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

Twice Around the Barber Pole

"Do you remember the first time I cut your hair?"

Our mistress posed the question as she ran the clippers around my ears. Lordy, do I remember! Every time I feel the scars on my neck and the indent in my left ear, I remember.

Creede boasted three tonsorial parlors when I was a youngster. Gene Thom had a spacious shop in the Heinz building, Freddie Frank operated in the Mercantile Block and Soapy Birdsey combined barbering with a pool table and poker games under the Elks Hall. Later on, Bob Phillips and Al Hibbs opened shops on opposite sides of Main Street.

Al Hibbs was a gun collector and avid hunter. It was a treat to visit his shop and get to feel the rifles that won the West as well as chew the fat about past and future hunting trips. Al collected many things.

I was in his chair one day when a young fellow, who was about to leave the state, came in trying to sell a watch to other customers waiting their turn. He needed just $5.00 more for a bus ticket.

The watch was well worth it and as it was passed around, Al asked, "Let me see that watch."

"Jeezuscrist," he roared as he yanked his own watch from a pocket. "I'd sell this watch for $5.00 and it's a Waltham."

Smitty, a driller, calmly picked two five spots from his wallet, handed one to Al and the other to the young fellow and pocketed both watches. Al had to talk like a Dutch uncle to retrieve his watch.

Inez has cut my hair for over 40 years now and as near as I can remember she opened only one wound she wasn't able to close with a butterfly patch. After the first mangling with a straight razor we have foregone shaving my neck or around my ears.

Miners After World War II: A Unique Breed

Shortly after World War II, jobs were readily available in the mines of Creede where metals needed for the war effort would be equally in demand for a peacetime economy. Many hometown boys returned to underground work, and veterans from near and far drifted in to become miners.

It was a wild period of readjustment for everyone and this famous old mining camp had just the tonic to help in the transition to a normal life. At least as normal as the patients desired.

I was a mucker for a driller named Bob Oates, who came from a noted mining family in Creede. Bob had served in the Navy on a destroyer and experienced kamikaze attacks off Okinawa.

Neil Walker, George Kershner and Bill Mathews were our muleskinners. All saw action in Army and Marine ground units. George Logue, who helped recapture two Aleutian islands, and John Dabney were driving a prospect raise called 61 and near them Tommy Thompson and Ruben Wesander, veterans both, were mining in 63 raise.

Frankie Davis and Paul Murray were leasing a block of ground on the 850 level. Red Johnson and Shorty Dunkel were stoping on 6 level off the Albion cross-cut. Freddie Birdsey and Chappie LeZotte were tramming and hooking buckets for George Hatfield and James "Zero" Ott.

In 42 raise, Lee Skinner and his son Gavin were mining a rich silver vein above 5 level. Lee always wrapped his false teeth in a napkin and placed them in his lunch bucket before setting up his drill. Woodrow Weaver, a brother-in-law, unwrapped Lee's teeth one day, placed a horse turd between them and returned the choppers to his lunch bucket. The roar could have been heard downtown when Lee sat down to eat.

Paul Weaver, Ed McCargish and a Swede from Alamosa, Charley Johnson, were our hoistmen. Erick Nelson, I.D. Crawford and Glen Archer were our supervisors.

There was an element of danger in every move we made underground. The hairiest part of the day was being lowered to different levels with our feet on the rims of sump buckets and our hands holding tightly to the small cable spooling from air hoists.

On one such trip, Gavin Skinner and I survived the fastest free-spooling drop of three levels. We knew we were goners when we zipped past 6 level with no hint of braking. The flame from Gavin's carbide lamp pointed straight up and his hard hat was floating above his head. The hoistman managed to stop us a few feet from the floor where we yo-yoed several seconds on a stretched cable that had to be replaced.

We lost a few during this period and were lucky we didn't lose more from the mining methods and conditions in the "hole".

A premature blast claimed Ruben and severely injured Tommy Thompson. Clarence Martin, who had been captured by the Japanese on Bataan and endured hell as a prisoner in Japan, died in 60 raise from a long fall. Clarence told me all he dreamed about in prison camp was vegetables. During the time we worked together, his lunch consisted of a tomato, slice of cabbage, carrots and raw potatoes.

We rode to and from work in pickup trucks fitted with benches and covered with homemade plywood boxes that were much appreciated in 40-degree-below-zero weather. We jumped, on the ride home, when they slowed at the turn above Tomkins Hardware and slid partway to the bars, where we recovered from the tensions of the day with grog and boasting.

There were three full-time drinking establishments, and we tried to keep all economically sound.

Tucker's Bar and Grill wasn't our favorite but provided the most excitement. The great white ape was a female, or so we believed, who looked like she had been trampled by a herd of buffalo and drug around by coyotes. She had an extraordinary disposition that turned violent with a passing cloud.

We were lined up on the stools one evening when she appeared near the end of the bar with an automatic pistol. Suffering a hangover, she had decided to kill her husband and anyone else within range. The first shot from the wildly gyrating barrel shattered a window, the next slug parted the hair of a lady patron. By that time, Woody, Gavin and I were trying to squeeze three bodies under one small table. Her husband had presence of mind enough to count the reports.

He knew how many shells were in the gun and, at the sound of the first click, he vaulted the bar, grabbed the pistol and dumped her on her posterior with a solid right hand. Another night, we were being hassled by a mooching ex-sailor who claimed to have had two ships shot out from under his feet. Usually we put up with his baloney and popped for a drink, but this night we were having a serious discussion about females so I told him to go play with his boats in the bathtub. He disappeared for several minutes and returned with a high-powered rifle which he aimed right at my chest and offered me time to say a prayer before he blew me to hell. Woody stepped between us, took the rifle with one hand and put the sailor to sleep with the other before I could even start "My Father Who Art In Heaven."

It was a consortium of hardworking, rough living characters who produced much and complained little. I remember a little fellow I knew only as "Hap" who could whistle like a mockingbird and entertained us while Peggy accompanied on the piano. Hank and Ray, lifelong friends, could always leave us laughing. I remember Tank and Ernie who jumped into battle in Europe with the 82nd and Screaming Eagles divisions and I remember Billy and Kayo, Earl J. and Robert.

To all of them and more who feared "The Great Ape" and worked at the Amethyst in the late '40s, we offer this:

Jackson Recalls Building of Ore Bins

The excellent picture of the Commodore ore storage bins by Andy Hall lacked only one thing — the name of the architect and supervisor of construction, Charles G. Johnson. Charlie also designed and constructed the other ore storage bin visible high to the west at #3 Commodore Tunnel where a jigback tramline lowered ore to Commodore 4 level ore bins thence the long journey to the main tramhouse near the junction of East and West Willow creeks for loading in rail cars and shipment to the smelter in Leadville.

I am the only one left of the original crew in restoration of Commodore 5 tunnel and the crew that erected the superstructure of the ore storage bin in the photograph. I wrote of this many years ago for The Miner and Tines and thought today's readers might be interested in a profile of the crew and what a working day consisted of in that age.

