHN: I'm not sure what your problem is. The fish was delicious when we tried it here, nothing like the egg dishes she cooked a few years ago. Maybe you should stop buying your fish from the week-old counter. Regards. SCH.

Open Season Declared on Jackson

OPEN RANGE, by Cynthia Haynes

Many wild animals are legal to hunt in Colorado. I've got friends who regularly bring home elk, deer, bear, antelope, turkey, grouse cougar and many other species. This year, the Federated Commission on Wild Life has named a new game animal — the Jackson.

The commission, consisting of Inez, Bubbles, Paul, Heinie, Shorty and Cynthia, has declared open season on Jacksons. The season runs the entire length of Mud — April 1 through June 15. Although, according to an expert in Montrose, the females of the species are plump and tender, only the tough stringy males (called Johns) may be taken. The bag limit is one John Jackson per hunter per season.

I'm sure this news will overjoy all true gourmets. Nothing overjoys true gourmets like having a recipe with hard-to-find ingredients, and this is definitely a hard-to-find ingredient. I've yet to lay eyes on a Jackson, male or female.

There are several approved methods of preparing this less-than-tender hunk. Heinie suggests that since it is usually found pickled, it can be served as is. Inez usually tries to stuff hers, and Paul would prefer to remove the stuffing from his. Shorty, the real cook in the group, always prepares his with sauce — whiskey being his favorite. Bubbles expressed a frequent desire to cream John. And I prefer mine half-baked, which it usually is.

A long cooking time is recommended for all types of tough meat. The following recipe does wonders for tough meat, and can be used for Jacksons, or for round steak if you don't care enough to get the very best.

P.S. Montrose is a favorite hiding place for Jacksons. However, we keep hoping that they will migrate back into the Creede area.

JJ Not Worth the Powder

The Reader's Right

To the Editor:

Generally Jonathan Quinine Jackson writes a pretty good column. But periodically, he apparently has to go off the deep end and beleaguer his mentor, counselor, guru, confidant and benefactor. I have bought him books and periodicals, sent him to picture shows, soothed his ruffled feathers, wiped away his tears and furnished innumerable crying towels. And yet he still goes off the deep end. When I remonstrate, he blithely declares the devil made him do it. You know, I believe he's right.

And to think that in 1984 Mr. Gordon Shorty Wheeler and I cheerfully and buoyantly funded Mr. J's abortive campaign for president of these United States on the Powderhorn ticket.

Over the past years, I have on these deep-end occasions consulted several attorneys and have received the same advice each time — there's no blood to be had from this particular turnip. I have contemplated putting out a contract on Thundermug John, but it seems no hit man will consider undertaking this job for a buck and a quarter. Well, so be it.

"Heinie" Leonard
Monte Vista

'Dunk' Recalls Feuds With Jackson

On the Rio Grande, by Steve Haynes

It isn't often that we get to tell stories on Thundermug Johnny Jackson, but Paul Dunkel has a whole string of them.

"If I could write them all out," Dunk says, "I'd really have something." And, come to think of it, we might just try and talk him into doing that. He's got the time right now.

Paul recalled that, when the two worked for Emperius Mining Co. at the Commodore, they often rode home together in a company truck, a beat-up old junker at best.

"He was always a staunch Republican," Dunk recalled, "and we always argued about politics."

"I'd get it started. I'd make some remarks about Republicans. One night, I got him going about something, and boy was he mad. I wished I hadn't got him started.

"Well, we came by the north end of town and Bertie Bruns was out watering her lawn. I said something like, isn't it great how old Bertie gets around."

And Johnny yelled, "Don't try to change the subject now. I'm mad and I'm going to go home and be mean to Inie and the cat."

Another time, Dunk recalled, he and Jackson were working in different parts of the Commodore. The motorman had to be called to hoist the last man up to Jackson's level, and this day the last man was Jackson.