My dad, Bill Jackson, was foreman under Superintendent Erick "Swede" Nelson. Charlie Johnson (Ed's father) served as carpenter, electrician, mechanic, welder and architect of bridges, trestles and buildings. John Slater was our blacksmith and leased part-time with Eugene and Harry McClure on a narrow, high grade silver vein on E level of the Commodore Mine. Gene and Harry worked alternate weeks on the lease and all jobs associated with revamping the haulage tunnel. Bernie Soward was head timberman and shared muleskinning chores with Billy Weaver. Dave Brown and Billy Taylor, miners, were drifting around a cave in the main tunnel and when Dave moved to Silverton, Fred Lane and Lyle Alspaugh took over the tunnel contract.

At this time the first mechanical mucker was introduced to the Commodore Mines via the Hibbs Brothers, Al and Ashby, who leased it to the contractors for 50 cents per foot of tunnel and was a tremendous time and energy saver for the miners. Art Fairchild skidded rail from the Nelson dump to the portal of Commodore 5 for replacement of the old rail. Art, one of the last Creede teamsters, used his favorite team for the job and, as the team rested each trip, he helped Charlie and I hoist ore cars from the canyon bottom with an iron monster, two-speed winch, that may still rest near the mine.

The day began at 6:50 a.m. when Travis McAtee rounded the corner of Fifth Street and began picking up his riders. The cost was $5 per month whether you rode one day or 30. Travis had a 1940 International truck which he had customized with a well-built shelter over the bed. Travis waited for no one and his momentary stop at Commodore 5 for Dad's crew to unload was just that, momentary. Many times I had to catch John Slater as Travis roared on to the upper Amethyst. Glen Archer and Lee Skinner followed with their loads of miners.

With lunch buckets placed in the "dry", dad, John and Charlie would start the compressors, two Ingersol-Rands driven by Waukesha gasoline engines that were hand-cranked. Bernie and Billy harnessed the old mule, Minnie Pearl, as the rest of us hooked up the tunnel cars and loaded supplies to be hauled to the working faces. Carbide lamps were filled and extra carbide carried in tobacco cans. It usually took four fillings of the small bowl on the lamp to last a shift. By the time the train passed through the portal, Charlie would have me in tow with bars, saws and hammers to either build trestle or cribbing.

When it was determined that the ore storage bins would be built and the site selected, Sam Birdsey began excavating the three benches of the foundation with Hansen Brothers bulldozer. Gene and Harry McClure were the drillers, I was the nipper, in blasting outcrops and large boulders Sam couldn't dislodge. Charlie ran a leveling transit throughout the excavation, prepping for the next phase which would be pouring concrete for the piers, an exacting job keeping forms level and in line. There would be little or no room for error when we began standing timbers.

The long 10"x10" timbers were all sawed by hand near the old blacksmith shop where we also drilled the holes for drawbolts. Charlie and I.D. Crawford welded dollies from two sizes of pipe with zerc fittings to grease the inner pipe. The timbers were cradled in the dollies and we then pulled them with two-man tongs to the construction site. The first story of the superstructure was raised entirely by hand, from there Charlie set up ginpoles to hoist and swing the heavy timbers in place.

It was such a relief to have Gene and Harry McClure on construction at the same time. Both were muscular, hard workers and a pleasure to work with. Not a day went by that Gene didn't play a prank on someone, from nailing John Slater's pants cuff to a timber to distracting old Bernie's mule that would cause no end of trouble for Bernie, usually ending with a tirade of adjectives aimed in Gene's direction and an offer to trade punches on the waste dump.

Charlie Johnson was a harsh taskmaster for this crew that had a pay scale ranging from 50 cents to 62 cents per hour. There were no coffee breaks and each minute on Charlie's jobs was spent laboring, but he taught all of us much that helped in later years and we felt there wasn't a more self-disciplined or dedicated worker on the Emperius Mining Company payroll. Charles G. Johnson deserves recognition for those two old beautiful structures. Surely it isn't asking too much to have a plaque honoring this great "jack of all trades" and public servant placed at a prominent spot on the lower ore bin.

Name in Society Page Prompts Memory of Partners

We see the names of Tommy and Ginny Thompson in South Fork news often and wonder if they are permanent residents now?

Tommy and I got acquainted shortly after World War II when we were both working in the Amethyst Mine. Tommy had served in the Marine Corps in the Pacific clashes and came to Creede with two friends to try mining. The last time I saw him, 37 years ago, he was coughing powder smoke and very near departing this world.

We had the world by the tail in the late '40s. We rode to the mine in the rear of Glen "Curly" Archer's 1940 Chevy pickup, rough-housing each way. We violated every safety rule in the book while mining and kept three bars prospering in our off time. Stanley's (Weaver) Beer Parlor, with poker in the rear, was the first establishment we entered and we scattered our earnings north and south from there.

Tommy and Reuben "Whitey" Wesander were driving an inclined raise from a drift near the West Drift Sump where Gavin Skinner and myself were lowered by hoist to the 850 level. We were stoping a narrow high-grade silver vein. We had alternate hoistmen who liked to drink, and it was a rare day when one or the other wasn't capable of handling the duties.

One of those rare days occurred when Tommy and Whitey were temporarily held up on their job. Tommy refused to lower us as he had no experience on a hoist, but we were able to coax Whitey back to our diggings and Gavin gave him a couple of minutes briefing on the main functions of a small air tugger. In the meantime, I loaded the sump bucket with dynamite, drill steel, bits and primers tucked firmly in by the boxes of dynamite.

Gavin positioned himself on the rim, on the opposite side of the bucket where we were swinging free over a black 260 feet of nothing held only by a seven-sixteenths inch cable and the hand of a new hoistman. Gavin yelled, "cut the rope," meaning lower us in mining terms, which Whitey took literally. We were dropping so fast that Six Level was a faint blur. I looked at Gavin for some assurance that this wasn't happening to us. His hat was floating on his upraised hair and the flame from his carbide lamp was pointing straight up. A prayer rested on a silent tongue.

By a stroke of luck Whitey was able to stop us several feet from oblivion, where we yo-yoed up and down on the stretched cable unable to speak or even comprehend our return from the valley of the shadow. We learned later that Gavin had left the tugger out of gear while giving his instructions, Whitey had panicked, momentarily, as the cable was unspooling then clamped the brake tight to stop our fall. We lost the towheaded Finlander not long after that and nearly lost our friend Tommy in the same tragedy.

If ever there was an omen to return us to Creede, it had to be that fateful day in 1947. Glen Archer, foreman, stopped his pickup at the foot of Black Pitch and we jumped out to find an overturned truck with a load of logs blocking our way. Clinton Fairchild had banked the truck when it powered out, overturning the load. He was thrown clear and escaped with only bruises. Whitey and I were nursing hangovers and flipped a coin to see whether we would make the hike to the mine or return to Creede for a little hair of the dog that bit us. We lost.

I remember Tommy, who was in excellent physical condition, was in the lead as we strung out in single file and Whitey brought up the rear. On arriving at the mine we filled our carbide cans, lifted our rolls of fused primers from the wooden holders and went through the snowshed to the portal of the Amethyst tunnel.

Five minutes later we would divide at the powder box and go our separate ways to working places. Seven hours later Reuben Wesander would be found lifeless where a premature blast draped his body over a catwalk and stull. Tommy Thompson would be retrieved from inside a chute near tunnel level where he had been thrown by the force of the blast.

Tommy probably won't remember talking to us later that night, but he told me he was aware of a flash and remembered nothing of the long fall down the raise. Rocks were falling on him as he struggled to keep his arms above his head and stay on top of the muck as each concussion brought more rocks from the incline rattling down the board lining and pummeling his arms and shoulders, all this happening in total darkness and waves of acrid powder smoke. He was singing when rescued, but he won't remember that either.

Decibels Unlimited

We knew a time when it was unthinkable to miss a "New Year's Eve" dance. Until ten years ago we attended each one faithfully, staying until the final notes of "Goodnight Sweetheart" floated over the dance floor and the band packed to leave.

At our last entry into such a production I danced fox trots, waltzes and even made a stab at jitterbugging. I was having a whale of a time until I started seeing double, shortly I was hardly seeing at all. Sensing I was having problems, Inez suggested we go home. I was unable to offer any resistance and started fishing for the car keys in one pocket, scattering change over a half acre as she grabbed for them. I have learned to never let her drive when I am in such a condition. I held the keys firmly and battled for the driver's seat, checked out the controls and flawlessly drove us to within a few feet of our residence. The next thing I knew the car rammed into the garage doors before Inez could open them. Totally unnerved, she raced for the stairs as I extricated myself and fell face down in the loose snow. I managed to fall several more times before reaching the interior of the house where I shed my coat and struggled to remove my trousers over my shoes. The poor girl had to undress me and place me in bed, agonizing with me as I changed stomach acids several times over the next four hours. I was certain only a very slim thread separated me from here and the hereafter as she exclaimed, "Just look at yourself, you drunk fool." I tried to tell her I had gotten so excited watching Paul Davis trip the light fantastic in his advanced years (Paul is only four years younger than Methuselah, I believe) that I had hyperventilated, I was not intoxicated.

The lively crowd at Gene and Bonnie Wardell's this latest New Year's Eve persuaded us to join them in ringing in 1980 at the Elk's Hall and the annual dance. We arrived a little late during a lull between dances, and as I was placing our coats over a chair I was vaguely aware of flashing lights just prior to being plastered against the wall by tonal reverberations sounding somewhat like an artillery barrage combined with a Sioux Indian uprising. In this state of shock I saw Dick Springer gyrating around the floor looking like he was scratching his back on a post that wasn't there, Barbara was trying to reach him between concussions and within seconds everyone on the floor was either scratching at an invisible post or jumping forward and back over imaginary cow pots. "Good Lord!" I thought. "The first casualties of war three and I can't do a thing to help them."

Bob Crowley finally took me by the hand and talked me into reality after this introduction to a form of disco music. With the return of our faculties, we drifted over to a table where the John McClures and Leonard Gustafsons sat shell shocked. Roy Brown was hunched up at the next table awaiting the next salvo. We mouthed greetings as no voices could be heard over the din from the bandstand and the hundreds of feet causing this old brick structure to rock its foundation. We were comforted to note they looked as we felt.

Music hath charm that quells the savage beast or something to that effect and when, strains of "Auld Lang Syne" drifted from the musical instruments of the band a transformation of the mood of the crowd was produced that was beautiful to watch and to join. For that brief period it was a return to the moods generated by Bill Heller or the magic of Keith Duncan and his musical crew.

It is doubtful we will be tempted again to subject our ear drums and psyches to such a disturbance, but we came away with the soothing assurance that no foreign power will dare challenge this generation. Gird the country with disco bands, or whatever their nomenclature, and dancers to match and what aggressor could breach the wall or even approach it through that thunder?

Doc Leary Battles Handicap

We were gathered around the scoreboard as Ernie Wilkinson and crew posted scores, in numerical order, of the archers participating in this great event, The Rocky Mountain Regional Archery tournament, hosted by the Piedra Bowhunters of Monte Vista on their Rock Creek range.

Proud of the turnout of our Ishi Yana club of Creede, we scattered throughout the crowd visiting with old friends who had moved to valley towns and wishing new friends we had met in the tournament well, as we waited for presentation of the trophies.

I was sitting on a log chatting with Wallace I. "Doc" Leary, a veterinarian who had an animal hospital on the outskirts of Alamosa. Doc had spayed our Chesapeake retriever, removed porcupine quills from both her and a pup and had offered me one free worming if I was ever so afflicted.

Doc and I had rattled the bushes around Creede with arrows twanged from hickory bows, scaring hell out of the wildlife but never bagging anything other than one decrepit old pine squirrel that lost his footing and broke his neck in the fall when one of our arrows caromed off a limb near his perch.

Doc had mined for a period in the Commodore tunnel while earning his degree and was one of Creede's "good ol' boys". He was also "numero uno" in the archery contests. It was a rare day, indeed, when someone edged him from the top spot.

When the last of the scores were posted with Leary's position far down the column, there was a ripple of "ohs and ahs" from those who knew his reputation. I had raised up enough to find my name in a lower class, 11th out of 12 archers, a respectable showing for me.

Mike McClure, Gene Wardell and Inez would be showing off trophies but there, for all the world to see, was old Doc's name and score, an also ran, a has been. Before I could ask him what went wrong, he tipped his cap to the rear of his head, crossed his legs and exclaimed skyward, "Thank the Lord I did as well as that with the handicap I had today."

I wasn't aware of any physical ailment of my old friend. He looked fit as a fiddle, good humored as always but there had to be something wrong, real and tangible, to have dropped him so far in the rankings.

Pointing with his eyes and nodding toward several people sitting in the rear of a pickup truck he asked, "Did you see that cute little blond I was shooting with?"

"I wish she had been with your group," he went on. "It was bad enough worrying about what her bowstring might detach each time she loosed an arrow, but she had on a pair of white shorts so tight-fitting that when she stooped over to pick up an arrow, I could see a half dollar in one of those little, button flap rear pockets. I was able to read the city it was minted in and the date."

Getting Ahead Can Be Golden

Several years ago, I met a fellow named Ed Mahoney from Lee's Summit, Missouri who was in Colorado on a fishing trip. Ed says he is a history teacher and also tells me a lot of other things I don't believe for a minute.

I have gained, a better word would be earned, considerable repute as a storyteller and I have learned to never tell the same lie twice. Invariably, I will embellish it to make myself more of a hero and some wiseacre will recall the first version and remind me of it. Ed Mahoney can tell the same lie umpteen times without varying a whipstitch. It is a matter of professional pride that makes me less than eager to swap tales with old Mahoney.

Ed likes mineral specimens. When I was in minerals exploration in Nevada, I picked up some showy gold specimens near Silver Peak. On one trip from Missouri, Ed begged to see some of my private collection and I obliged. He was thrilled with a unique silver specimen from the Last Chance Mine at Creede and his eyes fairly bugged out when I unwrapped the gold treasures from Nevada.

"Okay, okay," he drooled, "now show me the real ones. Every prospector I know has his best under lock and key."

I put him off with flimsy excuses and his next visit brought the same request. This time, I drug a strongbox from under the bed, unlocked it and carefully set a well-packaged object on the table. From the soft towel and cotton inner liner, I eased out a white quartz gangue with pyrite (fool's gold) sparkling from end to end. The pyrite crystals had been altered by solutions producing rounded form that looked surprisingly like gold.

"Woweeeee," he whistled, "would you look at that baby! I'll give you $50 for it." I didn't say a word, rewrapped it and placed it back in the strongbox.

Ed made two more visits to see the strongbox treasure and the evening before he was to leave he came knocking at the door and offered me $200 cash. I turned him down.