The stations in the mine were connected by old-fashioned military hand crank phones which were unreliable at best. Johnny apparently had been ringing for a lift, but the phone where help awaited wasn't responding.

Jackson stormed into the lunchroom, where Dunk and the rest of his crew were taking a coffee break, walked to the timber holding the phone and ripped the wires form the instrument.

"If you aren't going to answer this phone," he shouted at Dunkel, who was in a chair leaned against the post, "then there's no use in having one."

He stormed out, "Basketball Willie" Leggitt on his tail to run the hoist. Dunkel sat and stewed, then finally decided to go have it out with Jackson. He had himself hoisted to John's level, but when he got there, didn't know quite what to do. After thinking a moment, he strode over and ripped the phone from the wall. Jackson's crew watched in disbelief. They talked about it all day long.

"I thought I might have lost a friend for nothing over that," Dunk recalled, "but when we came out that day, he shook my hand and said, 'Well, at least you had guts enough to do something.'"

Space is reserved for Dunkel's stories, courtesy of Jackson.

John's Friends Looking for Place to Stash Gin-Guzzling Comrade

To the Editor:

Something has to be done about this here Jackson — he's gotta go. Your suggestions are requested for you are in this too, for The Miner and Tines created this refugee from a cuckoo's nest.

The thing that distresses Wheeler and me the most is that, when just a few months ago there was concerted talk up that way about forming Concerned Citizens for the Upper Rio Grande Movement to Abolish Jackson, old sentimental Wheeler and Leonard discouraged the formation of such a group, feeling old JJ really needed protection due to advancing senility and that he probably was more to be pitied than censured. How naive we were. When Thundermug John became aware of our efforts on his behalf, he blithefully belittled them.

Wheeler and I had talked about putting out a contract on him, but we found we couldn't afford a hit man. We discussed asking for deportation, but then the question arose — to where? Inquiry has revealed that he is persona non grata in New Mexico, Nevada and portions of France, Germany, Mineral and Rio Grande counties. We had thought of asking for a court order that would confine him for at least a year to a kitchenette-apartment in the sole custody of his father-in-law, but decided that would constitute cruel and unusual punishment — to his father-in-law. So you see, we're at a loss. What are we going to do with this apparition? All suggestions, from anyone, will be considered and appreciated.

I rather hate to reveal this, for this really is a low-low blow, even to a perpetual low-blower. Did any of you know that this grizzled former Creedite (and I do mean Thundermug John) has forsaken bourbon and branch water in favor of gin and tonic? This one little item alone demonstrates the condition of his advanced depravity.

Abjectly,
H. Leonard
Monte Vista

Jackson Strikes Back

To the Editor:

Remember when nearly everyone had a root cellar that had to be cleaned out in the spring? All the rotting vegetables were dumped in a pile by the neighbor's house where, with a rain or two, a hungry skunk and the help of various insects and slitherers, the pile and most of the smell vanished within a month. I have lived in hope that the same fate would silence that molting mutant from Monte Vista, Mr. H. "Heinie" Leonard, aka Adorable Jones, who dredges up derogatory drivel for publication from time to time.

His patient wife, Vivi, has tried to dispose of him several times, but the Environmental Protection Agency jumps down her throat for dumping hazardous waste in unlicensed areas before she can smother his belches. Too, the insect hasn't been cross-bred that would dare invade his carcass, though many years ago he was bitten by a large bumble bee. That poor, befuddled buzzer pollinated two dormitories in southern Colorado and might still be flexing his stinger if he hadn't got squashed in the rumble seat of a 1929 Model A Ford while investigating a camel-hair coat.

For a person who spent the better part of eight years either under peace bond or on parole while exiled to Creede, and is 52 years in arrears in child support payments to the female gorilla of the Lewis' Brothers single-ring circus that played the Valley towns one summer, old Lonesome Joe is taking dangerous liberties by carrying on a vendetta against someone just nominated for membership in the Senior Citizens "Doing What I Can" club of Montrose.