He begged, "Look, I'm going home tomorrow, I'll give you $200 and I'll send you some Alaskan jade that is some of the best ever found."

I hemmed and hawed for a few minutes then told him I could probably find another specimen as good next trip out so "what the hell," he could buy it.

His fingers fairly flew as he counted out the 20s. Mr. Mahoney was so pleased that he mailed me the jade within a week and later sent me a hand-crafted hunting knife.

Ed has a friend who had been a bush pilot and prospector in Alaska before retiring to an easier life in Missouri. He couldn't wait for ol' Jess to see this gold specimen he got for a song from his Colorado rube. The day came when Jess stopped by for a visit. Ed had his sparkling baby at center stage as he poured the coffee.

Jess picked it up and said, "Where'd you get the pyrite?"

"Better have your eyes checked, old buddy," Ed retorted. "That is damned near pure gold."

Jess hefted it for a couple of minutes, then pulled out his knife and dug at the yellow mass. It splintered as he suspected it would, then he proceeded to tell Mahoney how to tell pyrite from gold.

Mr. Mahoney arrived last week after a few years' absence. Before they were fully settled in a resort, he roared over to our place and demanded the return of his $200. I had savored the thoughts of this meeting nearly every night for the long separation and daily of this history teacher besting me in every tall story since our first meeting.

"That durned rock you sold me was nothing but pyrite. There wasn't a speck of gold in it," he cried.

When he finished his tirade, I reminded him that as near as I could recall neither of us had mentioned gold during the transaction. In fact, I hadn't said a word, I merely unwrapped it for his inspection.

I will pay, I will pay many times over, but just at the moment I'm feeling pretty darned proud of myself.

Cebolla Visitors

Enjoyed the letter to the editor from Noel Lloyd Roberts of Croker, Missouri, an exiled Creedite.

Lloyd had a hard life in the old burg and was no stranger to sweat and calluses. He worked at any job available at whatever pay was available, smelled and smelled of powder smoke and bull manure and prospected with his Dad, Bo Roberts, one of the most knowledgeable miners to ever enter Creede. Bolo, as Lloyd was known then, committed his share of pranks and always got caught, since wherever Bolo hid a part of him was certain to be visible.

I have tried hard to like Lloyd but every time I get to thinking of him as a friend, I remember that for a good part of his life he was an Army cook. You can never really like anyone who served up a platter of S.O.S. on Friday nights to unsuspecting soldiers. S.O.S. is the week's scraps ground up, fermented in dishwater and slopped on mildewed toast.

It was a subtle means of ensuring that no G.I. jumped fence for a night with the tent ladies. If you kept it down you smelled like the third wallow on an Iowa pig farm and if you didn't keep it down you were too weak to think of going A.W.O.L. No sir, old Lloyd has a lot to live down before he can pet my dog.

We were cleaning up sawdust and woodchips one day last August when I felt the ground trembling. I hollered at Inez that either we were having an earthquake or Lloyd Roberts was on his way with that green hulk he calls a truck. Both or either would devastate the four pounds of beef in the oven so Inez grabbed the roast, I grabbed the fishing poles and we retired to safer climes. When we returned the cats were still in the top of a spruce tree by the creek, the ranch dogs were howling from a faraway cliff, Jo Jo, the goat, when last seen, was trailing two lines of washing from his horns as he headed up Los Pinos Pass and Elsie, the old milk cow, had aborted. We knew Lloyd Roberts had been there without looking for the note he left on the back porch.

A week or so before Lloyd scared hell out of everything and everybody on Cebolla Creek, Jack and Janice Nelson stopped for a short visit on their return to Creede from Grand Junction. They have also been partners with hard work and hard times and have contributed much to the stature and well being of Creede town.

I'll never forget a day in "the hole" when Jack Nelson and Gene "Tank" Tankersley were driving a main drift on Commodore 5 level. Tank had spent a wonderful night with friends in Del Norte eating spicy, homemade chili which they washed down with gallons of "Dago Red". When Tank found his way home for bed and rest, Joanne turned him around and headed him for his day's labors. He never argued with Joanne.

I delivered a sequence of electrical blasting caps to the pair that day for blasting their "round" and as we walked back to P.2 station the fiery mixture that had refused to digest in Tank's stomach began leaving it at each rail joint. Jack has a weak stomach and began putting as much distance between himself and the sounds of Tank's retching as possible.

I called to him, "Migawd Jack, old Tank should be sick, come and see these beans, He didn't even chew them,"

A pitiful groan resounded in the tunnel as Jack dropped to his knees and emptied his stomach. When he was able to rise he pointed a quivering finger at me and commanded, "Don't say another damned word Jackson, just let me get out of here, please."

Trip to Nevada Town Brings Back Old Memories

It was like finding Ponce de Leon's "Fountain of Youth" to return to Elko, Nevada. The atmosphere cleared my thoughts and brought a spring to my step I haven't enjoyed in years.

Elko has everything to relieve a person of everything from his bowels to excess cash. Casinos and brothels were within walking distance from my apartment (Okay Heinie, walking distance one way). Hoboes were still holed up by the railroad tracks smoking alfalfa and one of the waitresses at the Commercial Hotel remembered me.

First contact I made was with Royce Hackworth, who owns two percent of a drilling firm. His banker owns the rest. For some strange reason, Royce thinks I'm his father. The age is right, there is a resemblance between us and he is off his rocker. He greets me like a son should greet his father, so I will take the blame, but for the life of me I can't remember. We will assume he is right, but we haven't yet established who his mother is.

Royce has a friend who, in his words, is three bricks shy of a full load. Harley is a little fellow who walks into their favorite eating place each evening, sits at their favorite table then meticulously cleans the silverware by exhaling on it and wiping it vigorously with a napkin. After this is accomplished, he orders a cup of coffee. Everybody loves Harley but the waitresses.

Just a few evenings ago he went through his routine with the silverware then whispered to Royce, "Have you ever seen a UFO?" Royce replied that he hadn't, then he asked Harley if he had ever seen one.

"Just tonight I saw a UFO," he exclaimed, his voice rising. "I honestly did, Royce, I honestly did. I were a fishin' just at dusk on the river an' here it come right over me with red an' green lights a flashin' an' it lit down right near me an' all these little people got out from it."

He looked Royce in the eye for confirmation that his story was being accepted. Royce asked, "Good Lord Harley, what did you do?"

"Well sir," Harley continued, "I were so scared I ran to my car, rolled up the windows an' locked the doors an' here they come an' looked in the windows at me."

"What did they look like," Royce questioned. "Did they look like humans?"

"I don't know," Harley shouted. "I had my eyes tight shut all the time."

On telling the story, Royce laughed 'til the tears ran.

Silver Tongue Oil No Help With Poetry

It's no wonder they don't know a thing of substance, they never listen. For two days their tongues fashioned more words than a congressman at a Texas fair and they never once completed a sentence. There hasn't been that much clucking and wing flapping since a pair of weasels got in Johnny McDermott's chicken coop.

Everette and Jackie Wyatt of Carthage, Missouri finally arrived to help ward off the naval barrage from Rio Grande County. Everette brought along a Cherokee scout named Tsali, a slingshot complete with a bag of hard rocks from Arkansas, and a bayonet from a Krag Jorgensen rifle used in the Spanish American War. Jackie's contribution was three pints of silver tongue oil, an old Indian remedial lubricant squeezed from the glands of opossums. It supposedly prevents talking with a forked tongue. The only pause in conversation between Jackie and Inez was when they gurgled and gargled a slug of old silver tongue oil. Everette and I retired to quiet places and practiced sign language with Tsali.

Jackie and I lived less than a block apart during the '30s in Creede. We walked to school together, made fudge, pulled taffy and helped each other with homework. At that stage of the game I thought girls were just soft boys with long hair who didn't like hunting, fishing, baseball or bloody noses. One exception was Bernice Smolen, a beautiful girl, who could swing a bat like Babe Ruth, handle her dukes like Jack Dempsey and throw a body check like a pro lineman. She fractured the nose and two ribs of our friend Benny who actively searched for the difference one night. My feelings toward Bernice were as near love as a lad could experience.

I was baby sitting the youngest member of our family while the folks were socializing with friends at a bridge party. Jackie joined me to study and help with the delicate transfer of my charge from the playground to the bassinet. We were seated at the round dinner table as I opened my loose leaf folder and exposed a poem I had recently written to impress Helen O'Connor, a new enrollee from another mining town. Jackie grabbed the sheet and started to read the poem aloud. I was embarrassed as hell and grabbed for it. She stood up, knocking over her chair, and ran. I chased her through two rooms before she reached the couch and plopped down on her hands near the crib where Pauline was supposedly asleep. I wrestled her from end to end and back again before I was able to force her hands open and retrieve my work of art which promptly went into the wood burner.

The next morning at breakfast I arrived in time to hear the last of a wild story bubbling from the lips of Pauline Roberta as she scattered cereal around her high chair. "And John was a fightin' and a fightin' on Jackie, and Jackie was crying and John wouldn't stop fightin' on her." Mom Jo was alternately hushing her and glaring at me. I tried to explain the cause of the fracas, that Jackie was giggling not crying, then I realized I was only digging my grave deeper and deeper.

The miscarriage of justice ultimately had a dividend, I was never again asked to baby sit the little story teller.

For Love of a Brother

EDITOR'S NOTE: Bubbles Jackson Bates is related by birth to a certain columnist. Mrs. Bates, of Gunnison, suggested we might want to substitute her poem for his reminiscence someday, turning the tables somewhat.

"Getting Even" also appears as its own page, in full, under Bubbles' own byline, along with the real story of how the poem came to be published years after it was written: "Getting Even."

New Year's Greetings

Another myth destroyed with a few strokes of a pen.

After the initial shock began to wear off I planned to kill her just a little bit but after reading completely through "Getting Even" I thought I should kill her a whole lot. However, I will forgive and forget with the hope that she won't disturb the rest of the skeletons gathering dust in the closet of St. Peter's files.

Pauline "Bubbles" Bates, who used to be my sister, the author of "Getting Even", is somewhat overweight in both avoirdupois and years, a combination that sometimes alters the thinking process, causing one to be forgetful and to hallucinate. Please remember her infirmity in any future family revelations.

Having just returned from Nevada, I was full of the Christmas spirit as I recalled everything about the beautiful girl from Kansas that made me glad I married her. Too often I think about such things but fail to express them to her. This time I did and hoping for some assurance that she didn't regret the change in her life, I reminded her that all her old boyfriends are bald, fat or both while I have a full head of hair and my waist size is the same as when we met.

She cocked an appraising eye at me and replied, "Yes, but they're alive."

After that exchange and receiving my income tax forms two days after Christmas, plus the expose in The Miner and Tines the same week. I'll bottle up that Christmas spirit and crown Santa Claus with it next year.

From Paul Davis, now of Del Norte, who mined for several years in Creede, married our own Edith Wintz and contributed heartily to the well being of the sugar, rye and corn industries, came a card with a kit designed to help those with urinary problems. To be sure it would be safe for my own use I first tried it on the old tomcat. He is still in the top of the black walnut tree where part of the kit is fluttering in the breeze. I wasn't able to see if it performed as advertised but if it will make me scale a tree as fast as old Tom, I'll use it.

And Heinie Leonard of Monte Vista mailed me a copy of an article explaining the cause of a physical problem we share, nothing that the loss of 40 years and return of the rumble seat won't cure but a nagging problem nevertheless. I sincerely hope that Heinie and Gordon "Shorty" Wheeler don't have sisters who dabble in poetry. Both have gained a short measure of respectability in the eyes of latecomers to the Valley and we would hate to see it dashed in a few short verses.

Feeling so much better, physically, I have enjoyed four-mile walks in the early mornings and late evenings. I usually make a circuit that follows side roads and canals on Spring Creek Mesa where joggers perspire in their baggy suits and look down on those of us reduced to a slower pace. At this late stage I have nothing to run from but family poetry and nothing to run for that won't be waiting when I get there. The other day, I was passed by a sweet scented thing both jogging and jiggling, Thirty years ago she wouldn't have dared to pass me with such a look unless she could run a mile in less than four minutes.

So, we enter the New Year in good health and optimistic about the future for ourselves and our neighbors, proper concern for old friends and the hope that our paths will cross this year. I am always concerned about my old friend Billy Wills. Billy and I have shared a similar married life style, having chosen foreign brides for our love nests. We knew the answer to the age old question "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" before our honeymoons ended. The chicken came first, of course, and was commanded by Loraine and Inez to wipe its feet, lay a clean egg on a doily, cluck once quietly and retire to its perch until time to be fed.

I asked Billy years ago if he had ever won an argument with Loraine. He replied that the issue is undecided as he hasn't had the opportunity to voice his side. Inez is somewhat more lenient. She asks me to speak up then turns on the vacuum cleaner, runs it around me and on switching it off, tells me, "Now let's not have another word about this."

As a reward for the 97th Congress, which tirelessly engineered a pay raise for its members, I suggest we all chip in and supply it with drinking water from Mexico and brown toilet paper with a turpentine hot tub for a finale. The lawmakers who arranged that larceny are deserving of every luxury we can afford them.

A happy, healthy New Year to all of you from Paul, Mary, Inez and John and remember to write your editor when things go wrong, praise the Lord when things go right.

Tom & the Blues

I returned to find the old tomcat banished from the comfort and warmth of his former living quarters.

Sitting with ears drooping on the cottonwood stump near the entranceway to the porch, he flashed a warning that all was not well with our mistress as he made a half hearted effort to sharpen his claws on a bulge in the wood.

I am used to facing one crisis or another. They generate with amazing consistency during my absences so I scratched his forehead and behind his ears then smoothed the fur before announcing my arrival.

Inez always appears happy to have me back. She catches me up to date on all the pleasant news as she slips in "the stove pipe is plugged" or "the stool won't flush" or "the car won't start" in short bursts that my mind won't sort out for several hours. As we carried in the last of the luggage I beckoned to old Tom to come join me in the easy chair.

"Mr. Tom stays outside," she snapped and on closing the door the story unfolded.

She was hurrying here and there on daily errands, one of which was to carry the garbage to outer receptacles, and stepped from the door to slide several feet down the sidewalk on the paunch and other remains of a bird recently retired from the ranks of the airborne. Without completing her journey, she stormed back in the house where the two cats were romping near the stove.