I must apologize for anything debasing I might have written about our friend G. Shorty Wheeler. My mistake was in presuming guilt by association. I have since learned that Shorty associates with Heinie solely for the purpose of reforming him, or at least smoothing off the rough edges. A hopeless effort, but Mr. Wheeler deserves our respect and gratitude nonetheless.

Mr. Leonard continues to berate my choice of happy-hour beverage. Long ago, I learned that bourbon and branch water caused nose bleeds, swollen eyebrows and overextended donations to the street and alley funds of townships. Since becoming a refined gentleman with 16th Street drinking habits, my blood count has become very stable and the skin no longer peels from the knuckles of my friends.

Mr. H. "Adorable Jones" Leonard could be pumped through the circuit of a high octane gas cracking plant and still not be refined enough to raise glasses with my present-day peers. I feel certain none of my old friends will be disturbed by the ravings of pickled brain cells over a sour mash tongue and my reputation will remain untarnished.

Thank you for the opportunity to respond to the unwarranted attack on my personage by Mr. Leonard, and very best wishes to Creede friends, young and old.

John "Thundermug" Jackson
Montrose

Old Tom Just Never Could Adjust to Retirement Life

Tom couldn't handle retirement. He had set a goal for himself during his primary years to place a kitten in every home in Creede town, with a few spares in case a rancher needed an extra mouser. A veterinarian's scalpel cut short his ambitions along that line. He was later transferred to new quarters, over the divide on Spring Creek, where there was a crying need for his services in keeping the mouse, mole and vole population under control. During this time he warmed a small space by the bay window while a well-oiled digestive mechanism made room for the next victim.

He didn't like it when the real cook left us, the one with the soft lap that ran her fingers around the spots that needed scratched or tickled, and carried him to his back-porch bed at night instead of pointing and whomping him with a rolled-up newspaper. He liked it even less when I had to leave for extended periods, and his production suffered in his wildlife forays until I returned.

He liked to show me his catch, bragging past the limp ball of fur clenched in his mouth as I chopped kindling wood and took care of other outside chores. When satisfied that I had seen the size of the catch and heard the tale of the chase, he would crawl over the chicken wire gate to his dinner table and begin restoring his energy with gnashing teeth and guttural sounds that would reduce the plump body to a head, paunch and rear feet. He always ate the front feet but left the rear feet and head for the trophy pole.

The black cat was very old, how old we never learned, but when cold weather set in this year and I had to move him and his companion, Lucy, to Montrose, he turned feeble overnight. He picked at his food, slept more and moved from one rug to another with effort. The string with the button on the end no longer drew his attention, and he cried in pain when Lucy jumped from her hiding places to bowl him over in the scrambles he used to love so much.

I had fashioned an open cage for their journey and placed it on a box in the front seat of the truck so they would have full view of the passing scenery to lessen the impact of this latest move. Lucy acted like a spoiled brat, but old Tom turned his head from side to side, surveying every outcrop, every tree, every ranch house and meadow, storing each sight and sound to draw on in his new surroundings, sensing he would never return.

In a year-by-year assessment, he was probably more trouble than he was worth, but he thought he was important to the household and our well-being and, after all, that is what matters. He was my support and comfort when our mistress became tired and left me laid low and whimpering from a runaway tongue. And he helped me battle the spirits that slipped from the necks of empty brandy bottles. I appreciated that and I will miss him.

So, old Tom's suffering and our anxiety were ended with a hypodermic injection and we buried our black member of the family, wrapped in his favorite chair cover, in one end of the garden plot, near the woodpile that smelled of his Cebolla home, and where he lay on warm days to watch the passersby and their dogs cutting through the vacant lot behind us.

I cried, Inez cried, but little Lucy, his last love, finished his leftovers of liver and tuna, then returned to the living room chair of her choice. She knew, better than we, from whence we come and whither we returneth.

Jackson's Stab at Home Surgery Goes Up in Smoke

I had fallen on snow-covered ice, ramming my left knee into the point of a rail switch at Commodore 5 tunnel. It was rather painful, but 30-degree-below-zero weather is a powerful opiate and the harsher effects didn't hit until I thawed out at home in the evening.

There, the bursa swelled to goose-egg size and the knee throbbed like a steam engine under full load. After the next day's labors, the swelling was even worse, along with the pain. Fortified with juniper-berry extract and quinine tonic, I sharpened a blade of my pocket knife, whacked off a couple of inches of the small plastic tube used to put acid or water in lamp batteries, and went to work on the bursa.

Granddad Lane taught me the basics of medicine when I was a small boy. Iodine and turpentine for any ailment or wound on the outside, a mixture of coal oil and sugar or 90 proof for anything on the inside.

I dipped both blade and plastic tube in iodine, punched through the skin to the bursa, followed with the tube and drained the sac in a coffee cup. Relief was instantaneous. For three days, I performed surgery on the lame knee before it became inflamed and chills and fever hit. I left work early on the fourth day, bathed and placed the leg straight out on a kitchen chair contemplating another round with the knife and tube, when in walked a specialist to take care of everything.

Titus floated around the room a couple of times before banking left to settle in an easy chair with his burden, a grocery sack containing witch doctor paraphernalia. His eyes looked like hen droppings in bloody milk as he surveyed my outstretched leg with a grapefruit for a knee-cap. I had learned that, with Titus, you don't speak until you are sure he is really there. He had gone out of body several times during our acquaintance and though the flesh was where I could touch it, the real Titus might be fluttering overhead or miles away.

I was relieved when he spoke, though I wasn't sure yet where or if his eyes were focused. When the pupils dilate to the point you can look down them like the barrels of a 10-gauge shotgun, it fosters a little apprehension, but, what the hell, obviously he was here to help me and from the looks of my butchered knee and the red streaks running both ways, I needed a little more than turpentine and iodine.

"Tim told me you were having some problems with your knee," he said, "so I thought I'd better drop by and see if I could make you feel better."

Hell, I already felt better. I could see what looked like Titus, what sounded like Titus and with those facts established, maybe we could get to the paper bag containing whatever was going to cure me or at least alleviate the pain.

The trouble with doctors is you have to go through a ritual of giving information, time-consuming examinations and probing before getting to the nub of the situation. Not so with Titus. His eyeballs orbited the ailing knee without the faintest nod of his head, relayed the information to his central computer, which rolled the diagnosis and treatment across his tongue like a high-speed printing press.

With that, he pulled from the sack a bamboo tube equipped with a mouthpiece on one end, a half-inch copper tubing nut bonded in a hole in the side and the bottom of the tube plugged off. I had a mental picture of Haitian natives clustered around a body on a reed mat. In the dim light, I could see Titus dancing around making weird noises with his flute as he sprinkled magic potions from leather bags on the body. Next he brought out his magic potion, only it was enclosed in a plastic bag and spoiled part of the vision. He meted out about a half-teaspoon, tamping it with one finger in the copper fitting.

I had never seen anyone so exacting with dosage, not a dribble fell to the floor and I had no doubt this was measured to the finest milligram. My personal estimation of Titus's professional qualities grew with each movement of preparation.

I relaxed fully, certain I was in competent hands. No more psyching myself up for the knife and tube work, Titus had landed and the situation was well in hand.

"Okay, are you ready?" He needed no answer to the question and continued.

"Now you take the Bong, hold it with both hands and when I light the Mary Jane, you draw in all the smoke you can with one breath and hold it as long as you can."

As Titus' breast stroked through the breakers on the edge of the mesa in lower Creede, I hobbled around gathering up the debris left in his hasty departure. I then placed a call to Dr. S. Tisdal Jones.