Old Tom looked up into the eye of the hurricane, burped and expelled a blue feather that curly-cued upward, then fluttered to the rug. The judge and jury were in, the verdict announced and all my old partner could do was plead self-defense and throw himself on the mercy of the court.

I know exactly how he felt, I burped 90 proof in her face one late hour and was slapped silly before being ejected to brave the chill and confines of a car seat for the remainder of the night.

The Wisdom of Age

My thanks to Mrs. Graeser for setting me straight in regards to paunch versus craw. Now that I think about it, I don't believe Inez called it paunch either, she used several different adjectives in describing both it and Tom, none of which sounded like "paunch".

After seeing the 70th birthday picture of Shorty Wheeler, I would define a paunch as the bulge concealed by his apron. We can only be grateful the old tomcat didn't leave something like that on the walk or my bride could have ended her slide on the south 40.

Whichever or whatever it will stick in the craw of Tom and myself for a long time. Also I wish to assure the readers that old Shorty is not a shorthorn, even though it may appear that he has two or three paunches.

With the prospects of moving growing brighter, we held a two-day yard sale in March. There is much to be said for yard sales and I'm sure we said it all before it was over. Inie got rid of several tons of my treasures while I was wrapped up in displaying the junk she has accumulated over many blissful years. I even managed to tag my father-in-law, Paul Schriver, with a $2 sign on which I had added "price can be negotiated" but the only offer we had was for his red, white and blue suspenders without the carcass. He had nearly $2 in change in his pockets, if they had only known.

I was always afraid to hold a yard sale in Creede lest someone try to reclaim the tools I have borrowed or stolen over the years. In all fairness, I had decided to knock 50 percent off if a person could positively identify anything as his or her former possessions.

There was a claw hammer of Will Dietzel's mixed up in the loot, a couple of car jacks I couldn't remember having bought and two wrenches borrowed from Charles Steele 15 years ago. I had these tagged with his name and I'm sure I intended to return them, I shall do that before another 15 years pass, as Charles is one of my favorite people. We have shared several adventures and while the following words have no connection with yard sales they will help describe our friend's humor.

We were gathered in the living room of the Congregational Church parsonage at the invitation of the Rev. Mary Grubbs for refreshments and discussion of various topics. After an hour of give and take in the mixed group, the Rev. Mary stated, "You know, basically, there is very little difference between man and woman."

Charles Steele piped up, "Praise the Lord for that small difference."

With the final moving sale, I'll throw in a log chain and a single jack hammer if they'll take Paul along with the patriotic suspenders.

Jo Jo Joins the Herd

He arrived with a number on his back like a member of a penal institution. Little black stubs remained where he had lost his ears to the bitter cold in a winter birth, but his eyes sparkled with friendliness and he took to the milk bottle with a gusto that would erase indents between his ribs in short order. I'm not familiar with goat strains but I'm sure this little billy with the black and white mottling would rank in the upper class despite the naked appearance of his head without ear flaps.

He made his formal debut in a livestock auction where he caught the eye and compassion of rancher Joe Youmans. Joe presented him, with number still attached, to Michael Cadwell, a four year old in cowboy boots who is our neighbor.

We are privileged to have a bay window facing the meadow where Jo Jo would join the ranks of the established residents, Elsie, the brown swiss milk cow; Dumbo, her calf; Jenny, the pack mule; two steers unnamed; and a yardful of chickens. Jo Jo was placed in the chicken pen for his initial get-acquainted period, at the end of which he was scratching the ground, pecking like a chicken and trying to imitate the crows of the two roosters.

When released from the pen, he joined the ranch dogs and immediately became a member of the canine family. He developed a passion for chasing our cats under the storage shed, then stopped to do Nos. 1 and 2 on the back porch before returning triumphantly to the approving barks of the dogs.

It didn't take Jo Jo long to learn that the real milk factory was under the brown swiss and the bottle with the nipple was in the hands of a middleman. With that knowledge, he dumped the dogs and became pals with Dumbo, who had the inside track to the milk works.

Elsie didn't care who handled the spigots as long as the brew was drawn off twice daily, but Jo Jo was beginning to blossom out with spikes that he liked to rake along her flank as the white froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth. Elsie didn't like this at all and with a few well placed hooves returned Jo Jo to the retail supplier. Jo Jo still had no inkling of his heritage but there was no need to worry about a family tree when his belly was full and friends were all over the place.

As long as Jo Jo remained in the meadow or around the feeding pens, there was no question of his value and resident status but he found he liked flowers and the flowers he liked best grew in two rock gardens and along a brown house where Michael's mother ruled the roost. Leanne nursed the pansies, bachelor buttons and assorted varieties to maturity in a very short growing season and was especially proud of her rock gardens.

Jo Jo couldn't help himself when it came to pansies. They tickled his taste buds and it was worth a whomping by a broom or a rock in the ribs to nibble them from their stems.

Leanne's patience was little longer than Jo Jo's stubs of ears. After the umpteenth time of chasing him from her flowers she informed Curt, her husband, that Jo Jo would be returned to the auction barn as soon as transportation could be arranged.

Both Curt, and myself felt the loss of Jo Jo would drastically change our lives. We liked the way he provoked our better halves then vaulted stiff legged to the meadow, where he would aim a bronx cheer at the ladies.

Jo Jo got the message and turned his attention to the two steers. He and Dumbo butted heads and pushed a chocolate whiteface around before her, each steer lying down chewing its cud. With several side leaps he landed astraddle of the overweight whiteface and began raking its front quarters and neck with his hooves. To his surprise the steer liked it and begged for more. What better way to relieve an itch and remove flies and mosquitoes at the same time.

Jo Jo has found his niche. He is so tied up in his role as official livestock back scratcher of Cathedral Ranch he no longer has time to nibble pansies or chase cats.

Women Can Scare Strongest Man

There was no warning. No hint of disaster. We were sharing lunch with John and Charlotte McClure in our Cebolla Creek home when suddenly the storm door flew open, papers scattered, a down draft hit the wood stove and something else hit the fan before Bea Jean Wintz stopped the whirlwind long enough to exclaim, "Johnny Jackson, I'm going to kick everything loose in you, out, and then kick everything solid, loose, so I can start over. When I'm through with you, you will never have to take a laxative again."

I wasn't afraid until I saw that no one rose to defend me and my faithful Husky had slid under the porch with only the whites of his eyes showing through the cracks. A wise gentleman once wrote, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." He could have added "or unscorned."

Like mother, like daughter. I remember a night 30-odd years ago, when Mother Bee McClure ruffled her feathers and generated hurricane force winds that blasted our "Upper Willow Creek Mineralogical Society" to smithereens.

We were having our first annual meeting in the rear of Tomkin's Hardware which also proved to be our last when the smoke cleared and our wounded were cared for.

Ladies are so darned unreasonable when their combs redden and they get their dander up. Men will curse and pummel each other until one falls, but women folks aren't satisfied until every rib is fractured and an eyelid won't even flutter.

All I can add in apologies to Bea Jean is that if she had shook her fist in that bull elk's face and tongue lashed him as she did me, he would have been the one to lose his faculties.

S.E. "Tank" Tankersley was one of the roughest, toughest hombres I have known. He jumped into battle with airborne troops in World War II and he never backed away from a fight, in spite of the odds against him. But when Joan Tankersley set her lower jaw and grilled him with bolts of fire from her eyeballs, he couldn't lift a finger and could only stammer, "Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am."