Thundermug in the White House

We have been on the campaign trail and a muddy old trail it is. Up at the crack of dawn to spread the word, press the flesh and gauge the mood of the voters.

We are excited, we are optimistic and we feel the tide has turned due, in no small part, to our illustrious chairman, Adorable Jones (aka Heinie Leonard), who has worked like a beaver getting handbills printed, literature in the mail plus answering a row of ever ringing Ma Bells.

Over the past week we have had endorsements from the League of Latent Lovers, the Society for the Preservation of Cock Fighting, the Brotherhood of Ladies of the Night and the Amalgamated Distilleries of Possum Ridge. We turned down the Union of Swinging Social Retirees, fearing headlines like "U.S.S.R. backs Jackson" might cause some confusion.

Ours will continue to be a clean, honest and truthful campaign for this, dear friends and voters, will be your campaign. We want to hear from you and our platform shall be built, plank by plank, with your wishes and recommendations.

We are severely underfunded. We blew a $20 bill at a luncheon in Gunnison so fast it would make your head swim. That, coupled with a quarter tip, left our entertainment fund without a rustle or a jingle.

We are not making a direct appeal for contributions as our less worthy opponents have done. Instead, we are initiating a simple, no frills, straightforward contest with nothing to buy and no sleazy come-ons.

In ten words or less write us exactly what you want your president to do for you over the next four years. Place your entry between two crisp Andrew Jacksons and mail to Adorable Jones, Chairman: Jackson for President Committee. Box 189, Monte Vista, CO 81144. The winner will be announced shortly after the election results are broadcast and the lucky person will receive, if we are elected, two engraved tickets to the inaugural ball and an autographed picture of Adorable Jones, Shorty Wheeler and myself on the Capitol steps.

Adorable Jones has suggested that we be the first to select a qualified woman as a running mate. We are seriously considering this option though I have a phobia about running with females. A generously endowed young lady used to outrun me at each intermission of the "Bucket of Blood" soot and cobweb stomps. However, I was always able to outdistance her father.

We have just been informed that The Miner and Tines will have a reporter join us in our swing through the Eastern states as soon as Adorable Jones can appropriate a van from one of the parking lots in Monte Vista. He has been able to hot-wire several but all had steering lock mechanisms and old Jones has never been able to drive in a straight line.

While it is too early in the race to give serious thought to a running mate I will float the name of my choice for our next Ambassador to the United Nations on the political waters for the news media to consider. Can you picture the Russian ambassador trying to shove a veto past Loraine Wills in the Security Council? Our friend Billy hasn't been able to cast a nay vote in that household for nearly 50 years.

Check to see if you are registered to vote and remember our campaign slogan: "A pot in every house and something in every pot."

Campaign Woes

In our quest for the presidency we have turned to the West and the great state of Nevada, appealing for support from friends and co-workers. The Powderhorn rural mail carrier recently brought a scorching missive, postmarked Reno, from one Win Rowe who demands we either grunt or get off the pot. He suggests we are long on tissue and short on substance.

For Mr. Rowe's information, all we stand for is right there in "The Thundermug". We have nothing to hide and we felt we had made ourselves perfectly clear on the current issues. For the benefit of Mr. Rowe and others who may question our position, "the beef", in Mondalese tongue, is herein, categorically, listed. I dare say Mr. Rowe will be hard-pressed to find buns large enough to accommodate these patties.

On moving the United States embassy to Jerusalem: Our opponents have flip-flopped on this issue so many times they resemble a baboon on a trampoline. We strongly support productive movements and we are in favor of moving the embassy as long as it remains in America.

On the Equal Rights for Women Amendment: We are treading in dangerous territory here but we will not dodge the issue. We believe in equal pay for equal work and we don't believe in shackling women to the kitchen. It takes a homemaker and a breadwinner partnership to forge a happy home. We have long felt that the first one to bear a child in this partnership should become the homemaker.