Old friend Billy Wills faced every crisis and every obstacle with the utmost courage and determination, but when he saw the war clouds gathering over Loraine's bonnet, he retired to the nearest and safest shelter. An orderly retreat is far better than trying to fit your parts back where they should be.

Fate Deprived Me of Fame and Fortune

On cold winter days with winds whipping tumbleweeds over and between snow drifts, the old dog stretched out by my chair with his legs twitching from an action-packed dream, I think of how fate deprived me of fame and fortune when I was young and my mind functioned properly.

One night in Dolly's Bar and Grill, I was close to designing bib overalls with straps that wouldn't twist as you drew them over your shoulders to hook in the buttons of the front. I was within one drink of the solution when Leola yelled, "Drink up, lights out in five minutes."

I have tried for a lifetime to recover that same frame of mind — Eddy Arnold singing "Cattle Call" on the Nickelodeon, Bolger passed out by the end of the stool, Les trying to pick a fight with the new owner of Blue Creek Lodge and Dolly making cracker crumbs to mix with hamburger for more bulk, less protein.

Nary a twinkle of that boon to mankind has since appeared. We just have to accept the vagaries of life and continue in our quest to improve the lives of others.

This is usually the time of year my old sparring partner rattles windows, doors and skeletons in the closet with her temper tantrums, but she is in a better mood since she followed Tommy LaSorda's advice and invested in a new diet drink.

A few short weeks ago, as she was bent over the kitchen sink, she hollered for the plunger, "Hurry, the drain is stopped up."

Before I could get there with the equipment, she spotted her navel in the soap suds and cured the problem by standing up. Two weeks into the diet she looks pretty trim for a two master and is even losing the barnacles from her feet.

She is forever asking questions when I'm watching news reports or reading a gossip tabloid. Last night she was busy on a crossword puzzle and asked for help.

"Give me a four letter word for dunce," she said.

"Inez," I answered, "I-N-E-Z."

"Will you please, just once, get serious," she begged.

I told her the last time I got serious I woke up to find a marriage license framed and hung on the wall of our bedroom. I haven't been close to serious since.

Even the animals are going bonkers. A horse belonging to our neighbor to the east decided to join the Polar Bear Club last month. With so much cold weather and little insulating snow, Cebolla Creek has frozen nearly solid. Occasionally water will eat its way upward to geyser and relieve pressure or just create weak spots in the ice.

The Appaloosa started a less than graceful walk across a narrow stretch to better pasture and fell through a weakened area over the deepest hole in the creek. Inez spotted his head and back protruding from the ice and knew he was in trouble.

I tried to make him rear up and get his front hooves in a firm spot where we would have a minimal chance of pulling him out. As it ended up, we used two pickups, cables, chains and a body sling to slide the poor critter from a certain grave.

To add insult to injury, he had a ball of ice formed on his tail. There is only a stub where the 25-pound ball rested and he will need a transplant to swat flies this summer.

First signs of spring. Houseflies are speckling the porch windows and one of McClure's skunks has returned from his winter junket. Last year, Raymond McClure, with John's help, retired one of the clan that liked their hospitality. John plugged a hole under the house without first checking to see if the skunk was elsewhere. It wasn't and vented its displeasure.

I have been throwing scraps to this early visitor right where Ray caught the last one and I will have it well baited for him on his next visit.

Mother's Homecoming a Reminder: That Modern Way Not Best

The old gal kicked up such a fuss they threw her out in the street, bag and baggage. Drinking into the early morning hours, singing bawdy songs, throwing chairs at the nurses. All combined brought maximum retaliation, so we have Mother Mary with us again, this time at the Cebolla retreat where we have enough forces to hold her at bay.

Actually, this dear soul was so unhappy in her new surroundings at the nursing center that she retreated within herself and became a different person entirely. Bitter, uncommunicative, abandoned, or so she thought, by the one person who had been her source of strength and comfort over so many years of a cruel, tortuous life of work, holding a family together and feeling her very soul drained by an affliction of which she had no knowledge or control.

Mother Mary has Parkinson's disease, which affects the central nervous system. She didn't understand the periods of weakness, the palsy, the faltering steps. She only understood that it interfered with the performance of her job, the care of her children and later her grandchildren. She found she could no longer write with pen or pencil so she taught herself to use a typewriter then that too, became unmanageable.

Now this thin shell of a beautiful young lady is totally helpless. She not only can't use her extremities, but her voice has been reduced to a whisper and she can't even yell for help when pain overcomes her reduced threshold, when she has need of a bathroom, when she needs a drink of water or when she just needs to hear a comforting voice.

Sure, we've had advice in this situation, advice from every corner, from someone in every walk of life, but no one has helped us with that nagging conscience creeping into our minds in darkness and asking, "Have you really done all you can?"

No, we hadn't done all we could. We got the paperwork out of the way, made a few calls and we brought our old Mom up to the cold country where a husky dog nuzzled her and said, "I understand." Where a retarded cat that can't remember one day from the next smelled Mary's recliner and recognized an old friend.

In a perfect society, the physically strong help the physically weak. The mentally strong help the mentally weak. We had a perfect or near-perfect society until some misguided souls decided that anything distracting from the pursuit of happiness and independence should be foisted off on the government, feeling that government is totally detached, void of feelings, an instrument that you feed paper and it manufactures all the good things in life for our little selves to enjoy.

Our little lady never forgot that you help those less fortunate. That you take care of your own until you can't lift a finger. She did that literally. We can't do less and, though helpless physically, she is still able to inspire us with her determination to see another day, her will that hasn't deserted her in spite of nearly every adversity this life has to offer, and above all an unswerving, unshakable belief that a better life awaits us all in the "House of the Lord."

A Present for Mary

We were reliving our adventures of the past week over a cup of coffee in the enclosed east porch, where the Royal Oak heater warms the two black cats and Inez snatches a few minutes rest during the day.

I hadn't recovered from four days of jeep road excursions with a novice driver in less than total command of a four-wheel-drive pickup and was anxious to unburden myself of this mental trauma when Inez silenced me with one of those looks that used to instantly sober me when I had spent a night in training with the boys at the various physical fitness centers in Creede.

It seems our little female cat, Lucy, whose hunting achievements had been limited to her over anxiety in the chase, had gone after big game in the storage and utility shed. The old tomcat, in years past, had tried to teach his live-in the fine points of hunting but Lucy couldn't command her twitching tail to lay still any more than she could control her chattering jaws as she tensed for the final leap.

She was death on crippled grasshoppers and scared blackbirds into a fast rise but relied on Inez and a can opener for a tummy-bulging repast. For all of us, human, plant or animal, there comes a time for our star to shine and afford us a brief moment of glory. For Lucy, that time arrived while she was romping in the storage shed.

Through some miracle of self control she rousted out and cornered a large mouse and brought it through the entranceway provided for her and Tom, of the east porch, past the kitchen with her tail standing like a turkey's feather in a warrior's headdress, and into the living room, where Mary Schriver was living a part in one of her favorite soap operas.

It is one thing to be afraid of a mouse and quite another to be presented with one when you are unable to run or to even rise, for that matter. Lucy wasn't sure whether the first scream came from Inez, who had a glimpse of her cargo as she darted past the porch, or Mother Mary who had just called on all the adrenaline in her system to make her either mobile or unconscious. The proud little cat dropped her live catch in the carpet as much as to say, "You take care of this one while I go for another." The mouse was somewhat woozy from its jarring ride between Lucy's jaws but still managed to dodge the arc of a broom wielded by Inez and disappear in a narrow corridor between the refrigerator and stove.

It took several days of trapping to dispose of the little gal's treasure. Neither she nor Tom made any effort to help as Lucy's tail mourned her loss, wilted and stayed at half mast. Mother Mary, who has been programmed to rise and fall with the tide through crisis after crisis in the "soapies", is recovering but remembers nothing of the opera she was watching or the two that followed.

Secret Channel Turns Up His Heater

After serving as chief cook and bottle washer at the Cebolla retreat a lengthy time, I feel well qualified to offer advice to newlyweds or trial runs on kitchen chores. Always smell the milk BEFORE pouring it on the cereal and don't switch the telly to Channel 12 while potato soup is simmering.

I inherited the satellite dish during our separation. I always wondered why Channel 12 was off limits for my viewing. Then one evening, I tired of a run-of-the-mill ballgame and started turning the knob backward. I never got past a little red light reading 12 like a thriving business house in Elko, Nevada. I saw things Aunt Minerva never dreamed about as the smoke got thicker and thicker in the living room and the potato soup and a hamburger patty became charcoal. If the smoke alarms hadn't gone off simultaneously I would still be watching.

Cynthia Haynes has a weekly column in your newspaper featuring all kinds of whirlwind delicacies. I gather she never has more than 30 minutes to whip up a meal for either her brood or company. She even diced up a poor little water snake that had wrapped himself around a head of lettuce for comfort while the kids were playing. They still don't know what happened to Englebert and Steve was checked twice for tapeworms because his innards felt crawly after eating salad. Snakes, even if shredded with a meat grinder, will not die before one hour after sundown.

I owe Cynthia a recipe after the red snapper dish and this one is right down her alley. I made a terrific buy on packages of oriental noodles, five for a dollar, and found they can be prepared in a host of ways for the time savers. I like a dish I can prepare and let cook as I'm catching up paperwork and this one serves very well with the use of only two sauce pans.

Crumble the noodles in the package, then add to two cups of boiling water. As this boils in a medium-sized saucepan, with a loose lid, for five minutes place two fresh eggs in cold water in a small sauce pan on medium low heat. Lower the heat on the noodles to the low setting, dice up 1/2 ounce limburger cheese, one half small onion and mix well with the noodles. Next add three tablespoons of hot picanté sauce, one four-ounce can of diced jalapeño peppers and let simmer for 30 minutes.

When ready for serving, scatter the noodle mixture on the front lawn for the chickens that like to fertilize the lower porch steps and eat the perfectly timed soft boiled eggs.

Separate Beds

It started when I gave her a chain saw as an anniversary gift. I have a hard time remembering anniversaries, but with the combination of a long, hard winter and my being home for the longest span in several years I remembered not only our wedding anniversary but my father-in-law's birthday. That is akin to a first grader reciting President Lincoln's Gettysburg address without a miscue.

She didn't like it. It was the Cadillac of chain saws, a Super X-L with automatic chain oiler and anti-vibration handles, but she still turned up her nose at the sight of it. We had battled cabin fever and ourselves over the past several weeks as the woodburner smoked to the last knotty blocks of several cords of spruce wood while she cut material for a double wedding ring quilt and helped Roman out of death traps on "Days of Our Lives". I thought we could practice togetherness as we scattered sawdust over the snow drifts replenishing our wood supply. I even mixed her first oil-gas combination and greased the roller nose of her saw's bar.

She had lowered her center of gravity during the course of the winter so I started calling her my Cebolla scow. That, too went over like a lead balloon but she put up with it until she busied herself looking up a synonym for a word in a crossword puzzle (she cheats) and flipped across s-c-o-w which Webster defines as a large, flat bottomed boat. The rafters shivered, JoJo hid behind the chicken coop and Spring Creek reversed flow as she slammed the dictionary down and drug out the suitcases. Such was the beginning of what, I suppose, could be called a trial separation.

Oh well, this is the first time I've slept without ear plugs for several months or poured a snifter of brandy without her tapping a toe and mentally calculating ratio and proportion between depth of liquid in the glass and distance to bed. She snores. When deep in sleep she sounds like a four-cylinder Ford with a flat crankshaft and no muffler. I had longed to hear the rushing waters of Spring Creek from our bedroom window at night. Now I can hear not only the gurgling rapids but coyotes singing from a wooded hill to the west. First time I've wet the bed since I was 5 years old.

She took the checkbook. I kept the cats. She has visiting privileges with the cats but no provisions were made for joint possession of the checkbook. At least the cats won't bounce. She wanted to place a notice in The Miner and Tines to the effect she would no longer be responsible for any debts or obligations incurred by any one but herself, especially campaign debts. I convinced her that our separation could have a disastrous effect on my presidential campaign if it became public knowledge. Secretly, she longs to be First Lady.

So my partner of laughter and tears, cloudburst and rainbows spread over many states and many years has returned to Montrose to resume care of her ailing parents, leaving me with an empty woodshed but, thanks to our anniversary, a chain saw for each hand.

Work Eases for Many During Wintertime

My worst fear as we head into an early winter is that I'll suffer through the bitter cold, breaking trail for the herd, and die in the spring.

Anyone enduring six months of winter at 9,000 feet elevation deserves to smell a couple more fresh daisies and be warm enough again to tinkle outdoors. The only good thing about winter on a ranch is that you work only ten hours a day unless you have a heated, electrified shop where you can drag in all the equipment that needs repairing and enjoy the usual 12 to 14 hours labor.

Being retired and mentally disabled is a plus in my case. I spend a terrible lot of time trying to remember what I was doing before I stopped for coffee and an equal amount of time forgetting it again.

People get fired in the fall more than in any other season. I was working in the Commodore mine when Art Davis, foreman, hired a young fellow to catch up outside jobs before snow hit. On the first laboring day for Bucky, they gathered up tools at the shop and Art directed him up a low hill where a power pole was to be set.

"I want a hole six feet deep and I want it dug by the end of shift so we can set the pole tomorrow," Art instructed.

"Don't worry, Mr. Davis," Bucky responded, "I'll have her ready."

Dirt was flying like a coyote going after a gopher as Bucky picked and shoveled. He came down for water a couple of times, but by noon, when he broke for lunch, Art could barely see his head and shoulders behind the pile of dirt. It was nearing whistle time and Bucky was clear out of sight.

"I'd better go pull him out before he ends up in China," Art told his timekeeper as he stepped from the office. He took a circular route above the hole so he wouldn't get hit by any fast moving dirt or rocks and eased down to the rim where he found Bucky with his knees drawn tight to his chest snoring peacefully in a hole less than three feet deep. Bucky was fired on the spot.

Fall brings the neighbor's herd down from high range, creating no end of problems for us. Their bulls and the bulls in our pasture don't like each other at all. After four months of frolicking with heifers, they turn their attention to removing all barbed wire fences hindering headbanging, shoving matches from one meadow to another. It's a little disconcerting to see four strands of 12.5 gauge wire rolled up among posts broken off at the ground as they spread hooves and scatter bull piles.