On the National Debt: The answer is so simple it has fairly leaped to exposure. The bulk of the national debt is owed to ourselves, we, the people, who have let our representatives in Washington assuage our every desire with more and more paper money. We shall ask each citizen to resort to Chapter 9 of the bankruptcy act and start life anew with a clean slate. Next, we propose a return to the gold standard. No one has been able to successfully counterfeit gold coins. The above will relieve us of the major portion of our debt. To satisfy the remainder we would ask, "Have any of you stopped to think that since the Declaration of Independence this nation has borne the burden of a free press?" We shall propose legislation to tax every printed word and get the free press off the gravy train. Let it pay its way like the rest of us suffering taxpayers.

On foreign affairs: I had sought the help of Adorable Jones in presenting a clear and concise statement on foreign policy but since the spring sale at Loco Liquors, Mr. Jones has been unable to maintain a vertical attitude long enough to counsel me. It is hoped he will be on solid food soon and able to return to the rigors of the campaign.

Family Feud Follows Forgetfulness

The old girl did it again. Up and left me with eight mouths to feed, counting my own. It was the best slam bang fight we've had in years and the most territory we've ever had to tear up the turf, scare the wildlife and scream into the wind. The wind caused it all in the first place and should have borne the brunt of our temperaments.

I like it when she throws a real tantrum without the tears. Crying is an unfair advantage and should be banned along with eye gouging and kidney punches.

Best of all, it was on our wedding anniversary and will be as easy to remember as the wedding anniversary was to forget. I can't be expected to remember every little occasion in a presidential election year, especially after being thumped so soundly by 13 candidates, not including Lyndon LaRouche and Patricia Schroeder.

She'll get over it. She always has after wandering over miles and miles of miles and miles that make up the state of Kansas where her relatives will console her and tell her again that she shouldn't have married a worthless, drunken miner in the first place.

The battle wasn't all in vain. She threw an oscillating sprinkler at me that hadn't worked since we bought it. After missing my head by a scant half-inch and caroming off a light pole and backhoe bucket, that sprinkler now performs like those you see in television ads.

The wind had been blowing for days, my arthritis hadn't let up for weeks and we were trying to build a rock garden with her design for the final exhibit changing with each heavy gust of dust-laden air. All the while she kept hoping I would spring a bouquet of "forget-me-nots" from my shirt sleeve and whisper "Happy anniversary, love of my life." I hadn't completely forgotten the anniversary — it was the date I had problems with.

We had company, too! Old friends from Nevada had stopped for a few days' visit and found us by inquiring at every ranch house along the route. Jim Collord got dog-bit three times in the process and shot at once...after he said he was a friend of John Jackson's.

Jim and Leta liked the start of the war and cheered us on for a couple of hours, then Inez began repeating herself. Her foul word vocabulary is limited as well as other functions. Hot words and arm waving were enjoyed by spectators, but when the violence started, they left to look for mountain sheep and their son, Jerritt, retired to the creek where rushing waters muted the sounds of battle.

I remember a beautiful fracas in 1951 when I smashed the tips of three fingers on her right hand in the front door of a little house in Creede. She wasn't leaving as fast as the door was closing at the toe of my right boot. She sprinkled the ground with tears all the way to Dad Bill's home where he and Mom Jo doctored her hand and promised never to speak to their son again.

I never got a chance to present my side of the argument and I had a good case, too. I had spent the night with a couple of sick friends. Four hours getting sick and four more hours getting well, most of the time in darkness and bitter cold, while all she thought about was her cold supper and cold bed.

Through it all, we've had a better than average marriage. It has lasted much longer than it had any right to, but we have worked at making it a success. The first order of business is to get to know one another and there is no better way to get at the root of the psyche than by turning it inside out with lots of hollering, stomping and hair pulling.

Happy anniversary, old sparring partner. I love you.

Powderhorn Party Pulls Plug on Thundermug Bid

The Readers' Right

To the Editor:

No, I don't think the Powderhorn Party will be running Mr. J. Jackson, sometimes known as Thundermug John, for president again.

I'm afraid old JJ has lost his credibility and his appeal to the masses. Seems like ever since the old boy was transplanted from his native habitat, he's become increasingly capricious.

He reported to the Powderhorn Party headquarters that he did a tremendous amount of hand-shaking and baby kissing on the Western Slope. Later reports revealed that was true all right, but it seems it was babes, not babies, and he had to hold their hands in doing so. Behind them.

Also, campaign manager Adorable Jones reported that JJ turned in horrendous expense accounts, some of them from strange-sounding places. He even used the expense account to purchase stock in the Horizontal Bore and Drilling Co. Inc. of Ely, Nevada, Susan Gothel, President. Thunderous John did acquire several pledges of financial support for his campaign but in every case, each pledge turned in bore a wavering, illegible signature and smelled and looked as if it had originated in Jack Daniels' cellar. Naturally, none of those pledges was ever honored.

While John was living it up on the Western Slope and other localities, the local party hacks were diligently pressing for campaign funds. For instance, Shorty Wheeler traveled to the Mexican border spreading the message. He was able to raise several hundred pesos, too. Harry Saltzgaver gave JJ considerable lip service (others just gave him considerable lip).

But all was too little, too late. Too bad, too. JJ might well have turned this country around. Completely around. But you know what? Of late, the old boy is considering making the race again. He states that he promises better refreshments and playgirls this time around. But it would be hard for Wheeler and me to consider as a prime campaigner a gent who drives off the highway just west of Gunnison smack-dab into a generously endowed cow pasture (greatly disturbing half the cows in the county) and who then blythfully blames the whole episode on Naprosyn and Tylenol (in case some might not know, Naprosyn is an arthritis medication.) Naprosyn indeed!

Also it is rumored — strictly unverified rumors, you understand — that just lately Inez caved the old boy's ribs in with a baseball bat and he is in a body cast, but the sheriff came round in the morning and said it was all for the best.

I guess you can see why — everything considered — we just don't believe we can again run Thundermug John for president.

Such a shame, too.

Abjectly,
"Heinie" Leonard

Jackson's Mug Is Empty

To the Editor,

It is my sad duty to report to you and the innumerable readers of The Miner and The Tines the devastating news that our Man for Our Times, that one and only Oracle of the Outhouse, our own Thundermug John, is faced with imminent withdrawal of his candidacy for president on the Powderhorn Party ticket.

The Powderhorn Party is financially defunct. I had held hopes that JJ's eloquent plea of several weeks ago for campaign funds would result in a flood or contributions — perhaps a dozen or so — and some possibly as high as 89 cents or 98 cents, even though a normal dime to two bits would have been more in line from those Thundermug John promised to gleefully represent.

His pleas were completely ignored; we have to admit failure, since we are now unable to qualify for matching federal funds as of the April 1 deadline. Nothing plus nothing leaves only a handful of air.

I had had such high hopes for the future and had even formulated tentative cabinet possible appointees: James Watt, Ed Meese, Richard Lamm, George Steinbrenner, Garfield, Billy Martin, Flip Wilson, and Phyllis Diller.

I have as yet been unable to contact JJ to advise him of the revolting situation facing him, for of course he will have to submit his own withdrawal statement. As nearly as I can ascertain, he is presently campaigning somewhere in the vicinity of Dinosaur, Rangely and Skull Creek, or as he puts it, pressing the flesh. (I do hope it is pressing the flesh and not pinching it.)

So ends another Saga of Our Times. To think what Our Man and the Powderhorn Party could have done with and for Our People! Well, so be it, but falter not, JJ: "Keep true to the dreams of thy youth."

Submitted with regret,
Adorable Jones, Chairman
The Powderhorn Party's Jackson
(Thundermug John, not Jesse) for President campaign.